Do they know its Christmas?

Yes, they certainly do. Christmas here is a festival which 'belongs' to the Christians, who are numerous, although a minority. It's a 'jour ferié', that is a national holiday. And non-Christians celebrate it too, mostly as an occasion for children, and an excuse for lovely new clothes. Non-Christians call on their Christian neighbours to wish them 'bonne fête' and hope to be offered food and drink.

In the one real supermarket in Bobo, frequented by 'toubabous' (whites) and affluent locals, there have been toys and even some christmas trees. Decorations are on sale at street stalls - including shiny garlands which we might string across the ceiling but which here can be used to wrap round and round a woman's head, over an artificial hairpiece, to prepare to go out dancing!

Does the place come to a standstill? No. Some examples of that - Christmas as you may have noticed falls on a Saturday this year. Saturday is a working day for many, so no need for an extra day off. On Christmas Eve those who work in the public service or organised structures like ours worked a 'journée continue', which means straight through without a lunch break to 2pm, and then finish - no afternoon session. I left at about 2.15 but I suspect several colleagues were there much later. Not being sure what would be open the next day I popped out to buy some fresh veg - this turned out to be an unnecessary precaution as the local market was much as ever on Christmas Day - just a few of the usual stalls were not there.

December is the end of the financial and administrative year here (many people find our April-March year, used here by some international funding bodies) hard to understand. So lots of people are busy with reports and with finishing projects. Or even starting them - on about 20th December our organisation was asked to start a new project - a small one - to be finished by year end. No problem, the required 4 activities were all programmed in and will mostly be done next week. On 23rd December we had a monitoring visit from a funder reviewing the work of another project - the meeting went on until about 6.30 or 7 pm, and the report which is needed to complete the project will be produced and submitted by the middle of next week - I think the deadline is 28th. So people may well be working on it this weekend - no report, no funding transfer, nobody gets paid at the end of the month - and will certainly be hard at work next week.

And lots of people, Christians included, work on Christmas Day, and not just in essential services. Many are not able to spend the day with family, or even eat together - they may be working, or too far away, or not have the money for festive food. One Christian Burkinabe friend who brought her two kids to visit on Christmas Day said it was the first time for 5 years that they had been able to celebrate Christmas by spending the day together.

And the Toubabous? On Christmas Eve we partied with the other volunteers here in Bobo and some local friends (thank you very much, Eve, Simon and family). We? Les has come out to visit me (my best Christmas present) and to see Burkina. He has been welcomed by the neighbourhood, particularly the children who clamour at the door for Papa Noel. Yesterday we wandered around the local market and neighbourhood, greeted friends, ate off and on all day but on a much more modest scale than we usually would at Christmas, and enjoyed the sunshine which was pleasant if a bit hot around midday. We handed out photos I had taken last festival, which Les had printed and brought from UK (the wonders of digital photography and internet communication). These were received with great pleasure and excitement, huge smiles and lots of giggles - and took some more pics of people in their new best clothes. A great way to spend Christmas Day.

In a day or two we are off to Ghana for a little holiday - it will be interesting to experience an anglophone country in contrast. So 'Boxing Day' will see us packing our bags, and perhaps going for a swim.

So I shan't be writing about New Year in Bobo - I may in due course write about New Year in Ghana, but won't be writing much at all for a couple of weeks. Festive greetings and Happy New Year to all my readers, and sympathy (well a bit) for those who are suffering as a result of the weather. Thank you to everyone who has sentfestive emails, I really do like hearing from you and will try to be better about responding individually.

See you next year!

Big Birthday in Bobo

Burkina Faso is celebrating 50 years of independence this year. Independence day was in August, but the big celebration is tomorrow - and it is happening in Bobo!

Ever since I arrived in April, I have seen signs of activity leading up to this - most noticeably, they have been rebuilding the main roads in Bobo, which has led to loads of roadworks, diversions, bumpy surfaces and or course red dust. But in the last few days the roads have miraculously received tarmac surfaces, which is a big improvement.

It's a bonanza for anyone who sells or applies paint - painters have been madly at work smartening up buildings, walls by the side of the road, the mosque, the railway station... Lots of things have turned white; no doubt over the months which follow they will turn rusty beige again. A bonanza for banner makers too - banners are sprouting everywhere, linking promotion of anything from mobile phone networks to stock cubes to the anniversary. In Ouaga the cost of minibus hire has spiralled; here accommodation is all booked up, and shiny new signs pointing the way to hotels and restaurants seem to have sprouted over night. Bobo is suddenly crawling with gendarmes and uniforms of every kind - I have seen mounted police for the first time here.

Manufacturers and vendors of flags, bunting and anything red green and yellow; purveyors of promotional t-shirts and polo shirts (known locally as 'Lacoste') - all seem to be doing well.

Plants have appeared in the middle of dual carriageways, decorative lights have been attached to lamp-posts. In the last few weeks and days, building projects which have lasted months seem to have finished, with workers staying late at night. Temporary stages and eating places are mushrooming. Indeed almost everything looks almost ready. I have never seen Bobo looking so well turned out. Tomorrow will tell.

Pictures will follow!

December 1st...

Yesterday, 1st December, was Journée Mondiale de Lutte contre le Sida - World Aids Day, for Anglophones.

So there was a big parade in Bobo for all Associations involved in VIH-SIDA, ours included. Everyone gathered outside the iconic railway station, hung around for a bit chatting, donned our various and much coveted t-shirts, unfurled our banners and set off down the newly tarmaced avenue toward the Gouvernorat. Led by a lorry with the obligatory sound system, belting out various VIH-SIDA songs, of which there are plenty, and with disc jockey types yelling out publicity and health messages.

Impressive (if also depressing) to see how many people in Bobo are active in this domain, many on a voluntary basis. A huge pool of effort and goodwill.

On reaching the Gouvernorat, there were speeches, a comic sketch on a VIH theme, and lots more music, disc jockey comment and clapping. Then the lorry, laden with t-shirted and noisy passengers, set off on a tour on the main roads round town spreading the messages and promoting the afternoon’s activities, ending up at the centre which co-ordinates VIH-SIDA activity.

There a repas communautaire ensued – vast vats of riz gras (rice with some veg and meat) were served up. People eat in groups of 5-10, and each group gets given a plastic (washing up) bowl full of food to share, eating with fingers, having washed their hands first. The ladies with green headdresses are from the Nigerian community.


Elsewhere, there was free testing (with counselling), theatre with HIV-AIDS messages, distribution of leaflets and condoms and of course more music. The whole event featured strong attendance from 'the authorities' and a lot of media attention - fortunately it also coincided with a training course for local journalists being mounted by a French organisation. Cameras everywhere.

An impressive show of commitment and commitment is still very much needed – HIV-AIDS may be much better understood than it was, but there are still huge problems of ignorance, stigmatisation, non-availability of drugs and lack of money to pay for treatment.

There is a huge discrepancy in the facilities and treatment on offer around the world – a couple of telling facts (thanks to Eve):
• Mother-child transmission has been virtually eliminated in Canada, but is still common here.
• Average life expectancy for those diagnosed HIV+ in Canada (adults and children) is 31 years.
• 64% of HIV+ babies here will not make it to their first birthday. The other 36% have an average life expectancy of 16.

Is one day enough?

What men wear

The men here dress in a huge variety of clothes - ranging from something like a western suit (those will be the ones who work in air conditioned offices)to outfits which, to the untutored eye, resemble pink frilly pyjamas.

The smartest people I have come across yet are those who work in the banks. I haven't been into a bank for a long time, because the most practical way to get money is from a cash dispenser (when it's working). Withdrawing money over the counter usually involves at least one long queue. A well ordered queue, mind you. It's not always easy to tell which booth has the shortest queue, because people don't necessarily stand in line; the system, as I eventually found out, is that you enquire as to who is last in the queue when you arrive, and then you just follow that person. Same thing for paying the electric or water bill. Occasionally people attempt to queue-jump and this is not well regarded. Queuing in banks is not unpleasant, as they are usually pleasantly cool (air-conditioned, except in a power cut) and with some seating. Not so everywhere.

Anyway, in the early days when I was waiting the several weeks for my bank card to be ready, and so frequenting the inside of banks, I was struck by how smartly dressed, in a western style, the bank employees were. Suits, shirts etc.

Public figures, such as the Ministers who have been conspicuous as patrons of various benevolent activities in the run up to the election, vary their dress between western suits and traditional outfits - they may turn up in a long tunic, worn over matching trousers, made of the local bazin. Village chiefs also vary in their approach, but tend, in my limited experience, to include at least one traditional element. For everyday work and play, young men will tend towards jeans, with perhaps a polo shirt or a short-sleeved cotton shirt of either western or traditional fabric - but may turn up from time to time in printed or embroidered brightly coloured matching shirt and trousers. For footwear - it could be flip-flops, trainers, or leather shoes - usually leather or pseudo-leather shoes if it's a western suit.

Sports kit - shorts, shirts, tracksuits, baseball caps - especially those for the popular footballers Drogba and Eto'o - are much favoured by the young too, and regarded as smart. T-shirts and polo shirts abound, and there are many examples of what must be discarded corporate wear from other countries. And, of course, as it has been election time, the t-shirts and baseball caps carrying pictures and slogans supporting Blaise Compaore which are a regular part of electioneering.

Older men tend to the traditional boubou - long tunic over trousers, often but not always a plain colour. Sometimes - generally I think among Muslims - this is accompanied with a cap. Professional men, such as doctors, psychologists, accountants, generally wear western style trousers with a short - or as it gets slightly less hot - long-sleeved shirt - but again may turn up from time to time in traditional dress of one sort or another.

And there are a few who wear ties, which seems a strange form of penance in this heat. Apart from the bank employees, I have seen ties on a waiter in an aspirational restaurant - tied so short it reminded me of rebellious schoolboys - and on a few officials. Ties are seen as exotic - for one of the recent festivals, one of the young men of the neighbourhood had got his hands on a tie; not knowing how to tie it (not part of the ritual of growing up here to learn that)he turned up on my doorstep for advice. I was of course happy to oblige - long time since I tied a tie for anyone! Anyway, he was pleased with the result, and considered it very 'cool' - probably the second or third most common English expression here (after bye-bye and weekend).

For special occasions, such as baptisms and marriages, or religious festivals, most men will wear traditional bazin outfits, and very fine they look too. Occasionally, as for the cinquantennaire of the school in Bobo, they will wear clothes made from specially printed pagne fabric. For burials, which are often held the day of death, it's come as you are if you get the text message in time.

And then, wandering around Bobo, there are several men (whose mental state is in some doubt)who wear either just a few rags, or absolutely nothing at all... They are well known local characters, showing little regard for either traffic or people. Perhaps they are the coolest of all?

For more pictures of what men, and boys (and some women) wear, follow this link:
http://picasaweb.google.com/111172062905554064052/WhatMenWear?authkey=Gv1sRgCLvLy7fLlYLWPw#

When a door opened

In September 1960, at the beginning of the school year, a 19 year old newly qualified teacher arrived in the village of Biba, towards the north of Burkina Faso (then Upper Volta).

His task - to open the first school there, for which he had a 3 room building - also to be his home - and a lorry-full of combined desks and chairs. Before then, the only way to get an education was to travel every week, on foot or by bicycle, to the small town of Toma, some 9 kilometres away, and stay with friends or relatives. Unsurprisingly, few children went; most stayed at home and played their part in the local economy, minding sheep and goats and helping out in the fields at busy times such as planting and harvest. So the teacher's first task was to persuade local families to send their children to the school. Quite a challenge, given that he was a Mooré- speaking Mossi - so different ethnicity, different language from the local Samo (ethnicity and language). It took some time, but he enlisted the help of local community leaders, and was ultimately successful. He integrated well into the local society, marrying a local girl. This first teacher only stayed a year, but the fruits of his labour, and of those who followed him, are abundantly clear. He laid firm foundations - 50 years on, the alumni include plenty of people educated to university level, with enough skill, energy and commitment to organise a 'cinquantennaire' for the school. Just a few of the huge number of local people for whom doors have been opened by education. I was privileged to attend this event. Why? Because among the leading lights of the organising committee were the Secrétaire Permanente of the Association where I work and her brother. When the members of the organising committee were at school, 2 classes were taught in each of the 3 classrooms, making up the 6 classes of the primary education system. Today, there is a second, larger, primary school, and a secondary school, and the promise (this is election year) of a fully-fledged lycée which would enable students to study locally up to Baccalaureate level.

The whole event was quite an organisational feat. We travelled from Bobo in a specially chartered bus, which had started its life as a USA school bus (a Blue Bird, made in Georgia, for those of you who are bus-specialists). Laden with Bobo-dwelling Biba-ites, and sacks of rice and other presents, we travelled a couple of hours up a good tarmac road to Dédougou, stopping only, on the outskirts of Bobo, for fuel, bananas and other roadside snacks, then another couple of hours on a 'red' (ie unsurfaced) road of varying quality to Toma, where we made a brief stop for the driver to do a spot of shopping before winding the last few kilometres to Biba. There was a great atmosphere on the bus - mainly adults with just a couple of kids, as most had left their kids in school in Bobo. Lots of joking and joshing, and adjusting of the overladen luggage racks.

In Biba we stayed in the family village house, fascinating in its own right. People here don't really live in their houses - though they often sleep in them. They live in the courtyard outside, which is where they cook, eat, and chat.
So a small house can be home to quite a large number. Hard, with the great influx, to be sure quite how many in this case, but it makes for flexibility. The village was wonderfully peaceful after the hubbub of Bobo - a few animal noises and only the odd bit of amplified music, quiet lanes between vegetable gardens, lined with distinctive granaries. We washed in an open-roofed but entirely discreet enclosure, supplied with a large bucket of hot water, and a great view of granaries, sky and at night stars (under which we slept for a while).

For the ceremony, special cloth had been ordered, and special t-shirts. The cloth was made up by individual tailors in any number of designs and patterns, which gave great interest and variety. The 'hostesses', who escorted the dignitaries around, wore a fetching mix of traditional Samo pagnes and sashes with specially printed t-shirts.






The ceremony consisted of a series of speeches by visiting dignitaries, and some singing and dancing and performance by schoolchildren and musicians - with the costumes a real feast for the eyes. And lots of applause of course!
And surrounding it all, lots and lots of formal and informal eating (rice, a kind of bean/lentil from the Baobab tree, pieces of sheep, to (a paste made from maize or millet) and various sauces, pieces of chicken and guinea fowl...

That afternoon, there was community dancing - colourful, but very dusty,so we did not stay long. Between the various formal events there was time to explore the village, and see people making dolo (millet beer), working metal, and carrying on village life. The next day, there was a 'community meal' at which all the Biba returnees ate together, before embarking on their various journeys home to their various locations.

After 2 nights in Biba we headed back to Bobo in the bus, this time laden with sacks of beans, chickens, and a goat on the roof. And arrived safely back, tired but with loads of pictures and memories... Arriving back in the flat, the noise of the street and the town was striking - I can see why the Bobolais enjoy their trips back to the village. And my word, how enormously education can change individual lives.

To see more pics of this outing, follow these links:
http://picasaweb.google.com/111172062905554064052/BibaTheJourney?authkey=Gv1sRgCJLywqqqgMLV2QE#

http://picasaweb.google.com/111172062905554064052/BibaTheVillage?authkey=Gv1sRgCNKCpPqz5OTtJA#

http://picasaweb.google.com/111172062905554064052/BibaTheCeremony?authkey=Gv1sRgCJnNga3CpLCH0QE#

The fate of the sheep

Bobo is filling up with sheep. By the roadside, on patches of open ground, small and larger flocks of sheep are appearing, each one with a minder or two. Because next week is Tabaski, the ‘fête du mouton’, the biggest festival in the Muslim calendar, when the non-sacrifice of Isaac by Abraham is celebrated. And for the fête, everyone has to have their mouton, so of course prices are on the up – dramatically so.

Flocks of sheep cross the roads, even the busy dual carriageway, and traffic slows down. Beside the road, individual negotiations take place, and sometimes a sheep or two is carried off on a moto, all in high spirits.

Tabaski is a national holiday – ‘jour ferié’. So, the day before, people work a ‘journée continue’ with no lunch break, and finish at 2pm. Tabaski is printed in red on various calendars, some showing it as the 16th and some as the 17th. Uncertainty reigned until there was an announcement on the radio last Thursday (less than a week to go) confirming the fête for Tuesday 16th.

All this causes some problems for those trying to programme events and activities – which is our major preoccupation at work at the moment, as due to various delays, we have to get some 50+ events in before the end of December. One of our major funders insisted that we plan their launch event in the week15-20 November – and that no events take place before the launch. We had envisaged an earlier launch date – originally early November, and then we had planned for the 12th – and so several events, carefully organised to coincide with various market days, have had to be re-planned. And not a good week to choose really, as the 16th and 17th, possible holidays, were ruled out, and the days before or after a major holiday are not good either – so to cut a very long story short we will now be launching on the Saturday. I have lost count of how many different versions of the programme there have been!

Even government is not immune – there are elections imminent, and a local Minister had called a big rally for the 16th (presumably he thought the fête would be the 17th) which has also had to be rearranged – stadium booking, buses to carry supporters, and presumably some food to entice them along…

As well as being good news for sheep traders, the holiday is big business for fabric sellers and tailors, because many people, especially children, have new outfits – often in the beautiful local bazzin fabric – which has a self-pattern and is dyed in a range of wonderful colours, and starched and beaten to achieve a polished effect. So it should be a feast for the eyes as well as the stomach. Watch this space, there may be pics!

Hold the line please …

Ok, time for something different – I’ve been meaning for ages to write about the phone system here – which of course is beginning to seem normal to me. Like many things here, it works – after a fashion. And there are workarounds to its limitations.

There are fixed telephone lines, provided by the national Onatel – most companies/organisations and some more affluent private individuals have them. But much more business is transacted from mobiles ‘portables’. Almost everyone I come across in town has one or more of if these, and people’s personal mobiles are routinely used for business purposes – if you want to reach someone, you go for their mobile. In the villages, phone ownership, and network availability, is more spasmodic.

Everyone at work has at least one mobile and there are 2 landlines – one is a ‘ligne verte’, that is a free line (from fixed phones and one network), which was set up as an HIV-AIDS help line, but is now more often used by family and friends as a way of contacting people who work or hang out there; the other is a standard line.

When I first arrived I was puzzled, then, as to why so much time was spent going to the neighbouring telecentre to make calls. There is a telecentre pretty much on every street corner. These are cabins where you can call from a landline, on a meter, and pay afterwards.

There are 3 companies providing mobile services. Calling to the same network is relatively straightforward and cheap, texting more so – although quite often even then calls and texts won’t go through, and the network is quite often too busy. Calling from one network to another is something else. So many people, certainly many people in business like, for example, electricians, will have a SIM card (‘puce’) for each network, and often therefore two or three phones. The networks can be identified by the first two digits of the phone number, so for preference you ring or text your contact from the same network. Or perhaps it may have to be from the network where you currently have some credit… So the directory on my phone has multiple numbers for lots of people, so I can recognise incoming calls, and if possible if I need to contact them, I can do so through my network. As not everyone has as many phones as they have numbers, there is a lot of inserting and removing of SIM cards, and calls and messages are of course missed as a result.

The telecentre is the cheapest way to make calls other than to the same network, and routinely used at work to phone a mobile. So someone may go to the telecentre, call a contact, and ask them to ring back on the ligne verte – and then scurry back to the office.


The fixed lines do work, but are temperamental. Whereas in the UK I was supposed to answer the phone at work within 3 rings, and this was monitored, here it is better to let it ring 3 times before answering, as this improves the success rate.

There are a number of other consequences of this elaborate system – often when someone rings up to speak to one of my colleagues, that person is out at the telecentre making another call; with so many phones in circulation, they are frequently out of battery power, or credit, or both; and a high percentage of all calls seem to consist of someone seeking the number, or the other numbers, of another person..

Ingenuity prevails as ever – there is much use of ‘beeping’ – ie making a call which is terminated before it connects – to deliver simple messages (eg I am ready, call me on the ligne verte…). And there is a cunning system, 'sap sap', which enables you to buy credit for someone else who is somewhere else - you buy the credit and text it to them! Do we have that at home? If so I haven't come across it.

And of course portable phones fulfil many other functions too – they are what people routinely use for calculator, camera, watch, portable music system, and torch. Saves on pocket space. So no wonder there are so many booths selling phones and accessories and carrying out repairs to them – more I think even than bicycle workshops.

A man with a story

Our trip to Gaoua and the Lobi country included some interesting villages. One, Gbombolora, was the home of the extended Da family. The current head of the family is a wonderful story teller, and told us that he had travelled to Germany and other European countries, and been interviewed by several anthropologists. The really famous one is his father, who is buried in this tomb – in the family compound. As you can see there is provision for food and drink, and there were originally elephant tusks on the tomb in recognition of his fame and success as an elephant hunter. He killed several elephants, with a gun, and he was never afraid of getting hurt himself because he had a very powerful elephant fetish. He would put this on the ground, and if the elephant came after him and reached the fetish, the elephant would walk around the fetish several times and then return to whence he or she came.

The grandfather was the head of a large dynasty. He had 39 wives, although admittedly he had only fully married – with dowry and celebration – 29 of them. He had 86 sons and 88 daughters, and to tell his children apart some of them were given facial scarifications – our host was at pains to point out that his facial markings were for identification within the family, not tribal markings.

To educate his offspring he persuaded Père Boulanger, a Catholic missionary, to come and build a school near the family compound, which was completely filled with his own relations. But the missionary was not allowed to build a church, and the family remain firm animists.

A year after his death, when the family gathered to mark the occasion, his children and grandchildren numbered 400.

A Remarkable Woman

At the weekend I went on a trip with 3 other volunteers (Nathalie, Benoit and Melissa) to Gaoua and the Lobi country, in the South of Burkina, near the border with Côte d’Ivoire. It was an action and event packed weekend, on which more will follow.

The day we arrived we visited the Poni Museum (sorry equine fans, no ponies), and were shown round by Claire, who I think must be the Directrice. She is very knowledgeable, and has had an interesting life, some aspects of which are also illustrated by the museum. In Lobi country animism is still the dominant religion. The museum is illustrated with some wonderful photographs taken by Henri Labouret between 1914 and 1924, and Arnold Hein in 1934.

Claire is a Gan, one of around 7 ethnic groups making up the Lobi. Unlike other Lobi groups, the Gan have a king. Unusually, succession alternates between two rival royal clans. Claire was the daughter of a Gan King.


The Lobi are matrilineal – taking the line that there is always more certainty as to maternity than as to paternity. Children live with the mother’s extended family, and at birth are given standard names, indicating first daughter, second daughter, first son, second son, etc. The role of Head of the Family passes from uncle (mother’s brother) to nephew. Every 7 years there is an initiation ceremony, when the uninitiated – those who are deemed ready for it, both boys and girls – go off to the banks of the River Mouhoun, the river which marks the boundary between this world and the next, for an extended period. When they return – or rather those that do return, because every time there are some that do not – they are given new, individual names, this time, if I understood right, associated with their father. There is not a standard age for initiation, and some never go, but they are marked out by their birth names, and have a lower status than the youngest initiated child. Some, but not all, initiates have their top front teeth filed into points – and indeed we saw some of these around town.

At the age of 19, Claire was taken from her family, excised (ie clitoris physically cut out – more of this another day too) and married to a chief as his third wife. She later went on to work with the anthropologist Madeleine Père, who lived with the Lobi from 1961 until her death in 2002, helping to collect the objects on display and to set up the museum.

The Lobi have an intricate belief system, which they realise we may find hard to believe – for example, that children can ‘come back’ – a child which dies at or near birth is often marked with a scar of some sort, and then, when another child is born, if it has the same marking, it is ‘enfant revenant’. Also some beliefs around twins – if one twin dies at or near birth, one of the parents will soon die too. They make, and make much use of, fetishes, of which there were many in the museum – unfortunately not for photographing. More on fetishes later too.

Outside the museum are some reconstructed houses, with associated outbuildings and fetishes, and nearby is a wooded sacred spot where people go to seek help – for example with their exams, or to overcome infertility. Requests are accompanied by a sacrifice, perhaps of a chicken, sometimes a goat or even cattle. The remains of sacrificed animals are evident.


Claire has wider interests too: she has founded a Women’s Association amongst her people, to promote the ending of the practice of excision – with the coming of HIV-AIDS the use of a shared blade now has added health risks. Among its members are some of the excisors themselves – skilled practitioners, for whom new roles now need to be found. Claire has two daughters and a son; her daughters are not excised and she thinks her son is unlikely to excise any daughters he may have.

Money Matters

The currency here in Burkina and in half a dozen neighbouring states is the West African CFA (Communauté Financière Africaine) Franc. It is pegged at 656 (655.96 for pedants) to the Euro – and so fluctuates against the pound, currently in the region of 755.

The smallest coin in regular use is 25 francs, so that’s between 3p and 4p. Coins of 5 francs have pretty much disappeared; coins of 10 francs turn up from time to time, usually used in multiples. 25 francs is what children solicit to buy sweets (not that I give it to them); it is the standard cost for pumping up bike tyres; it can also be the cost of a small quantity of vegetables in season, or a few cloves of garlic. A loaf of bread (baguette) costs 125, so just over 15p. A ride in a shared taxi anywhere within central Bobo in the day time is 300 per person (40p). At night it goes up to 500cfa.

The largest note in regular use is for 10,000 francs, so that’s about £13. This is what the bank machines usually give out. All transactions are in cash. I have a cheque book with my Burkina bank account (in to which my living allowance is paid); so far I have used cheques to pay the electricity bill and the monthly charge for my internet dongle, but nothing else. My use of plastic has been solely to get cash from the bank machines.

But there is a further complication when shopping by the roadside or in local markets. In Dioula, the local language, they count money differently – they count by the coins. When the cfa was introduced, the smallest coin was 5 francs, and so 5 francs became 1 – ‘kelen’ in Dioula. Although a few things, such as potatoes, are sold by weight using scales, most items are presented for sale in little piles or packets at a given price – for example 4 small onions or 3 larger ones, a small (really small) bag of salt or sugar, a dab of tomato paste in a twist of paper. So if you ask the price of a little pile of vegetables, and the answer which comes back is the Dioula word for ten, that means that each little pile costs 50cfa! It took me a while to work this one out – as I learned the Dioula numbers, they never seemed to match the prices in the market… anyway, a bit of mental arithmetic keeps the brain cells active!

Singing for SIDA

On Saturday night I went to the closing ceremony of a Music Competition organised to promote HIV-AIDS awareness and prevention. This is the 5th time this has been held – what is called here the fifth edition, and I cannot just now think what the English equivalent wording would be. The original competitions were organised by the Association where I work, and we are still a partner in the event.

So that’s good news, because it means we turn up, walk right in, and get given good seats. Not the best seats, which are reserved for the patron, and the ‘marrains’ – godmothers/sponsors. The best seats are upholstered armchairs, which to my eye look a little out of context in the middle of a bare earth courtyard, but this is typical hospitality for the great and the good here (they also get a bottle of chilled water each). The next best seats are cushioned chairs which look like they have been borrowed from a reception area (probably the case). We are allocated the slatted wooden chairs, with arms, such as might be seen around a swimming pool, about 3 rows back, with a clear view of the stage. Not bad. Behind us are several rows of people on the spectacularly uncomfortable metal chairs which are common in, for example, cyber cafes, here. And behind them, loads of people standing, squatting or sitting on the ground.


The Patron is the Minister for Public Administration and the Reform of the State who I seem to be coming across quite regularly these days - could this be anything to do with a looming election? We have timed our arrival quite well; nothing can start until he arrives, which is quite soon (in a convoy of 4x4s). So not even much waiting around.



The competition has been going on for several days, with some 20 entrants singing, dancing and playing music, and a jury to score the candidates. The finalists battled it out Saturday afternoon, and the grand finale evening is for each of them to play in turn, and also for some well known artistes (some of whom are success stories from earlier competitions) to sing and dance too. And of course speeches, prize-giving and masses of handshaking. The prizes are ‘enveloppes’ – that is, money – and a huge box (dare I say family size?) of condoms each. Also they get publicity, and I think perhaps studio recording opportunities for the winner.

It was a beautiful evening, warm but not hot, calm, virtually wind-free, with a starry sky. The compères were excellent, and so was most of the music. The theme tune, as everywhere for everything this year, was the World Cup anthem ‘Wavin’ Flag’ and there were splendid fanfares for the all the prize winners and those thanked. The sound system and the lights, mostly hand-held, worked without a glitch. The organisers, another Association, certainly know how to put on a show.

A sorry tale

This is a sad story. It doesn’t yet have an ending, never mind a happy one. If you don’t like sad stories, look away now.

A few days ago, a heavily pregnant woman, let us call her Awa, turned up on the doorstep of the office where I work. Awa is friendly and we exchange greetings and handshakes, but as she doesn’t speak French (and I don’t speak much Dioula) I have had little chance to talk to her. However, the woman in charge of the office certainly has, and the story which has emerged is this. Awa is pregnant with twins. She already has 2 sets of twins and 2 other children – so this will make 8 in all. Her husband, discovering that she is expecting twins again, has thrown her out of the house. Worse than that, he has deliberately broken the water jar by the house, in which they store the cool water for drinking – and that means, apparently, that under no circumstances is he having her back.

They live in Bobo, but most of their other relations are far away to the north, further north even than Ouaga (which is 5 hours by coach). Anyway, now that he has broken the water jar, neither family will intervene on her behalf. Twins, as well as being more work and more expensive, are often considered a sign of bad luck.

Our kind-hearted colleague has been ringing around, trying to find some source of help for her, but there is not much provision for this kind of problem – it is expected that the family will sort it out. Meanwhile, she spends the day sitting on the terrace outside the office, resting – and at night sleeps in one of the rooms at the back of the office. As for what will happen to the twins, who knows?

Fine and Ramadandy

Friday was the 'fete' - ie holiday - for the end of Ramadan. Until the last minute there was uncertainty as to whether it would fall on Thursday or Friday, because it links to a lunar cycle and depends on the new moon. So people were eagerly watching the news on Wednesday evening to find out. No news, no holiday, off to work on Thursday (just as well for those with a flood to clear up after!) And so Friday was the holiday - a national holiday and day off for people with regular jobs, regardless of their religion.

During Ramadan some but by no means all of the muslims observe a dawn to dusk fast - getting up early to eat before it gets light and then not eating or drinking again until after sundown. After a while during Ramadan the effects begin to tell; people are tired and shorter-tempered than usual.

Chicken appears to be the traditional dish on this occasion - the chicken market opposite where I work was heaving all week, and the streets were full of people with a couple of chickens (still live I fear) hanging from the handlebars of their motos or pushbikes.

For the holiday, people get dressed up, and traditionally children have a new or at least better than usual outfit. There is lots of parading around in smart clothes; I spent part of the morning watching the traffic in the street with most people dressed up smart, often in the 'basins' (pronounced as if spelled bazzins) which are the traditional fabric for celebration around here. Its a self-patterned fabric, traditionally dyed, and then made up with lots of embroidery.

I was lucky enough to get several invites, and had some delicious chicken and other bits and pieces - even went out to a 'maquis' in the evening which was packed, and too hot and noisy for me really... but have to make the effort sometimes!

Several of the local kids came round to be photographed in their 'tenue de fete'. Very pleased with themselves; new clothes, some in proper shoes (not flip-flops) probably several sizes too big, hair all nicely dressed... and best accesory of all, sunglasses, often worn high on the forehead!

The festive atmosphere continued all day and pretty much all weekend; lots of things were closed, which is unusual, and the town noticeably quieter. On the negative side, there are no avocados to be had anywhere; I think they come from Cote d'Ivoire, where the holiday lasts for a week, and so the supply chain has been interrupted. I thought for a while that the season had come to an end, which would have been bad news indeed, because the avocados here are usually very good and an important part of my diet, but am relieved to hear from those who know that they will be back in a day or too.

Flooding and Mudding

We started with What is Hot? - now for What is Wet?

When I arrived here in April, the preoccupation was the heat – how to get by from one cold shower or cold drink to the next one. In Burkina, nothing is by halves, and now it is well and truly the rainy season. I don’t know how to describe the rain, really – it is heavier and stormier than any I have ever seen. Some days it rains heavily for several hours. The streets empty of people and fill with water. If the roadside drains are blocked – which they often are – the water swirls down the street, carrying with it whatever debris is lying around. You can get soaked to the skin in the shortest distance. It's stormy and windy as well – trees have come down, and so have some of the less well built houses. In between rain it is humid – clothes take a long time to dry, things like salt and sugar take up the moisture and become soggy and saturated. Because people don’t travel in the rain, something of a Dunkirk spirit builds up – people marooned in an office over lunchtime without any food, stuck together on a terrace or under a tree…

But this week the rain in Bobo was extreme even by local standards. My bike, parked outside in the road, accumulated loads of debris in a few minutes; further down, the road on which I live was flooded and firemen were using a little boat to help people. Many roads were blocked by floods and one small child was swept away and drowned. For images, try:

www.citizenside.com/fr/photos/accidents-lies-a-la-meteo/2010-09-09/28745/nouvelles-inondations-au-burkina-faso-a-bobo-dioulasso.html

Parochially, our office flooded to almost knee height. All the water from the street seemed to be flowing through our yard, thanks I think to blocked drains elsewhere – and could not get out the other side. Fortunately it was in the day time and people – stranded by the storm – were there to move the computers and other valuable equipment on to high shelves, and to turn off the electricity at the mains before the water reached the level of the sockets.


So it could have been much worse. I had escaped for lunch just before the downpour started; by the time I came back for the afternoon, cars, motos and people were still knee deep in water, even though the peak had passed (you can see the tide mark on the wall in the pictures). As it subsided, the flood left behind a thick layer of red mud. By next day, largely thanks to the valiant efforts of the gardien, it was mostly cleaned up, but there are still soggy papers where the water got into desk drawers, and material in the store rooms – booklets, leaflets, costumes, props etc – all got soaked and some are damaged. 3 of the 4 motos on the terrace would not start – one was leaking oil ominously; neither of the cars parked in the yard seemed inclined to go – water had risen higher than the exhaust pipe and penetrated the doors. Not sure yet what the impact will be on the peanut and okra crops, which were inundated. And of course there is a rather damp smell – unsurprisingly.

So Thursday saw files, papers, puppets, costumes etc spread out to dry – but the sun did not oblige and everything had to be brought in before the next lot of rain, which came while the digging of a large hole out the back, to try to prevent any repetition, was still in progress. On the whole the reaction to our plight was lots of laughter, rolled up sleeves and trousers, and a focus on how much worse it could have been – with endless reiteration that ‘c’est pas facile’. Not, of course, laughter at what had happened elsewhere in the town, with loss of life and home.