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!
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!
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