When I was in Ouagadougou in 2008, I made a friend who liked to go by the name of “Dabson.” In actual fact, his real name is Yacouba, but he likes to go by “Dabson” because it sounds more rasta.

One of my favourite places to hang out in Ouaga, unfortunately, is the total tourist trap of Zaaka. It caters to young foreigners like myself, so you’re likely to see dorky white volunteers in ugly clothes eating overpriced food and watching djembe players every night of the week.

I liked it for a couple of good reasons, however. First, the Lonely Planet is right and it really is an oasis in the chaotic streets of downtown Ouaga. Downtown is hot – and I mean hot like you’ve never felt before – and overflowing with people, some the type that will follow a lone white girl for miles. It’s overwhelming. This chaos is part of the reason I love Ouaga, but part of the reason it drives me crazy sometimes. Zaka is a calm courtyard dab smack in the middle of downtown, and it allows some moments of peace.

Second, the service is actually very good.

Third, it’s an easy place to meet people, even if they are stoned, white-girl crazy rastas. Some are annoying but some, like Dabson, make me laugh.

My brother and I actually met Dabson while we were coming out of an internet cafe one day, a place where “artisans” like to linger to ambush tourist with their wares.

Dabson didn’t have your typical batik, necklaces or elephant statues.

Nope, he had an enormous wooden picture frame in the shape of Africa with two GIANT bull horns coming out the top.

“Bonjour jolie blanche you want to buy my piece of art?”

Now normally, respect is in order at almost any point of traveling. But in this moment, faced with quite frankly the ugliest craft we’d ever seen, my brother and I couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

Dabson giggle sheepishly. “This is pretty ugly,” he admitted.

That’s how we met Dabson the rasta, the only Burkinabe I’ve met that’s pulled off – or even tried – that indie/hippie/bohemian look that you’re much more likely to see in San Cristobal de las Casas or Vancouver.

After my brother left Dabson and I became buddies, and I even went to his brother’s wedding. (Unfortunately, he and his family were hoping I’d be his new white girlfriend, but that’s another story.) My friends and I often went to see him sing at Zaaka, which I’d recommend to anyone hanging out in Ouaga. (He’ll even serenade you.)

But no story makes me laugh as much as the one that went to confirm something interesting I’d observed about the Burkinabe: they don’t keep track of their age. Know other people’s and their own age is not considered remotely important.

So I’m sitting in Zaaka one day chatting with Dabson, and to make conversation I ask him how old he is.

“20,” he says.

A week or so later, I’m making conversation again and I ask him what his birthday is.

“April 3rd, 1980,” he says.

“I thought you said you were 20?” I asked, confused.

“Yeah, sure, I’m 20.”

“No, you’re 28.”

“No way.”

We debate this for a bit, and I finally pull out the calculator on my phone to prove my point. “Look. It’s 2008. 2008 minus 1980 is 28.”

He looks at the calculator, flabergasted.

“Wow. I’m really getting old.”

It’s quite possible that my heart is still in West Africa.

Yes, life is good here in Guatemala. I love this country. I love speaking Spanish (far more than I will ever love French). I love the music here, the food, the culture. There’s lots to do and I have tons of friends in the country, both foreign and local. It’s cheap, and it’s beautiful. Yes, life is good for me here.

But still, a few nights ago I was hanging out with a friend and I mentioned offhand to him that a part of my heart was still in Burkina Faso.

Weird that I said that, because last night I stumbled upon the news that Ouagadougou (the capital of Burkina Faso) has been devastated by floods. The news is two weeks old: apparently, that’s how obscure Burkina Faso is: that it experiences its worst flood in 50 years and neither me or my journalist parents know about it for two weeks.

According to the news I’ve read only, the floods on September 1st have left around 150,000 people homeless in Ouagadougou (a city of just over a million people.) 110,000 of these people are being temporarily housed in schools, churches and other buildings around the city. Of course, it is questionable how great these temporary shelters can be in a country with so few resources, so diarrhea and other water-born illnesses are on the rise and likely to cause a big problem.

I thought that I had become pretty cold and callous by this point of my life, but when I read this news I cried. Like really, really cried. To the point where one of my Guatemalan roommates came in and I had to assure him I wasn’t crying about some boy, but a far-off natural disaster.

I feel shitty for a number of reasons, aside from the obvious sadness of so many people in such a poor place leaving their homes.

One: I didn’t hear about this for a long time. I guess I am so wrapped up in my little Quetzaltenango world that I have forgotten to check on things that are very important to me.

Two: I have no real way of contacting the vast majority of people I know in Ouagadougou. The damage appears to be pretty widespread throughout the city, so there is a good chance at least some of the people I know have lost their homes.

Three: I am not there right now, I am here. As I said, life is easy here in Guatemala. Besides needing to be careful about my safety, I am not really challenged here. It’s a cushy existence, really. I wish I could be there to lend a hand to people I know, or at least share in what’s going on.

I am usually pretty unaffected by what I read in the news. Yes, if I read about something bad that happens I feel vaguely sad or angry, but it has no real emotional immediacy. I guess it takes something being closer to home to feel that, even if that home is so very far away.

I am not sure if my heart is here, then. I am happy to be here, learning about this place. But I think maybe after the next six months in Central America it will be time to go back to Africa.

Photos of the Ouagadougou floods from the BBC.

Travel Snobbery ahead. (You know, how you get some travelers together and one will say “I’ve been here, it was incredible,” and another will reply “but I’ve been here, and it is more incredible!”) I try to avoid this as much as possible in my blog, but today I’m going to jump headfirst into a bout of travel snobbery.

You have been forewarned.

I think that, for me, West Africa was the best introduction to travel. I hadn’t been to any “different” places before (only Western Europe, and that is hardly challenging.) So I was pretty green when I woke up to unfamiliar sights and sounds my first morning in Burkina Faso.

Burkina Faso is an incredibly rewarding, beautiful, warm (both literally and figuratively) place. But I’m not going to lie – it’s not an easy place to travel. The cities are chaotic and dirty, the rural villages isolated and rustic. I loved every minute of it, but it was a challenge.

Why was this the perfect traveler’s bootcamp for me?

Because now almost everything seems like a piece of cake. While others complain about aggressive vendors, I can’t help but think that they are nothing compared to the “artisans” who line Ave Kwame Nkrumah in Ouagadougou. Things run slowly sometimes in Guatemala, but it’s nothing like waiting an hour and a half for a plate of riz sauce in a Burkinabe restaurant.

This isn’t to say that Guatemala doesn’t come with its own unique challenges. I’m not saying that everything is a walk in the park everywhere, or that I’m some “super-traveler” that knows everything.

What I’m trying to say is that my extended time in Burkina (and elsewhere in West Africa) has made me feel prepared to take on the challenges in practically any part of the world.

My favourite skill aquired in Burkina?

The art of the bucket shower.

While living in the village of Sapone three years ago, we often ran out of water. I learned to clean myself completely using a quarter of a bucket shower.

This morning, then, when I discovered that there was no water in the shower (or taps) in Xela, I made due. I walked to the kitchen and poured a pot of boiling water from the hot water heater (you know, the thing for tea.) I waited for it to cool a bit, and then, with about six cups of hot water, I showered. Yes, my hair is shiny, and I have no unfortunate odor about me.

While my fellow foreigners in Xela feel sort of gross and smelly, I am sitting happy… and, let’s be honest, like a travel snob.

Woman: We intellectual women fight for the liberation of women, but in our homes our husbands still try to maintain their authority. Our husbands do not want intellectual women changing the rules of the game.

Man: If a man can get more than one wife, all we can do for him is clap.

(Considering making that last quote the subtitle for my paper.)

In retrospect, I’m glad I chose polygamy in Burkina Faso as my topic.
25 days before I leave for traveling… 25 pages left to write before then if I want to graduate. Life is pretty good! Can’t wait to hit the road!

In 2006, he was the best bud to me and the two other Canadians in my project team. On our first night in the village of Sapone, he took us out for a beer. We asked him about himself, and he said he was unmarried and didn’t have any children. Over the course of the summer, we had frequent conversations about gender relations in Burkina Faso, and he impressed us with his desire for equal rights for men and women. He told us that he didn’t want to have a polygamous family, because he wants to love just one wife. (None of us found this guy attractive, but we liked to hang out with him and hear his views.)

Fast forward two years. I’ve kept in touch with the friend since my first summer in Burkina Faso, and we’ve been hanging out again in Ouagadougou. Only this time – without my two friends around – suddenly the guy makes me a bit uncomfortable. My gut tells me something is off, and I suddenly I can’t stand to hang around him. But I figure I owe some sort of loyalty, so I don’t cut off his friendship entirely.

Until I’m talking to my neighbor in Ouagadougou, and she mentions my friend’s wife and children. I figure I must have misheard, so I ask another neighbor and she confirms. Turns out that this dude has been lying to my friends and I about being single for the last two years (with the failed intention, I figure, of getting a little hot nasara action.)

I send him a message telling him I knew about his lie and I’d rather not see him during my last two days in Burkina. (Text messaging is, it seems, the only regular mode of communication in Burkina Faso.) I now had a reason to listen to my unease around him. Case closed.

Except, a few hours later, the dude storms into my little house (in a family courtyard) and starts to yell. Something along the lines of “how dare you call me a liar.” I ask him if he does have a wife and children, which he always said he didn’t. He responds with “Yes I do, but in our culture lying about that kind of thing is not considered wrong. You are being insensitive to my culture.”

(As a side note, another thing he says is “she is not a real wife that I chose – she is just a wife that my father bought for me.”)

Anyways, anyone who knows me knows that the topic of cultural relativism is something that fascinates me, partially because I am so often torn over the subject. After my friend finally leaves in a huff, I start to worry. I hate the idea that I am rejecting my friend due to differences in culture. Am I really being insensitive?

Later that evening, I’m out with a good Burkinabe friend who lives next door. A young woman about my age, this friend has always been there to help me out since I moved into the neighborhood. I decide to seek her advice and tell her about the whole argument.

She listens quietly until I mention the part about lying and culture. She suddenly looks angry. “That isn’t true,” she says. “Lying is not a part of my culture and it is offensive for him to say that. I would never lie to you, just as I would expect you never to lie to me.” I realize that what my friend did was, in fact, creepy and wrong. I should not only trust my gut feelings, but hold him to the same standards that I would any friend. Despite the supposed political incorrectness of using any sorts of universal norms, I stand by this decision. It seems much more wrong and patronizing to use culture to excuse absolutely everything.

(This image is unrelated… except it’s from last summer in Burkina.)

“Is it easy for any foreigner to get a girlfriend in Burkina Faso?”

Now, I was in a grumpy mood already, so I shot back a rather bitchy response: “Yes, it is easy for any foreigner to get a girl/boyfriend in Burkina Faso. But I’ll tell you this: if you meet a woman that you really, genuinely care for, then by all means, date away. But otherwise, I’d think hard about your decision, because I have found that many relationships between foreigners and locals contain a troubling power dynamic.”

Anyways, I’m might have come off as unnecessarily harsh, because of the aforementioned bitchy mood. However, I’ve been thinking about the question and my response for the last week, and I can’t really resolve the debate in my head.

On one hand, I don’t want to portray those potential Burkinabe significant others as passive and victimized. Surely, young people everywhere have agency, and are capable of deciding whether to become involved with a given foreigner. If a young man or woman in Ouagadougou decides that it would be enjoyable to date a pasty nasara, then who am I to tell that nasara that their actions are wrong? And, besides, the romantic in me wants to believe that nationality, race and class can’t stop two people from caring for each other.

But, on the other hand, some issues still nag at another part of me. I am the product of a liberal, late 20th century Canadian upbringing, and I have always thought that a healthy relationship involves an even distribution of power. If one half of a couple has all or most of the power and leverage, how can the other person participate in a meaningful way?

And in the case of many Burkinabe-foreigner relationships (certainly not all, as the country’s people are not a homogeneous group), unfortunately I feel that usually the foreigner wields the majority of the power. In a country where 70% of the population lives on less than 2$ a day, a foreigner’s wealth and status has enormous leverage.

I guess I don’t know too much about what I’m talking with, because I’ve never been really involved with anyone in Burkina Faso (or Africa). I felt a few hints of the power dynamic, however, when I went out on a couple of innocent dates with a young man in Ouagadougou. Nothing ever really happened between us (maybe because the young man told me “the reason I like you so much Caitlin is that you are Canadian. Otherwise a woman is a woman.” That’s a direct quote.) Regardless, though, I had this overwhelming sensation that I could act however I wanted, and a relationship could progress as far as I wanted. I went to the wedding of the young man, met his lovely family, and I knew: if I decided right now that I wanted this to be my family, it would be. Because I felt I had all the power. Even after a couple times hanging out with the guy.

Anyways, I still don’t really know what I think. I have, after all, seen some of these relationships work. The wedding I went to in Ouagadougou was between a Burkinabe man and a French woman. They had been together seven years and nobody could dispute that the expression on both their faces were genuinely happy. So I guess, if the two people care enough about each other, these issues can be overcome. But I still think that the idea of “get me to that country so I can easily pick up some hot local lass” is dangerous, because the power dynamics are far, far more complicated and even unfair than they would be at home.

I am stooped over my cell, about to win the high score when the waiter taps me on the shoulder. He is holding a baby. “Can you hold this for a minute?”

I reach out and take the little boy. As I always feel when I hold babies, I’m afraid of breaking it and I awkwardly try to support the neck. The waiter laughs and walks off.

“Uh,” I say.

But the waiter has disappeared into the kitchen and doesn’t come out for some time. Meanwhile, the baby has started staring at me with big, somber eyes. Not remotely disturbed at being in the arms of a strange nasara, he reaches out and grabs my nose. Admiring his adorable tightly curled hair, I hold him close to me. Like most women above a certain age, I can feel my biological clock screaming. I marvel that babies the world over have the same comforting smell. I’m a little afraid he’s going to pee on me, but he doesn’t.

I sit there with the baby for about half an hour when a young woman comes in. She’s one of the street vendors who loiter outside Zaka. She walks right over and takes the baby from me.

“Thank you,” she says, and walks out without further explanation.

_______________________

When I get home later the same day, Adjara and Mariam are sitting outside my door.

“Ca va?” I ask.

“Ca va!” they both chirp in unison.

I go to open my door, but then Mariam produces some paper from her pocket. She has other ideas. “Can we play the game with the future?” she asks.

Remember that game M.A.S.H.? If you are around my age, you probably played it in grade four. It’s the game where you write down prospective husbands (some boys you like, some that are gross), jobs, number of kids, cities and so forth, and then through a complicated counting technique you predict your future. “M” means mansion, “A” means apartment, “S” means shack and “H” means house.

Anyways, I taught the girls a week ago and now they are hooked. I would think that telling the future more than once might sort of invalidate the results, but these never get tired of it.

“OK.” I sit down and pull out a pen. “Who wants to go first?”

“It’s my turn,” Mariam says.

We go through cities, number of children (Adjara makes me put down “100”) and then we get to husbands. Mariam pauses, and then lists: “Suleyman, Etienne, Adama and… Lamine.”

Adjara pokes her. She says something in Bissa, which I can’t understand but roughly estimate to mean “you can’t marry your brother, stupid.”

Mariam laughs and replaces Lamine with the two-year-old down the street. We then turn to jobs, and she lists her usual doctor, lawyer and President of Burkina Faso.

I then ask Adjara “What two other jobs should we put down?” In M.A.S.H., the person getting their fortune told writes down three jobs they want, and their friends write down “embarrassing” ones. Usually, in Canada, we’d write down “garbage collector” or “toilet cleaner” but these never seem to spark any giggles from Burkinabe girls.

“Clown?” I suggest. They give me blank looks.

“No… Smelly fish vendor! And… second hand shoe vendor!” Adjara suggests, and Mariam laughs.

“Alright.” I begin the counting process, and Mariam’s future emerges. She’s going to become a doctor, marry her neighbor, live in Canada and have two children. They are all going to live together in a mansion.

Sometimes, I don’t know whether it was a good idea teaching them this game. But they’ll want to play it again. Tomorrow, Mariam will be a lawyer and Adjara will be president. The next day they’ll be a judge and a university professor. They will choose who they marry, and they’ll live all over the world.

Anyways, what have I been doing? Not a whole heck of a lot. The research project is not really working out. In the end, I’ll have 7, or maybe make that 6 1/2 interviews. But more than just the quantity, it’s the quality of the interviews that are really screwing me over. I’m asking: what do Burkinabe NGOs think about polygamy? How does it affect their programs? The answers? We don’t really think about polygamy, and it doesn’t affect what we do whatsoever. Interesting, but not exactly enough for me to write a thesis on.

So instead, I’ve been doing not much. (Seems to me that most people involved in development mostly do not much.) I read a lot (In the last 7 days I’ve read both the Handmaid’s Tale and Foundation, and before that I’ve read Catch 22, Cat’s Cradle, the Golden Compass and the Life of Pi) and I play with the kids in the family. I’ve been hanging out a bunch with a couple other foreigners, as well as some Burkinabé friends. I’ve been walking around, buying stuff a bit too much (I’m broke), and studying for the GRE. I’ve been hiding out from the oppressive heat in internet cafes, where I transcribe interviews and dick around online.

I am starting to realize that I don’t really like doing research through interviewing. It makes me feel awkward, and I don’t enjoy it. Call me boring, but maybe policy-related studies is my true calling, because I get a lot more out of using government documents and statistics as my data.

Anyways, the most interesting event since my last post was the trip to Sapone. I think, however, that not many people will understand how I felt going there, except maybe Danielle and Linda. It’s weird going back to a place loaded with memory, especially a place that you had said goodbye to, thinking you might not be back.

I guess, for me, Sapone was all about the kids. The enormous gaggle of kids who watched and laughed at our every move, and entertained us when there was nothing else to do (which was often.) I had sort of wondered whether they would remember me, or whether I would just be lumped in with the category of “white people who have stayed in the village.” I was, however, overjoyed that they remembered my name, or at least the Moorefied version of my name – “Catalindi.” Some had grown a lot, some were disturbingly almost the same size. None seemed to have disappeared. It felt like nothing had changed, for much of my time there – I walked around and said hello almost like no time had gone by.

The town has also grown. There are new houses and other buildings all over the place. Prosperity has perhaps increased, because there is a wider variety of vegetables available in the marketplace. But besides that, everything is where it was, as I remember it. The dude who runs “Sport Bar Sapone” is still creepy, the woman who sells dried smelly fish still loud and boisterous. The countryside is still beautiful, in a harsh, rugged way that only some people seem to like. There are still farm animals wandering by my table in the morning, and goats still hide out in the toilet when it’s raining. The cockroaches, however, seem to have diminished.

But these details are all secondary, because for me the places I love are all about the intangible feel of the place. In Sapone, it was a feeling of contentment, of peace, of the tranquility I felt when I breathed in the air in the morning. I got to feel that again. The year after I left Burkina the first time was hard, and somewhat tumultuous at least in my personal life. Since I’ve moved to Ottawa I’ve become very happy and content, but I always felt like I had to go back. I have now, and I feel sort of put back together again.

I don’t really know if I will go back to Burkina again any time soon. I was thinking of going back in February to continue my research, but since the project doesn’t really work I don’t think it will be worth it. I think there’s a big chance I will be back in Burkina one day but not anytime soon, unless I get a job or some other sort of official reason to come here. I’ve come back now, I’ve revisited, I’ve proved to people and myself that I didn’t forget the place, I’ve made my peace and all that cheesy stuff. I think now I want to look forward and see new places. But I still love this country, even though it’s a frustrating and annoying love.

When I got there, Yacouba (or “Dabson,” his adopted “reggae name”) had a lot of business to attend to, since it was his brother’s wedding. So he led me inside their quite-large house, found the room where his ancient grandmother was sitting, and sat me down with her so he could get to work. However, the family are Dioulla, not Mossi, and the only word I know in Dioulla is “toubabou” (white person), so we kind of sat there awkwardly until she pulled out some photographs to show me. Soon a swarm of sisters (Yacouba has 9 brothers and sisters, all from ONE woman) and cousins came in and started changing and putting on makeup. The women were really sweet, and treated me affectionately, and constantly teased that I was going to be their sister-in-law. They dressed me up in horrendously mismatched and oversized Burkinabe clothing, which they insisted looked good even though I looked like a paint-splattered marshmallow next to their chic outfits.

It turns out that the bride is actually a white woman, a French dancer I have previously seen dancing with an incredible Burkinabe dance troupe. The couple already have a little four year-old girl – “cafe au lait”, they call her here. They seem legitimately in love, which I guess flies in the face of most stereotypes of white/Burkinabe couples. I do get the impression, however, that the woman has brought some extra prosperity to the family, which is probably why the sisters and brothers were so eager to get another toubabou-in-law.

Poor Yacouba had to stay behind at the house to prevent the soundsystem and food from being stolen, so three of the sisters took me in their car to the ceremony at city hall. African weddings still run on African time, and we had to wait an extra two hours in the sunshine to finally be let in. The ceremony was short and sweet, not too unlike one in Canada (it wasn’t a religious ceromny) except one difference – the constant ringing of cellphones. I’m serious! Every thirty seconds, even during the vows, someone’s cell phone would go off. Nobody turned their phones off! Some people even answered! I found this absolutely hysterical, but it got even better: right in the middle of the “I do” part, the groom’s cell went off. The groom’s. Laughing, he took it and threw it into the crowd so he wouldn’t be distracted from the ceremony. Everyone laughed.

Later, back at the house with Yacouba, there was a huge feast for what appeared to be the entire neighborhood. Chicken, fried plantain, rice, popcorn, cabbage stew, shrimp chips, cakes, and pop. Everyone sat and waited, until someone went on the microphone and told them to eat. Then – I have never seen such a scramble. Everyone dove forward, grabbing everything in sight. The chicken disappeared within seconds, then the cabbage, then the rice, then the plantains. I didn’t get my hands on any chicken (Yacouba brought me some later) but I had my fill of rice and the delicious spicy cabbage dish.

After everything was cleared away, there was live music. The family are griots, which is sort of a “caste” of musicians in a lot of West African ethnic groups. You can only be a griot if you are born griot, and if you are born griot – well, you will probably end up being a musician. I think that griots are fairly highly valued here, because those I’ve seen (like Yacouba’s family) seem more prosperous than the norm (though not rich). Anyways, the music was fantastic – better than anything I’ve seen in Burkina. The woman, all dressed in their finest, danced in circles and looked amazing. There was even a masked dancer on stilts, which was the highlight of the evening.

All and all, I had a good time. I can finally see the appeal of marrying a Burkinabe man – extended families are more warm and lively than anywhere I’ve seen in the world. In the early evening (so I could get home at a respectable hour, and also signal to Yacouba that I was not going to put out) the whole family brought me out to the curb to say goodbye and find me a taxi. I feel a bit bad, like I was leading them on, that they are expecting another white sister-in-law. But the whole day was great and I don’t regret going.