Biking Our AIDS Away

The crowd gathers at the start of the race.



Abdulaye and Albert give instructions to the ladies' circuit.



It all started over a calabash of dolo. As the local beer gets passed back and forth, conversation tends to become exaggerated and past exploits more and more impressive. This time, I ended up in a heated argument with Albert, a farmer, gold miner, and herbalist, recognizable from afar by his three inch beard and trademark cowboy hat.

The point of contention was who was a better bike rider. In Albert’s favor, he had already soundly beaten me in other contests of strength and endurance, including weed pulling and hole digging. On top of that, he rode the Tour de Faso in his youth, which is not quite the Tour de France but still impressive in its own right, a yearly 800 mile race that draws competitors from across Africa and Europe. A formidable opponent, to be sure.

However, I argued that he is more than twice my age, and I’ve been in the habit of biking back and forth from village to Ouahigouya, the regional capital- a 50k round trip; not exactly Tour material but significant nonetheless.

Naturally, a race was proposed. It started as me against Albert, but we decided it might be fun with other villagers added to the lineup as well. At some point my inner Peace Corps training spoke up and suggested that we take advantage of the crowd and do an AIDS presentation. Things got more complicated from there.

We added malnutrition and general hygiene to the program, and proposed prizes for the bike race, and for those who answered questions correctly during the presentations. Respected guests were invited from neighboring villages and Ouahigouya, and an elaborate lunch envisioned. A dance party for the youth was planned for the evening.

Preparation intensified. Hours were spent on protocol visits to local officials to gain their blessings. A flowery worded request had to be presented to the mayor for permission to hold the dance.

I found a small grant to help with the costs, but the organizers’ dreams far exceeded the means. My colleagues were insistent on serving meat and bottled beverages to the invited guests. I heard various versions of the same speech at least ten different times: “Here in Africa, if you invite someone to an event you have to welcome them with meat and drinks.” A fine tradition of welcome, to be sure, but somebody has to pay for it, and I wasn’t going to spend development money on the invitees, who were all people who had money to buy a soda if they wanted one. Finally someone came through with a goat and my co-organizers found money for the beverages on their own.

Final preparations were made all day Saturday. Responsibilities were delegated to a variety of helpers. We followed the route of the race with a donkey cart, filling in holes with dirt. We planned a 6AM wake up Sunday to complete the last minute setup. Finally, late in the evening, everything was in place and I went home to sleep.

The night was hot, and I considered pitching my tent in the courtyard instead of trying to sleep in my concrete oven of a house. However, my father has always considered himself a kind of human low-pressure system, bringing rain wherever he passed, due to the fact that every family vacation was spent mired in dripping rain jackets, leaky tents and soggy sleeping bags. Some lightning in the distance heightened my suspicions that it might run in the family, so I didn’t bother with the tent and sweated it out inside instead.

At three in the morning I awoke to the sound of rain tapping on my tin roof. Naturally. When I woke again at six to help set up, it was pouring. I didn’t bother getting out of bed, knowing no one else would either. The storms typically last three to four hours, so I figured I’d wait it out and we’d decide whether to postpone the race after the rain finished. At nine, still pouring, I knew we’d have to reschedule. At noon, with still no signs of letting up, I began to worry about the neighbors. Finally, around three thirty in the afternoon, the rain slowed to a trickle and finally stopped. I ventured outside to see what was left of the village.

Mud brick construction has the advantages of being cheap, fast, and solid enough to last up to twenty years with only minor repairs, before it is necessary to start over. However, the bricks are not stable enough to withstand more than 12 hours of soaking rain, which I was repeatedly assured was the biggest storm in village history. Wading through rivers where no rivers had been before, I surveyed the town, and rare were the courtyards that didn’t have at least one house, granary, or wall that had succumbed to the storm and tumbled to the ground.

“It was a bombardment,” one friend told me. “Today, the B52s came to town and attacked us.”

Another said, “Aaron, it was good of you to bring rains to our village, but this was too much.” I shrugged, and blamed it on my Dad.

We rescheduled the race for a later date, giving everyone time to rebuild their houses first. On the appointed day, nothing went exactly as planned, but the race was held in front of a huge crowd, the guests got their meal, and the health presentations were a success. Everybody seemed happy with the result of all our work.

As for me and Albert? We didn’t actually participate in the race, occupying ourselves with the organization instead. Our personal contest has been put off into the indeterminate future. It’s okay though; this way we still have something to argue about over the next calabash of dolo.

Donkey Counting on the Road

The reservoir in April after a long dry season.



The reservoir in August after a summer full of rain.



My village lies 27 kilometers southwest of Ouahigouya, the regional capital and fourth largest city in Burkina. On the same road, another 350k southwest, is Bobo-Dioulasso, Burkina’s second city. Continue even further and eventually you reach Cote D’Ivoire, a major market for livestock and produce. Given these landmarks, you might expect the road through Zogoré to be a major commercial artery. However, though periodically graded flat, the road is unpaved, which means that to travel from Ouahigouya to Bobo it is significantly faster to go 180k out of the way and pass through the nation’s capital, Ouagadougou. That road, on commercial buses and on asphalt all the way, takes about eight hours for the whole 530k journey. If you take the more direct, dirt road, you have to flag down a passing truck, climb up on top of the cargo, and sit . . . maybe 15 hours, maybe two days; it all depends on the state of the road, the state of the vehicle, and in how much of a hurry the driver is.

The road is going to be paved someday, it’s just a question of when. It was actually scheduled to happen this spring, but this is Africa. When I first arrived in village, they told me that cell phone reception was coming in two weeks. Every time I asked, the answer was the same: two weeks. I asked the volunteer who had been in Zogoré before me, and she said when she first arrived, two years previously, she heard the same thing: Cell phone reception in two weeks.

Eventually, about eight months into my stay, cell service did turn on, and it seems everyone in village got a phone. People play with them all day long, calling each other and hanging up, and complaining that they never have any money to make calls. So, too, the road will come someday, and will be a huge boost to the village economy, with the increase in city to city traffic. However, I must admit that I am secretly pleased that construction has been delayed, at the very least, until I finish my service. It is selfish, but the bike ride back and forth to Ouahigouya is one of my favorite pastimes, whereas having to fight with and dodge road crews would only turn it into a hassle.

A 54k round trip, and I long ago lost track of how many times I’ve made it. It probably averages something like twice a month, to see friends, check mail, buy supplies, maybe continue on to Ouagadougou or beyond.

The ride changes with the seasons. In the cold season, you have to fight the harmattan, heavy winds coming from the Sahara in the northeast. The wind’s impact is substantial. Facing the wind on the way into the city can take two hours or more, but when you turn around to come home the ride can be done in as little as an hour, with the gusts pushing you along from behind. The other obstacle is dust. Every time a vehicle passes, it kicks up a cloud thick enough to blind and choke you all at the same time. It’s best to just pull off the road and wait for it to disperse.

In the hot season, the wind is calmer and there’s less dust, but the sun is the new enemy. The solution is to leave very early in the morning, 5:30 or 6 AM, or wait until evening, or even nighttime if there is a moon.

In the rainy season, the wind is back, only now it comes from the opposite direction. After a storm, it is necessary to wait a few hours for the road to dry off a bit, unless plowing through several inches of mud sounds appealing.

From my house, in lieu of passing through the village center, there is a trail that goes by the health clinic, then the elementary school, where all the children yell “bye-bye” and wave me on my way. The trail joins the main road about a kilometer past the village, not much distance saved but a shortcut all the same.

The first major landmark is the reservoir, another kilometer or so up the road. When the road crews originally graded the road, they created a dam at the same time, to collect water in the naturally low lying area. Gardeners grow onions, tomatoes, and other vegetables along the banks, using man powered pumps to irrigate the crops. As the waters receded over the course of the dry season, the gardens advance, profiting from the land previously underwater. Everything depends on the rain. If there is a lot, the reservoir becomes vast, big enough that a canoe ride along the outskirts would take a good chunk of the afternoon. After a very heavy rain, the entire basin fills up, and water rushes through the spillways, creating fast flowing, frothing creeks in stream beds that are dry 99% of the year. It’s exciting.

Last spring, however, the reservoir was empty by March, nothing but a basin of cracked dirt. The ensuing rainy season was much more prolific, and as of mid May this year there is plenty of water left, promising it won’t run out before the rains come to refill it once again.

The less water left, also, the easier to spot the crocodiles, who come out to sun themselves on the banks. They occasionally take careless sheep and goats, but never, as far as anyone remembers, a person. Good thing, too, since the children like to amuse themselves by chasing them and shooting at them with slingshots. Where do the crocodiles go when the water dries up, I asked. Down into some holes in the earth, to sleep until the rains return again.

After the reservoir, the road passes by Boulousi and Teonsgo, two of the smaller villages in Zogore’s department, or political unit. Here, there is a smaller pond for half the year, not big enough to support serious gardening but a favorite watering hole for the local donkeys- I counted thirty once. Between villages are stretches of land, mostly empty in the dry season, but all designated for millet fields once the rains come. Passing people at work with their fields, you shout “Ne tuuma!” meaning good work, to which they reply, “Kende” or welcome. The response here is “Mbah,” which is not an imitation of a sheep but rather means something, roughly, like “Right on!” I tried to count the number of times I say mbah in a day but I quickly lost track around thirty, and it was still early in the morning.

Next along the road comes Lei, a small town right on the road most notable for its two shiny white mosques. Lei is not in the department of Zogore, but in a trick of geography, or perhaps gerrymandering, the next town, Koro, is. Then comes Passago and Rallo, barely towns at all but collections of huts. Next is another reservoir, of a different character. This one rivals the first in size but doesn’t hold its water nearly as long. For whatever reason, gardening isn’t practiced here and instead it is one of the few places left with a good stock of native trees. Calling it a forest might be a stretch but it is still a pleasant part of the ride, along which you pass the midway point to Ouahigouya.

Next comes the hill. Now, Americans would probably scoff at the notion of this being a hill, though Kansans might be more understanding. Rather, it might be called a slight uphill grade for a kilometer or so. But in Burkina, with only a 550 meter elevation difference over the entire country, it nearly counts as a mountain, especially when there’s a heavy head wind. Arriving at the top, huffing and puffing, you come to the village of Sassamba. Sissamba was a Peace Corps training village in the past, and when I pass one of the family compounds, the kids still come running, screaming, “Sally! Sally!” Now . . . to the trained eye, perhaps Sally and I don’t look all that similar; there are some pronounced difference in height, hair color, and other things. But I guess we do ride the same type of bike, and have the same skin tone, after a fashion.

After Sissamba there’s not much left. Zimba, then Bouri, and you start to spot the radio towers of Ouahigouya. Soon enough, the houses get closer together, and made of concrete, not mud. There is a customs building, a few soccer fields, and then, a paved road, welcoming you to the city with all its amenities: Omelets, yogurt, a cold drink. Even an internet connection, to remind you there is a world outside of village, with wars, credit crunches, presidential elections- and with that, maybe, it’s time to get out of here and start the ride back home.