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.
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.
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