Dancing Christmas night away

As in most cultures, Christmas in Burkina is mainly about food. To be more specific: it is all about meat and beer, as several Burkinabè assured me. This made me wonder whether the Germans have ever colonised Burkina.

The 24th December, the embassy closed at 2 PM, leaving me with enough time to do my shopping. Again, as in most cultures, it is not wise to go shopping the day before Christmas. I did manage however to visit two supermarkets, a crafts shop, the big market, two bakeries (of which one had chickens walking behind the counter – will never really get used to that), a fruit stall and a Lebanese restaurant which also sells nice pastries and cookies. At the latter, my friend and I, tired of making our way through the crowds, settled into a chair and ordered nice fruit juices and food. After that, we went to a maquis, where we watched television and the crowds go by.

Christmas day I spent visiting people, as is normal around here. After an impressive breakfast, I went to visit Sandrine, who had prepared vegafood for me, and had baked a cake, and had bought chocolate, which meant that when I left there, I almost felt over because my belly was so big. But just to be sure that I wouldn’t die of starvation, she insisted that I would take home some of the cake as well. After that, I visited two more people, who made me eat even more fries and cake, and both gave me food to take with me, so in the end, both me and my handbag were stuffed.

After dropping my stock of food at home, I went to the cinema to watch a movie with Eddy Murphy, who’s humor I always fail to appreciate, but somehow it helps if he is dubbed over in French. I ended the evening in a bar again, dancing on African beats once more.

The second day of Christmas, or Boxing Day as the British like to call it, is not really celebrated here, so life went on as usual. I went to eat a big icecream at an Italian restaurant with a friend, where I stumbled upon a few colleagues. We joined them and I listened to one of my local colleagues raging about a meeting she had had with representatives of other organisations. Appearently, someone had said something which had made her angry, making her say ‘tu es bête comme tes fèces’: you’re as stupid as your arse!’. There’s one to remember. When we had finished, my Dutch colleague offered to pay for us all. I insisted that I would pay for the icecream, but my burkinabè colleagues told me to put away my wallet and be grateful. ‘It’s very impolite to refuse something that has been offered to you here’, they told me, and my friend added, with a cheeky face: ‘en Afrique, on ne décourage pas la bonne volonté’ (in Africa, we don’t discourage people’s good will).

So, the year is coming to an end, and so is my internship. I have tried to prolong it as much as possible, but it’s really finished now. I guess tomorrow I will right you a little evaluation! I’m really sad that things are coming to an end, although I’m not really into the phase of acceptation yet. However, I will find myself some comfort food now: I think Turkish baklava makes an excellent candidate!

A white Christmas

Several people have been asking me how people celebrate Christmas here, and since I woke up at 4:15h thanks to the call for prayer from some mosque (my god, you have to be a really early bird to be a good Muslim!) and am therefore awake at too early an hour, I’d decided to get my computer out and write you another blog.

Like all holidays (Ramadan, Tabaski, etc.), people will celebrate it by visiting friends, neighbours, family and acquaintances. Of course, food is very important, and has to come in large quantities, like in the Western world. Christian people will go to church at Christmas eve, also just like in Europe. However, after church, they don’t necessarily go home to drink one last hot cocoa before going to bed, while staring into the lights of the Christmas tree. Instead, they might very well go to a nightclub and dance the night away. Sounds like a plan to me.

People don’t attach as much importance to Christmas as they do in the West. That’s probably because it’s a mixed culture of Muslims and Christians. And of course, in the West, we attach far too much importance to it, starting the festive ‘season’ at least one month before the actual Christmas day.

It is visible in the streets though, the fact that ‘holidays are coming’, as Coca Cola Company like to put it. Street sellers are now selling Christmas trees and decorations. I was amazed to see a Christmas tree walk by the other day, before I discovered two eyes of the street seller who had put the tree on it’s shoulder blinking from between its plastic branches. Christmas stalls too are being pushed or pulled around on donkey cars. All glitter and kitsch, just the way they like it here. Also, the main road through the center of Ouaga is decorated with Christmas lights. But somehow, it’s just not the same when you cycle past them after sitting on a streetside table until two in the morning in your sleeveless top.

Well, it’s time to get ready to go to work. It’s a rather cool morning today. We have just been having another hot week. Normally, it’s not that warm in December, but these past days, we’ve been having the good old 35+degrees temperatures. At the heat of the day, the sun will burn so bright and spread so much light, that colours fade and the world seems to be all white. A white Christmas after all.

A touch of ridicule

I like my life to be exiting, unique, adventurous and with a touch of ridicule. “At least I’m on the safe side concerning the touch of ridicule”, I said to myself while I was staring into the mirror Saturday afternoon two weeks ago. I was sitting in the room where my stay in Ouaga had begun: the guestroom of the Dutch residence. I had been looking in the same mirror four months ago to see whether I looked proper enough for my first day at work. Much has changed in those four months, but I had never thought upon my arrival here that four months later, my reflection in the mirror would have changed so very dramatically. A tan is to be expected when living in Africa, but the person starring back from the mirror had a face pitch-black. Besides that, I was wearing pantyhose, a thick turtleneck T-shirt, a wig and a colourful blouse with matching shorts and hat.

Sinterklaas, the Dutch equivalent of Santa Clause (well, actually, it’s the other way round) had come to Ouagadougou to hand out presents to the children of the Dutch school. As custom, he had brought along his assistants: black men (although they’re gender neutral really) with Afro hair and colourful outfits. They are called Black Pete, all of them, and they are numerous. There is Head Pete, Pete of Presents, Pete of Wrapping Presents, etc. Despite protesting, I was assigned Pete of Sleep, which meant I had to fall asleep every five minutes or so. It was fun, of course, and the kids loved it (it’s wonderful how you can get children exited over and over again by doing the same thing; they are simple little creatures, aren’t they?), but the outfit of Black Pete is more adjusted to the Dutch winter than to the 35 degrees of Ouaga’s afternoons. When we lefted the residence, Sinterklaas on his horse, me and the other Petes running after him, and the people on the street staring at us in amazement.

The ridicule was touched upon even more when Sinterklaas asked me to get him a glass of white wine. I didn’t cooperate, but he drank at least two glasses in the end.

The weekend after, I spent in the Sahel. We had a long weekend, which allowed us to take a three-day mini-break. I went with to other girls, and we had a great time. Among the many challenges of the dessert, besides avoiding dehydration, getting lost, getting robbed or getting kidnapped by terrorists, are trying not to fall of a dromedary while trying to take a picture, not to be painfully pricked in your feet by cramcrams, not to pee over your own feet when aiming for the small whole in the ground, not to be pricked in the bare bottom when you decide to pee outside instead, and not to scream like a person who is being tortured when taking a morning ‘shower’ with a bottle of water which has been outside all night in the cool Sahelian night. I could tell you much more about our trip, but I don’t manage to properly describe the magic of the very north of Burkina. I invite you all to look at the photo album instead.

Unique was the lunch I had with the Prime minister, Mr. Tertius Zongo. Well, alright, it’s wasn’t a tête-à-tête, like I had with the minister of Transport, but I was there on the same table as he was. Like every month, we had had the meeting of the European ambassadors in Burkina Faso, always followed by a lunch with an interesting guest. For the last lunch organised under the Dutch local presidency of the European Union, we had invited the PM. And he came.

And so, our presidency came to an end, and with that my internship. I’m wrapping up this week. I don’t want to leave. I would love to find a job here, rent a modest house, and set up life here for a few years. It’s ridiculous, of course, to hope to find a job here. But then again, it’s that touch of ridicule which makes my world go round.

PS I've found a veggie maquis (small bar/restaurant) here in Ouaga! They make all sorts of Burkinabè specialities, but with tofu instead of meat! And it's also really cheap! I'm loving it!

For general pictures of Ouaga, and especially me as Black Pete, my new dresses, and the killing of the sheep at Tabaski, see http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=304685&id=669020293&l=a125316501

The pictures of our trip to the Sahel, you can find at http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=357409&id=669020293&l=43d10134ff

For a minute there, I lost myself

It was after ten in the evening, and we were speeding along the barrage (an artifical lake). It’s not unsafe there, I think, at least nog in a life-threatening way, but many bag-snatchers operate there and we didn’t want to run into them. I was sitting on the back of Sandrine’s moped, holding on to my scarf which was seriously fighting for its freedom and trying to fly away. I didn’t want to loose it, because I needed it. Because without it, I would be cold.

As soon as we came to the end of the barrage, the cold was gone, and Sandrine returned to normal speed. Without the coolness of the barrage and the wind, Africa was its usual self again, but those minutes on the road along the barrage, I could have pictured myself back in Europe again.

Saying you miss the Dutch weather is like saying you miss the architecture of an industrial town in England: it sounds rather insane. However, it’s true. For 25 years, I have seen seasons change. In January of this year, I had a seriously sunny break from the miserable wintery weather in the Netherlands during a holiday in South Africa, but otherwise, I have always seen the world grow more dark and cold towards October, and then more light again from March on. Life is marked by the first day of the year that you dig up your winter coat, the first day that you leave the house while it’s still dark in the morning, the first day that there is a thin layer of ice on the water, the first day that you put the heating on. And then, when you think that really, you’re through with having purple-orange coloured hands from the cold, and your skin is too white, and there is a hole in your gloves and you don’t feel like buying new, things are starting to improve slowly: there is the first day that you have a drink outside, the first day that you can sit outside without a coat, the first day that you forget to put the heating on and don’t feel cold.

Dutch winter causes depression, I know, but without winter depression, I feel that there is something missing. Without the cold wind seems to blow right through you, the frost which manages to get under your skin, and the days that daylight is limited to five minutes a day, there is this void.

It’s just boring, you know? It’s boring when you’re sure that you won’t need your raincoat for the next couple of months, and that you’ll never need a big woollen sweater. Well, I don’t anyway. My guard greeted me this morning wearing a warm jacket, earmuffs, gloves, and was holding a hot cup of tea with both hands, but I’m still wearing a thin cotton shirt with hardly any sleaves, and sandals.

I’m just Dutch. Dutch as can be. I need my yearly winter depression to feel comfortable.

I held on to my scarf, imagined it was woollen, and that I was speeding along a shopping street decorated with Christmas lights, trying to get home and warm my hands at the heating.

Blame it on Abraham

Those of you who have been keeping up-to-date with this blog (really appreciate it, dad), will remember how, in the first weeks here, I feared that every kind of celebration would involve killing an animal. Luckily, I was proved wrong. Up till last Friday, that is. Because then, it was Tabaski, a Islamic holiday. Tabaski is also known as ‘feast of the sheep’, although I don’t agree with that name: it might give the impression that it is a happy day for the sheep of Burkina. But au contraire, mon ami: it’s the feast of SLAUGHTERING sheep.

Yes, killing sheep, that’s what it is about. I asked several people why there is a national holiday dedicated to killing sheep, and they didn’t know: ‘we kill a sheep, and then we eat it’, they replied. Why investigate the exact reason to do so, they wondered. I should just be happy that there will be sheep meat.

At Tabaski, we celebrate that many years ago, a guy named Abraham felt the urge to prove his faith to God, and so when God, feeling a bit sadistic that they, asked him to sacrifice his son, he readily prepared to do so. It was in those days that Child Protection Services were not invented yet. So Abraham stood there, sword high above his head, ready to kill his own son, when God, thinking the joke had lasted long enough, intervened, and suggested he would sacrifice a sheep instead. I don’t know the Bible well enough to know if it tells how the father-son relationship was after this little incident, but I’m sure it involved a lot of counselling and many difficulties long after.

Anyway, the Muslims have decided to celebrate this lack of fatherly love every year by killing sheep. So Friday, we killed sheep. Every household will kill at least one, although the well-to-do will kill more, of course. Because sheep sellers are no dummies, prices for sheep increase drastically towards Tabaski. Better buy one early therefore, but watch out: there are many sheep thieves, so buy one early and you’ll risk being robbed and not having a sheep for Tabaski.

The evening before Tabaski, the women will work until late to prepare the food for the day to come. The morning of the holiday, people will get up rather early (around six) to wash the sheep. This is done by the men, who need quite some strength in order to control the sheep once his head is being washed. But afterwards, one has one clean sheep.

Only after the prayer, the sheep is killed, but one might also kill another sheep before the prayer, in order to allow the women (in case they are not religious enough to go to the mosque) to already prepare some meat. This sheep does not have to be washed.

Muslims kill animals by sliding their throat: this is halal. I tried to discuss the possible cruelness of this way of ending an animals life, compared to a firm blow to the head, or chopping of the head at once. People thought that my suggestion was barbaric, shocking and cruel.

I watched. Yes, I did. I watched, and worse: I took photos. Even though I don’t eat meat, I thought it ridiculous that I had never watched the process of an animal who says ‘bêêêh’ until a piece of meat on a plate. So I watched.

One person hold his legs; the other his head. Then an elderly came, with a big knife. The sheep was laid down, with his neck above a whole in the ground. The elderly took the knife, and slid the animal’s throat. The animal didn’t move, and didn’t make a sound, because he was prevented to do so by the men who held him, and probably because he got quickly sedated. And then, he bled to death. The life leaked out of him, into the whole in the ground.

When he had died, he was put onto a large piece of carton, and the guys started to remove his skin. All the children around, especially the boys, curiously came to take a look and hoped that they could help. After the skin had come of, his body was cut open, and all his insides were taken out, one by one. In the end, he had skilfully been cut into many pieces, and apart from the head that was left lying around, the sheep had finally become something Western people can look at without disgust: pieces of meat.

This blog is part of the campaign ‘Vegetarianising the world’, a project of the Lotte Bok foundation.

Between the gutter and the stars

Misery is like chocolate: take too much, and it will make you unhappy and might even shorten your life, but if you take it bit by bit, it contributes to your happiness and well-being. We all need a bit of everyday misery to enhance our metaphysical happiness, I like to say. But that’s also because I just like to use the word ‘metaphysical’. It makes one sound smart and philosophical, doesn’t it?

I really think it’s true though. People born in wealth and well-being, so people like me, cannot live without a small portion of seemingly big drama every now and then. We need something to complain about, something to cry about, and something to justify that we spend a whole evening sitting on a couch, watching really bad television and stuffing ourselves with chocolate (after which we not only feel miserable, but FAT ánd miserable).

For people like us, thinkers, poets and writers have come up with beautiful texts and expressions to give way to our troubles. ‘We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars’, Oscar Wilde wrote for example.

I saw some people who can justifiably claim to be in the proverbial gutter last Friday. Three ambassadors and a little lady (that would be me, and alright, there was another young woman from another embassy and someone from UNDP, and a representative of a local human rights group, MBDHP) got up early Friday morning in order to visit the prison in Koudougou, a town an hour’s drive away from Ouaga, heading west. The prison has recently been in the news when mutiny broke out and six prisoners were shot dead by the guards who tried to calm the crowd. Eight managed to escape, which was not too difficult considering an outer wall had collapsed some years ago and no one had ever bothered to rebuild it.

Before we could visit the prison, we first had to do our duty and visit the local gouverneur and the procureur. When we finally did arrive in the prison, I didn’t understand immediately that we had already entered. In my view, prisons are large buildings with thick walls and vigilant guards who check your bag before you enter. The prison of Koudougou is just some bare land. There are outer walls, although not too impressive, and the gate is always open. Bags are not checked upon entering the prison. The only security measure taken is that every visitor has to hand in his cell phone – for whatever reason. Drugs, firearms or knives are apparently less of a problem.

It took us ages to get permission to enter, especially since the ambassadors had decided they wanted to talk to the prisoners as well. This, the authorities thought, was not such a good idea. While the ambassadors talked to the authorities to obtain the permission to do so, I waited with the others under a simple roof under which the guards were seated. It took them a while to organise a bench for us to sit on, because they were too busy playing cards, and did not seem to notice anything going on around them.

The prisons harbours one compound for the three female prisoners, who seemed to live in tolerable conditions and one court was for the two minors. Although minors should not be locked up in a normal prison, they seemed to live reasonably well as well. However, the male adults were less ‘fortuned’. When we entered the court, they were all seated in the inner courtyard. They were with far too many to ever fit into the surrounding cells, it seemed. Cells made for twenty prisoners max are used by 33 prisoners at a time. There are no beds or other furniture, just mats to sleep on. A slight smell of urine hung in the air. A few prisoners were clearly mentally ill. At least one was visibly undernourished, or in a terminal stage of an illness like aids. The prison’s social worker told us that there were at least three cases of HIV/AIDS, and undernourishment was a problem often occurring. Besides that, there are the infections, caused by bad hygiene. Sometimes when people are arrested, they are not allowed to wash themselves for two whole weeks. In a sweaty country like this, that is obviously going to give skin infections.

We asked the prisoners some questions, like how many of them were still waiting to be judged (about one third) and what sort of complaints they had. They pointed out that they could not speak their mind in the presence of the guards, but told us anyway that circumstances were bad. ‘The food situation has improved now’, they said. Yes, because now, they get one meal a day. It used to be less.

For any of you in support of harsh conditions for prisoners: the return-to-crime rates for Koudougou prison are about 50%. Apparently, treating people like dogs is not the most effective way to diminish crime rates in a country.

For most people there, live is sad and miserable, and it always will be, even if they manage to get out of the prison (which is not too sure, because with some regularity, prisoners die).

I don’t believe we are all in the gutter, but even if we were, at least some of us are locked up in a cell which is so bloody crowded, that they cannot even see a glimpse of the stars.

Learning and teaching

It’s a bit of a cliché, but traveling around the world really does make you understand so much more about people, cultures, the world in general, and also, yourself. Not only do you learn new ways of thinking, new technique and new cuisine, but it also makes you reflect about your own culture and yourself. Corny as it may sound, I truly believe that intercultural exchange benefits all involved, at least if they are open to learn new things.

I had decided that the bunch of straw on my head formerly known as my hair really needed to be cut. Of course, I could have gone to the hairdressers at some posh hotel, where they are used to giving haircuts to blondes. However, I opted for the head-down (well, in this case ‘hair-down’ would be more appropriate, mwahaha) African experience and went to the Afro-hairdresser in one of Ouaga’s most lively neighbourhoods, Dapoya.

The woman in charge of hairdressing salon ‘Bien Aimée’ had sworn that she had experience with cutting non-Afro hair. I just hoped that that was true, and that she wouldn’t do anything irreversibly damaging to my hair.

Like the hairdressers in the Netherlands, she started with washing my hair, which I thought was reassuring. For this, we had to go outside. There was no running water, nor hot water, although the latter is not that much of a problem when it’s 35+ degrees. I started to be a little bit worried when I saw that she used shampoo which clearly said ‘for professional use only’ (would she be professional enough to use it, I wondered), and also because on the shampoo bottle it said that it was to be used as part of a treatment, together with other products, but I decided not to ask difficult questions right away.

After the washing, which took a very long time, the cutting began. Of course, the woman in charge did this herself, but apparently she required two assistants for the job. The two young women watched her do the cutting like medical students who assist at heart surgery for the first time in their life. And I must say: the way she cut my hair did look a bit like heart surgery. She took a tiny wisp of hair, and cut off only a tiny bit. Only hopefully, at heart surgery, they use instruments which are in perfect condition, while her pair of scissors she used was blunt as a rock.

However, most of the dead parts of my hair were removed, and thanks to her prudence, nothing spectacular changed with regard to my hairdo. When it was finished, and we could all breath freely again, she took some mousse and started to straighten my hair. Now, I happen to like my jumpy hair, thinking it gives me a bit of a Brigitte Bardot-look, and it adds some girlishness to my looks, distracting attention from the wrinkles which start to feature ever more prominently on my forehead. However, here, women like their hair straight and shiny. I left the salon with a hairdo resembling a helmet, but after I had washed it and it looked like its usual messy self, I was very happy with the result.

Sunday, my friend Ronald and I went to lunch at Sandrine’s place. As usual, Ronald wanted to go by bike, despite the fact that it was 39 degrees. After the 40 minute bike ride (well, longer, because we got a bit lost thanks to me) we arrived at Sandrine’s lovely house. Normally, African ‘houses’ are just one or two rooms, with a mud floor and mud walls, and maybe a huge couch, or some very large chairs, and a lot of junk, of which most is broken. Sandrine’s house, however, is neat and tidy, nicely painted and decorated, with not a plastic flower or string of multi-coloured Christmas lights in sight. She had made us a nice salad, riz graz (rice with vegetables and a lot of oil), and, my favourite, alloco (baked banana), after which she served tea and cookies, and offered us some slices of pineapple. Sandrine told us this was the first time in her life that she had ever cooked riz graz for vegetarians. It had been a whole new experience for her, although the result was very tasty. It was already late in the afternoon when we climbed onto our bikes again, with our bellies stuffed to the limit.

However, this lunch did not prevent me from baking some pancakes in the evening for Adama, another friend. He has taught me how to prepare some simple local dishes, and now he wanted me to teach him how to make typical Dutch pancakes. Of course I obliged, and while I was in the teaching mood, I also thought him some basics of the English languages, and a song for Sinterklaas, the Dutch variant of Santa Clause.

I gave Adama a plate and a fork and knife and served the pancakes. It was only when I saw him struggling with the fork, knife and pancake that I realized that here, people eat either with fork and spoon, or, more common, with only a fork, or just with their hands. So, I took on the role of teacher once more, and explained to him how to work your way through a meal with knife and fork. Thankfully, he took it up much quicker than me when I was told how to eat with Chinese sticks for the first time.

And then, we all went to bed and thought our respective thoughts on what we had learned that weekend: Bien Aimée’s owner had gained some more experience in cutting white girls’ hair; Sandrine had found a way to prepare traditional Burkinabè food for veggies; Adama had learned a Sinterklaas song, along with some English and an introduction to Dutch cuisine and how to eat with knife and fork European-style, and I had got to know Burkina a bit better, and learned that a lot of things which are obvious for me might be new for others, and vice versa.

How wonderful life is, with so much that remains to be learned and so much that remains to be tought!

Matters of life, death and illness

Is it time to see a doctor, perhaps, when the cracking sound of bones snapping does not really disturb you? Just a thought that crossed my mind after visiting Bazoulè, a village nearby Ouaga, where the big attraction is to see crocodiles eat live chickens.

I had already seen a doctor a few days before, when I was visiting Banfora. Whether it was food poisoning or something else, I don’t know, but it felt like a little monster had occupied my stomach and was fervently throwing back any food or liquid that I tried to put in there. It made me live through one of the most horrible nights ever, and exposed me to a serious risk of dehydration. When the vomiting started again next morning after an eight hour break, I gave up, went to the hotel reception desk, and broke down in tears while asking the hotel staff to help me get to a doctor.

But let me start where I should start: with my friend Linda arriving in Ouaga. Linda had decided to come and visit me, so I took a week off from work and went to collect her on the airport in the middle of the night. I was a bit worried, because she was coming with Royal Air Maroc, and I had had a 2,5 days delay when arriving with RAM, but we were lucky this time: she was only an hour late. This gave me the opportunity to wonder around ‘Ouagadougou International Airport’ a bit: the arrivals hall is non-existant, the departure hall resembles a carton box. Someone has hand-written ‘embarquement’ on a wall to indicate where to board. The detection machine for bags is used as an uncomfortable bed by bored staff.

After a day of relaxation in Ouaga, we left for Bobo on Monday by bus. Our favourite fellow-passenger by far was the guy who had a picture of himself and, presumably, his mother on his laptop’s desktop. Their portraits had been cut and pasted into a background of snow, atmospheric lights and Christmas trees (think Disney).

At Bobo, we did all the touristy things that one can do there, including admiring both the big cathedral, which looks like a hangar with a cross on top of it, and the big mosque, which is a mud building with lots of sticks sticking out of it (‘Sudanese style architecture’). We also took a stroll around the ancient part of town, where appearantly one can find sacred fish in the river. Later, a friend told me that some of them are made to wear earrings. When I told him I thought that that was rather cruel and wondered what would be the use of earrings to a fish, he simply answered ‘they’re sacred’. He himself thought that that answered it all.

The day after, we went a little more west even, to Banfora. When we arrived at the busstation, and I saw a goat amidst the luggage, I started to suspect what was going to happen, but I could hardly believe it. But yes: the goat was put into the dark cargo hold, together with the other luggage, and transported to Banfora that way. Upon arrival, he seemed quite relaxed, although he might also just have been in shock.

The road from Bobo to Banfora is lovely. Most of Burkina is flat, dry, brownish and covered in dust for most part of the year. In the west, however, there are some hills, the temperatures are much lower and nature is lush and green. Banfora itself proved to be quite uninteresting, but the surroundings make up for that. We decided to get a guide who could take us around. In retrospect, I think choosing the first little rasta guy we met on the street was perhaps not the best of ideas, but he managed to organise transport, find a friend to drive the other moped, and show us everything we wanted to see. I was not too happy with him taking a small longdrink glass of liquor at 11 in the morning to kickstart the day, but he assured me that that would not pose any problem, since he was used to that. ‘This is nothing for me’, he said in an attempt to reassure me. Normally, he drinks much more.

We started off by visiting the 1.8 billion year old rocks. They have been shaped by the wind and the sea, many, many years ago. It’s fascinating to find sea sand in the middle of a country where, nowadays, there is not a sea in sight. After this, we went to the famous waterfall of Banfora, where I took a pleasant shower under the stream of water, before heading to the hippo lake. There, a fisherman took us with him in his small boat. Hippo’s are dangerous, because they are strong and aggressive. They won’t eat you, but they might hurt you, and if they ruin your boat, you will be splashing around in a lake filled with crocodiles… Fortunately, we only saw the hippo’s from great distance.

By then, however, I had started to feel unwell. I had enjoyed the day very much, especially driving around the countryside on the back of the moped. The other guide was a rasta too, and smoked almost non-stop. The smell of sigarettes and sweat made me think of all those agreable moments I have spent in pubs and clubs, although that wasn’t really what I was expecting to experience when I decided to take a trip into nature. He did manage to get me back to the hotel safe, though, where I went to bed immediately.

After my plea for help at the reception desk, I was put on the back of a moped and driven to the local pharmacie by someone called Amadou. There, there was a doctor, who was willing to see me, although he was chatting to some friends in his office, so I was made to wait for at least half an hour. Nausseated and dehydrated, I hung in a chair with my eyes closed. When the doctor was finally available, he prescriped me an anti-vomiting medication, with the air of someone who has just found a permanent cure against AIDS and is handing it out freely. The medicine wasn’t free, of course, but payed for by Amadou, who refused to take money for it afterwards. It was kindness all over once more, and I was finally able to retain some water in my body.

Since our hotel was fully booked, and I was unable to travel, we went to another hotel, where I slept for some hours, before going out to look for food with Linda. We ate in a relaxed restaurant, where they had an unusually strict anti-smoking policy, and where they severed good food. I enjoyed the food, the first in 30 hours, much. The next day, I felt a bit better, and we took a bus back to Ouaga. With Linda not feeling too well as well, we took it easy the next days, although we had one more wish: to see the crocodiles of Bazoulè.

Sunday morning, we got up early, and drove to Bazoulè with my friend Adama. The village, off the road to Bobo, was dusty, dry, and very hot, even at 10 in the morning. At the reception desk, we had to pay a small entry fee, and we had to buy the chickens. We bought two, which were held upside down by the legs by our guide, who took us for a little walk, before stepping into the green. There, we saw a crocodile.

The first chicken was now bound to a stick by its legs, and in that way used by our guide to attract the attention of the crocodile, who, slowly and lazy, started to creep out of his shelter. I took a few steps back. The chicken was flung around in order to make the crocodile stand on his two legs, and then put aside, to give us the opportunity to caress (!) the croc. After that, the chicken was released, and snap, that was the end of the chicken. The sounds that followed were, respectively, ‘crack, crack, crack, gulp’.

We then walked to the side of the lake, where about seven crocs were hanging around. Chicken number 2 was bound to a stick too, abused to get the crocs to move, and then released, to end in a similar manner as chicken number 1. Meanwhile, other tourist had arrived, giving us the opportunity to see it all once more. I was captured by three children from the village, who were excited and without fear when watching all this happen from (too) small a distance.

Bazoulè has another attraction too: big turtles. After seeing all the violence and murder, it was comforting to see a fellow-vegetarian nibble on a leaf of lettuce.

Linda left that night, and Monday, holidays were over and I had to get back to work at the embassy again. The illness had not left my body yet, making me feel quivery and weird, and together with the interrupted night of sleep, and a slight nausea whenever I thought about the crocs in Bazoulè, I arrived at work more dead than alive. But well, when it comes to facing death, I guess the chickens of Bazoulè have a somewhat more impressive story to tell.

For the gruesome pictures to accompany this blog, please go to http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=342289&id=669020293&l=4dbc6bbf9a.

Mens sana in corpore sano

I’m afraid that my blog posting from last week on how I spent the weekend might have given the impression that my idea of fun always involves alcohol. So, in order to rescue my reputation, I will tell you about last weekend. It was filled with cultural and sporting activities, and the only drinks I had were a caramel-flavoured rum and one bottle of beer.

I did long for a maquis though, on Sunday morning, but this was due to a great urge to get my hands on a refreshing soft drink and something to eat. This was after I had cycled some 30 kilometres, and was faced with the prospect to have to cycle another 10. All this on a road which was unpaved for about 90% of the way, mind you. Despite the fact that it was early, and that there was some wind, and that the sun wasn’t as bright as usual, it was still a great physical challenge. At the end of the ride, when we finally did sit down in a maquis, and I did get a coke and a tasty sandwich with omelette, the hardship I had had to endure, showed: the mix of liquid sweat and factor 30 sunscreen combined into a great glue, making sure the red sand stuck to my skin firmly. My face had been airbrushed by the same sand, and the sun had burned right through the sunscreen on my nose, making me look like Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer. My shirt was drained with sweat, and had stains all over. The slightly bewildered look in my eyes complemented this charming picture.

Late Saturday afternoon, I concluded that I didn’t have any plans for the rest of the weekend, and that I would have an early night and a quite Sunday, for a change. I had wanted to go to a concert that evening, but because I didn’t know where it was exactly, and couldn’t get a hold of a friend who did know, I decided to leave it. There was also the option of a cycle tour on Sunday morning, with a group of Dutch cyclists, but since I don’t have a proper mountain bike, I decided to leave that as well. But then, the friend called, and we went to the concert anyway, and a little later my colleague called, who offered to lend his bike to me. So long quite weekend.

The concert was in a tapas bar, where the band of another colleague of mine played. This is where the caramel rum came in: the bar is known for it’s many flavours of rum. My friend tried the coconut one, and we tried each other’s, but what we tasted was mainly rum. We left straight after the concert to get some sleep, but I didn’t turn in before half past midnight, and the alarm clock was set for 6:30 again.

The concert wasn’t the only cultural event this weekend: on Friday evening, I joined yet another colleague and some of my friends to a theatre play. It was something about the role of female actresses. I didn’t really get all of it, but the actresses played very well, and the outdoor theatre was lovely. Only the very boring speech of the theatre director afterwards, in which all donors had to be thanked twice, was a minus.

I dedicated my Saturday morning to shopping. For the first time, I ventured alone into the street where the vegetable market is held. Competition among the market women is high, which means that you will be surrounded by screaming women the moment you set foot there. They will stay there all the way during the transaction, and will not respect your personal circle at all. They’ll offer all sorts of fruit and veggies to you by throwing them in your face. Nevertheless, I managed to buy a bag full of vegetables, without getting irritated, angry, or robbed. It’s a very good meditation exercise I tell you, trying to remain calm in such a situation.

Afterwards, I visited the tailor once more, who had made a lovely afro-european dress for me. It wasn’t supposed to be ready before next week, but since I’m his favourite customer, he had sped up the process a bit. I made two more orders, and then proceeded to the gym. With all the nice, cheap food here, I’m at serious risk to grow a size (or two), and it would be a shame if I wouldn’t fit into my new, tailor-made clothes anymore. The plan was to just hop in and hop out of the gym, but the fitness instructor thought otherwise, making me do all sorts of painful exercises. In the end, when he had made sure that every limb on my body hurt, if necessary by putting his full body weight on me while I was stretching, he smiled a cruel smile, winked at me, and said, while I lay helplessly on the ground: ‘ok, ma chérie, that was it for today. I expect to see you Monday again’. And me, unaware of the sporting activity yet to come that weekend, used my last breath to promise him ‘alright, Monday it is’.

Oh, how much I regret that now.

Cross-cultural understanding

The Dutch minister of Development Cooperation has come to Burkina to promote the use of impregnated bed nets. We have all been working on it for weeks. The embassy was spotlessly clean, and nicely decorated with African statues. I did not expect to get much out of it myself, though, and that was a good thing: he came, he did his thing, and he left again. I did not see him at all. He did shake hands with our (local) receptionist, though. And rightly so: she had put on an extra nice outfit, and lots of colourful make-up, especially for him. She beamed with joy the rest of the day. I tried teasing her with inquiring why she hadn’t gone through all that trouble the day I arrived at the embassy for the first time, but it was no use trying to get the smile of her face, especially not after I had emphasized that, of course, she álways looks pretty, whether with special make-up or without.

She wasn’t the only local employee who gave me a smile yesterday: one of the platons (who clean and stuff) did so as well. He never seemed to like me much, eying me up suspiciously from the first day on. He speaks French with a heavy local accent, making it impossible for a non-native speaker to understand what he is saying, and since he wasn’t susceptible to my smiles, like most people, there was not much I could do to establish a good report with him. But ever since he heard me practice Morré on the ambassador’s chauffeur, I have become one of his favorite persons at the embassy. He was slightly disappointed when he found out that I’m actually not fluent yet, but quickly recovered and renewed his attempts to communicate with me in French. This made me understand even better how important it is to learn Morré if I want to be able to communicate with people like our platons.

So, I practiced my Morré a bit more: with the tailor, again, although we have not yet arrived at the point at which I can explain in Morré the sort of trenchcoat I want him to make. I also tried out a few words on the guy who fixes bikes, and who fixed my flat tire. One of his customers actually decided to pay the reparation for me, because he was so content with me speaking Morré. I tried to explain that, really, I did not mind paying the 100 CFA (15 eurocents) myself, but he insisted. So I waited until he had left, and paid the same fee once more myself. Not that it helped much: this morning, the tire was flat again.

If only I would be getting a feeling for Latin-American culture as well as for African culture. Unfortunately, this is not the case. The footwork of the salsa is coming along fine, but I keep on forgetting to make the appropriate (sensual) movements with my arms, and I have already been told off for having a worried face too often. But I will persist, with salsa as much as with French, Morré, and the finger-snapping handshake, and one day, I will be Latina Lotte, as someone suggested. Well, Latina Lotte… It has a ring of cheap prostitution to it, don’t you think?

It is funny how a languague can reflect culture. In Morré, a single woman is called ‘pogsada’, but it also means ‘girl’, because adult woman are not supposed to be unmarried. So, not every Mossi will agree that I am ‘pogsada’, because they think I’m too old to be called like that. I presented the problem to my Morré teacher, who learned us another word: pakuli. Pakuli means ‘old spinster’. The teacher explained when to use what, taking me as an example: ‘now, Lotta can still be called ‘pogsada’, being unmarried and 25 years old. But íf, well, let’s hope she won’t, but íf she would still be unmarried at thirty, she would be a ‘pakuli’.

I felt a bit stressed about the five year time limit that was inflicted upon me, not to mention my own estimation of how probable it is that I will be married within five years. But well, if I don’t succeed in finding myself a husband before my thirties, I can always become a professional Latina Lotte, right?

One big social drink

For at least over a year now, life seems to be one big social drink. Usually, these social events go together with intelligent discussion, though. For example, I often find myself discussing either politics or the meaning of life with someone over coffee/beer/wine (or a fruit juice or cola light whenever I have decided to lead a healthier life once more). If I expected this to end now I’m in Africa, I was wrong: the main theme of last weekend was drinks.

The weekend was well-deserved, because the stress-levels at the embassy are raising. This week, our Dutch minister for Development Cooperation will come to visit, which means a lot of last-minute work. I had been trying to rewrite the embassy’s strategic plan into something which is a) understandable for ordinary people and b) pointing out the many successes of development aid here and c) pointing out the many favorable conditions for economic growth and poverty reduction and d) a justification for why we are still giving development aid to this country (find the paradox). Besides that, I’ve been trying to figure out why Burkina ranks 177 of 182 countries in the latest Human Development Index – not a good score at all, but methods used to make the ranking are very dubious and hardly tell anything I found.

So, after working some overtime, I was finally free to enjoy the weekend, which started Friday night with my first Morré class. Morré is one of the main local languages here, and with a group of five people, we decided to make an effort of learning the basics. Our teacher learned us in one hour the basics on introducing oneself. So for your information: mam yuur la a Lotte, mam yita Pays-Bas, la mam yaa Karenbiga la stagiaire.

After class, a Swedish guy proposed to go for an after-Morré drink, so we sat in a restaurant, drinking the local Flag-beer, eating pizza, and discussing – yes – the meaning of life. We also discussed what life is like in Burkina when you live in local conditions, as he does. To summarize: you hardly get any sleep, because it is too hot for that, and you’ll be ill regularly, mainly from diarrhea.

On Saturday, I stopped by the tailor, determined as I am to leave this country with as many tailor-made outfits as possible. First, I went to buy fabrics in a crowded shop, where I quickly gathered a small army of shopkeepers, –assistants and random customers to help me choose material and colour, which was fun, except for the big, fat, white shopkeeper, who greeted me with ‘bonjour princess’ and a dirty smile. I left the shop with a piece of African cloth (‘pagne’) and some nice cotton for a dress, all for a mere 2,40 euro. Then, I cycled through the heat of the day to the tailor, who asked as little as 6,90 euros for making the dress. I couldn’t get myself to bargain with him on such a prize and readily agreed. After that, I entertained him and anyone in hearing distance with my attempts to speak some Morré.

Saturday turned into Sunday during a garden party of a friend. The highlight of the evening for me was discussing politics with a university professor. After that, there was not much else to do besides practicing salsa. My dance partner ably spun me around the dance floor; I ably managed to remain in a vertical position despite getting a bit dizzy.

What was left of Sunday morning, after sleeping in, I spent in the pool, with the sun playing in the water, and libels and butterflies taking turns in flying around and drifting on a leaf in the pool. The rest of the day, I cleaned the house, did a pathetic attempt to revive my yellow garden green and enjoyed a sudden tropical storm, which carried with it the coolest air I had felt for years. Another week had past.

Well, alright, it hadn’t yet, because I went for another drink, this time with my colleague Anatole and his friend. They took me to a maquis called ‘Le Choco’, where there was no chocolate available, to my great disappointment. They explained to me that a ‘choco’ is a very handsome boy or girl. I prefer the eatable version, though. The remainder of the evening, I spend preaching against smoking and drinking too much, and on the effects of music videos in which women are portraited at ‘ho’s’ on young girls, while Anatole’s friend assured me of his never-dying love for me and promised never to smoke again. Towards midnight, another week had really past.

Royalty

When I stepped out of the house yesterday morning, I found that a very large branch had broken of a tree next to my house. It was about four meters long, so I was luckily it hadn’t demolished anything. I didn’t really mind the fact that it had almost ruined my chambre extérieure. I did mind that it had partly fallen in my swimming pool, though.

Of course, I did what any independent, strong woman would do when such events occur: I reported it to my colleague, who immediately sent our technician to my house to fix it. Only after I had done so, I realised that I could have tried to move the branch to some safe spot myself first.

In African movies, Europeans are often depicted as living like royals: they live in palaces and have domestic staff to help them with everything, even with bathing themselves. This misconception of life in Europe is one of the reasons why so many Africans get into fishing boats with too many people at a time, and freeze, starve or drown before the coast of Europe. It is not only the movies which are responsible for that, though: it is also the fact that European expats in Africa really do live a bit like royals. I know most of my colleagues don’t agree with this, but still, I think that expats here live extremely comfortable, especially compared to the local standards of living.

I think I understand why my colleagues and I have these opposite views: because one gets used to the luxury disturbingly fast. I am treated like a princess here by everyone – and I’m aware that I’m starting to think that that is normal. In the supermarket, I don’t protest anymore when someone carries my groceries to the counter, nor when someone else puts them in a bag for me. When parking my bike, I won’t put it away myself: the parking guard will do that for me. At work, I only half of the times clean my own plate after lunch: we have staff to do the dishes. Nor will I always take my dirty coffee cup with me when I’m going to pass the kitchen: one of the platons will stop by my office anyway to get it. The planton will also make photocopies of interesting newspaper articles for me. (Just to remind you: I am the intern. Usually people only hire interns to get them coffee and make photocopies.) I’m even getting slightly annoyed when guards don’t open the gate quick enough: little princesses shouldn’t made to wait, now should they?

And it is not only having staff: everyone treats me like a princess. I have stopped trying to explain to Seydou that I am perfectly able to get around town myself. He won’t hear it, and actually, it is quite comfortable to be picked up, being chauffeured around and delivered safely home again. I got a little culture shock when cycling around with a Dutch and Swedish friend last Sunday: they weren’t all the time fussing around about my safety, general well-being, etc. Even feminists like to be treated like a lady by gentleman-like men, I’m afraid. But in the end, I’m not much of a lady (‘adventurous toddler’ is more accurate, I think), and I prefer to be around people who have faith in my ability to take care of myself.

The only place around here where I’m not treated like a princess, is the gym. Claiming to be acting in my own interest, the sport instructors bully me around. Wednesday, I took my first aerobics class. The instructor made us jump and stretch to the limit, and well beyond. It was, without exaggeration, around 35 degrees in the gym, sweat was literally streaming from my body, and we all suffered severely. The instructor stood amidst us, making sure no one took a little pause, and shouted: ‘you can cry, if you like, I don’t mind. He’s not nice, isn’t he? Yes, you can say that, I don’t care. I’m known as mister not-nice-guy here.’ Every now and then, he took the leg of someone lying helplessly on his or her back, smiled in a I-understand-its-hard sort of way, and then laughed out loud while suddenly pulling the leg in a seemingly impossible angle. He made training for the military elite corps sound like summer camp.

The salsa classes I take in the same gym are no business for those with a fragile disposition either. ‘Bouger, bouger’ the salsa instructor usually shouts at me, trying to get me to move like a Latina instead of a Dutch farmer. ‘Ce n’est pas bon!’ is also one of his favourite sentences. When he is tired of shouting, he just shakes his head. But after a few classes, things are starting to improve, and he even ventures to make small, very implicit compliments every now and then. ‘She had major difficulties as well at start’, he’ll tell the new pupils, pointing at me, ‘but she’s ok now’.

So just you wait. Upon my return in the Netherlands, the tough love of my instructor might have well turned the spoiled little princess into a hip-swinging salsa queen.

Buying the bride

I had wanted to leave town for some time already now, because I think there is more to Burkina than just Ouagadougou. However, every weekend there has been some excuse or another to stay in Ouaga, so after seven weeks, I had not set food out of town yet. I don’t think I have every stayed that long in one place before.

Anatole, the colleague with whom I share my office, was going to Pô, a town in the south of the country, this weekend. He offered to take me along. I jumped on the opportunity, and was collected by Anatole and his moped at 8:15h sharp Saturday morning.

The occasion of Anatole’s trip was an engagement ceremony, for which the happy groom-to-be had arranged a minibus to drive from Ouaga to Pô. Of course, we didn’t leave at 8:30h. It was 10:15h when we got onto the highway to Pô.

The bus could seat nine passengers, including the driver, but we managed to get in thirteen people, and four chickens. The chickens would have to be given to the future bride’s family as dowry. We were going to collected one or two more people, Anatole told me. I wondered how on earth we would fit them into the car. This question became all the more pressing when there turned out to be six more people actually, and since they were older, and fatter, they took up a lot of room. Four of us were left behind in Ouaga, and two had to join the chickens in the trunk. I offered several times to get off, both because I thought it was more important other friends joined, and because I doubted whether it would be a comfortable trip this way, but I wasn’t allowed to leave.

The brand new, clean, intact highway quickly turned into the usual potholed road through the bush once we left Ouaga. There was jungle on either side of the road, and occasionally a village, just as there was occasionally no pavement anymore, and only a dirt track. We only broke down only once, which is quite a good score for a very old and very overloaded minibus. The problem was easily (though probably not structurally) fixed, and after 2,5 hours sweaty hours, we arrived in Pô.

The ‘ceremony’ was held in the shadow of a very large kapok-tree, where we sat on wooden benches and plastic chairs in a semi-circle. We, young, insignificant people, had to sit one row behind the elders. Several calabases (imagine a really big coconut cut through the middle to serve as a bowl) were passed along, containing water against the thirst, and something which was, I think, millet and a bit of karité butter, mixed with water, of which I took a very tiny sip. We were also served dolo, which is millet beer, locally brewed. Both the beer and the millet water are traditional ways of welcoming guests.

I had already asked about the chickens several times, because once more, my vegetarian heart feared that the celebrations would involve killing an animal. This was not the case, although our cock had become very ill. It did not surprised me that an animal, being bound at the feet, carried around upside down and made to lie in a hot car for hours with no water, had become ‘out of order’, as they said. But before you get judgmental, just think about the kind of life the animal on your plate tonight has lived (or better: has suffered). I can assure you that it is better to be a chicken in Africa than in Europe.

While we sat and chatted, the elderly tried to reach a compromise about the dowry. The four chickens and bag of salt we, the party of the groom, had offered, was not considered enough. At some point, rumours went around saying that the bride’s family wanted a goat and a sheep as well, which we, backbenchers, thought was ridiculous. The negotiations lasted and lasted, and my fragile European body got a bit dehydrated, so Anatole and I escaped to a little bar to get a coke and some water.

At some point, I suggested to the others that the two would just not get married, because they had been living together for considerable time already, and even had a child together, so why bother. However, my young Burkinabé friends did not agree on this. Living together without being married is acceptable, but there has to be marriage at some point, to ensure things are properly arranged. I made a little show of claiming that I don’t need the state, nor the church, to handle my love affairs, and that speaking of ‘contracts’ is horribly business-like and unromantic. I always love to express rebellious thoughts like that and the rebel in me grows when I’m getting bored and have had no food and little drink in the last seven hours or so.

At last, the deal was made, which was celebrated with a garden party involving a lot of food. Anatole and I escaped once more, this time to meet up with a friend of his. Despite sweating my pants off, I had come to the point then that I needed a toilet. It had been a while since I had used a real basic African toilet, but there was no escaping this time. I was shown into a little square of 3,5 walls, and that was it. Well, what more does one need to empty the bladder, of course, besides some technical skills in order not to water over one’s own feet?

For the journey home, I was squeezed in between three people once more (one left, one right, one opposite). I lurked on a sachet of water (they’re great: a plastic sachet with half a liter of water, of which you just chew off a corner, and then you drink), enjoyed the cool air of the night, and prayed that our skilled driver would prove all warnings against driving in the dark unjustified. It’s a good thing that only when I had returned home safe again I read that the road between Ouaga and Pô is the worst in the country with regard to bandits. I agreed with myself that the information in my guide book, published in 2006, must be out of date, before falling very asleep somewhere halfway in the process of undressing. It had been another great, but tiring, Saturday.

A real diplomat

It had pleased Mr. Ouédraogo, minister of Transportation and leader of the liberal party in Burkina Faso, to invite me for a little tête-à-tête. After meeting him the week before, I had become curious about him, so I was happy with the invitation. My tailor-made, bright purple outfit had been ready just in time for me to wear it to our meeting last Friday, so I didn’t have to feel underdressed. The minister wore a uni-coloured outfit too, this time. Instead of the usual ADF/RDA propaganda, he had put on a white, pyjama-like suit that morning, which would feature well in a detergent commercial, or in Jesus Christ Superstar.

I was put in a waiting room first, where I watched the music video of the week on a television with bad reception. To my great surprise, I was not made to wait long before I was led into Mr. Ouédraogo’s office. We did the usual exchange of inquiries after each other’s well-being, and that of our families, etc., and sat down. “Seydou called me this week and told me you would like an audience with me”, he started. “I told him I would be happy to oblige”. I could not particularly remember having asked for an audience, but I decided not to point out that Seydou had apparently used an old matchmaking trick. Then, so I launched a series of compliments and questions. I emphasised three times that I thought he was a great example for political youth, being only 40 years old and already in such an important position. Furthermore, I showed off my knowledge of his cv, which I had learned by heart, and I praised the people of Burkina like they have never praised before. He listened to it with the serene smile of someone used to getting compliments. When I told him that I loved being in Burkina, despite missing friends and family, he offered me his phone to call my parents. He really seemed to mean it, handing me his phone and looking at me expectantly, but I ensured him I could make phone calls to my parents at the embassy. After about fifteen minutes, I didn’t know what to say or ask anymore, and did not feel like repeating all the compliments once more, so I said ‘well, I’m sure you have lots to do’, to which he replied ‘No, not really’. Since I actually did have some work to do, I decided to leave anyway. I left him my business card, hoping that that would help him to pronounce my name properly next time, and he gave me his. He was keen to getting my private contact details, so I promised to send that to his yahoo-address. ‘We’ll stay in touch and e-mail each other’, he said. That sounded like a good plan: at least it would give him something to do.

Seydou was surprised that I was already done after twenty minutes, but I told him that I’m Dutch, and therefore highly efficient, and therefore don’t need more time than that for such a meeting. I also told him everything I had said and asked, and he concluded that I was turning into a real diplomat.

I returned to the embassy, where we had a Burkinabé lunch. It was my idea to do so, because I hoped it would promote the integration of the Dutch expats into Burkinabé life, and to improve relations between Burkinabé staff and Dutch staff. The whole thing was mainly organised by Sandrine though, I must admit. I’m not sure if it really helped with the integration. A lot of Dutch staff wasn’t there, and the ones who were there, had ordered Tex-Mex food at the American Rec Centre, and sat on the other side of the table, suspiciously staring at the Burkinabé food, disapprovingly looking at people eating with their hands (which is normal here), and only every now and then reluctantly taking a bite of the exotic food. I decided to accept the fact that to reach my objectives, I would have to continue efforts, and I held on to the thought that although I would like to unchain a revolution, incremental change helps as well, and is probably the best I can get.

I sat halfway along the table, trying to get the two sides to interact, still holding on to my incremental-change thoughts, when I realised Seydou was right: I am turning into a real diplomat.

An opinion of their own

I think I have been entertaining you long enough, haven’t I? For seven weeks now, I have stayed away from serious topics like hunger, poverty, development aid and politics in general. But now I have caught you attention, have lured you here with funny stories in which I have ridiculed myself and others, now, I will abuse this situation by talking to you about development aid.

The fact that I haven’t given my opinion on that topic during the first seven weeks, has not only to do with this cunning strategy of mine; it’s also because I didn’t want to jump to conclusions. I wanted to allow myself to form a real opinion. But now, I feel like I’m starting to get a grip on things, and I have arrived at the pointed that I can give you an, at least preliminary, conclusion.

Poverty is sad, hunger is bad. Not that I see much of that. It is not like people are dying on the street here, or that skeleton-like children pass you by. I know that that is the image most people have of Africa: that it is a continent where everyone lives in huts in small villages, being hungry and covered with flies all the time. Africa is either jungle, or desert, but above all, misery, isn’t it? We can thank the Oxfam’s in this world, ánd our national television, for spreading ideas like that.

But even if I don’t see it much, I know it’s there. It feels wrong that we live in a world in which welfare is distributed unequally. And for some reason, a lot of people seem to think that it is alright that in Africa, a lot of people suffer from malnutrition, diseases, etc., while in Europe this would be unacceptable. Even though we are all human, some people are a bit more human than others: I’m not sure where the invisible border between humans and this lesser sort of humans lies for those people. For me, there is no border. We are all humans, all part of the same planet, even though nationalist politicians try to make us believe that national borders are holy and magical. They’re not. They’re just thought up one day by a bunch of guys a few ages ago, and in most of the world outside western Europe, they make no sense at all.

But what should we do then? Transfer large amounts of money from Europe to Africa? I don’t think so. We are doing that now, and it definitely helps a bit to improve things around here. But it’s not really a long-term strategy. In fact, there is no long-term strategy now. Development aid has become completely focused on poverty reduction, because we can’t stand the idea of people dying, but helping the poor of today is not going to help making sure that there is less poverty tomorrow.

I think, that for real development aid, the kind that is an investment in the future, that is aimed at dealing with the problem in the most efficient way, we should toughen up, get much more business-like, admit that we cannot save everyone in this world from suffering, and draw up a big plan, with an exit strategy. Because now, development countries’ governments have no incentive to help the poor in their country. They don’t learn to make tough choices. There is no need to them to have a vision, because both policies and the money to finance those policies are provided by the donors. Developing countries are completely governed by their donor countries. Why pay 34 ministers (well, why indeed of course, but let’s not get into that now), if the only thing they do, and can do, is to sit into meetings with their donors, and agree to everything they say? Why bother with organizing democratic elections in these countries, if it’s all fake anyway?

And speaking of lack of vision: where is our vision concerning development aid? There is none. We are holding on to lifelines, giving just enough money to developing countries to prevent large-scale human catastrophes. We will continue to be doing so for the next decades, because it is not going to change anything in the long run. Our politicians don’t have the guts to break through the taboos concerning development aid, even though that would help to change the world for the better.

We are currently patronizing development countries to a shameful extent. While any parent will know that raising a child to become a responsible adult means letting go, stepping back, letting them make their own mistakes, and accepting that they will get hurt every now and then. When you truly care, there will come a point when you say: and now, it is up to you.

Thank you if you’re still reading this. Next time will be much more fun again, I promise. But I must warn you: there will be more blogs like this. Trying to figure out how to best save the world, and sharing my ideas on that with you, is very important to me. Please address any complaints you may have concerning that to my parents. It’s their fault: they raised me to become a responsible adult. And responsible adults, you know, have opinions of their own.

Well, hello!

I don’t know why I didn’t do anthropology at university. Well, I do know: because I had to make a choice, and politics, especially international politics, is the love of my life, my wind and fire, the oxygen that keeps me alive, the motor that keeps me running… Well, you get the picture, right? Still, I might be political scientist by profession (well, profession, I don’t have a profession, of course, and will never get one, due to the worst economic crisis in decades, and the fact that no one will employ someone without working experience, leaving graduates to figure out how to get working experience when no one will hire them), I am an anthropologist by nature.

I love studying people. The more they differ from me, the more I love studying them, to get a grip on their behaviour and their rationales. The people I hate most as a person, I love best as an anthropologist, usually.

But what I don’t like, is how pathetically belittling people can get when trying to show respect to other cultures. Some people seem to think that it is best to completely deny your own identity and assimilate to the new culture. I really don’t understand that. I don’t see the joy in that, nor the necessity to do so. It’s not like people from non-Western cultures are complete idiots, nor do they live in isolation from the rest of the world. They understand just as much as we do that cultures differ, and people differ, and therefore a little more tolerance than usual is needed when dealing with people from other cultures. There is no need to cover up the fact that you don’t really understand all they etiquettes yet; rather, people will appreciate when you show your eagerness to learn and understand, and they will be willing to learn and understand about your culture.

One thing to be careful about here, is the use of your left hand. It is best not to use it for any interaction because, well, people here wipe their bottom with that hand (it takes a while to understand why there is rarely toilet paper in local toilets, and what the bucket of water is meant for). It can be quite hard, especially for a lefty like me (referring to hand, that is, not to political views), but again, people understand that white people have different toilet habits, although they probably wonder how we manage to retain a basic level of hygiene, with no bucket of water in ‘our’ toilets to properly clean the private parts.

What I love here, is the greeting. In the Netherlands, where we like to use our time as efficiently as possible, we usually only greet people when it is functional (‘o hi’ (drawing attention), ‘did you finish that report for me?’ (getting to the point)). Here, every bonjour or bonsoir should be followed by at least one ‘ça va’, even if you’re just passing by, but preferably, a whole list of inquiries is ticked off, making the greeting ceremony sometimes feel like a cross-examination:
- Bonjour! Ca va?
- Oui, ça va. Et toi?
- Bien, bien. Le week-end est bien passé?
- Oui, très bien.
- Et la matinée?
- Oui, très bien. Tout est bien.
- Et dans la maison? Pas de problème?
- Non, pas de problème. Tout est bien.
- Ah, bien. Donc, ça va bien?
- Oui, oui, bien, bien.
- Bien.

Another thing is the handshake: hands are shaken often and thoroughly. I love the slapping handshake, when one holds his hand palm facing the sky, while the other slaps it, coming from great heights. Then, hands are hold for a while (at least during the whole greeting ceremony, so I’m really talking about an extensive amount of time), not willing to let go, until, in the end, hands are withdrawn slowly and reluctantly, until only two fingers hold, which are then snapped. I’m still practicing that one, with little success: I already find it hard to snap my own fingers, let alone someone else’s.

The most lovely thing is when friends put the heads together: the foreheads meet, a bit like we kiss cheeks, going from one side to the other. But while many Europeans only give two kisses, and the Dutch three, the Burkinabé touch four times. I think it is a great way of saying hello to someone you value.

As an anthropologist, I love to study such things; as a human being, I love to squeeze warm hands, and experience the profound joy of being considered important enough for someone else to stop his pace and ask me how I’m doing (and my family, and my friends, and my pet, and my bike, and my garden, and my…).

A very special representative

I had been invited by one of the members of Parliament we had visited when celebrating the end of Ramadan to join a training of young women of the ADF/RDA, the liberal party. Of course, I agreed to attend. This meant that, instead of sleeping in, I got up at my regular time, to be ready to start the training at eight.

Of course, the training didn’t start at eight, but somewhere around ten, when finally mr. Gilbert Noël Ouédraogo, minister of Transportation and leader of ADF/RDA, arrived. When he walked into the room, everyone got up; something Dutch ministers can only dream about.

For some reason, Seydou and the MP had decided I was an important, honourable guest. I’m not important, of course, but I tend to hang out with people who do have some interesting position, which might explain the confusion. To make up for this lack of any title to introduce me by, I have been renamed representative of the International Federation of Liberal Youth (IFLRY) by Seydou. I’m sure IFLRY doesn’t mind having such a shiny personality as their self-declared ambassador (right, Bart?).

The MP responsible for the organisation is the patron-sort-of-person, not really paying attention to the fact that this seminar was about empowering women and how to fight male domination, happily interrupting plenary discussions among the women with his loud voice, demanding they would properly introduce themselves, or shouting whatever else came into his mind, barking out orders to people, telling people what to do, what to think, when to applause, etc, even telling journalist who to interview, resulting in an interview with me for television, without me, nor the journalists, really wanting that.

The MP and Seydou made sure that I, being on of the important guests, was mentioned and thanked in the minister’s speech, which meant that Lot Boch got properly introduced to the participants.

The day ended around 17:30h, instead of 15:00h, as had been envisioned, and the next day would start at eight again, but this did not stop us from going out for a bit of dancing. I had decided I wanted to do that, and of course, Seydou obliged by taking me into town with his friends. I do feel a bit sorry for Burkinabé men, I must say. They go out of their way to make women happy, getting them drinks, food, escorting them wherever they want to go, etc., and doubling the effort when lady involved is a special representative of IFLRY. I think men are the real victims of gender roles in this society.

Seydou had brought along a good friend of his, a thirty year old guy, who happened to be chef de police. I felt quite safe with the tall policeman on his big motorbike accompanying us. Together, we went to pick up a young woman who had come from Niger, and who proves once more that young, urban, West-African Muslims take joy of life much more serious than their religion She is 35, has an eight year old daughter, is divorced, wears a sexy top and high heels, calls everyone ‘chéri(e)’, is covered with perfume, and does not really talk to men, but rather orders them around, but: she veils herself when she goes out. However, once in a nightclub, she easily looses the veil and hits the dance floor. She will marry some hunky guy next month, and I’m invited to come to Niger and join the party.

The night club was a very obscure place, with only a few red lights, which made me inquire with Seydou into to what extent the nightclub doubled as a brothel. This gave him the opportunity to eagerly inquire after prostitution in Amsterdam, and, while we were talking about immoralities anyway, about homosexuality. I told him that homosexuality is fine with us Dutch, because homosexuals don’t hurt anybody, and made some reference to the ‘tolerance’ the Burkinabé are so proud of themselves. I think he understood.

We danced for about an hour on African beats and Western 90’s hits, and then Seydou decided I was tired and that we should go home.

We had to sit through the ‘closing ceremony’ of the seminar Sunday morning, with the minister of Transportion coming in again. He wore a shirt with not only the name of the party, but also his own portrait and name on it. If only more people would do so: very useful when you’re bad with names. He seems like a genuinely friendly man, though, and with his boyish face, high shoulders, and eagerness to break into laughter, he does not strike me at all as the typical Burkinabé patron.

The only downer was that Seydou became ill with malaria during the day. I made him promise he would call me whenever he needed something, or when the illness would get worse, and he promised several times to do so, and I knew he lied and would never do that, depriving me of the possiblity to get into my societal designed gender role and take care of him a bit.

PS Check out the accompanying pictures at http://www.flickr.com/photos/44709947@N00/

Special thanks to Maradona

Finally, the end of Ramadan had come. The end of Ramadan is determined by a bunch of religious guys who study the moon. Unfortunately, it is hard to tell exactly what will be the result in advance. We were left in doubt until Saturday evening whether it would be Sunday or Monday. I somewhat started to understand the clash of civilizations theory then: in the West, it is impossible to announce a national holiday without two months prior notice.

While in Saudi-Arabia, Muslims rejoiced in being able to swallow their spit again, around here, the good Muslims were happy to be able to eat and drink again, and the not-so-good Muslims enjoyed being able to drink alcohol again (or not having to do it secretly anymore).

Seydou had invited me (after some of my ‘subtle’ hints) to celebrate this holiday with him and, as usual, the anthropologist in me had readily agreed, although the expat in me had some doubts. I expected something involving killing a sheep with a blunt knife, and me being forced to eat until I had grown two sizes by some old granny, or something. Luckily, it was not like that. Instead, we joined up with a group of young (that is: thirtyish) liberals, and visited two liberal Parliamentarians at their homes.

I had put on my most beautiful dress, making sure that my knees were covered for once, and wore a pair of really big, fake-gold earrings, thinking that that might be most likely to appeal to the local sense of fashion. I jumped on the back of Seydou’s moped, and enjoyed the ride to some far-away quartier, where children look up surprised, calling out ‘Nasara!’ (white person!) when you drive by and have the time of their life when you shake hands with them.

The Parliamentarian had a nice house and very comfy lounging chairs, and served us good food. We ate and chatted with each other, until Seydou gave a little speech, thanking and praising the Parliamentarian, as young people are supposed to do around their patron. I listened, smiled, and enjoyed a little after-diner dip, until Seydou, to my horror, asked me to say a few words. I jumped up, blurred out about everything nice I could think of, about Burkina, and the Parliamentarian, and how great it was to be there, etc., and got applause. ‘Thank you for that’, I later said to Seydou. He did not notice the sarcasm in my voice, and said it was nothing, really.

During our visit, some other people joined too, of whom I liked best the guy sporting a long, white dress over an Italian football shirt, accessorized with a praying mat hanging loosely over his shoulder.

We made our way to the second Parliamentarian then, who lived more humble, probably because it is his second house (his first house being in his constituency). He too gave us food, but I was excused, because they know I’m a vegetarian (although knowing and understanding are two completely different things), and because I explained once more that for some reason, women in Europe are supposed to be bony, and therefore cannot eat too much (which they fail to comprehend even more than the vegetarianism, and who could blame them?).

To accompany the food, the Parliamentarian took a bottle of wine from his stock. I didn’t take any, out of some sort of prudency, and because I wasn’t sure what to think of a wine named after famous football player Maradona. ‘But we are here to celebrate the end of Ramadan’, I muttered. They laughed, and spoke of religious tolerance in Burkina, which apparently means not taking your own religion too strict either.

Then, we left again, and we swooshed through the night on Seydou’s moped, through streets which held the middle between mud pools and small lakes. The night air was cool, the wind played through my fake-golden earrings and everyone was smiling and happy, because of the end of Ramadan, and with special thanks to Maradona, of course.

Just a perfect day

As we say in the Netherlands: after rain comes sunshine. That proved to be right last week: after not so good a day, came a splendid day.

Wednesday was the not-so-good-a-day. Being in the country for exactly a month then, I experienced some mild homesickness for the first time since I arrived. I thought about my friends, family, temperatures around 18º Celsius and watching the Dutch Parliament debate on the budget for next year (yes, I like that), and felt sad for missing it all. What made things worse, was that I spent most of the day working out the minutes of the meeting of European ambassadors. I might be able to have a decent conversation with friends in French now, but that is something completely different than writing something the French ambassador will read without angrily calling our ambassador and demanding apologies for insulting the French language to great extent.

And then, the things going on in my stomach weren’t helping either, nor the fact that that forced me to follow a diet more strict than that of most Muslims here during Ramadan (they are quite lenient here).

At the end of the working day, I wasn’t done yet, because I had been invited to a discussion platform on political reform. The good news was that a) it was an interesting discussion b) it started on time and most people made rather short and to-the-point contributions to the discussion, which is all very un-African c) it was a discussion among Burkinabé, with me and my chef being the only foreigners. The bad news was that I was tired, hungry, thirsty, not feeling well and unable to focus. At eight a clock, when it was supposed to stop, everyone on the speakers list had had their say. Unfortunately, the moderator was probably so surprised and happy about this, that he decided to allow two more people to say something, and then – why not – another five! I decided not to wait until the end. I arrived home again with a take-away pizza in my bicycle’s front basket (to hell with the diet), which proved to be the highlight of the day.

But Thursday was much better. I woke up feeling I had slept well. At the embassy, I actually got assigned a nice little job: the Dutch minister for Development Cooperation will be visiting Burkina, and he will need some background information on people he is going to meet. It is my task to find that. I gave it my best, adding interesting details like: ‘was involved in a car accident last November, with his car flipping over, but luckily, no one was hurt’. I could just imagine our minister meeting the guy, asking: ‘so tell me, how are things now, after the accident and all?’, scoring muchos bonus points. However, I’m not sure if those things will remain in the dossier after my chef has taken a look at it.

I lunched with my colleague (the Dutch one married to a Burkinabé). She knew a nice little place near the embassy, which was very crowded, and very Burkinabé. I indulged in baked banana (aloco), something tasting like sauerkraut (atiéké), but looking like couscous, and some great fries, for next to nothing. It was the first real Burkinabé food I’ve had here (shame!) and it was delicious.

In the evening, I cycled to the tailor again with my piece of fabric. There is nothing like cycling through Ouaga in the evening. There is great music everywhere, anything from regular urban to the real West-African beats, but always loud and up-tempo. Streets are crowded, the smell of food is omnipresent, and the dark night makes for nice temperatures. It was very moist, though, with probably 90% water in the air again. Anyway, I arrived at the tailor, who took his time, sketched a design, took all my measurements (making it official now that I’m nowhere near perfect female measurements, I’m afraid), and told me to come back in two weeks time. I wished everyone there a bonne soirée when leaving, and they wished me the same, with the usual delay, because they have to recover from the shock of having such a weird creature suddenly speaking to them.

I made one more stop at a gym, where they have salsa classes. As long as you don’t mind dancing in between the fitness equipment, it’s a great way to learn salsa, having your private instructor and all.

When I arrived home, I chatted to my neighbours’ guards for a while, who tend to jump up and run up to me when I stop and say hallo. I guess I offer some distraction from their very boring job, and they offer the only opportunity to interact with Burkinabé in my neighbourhood.

When I went to bed, I felt so comfortable and happy about being here, how well I like the Burkinabé, their food, their music, their lack of ability to be grumpy, or hasty, or even busy whenever there is someone around to talk too. Oh, how sad will I be when I will be home again, missing it all.

Lost in translation no more

My friend Seydou has returned from Cuba, so I was able to bother him again with requests for his company. Being the kind person he is, he immediately agreed on meeting me after work yesterday. I had to go and shop for fabric, so the poor guy, who had just spent twelve days instructing the Burkinabè embassy in Cuba on how to organize elections, was now forced to help me out with choosing a fabric. ‘I will ask one of my female friends to help you with this’, he tried at some point. Not that I lingered too long, though: I quickly decided not to bother with the ‘earthly colours’ offered to me by the shop assistant (apparently, that is what most European people want) and headed for the more colourful section, choosing a nice purple fabric. I am pleased to bits with it.

Something has changed between Seydou and me, although it took me a while before I realized what exactly. And then I knew: I understood about everything he said. Still, I thought it must be him, that he had learned to speak simple French in my company. But no, you know what happened? Without noticing, I have improved my French quite a bit. Seydou had noticed it too. I have become able to communicate.

I’m still nowhere near fluent, though, and still have great difficulty speaking and understanding. Having to talk to people in French feels a bit like being drunk: I miss about half of the things that go on around me, and the things I say often don’t make much sense. It’s a real handicap, you know, especially for me. I love to talk and write (as you may have noticed) and share every thought that happens to enter my mind with at least three people, although preferably with the whole world. But here, I’m just not able to do that. I just sit at discussions listening quietly, frantically trying to reconstruct what people are saying.

My struggle with the French language goes back such a long way, that I do not see us signing a peace treaty any time soon. When I was fourteen, I once told a group of French guys who asked me what I was called ‘J’habite Lotte’. It became clear then that French was not really my thing. I took it six year at secondary school and three semesters at the university and still was hardly able to count to 100 in French. But that’s also because French numbers are horribly illogical. It’s alright up to sixty. But then: seventy is sixty plus ten (soixante-dix), and eighty is four times twenty (quatre-vingt), and then ninety is four times twenty plus ten (quatre-vingt-dix). Why not just call it (√(25)+3)*10+10 then, right? And still the French wonder why English is more popular.

So anyway, the good news is, that things are improving for me. The bad news is, that people like Seydou will become the victim of this. I spent about fifteen minutes yesterday raging on about the lack of content in Burkinabè political discussions, while he was probably eager to go home and have dinner after a long, hot day of not eating and drinking thanks to Ramadan. Poor, poor guy. He must miss Cuba much.

Wining & dining (and a near-engagement)

The decadency in my life grows continuously worse, although I did walk through muddy, dirty streets in the blazing sun, too this weekend.

At Friday, it was time for the monthly meeting of the European ambassadors and the representative of the European Commission again. Afterwards, there was a lunch, as usual. We had invited the Burkinabé minister of Environment. When he arrived, the room fell quiet, and everybody shook hands with him, saying ‘monsieur le Ministre’ and having a very respectful look in our eyes indeed.

At the end of the two hour lunch, the poor man had hardly eaten anything, because he had to talk the full two hours. He didn’t look like the type of person who can survive on a few leaves of lettuce, which makes me think he went to the American Rec Centre afterwards, to get a hamburger.

Of course, the things discussed during the meeting and the lunch are Highly Confidential, so I won’t be able to share that with you. Besides, I must admit, that at the end of the two hour meeting, I had already used up my daily quota of ability to understand what everyone around me is saying in French, so when lunch started, my mind went sort of blank. I jumped back to life again when dessert was served (my favourite part of any meal, especially when it is rich chocolate mouse, as was the case), but then we were already done.

Saturday, I decided that I would go and look for a tailor. A colleague of mine, living in Burkina and married to a Burkinabè, who is always helping me out when it comes to finding my way through Burkinabè life, had given me his address. For some reason, I thought it would be nice to do the journey on foot. I started with a stroll around my neighbourhood, chatting to the guards and taking a bite of their kola nut. Then, I proceeded along avenue Kwame N’krumah. I ended up at some side street at some point, where I failed to shake off a very persistent guy who suggest we would marry. I decided that trying to get rid of him would take much energy with probably little effect, so I stood and chatted to him and his friend for a while, asking directions, making pictures (the first pictures of me in Burkina!), and, of course, kindly explaining that I did not feel like marrying, nor like bearing his child (his plan B).

I did find the tailor, after a very long, sweaty and tiring walk. He was very kind, sitting in a very small, feeble, two-room building. I got to sit on the couch and flick through Asian fashion magazines for inspiration. Next to me, there was a small boy, probably the tailor’s son. He was already mastering well a specific art practiced around here, which is to sit in as much a horizontal position as possible, without actually laying down. I chose a design, agreed on a price, and now all I have to do is buy some fabric.

After the very sweaty walk back home, I went to drink a cocktail and eat at a Lebanese restaurant with a colleague. The cocktail was strong and the food delicious (imagine the flavour of grilled eggplant paste with a touch of lemon… Mmm!) and we were very merry when we went home.

Sunday, I had a very lazy morning, reading the guide book while in bikini and dangling my feet into the pool. Then, I decided again to take a long walk, looking for an ice-cream par lour this time, which, I learned, had ceased to exist. I comforted myself with a drink in a very nice restaurant. Just take a guess at what I ordered. Yes, there I was, soaked with sweat underneath my summer’s dress, drinking one of the best hot chocolates I have ever had.

Beau monde

Last night, I hung out with the beau monde of Ouaga’s expat community. And when I say beau monde, I mean that quite literally: almost all the women were wearing pretty, elegant, well-fitting dresses; they had their hair done nicely, they had a great tan, and they smelled nice. There were few men, but most of them looked like male models. They were with about twenty people, and they sat on French-style benches, surrounded by blossoming trees, with classical music and the sound of water dripping in the background. All of them spoke at least three languages fluently, and all of them were sipping brightly-coloured cocktails. They were friendly, relaxed and welcoming. And of course, all of them had interesting jobs.

Sandrine, being kind as ever, had told me about this little gathering. Since she was having a cold, she was not able to join herself, but suggested I should go. Actually, I have not been out much in the evenings here. The fact that my alarm clock goes off at six every morning is a rather good excuse for that, I think. I have been dining out at Friday evenings though, with colleagues, who are always kind enough to take me along in their cars. This time, however, I had to get there myself. I went on my bike of course, as I would do in the Netherlands. However, in the Netherlands, we have street lights. Here, they have street lights as well: most of them out of order, unfortunately. Normally, in daylight, it can already be quite challenging to avoid potholes in the road; at night, I now found out, there is little else you can do besides going about it slowly and hope for the best.

Another thing is that it is probably very unusual for women, and especially white ones, to be out and about on the streets on a bike when it’s dark. ‘You’re going out?’, guard Alexander asked incredulously when I was leaving. Being on my bike and all, I thought that that was rather obvious. Personally, I think this is a very safe neighbourhood, considering it is residential, and therefore there are guards in front of every building. And besides, it gets dark around 18:30h here; people can’t seriously expect a 25 year old to lock herself in every evening after that hour, right?

Well, proving my point: I survived, and I was home at a very decent hour (ten), so don’t worry. I enjoyed the evening, and the mohjito cocktail, and the conversation in English, which jumped from disaster relief for those hit hardest by the floods, to reproductive activities of koala beers. And then, I was invited to a party this weekend, and to a girls’ lunch on Tuesday. The evening ended with me handing out business cards (yes, I have official ministry-of-foreign-affairs business cards!) and kissing everyone good night. When I cycled back home again, hobbly-wobbly, I knew that I had at least one thing on my to-do-list this weekend: finding a tailor shop and getting myself some new dresses!