Friday, August 12, 2005
Sindu, Burkina Faso
The landscape here is astounding, the rural villages like edens surrounded by emerald green fields. Rocky peaks of volcanic rock, pillars of jagged teeth protruding into the sky. Water in abundance and a soft light that filters through the plentiful rain clouds. Compared with the dryness of Mali, the change is significant. The countryside roads are shit, but this one we are driving down is lined with mahogany trees, offering cool shade and respite from the oppressive sun. Stop! Palm wine! After sampling the local brew, the boys dragged me out of the palm wine hut where I was enjoying conversing with old men, who in their drunkenness, thought I was a joy. Back in the car, we stop for directions. We are directed by a man on a bicycle to turn on a road that ends up being little more than a narrow strip of dirt next to an irrigation channel. We drive slowly between expansive rice fields where men and women hunch over to tend their crops. The "road" is apparently meant for nothing bigger than donkey carts. Women with bewildered looks on their faces pass us carrying buckets on their heads. Did we take a wrong turn somewhere? Everyone we ask urges us ahead. Yes, the waterfalls are just ahead.
We are scraping the bottom of the car as we cross deep puddles. So we decide that it is best for Sean and I to get out during the worst parts, in order to decrease the weight of the car. There are too many "worst" parts, so instead of continuously jumping back into the car, we walk in front and behind the car. Sean and I sit on the hood and the trunk during the "better" parts of the road. People we pass are surprised and delighted. They seem amused at the show of a dirty 1970's muscle car inching through their fields with two whiteys on top, muddy feet hanging off the sides.
The concept of sitting on top of the car proved useful. The next day, when I got annoyed at the boys (they were annoyed by my singing along to Portishead in the back seat), I simply removed myself from the cabin of the car and went to sit on top of the roof rack. Villagers laughed and waved as we passed.
While in the countryside, I am looking for opportunities to talk with women, in preparation for my next article. Many do not speak French. I do not speak their language. But I catch the meaning of their laughter as the hotel keeper explains to a group sitting under the mango tree that myself and the two men I am with will apparently share the same room for the night. We have faced many inquisitive glances on our trip, sometimes even laughter such as now. Although we are never met with hostility, sometimes this attention makes me uncomfortable. No amount of explaining, in any language, will fully explain the relationship between Nate, Sean and I to these women. In my head, I am afraid that they think I am a whore. Because their laughter has already made me too shy to ask them what they think about our arrangements, I can only guess their thoughts. It could be something as simple as feeling bad for me for having to carry two men's water in the morning instead of one man's water. However, I find myself a little stuck. I talk to a French woman who is working in the region for Médecins Sans Frontières. We communicate with ease and I feel perfectly understood. I realize that my research will require careful tact if I want to gain any real insight from women that I talk to. A lot of this has to do with self presentation.
The landscape here is astounding, the rural villages like edens surrounded by emerald green fields. Rocky peaks of volcanic rock, pillars of jagged teeth protruding into the sky. Water in abundance and a soft light that filters through the plentiful rain clouds. Compared with the dryness of Mali, the change is significant. The countryside roads are shit, but this one we are driving down is lined with mahogany trees, offering cool shade and respite from the oppressive sun. Stop! Palm wine! After sampling the local brew, the boys dragged me out of the palm wine hut where I was enjoying conversing with old men, who in their drunkenness, thought I was a joy. Back in the car, we stop for directions. We are directed by a man on a bicycle to turn on a road that ends up being little more than a narrow strip of dirt next to an irrigation channel. We drive slowly between expansive rice fields where men and women hunch over to tend their crops. The "road" is apparently meant for nothing bigger than donkey carts. Women with bewildered looks on their faces pass us carrying buckets on their heads. Did we take a wrong turn somewhere? Everyone we ask urges us ahead. Yes, the waterfalls are just ahead.
We are scraping the bottom of the car as we cross deep puddles. So we decide that it is best for Sean and I to get out during the worst parts, in order to decrease the weight of the car. There are too many "worst" parts, so instead of continuously jumping back into the car, we walk in front and behind the car. Sean and I sit on the hood and the trunk during the "better" parts of the road. People we pass are surprised and delighted. They seem amused at the show of a dirty 1970's muscle car inching through their fields with two whiteys on top, muddy feet hanging off the sides.
The concept of sitting on top of the car proved useful. The next day, when I got annoyed at the boys (they were annoyed by my singing along to Portishead in the back seat), I simply removed myself from the cabin of the car and went to sit on top of the roof rack. Villagers laughed and waved as we passed.
While in the countryside, I am looking for opportunities to talk with women, in preparation for my next article. Many do not speak French. I do not speak their language. But I catch the meaning of their laughter as the hotel keeper explains to a group sitting under the mango tree that myself and the two men I am with will apparently share the same room for the night. We have faced many inquisitive glances on our trip, sometimes even laughter such as now. Although we are never met with hostility, sometimes this attention makes me uncomfortable. No amount of explaining, in any language, will fully explain the relationship between Nate, Sean and I to these women. In my head, I am afraid that they think I am a whore. Because their laughter has already made me too shy to ask them what they think about our arrangements, I can only guess their thoughts. It could be something as simple as feeling bad for me for having to carry two men's water in the morning instead of one man's water. However, I find myself a little stuck. I talk to a French woman who is working in the region for Médecins Sans Frontières. We communicate with ease and I feel perfectly understood. I realize that my research will require careful tact if I want to gain any real insight from women that I talk to. A lot of this has to do with self presentation.
1 Comments:
I do not think that they will think you are a whore!
Weerd, strange, and especially from another strange country and bizare culture..... The white man culture
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Weerd, strange, and especially from another strange country and bizare culture..... The white man culture
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