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.

Cleaning and Greening

On Saturday last I went to an event in the grounds of the local museum, on the banks of the river Dafra where the sacred catfish, the totem and official emblem of Bobo, dwell. Lots of people come to see the catfish and some feed them. Maybe as a result of this, the river fills up with abandoned black plastic bags and other debris. The fish here are up to perhaps a couple of feet long; there are larger ones, also sacred, recipients of many sacrifices, a little way out of Bobo – but I haven’t seen those yet.

The banks of the river are also eroding, as a result I think of both the weather and the visitors. The local story-tellers, ‘Les Conteurs du Terroir’ got fed up with the state that this tourist attraction was in, and raised some sponsorship to do something about it.

So there was a grand gathering on Saturday. First an excellent female story-teller told us a tale about a chameleon, then there were the obligatory speeches, then the assembled company collected spades, gloves and wheelbarrows and set forth to clean the river, install waste bins for future debris, and plant trees. There was lots of good humour, and as ever some music to help things along. Much waste was collected and carried off, many trees planted along the banks of the river, baguettes were distributed and then there was some more story telling and visiting of the museum, which has in its grounds examples of local houses. The weather stayed fine, and the event attracted good media coverage, including national tv – on which I am told I was visible, though I didn’t see it myself!

For more pics of this event, follow this link:

http://picasaweb.google.co.uk/111172062905554064052/CleaningAndGreening02?authkey=Gv1sRgCLKW7q_u5Z_EOw#

A tale of 2 taxis

Little green shared taxis are the main means of getting about (other than walking) for those without their own transport. The cars are not usually in good repair, and show the signs of negotiating their way around Bobo's roads and potholes. Because they are shared, the route is often not direct (interesting for those trying to get the hang of the place). Bobo is quite big. People may think Africa=village, but it is very far from so - although within the town there are plenty of bits with a villagey feel.

Anyway, 2 recent taxi experiences.

Stopped a taxi to get into town from work one evening. Taxi driver a bit older than usual and, as quickly became clear, deaf; also seemingly unable to understand or speak any French (most taxi drivers have some French, although deciphering what I say and working out where I want to go can become a team effort, involving everyone in the taxi and sometimes passers-by as well ...). Anticipating the problems this might cause, he was accompanied by what I take was a grandson (taking up lucrative passenger space), to translate what passengers said and relay it, by shouting in Dioula. Next problem - neither grandad nor boy knew their way around Bobo much! Fortunately on this occasion (tho' not always the case) I knew where I was going and how to get there - so I gave instructions - turn left, straight on, etc - in French to the boy, who then transmitted them to grandad - anyway, between us, we got there. I'm glad I didn't happen upon that taxi when on a more adventurous sortie.

The day after, I hailed a taxi to get back home from a youth centre in a residential neighbourhood. An empty taxi picked me up, drove part of the way, and then the taximan explained that we needed to stop while he dealt with the (live) chicken which he apparently had in the boot and planned to grill that evening. Oh well, I thought, this may take a while but I am not in a hurry. So we pulled up at the chicken-processing stall and in an amazingly short space of time his chicken was killed, feathers removed by a process I could not quite see, head and feet cut off and I assume also gutted, or drawn, or whatever it is you do to chickens. The process involved plunging the chicken into a drum of hot something... (I shall probably get to understand the process better as the chicken market is relocating near where I work). Then back into the taxi and off we went again. He complained about the high cost of this process - 75cfa, which is between 9p and 10p. He had bought the chicken for about £1 and was pleased with that - and was looking forward to his supper, which he assured me would be delicious. He was probably right; the chickens here are tasty, although with much less meat on them than at home - a European appetite can easily manage a whole chicken.

Take a taxi and see life, eh?

Back in Bobo and blogging again

Ok, I am now safely back in Bobo after long but trouble free journeys. Very different weather from my first arrival! We are well into the rainy season here, and as nothing is done by halves, that means spectacular rain, often accompanied by heavy winds and sometimes by thunder.

When it rains hard, the streets empty; if its raining heavily people don't go to work, or if they are at work, stay there. The other day it started raining heavily at about 12.15 and carried on for a couple of hours, so no going home or out for lunch, and I began to get rather hungry.... and it's not as if there is a supply of biscuits or bananas in the office kitchen here.

Rain leaves huge puddles in the holes in the road, and unless they are holes you know well and have memorised, there is no knowing how deep they may be. And with the rain comes loads of sticky red mud, which then dries, and gets everywhere...

However, the air is quite fresh, and although it is hot between times when the sun comes out, no way is it sweltering like it was in April. Mostly, the temperature is comfortable wearing light trousers and a short sleeved t-shirt - a couple of times I have felt a little chilly on the arms during torrential downpours, which create quite a breeze. And often sleeping without a fan at night, and under a sheet...

I think I have pretty much settled back in now, took about a week, needed to do a bit of spring cleaning in the flat, and a bit of adjusting to the different pace of life and level of physical comforts. Presents from UK generally well received - I printed out a load of photos and that has led to lots of fun. Also sweeties from Tom and Sue's wedding for some of the neighbourhood children.

All of course much less daunting than it seemed in April, and my French in better nick than it was then!

Lots else to blog about, so watch this space for further instalments.