degrees of comfort -- guest blog by jon rudnicki

The infirmary door opens, I hear a “Co co co…”, (the burkinabe equivalent of “anybody there?” when entering a room) as someone rounds the corner toward the sickbeds. Its two fellow Peace Corps trainees, Molly and Coleman, coming to check on the downed soldiers. I like to think that they came out of sincerity and concern however it might have been more for their amusement or in Molly’s case even for karma sake considering she’s seemingly the only trainee out of 32 who hasn’t been sick yet. (jinx) whatever it was I was happy to see them after they were finished with training classes for the day. I think I may have been reading at that point, starting to feel better, but still staying the night because hell, I earned it from the previous two sick nights spent in my village. No one was going to move me from that bed. “We just wanted to see if you were still alive”, after a quick health status update and their sympathies they were on their way back to village.

The infirmary in Ouahigouya is a small medical building with a little white room that can just barely fit two beds, where people go to moan and whine about little sicknesses, that, because we’re in West Africa, make us think we are actually dying. Even though we sit through medical courses in the first weeks we arrive where we are repeatedly told that “you are not dying”, I had to disagree.

Charley, who I now refer to as my “old war buddy”, had the fortune of passing the time with me in the sick house. The short occasions between his spells of freezing in the fetal position rocking himself to stay warm and telling me that his “skin was on fire”, we would share our war stories. These are the stories that granted us the privilege to be lying in the beds we were currently occupying. And also allotted us the convenience of indoor plumbing with a toilet! (by the end of this story you’ll have a better understanding of why I chose to use an exclamation point there) We even had a functioning fan in the room. We were rockstars. Albeit at the expense of our ailments, I can easily say more than one time I wouldn’t have minded a minor sickness for the use of such luxury items here in Burkina Faso.

Charley didn’t have to do much explaining of his purple heart tale. As he lay there, malaria positive, splayed on the bed sweating and groaning I was humbled knowing he had just pedaled in an hour ago on his bike from village five miles away in 90 degree heat. Although I arrived in a less heroic fashion, I’m not going to let that undermine my epic war story.


Two days earlier I just finished dinner, which was plain cous-cous and water, which I have learned to be excited about, low dirt content. You can’t help but consume the red African dirt everyday being in the sahel, its in the air, you breathe it, you sweat and it sticks to you, forming a layer of fine dirt on your skin. It unavoidably gets in and on everything, it just happens to be more noticeable in soft foods but you quickly learn to live with it. Shortly after dinner I started feeling ill with stomach pains, headache, and nausea. So I told my host brother that I would be going to bed soon. I shuffled into my concrete room took some ibuprofen, started drinking oral rehydration salts (essentially this is drinking salt water, mmm… oceany) and got under my bug net to try to sleep.

All symptoms got worse as the night went on which prevented me from sleeping. All night long I tossed and turned and moaned and groaned until sunrise. When my brother came to the door I let him in which required me to get up out of bed and open the door because it remains shut from a latch on the inside. painfully and nauseously I shifted up and unhinged the door in a manner that must had semblance of an arthritic 95 year old. I explained to him my current state and that I was not going to training classes today because I wanted to rest and get better in my bed.

Shortly thereafter, my host mother came to the door, so I repeated the laborious processes- slowly sit up regain balance, untuck mosquito net, feet on floor – stabilize annnd stand,, creep to the door - unlock, phew ..all without throwing off the delicate equilibrium of my stomach that could have erupted out of my mouth at any moment. she only speaks the native language but I could understand she was giving me blessings because she kept using the word which means God. Ok thanks mom, time to rest, now. I lay back down,

“Co co co…” now it is my host father. Repeat process. Except add a sigh somewhere in there.
“Co co co…” now it’s my host uncle, repeat,
“Co co co…” now it’s my host brother, repeat, insert an “ugh” somewhere
“Co co co…” now it’s my host neighbor? Or a host stranger? I don’t know I’d never seen him before, I’m sure he told me who he was in his language but I wasn’t able to hear. The fact that I was so sick beyond the point of making any effort to do anything except for use every ounce of energy I had to keep getting up and unlatching the doors and not throwing up on my guests who I think were now making pilgrimages from other towns.
“Co co co…” now it’s my language teacher. Ok, I was actually happy to see him. If something goes wrong during training he is all over it. But he couldn’t do much in this situation. I was 3 seconds away from vomiting on him.
“Co co co…” now it’s a muslim priest, I feel awkward, do I kneel or something? It’s probably culturally insensitive to keep coming to the door in a blanket and not even speaking the same language to mumble something incoherently and point to my stomach to this community’s high chief but I WAS SICK. Forced insincerity. I assume now there is a sign up in front of Mecca that says DETOUR and points toward my house. So this is called integration because, please note, I haven’t said anything negative about their ways of handling situations. It’s nice to know people care and they support you. See, that was even a compliment.
My host brother came to the door one more time and at that point I could muster no more energy and just yelled from the bed. “I’M GOING TO SLEEP NOW (…please inform the entire town this fact)”

Miraculously, there was a lull in the visitors, like I was in the eye of a storm, like a metaphor, but then a real storm came, like a terrible thing, in real life. A sandstorm hit pretty hard. I was too nauseous and bereft of strength and energy to move my bed away from my windows that can’t close all the way. But I could wrap my sheet over my head so I could still breathe. So I laid there in my bed, with a sheet around head, waiting for the storm to pass, while it was raining sand on me and my bed. This, as one might imagine, was uncomfortable.

Later that day, language class was held in my little room, so I could still participate. It’s not as bad as it sounds, my condition somewhat improved, after I dug myself out of my bed. That was an exaggeration it wasn’t that sandy, but I did have a sandy mouth for the rest of the day. It was good to interact with English speakers even though we were supposed to be speaking French.
“I’m getting better” was my optimistic mantra that evening. However my stomach had a different mantra. It was something more like “DIE JON”. I am now going to describe my latrine, so you readers can get a visual of where I spent most of the night. About 15 paces out my front door is a mud brick wall with an open entrance. So upon entering there is a half wall so people who don’t “co co co” will only see half of your naked body. 5 foot walls surround you in the open air …which is nice because:
* The sun can shine on you
* The stars at night
* Breezes
* You can see the trees around you
…Which is bad because:
* The kids in those trees can look back at you
* Chickens fly in
* Cockroaches
* Rain
In the middle of the latrine is a hole. One must not look down the hole for obvious reasons. The not so obvious reason is that typically these structures are like 10 feet deep, so it is kind of like you’re on a roof pooping into a room. Which adds another dimension of scariness thinking about the floor giving way and falling in (which we have heard tales of).

Anyway, to spare many details of my second night of no sleep sickness, me and my flashlight frequented the latrine, that I share with the rest of my family, somewhere around 15 times this night. It’s funny when you decide to give in and call the Peace Corps Doctors because nobody really wants to inconvenience them but you think there is a strong chance you are legitimately dying. So needless to say my pain/etiquette scale had started tipping heavier toward the death side around 3am. I didn’t have to say “I think I am dying” because surely it was just assumed based on how hard I was trying not to say those exact words. The white land rover donning the Peace Corps symbol like superman’s “S” swooped into my village and picked me up within a couple hours. Admittedly, I felt a sense of guilt and dejectedness for failing so badly at the integration thing I was being physically removed from my environment like a broken human figurine on a train set.

I had notified my host brother where I was going so I didn’t doubt for a second that the entire village would be gathered to watch when I made the move from my little house to the car, because this was like a two for one deal, not only do they get to see a car in their village but they get to smile and laugh at the white foreigner. The Burkinabe’s humor is the “laugh with you kind” as they LOVE to set you up for cultural faux pas or situations that Americans have just never experienced and then laugh at you when you look most uncomfortable. Which is what they relish, American awkwardness. So you can have an idea of how to gauge this moment in their eyes, on the American excitement level it would rank somewhere around New Harry Potter book and superbowl. I hesitated at the door before leaving, running through most tactful ways to convey to my driver “stop the vehicle I’m going to ‘vomit/have diarrhea/pass-out’ ‘on the dash/in the seat/now”. This message seemed eminent considering there wasn’t actually a “road” to our village, there were means of access for bikes but that was even rough going on good days, so needless to say I was in for a turbulent ride. Then I realized that I was still going through the motions as though at this stage of my sickness I had any remaining pride. Without sleep or food for the last two days completely drained of energy, pride was the last thing I had on my mind as I crawled into the front seat. As the rover drove towards the infirmary, the villagers stared, fastidiously observing all movements, the last one they saw from the reclining passenger was an arm slowly rise to give a thumbs up.

welcome home

I really don't know how to react to my site. It's...unlike anything I would have expected, and unlike anything that Peace Corps training has prepared me for.

For the next two years I am going to be working within an all-girls Catholic boarding school situated in a ridiculously beautiful part of Kongoussi. The girls who live there are between the ages of 11 and 18. They come from all over the province, from the main town as well as the smaller villages. A lot of them come from very poor families and have been recruited by the sisters who run the school. I met a few of the students during my site visit this past weekend and wow...they seem great. I also talked a tiny little bit in my tiny little bit of Moore to a few of the girls who live and work there as cooks who have fleed forced marriages back at their homes.

...I can't even start talking about my housing sitch. It's ridiculous. For real. I have more than electricity. I have a fully functioning bathroom with a shower and a toilet that flushes and has a seat. My sink has a mirror. I have ceiling fans. Down the outdoor-hall from my room I have a kitchen with a stove and a FRIDGE and a FREEZER. A dining room. I have indoor sinks for washing my clothing. A second bathroom, just in case. It's unreal. It's kind of...communial seeming, the kitchen/dining room/laundry area. Which, you know, is cool. Unlike anything the Peace Corps prepared me to expect. But...cool. I've been told that the kitchen and all of that is just for me...which seems excessive and ridiculous. You know, I really wouldn't mind having a little propane stove set up in my actual house. Autonomy. This is overwhelming.

The sister that took care of me during my visit showed me around and cooked for me, ate with me and laughed with me, told me stories and watched French news with me on TV (!). She's a riot, she's quite jolly and laughing and lovely. My counterpart is on the ball...he's professional, down to earth, friendly, knowledgeable about the Peace Corps, just really into it. He took me around town, introduced me to all of the head haunchos, took me to lunch at his house to meet his wife and kids. I spent the evening hanging out with my super wonderful site mate Justin and we hit it off like no other, drinking beer and laughing late well past sun down.

I don't know what to think! Working to promote and develop life skills at an all girls boarding school that reaches out in particular to impovershed families and also serves as a haven for girls who have found the courage to flee forced marriage...could I have found a better place to be, a better way to bring my itshe camp counselor safe passage love and skills into Burkina? Also, here is a lil' photo of the view that one can enjoy from the school grounds where I will be living:

Mountains. :) Look at those mountains.

Ahh...so that's a tiny little what-my-life'll-be-like update. I've been out of my host village for a little over a week now. It'll be really nice to get back, to spend some more evenings eating dinner with my momma. It'll be weird to get back into training. That starts Monday. I've got a whole lot of sleeping to do between now and then.

I'll try to think of a good story or anecdote to throw your way sometime soon. I'm sure I've got some good things kickin' around.

Up next...a guest writes in. Stay tuned.

back so soon?

YES, indeed I am. I am prompted to post again in order to share with you all a wild coincidence. Before leaving for Burkina I posted a link on my blog to a youtube video produced by a former PCV in Burkina describing his town and his site and such and GUESS WHAT. His old home will soon be my new one! So...if you want to get a glimpse of what my soon-to-be hometown looks like, clickity click on the link on the left.

So that's kinda cool, right? Good.

Just got back yesterday from a brief little trip to Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso's capital. Big, busy, spread out, full of restaurants where very American food is served. I housed a pizza that was covered in garlic and cheese along with a beer the size of a small child. The huge beer wasn't so much of a novelty, but the pizza definitely was. Dinner was Mexican food at the house of one of the APCDs...I am resistant to learning and using all of the Peace Corps acronyms but I just may have no choice in the matter. Assistant Peace Corps Director...for the Small Enterprise Development (SED) sector. APCD SED. OMG. Anyhow. Nothing is ever more delish than Mexican food, and with a little bit of encouragement I was able to Push The Limit and do my rugby stomach justice. I couldn't really move for a solid hour afterwards, which of course didn't stop me from eating a cookie. ...and then I just sat and listened to music and made some easy comparisons between the Peace Corps staff lifestyle and the summer I spent staying with Raj Rahel and Maya in Dhaka while digesting. Not too shabby.

...notice if you will how immediately this blog entry turned to an opportunity for me to drool over the thoughts of warm spicy food filling my mouth and belly. This is very much in keeping with my life here during training where every conversation topic quickly turns to either food or poop. The number of times I've uttered the word "cheesecake" in the past month is probably disgusting. So is the number of times I have participated in graphic discussions about diarrhea. A casual observer (a mouche dans le mur, if you will) might be grossed out by the detail that stagieres tend to go into when talking about their GI tracts. My time for terrible gut wrenching stomach pain has yet to come, which is quite fine by me. It seems, actually, as though I am doing better here health-wise than I was in the states. No tummy troubles, no cramps. Not yet...

The bus ride to and from Ouaga was pretty nice, especially the ride back when I WASN'T squished next to a large man who shifted uncomfortably any time I adjusted my body in my seat and inevitably made contact with him. If you don't want people touching you, you probably shouldn't go jonesin' after the window seat on a crowded Burkinabe bus. Just saying. The ride back yesterday was nice...I was a lot less exhausted because it was a lot less of a 6AM departure. I listened to music and watched the scenery whiz by at alarming rates, spotted some hills on the horizon and enjoyed food and drinks that were purchased out of the window during stops to pick up and drop off passengers. The people sitting in front of me purchased a small bushel of weda, this crazy sour fruit that you have to squeeze open using superhuman strength so that you can get to the little juicy furry seeds inside. The actual seed part of the seeds isn't intended to be injested, but due to the slippery nature of the fruit itself and the bumpy nature of the bus a big one definitely found its way down my throat. Soon enough I may finally have a GI story of my own.

I would have written a story...

...but it seems to be really difficult for me to coordinate motivation, memory, and access to the internet. ...but here I am! I haven't really said anything yet, have I? So it really doesn't matter what I start with, or if I even start. Right? Right. Ok. So there was my rambly intro to get me warmed up a little so that I can actually write something that is worth reading.

Maybe I'll start with a picture or two. That's a good idea. Let's see how long it takes to upload a lil' somethin' for your viewing pleasure...

Hey, that's me learning! I do that a lot these days, in theory. I think in this picture I actually am doing something kind of productive...in fact, I was working on part of a little "what is the Peace Corps speech" that I'm giving with a few other volunteers next week. In French. Est-ce que vous etes impressed? I am. It's actually been pretty cool to see how confident I am with just speaking French out and about and around with folks.

The lil' speech I'm working on in that picture there is going to be given in front of the Girls Education and Empowerment volunteers' counterparts, whom we will be meeting for the first time on Monday! Each volunteer has one main Peace Corps-assigned partner to work with on projects and such over the course of the next two years. My counterpart is the gym teacher at an all-girls boarding school run by nuns. I will in fact be working very closely with this school. Boarding school partnerships is a brand new part of GEE, which is itself a brand new program, so I am pretty excited to have the opportunity to blaze some new trails. After we all meet our counterparts, we'll be travelling with them to our new sites to check things out, ask some questions, see our new digs...I'm quite excited. I was just told today by the GEE director that my living space is beautiful. Near a lake. Lac Bam. That's right. I'm really looking forward to getting out and about in this here country!

The gentleman in the background of that picture there is my friend Jon, an important character to know about in my Peace Corps life because we're pretty symbiotic. He may be contributing a guest blog entry or two in the near future.

Ok, time for a new photo:

The reason this picture is cool to add is because it was taken TODAY. Talk about current! Chances may be slim that I get to the internet and write a little blog entry on a day where I also happened to be able to upload pictures to my computer, which is also a day that I actually took pictures! I actually planned this out a little bit. So that's blue eyed tanned nassara me at about 645 in the morning before leaving my little house to head into Ouahigouya, which is where I am now.

I really am loving my little house and my host family, which is huge. I'll be gone for 10 days because of all the counterpart-meeting and site-seeing that GEE is doing this weekend and next week, and I know I'm gonna miss it. My 19 year old host bro (same age as my real bro!) (what's up, Sam!) is this incredibly mellow, patient guy named Amidou who spends a lot of time hanging out with me and is very indulgent of my French-learning weirdness. The other night I insisted to him that we had to spend the night talking only in the future tense and we did, and he helped me, and it was great practice. My host momma is I believe 29, we have such a nice rapport with one another. Every day after I get home from traning, after I say hi to everyone around my little house and wash my sweaty dirty body and play with the boatload of kids who find their way into my courtyard and help my sisters with their sisterly duties, I head into my mom's courtyard to help her cook and talk about our days. We eat together in my coutryard after night has fallen, me and her and sometimes Amidou. It's just really nice...I look forward to dinner time.

Now it is just about time for me to go get tonight's dinner...the Secondary Ed trainees are currently everywhere in Burkina visiting their future sites, so it's just GEE here in the big city (...not really such a big city). It's weird to be here without our other halves! Tonight I'm going to indulge in a little burger beer and fries action. ...with ketchup, which I just discovered they have here! Tomorrow we all get on a bus to head to Ouagadougou for a day and a night, and then it's on to meeting our counterparts and discovering our sites. It's a big few days coming up!