Genies, magic and science

It seems most Burkinabé (well at least amongst the main ethnicity, the Mossi) believe in genies. Genies live in a parallel universe and are all around us, even though we are not able to see them. They live like us but are able to see things that humans do not. They can predict the future and have the capacity to teleport physical objects across continents. Indeed, at one time they were visible and humans treated them as slaves. An interesting belief also attributes wet dreams to genies. If a single genie lady sees you and is attracted by you, you will dream of her making love to you (I refer to this as 'genie rape'). Particularly in villages, where the toilet and shower (laitrine) is open air, men will only have showers before 9pm (in certain villages - and not necessarily far from urban centres - this is a rule). If not, the lustful genie ladies on the prowl will see the nude human man and take him during the night. Many also believe that white people are genies, and that other genies helped white people to invent the aeroplane and the telephone. It is believed that aeroplanes need gold (either on board or mixed into the fabric) to fly. If there is no gold, the gold-loving genies will not allow the plane to take off. Some humans have the ability to communicate with genies. Through such conversations they can learn of the future, and I have been told of instances where Burkinabé making the pilgrimage to Mecca have travelled without flying thanks to the powers of the genies.

The recent solar eclipse gave more insights into how Burkinabé see the world. Many were fascinated, others were scared, with many people staying inside the whole day. During the eve of the eclipse, I was speaking to a local shop owner in the sleepy town of Houndé in the west of the country­. He wondered whether other people in the world were also able to see the eclipse. I confirmed that they would. He then wondered whether we were all looking at the same sun. I confirmed that we were. He then wondered if he could reach the sun if he climbed to the top of a high mountain. On this occasion I had to disappoint him and attempt to explain the whole concept of space in extremely simplified French in a few minutes. Many Burkinabé are educated, particularly in the cities. But in an extremely underdeveloped country where people are raised in villages in a certain reality, we cannot always assume we share the same ingrained assumptions about our universe, nor that our beliefs are necessarily more true than theirs.  

It is a fantastic experience getting to know the locals here - to exchange and to learn about each others' cultures. There are so many similarities in the ways we live and our attitudes that it can be shocking (sometimes in the negative sense and others simply in terms of the fascination) to then find other areas - such as gender equality, sexuality and magic - where attitudes are completely at odds. But this is why three months of volunteering in Africa is just not nearly enough. I've only scratched the surface. 

Photo: 'Dolo': millet-based alcohol at 20p/litre

Photo: l'accueil des gens d'Houndé

Photo: Walking salesman in Bobo-Dioulasso

Tabaski and Burkinabé hospitality: mutton, mutton and more mutton

"En Europe, on a le moment mais pas le temps. En Afrique, on a pas le moment mais on a le temps."

So as the story goes, Ibrahim went into the desert to kill his son on God's request. Upon acknowledgement of Ibrahim's demonstrable faith, a sheep appeared and the son was saved. Ergo, Eid, aka Tabaski, is now celebrated across the Islamic world, 70 days after Ramadan, with the sacrifice of sheep.

As Burkina Faso is majority Muslim, the event became another fruitful cultural experience. The excitement began the day before at the sheep market, where I assisted a friend in a last minute scramble akin to buying a turkey the morning of Christmas Day. From the second we arrived, we were bombarded with sheep traders rubbing their hands at the sight of a group of Nassarahs (white people) looking to spend ligidi (money). Attempts to fleece the foreigners subsided due to hard bargaining on our part, but we were still surrounded by sheep and shouting (/bah-ing). Prices varied depending on size, sturdiness and colour of the sheep, which is preferably a white male (talking only about sheep here). The runt of the litter might go for 30 000 francs (40 GBP), while a strong champion of the herd might command six figures (more than 140 GBP). Curiously, the bigger the balls, the bigger the bucks; and traders constantly wrestled with the squirming rams to thrust healthy testicles our way. Talk about getting in your face.

Photo: the two sheep await fate.

The day of Tabaski starts with prayer at the mosque at 9am (as merely a cultural observer, I did not partake). The men of the family then gather for the sacrifice at home. In Burkina Faso (/much of the developing world), family is not just mum, dad and big brother: almost everyone hails from an amazingly huge household. The friend who'd invited me to his village has 12 brothers and sisters. One of his uncles fathered 19 children with three wives - polygamy being accepted practice amongst Burkinabé muslims. And my taxi driver has 22 siblings. Family is a broader concept, which necessarily includes cousins, uncles, aunties and elders. The cour (residential unit), in which we spent the day, housed around 40 family members. Moreover, the words frère (brother) and cousin seem interchangeable and the inflated demography often means everyone knows everyone in the village. For instance, en route we passed a toll without paying as the booth was occupied by the driver's brother (or cousin?). It begs the question, in a country where everyone has a huge family, where are the lines to be drawn between corruption and nepotism on the one hand, and thicker blood and family favours on the other?

Photo: the first sheep is sacrificed. The 'Chef de famille' is in blue.

Photo: the organs are removed.

Photo: crappest job ever? Emptying the stomach.

Photo: Têtes brûlantes

Photo: Who's for mutton?

The bloody deed is done by the head of the family. A few men hold the limbs of the animal as the throat is cut. Next comes the skinning, removal of organs and decapitation. In a landlocked country where food is generally scarce, nothing goes to waste. A mini production line assembles. The younger generations carry out the less desirable tasks, such as emptying the stomach and rinsing the intestines; and the adults butcher the meat. The two sheep heads are placed on a small fire to burn off the fur, in readiness to be served the day after Tabaski. The meat then moves to the kitchen en plein air, where the family's several generations of ladies prepare the ultimate mutton casserole. The rest of the day is spent eating, going to different houses to eat mutton, and generally wandering to saluer (greet other villagers). Unsurprisingly, this is followed by yet more mutton. Burkinabé hospitality stands out as one of the best I've had the pleasure and privilege to experience. Though food is often not so plenty, a spare seat and a hearty meal are always ready for visitors. The repeated generosity was topped when the head of the family presented us with a live chicken to take back to Ouaga. He's a burly cockerel named Tabaski who is currently running around my courtyard, preparing to awake us again tomorrow morning at an ungodly hour.

Photo: Best going away present ever

Photo: Enfant du village

The right way to give and the Burkinabé pub (maquis) culture

The right way to give

The smooth pace at which Burkinabé life coasts along on a daily basis is another area of fascination. In a polychronic culture (the anthropological way to say time doesn't matter), passing a friend on the street and inquiring into wellbeing is far more important than honouring the formal time of an organised meeting.  

Firstly, salutations are more extensive and inquisitive than the impersonality of Northern European or Anglo-Saxon cultural norms. The Burkinabé handshake comes first. It starts off as expected but culminates in a smooth slide-off, such that the two individuals' middle fingers click. A fist bump is also common amongst friends. And when a Burkinabé enters a room full of people, he will individually shake the hands of everyone present without a second thought. The ensuing dialogue is also particular. While Brits with their stiff upper lips see the 'how are you' as a quick formality, here one almost ubiquitously inquires into how well you slept ("bonjour, c'est comment (comment ca va)? Bien dormi?"), and how your family is. The Burkinabés' larger concept of family (perhaps due to the fact that almost everyone seems to have ­many siblings) seems somewhat reflected in the Burkinabé French, in which instead of replying "fine thank you, and you?", it is customary to hear the subtly modified response, "fine thank you, and at yours?" ("et chez toi?").  The cultural differences even extend to the way objects are given from one person to another, as it is considered disrespectful to give with one's left hand. However, in this warm culture, it really does seem everyone is welcome. A warm smile, respect and friendliness suffice. Just remember to give in the right way.

Photo: "Bon marché!"

Maquis, maquis and more maquis

The unanswered paradox is that the food in regular restaurants is almost exclusively: carbs (rice, tô, , spaghetti, couscous, or bread), some flavoured sauce, maybe some more carbs, and the gauntest ration of meat - usually pork or sheep. Local markets on the other hand, bustle with an enviable range of vegetables and spices for little ligidi (money). Furthermore, no Burkinabé street corner is complete without its trademark maquis. A maquis is the Burkinabé French term for a small bar/restaurant (even the Courrier International has written about the maquis). They can be found on literally every corner and are identical in menu and prices. It's a meeting place where variety is not the spice of life. A place for spouses to escape from their spouses, many have big screens showing live European football, with the English league seemingly the most popular.

The Burkinabé have the sweetest teeth this side of the Sahel. Maquis coffee = instant Nescafé. Four lumps of sugar are typically added, while the more upmarket café au lait (i.e. a few sterling pence extra) is Nescafé dissolved in half a glass of condensed milk and half a glass of water. It is served with bread and butter and one order will get you close to your RDA of fat. In a move seemingly aimed at discouraging British volunteers, the only tea is Lipton served in a glass with lemon and sugar (in an often diabetic quantity). The omnipresent soda brands are served but my personal local favourite is Bissap: a sweet syrup squash made from hibiscus flowers. Horchata, a milkshake-like drink made from 'chufas' that I have only ever found in the Valencian Community in Spain, curiously seems to be served in some places. There are also some other local drinks made from millet and ginger, though I have yet to develop the necessary palette. The local beers, Brakina, Sobra and Beaufort cost around £1 for a large 60CL bottle; a price range which compensates for the lacklustre tea options. Also, for better or worse, the Burkinabé have developed a strong penchant for Guinness, by far the most popular export beer.

While maquis are a rudimentary West African twist to the concept of the British public house, I often fantasise of a slightly varied menu. While British pubs share many similarities - even the names are reused time and time again - every maquis has the same menu. What if someone jazzed up the rice and sauce (riz sauce) dish with one different spice or a new vegetable? What if the 24 hour boulangeries baked bread in a slightly different shape so as not to exclusively sell the colonial hangover that is the French baguette? Would a change from Nescafé to Kenco or, more interestingly, from Lipton to Twinings lead to civil unrest? 

Photo: Au maquis

Photo: Le goût pour la Guinness

The Land of the Honest Men II: Burkinabé navigation and the art of haggling

Who'd be a Burkinabé postman?

Getting around Ouaga is a little more challenging than the few swipes on the Google Maps app on which the Western Generation Y are now dependent. First of all, many streets are unnamed and unpaved. Street signs which do exist are often unclear and the identical alleys cross the sprawling suburbs are often numbered. The task can become ever more herculean during the frequent daily power cuts (as a side note, there are few sights as eerie as seeing all the lights of a motorway simultaneously black-out at night).

So tactics have been designed to remedy the situation. Water towers (châteaux d'eau) painted with coloured advertisements often loom high above the shacks that line the roads. You point the taxi driver to your local tower­. Pharmacies are also landmarks, as their big green crosses are the most visible points de référence when driving (or rather scooting) around. My house, for instance, is just off the main national motorway near the 'Jumbo' water tower just before the 'Pharmacie du progres' (Pharmacy of Progress).

Photo: Local transport

Photo: Châteaux d'eau

Photo: Mopeds in the city centre

The art of haggling

Prices are rarely displayed... anywhere. Every purchase becomes a constant retrospective wonder of 'did I get ripped off?'. The problem is particularly acute for newcomers who have no concept of local prices, such as British volunteers getting to grips with dividing everything by 700 (£1 = 720 CFA) on the spot. The rule of thumb, however, is that life is significantly cheaper than most of 'the West'. Even when living on a modest local currency stipend, it still feels like a bargain to get a burger and chips for a little over £2.

Even the taxis agree a price with you before the journey. Meters don't exist in the huge fleet of self-employed taxi drivers, who after getting their license, paint their banged-up Mercedes or Renault into 'taxis verts' (green taxis). After negotiating the price, the chauffeur proceeds to try and load up his taxi - two in the front and four in the back - taking whichever route gives him the best chance to do so. Time just doesn't matter to many people. They're perfectly content to not rush. Petrol prices, on the other hand, do cause grumblings, as at 712 CFA (£1) per litre, margins are tight for the minority choosing not to zip around on two wheels. 

Photo: Taxis verts

The Land of Honest Men Part I: Multiple gods and jovial racism

'Burkina Faso' roughly translates to the land of the honest (or 'upright') men (pays des hommes intègres), in the country's two main languages. It's a landlocked country of 16 million, with 60 languages and ethnicities, and French is the sole official language. It borders Mali, Ghana, Togo, Benin, Niger and Cote d'Ivoire. It is majority Muslim but with a sizable Christian minority.

Two gods are better than one?

Religion in Burkina is a fascinating topic. Despite 80% being either Muslim or Christian, nearly all nonetheless practise traditional beliefs. Goat sacrifices seem to be perfectly compatible with going to church every Sunday. The level of religious belief can also clearly be seen from the multitude of pietistic shop names. Many contain the prefix 'wend', which means 'god' in Mooré. 'Shalom' and 'peace' (paix) are also seen everywhere.

In addition, the traditional chiefs are still highly regarded in Burkinabé society. There are apparently some still-observed customs whereby women greeting the chief must approach him by crawling on their hands and knees. Monsieur le Président Blaise Compaoré is also said to exercise power through the traditional chiefs who can often disseminate messages to communities in a way that no political TV ad or garish billboard could. It is widely believed that he regularly consults the Mossi king.

Photo: Shalom Coiffure

Jovial racism

The multitude of different ethnicities is personified through friendly rivalry and banter (plaisanterie). Although the Kingdom of Ouagadougou is predominantly the Mossi tribe, the capital is a magnet for migration from across the Republic. While taking breakfast with a couple of elders - one Mossi, one Dioula - I was entertained by non-stop back-and-forth joshing of "he's Mossi, he eats people", "he's Dioula, he's a slave".. "he's a thief"... "he eats children" ... "he doesn't wear underwear"; and so on, punctuated with friendly jabs and the trademark Burkinabé smirk. It is often said that such jovial racism and making light of the differences between the multitude of groups is a binding custom in itself.

Older generations bear scars (cicatrices) on their faces. Until as recently as the 1980s, traditional chiefs (chefs coutumiers) used the marks as an antiquated identity card. The different patterns denote ethnicity, caste and social rank. This old custom, despite seeming somewhat brutish, was also subject to the abovementioned banter.  

Westerners, or rather anyone of a non sub-Saharan African origin, are subject to staring at every turn. Children ubiquitously follow and shout "Nassarah!" as you pass. Nassarah comes from the word "Nazareth", as the first Caucasian people to arrive were Christian missionaries from Europe. Such positive racism is akin to what many non-Chinese people experience in China, when calls of "laowai" (old foreigner) accompany similar bemusement when seeing non-natives. But here, a white person is ever more visible in the crowd. Particularly in Ouaga, where aside from a few diplomatic and development worker bubbles in the centre, the 'Nassarahs' are extremely few and far between. People can't help but stare and a few words in the native language brings out overwhelming warmth and friendliness.  

Photo: "Nassarah!"

Istanbul to Ouagadougou

The journey begins with a flight through Istanbul. Habitually the most banal part of a trip, the flight from Istanbul to 'Ouaga' captures imagination. I wonder: who takes this flight? Why are they coming from Istanbul to Ouaga?

The passengers of flight TK0597 seem strange. Seemingly a bunch of nomads, or at least that's what I imagine. A few Chinese in business class, South Asian businessmen in snazzy suits, and veiled ladies serving as a reminder that the destination is Islamic West Africa.

There's an evening stopover in the capital of Niger. An exchange of fascinating nomads, as a group of ladies in purple veils board. Niamey is dimly lit. It's the 'small' capital of Burkina's landlocked neighbour, it's lamentable low level of development not-so-visibly demonstrated by the few city lights reflecting off the Niger River.

Finally reaching Burkina Faso is incredible. Every single sight is intriguing. It's a city of contrasts. Paved national roads with streetlights leading from the airport soon give way to dark dirt tracks. The sound and smell of mopeds fill the dusty air and every street begins to look the same. "Bonne arrivée!". 

"If you think you are too small to make a difference, then you've never fallen asleep with a mosquito in the room".

Photo: Burkina from the bus window