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.
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.
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