“Don’t drink the local water, drink the local beer”

So it has been entirely too long since I last shared with you all, and I apologize for it. I am journalling lots, and have so much I would love to share with you all, its just that internet access is wonky, and I don’t want to overload you with a whole lot of nothingness so I will update you with my most recent thoughts and experiences. I tried to include pictures - heaven knows I have sooooo many to share with you, but it's just not goin to work. I hope you forgive me friends!

While emotions had inevitably been up and down, I am so happy to currently be in Boura, Burkina Faso. A village of about 30,000, it is actually very “small” in that it is not at all densely populated (it’s actually more like 10 villages feeding into this bigger villiage). It is stunningly beautiful and I fear too romantic for an inexperienced writer such as myself to begin to articulate.

The moment that I begin forming personal relationships with the people is the moment that I become confident that I can survive someplace. Such was the case here. Not being fluent in French has been a real struggle, but odd people will try in English and I in French, with Pascelene our guide and translator and Kristina helping me with the rest. Until now – and probably still – I have felt the language barrier preventing me from really participating in the culture, definitely from learning from it – and I have to try extra hard to show enthusiasm for things, put extra effort into my French and be extra sympathetic for not knowing French to encourage people to share with me, so they don’t think that I think I’m superior. I don’t really know that to be a problem – don’t get me wrong – but here where we are definitely the only white people in an isolated town, I am constantly conscious of the fact that being white means that I come with affluence. I really don’t want that affluence to represent progress and thus superiority.

Something we are constantly reminding ourselves are is that we are not always being treated as “white people” but as guests; it just so happens that being white is a dead give-away that we are guests. I was raised in such a way, however, that I like to be the one hosting people, making people feel at home and I’m not entirely sure as to how to react as the one being hosted. Moreover, I want to return the favours, but that’s so bloody hard to do genuinely, relatively

speaking. I mean, someone who shares as much as they can possibly spare makes it far less meaningful for me to share a lot of anything, because I can get more.

Anyhow, yesterday morning, Kristina and I spent the morning with Jonas and Joshua, sharing in the wonderful sport of rugby, the difference between our homes, education, careers, etc. It was clear that there was a bit of jealousy at times. It is times like that when I am not only massively grateful for the material goods I have, but the opportunity I have.

I’m on this constant high at the moment, which suffers from a minour nagging doubt that says I’m still on the honeymoon, and what is romantic and wonderful here will soon be marred by reality. Conscious of this, I am asking myself, what is reality? The reality definitely includes the fact that the beauty of this place is simply indescribable – I can only hope that my pictures and memories will be able to always make this place as vivid in my mind as the greens, blues and oranges I’m seeing. The dirt is red like home and the greens are fresh, lush, healthy and of many shades. The sun is far less harsh than in Ouaga, but just as bright, accentuating the colorus. Its undisturbed and natural here, yet not easy to agitate and available for enjoyment and exploration. Throw in the constant sounds: children, the wind in the trees, women singing praises off key, roosters, goats and my favorite, donkey’s crying on the hour – and there is something to constantly leave me in awe and make me confident that this is indeed paridise.

But then, we go on a tour of a hospital. Initially I am impressed, there are few sick people and facilities are satisfiable. But then they bring to the maturnity ward; it’s not that they say anything bad, or that anyone is ill there, but I am reminded of that as a Csection baby myself, I very well may have not survived. Then we talked to one of our colleagues at Bridges of Hope who is holding a new baby for the orphanage, which as it turns out is her neice – the mother (her sister in law) – died yesterday. We hear of AIDS, malnutrition and suicide. I hear that while there are 200 students in school, there are more not in school, many being young girls. Yet I find myself struggling to see any of it – the “reality” I fear is case by case to me at this point.

We walked through the market yesterday, rows of unstable stalls with straw on the top, goods both manufactured in China and here spread out on the grown everywheres. Dozens – hundreds of peopleare milling around, buying everything they will need for the week, because it is market day and there won’t be a need to buy throughout the week. Huge trucks come from Ghana (the border is only 5km away) and Leo with hundreds of people coming to enjoy and sell their goods. Donkey carts, bikes, motorbikes are everywhere. And as I walk through, my thoughts are not how unclean it is, or the looks I am getting or how primitive I may have thought it to be while at home in Canada, rather how wonderful it is, how it is a beauty in a league of it’s own.

Solidarity is a word constantly thrown out here . . . . a word I am magnificently jealous of. Kristina has reminded me to not take forgranted my communities at home but as we sat in a mud hut that I couldn’t stand straight in, about 9X9 feet and drink some sort of locally brewed cider or beer out of gords I feel really at home. Exiting we walked into a “bar” – or into the “terrace” in the back, sitting on workbenches with a table (also a workbench) moved to allow us to set our drinks on it. We laugh and say hello to most who walk by, old and young, using a bathroom in a corner with a short wall around it . . . at this point in time, I just feel like I can fit in despite sticking out like a sore thumb.