Okay, so I’m going to skip back somewhat to our second week in Burkina Faso. As interns for the Fondation pour le Development Communautaire de Burkina Faso, we were ostensibly going to do research in community schools to compile a database of the organization’s 2500 students. It soon became apparent that “research” involved driving out to villages, asking to borrow the already compiled class registers, then sitting around for the rest of the day waiting for a lift home. We ended up visiting three villages, until our organization realized that we could be put to work in more useful ways. Our first trip was to Doudoundi Itaore, a remote village surrouded by dramatic, rugged terrain. I forgot to bring my camera. The next day we visited Saare, which was unmemorable except for the unusually shy, practically sedated children. Our last trip was to Nabdogo, a village that for some reason felt more “special” than anywhere I had ever been.
The day actually started out horribly. Maybe a bit of mild culture shock was setting in, but I probably just got up on the wrong side of the bed. In the morning, our boss told the three of us that there was room for two in one vehicle, and one in the other, so we’d have to be split up. I was secretly hoping that I could get some alone time, but I didn’t want to offend Danielle and Linda so we drew straws. I ended up in the back of a pick-up truck with Danielle.
I was angry about something, and the truck was driving so fast that we were boucing around and knocking against the metal railings. I felt sick to my stomach. We arrived at a village somewhere and descended from the truck. We entered another village classroom, to now familiar whispers and giggles. The children got back to work. They looked hungrier than usual, and their clothes were dirty. The girls were beautiful and most sat quietly at the back. I felt useless, and panicky too. The room seemed to get smaller and smaller, so I excused myself and walked out into the bush. I was upset, and wanted to throw up. I walked out of sight of the school, dropped to the ground behind a tree, made fists in the earth and tried to vomit. I couldn’t understand why they had brought us to this country. We were complete wastes of money.
Danielle walked up behind me.
“I just want to be left alone. I’m trying to throw up.”
“Well, you can’t just sit out here by yourself. They are asking after you.”
A man from FDC approached us. He told us that if I wasn’t feeling well I should go back to Sapone. I tried to explain that I was just carsick, and that the same thing often happened to me back in Canada (which is true.) He didn’t really believe me, but he agreed that we didn’t have to go back, as long as we moved to another village where the driver was in case we needed to make an emergency drive home. (We had already learned by this point that whenever a white person is remotely ill, Burkinabe people will figure that it must be malaria.)
Ten minutes later, we were picked up and driven to Nabdogo.
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