Ask an African: What's your most prized possession?

Dearest readers. I'm glad you wander to my page from time to time, and I apologize for not having finished this segment yet. With a summer of non-stop camp life, a week of packing, and a semester of grad school, I didn't have much time for deep breathing nonetheless consistent blogging. To be fair, I have warned you it may take a while.

So now, here it is, the long-awaited second and final question of the “Ask an African” series.

“What is your most prized possession?”

When I received this question, I couldn't wait to get started. The idea of possessions, in general, is a completely different concept in Burkina Faso than what I have known. While the Western world approaches things as either belonging to someone or not, most communal societies have a more loose definition of possession.

If a neighbor and friend has a bike and I need to get across town, I may just “borrow” it even without asking. If I have a pomegranate tree and my househelper's daughter would like a snack, she will pick one for herself and the rest that are on the tree . . . even if I didn't think they were ripe yet. If you say you like my necklace, I should give it to you as any good African would. That's the Burkinabè way.

So, when I polled my English students about their favorite possession after class, I was intrigued by their answers. First of all, it took a while to understand the term “possession.” I realized I had never learned the term in the local language, and I now doubt that a single term exists. Language tends to reveal what is important to a culture.

“What is your favorite . . . eh . . . thing-that-is-yours?”

The first student looked around the room, sat, and thought for a while. He couldn't come up with anything, so we skipped him for another student who had an answer.

“I know!” the next student said. “My pen!”

--- (me) “Ok. . . Hmm. So, why is that?”

“...because I can write with it! It helps me do school work. It's a very nice pen.” (stands to show off pen)

Needless to say, I thought that maybe they had misunderstood. After all, this is a grown man. Surly he has some item he cherished more than his pen. I explained the question again in French. He still stuck with the pen. So, now, back to the first student again.

“My favorite possession is my bike. It helps me get around so I can work and see my friends.”

This was a little more satisfactory to me. After all, it probably was the most expensive thing that he owned and a very useful thing at that. I moved on to the next student.

Sahellian tea and cell phones

“My favorite possession is my cell phone. Without it, I cannot contact my family all over and friends in the village!”

A concurring chorus of clicks resounded. That's the Burkinabè way of “amen”ing what was just said. Everyone following him agreed that their phone was their most prized possession.

The student who had chosen his pen, however, stuck to his guns.

It was a nice pen, after all.

Burkinabè and their possessions:

The common bowl

Our kids club and the wiffleball

Family and stuffed animals

A boy and his mom's weave

A man, his Quran, and his sewing machine

Boys and their dad's tea sets

Ask an African: Food Stuffs

Dearest readers, I realize I left some of you hanging with my last post. Permit me to mention something else about myself. I'm the kind of person you can count on for good and sometimes grandiose ideas. However, I'm not the one you want to call on for the best follow-though. I realize this and truly do try to be a person of my word.

My last weeks in country, transition back into the US, and time with my family and friends proved to have consumed my time and efforts in the best sort of ways. I strongly doubt that any of you were too concerned, but some of you did ask questions. I haven't forgotten you or the questions you asked, and I did ask my friends while I was still in Africa. I just didn't immediately write them for you.

So, as promised, here is the first installment of Ask an African:

Question: What is your favorite food?

The most popular answer was rice and peanut sauce. Yes, peanuts in a hot, oily, and flavorful sauce. They think we're the weird ones for spreading plain peanut paste on bread and calling it a sandwich. This answer actually made me pretty happy, because it's simple. It may not have been what you had imagined, but most Burkinabè food is pretty basic: starch, veggies, leaves, lots of oil, and lots of maggi (bouillon cubes).

If you wanted some “weirder” options, there were a few other contenders:

Tô: [pronounced like english “toe”] One of the main staples of many parts of Africa, tô/nsima/pap is very popular. It's a … gelatinous blob … [for lack of a better term] made from fine corn or millet flour. For those of you from the South, think what happens to grits when they get sit on the stove too long. Now, I am slightly biased, because it wasn't my favorite. However, many of my American friends loved tô.

Now, the piéce de résistance: 

Caterpillars: Yes. Caterpillars. True, it's really just one people group [the Bobo] in my area that love these little grubs, but they are a significant portion of the population. In fact, my city hosts the annual caterpillar festival. Yes, I have tried them. Yes, I've had enough to last a lifetime. Those who do like them, love them, though. Some have even tried to smuggle thousands of them in luggage when traveling to Europe… Hey, at least he shrink wrapped them…

Ask an African

Fun fact: I really enjoy writing.

For an introspective extrovert, it's the most therapeutic kind of hobby imaginable. I get to mull things over in my head AND share them with whatever community that chooses to read my blog. It's an electronic way to weasel myself into your world and include you in mine. It's sharing, and I am so fond of sharing.

That being said, I'd like to propose a theme for us: a running dialogue among you, me, and the amazing people with whom I interact daily. You have to participate, though.

Here is the challenge: pose a question, of any kind. I'll ask it to friends, neighbors, and random Africans I meet. Then, I'll write a blog with the responses. Sound fun? Well, it does to me. Let's see what becomes of this thing.

Just ask a question, any question, and I'll incorporate it in my everyday conversations. Write it in the comments below, email me here, send a carrier pigeon, or do whatever you must to get it to me. I'll ask my people, and we'll make the world a little smaller, one blog at a time.

Ok, Ready....GO.

The Terminal

Recently, I took vacation to Belgium 1. to enjoy the beauty of cold weather and the Western world and 2. to spend some time with a teammate and one of my favorite people before she went back to America. The visit was a much-needed break from the everyday of life in Sub-Saharan Africa. Especially this time of year (Harmattan), it was a real treat not to have to swaddle my face so as to avoid inhaling the Sahara.

Just think of Harmattan as the wicked step-brother of El Niño.

Anyways, to Brussels and Bruges we went. My teammate and I enjoyed a few days of walking around in the cold, seeing beautifully old buildings, perusing antique shops, and having our fair share of adventures. After we finished our escapades and parted ways, I still had one 24+hr layover in Istanbul before returning to my African home. I had always wanted to visit Turkey, and now, thanks to a lack of flights in/out of West Africa, I could!

It was all planned: I would arrive at night, benefit from one of Turkish Air's complimentary hotels so I'd be well-rested, explore as much of the city as possible, and return the next day. It would be perfect... or so I thought.

When I landed, I quickly proceeded to the hotel voucher desk, made it through the line, greeted the clerk with a wide smile, and asked about my hotel arrangements. It's amazing how quickly smiles can fade. Turkish Air had no place for me to stay, and due to a technicality, would not find one for me.

Tired, frustrated with the debate, and extremely disappointed, I squinted across the counter through bleary eyes. The only compassion I could muster from the clerk was a puzzled look and a cup of cold water.

That made me even more frustrated. Surely, I could make them care. I would make them feel sorry for stranding me in a Turkish airport with nowhere to go. Certainly, they wouldn't treat someone they actually cared about this way. I just needed to make them care.

So, I pulled chairs together, barricaded myself by the office door, and hoped to rally some support. Here, the workers and all my fellow travelers would have to face me as they exited. Maybe, the solidarity of our travels together would inspire someone else to take up my case. Maybe, the workers would regret having stranded me for the night with so little thought. Either way, someone would know I was a human being and would care.

No such luck. Most probably didn't know why I was there, the rest didn't care. After an hour of being ignored, one clerk asked if I would be joining a group. Thinking this was my chance to repeal my case, I explained the situation. However, when I finished my story again with dramatic frustration welling up in my eyes, the clerk just shrugged and walked away.

I was not his problem today.

In my ten or so hours to kill before dawn, I got to thinking. I remembered my homeless friends in Athens and their stories, how they acclimated to being ignored. I remembered Burkinabé friends and families, how they learn to shrug off crises because they should say "there is peace." I remembered the difference it makes in my own soul when I really care about the situation of another human being. I thought of how good it is to be affected by another's story.

In light of this tiny inconvenience, my pity party was short-lived: How often do I do much worse to fellow human beings, the bearers of the image of God? Do I ignore their stories when I know something is wrong? Do I care how they arrived in whatever troubles they face? Do I care to hear their triumphs and joys? Or do they not concern me because they don't directly concern me? Lord, forbid that to be my attitude! 

No, I can't reasonably hear every person's story, but I can try. I can ask. Moreover, I can actually listen if I do get the chance to hear.

In the end, my problem was really no big deal, and it was good to face that. Sure, I didn't sleep, but it was well worth it. Remembering to actually look around and see my fellow man is totally worth a sleepless and introspective night spent alone in a terminal.