Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving this year was beautiful.  That is the only word I can think of to describe it.  Sitting down to dinner, an American to my left and a Burkinabé to my right, one of my fellow stagières (Peace Corps Trainee) recounted the Pilgrim and Native American Thanksgiving story.  A grand feast prepared in celebration of a successful harvest à grace de (because of but with a more positive connotation) the collaboration of two differing cultures.  Being new Pilgrims, I was amazed by the traditional meal we were able to pull off.

·         3 Turkeys:  2 prepared in a large double oven, the other in an oven we made.  The strapping young lads of the group dug a large hole, lined it with rocks, layered the bottom with coals, and place the marmite (cauldron?) containing turkey on top. 

·         Stuffing:  Apparently you cannot find sage in this country; however, with apples, bread, squash, and vegetable stock, we made it work.  It was amazing!

·         Green bean casserole:  So this was the dish of which I was in charge.  I found a very large can of green beans (because they are not in season right now) as well as a can of mushrooms.  I made some gravy from a packet and reduced it with the mushrooms.   I also fried some onions with an egg wash so it was pretty much legit French's green bean casserole. 

·         Fruit salad:  Ok, this part is not so traditional but we just couldn't pass up fresh pineapple, mangoes, and watermelon.

·         Mac-n-Cheese:  We spent way too much money on real cheese in Ouagadougou but it was totally worth it.  

·         Apple pie and Pumpkin pie:  everything from scratch...  real pumpkin and real apples...  I was so impressed. 

·         Sangria:  again, something that just happens in a tropical setting.

·         Cranberry sauce:  failed attempt... it wouldn't set in the heat but it’s the thought that counts. 

·         Mashed potatoes:  we even found real milk straight from the dairy.

·         Mashed sweet potatoes:  with pineapple.  So good. 

·         Cookies:  our boss makes fantastic chocolate chip cookies with a few extra tropical ingredients like coconut.

After a couple weeks of village starvation, most of us had a hard time digesting all of that meal.  

Le Blanc

Yesterday I went to the tailor.  Actually, I went a few days ago but only the apprentice was there so I left her my drawing and pagne (African fabric) and she told me to return yesterday and the real tailor would take my measurements.  Before I left I asked for the price of the completed garment.  She replied 1,100 CFA, a decent price so I agreed and left.  I happened upon this tailor while exploring shops far behind the marché (with a male friend of course) and noticed that this particular tailor had beautiful garments hanging and was actually a woman.  Most of the other tailors are men.  I thought to myself, this poor woman has a terrible location, seems to make lovely complets (outfits), and she is a woman running a business!  Naturally, I wanted to give her my business.  When I returned, the tailor recorded my measurements and we discussed the picture I had drawn so that all of the aspects of this tunic shirt that I want her to make.  She asked me if I wanted the fabric doubled and I said yes because my pagne is of lower quality.  Again I asked for the price and was shocked when she replied 4000 CFA.  (Side note:  I paid 2,250 CFA for another tailor to make a dress.  Secondary side note:  this all went down en Français).   I replied, “No, no, the other lady said 1,100 CFA.  That is not a good price.”  She said, “But the fabric is doubled and that is a good price for le blanc.”  I knew what she was saying but since she pissed me off I decided to be a jerk.  I said, “Le blanc, le blanc, what is that?”  She smiled unsure of what to say or how to explain.  Finally, she said Nassara.  Nassara is the Mooré word for white person and I hear as at least 12 children scream out to me, “Nassara, Nassara, comment tu-t’appelle?” every time I ride my bike anywhere.  I politely informed her that I would not pay that price, I am a poor stagière who works for the Peace Corps, I no longer wanted it doubled, just the plain shirt, I will only pay 1,100 CFA and if she does a good job I might come back for a complet.  Boom.  We will see how this turns out tomorrow.

Gourmatcema

So I started my local language.  Let me paint you a picture of the state of my brain.   Most of my classes at training are conducted in some sort of Franglais melange.  I also have French language class and Gourmatcema class.  Have I mentioned that Gourmatcema is actually the language of Chubaca?  There are not actual words for yes and no, only grunts and clicky sounds.  I wish I could put some sound clips on here.  I speak broken French to my brothers and sisters at home as well as any person here who is not another Peace Corps trainee.  To my mother and father, I speak the few words that I know in Mooré.  Each night, my mother and brother attempt to teach me more Mooré.  All of this communication makes my head hurt.  

My New Site

When I am sent to my new site, I will land in the far East corner of Burkina.  My site lies directly in the middle of two large animal sanctuaries:  Parc W and Parc Arly.  Basically, I can go on safari every weekend if I so desire.  Thankfully, my site is located only 8 km away from another health volunteer.  I am also located close to a CREN, which is a severe malnutrition rehabilitation center.  I am excited to work with such a place; however, I am nervous that it will house far too many children next spring.  The harvest this year has been poor yet again and many people will starve.  It is actually normal for people here to eat fewer meals (one a day) in the months prior to harvest.   And to clarify, that meal is just tô (gelatinized millet paste), or tô mixed with extra water. 

Currently, we are in harvest season.  Everyone has food and money, however, they seem to be using it all for fêtes and dolo (millet beer served in a calabash from large canaries in the marché).  

Tabaski

 My host family is Muslim, so in the beginning of November we celebrated Tabaski.  When my brother first told me about it, he was unsure of the date.  At first he said it would fall on a Sunday, then a Monday, and then it moved back to a Sunday.  Apparently, the date of this Fête (celebration) is based on the moon.  It wasn’t until about 2 days before that I was sure it would y on Sunday.  Tabaski, if you are like me and have no clue what that is, it is a holiday to celebrate the time that Abraham was stopped when attempting to sacrifice his son by an angel of God and given a mouton (lamb) instead.  Hence, the Fête de Mouton, meaning we slaughter a lamb and feast and share with all of our friends and neighbors.  I am one of the few stagières (trainees) to be hosted by a Muslim family so my dad said everyone was invited to fête with us.  Since my family only raises goats, chickens, cattle, and donkeys, I was really concerned about when we would be getting this mouton.   The night before, my dad finally showed up with a ram. 

I am pretty sure the women were up before 5 preparing the bissap (Burkinabé punch) and popcorn with crevettes and gâteau to hand out a party favors.  When I finally immerged, 6ish, I sat by the popcorn and gâteau, pretending to help.  While the men went off to pray at the Mosque, my sister broke out a children’s Bible and began sharing all of the Old Testament as well as the New.  I love that our religions connect us here; it does not divide us.  When the men returned, my father discarded his prayer complet (outfit), rounded up my brothers and other men to hold down the ram while he…well you understand.  He also rounded up two chickens and held them out to me.  In his broken Français/Mooré he told me that these chickens were for me and my friends.  Within seconds their throats were slit and my brothers already depluming them. 

The rest of the day I spent playing with children and babies, practicing Mooré, drinking bissap, shaking about a million hands and going through the eight step Mooré greeting process which I still don’t really understand, and finally napping under a calabash tree with my friends after feasting on fried chicken, in their entirety (beak to talon), with riz sauce arachide (my favorite Burkinabé dish, rice with vegetable peanut sauce).  This fête continued until the wee hours of the morning, after I had gone to bed.