Dounan yan kili ka bo, a tiyeri ké

This morning I have LOTS of energy.

Once again I’m back from diarrhea land. Serious diarrhea, the kind of attack that gives you high fever and that kills kids 5 years old or less. It’s time I learn something about hygiene here.

I am more and more surprised by my inability to find what it is I’m doing that locals don’t or vice versa and that gives me the shits. I bathe twice a day at least. Morning and evening. With cold water, a bucket, and a bar of ever so wonderful Shea soap. Don’t cringe: cold water feels good when it’s hot out. I wash my hands before eating (with them). I also select the places I go to for dinner out. But as a friend told me, “dounan yan kili ka bo, a tiyeri ké”. The stranger has his eyes wide open, but he cannot see.

When making unknown mistakes is about getting a sore stomach, that’s fine. But I feel this blindness of mine isn’t limited to hygiene. What about my cultural fit into the neighborhood I live in. How many people have I offended that wouldn’t dare tell me.

What about at work? How much does my status (white male) prevent me from learning the real stuff? How much am I given the power of making decisions without having the knowledge or experience that would make me deserve it?

I think, a lot.

In my experience, there has been a pronounced unearned deference towards what seems to be my wealthy background. Coming from Canada or France, those countries where no one is poor – “What do you mean, people beg for money in the subway? White people?” – is taken as a guarantee to know best. I have to admit, this position of privilege is tempting. It’s so much easier to make myself believe that I have the answers, since people readily listen to what I say, and even ask for answers. Power is delicious. And giving answers makes one feel pretty good about oneself. But it’s a slippery slope, and the mistakes don’t make their author sick, but someone else.

So for now I repeat to myself, dounan yan kili ka bo, a tiyeri ké… and I try to keep my eyes peeled and my ears open. Not that I don’t do anything, but I try to make a clear choice as to whether what’s on my plate corresponds to my abilities. I also try to forget about my (undeserved) power and to learn as if I had none. That requires a proactive refusal of tasks that are above my head, an avoidance of easy answers to hard questions, and a constant asking of ridiculous questions, like please tell me what it is that gives me diarrhea.

Dounan yan kili ka bo, a tiyeri ké…

Meanwhile, I’m healty again, and I’m planning to stay that way. For one, I’ve noticed that Burkinabés my age are in a much better shape than I am. I think their fitness allows them to withstand attacks that put me to bed for days. So Alanna and I got up a little earlier for the past week (5:45) to add a 25 min. jogging to our day. I’ve felt the effects immediately, hence the first sentence of this entry. That will now be a necessary habit.

For those in Canada I hope you enjoy the red leaves I miss so much. I wish you to find ways to stay healthy for the coming winter months.

Work

Main street

7:00. The sun is already up, breakfast and shower are long gone. My squealing one-speed mountain bike is ready for the ride. We’re going to work!

Our house gives on a dirt road, slightly uphill, with major trenches and pot hole. Everyone on the block says hi and asks about my health and my day – 7:05. I reach a long section of good paved road. If I pass them there, guys on bikes usually race me, whatever their age. Passing a white guy must be a game. Sometimes young kids ride beside me just to chat, all the way downtown, where we have to split. So far all of them have been apprentices – i.e. they work for free to get a skill, usually a welder’s shop or a mechanic. They’re between 9 and 13 years old – 7:10. Downtown is plain bad - pot holes, puddles and bad traffic; a little like Toronto, except people are nicer here – 7:15. Now I face the big hill, my real morning exercise – 7:25. Work is on top. People cannot fathom that a white person would intentionally ride their bike up that hill, yet hundreds of locals do it everyday, with loads of tires, wood, buckets, you-name-it, on their bikes. Why not me?

The maquis at the street corner

Work started on September 3^rd. Not just for me, but for my whole office. August, the month it rains hardest, is off for everyone. Understandably, since when it rains, it pours; the roads (and mud huts, as you’ve heard) suffer a lot. If I exaggerate a bit (for the thrill of my readership) the rain makes August here a month long snow day - notice that it would be the same in Hamilton in February could the city not afford snow plows. By the way, I never understood why the French took August off. Now I understand. It’s because they colonized Burkina and took the habit.

In September, the roads get hard enough again that you can hope to achieve something on a field trip. It’s not that it stops raining but just not as frequently. Hence, back to work!

I sit in an air conditioned office. I hope that removes the images of a mud covered, shovel totting, straw hat wearing young man digging holes in Africa that I’m not. I’m also the least well dressed in my office on most days. There was an intern last month who sometimes took the last spot. What do these well dressed, all important, all men, do all day? They organize, they strategize, manage, report on, budget and evaluate a big, seven year long project (the Projet d’Appui aux Micro Entreprises Rurales – PAMER).

The PAMER aims at reinforcing what was called the “informal sector” in the 90s, and is now the micro enterprise sector of Burkina. It focuses its energy on rural enterprises, namely people (mostly women, 90+%) doing work other than agriculture on agricultural land. Food Transformation = Value add is (one of) the master equation(s).

Ajuma and Eric

The PAMER hires field workers to run workshops on specific trades and skills when a specific need has been identified - like the de-husking of local rice or the making of tapioca balls from cassava. Admit it; you’re as surprised as I was to hear that tapioca comes from cassava! The woman who told this to me laughed at my surprised look for a good two minutes.

The PAMER delivers technical assistance to people investing in new technology – like gas powered ovens for a mango drying business. It also facilitates access to credit for entrepreneurs, by accompanying them in their financial planning and providing collateral. They partnered with a nation-wide bank (Caisses Populaires) to offer eased access to credit to rural women.

My mission for now is to learn as well and fast as I can from the people I work with and those I work for. Since learning by doing works well usually, I’ve taken on a few files at work and a few field trips.

I work on my first file with the help of my office partner, Paul Millogo. I strategize the passage from its assisted state to an autonomous state of the urban outlet (a store selling the enterprises’ products to the city). I say strategize because really my role is facilitation. I ask questions, since I don’t have answers. The president of the steering committee for the urban outlet, Mme Seni Angèle, who makes fruit syrups for sale in the store herself, knows all too well what the issues are.

The second file I am taking a part in concerns the Burkina cashew nut value chain. As I described in my other blog, there seems to be a great potential, with a great number of great people involved in this trade. My role again, so far, has been to ask questions, to meet people and to take notes at the first ever Burkina Cashew Alliance meeting, gathering producers, processors, buyers, traders, consumers and service providers in one room around one question: how to get the Burkina cashew on the local and international markets?

Asking questions is a nice job. Working with people and solving people problems is a blast. When comes 6pm, when I have that big downhill in front of me, straight west, with the sun already low on the horizon, I can’t help it. I have a huge smile on my face.