Waiting…waiting at work for the phone to ring to tell me when we are leaving. Waiting…waiting at home for the truck to come pick us up. Waiting…waiting on the side of the road to be picked up. Waiting…waiting again at home to be picked up. Waiting…waiting again on the side of the road. Time runs differently here. Schedules are more flexible. Waiting…waiting from 10 am to 10 pm to finally leave.
Driving at night red, yellow and orange danced into view, fluttering, twisting and glowing in the darkness. The countryside was lit by bush fires in the distance and close to the road, dancing in small groups or long chorus lines that cut across the landscape. Bush fires are common here as the rains have stopped flowing for the past month and a half so the ground is dry and the grass brittle, the sun is hot and the Harmatan winds are blowing.
Night driving on a road riddled with pot holes, unable to see what you are about to hit due to the dust being kicked up by the other pick up truck in front of us. I was happy to be in one of the few vehicles that still have seatbelts installed and functioning. My seat belt saves me on more than one occasion from hitting my head against the ceiling as we bounce and jiggle for 3 hours. I took to assuming the position of a rag doll as there is no chance of controlling your movements and it is much easier if you relax completely and just go with the bounces.
1 am we arrived, standing on solid ground I felt my body trying to reposition all its innards to their original places. Sleep was a very welcome friend.
Morning came early and back onto the pot holed road. This time I could see the state on which we were driving. It is almost worse in the day as you can anticipate the shock of each hole and you know what is coming. They dropped me off in the market in Douna, a small village outside of Sindou. I sat in the market talking with a woman and her friend who was laughing and dancing to the music on a small radio placed on a makeshift table surrounded by papayas. The women’s husband had gone in search of someone who knew Mr. Kara, the president of the rice growers cooperative that I was to be meeting that morning. I was waiting as the cell phone antennas were down and so there was no way of contacting Mr. Kara. The husband returned on his bike, he had had no luck. Apparently Mr. Kara was in another village 7 km from where we were. Then a man on a motorbike passed. The husband hissed (the noise use to grab people’s attention here). The man stopped. I was told to get on the bike as he was headed out to the office where Mr. Kara works.
I was in the plains area where rice and vegetables are grown. The plain is vast, lush with different shades of green and patterned with squares of different people’s fields. It looks like a giant patchwork quilt spread out blanketing the area. In the distance the peaks of Sindou stand tall, jagged and a rich red brown that creates a strong contrast with the green. Women and men were bent over working their fields in the morning sun. We arrived at the office compound where I met some of the other members of the cooperative. First I met Mr. Belem, the plains agricultural chief; he is University educated, works for the state and is out spoken. After nearly every sentence he asks “do you understand” or “do you see what I mean”, almost unconsciously but also a little to show his knowledge. I pretended not to notice so as not to get annoyed by this mannerism. He was official at the beginning but soon warmed up to a more casual chatting. The president arrived, Mr. Kara, he has been village elected to the position and in charge of taking the poorly functioning cooperative and making it into a well functioning cooperative, not the easiest of jobs. In his 2 years of service he has restructures the whole association, removing the elite class that governed it and who were enriching their personal affairs through it, by replacing the office positions with local producers.
N’falin (unsure of the spelling) is the village that I was in. A few producers, only 10 of the 1000 were there to talk with me, but they come with much to say. I got an ear full which is exactly what I was hoping for. After the meeting we headed out to view the plain and the dam. N’falin is an area with a large dam and over 6 km of canal systems that quench the thirst of the land. It is also an area that is able to produce 4 growing seasons, unlike the usual 1 growing season in most of Burkina. But N’falin is also the area that with this year’s heavy rain in August was flooded. Most of the plain was flooded leaving close to 100 farmers with no crops and many people without houses. But they are busy rebuilding and replanting. There is hope amongst the stress and devastation. There is also uncertainty. The dam and canals are old, over 20 years, the flood and age are taking their toll. Along the canals there are many areas where the walls are cracked and water is flowing in directions that they do not want. There is much lost. Those who are further away from the dam are lucky if the water makes it to them. They want to repair it but are unsure where they are to find the money to do so.
The sun started to set. As the light was growing dimmer, whistles blew from all directions. The women were returning from the fields. In lines the women march with their daily harvest, pots from lunch or tools all balance on their heads, babies strapped to their backs. One woman per group keeps the pace and signals the arrival with short blasts of a whistle. They came from all angles and distances filling the area with a sense of accomplishment and anticipation of their return.
As night fell and the moon rose over the peaks I stood at their foot and looked up. I sense their omnipresence and stillness. These peaks have been there for centuries and will remain for many more. They stand like jagged teeth biting into the sky.
Night fell and I cuddle into my bed in an empty house on the cooperative compound. Empty in the sense of people but I was not alone. The ceiling was alive and awake with activity. Owls were my night time companion and they were awake after a day of rest. Closing my eyes I tried to pretend that I heard no noises, but my sleep was not the most restful.
Morning arrived and as I followed the road back to Sindou by motor bike the air was filled with the sound of thumping. We stopped on the side of the road where a group of men were pounding rice to de-husk it while the women sitting on the side were sorting the grains. Music is played with a beat of the drum and the work followed its rhythm.
Then it was the return to Bobo along the bumpy road, this time with the back of the pick up truck full of producers needing a ride into town. I couldn’t complain of the bumps while sitting inside the cab, held down by my seat belt, while they were balanced on bags, bumping along being whipped by wind and dust. Fires still burned along the road and in the day I could see the charred remains of previous fires. Black scorched soil sometimes only ending due to the paved road other times reaching close to houses before someone put it out.
I arrived home in Bobo for a much needed shower and a good nights sleep in a bed without owls!
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