First Thoughts on Burkina Faso

Neighboring donkeys graze on the barren soil.



Women showing off colorful traditional clothing.



The first impression of Burkina Faso is the color red. The dirt is red, the rocks are red, and the houses, fabricated from mud or brick or cement. A fine dust coats vehicles and animals in a subtle red shade. Ponds and reservoirs, where they can be found, are filled with brackish red water. Green appears occasionally, in leafy trees scattered about the landscape, in the sorghum and millet fields that grow during the summer rainy season, and even the odd patch of grass. But most of the year the ground appears so barren and red one wonders how anything at all can grow here.

In contrast to the landscape, then, is the population. As if protesting their monochromatic surroundings, the people dress themselves in bright costumes of all colors, men in matching shirts and pants featuring all kinds of outlandish patterns and designs, women in similarly decorated skirts and shirts and perhaps a head wrap for good measure.

Secondhand western clothing has permeated the marketplace as well, so it isn’t surprising to see a man walk by in a Georgetown University sweatshirt or a Philadelphia Eagles jersey. These pieces of cast off clothing tend to be somewhat worn, a bit ragged, and of course take on the red dust that settles on everything. But enough people wear the traditional clothing, which somehow refuses to succumb to the dust, that a crowded village street is a welcome refreshment of color from the dry and oppressive red that otherwise dominates the spectrum.

If the visual impression of the country can be simplified in such a manner, the same can not be said for sounds. In village, absent the ever present rumble of automobiles that accompanies and dulls all other sounds in the US, a number of individual and unique noises can be heard and identified at any one time. The wind pushing through the trees is common, rustling the leaves and scraping branches across tin roofs. Bike and motorcycles, the transportation of choice for most Burkinabe, hum and rattle down the dirt paths.Indeed it is not unusual to see a woman in traditional clothing zooming along on a motorcycle with her baby tied securely to her back, or a boy riding a bicycle piled high with goods, food sacks, furniture, perhaps a tied-up goat. Standing out because it is rarer is the rumble of the occasional automobiles, a van transporting people from the city, or maybe a truck belonging to a local merchant. Animals also provide a constant backdrop of sounds—dogs barking, chickens fussing, roosters crowing, often at most inconvenient hours of the morning.

Pattering feet and choruses of baaing and lowing announce a passing livestock herd with goats, sheep, or cattle. Wild birds chirp and guinea fowl make a repeated call that sounds like the creaking of bed springs, which for awhile had me thinking that the neighbors had an extremely active love life. Most bizarre of all, though, is the donkey, which emits a braying that must be heard to be believed, as if someone is struggling with a stubborn, rusty gate, and with great effort amidst pained and noisy protests manages to pry it open, then repeats the task five or six times in a row. Local rumor states that the animals are passing gas when they cry out like that. Whatever is going on, it could not possible be a pleasant experience. Donkeys, like roosters, have the unfortunate habit of sounding off well before the sun has started to crest the horizon.

Again providing the most variety are the people themselves. Neighbors greet each other in elaborate fashions at each others’ houses and in the streets: “Ne yibeogo?” “Yibeogo kibare.” “Lafibala, Zak Rama?” “Lafi, M’Bahhhh--”

How’s the morning, good, how’s the family, good, etc . . . Greetings are an essential part of the social scene and can take several minutes to complete. Afterward the conversation drifts into whatever the local village news of the day happens to be. The culture is very social and a constant chatter of conversation and laughter carries on throughout the village.

Night falls around 6 PM but the noise continues for several hours. Radios come on, animals grow restless, conversation, maybe over a beer or two, grows more animated. It isn’t until later, 10 or 11 PM, when the people and animals start falling asleep, when things start getting almost eerily quiet, broken only by the odd lovestruck cricket or dog whose sleep has been disturbed.

Nightfall brings a whole new visual perspective as well, or rather a lack thereof. The red of the day is replaced by pure black. When the moon is up one can still see surprisingly well even without a flashlight, but during the new moon even the best lights fail to penetrate more than a few feet into the night. The stars are visible, with an incredible clarity and depth rarely found in more developed countries, but terrestrially speaking almost nothing can be seen at all. Once familiar and distinct paths take on a sameness and for one not used to the dark and the terrain it becomes quite easy to lose the trail.

That is how this new Peace Corps volunteer got lost at eight o’clock trying to find my way home my first week in village. Following paths I thought I knew well but at a loss without the familiar landmarks of visible trees and houses, I became entirely disoriented until I was forced to ask a pair of girls walking by if they could help me find the way. I didn’t understand why they were laughing at me until they pointed out that we were standing mere yards from my own house.

I’ve got to learn to use my other senses. I should have recognized the agonized braying of the neighbor’s donkey.