Monday, December 05, 2011
The Counterfeit Mickey Mouse Conspiracy
Written by
Chad
Normally we celebrate the birth of Walt Disney today, but before cutting the cake, I'm not sure how to say this... I've uncovered something big. Bigger than you and me. Who knows how long they've been here, but there are hundreds of them. And they keep cropping up all around us every day. What's more, they're scattered all over town, hidden in plain view like Easter eggs.
Only attentive eyes dare to squint beyond the smoggy bottleneck traffic and crowded sidewalks to discern the secret treasures of this magic kingdom. But what could they mean? What secret code can be deciphered from this street art? Could these Mickey Mouse paintings be the instruments of revolution? The truth has only begun to unravel.
Our first question is who. One man with too much down time? An occult society of vintage cartoon enthusiasts? Right off the bat, we can eliminate Walt Disney himself from the list of candidates, since the scattershot artistic quality of each piece belies his proven mastery of the craft. Clearly these scrawlings hardly conform to Da Vinci's style, so we can also rule him out as the perpetrator. That leaves the rest of humanity as potential suspects.
If your correspondent were a paid investigative journalist, he might have interviewed someone to identify the makers of these curious gems, but, alas, his full-time job pays a fraction of minimum wage. Thus, his daily diet remains spaghetti-centric, and the artists' identities remain as shrouded in mystery as ever, joining the enigmatic ranks of such artists as Banksy. All that we can deduce about these anonymous imitators is their stylistic tastes. They exploit mid-twentieth-century American pop culture with the same savage disregard for copyright infringement as Andy Warhol. However, Mr. Warhol, like Disney and Da Vinci, is also long dead, bringing us back to square one.
Our second question is why. What merits and motivates the propagation of these Disney art perversions? Maybe we're witnessing the initial brush strokes of some kind of worldwide art movement. Maybe we're looking at random acts of vandalism from wannabe mousekateers. How long has this been going on? Centuries? Is paranoia a side effect of my malaria medicine?
Now, answer me this. Why have the artists chosen to use phone kiosks, restaurant signs, awnings, alleyway walls, and tire flaps as their canvases? And why is this phenomenon so prevalent in major West African cities? Not only has it taken root in Banfora—just take a gander around in Bobo-Dioulasso or Ouagadougou. I guarantee you'll chance upon at least one signature pair of giant circular ears. It's haunting.
So anyway, that's all I have for now—but my walls are covered in newspaper clippings and yarn, and I continue to dedicate sleepless nights to cracking this puzzle. If you get any leads, make sure no one is following you and call me from a payphone by night. I've got a hunch we're on to something.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Driving Off Cliffs, Karate Kicks, & Mushroom Clouds
Written by
Chad
So we find ourselves at a funeral, which on this continent isn't always the glum sort of get together you'd expect. This one more closely resembles a college kegger than a solemn church service, and a quick scan confirms that Tana’s the only one grieving. Amidst all the drink and dance, we're immediately approached by a well-fed man in coke bottle glasses who is noticeably giddy as he introduces himself. Mamadou might just be the biggest fan of America pop culture I've met here, and there are plenty of contenders to that title. We slouch into a bench as he positions his chair so close that his knees touch ours.
For the first half hour, he proves his mastery of United States geography by systematically listing the 48 contiguous states and whether they're close to Canada or Mexico. Half an hour. Though he hasn't yet left West Africa, he tells us which states are by far the best: Utah, Montana, and Michigan for some reason. I start to make a case for Virginia, but missing nary a beat he launches into another half hour of naming state capitals. He's nonchalantly lecturing us on so many rapid-fire facts that it activates a subconscious anxiety to take notes for the exam later. He then recites his definitive list of greatest Western film titles and the best actors of all time.
Taking home highest honors on Mamadou's list are standard-fare action movie heroes, such as Denzel Washington, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Jackie Chan and the inexplicable odd man out Gregory Peck. Save for the occasional spaghetti western, action movies are the sole genre that survives the trip from Hollywood to Burkina—chick flicks and horror movies are presumably parachuted into the Atlantic. Burkina also draws from the East too: for instance, on a Rakieta bus trip I once watched a Chinese action thriller called So Close where two unwieldy twin sisters throw acid on the faces of businessmen. Not sure why they played it, because I was the only passenger capable of reading the English subtitles. I've considered that perhaps these action movies have such a deep-rooted monopoly here because they're the only genre foisted upon the public by a panel of evil multinational film industry bigwigs. The more likely reason for their appeal, though, is that all the chase scenes, explosions, and near-constant peril strike a chord with a key demographic, the male manual laborer crowd.
The mood never strikes my neighbors to cuddle up with a pillow and unwind to a Nicholas Sparks romance—the base requirements for entertainment are bombshells and bloodshed. And that's why action movie heroes with their machismo and jiu jitsu maneuvers have an exponentially expanding fan base in Burkina that’s mounting as fast as the electric grid let's it. I’m sure if grocery stores could afford to set up camp in Banfora, you’d see nothing but scowling action movie celebrities on magazine covers at checkout. That’s why, according to Mamadou, it was a big no no for Eddie Murphy to sleep with Sylvester Stallone’s wife. Despite his roots, the comedian will be forever shunned by African moviegoers. Whereas this kind of tabloid gossip crops up around water coolers in American offices, African farmers might exchange such news over a canteen break in the shade of a baobab.
In any case, the fictionalized badassery of our own homegrown muscle men, stealthy FBI agents, and heavyweight wrestlers skew local perceptions of American culture. This manifests in strange ways. As I'm walking down a city street, a local might notice my nationality and randomly blurt out "JACK BAUER!" Since it's not a complete sentence, I'm left to fill in the blanks: does he think I'm that actor and wants my autograph? I knew I could've hit it big in L.A... This remark catches me off guard, but not as much as when I'm strolling along only to hear the non sequitur "Osama bin Laden" proclaimed in my direction. In this case, either he's showing off his priviness to current events or I need to shave.
One time in an attempt to diversify local tastes, we tried to introduce the family movie genre to some of Anne’s neighbor kids, but they just scratched their heads the entire movie. Despite our translating every award-winning scene of the Pixar flick Up, the little ones repeatedly questioned if all the characters were dead. They were too bewildered to care about narrative closure, so halfway through we gave up and went outside.
A few months ago we went to a village movie theater on the far side of town, reminiscent of an old-timey picture show at the drive in. The admission fee of 15 cents reminded me of mid-twentieth century America, too—no ticket stubs or turnstiles and it's a thousand percent less than the 15 dollar expense of a modern 3D blockbuster. Adama, the father of one of Tana's girl's campers, had brought in a dumptrucksworth of cement and built an auditorium, complete with a silver screen, generator, and projector. It's an odd sight amongst the crumbling mudhuts surrounding the perimeter. There's no ceiling and the walls are made of straw, so ticket sales are diminished by storms and big bad wolves.
The way you find out what's playing is to bike through Adama's courtyard and read whatever DVD case is dangling by a string from the big shea tree. This is their grand marquis. When we arrived, the place was packed for tonight's feature: a C-list Hollywood action movie about a prisoner-turned-pro-boxer's rise to claim the championship title. Every line and plot point was incurably cliché-stricken, almost as though the writer was pathologically obligated to bore me. Good thing I was the only one unenthused in the house—the audience ate it up while mosquitoes did the same to us.
Although the only silver screen imports to speak of are fast-paced action motion pictures, locally produced cinema is a whole different animal. After a year of bus trips to and fro, here are the common threads I've gleaned from Burkinabe blockbusters:
- Only two people can be in a scene in a given moment. Burkinabe script writers seem to be most comfortable writing dialogue between two people. Locally filmed daytime soap operas, such as Célibatorium, are notorious for this.
- Humor is often derived from situations that empower women. In A Woman Not Like the Others, a wife decides she wants to take two husbands, shattering the cultural norm that only a man can be the beneficiary of polygamy. The whole bus cracks up in the scene where the man is crying on his knees, clutching his wife's pair of pink panties.
- Aspects of movement and choreography are high quality. This is a culture where toddlers begin to dance at village events as soon as they can toddle, so to my eye everybody here seems much more graceful and in control of their own bodies than us bumbling, clumsy Americans. The kinesthetic prowess of actors and actresses are often a focal point of scenes. Some of the physical comedy gags remind me of Mr. Bean or The Three Stooges.
- Magic is a key plot device, often edited in using low budget special effects. In Ghana, Luis, Doug, and I were riveted by a Ghanaian film series on our bus trip to Kumasi. For 7 hours, we watched parts I through IV of Evil Soul, a movie about a jealous woman who uses black magic to try to win the heart of her dreamboat man-crush while manipulating and ruining the life of poor Juliet. Side note: We saw advertisements all over Ghana for a movie called Black Pope but never saw it on bus rides.
- Sometimes the story has no point. There isn't always some grand overarching takeaway or moral lesson, as in Aesop's fables. For example, in one performance, a dude was jealous of his friend, so he went to a shaman, and the shaman broke a traditional gourd bowl to try to kill his friend. Later the dude was doing his daily prayers and the ghost of his friend visited him, so the dude went crazy. At the end of his crazy life, the ghost visited him again and the dude died.
I have all the time in the developing world to tell you more on this topic, but I'm told it's boring to go on and on paraphrasing low-budg movies, so Fade out. Cue credits.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Sense of Place
Written by
Chad
If you ever visit the West African French-speaking country of Burkina Faso, you’ll likely visit its most popular vacation city Banfora. Traveler's guides know Banfora for its natural wonders: the Waterfalls of Karfiguela, the Domes of Fabedougou, the Peaks of Sindou, the Sacred Hippo Lake of Tengrela, and the relics and ruins of ancient civilizations in such villages as Loropeni. The scenery around Banfora is lush and gorgeous: sprawling sugarcane fields, mango and papaya trees everywhere, and plentiful waterfalls cascading down from the cliffs. The local arts scene is thriving: balaphone music performers, traditional dance troupes that tour Europe, creative painters and craftsmen, and even artisan cobblers who make designer shoes from tire rubber. Top that off with the fact that Banfora has some high-quality hotels to boot—Hotel Canne a Sucre, for instance, synthesizes fruit jams and distills over ten flavors of homemade rum.
Despite being a tropical paradise with a lively community, few tourists get the chance to recognize it as such. For travelers looking to spend money, Banfora seems like an overqualified job candidate wearing a t-shirt and jeans to the interview. The city has so much potential to capitalize on tourism, but as any city in a developing country, it's not prepared to cater to tourists. Banfora's inhabitants work hard to feed their families each year. They often cannot accrue savings for their personal futures, much less invest in the future of their city. As one of the poorest countries worldwide, the government of Burkina Faso has few resources to invest in tourism. And because tourism is an afterthought to locals, most Westerners regard Banfora as a pitstop between Point A and Point B (usually, the must-see destinations of Mali and Ghana). I want to know what makes Dogon Country in Mali so popular to travel guide books but why isn't Banfora a must-see?
I occasionally meet tourists and ask them out of curiosity about the sights they're seeing in town. Typically their itineraries only span a night or two. This is in part due to the fact that if they can rent a vehicle, all the local hotspots can be seen in a single day. The consensus among jet-setters is that although the Burkinabe are friendly and the excursions just outside of town are worth the trip, the city on its face isn't too appealing for two reasons.
One, the atmosphere isn't comfortable or inviting. There's the distinct divide when you step out from the utopian poolside oasis of your hotel into the unnerving developing world. One minute you're sunbathing and sipping wine and the next minute a 10-year-old panhandler with a tomato can is tugging at your clothes. It's not that the streets of Banfora look especially bad- they're dusty and overcrowded with merchants just like any other city in the country. It's just that due to this economic situation, Banfora isn't likely to get a facelift any time soon. I'm not saying it's a good idea to mask the poverty. I just think that there is more than one type of tourist. Banfora attracts the rugged backpacker demographic but not so much European honeymooners and luxury sightseers. This is a missed opportunity for local business.
The second reason is that since a tourist can tour all major attractions in rapid succession, there remains nothing for him to spend his time doing. Paris and Rome have more monuments and landmarks than there are days in a year. Las Vegas has a nonstop gambling and entertainment at all hours. But Banfora visitors are too busy holding their breath as they speed through that they can't breathe it in and appreciate it as though strolling through a museum. What Banfora needs to do is slow the pace of its tourists, encouraging them to rest a few more nights and spend a few more bucks. There is an obvious demand that’s not currently being supplied here. And for a tiny West African city, it's hard to think of a more lucrative and more sustainable revenue stream than the wallets of vacationing Europeans.
In summer 2009 I worked for PEC, an association that tries to preserve scenic and historic land. I drove around Virginia filming interviews with folks whose properties were in the viewshed of Skyline Drive in the Shenandoah National Park. One of these landowners, a white-haired gentleman with a mountaintop cabin, introduced me to the concept of a "sense of place."
He was the founder and publisher of The Piedmont Virginian, a local quarterly magazine dedicated solely to energizing and celebrating its community. The front cover of the summer issue features a kneeling mason who specializes in stacked stone walls, an uncommon art style that decorates many rural pastures in the vicinity. Magazine articles detail local myths and legends as well as local histories—everything from Native American tribes to Civil War battles. Colorful photos accompany articles on local performance arts, farmer's markets, wine cellars, community fairs, and parks events that all add up to the reader feeling thankful to be connected to such a spirited and special district. It's a magazine that through the power of PR takes some ordinary place on a map and gets people excited about it. We’ve been thinking about how in the same way a developing community such as Banfora could draw out its own sense of place.
This brings me to the Banfora theater scene. On recent projects we’ve worked with some local actors called the Troupe Brigue (pronounced bree-gay) to raise awareness on HIV/AIDS, family planning, etc. Banfora is fortunate to know this talented ensemble that has won honors at the UNICEF National Week of Culture 2011 and the Best Stage Actress Award at the International Festival of Theatre for Development in 2006. I’ve watched eight of their performances so far. Audiences always burst into uproars of laughter and become passionately engaged in the participatory debate.
Through multiple collaborations, we’ve grown close to the troupe’s driving force, a playwright and director named Oumar Diarra. When he’s on board for a project, his critical thinking makes for smooth sailing on normally rough seas. Oumar told us a few months ago that it has always been his lifelong dream to open a community theater. He envisions the theater having performances each day of the week, catering to tourists, and hosting annual culture festivals. It’s a community space for musicians to perform concerts and for nongovernmental organizations to host free awareness raising benefits. Potentially situated on the city outskirts facing the mountains, Oumar hopes such an outdoor amphitheater would become the hub of mass-scale arts and educational activities. The scope of it reminds us of Richmond’s own Dogwood Dell.
This theater would profoundly shape the community. Not only would it foster a sense of place for the Burkinabe, in so doing it would catch the eyes of tourists. Some travelers might even stay an extra night or two to sit back and watch a dramatic performance or enjoy some traditional music.
Since late July when we expressed interest in helping this project, Oumar has been in talks with accountants, construction companies, the local government, and land chiefs to try to bring it to life. Today the budget is being finalized and tomorrow we will begin an application for the Peace Corps Partnership Program, which will open a secure channel for anyone around the world to donate to this theater project (and write it off on their taxes). We’re trying to rope in as many volunteers into this as possible, since it’s for the benefit of the Banfora region and the country. We’re also campaigning for local buy-in from hotel proprietors and community leaders. After PCPP approval, we will begin soliciting Stateside donations from Virginia theater programs, groups at our university, friends and family (my apologies in advance), and Oprah. Come on, Oprah, you owe me this.
We’ll post more on this once things get rolling. If you’d like to be involved or remain informed; if you have questions; if you’ve thought up some cool ideas for fundraising or people to contact; if you want to fly here and help us build it; or if your name is Oprah, then post a comment here or e-mail me.
Creative Commons photo credits: Flickr users felixkrohn, guillaumecolin, riccardopatrizi, and 300dtorg. Panoromio user clericus. Thanks for the pictures!
Friday, October 07, 2011
Zen & the Art of Revving a Busted Motorcycle
Written by
Chad
I don't know what the term "en brousse" means to you, but to people who speak French it means "in the bush," as in multiple bushes, as in "out in the wilderness." Though I claimed to speak French, I didn't know what it meant last December when we were told the pet dog we were supposed to inherit had run away "en brousse." That was the tall tale they fed us when in all likelihood it was our adopted dog that fed them for dinner. Yesterday after ten months the opportunity finally arose to safari out into nature to see our tiny border villages. However, doing so would mean venturing even farther away from those precious, sacred amenities of modern society.
Though we don't have electricity or running water like you dwellers of suburbia, we're still close enough to it for peace of mind. The paved road in our backyard is a safety net. Just knowing that a couple miles away, an empty wall socket and a shower are ready and waiting for us, that's what keeps our neuroses at bay. That unequivocal promise that I could take a timeout from this two-year camping trip and delay going off the deep end until sometime later in adulthood. So I guess we're wedged somewhere between the two worlds of urban poshness and rural isolation.
In West African culture, if someone says you live "en brousse," then they're probably making fun of you. It's a touchy phrase. And that's why it's a peculiar quirk of PC culture that volunteers gain more social capital the farther their mudhuts are from the comforts of civilization. In general, the more rugged and physically taxing their journey is to buy mozzarella cheese at Marina Market, the more honor they stand to reap with city-slickin' volunteers. Sociologists call this the Mozzarella Accessibility Hypothesis (MAH). And of course a special pedestal is occupied by volunteers who must pedal 20 miles or more to reach the closest paved road. To reign supreme on this throne and be the "en broussiest" of them all, one must always be prepared to describe one's trip from village to city as outlandishly as possible, listing each life-threatening peril, comparing self to Bear Grylls or Indiana Jones, and slipping in a few trailing zeroes to the total hours spent in transit.
You can well imagine that our paved road access disqualifies us from such "en brousse" bragging rights. Though we may be living the country mouse life, we are usually seen as city mice by those truly surviving out in the wilds. That's why yesterday, although we feel welcome in our village, we weren't sure how we'd be received by the chiefs and councilors of these four satellite villages. Tana and I would be piggybacking on the two motorcycles of Salif and Ibrahim, riding through Paul Revere-style to publicize an upcoming HIV/AIDS theater campaign. We would try to get the blessings from all the big cheeses and avoid being eaten by the buzzards.
Before plunging deep into the jungles, we stopped at Burkina's version of an Exxon or a Wawa--a roadside stand that looks like a bunch of wine bottles, except instead of wine, gasoline. After the tanks had downed an irresponsible amount from a bottle of white, we paid the attendant some grant money and were on our way. We cruised through miles of sugarcane fields, winding underneath the mountain cliffs. We jetted past a spot where I had once seen a half-mile high waterfall on a joy bikeride (I'll try to return for some pictures next summer when it's rainier).
Our first of four stops is a village that shares the same name as ours with "#2" appended to the end of it. I'd tell you, but we're not supposed to post its name. As the tale goes, SameVillage #2 used to be united with ours under one name, but in the 1970s the big ol' government struck a deal with the land chiefs, converting all the fertile land in the middle of it into industrial sugarcane fields (See SOSUCO). All the locals got in exchange was temporary employment and ten years of tax incentives. This controversial deal closed schools for 10 years, impacting literacy of certain now middle-aged locals. It also created a rift in residences, forcing everyone to relocate to either #1 or #2.
So when we arrived at a schoolyard in #2, all the elementary schoolers on recess stood by in fascination. We must have looked like half-dressed astronauts with planet-sized space helmets as we struggled to wiggle them off our noggins. I was awestruck at just how many kids live out here, and the kids were just as surprised that our kind would visit them. It was National Teacher's Day, so naturally all the teachers were absent and the school director was forced to teach 4 grades in 4 classrooms all by his lonesome. Before we left, the school director called them in. And as we stood in front of their dozens of wide-eyed, open-mouthed stares, the teacher asked, "Can anyone tell me what 'volunteer' means?"
Our motos had to hydroplane through a brook to get to the next village, even deeper into the vast forests and grasslands. This second village Sikanadio was much more cozy with fewer denizens. As we waited outside its only convenience store for the chief and the councilor, I noticed a nearby house had a gigantic satellite dish. When I handed the councilor our letter of request, his eyes focused intently as he held it upside down.
The third village down the rabbit hole was Fandjora, known for its occasional migratory elephants. In 2008, we're told, a hungry elephant herd hiked all the way from Fandjora to our village to munch on sugarcane. SOSUCO tried to drive them away, perhaps to save their product but more likely to prevent elephant diabetes. Fandjora will soon host a nursery of thousands of mango trees to be planted by my organization UPPFL/CO and Oxfam that hopefully the elephants will not discover. Fandjora is also famous for sitting on a vein of valuable minerals, most notably gold. Unlike most other villages, it's patchily populated with clusters of settlements sprawled out over miles and no municipal hub to speak of. We zipped past the trailers, trucks, and generators of Australian gold mining companies such as GEODRILL. According to health clinic records, when the goldmine first opened, for some reason the local incidence of STDs skyrocketed.
- Fandjora gold mining holes
The Fandjora councilor showed us some educational murals that Amanda (the preceding volunteer) had painted near the school. In the 95-degree heat this venerable community elder wore a cotton ski hat with a puffball on top. When we handed him the letter, he spent five minutes reading it out loud to us. Ibrahim looked over his shoulder and couldn't resist correcting his pronunciation. The councilor was only interrupted when he darted off to chase some wandering poultry out of his hut. You can tell PETA that this is one of the underpublicized problems of free-range chickens.
Finally we continued onward to our last destination Serefadougou. Though it took Ibrahim dozens of tries to kickstart his moto each time we set off, the ride thus far had been carefree, for me anyway. Meanwhile as she held on for dear life, the laws of physics were not kind to Tana. She was forced to call upon stomach muscles she never knew she had, contorting her posture to avoid spooning Salif or flying away like untethered cargo. Her only respite from this ab workout was while closing her eyes and "pretending to be on a jet ski."
At a fork, given the choice between (a) the slightly longer but more sensible beaten path or (b) off-roading a more direct path through the shrubs, we foolishly seized the day and charged full-speed into the great unknown. This narrow path cut through a field where every row of green beans was a speed bump. We forged into a muddy flood plain where Ibrahim's moto kept stalling out, forcing us to hop off and wade in soaked sneakers. Each time Ibrahim unsuccessfully revved the engine, we braced ourselves for Murphy's law to kick in. We would be stranded out here like lost boyscouts and those Fandjora elephants would surely trample us on a sugar rush. Fortunately his moto held strong and we found salvation.
Like a surprise party of strangers, we suddenly popped out of the bushes into a confused Serefadougou family's courtyard. When we chatted up the councilor, a normally smooth-talking Tana found herself fumbling to speak with this tall, hunky local celebrity. And oh how the tribal scars on his cheeks complemented his facial contours. We repressed laughter when he introduced himself as though greeting Martians, "I am Moussa and I come from a place called Serefadougou."
At long last our duties were fulfilled. On the homeward trip, the grim reaper finally paid a long overdue visit to Ibrahim's motorbike. Old Faithful broke down next to a watermelon patch, not a mile from our village. Lucky we weren't still "en brousse." I stood aside and watched him rev it endlessly for ten minutes. Then I got bored and started playing on my phone.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Untold Secrets of My Nightlife
Written by
Chad
Biking back to site at dusk is like showering in bugs. Hands clenched on handlebars, I bulldoze through the fog of flies that snag on my arm hair and divebomb deep within the inner recesses of my nose. Each insect with its own personal death wish to penetrate one of my facial orifices or create a new one. And even after I've had enough mouthfuls of thoraxes and wings to curb my pre-dinner appetite, my stuffy nose forces the choice between eating billions more bugs or keeling over breathless. Come to think of it, maybe that bright headlamp on my forehead isn't such a swell idea.
Approaching village, I hear distant Jula jams reverberating from the stereo system of our village's own dance club, the Maquis. Even though the beats have begun to blast forth, everyone is obligated to sit tight for three more hours. This preemptive music serves as an advertisement for the party at 11, drawing in those wild-eyed youth better than a pied piper. Meanwhile for the wallflowers and non-partygoers among our two-thousand-person neighborhood, the music must be endured stoically, like waiting out a tornado. For at least two nights a week, no nook or cranny of the village is sanctuary from the Maquis' thumping bass.
- Tana and children in front of the Maquis
You'd wonder what kind of dance club entrepreneur would inflict this kind of noise pollution on a commune of hard-working farmers who need their beauty sleep. Oddly enough, the Maquis is the pet project of a retired banker named Fatagoma (the Jula equivalent of the name Junior) who brought his fortune home from the city. Among the kindest and most respected community figures, he's always donning his trademark white sleeveless undershirt and playing cards on the back porch when I pass by. With him at the helm, I'm convinced that his dance club disturbing the peace is a non-issue--that tuning out loudness must just be a universal trait here.
Tata and San walk us home at 2 AM. He's still rocking out his McDonalds shirt and cloak when he invites me to help harvest his cornfield at 6 AM, but I have to, uh, wash my hair then. It's okay--he's still ecstatic from the judges' announcement moments earlier.
Anyway, when I finally arrive home, I spend a few minutes scraping the film of bug guts off my skin. Dinner plans are mentioned, but I've already stomached enough winged protein to last me till breakfast. It's 9 PM, so we head out early to the Maquis to get good seats for the special event tonight: a "playback." What is a playback? We don't know at this point either, but our good buddy is slated to be in the center ring.
Another friend Tata intercepts us exiting our courtyard. Because she's deaf, she's probably not aware of the cacophony sounding from the Maquis, but I'm sure she can sense the air of anticipation. Outside the door to the club is its own social scene with droves of kids loitering, each lacking the wherewithal to procure the 40-cent admission price. When they ask me "cent francs?" I pretend to hear "ca va?" and respond "ca va bien." Now we're inside where the president of a local theater troupe "Youth Solidarity" is emceeing. Mic in hand, he ushers in guests over the loudspeaker. A special table sits in front of the stage, soon to be occupied by two judges.
Once 11:30 rolls around, Siaka the judge explains what's about to go down: these are the semifinals in which four groups of local youth must compete with their prepared theater sketches and later with their prepared playbacks. Still no idea about what a playback could be. The youth groups have selected their own names (for some reason entirely in English): Black Junior, Sniper, Black Power, and Small King. Siaka has difficulty pronouncing "Le Small King," so Tana and I keep hearing "less milking." On Siaka's scorecard, he writes it as "Smell King"--an honest ESL mistake, not a sign of favoritism.
The 15-minute theater sketches span topics such as HIV/AIDS, the fickleness of material wealth, and the dishonesty of electioneering politicians. If a sketch exceeds its time limit, the DJ will begin to drown out the dialogue with music, similar to a lengthy Oscars acceptance speech. The sketches feature multiple scenes of comedic shouting matches, bumbling love-stricken flirtations, and unconscious dudes being carried to the doctor.
Tana and I can piece together contextual clues, but the plotlines and dialogue to us are as murky as dishwater. Since each sketch is entirely spoken in Jula, we probably understand less than our neighbor Tata, even given her deafness. Sidenote: it's important, I've learned, when you hit the stone wall of anti-comprehension, to fish for other aspects to appreciate. I've been honing this skill ever since high school when Latin Club held me captive for three hours of an untranslated German opera called Elektra. Since then, precious few have experienced first-hand what me snoring in public sounds like.
Finally the stage is set for the playbacks to commence. At this point I have enough curiosity to kill a litter of cats. A playback, it turns out, is kind of like karaoke or slam poetry--it's West Africa's own culturally unique performance medium. Well, almost unique. Tana admits that she saw something similar at a gay bar in the States "but with more costumes." I didn't ask. So here's my definition: a playback is where performers lipsync to a song and act out their interpretation of its lyrics. It's like a live music video, choreography and all.
So, the audience has been pretty tame throughout the theater sketches, but once the first playback song comes blaring through the stereos for all the village to hear at 1 AM, the crowd's cheers rise to record decibels. The energy each troupe puts forth dancing and going ballistic could well surpass any live shows of the famous musicians they're lipsyncing to. One well-planned playback features frozen scenes, each coming to life when the lipsyncer sings about it. In the grand finale a giant handheld Africa is carried stage front towards the judge table.
Recognized as one of the most spirited performers, our buddy San of the troupe Black Junior takes home second place, gaining entry into the finals. The plot of his playback is story we all know: he passionately professes his love to the apathetic dame in the seat while sporting a cloak and a McDonalds shirt underneath. The shirt is revealed in a dramatic Superman-esque way at the climax of the song when the singer sings something offhand about McDonalds. I must say, I've NEVER seen lips more in sync than San's:
The next night when visiting Siaka's house to discuss his tapioca business, he shows off the elaborate 45-point grading system he used as judge. He reflects on what a difficult decision it was. We agree that the playback is a truly inspiring and underappreciated art form. Look out, America: playbacks are the next big thing.
Friday, September 02, 2011
Babies
Written by
Tana
As most of our three readers know, I just had the good fortune to be home for the birth of my nephew, Jairen. It was kind of my sister to wait until late in the night I got home to go into labor. It was a joyful occasion, with an air-conditioned maternity ward, plush chairs in the waiting room, and 99-channel cable in the delivery room, although I don't think my sister payed that much attention to the Golden Girls at the time. The hospital staff were polite and discreet. The bed had sheets.
Today I witnessed my first birth in the village. Let's stop for a moment and note that I just recently started considering a career in midwifery and have been frantically researching schools and related policy. Though excited about my new path and sure that I would make an excellent midwife someday, I had never actually witnessed a birth. You see, even though I was in the right place at the right time to see my nephew's birth, I was too jet lagged to stay up all night for it and passed out at about T minus 3 hours. And of course the last time I came incredibly close to seeing a birth in village (as in, I saw the baby crowning) I was sent home by the nurses to "prepare lunch for my husband." There would be other births. (But not other chances to cook lunch?) Given all of this, despite my passion for my new career path, I still couldn't be so sure that watching a birth wouldn't make me intolerably queasy.
So my whole career hung in the balance this morning when, during a routine cooking demonstration for women with underweight children, the traditional midwife told me a woman was giving birth. This was it. Would I panic? Throw up? Cry? I really hoped I wouldn't because it wouldn't be "culturally appropriate," especially since the laboring women are not permitted to do the above either. I waited patiently as the women fed their babie the porridge that I had watched them make, had a quick meeting with the head nurse about one of my upcoming projects, and then I went to watch life's most basic yet most amazing miracle.
Unfortunately the setting was neither amazing nor by any means miraculous. Remember how I said that my sister gave birth in a hospital with sheets? Yes, that is a luxury not shared by all women all over the world. Metal-framed flat table with a vinyl-upholstered two-inch thick foam cushion, two windows, concrete floor, 95 degrees, no fan, and the tick-tock of a Quartz clock the only distraction. No hand-holding, just a watchful village midwife intermittently checking the progress and changing the bedpan. Oh, and one awkward white girl looking on with carefully masked jubilation.
I spent most of the time trying to find things around the room on which to focus my attention. It should come as no surprise that the hospital without sheets is also without dressing gowns. On the one hand, this allowed me to see the contractions in great detail, but on the other hand, it made it feel impolite to stare.
After a while, Agnes, the village midwife, told me it was my turn to take the listening device (Google Pinard horn) to check that "the baby is still living." (I think some of Agnes's discretion was lost in translation trying to give me directions in French. If I'm going to keep showing up at these events, I need to hurry up and learn Jula already). Boy, did I try to make sure that baby was still living. Through all the whooshing a whurring, I tried to really squint my ears to hear beating, fluttering, anything familiar, but I just couldn't conjure it up. I couldn't help but think that perhaps I could have heard better with the stethoscope from my Fisher Price doctor kit. Mainly I just didn't know where to put the thing to hear the heartbeat. I decided not to try for too long lest I make mom-to-be worry that her baby wasn't living. Agnes came to help me, saying that she could hear it, to try again. At this point I resigned and just kind of nodded, agreeing that I heard that whooshing and whurring, hoping maybe the baby was the one making all that racket. I sat back down, praying that there really was a heartbeat and trying to ignore the heartburn caused by not having eaten all morning.
When it was really time, Agnes assigned me the task of calling the nurse to tell him to come back to the clinic (neither Agnes nor I have any formal training). I went bumbling around the office looking for his number. Oh my gosh, somebody had moved the stupid piece of paper that used to be right there by his door with all the numbers - no wait, time to come back in, it was on its way out. And as soon as I got back in the room, out came his little head. I failed my one task, but at this point it didn't much matter because the nurse wouldn't have made it in time anyway. Agnes gave a somewhat less than gentle tug on baby's head and then next thing I knew, the little guy was waving at us. Just like that. I was looking for a shoulder, but first out came his tiny little hand, five fingers and all. It was at that moment that I knew I could really do this for a living.
When the nurse finally called, I let him know that the baby was out but all was well. Then I helped measure the baby and record his information in his chart. Neither Agnes nor I actually knew how to fill out the chart, but we did our best. Here, that's the way it is.
Today I witnessed my first birth in the village. Let's stop for a moment and note that I just recently started considering a career in midwifery and have been frantically researching schools and related policy. Though excited about my new path and sure that I would make an excellent midwife someday, I had never actually witnessed a birth. You see, even though I was in the right place at the right time to see my nephew's birth, I was too jet lagged to stay up all night for it and passed out at about T minus 3 hours. And of course the last time I came incredibly close to seeing a birth in village (as in, I saw the baby crowning) I was sent home by the nurses to "prepare lunch for my husband." There would be other births. (But not other chances to cook lunch?) Given all of this, despite my passion for my new career path, I still couldn't be so sure that watching a birth wouldn't make me intolerably queasy.
So my whole career hung in the balance this morning when, during a routine cooking demonstration for women with underweight children, the traditional midwife told me a woman was giving birth. This was it. Would I panic? Throw up? Cry? I really hoped I wouldn't because it wouldn't be "culturally appropriate," especially since the laboring women are not permitted to do the above either. I waited patiently as the women fed their babie the porridge that I had watched them make, had a quick meeting with the head nurse about one of my upcoming projects, and then I went to watch life's most basic yet most amazing miracle.
Unfortunately the setting was neither amazing nor by any means miraculous. Remember how I said that my sister gave birth in a hospital with sheets? Yes, that is a luxury not shared by all women all over the world. Metal-framed flat table with a vinyl-upholstered two-inch thick foam cushion, two windows, concrete floor, 95 degrees, no fan, and the tick-tock of a Quartz clock the only distraction. No hand-holding, just a watchful village midwife intermittently checking the progress and changing the bedpan. Oh, and one awkward white girl looking on with carefully masked jubilation.
I spent most of the time trying to find things around the room on which to focus my attention. It should come as no surprise that the hospital without sheets is also without dressing gowns. On the one hand, this allowed me to see the contractions in great detail, but on the other hand, it made it feel impolite to stare.
After a while, Agnes, the village midwife, told me it was my turn to take the listening device (Google Pinard horn) to check that "the baby is still living." (I think some of Agnes's discretion was lost in translation trying to give me directions in French. If I'm going to keep showing up at these events, I need to hurry up and learn Jula already). Boy, did I try to make sure that baby was still living. Through all the whooshing a whurring, I tried to really squint my ears to hear beating, fluttering, anything familiar, but I just couldn't conjure it up. I couldn't help but think that perhaps I could have heard better with the stethoscope from my Fisher Price doctor kit. Mainly I just didn't know where to put the thing to hear the heartbeat. I decided not to try for too long lest I make mom-to-be worry that her baby wasn't living. Agnes came to help me, saying that she could hear it, to try again. At this point I resigned and just kind of nodded, agreeing that I heard that whooshing and whurring, hoping maybe the baby was the one making all that racket. I sat back down, praying that there really was a heartbeat and trying to ignore the heartburn caused by not having eaten all morning.
When it was really time, Agnes assigned me the task of calling the nurse to tell him to come back to the clinic (neither Agnes nor I have any formal training). I went bumbling around the office looking for his number. Oh my gosh, somebody had moved the stupid piece of paper that used to be right there by his door with all the numbers - no wait, time to come back in, it was on its way out. And as soon as I got back in the room, out came his little head. I failed my one task, but at this point it didn't much matter because the nurse wouldn't have made it in time anyway. Agnes gave a somewhat less than gentle tug on baby's head and then next thing I knew, the little guy was waving at us. Just like that. I was looking for a shoulder, but first out came his tiny little hand, five fingers and all. It was at that moment that I knew I could really do this for a living.
When the nurse finally called, I let him know that the baby was out but all was well. Then I helped measure the baby and record his information in his chart. Neither Agnes nor I actually knew how to fill out the chart, but we did our best. Here, that's the way it is.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Lobster Death Count: 17
Written by
Chad
This isn't just a post about three dudes visiting Ghana- it's also the gruesome account of seventeen lobsters being boiled alive by their hand for a single lunchtime meal. But more on that later. First, here's what our trip looked like:
We crossed the border from Togo into Aflao then proceeded to Accra, Kokrobite Beach, Cape Coast, Kakum Rainforest, Takoradi, Akwidaa, Kumasi, and then back to Burkina.
If Ghana has taught me anything, it's that I may need English rehab in 2012 before returning to the States. We've only been speaking French for 10 months, so I don't know why the transition was so awkward for us to talk in English to African people. Straight to the final hours of our week in Ghana, we kept accidentally greeting people with a Bonsoir or exiting taxis with a Merci. We considered carrying with us a "French jar"- the same concept as a "swear jar" but you throw in a penny each time you forget to speak English. We also said translations of French phrases that don't exist in English- for instance, wishing street peddlers better sales by saying "Good market!" (Bon marche).
The pace of our principal method of travel, the almighty tro-tro, resembled that of an asthmatic marathon runner. The vehicle would stop every few miles alongside these street peddlers for no apparent reason other than to delay our ultimate arrival. Occasionally a curbside man would present the prize of his morning hunt to us- a toddler-sized guinea-pig-looking creature that I'm guessing we're supposed to cook and eat. They're called "grasscutters" and definitely worth a google.
On other occasions, we would pull to the shoulder as merchant women would try hawking their wares from head bowls. There was one lady who grew frustrated that Luis and I weren't reacting to her local language sales pitch, so she yelled, "Lick my face!" which we later determined meant "Look at my face."
Our first destination was Accra, the capital city of Ghana. It's a vast, clean metropolis with all the modern chicness of the most happenin US cities. Words cannot express the rapturous emotional and spiritual experience of walking into a three-storey KFC on opening night. This was the universe's way of rewarding us for having suffered over 24 hours on the road. Here we belonged. And oh the anticipation as we waited in line, our hearts beating with blood soon to be filled with fast food chicken grease. As I stepped up to the cashier, she smiled as though we were old friends and in that moment an overwhelming appreciation for all of existence brought tears of joy to my eyes. Barely able to speak, I placed my order: "I'll have a chicken sandwich, please."
The cashier replied, "Here they are called 'chicken burgers,' sir."
"Oh, forgive me- one of those," I apologized as I received my tray. Ascending the stairs to eat our "burgers," we felt as though our souls were ascending as well- to a higher plane of deliciousness. As I gobbled down this palatable perfection, I wondered what could be better?
I'll tell you what would be better: going to Accra Mall and watching two Hollywood movies in a row. Thumbs up to "Horrible Bosses." The mall was the ying to our village life yang. Perusing the mall's Walmart-grade megastore "Game" balanced out our chi like some sort of Zen meditation. I gulped down some ginger beer and walked into a Mac Store where all the repressed memories of American gadgetry came rushing back in an instant. With wide eyes fixated on the glowing display, I spoke the product name like a kindergartener sounding out his first two-syllable word: "i. Pad." I wondered, in my ten-month absence just how far has American technology progressed. Flying cars?
That night we celebrated Doug's 23rd by pigging out on pizza at Mama Mia's followed by a night out on the town gambling. This means we went to a casino and watched Doug lose 4 dollars at a slot machine at which point he surrendered.
We fled the city just in the knick of time to hit up Big Milly's Backyard, an expat resort on Kokrobite Beach, where we would chill for two days. We never met the famed Big Milly (who we assumed would greet us with a bearhug, pinch our cheeks, and tell us we need to put some meat on our bones), but almost as good- we met dozens of Brits, Danes, Germans, Statesians, and more Brits. We would play cards and share stories with these people who liked to call us Yanks and there was much silliness.
Cape Coast happened next. Nearby Kakum National Forest exceeded expectations. My life in suburban Virginia hadn't yet exposed me to these rainforest thingies that everybody always wants to protect. As we walked atop some netted bridges that some Canadians built in the Eighties, the thought occurred that maybe it was me who needed protecting. From falling to my rainforesty death. Between vertigo-induced panic attacks, we listened for monkey calls, which according to our tourguide Ebenezer sound like the name of the park: "Kakum! Kakum! Kakum!" On our way down we saw a tiny yellow snake and a type of ant that allegedly can kill and devour an entire elephant. We also ate a cocoa fruit from which all chocolate is derived, though it tastes nothing like a Lindt truffle.
Continuing our westward trip all the way to Akwidaa Beach, we lodged at the Green Turtle. Had we visited a week later, we might have seen turtles laying eggs on the beach, but not this time. Tucked away on ten-kilometer "road" which might as well have been a minefield for all its craters, we held on for dear life. Here's a video of our tro-tro pogoing down the DMV's worst nightmare, trying its best not to lose a tail pipe:
It was in the seaside village Akwidaa that we murdered seventeen innocent lobsters and devoured their innards in a gluttonous frenzy. We paid slightly less than a buck per lobster. At some frou frou, ritzy bistro we might have had to dish out our paychecks for an entire two months to attain such quality dining.
After this pinnacle of gourmet dining, the next destination Kumasi had options such as "Baby Pee Eating Palace," but we didn't stop to ask what they have on tap.
After 13 days and 3 countries we returned to Burkina Faso, but before we left, Doug wrote the Ghana volunteers this dry-erase board note:
Friday, August 26, 2011
Into Voodooland and Beyond
Written by
Chad
These are my California buddies Luis and Doug. Two weeks ago we left our villages in the dust and made off to greener- well, sandier- pastures along the coastlines of Togo, Benin, and Ghana. We hit up Lome, Togo then Vogan, Togo then Ouidah, Benin then Grand Popo, Benin and onward to Ghana. Here's what that looks like:
After securing visas and all that red tape nonsense, we boarded a bus from Burkina to Lome. Luis befriended a shoe salesman who guided us amateurs through the border station.
It was nearly a twenty-hour trek and we passengers endured the same in-bus movie two and a half times. The road in northern Togo was so pothole-laden that at times I wondered why our bus didn't just plow on through the cornfields instead. Despite its bumpy highways, Northern Togo is gorgeous. The road follows a valley between a range of picturesque cliffs. At sunset our resilient bus scaled a mountain range and then careened wildly back down to sea level, seemingly without a foot being laid on the brakes.
Kind of like my college campus, Togo's capital Lome appears to be a city perpetually under construction, never quite ready for its postcard photo. On the boulevard you see three especially colossal bank complexes, shrines to the fiscal gods, that make all other buildings seem Lilliputian.
On our way out of town, our bush taxi slowly waded through an enormous puddle. While the children remained calm, I scrambled frantically to survive our imminent puddly demise. One hand prepared to pry open the window and the other hand searching my perimeter for a bucket to bail out our capsizing vessel. Despite my preparations, our taxi inexplicably drove through this watery grave. I may have missed the exact moment when Mrs. Frizzle swooped in and transformed the vehicle into a boat.
When we found the "fetish market" section where exotic animals are sold for voodoo spells, a kid immediately offered up a squirming chameleon. The selection was impressive: discounts on monkey heads and porcupine spines, rebates on jaguar pelts and warthog tusks, and money-back guarantees on alligator teeth. Nervously, I scanned the vicinity for a voodoo doll resembling myself, but fortunately no Togolese witchdoctors have made an enemy of me yet.
Walking across the Benin border was a breeze, but don't tell any criminal masterminds you may know. And then we caught three motos from the highway, shuttling us to Ouidah, self-proclaimed city of the slave trade. We arose bright and early to walk the 4k beachbound road where slaves were escorted in chains onto ships. Symbolic African animal statues now line the walk along with other attractions. We passed the site of the nation's annual twin festival. We saw an abandoned stilt village on the marsh (the preferred architectural style in Benin). Finally we reached the Point of No Return where slaves, many of whom seeing the ocean for the first time, were whisked away to colonies spanning New England to Brazil.
Ouidah also happened to be celebrating some sort of festival in which spirits of the dead roam the streets in a parade, accompanied by drummers and giggling children. A local assured me these are "good" spirits of the dead. Whenever the music crescendos, the spirits chase after the kids as all the little ones scream and disperse like in a game of tag.
Next we braved the perilous Python Temple, home to approximately twenty heavily drugged pythons. The curator showed us some broken bike parts in a hole with ground corn grain sprinkled over it. I couldn't understand what he said this represents, but apparently it keeps enemies away. Under normal circumstances the pythons hung on our necks might have regarded Doug, Luis, and me as tasty desserts. But whatever cocktail of sedatives and tranquilizers they laced the snakes' lunches with, these sleepy guys were barely able to slither.
I grew emotionally attached to one particular python over the course of our five minutes there, nicknamed him Severus, and briefly envisioned an elaborate escape plan. Were I only to liberate Severus from his oppressors and this Clockwork Orange-esque prison, he could once again realize his snakey dreams. But then as I stuffed him into my shirt, I considered Severus' drug rehab fees and the costs of separation anxiety therapy. Not to mention a curse would befall me due to the protective magic of the corn-grain-covered bike parts.
Next up after Ouidah, we arrived at Awale Plage in Grand Popo, something that easily belongs in Disney World. The staff all dresses like pirates with red bandannas and the grounds have bizarre topiaries, trellises, ornamental vegetation, and giant chess boards that give it the distinct feel of Alice in Wonderland. Unfortunately a group of Cotonou high schoolers had booked the very last room, so rage welled up inside our hearts as we watched them check in. The resort referred us to the new apartment complex next door. We arrived at a building that cannot be called anything but a castle. We waited at a wooden table in a huge empty room until the proprietor arrived. He sat down with us as if us staying one night was some kind of important business ordeal requiring mountains of signatures and paperwork. We were the only guests that night so we slept at the top of the castle, ready to defend it from invaders. The next day Luis and Doug used bathrooms in other unlocked rooms, only to be walked in on by touring guests.
The next night we dined and dormed at the Auberge which to me resembled a beachside plantation house from Forrest Gump. There we chanced upon a fellow countryman, a Burkina-based director of photography who has had a hand in some of Burkina's most celebrated films. Our time in Benin taught us that Obama Beer tastes bad- maybe Tea Partiers can sell it during the upcoming campaign.
The next day we hitchhiked back to the border of Togo. There at the border we stood at our second Point of No Return- this time because our visas, unbeknownst to us, were marked "single entry." Would Doug, Luis, and Chad gain re-entry into Togo? Would they continue onward to Ghana? Find out in the second and final installment of this two-part vacation series. Actually if you've had the patience to read this, you've probably already read part two, since it appears above this post on the webpage. Just sayin.
TO BE CONTINUED . . .
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)