Saturday, October 20, 2012

Black in Africa My "Story"

A friend asked me to write about what its like being a black male peace corps volunteer. She is a current volunteer in morocco and is interested in what it is like for other volunteers of color. As she plans on sharing the responses with high school students at home, figured i'd try to make it interesting and then post it on here because its about time for an update.  Below is my response...

"After literally inhaling two plates of Riz Sauce Arachide, rice with peanut sauce, I felt pretty content with myself and was ready to move on to the meat. Although we eat rice with some kind of sauce just about every day here in Burkina Faso (try to find that on a map), it never gets old. From salty peanut sauces, watery tomato sauces, tangy mustard sauces, and even bitter vegetable sauces; I can’t get enough of it. Most volunteers complain about the redundancy of the palate here but I for one enjoy the consistency and supplement the rice with delicious meats. Buying meat here is nothing like it is in the states. There’s literally a man with a machete, chopping away at a recently killed animal, and then placing the chunks of meat on the grill to cook. Muscle, innards, organs; it’s all the same. He then pours ridiculous amounts of spicy pepper and other seasonings on the meat as it cooks. End product: AMAZING
(although I for one still prefer Popeye’s spicy batter).

A lot of volunteers give me hell for eating the meat here, but after trying chitterlings and pig feet in the states, this is easy. Although they usually choose not to get meat, this particular night out on town I was able to convince them to order with me (Chevre/Goat). As a result of circumstance, we all ordered separately and got three separate plates of 500 CFA worth of meat (550CFA = $1). Although I was the last to get my plate, I was definitely the first to start eating and the last person to notice that everyone was staring at my plate. Although I had not originally noticed, my friends were quick to point out how pathetic my plate of meat looked in comparison to theirs. Upon closer inspection, I realized that my plate consisted mainly of fat and bone while their plates were overflowing with prime cuts. Although this did not particularly bother me, the other volunteers were bewildered as to why my plate was so pathetic in comparison to theirs. As they stared incredulously at my plate, I stared incredulously at them.
“Had they really never noticed that they always get preferential treatment over me? Prime cuts of meat, preferential seating, served first; life in Burkina Faso revolves around making foreigners feel special."

Realizing that I needed to explain the situation to them, I began to talk to them about the “black” experience in Africa. Long story short, the phenomenon of “white privilege” is not isolated to America but has also found its way to Western Africa. Although I am a Black American male, the locals here still see me as African (despite my drastically lighter complexion). After explaining this to the other volunteers for what feels like the 100th time in country, they instantly became enraged and made comments on the injustice of my situation. Becoming slightly accustomed to being treated worse than my fellow American volunteers, I was taken aback by their surprise and was even turned-off by their naivety. So I did what I think anyone else would do in my situation, I shared my story.


Growing up just outside our National Capitol’s city limits, I am no stranger to poverty or difficult living situations in the States. A first generation college student, my family had big plans and hopes for me; that is until I decided to join the Peace Corps over going to law school. Although my parents and family were not initially supportive they soon grew to accept my decision. Deferring my loans, giving away my XBOX 360, and saying goodbye to the love of my life (at the time); I joined the U.S Peace Corps and moved to the 7th poorest country in the world in order to try to make a difference. Expecting to be met with gratitude or thankfulness, I’ve often been met with cold indifference because the locals usually think that I am one of them. Although this helps with integration into my community, I would also like to be recognized by my proper identity/nationality. Peace Corps volunteers in Burkina are overwhelmingly white females and are usually treated like royalty(with noticeable exceptions), whereas the 6 other Black Americans and I (out of 166 volunteers) are treated like second class citizens from Niger, or better yet Ghana. Although this initially bothers me, I enjoy educating locals on the diversity of Americans. Race, ethnicity, sexual Orientation, and socio-economic standing (No, not all Americans are rich like Rihanna or George Bush) are a few of the topics that I love discussing with Burkinabe. I enjoy working and sharing my culture to the locals here and definitely feel fulfilled by my work here (I am a community health volunteer working at a medical center). Although I look forward to one day serving in the Foreign Service, I definitely would like to get out of Africa.

Sharing my “story” with my fellow volunteers really made me feel better about my situation and even made me realize how genuinely good a lot of the volunteers are. They were able to sympathize and have even begun to take up the cause and educate the locals on American diversity. I walked away from dinner that night knowing that I had opened the eyes of several American volunteers. I felt good; until the next time we hung out at our volunteer hostel. They mistakenly greeted me in French because they thought I was a Burkinabe…. FML"

Monday, October 8, 2012

Home Sweet Home





There is nothing more surreal than going back to site after spending time with other volunteers in the capital. Returning to the rollercoaster of transport and site is definitely tough after eating good food and enjoying good company in the capital city.



Yesterday’s trip was no different. After spending 2 weeks at the beach in Togo and another week in a training of trainers I was definitely ready to head home. As I sat on the bus, naturally ended up being 4.5 hours late, I was serenated by the scraggly speaker’s blaring traditional Muslim prayers. The other passengers and I had already finished fighting over the limited baggage space and were more than ready to head out. A few old men sang along with the Arabic prayers limping out of the speakers while naked children laughed and played… on my head rest and seat. The chickens under my seat were making an unholy amount of noise as they defecated all over the floor of the bus. Life suddenly becomes a reality show (do they still have those in the states? I don’t know) and I realize that True Life: I live in West Africa…and am getting too well integrated. None of the above things bother or phase me; not the lateness, chickens, children, or prayers. (The two new fly bites on my left foot and hand respectively still bothered me… AND HURT)



It turned out that the bus was late because it didn’t work in the first place. The enterprising business men decided to sell tickets for a bus that did not work. (I had no option as only one bus goes to my area of Burkina Faso.) After finally getting the bus working, we were destined for a maximum speed if 60 kmh, one accident, and two break downs. After stopping on the side of the road, the driver could not get the bus going again so he floored the gas (logical reaction). Unfortunately, the bus was in reverse (of its own volition) and we hit something behind us. 4 hours after departing, we had gone about 150 km and decided that we needed to switch buses. Admittedly, after the hour and a half that it took to transfer baggage and people to the new bus, we moved a lot quicker. Arriving at our destination 6.5 hours later; it was dark, rainy, and cold (of all the luck in a land-locked Sahel country). I still had to bike to a neighboring volunteer’s site where I would spend the night and then continue on to my site in the morning (biking 40k). The bus staff had taken my two calshews (def: piece of rubber used to tie baggage to bikes or motos) off of my bike and I therefore had to bike with my army duffle on my back and my backpack in my hand. Sigh, ce n’est pas facile. A couple of things that did make this 15 hour trip bearable were the other passengers and scenery. Striking up engaging conversations with other passengers definitely makes the time fly by quickly.



After biking through several small lakes, I arrived at my house. Over-grown and inaccessible; I had to go to a neighbor’s house to ask for a machete to cut the bushes so that I could reach my house. The naked village children shouting bon arrive definitely made me smile but I soon lost that smile as I made it into my overgrown courtyard. Going into my house was not actually so bad but I definitely have a lot of cleaning to do. Ugh….. Spiders are everywhere. Home sweet home


As usualy: More pictures are on Facebook!

Chez Moi.... (My house)

PS. we have a new group of trainees coming in today. I want to say BON ARRIVE to them... as well as send them good luck as they learn to make this country their home. Best Wishes