The people whose names I see listed on the right here aren't really the right audience for my questions... but I don't know who to ask. Here are some things I'm curious about. Maybe someone who reads this can point me to some sources I might use to learn more?
I want to learn more about what economists say concerning the cost of living relative to income in poorer countries. And more about exchange rates; how they’re set, how they change, their effects. It seems to me the cost of living for people in poor countries, relative to their average income, must be necessarily higher than in wealthy nations. I see this as being the result of a globalized economy.
If we consider something like an avocado or an apple, a product that is for the most part internal to the poorer economy, it might typically be the case that the real price of the apple (let’s say it’s one fifth of what it would cost in a ‘developed’ country) is about the same as the real cost of an avocado in the developed country (which, let’s assume, has an average income exactly five times that of the poorer country). In an economy that is a closed system, an imaginary world with a single currency, the currency seems to me to serve only to facilitate trade. A salary, for example, is a way of trading labor for basic necessities without the oppressive need for the employer to be in contact with those who are selling the basic needs to the employee. Let’s assume complete faith in the currency. People are certain they will be able to exchange it for goods. The value of this single currency has meaning only relative to the goods people exchange. (The value of any good relative to another is made easier to standardize through the use of currency). So whether you call a unit of this currency one dollar or thirteen billion euros, its value remains unchanged.
But let’s move back into the real world. The fruit saleswoman on the street who sells her avocado for 1/5 of what it might cost in a wealthy country doesn’t have a ‘low’ income as long as everything she purchases with this income also costs 1/5 of what it would in the wealthier country. But since you and I live together with this woman in a world where economies are not closed systems, a world of global markets, this woman finds herself paying the same amount for some goods that a person in a wealthy country, whose income is 5 times higher, pays. Thus if she pays for imported gas to drive to work, for example, she has to spend a higher percentage of her income on gas than a woman in a wealthier country. This is what I mean by her having a lower ‘real income.’ (someone correct me if I’m misusing the term). For all the same reasons –reversed – that a toy or article of clothing made in a poor country can be priced low in the United States, a toy or article of clothing made in the United States by a worker who expects and receives $10 an hour is necessarily expensive in a poor country.
---------------------------------
A problem that arises that I haven’t encountered much discussion of – if any – is that companies in this global economy of course wish to produce where labor is cheap and sell at the highest prices possible (prices affordable mainly to citizens of wealthier countries). Hence the situation where ‘third world’ workers make goods for first world consumers.
This makes me wonder whether one could construct a model that might indicate resources flowing from poorer places to wealthier based only on a pre-existing difference in real wages. If so, one has shown that the current economic system systematically robs the poor and gives to the rich, a state of affairs denied by most economists as far as I know.
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I mentioned exchange rates when I started and haven’t talked about them at all since, but really (perhaps due to the basic and non-economically-educated nature of my discussion?) exchange rates may be thought of as central. I’ve been using the terms “poor country” and “wealthy country” but there is nothing in my discussion that might separate these notions from “countries with depressed exchange rates” and “countries with appreciated (raised) exchange rates.” When I talk of an avocado costing five times as much in country A, what I’m really saying is that, after we convert enough of country A’s currency to buy an A-grown avocado into country B’s currency, we have enough money to purchase five avocados in country B. Similarly, what I’m really saying when I say that workers are paid one fifth as much in country B is that the wages of a laborer in country B, if converted into country A’s currency, could only buy one fifth as much in country A as it could have had the currency stayed in B’s currency and been spent in B.
So what happens if we start giving five times as many AAs (country A’s currency) for each BB (country B’s currency) when we convert BBs into AAs? Well, all activities internal to one or the other economy would remain unchanged (at least at first). The Aian avocado purchaser would just as soon stay within A’s borders and currency, because after the trip/exchange to B and BBs, his money will still only buy a single avocado, not five. An initial run through of my basic commen sense notions about how things work is telling me that this would be bad for Aian avocado buyer. Goods that used to come cheap from country B are now the smae price (more expensive, actually, after importaion costs). This might be bad, also, for the Bian avocado seller. He has lost access to a large market because his goods are suddenly, through no fault of his own, too expensive. But the Bian avocado purchaser might like the outcome. Since the foreign demand for B's avocados had evaporated, the local producer might be forced to lower his avocado prices. And the Bian avocado eater can serve guacamole 5 times a month instead of 3. Woohoo!
* Aian consumers (-)
* Bian producers (-)
* Bian consumers (+)
And what else? What have we not considered... What's the potential impact on the Aian producers if we suddenly switch to a currency exchange rate of 1:1? Well, I guess it would be easier for them to sell their avocados, without that pesky foreign ridiculously low priced competition. They might even raise their prices. Another negative impact on Aian consumers.
* Aian producers (+)
* Aian consumers, again, (-)
It quickly gets more complicated than I understand. The results are bound to be mixed among any group. Aian producers are helped in finding a market for the previously expensive goods, but they're also hurt by having to pay more for any raw matertials used in production that hare imported from B. Bian producers, while perhaps able to afford for the first time raw materials (or machinery/technology) imported from A, potentially giving a far lower cost of production, are probably also forced to lower prices to make sure all their efficiently-cultivated avocados sell, given Aian consumers have begun to buy Aian. Aian consumers, meanwhile, seem to get the short end of the stick. Goods (especially those imported from B) are more expensive. And Bian consumers seem to come out on top. Their goods (especially those always imported from A) are less expensive.
So the impact of a sudden massive equalization of exchange rates? (Igonring the fact that the importance of peoples' faith in a currency eliminates the possibility of such an action)... In my analysis, the main impacts I've been able to identify are *an equalization of the position of Bian and Aian consumers. Aians no longer have experience Bian goods as cheap, and Bians no longer experience Aian goods as expensive. The real cost of living has been equalized.
* and an equalization of industry. There is no longer cheap labor and cheap local natural resources to draw companies to country B.
*what am I missing?
Related Currency Questions:
*Is there a way around the conclusion that countries with a low-valued currency must experience higher “real” costs of living? (or, in alternative language, lower ‘real’ incomes)?
*In light of the stuffs I said, might a fixed exchange rate (as exists between the West African Franc and the Euro and which helps stabilize smaller ‘developing’ economies), serve also to perpetuate lower real wages and an outflow of resources in developing countries?
*How are exchange rates determined? When they float, what does that mean? How can a curreny's value relative to another be 'naturally' determined? When they’re pegged, who does the pegging?
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Friday, April 30, 2010
Singing Optional
If you have contact lenses, put them in instead of wearing glasses; it would be a shame for the water to unnecessarily obscure its own beauty. Clothing adjustments may be preferred – you will no doubt have been in the middle of something when the weather turned – so switch into your favorite suit (swimsuit, birthday suit, tuxedo, etc.) Make sure you have appropriate footwear. It’s imperative that you not wait until you’ve finished what you’re doing; it could let up at any moment. When others are still rushing to get inside, you will be on your way out. Give them a friendly word as you pass at the doorway. If in return they offer an umbrella, turn it down.
That’s later.
For now, pencils out. Pay attention. Take notes.
Linguisitics 101- Setswana/Tswana is a national language in both Botswana and South Africa (though South Africa has ten other official languages as well). Arguably the most important word in the language is ‘pula.' Pula is the name of the national currency in Botswana. It also means ‘blessing,’ and can be used as a toast or as an exclamation of joy. This mixture of usages for pula might seem overly materialistic. Isn’t there more to being blessed than having money? Before you pass judgement on the people of Botswana, I will confess to having thus far omitted the most significant meaning of pula. The word originally applied to something else. Something valuable enough to name a currency after. Something that is a joyous blessing to receive. Pula’s original definition: ‘rain.’
http://www.pulapulapula.co.uk/Glossary.html
Ecology101 – One commonly used measure of the health of an ecosystem is ‘biodiversity,’ the variation of life forms that exist within an ecosystem. There exists a great variety in the amount of biodiversity from one region to another. In fact, more than 50% of all plant and animal species inhabit a type of ecosystem found on only about 7% of the land on Earth. What type of ecosystem is this? Rainforest.
Economics 101-According to Arthur Lewis, there are three ingredients necessary for an economy to begin to develop. The first is a system of secondary education. The second is sensible government. The third ingredient deemed to be a prerequisite for development came as a surprise to me. It is this: A country must have adequate rainfall.
Sacred Jewish Texts101>Talmud>Ta’anit>Chapter1 –
-Rabbi Hama bar Hanina said: The day of rain is of equal importance with the day on which heaven and earth were created, as it is written [Isaiah, xlv. 8]: "Drop down, ye heavens, from above and let the skies distil blessing; let the earth open, and let them all be fruitful of prosperity, and let righteousness spring up likewise: I the Lord have created it."
-Rabbi Itz'hak said: "The day of rain is such a blessed day, that even the coin in one's pocket is blessed
-Rabbi Abbahu said: "The day of rain is of more importance than the day of resurrection; for on the latter day only the righteous will arise from the dead, but rain falls for all alike, righteous and wicked."
http://www.sacred-texts.com/jud/t04/taa06.htm#page_1
History101 – Umbrellas were originally invented to protect people from: the sun.
I began writing this blog after telling a friend that I was going to convince people that they love - rather than, for example, dread - rainfall. I cannot, of course, expect to succeed in this. But I can tell you why I wanted to try.
The confession to my host mom was less awkward than I expected it to be. Why was my towel so dirty? Well, instead of only using it to dry myself after a shower, I had used it to dry off after going out into the rain. But wasn’t it after midnight when it started raining? Uh.. yes. About midnight. Smile.
She, like the rest of my host family, had been asleep Sunday night when the sound of rain on the metal roof prompted me to quickly finish my midnight snack. If she was awake, she didn't hear me over the sounds of the rain as I emerged from my room in my swim trunks, grabbed the key to the front door off of the top of the refrigerator, and let myself out into the first rain Burkina Faso had seen for six months. She could tell when she went to bed that it was almost certainly going to rain, but this didn’t cause her heart to beat more quickly as it did mine. It didn’t make her savor the heavy dusty wind that carried a smell of freshness along with the usual variety of illnesses. Madame Ka Ba has lived through decades of dry seasons.
I imagine that practiced monks break fasts in a composed, even solemn manner, enjoying a small meal when the time of fasting has come to an end. In the same situation, I would – and indeed once did – gorge myself. I’m not used to going without. That Sunday I stayed out in the rain until the clouds had emptied or passed. I didn’t leave the courtyard. I stayed home, content to simply be in the rain – not a heavy rain – experimenting with various neck angles for optimal rain-against-face enjoyment. I made a point of trying something that I did as a child in grassy muddy streetside ditches: I found a little stream of water rushing off toward lower ground, and tried to block it with a dam constructed out of what rocks and mud and leaves were readily available to me. Soon, pleased with my partial success, I was squatting underneath our mango tree and splashing my hands in my tiny man-made puddle, as six months of dust washed off the tree’s leaves and onto me.
The trees were so much greener Monday morning.
My tendency is to think of it as “playing” in the rain, but it is the simple enjoyment of being directly in the rain that is of importance. The next time there is a warm rain, let it cleanse you of stress. Make the time to follow a rivulet running along ground that – perhaps you had never noticed before – is slightly lower than the earth surrounding it. Follow it uphill or down until you reach – what?
Sit in the puddle that you find most enchanting (the murkiest shade of red?). Or just stand in the rain. Stand and feel each drop and think about oceans and evaporations, about drizzles and downpours, about the irrigation systems that feed you, about clouds, who, at their angriest, shower us with life. Think about life and creation anew. Think about blessings, baptisms, water-themed amusement parks, Hollywood funerals. Think your own rainy thoughts. Think about what's valuable to you.
That’s later.
For now, pencils out. Pay attention. Take notes.
Linguisitics 101- Setswana/Tswana is a national language in both Botswana and South Africa (though South Africa has ten other official languages as well). Arguably the most important word in the language is ‘pula.' Pula is the name of the national currency in Botswana. It also means ‘blessing,’ and can be used as a toast or as an exclamation of joy. This mixture of usages for pula might seem overly materialistic. Isn’t there more to being blessed than having money? Before you pass judgement on the people of Botswana, I will confess to having thus far omitted the most significant meaning of pula. The word originally applied to something else. Something valuable enough to name a currency after. Something that is a joyous blessing to receive. Pula’s original definition: ‘rain.’
http://www.pulapulapula.co.uk/Glossary.html
Ecology101 – One commonly used measure of the health of an ecosystem is ‘biodiversity,’ the variation of life forms that exist within an ecosystem. There exists a great variety in the amount of biodiversity from one region to another. In fact, more than 50% of all plant and animal species inhabit a type of ecosystem found on only about 7% of the land on Earth. What type of ecosystem is this? Rainforest.
Economics 101-According to Arthur Lewis, there are three ingredients necessary for an economy to begin to develop. The first is a system of secondary education. The second is sensible government. The third ingredient deemed to be a prerequisite for development came as a surprise to me. It is this: A country must have adequate rainfall.
Sacred Jewish Texts101>Talmud>Ta’anit>Chapter1 –
-Rabbi Hama bar Hanina said: The day of rain is of equal importance with the day on which heaven and earth were created, as it is written [Isaiah, xlv. 8]: "Drop down, ye heavens, from above and let the skies distil blessing; let the earth open, and let them all be fruitful of prosperity, and let righteousness spring up likewise: I the Lord have created it."
-Rabbi Itz'hak said: "The day of rain is such a blessed day, that even the coin in one's pocket is blessed
-Rabbi Abbahu said: "The day of rain is of more importance than the day of resurrection; for on the latter day only the righteous will arise from the dead, but rain falls for all alike, righteous and wicked."
http://www.sacred-texts.com/jud/t04/taa06.htm#page_1
History101 – Umbrellas were originally invented to protect people from: the sun.
I began writing this blog after telling a friend that I was going to convince people that they love - rather than, for example, dread - rainfall. I cannot, of course, expect to succeed in this. But I can tell you why I wanted to try.
The confession to my host mom was less awkward than I expected it to be. Why was my towel so dirty? Well, instead of only using it to dry myself after a shower, I had used it to dry off after going out into the rain. But wasn’t it after midnight when it started raining? Uh.. yes. About midnight. Smile.
She, like the rest of my host family, had been asleep Sunday night when the sound of rain on the metal roof prompted me to quickly finish my midnight snack. If she was awake, she didn't hear me over the sounds of the rain as I emerged from my room in my swim trunks, grabbed the key to the front door off of the top of the refrigerator, and let myself out into the first rain Burkina Faso had seen for six months. She could tell when she went to bed that it was almost certainly going to rain, but this didn’t cause her heart to beat more quickly as it did mine. It didn’t make her savor the heavy dusty wind that carried a smell of freshness along with the usual variety of illnesses. Madame Ka Ba has lived through decades of dry seasons.
I imagine that practiced monks break fasts in a composed, even solemn manner, enjoying a small meal when the time of fasting has come to an end. In the same situation, I would – and indeed once did – gorge myself. I’m not used to going without. That Sunday I stayed out in the rain until the clouds had emptied or passed. I didn’t leave the courtyard. I stayed home, content to simply be in the rain – not a heavy rain – experimenting with various neck angles for optimal rain-against-face enjoyment. I made a point of trying something that I did as a child in grassy muddy streetside ditches: I found a little stream of water rushing off toward lower ground, and tried to block it with a dam constructed out of what rocks and mud and leaves were readily available to me. Soon, pleased with my partial success, I was squatting underneath our mango tree and splashing my hands in my tiny man-made puddle, as six months of dust washed off the tree’s leaves and onto me.
The trees were so much greener Monday morning.
My tendency is to think of it as “playing” in the rain, but it is the simple enjoyment of being directly in the rain that is of importance. The next time there is a warm rain, let it cleanse you of stress. Make the time to follow a rivulet running along ground that – perhaps you had never noticed before – is slightly lower than the earth surrounding it. Follow it uphill or down until you reach – what?
Sit in the puddle that you find most enchanting (the murkiest shade of red?). Or just stand in the rain. Stand and feel each drop and think about oceans and evaporations, about drizzles and downpours, about the irrigation systems that feed you, about clouds, who, at their angriest, shower us with life. Think about life and creation anew. Think about blessings, baptisms, water-themed amusement parks, Hollywood funerals. Think your own rainy thoughts. Think about what's valuable to you.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Barefoot Dripping Groom
One of the weekends that happened to me in the recent past presented me with an opportunity to attend a traditional Burkinabe wedding. As my host mother explained it to me, for many couples this traditional wedding is the first of three wedding ceremonies. It is the wedding that takes place in the village, with the families of the bride and groom. The second wedding is the celebration that takes place in a church or mosque, in which the union is blessed by religious leaders. Often, vows used here are identical to those taken in marriages in the United States. The third wedding is the legal union of the bride and groom. It's where the paperwork happens.
The traditional ceremony centers around the giving of the bride to the groom and his family. This is an important point to remember. There are some aspects of the marriage that make more sense if marriage is seen less as a bringing together of two families and more as a transition on the bride's part from one family to another. My experience was partly that of a complete outsider, partly that of a member of the groom's family.
In the morning, around 9 a.m., I went with my host parents to the home of some relatives. There, people greeted each other, and then, while sitting in the courtyard chatting, we were presented with a late-morning meal. A large communal platter of chicken atop fried rice. At the table I was seated around, a bucket was passed around, and everyone took turns helping each other wash their hands by pouring water over the hands of the person next to them. The rice was hot - my fingers ended up bright red even though I spent less time with rice in my hand than most of the others. (I say hand, not hands plural, because you must use only your right hand to eat, especially when sharing food). After we finished, we packed ourselves onto a bus ('we' being the groom and family/friends), and started the two and a half hour drive to the bride's village. After a few stops along the way (at villages where bread and water and fruit and tissue paper were stuck into the bus windows by local villagers hoping to sell) we arrived in the village at what must have been around noon.
I'm fairly sure that marriage-related things started happening as soon as we arrived, but I wasn't a participant in these preparations. I sat underneath an enormous mango tree with most of the rest who had come on the bus, enjoying the shade and the company of my host mom. After about an hour we were all summoned to the other side of the village, where we sat in the shade of another mango tree. Mats were laid out on the ground. Before going onto the mats and sitting, I removed my sandals, following the example of others. Only the women in the groom's family who couldn't fit on the mats (and sat instead on benches along two sides of the matted area) kept their shoes on. Among those sitting on the mats, there was more or less a division of the bride's family on one side and the groom's family on the other. At the center were a handful of elderly men.
The bride's family (her whole village, actually) was Mossi, the largest ethnic group in Burkina Faso. The groom's family (my host family) was Samo. In Moore, the language of the Mossi, the old men began to discuss the amount of money that would be given by the groom's family in exchange for the bride. This was not a simple procedure. It is not only the bride's parents who receive money. Her uncles, her sisters, the wives of her brothers, etc... all are paid separately. The bride's village (particularly her family) is losing a strong and capable worker. They want compensation. (Incidentally, my host mom explained to me that women in the village (meaning women of all villages) do more work than the men.) Every few minutes, as the leaders of the bride's family insisted that what was being given by the groom's family was not sufficient, one of the men of the groom's side (the groom, next to me, seated among them) would reach into a pocket for another bill or handful of coins.
While the old men were discussing amongst themselves, a whisper began circulating among the members of the groom's family: "hide your shoes." People who had taken their shoes off reached for them and put them back on. My shoes were passed to me, and I was told to put them underneath my leg. "If their girls take your shoes," it was explained to me, "you have to pay to get them back." Sure enough, soon a few young women were walking around the perimeter of the group seated on the mats, looking for unguarded shoes. They found none.
And then it was done. Perhaps fifteen minutes after quickly protecting our sandals from being "collected," the deal had been finalized. The marriage was paid for. Together, those of us in the groom's party walked back to the first mango tree, a grand tree with a large circle of dozens of chairs in the shade beneath it. There, we (the groom's family) ate a delicious meal prepared for us by women from the village. The bride's family would eat later, feasting in celebration with the entire village. At some point amidst the celebrating, two pairs of sandals were collected by village women. The two who had been careless enough to leave their footgear unguarded: my host father and the groom himself. Someone asked if we were going to pay. We paid. I don't think there was ever really a question of whether we would. The price to get the shoes back was about a dollar (which goes further in Burkina than a dollar would in Kansas, but is still not much).
Around nightfall, as the groom's party was preparing to leave, I was confronted by a handful of grinning village women after using their bathroom. I had been watching some other nearby women brewing cauldrons full of their village's particular version of Burkina's millet beer, waiting for my host mom to finish in the bathroom. When she did finish, and came out and began talking with the women who were trying to talk with me, she was pleading. "No! No, he doesn't understand!" she said of me. She threw out the excuse that I was a white person. I was, of course, completely lost. "What did I do?" I asked, directing the question at my host mom. "Nothing." she said, and began leading me out of the courtyard. As soon as my back was to the women who had confronted me (confronted me in a way I could tell from the start was friendly), I felt a bucket of water being emptied onto my back.
"It's tradition." That's the explanation I received. "There has always been joking between the Mossi and the Samo." I had come to the village seeking a (the) young woman, same as the rest (of the groom's family). So in the end, I was doused with water. The same as, I quickly discovered, the rest. Most of us were wet as we began the bus ride home. One group of young men had brought with them the beer from our meal that had yet to be consumed. It was a noisy ride home.
That was my experience. Some further notes:
-This traditional village marriage (described by my host mom as the "family" marriage as opposed to the "religious" or "legal" marriage) can only happen once. If the couple divorces, they can remarry legally, but this ceremony will not be repeated by the family of the bride or the family of the groom.
-If the marriage doesn't work, the woman's family must reimburse the man's family when the woman is returned to her home family/village.
-unless the marriage has already resulted in a child, in which case the man's family cannot talk of being reimbursed.
The traditional ceremony centers around the giving of the bride to the groom and his family. This is an important point to remember. There are some aspects of the marriage that make more sense if marriage is seen less as a bringing together of two families and more as a transition on the bride's part from one family to another. My experience was partly that of a complete outsider, partly that of a member of the groom's family.
In the morning, around 9 a.m., I went with my host parents to the home of some relatives. There, people greeted each other, and then, while sitting in the courtyard chatting, we were presented with a late-morning meal. A large communal platter of chicken atop fried rice. At the table I was seated around, a bucket was passed around, and everyone took turns helping each other wash their hands by pouring water over the hands of the person next to them. The rice was hot - my fingers ended up bright red even though I spent less time with rice in my hand than most of the others. (I say hand, not hands plural, because you must use only your right hand to eat, especially when sharing food). After we finished, we packed ourselves onto a bus ('we' being the groom and family/friends), and started the two and a half hour drive to the bride's village. After a few stops along the way (at villages where bread and water and fruit and tissue paper were stuck into the bus windows by local villagers hoping to sell) we arrived in the village at what must have been around noon.
I'm fairly sure that marriage-related things started happening as soon as we arrived, but I wasn't a participant in these preparations. I sat underneath an enormous mango tree with most of the rest who had come on the bus, enjoying the shade and the company of my host mom. After about an hour we were all summoned to the other side of the village, where we sat in the shade of another mango tree. Mats were laid out on the ground. Before going onto the mats and sitting, I removed my sandals, following the example of others. Only the women in the groom's family who couldn't fit on the mats (and sat instead on benches along two sides of the matted area) kept their shoes on. Among those sitting on the mats, there was more or less a division of the bride's family on one side and the groom's family on the other. At the center were a handful of elderly men.
The bride's family (her whole village, actually) was Mossi, the largest ethnic group in Burkina Faso. The groom's family (my host family) was Samo. In Moore, the language of the Mossi, the old men began to discuss the amount of money that would be given by the groom's family in exchange for the bride. This was not a simple procedure. It is not only the bride's parents who receive money. Her uncles, her sisters, the wives of her brothers, etc... all are paid separately. The bride's village (particularly her family) is losing a strong and capable worker. They want compensation. (Incidentally, my host mom explained to me that women in the village (meaning women of all villages) do more work than the men.) Every few minutes, as the leaders of the bride's family insisted that what was being given by the groom's family was not sufficient, one of the men of the groom's side (the groom, next to me, seated among them) would reach into a pocket for another bill or handful of coins.
While the old men were discussing amongst themselves, a whisper began circulating among the members of the groom's family: "hide your shoes." People who had taken their shoes off reached for them and put them back on. My shoes were passed to me, and I was told to put them underneath my leg. "If their girls take your shoes," it was explained to me, "you have to pay to get them back." Sure enough, soon a few young women were walking around the perimeter of the group seated on the mats, looking for unguarded shoes. They found none.
And then it was done. Perhaps fifteen minutes after quickly protecting our sandals from being "collected," the deal had been finalized. The marriage was paid for. Together, those of us in the groom's party walked back to the first mango tree, a grand tree with a large circle of dozens of chairs in the shade beneath it. There, we (the groom's family) ate a delicious meal prepared for us by women from the village. The bride's family would eat later, feasting in celebration with the entire village. At some point amidst the celebrating, two pairs of sandals were collected by village women. The two who had been careless enough to leave their footgear unguarded: my host father and the groom himself. Someone asked if we were going to pay. We paid. I don't think there was ever really a question of whether we would. The price to get the shoes back was about a dollar (which goes further in Burkina than a dollar would in Kansas, but is still not much).
Around nightfall, as the groom's party was preparing to leave, I was confronted by a handful of grinning village women after using their bathroom. I had been watching some other nearby women brewing cauldrons full of their village's particular version of Burkina's millet beer, waiting for my host mom to finish in the bathroom. When she did finish, and came out and began talking with the women who were trying to talk with me, she was pleading. "No! No, he doesn't understand!" she said of me. She threw out the excuse that I was a white person. I was, of course, completely lost. "What did I do?" I asked, directing the question at my host mom. "Nothing." she said, and began leading me out of the courtyard. As soon as my back was to the women who had confronted me (confronted me in a way I could tell from the start was friendly), I felt a bucket of water being emptied onto my back.
"It's tradition." That's the explanation I received. "There has always been joking between the Mossi and the Samo." I had come to the village seeking a (the) young woman, same as the rest (of the groom's family). So in the end, I was doused with water. The same as, I quickly discovered, the rest. Most of us were wet as we began the bus ride home. One group of young men had brought with them the beer from our meal that had yet to be consumed. It was a noisy ride home.
That was my experience. Some further notes:
-This traditional village marriage (described by my host mom as the "family" marriage as opposed to the "religious" or "legal" marriage) can only happen once. If the couple divorces, they can remarry legally, but this ceremony will not be repeated by the family of the bride or the family of the groom.
-If the marriage doesn't work, the woman's family must reimburse the man's family when the woman is returned to her home family/village.
-unless the marriage has already resulted in a child, in which case the man's family cannot talk of being reimbursed.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Still searching for secret shortcuts.
Wow I had fun biking to work today. And I think I might have cut a few seconds off of my previous best time. Maybe I put too much sugar in my morning tea.
Here,the general rule for people on bikes is to stay on the right hand edge of the road. The faster the vehicle, the more toward the center of the road it goes. Something that has happened to me more than once: as I was passing a slower person on a bicycle, there was a motorcycle passing the moped that was passing me. This sort of thing can only happen, of course, when there happens to be nobody on the half of the road meant for traffic going the other direction (I don’t want to use the word lane, since there are hardly ever lines on the road).
During fairly heavy traffic hours (daytime), there are always plenty of things along the right hand edge of the road you need to dodge. Look over your shoulder, make sure there’s nobody coming up right behind you to prevent you from swerving around the car that’s driven partway into the street as it tries to force its way out of a driveway and into traffic. Then peek back again to make sure you can move left enough to pass the donkey cart that’s leaving entirely too much unused space to the right of it. Then quickly glance back to see that it’s safe to move over for the guy driving directly at you, having decided to drive on the left shoulder of the road for a block since he didn’t want to have to wait to cut through traffic for his left hand turn. Look back once more before passing the woman walking along with a bowl of bananas atop her head. (never mind that there’s more than enough space to walk directly beside this paved road)
Really, it reminds me of a video game. A classic racing game. Coming from a place where there are sidewalks for pedestrians and a police force that prevents people from driving along on the wrong side of the road, it seems to me as though many of these things I have to dodge are out of place; it makes no sense for them to be there. They’ve simply been placed there by programmers who wanted to give players a few extra obstacles to spice things up. I can imagine the conversations of the game designers:
“What else can put in the way?”
“How about goats.”
“Hahaha. I love it! Goats! Let’s call the guys in graphics to make sure that won’t take too long. “
“And how about speed boosts?’
“Nah. Too fun. Speed bumps!”
It’s not the best game – it’s one of those games that can be tedious after a little while, but since there’s no way of saving your progress and coming back later, you feel obliged to continue until you arrive at the checkpoint. I happen to be quite good at this particular game - not a single crash to date. As of yet, my basic curiosity has been overridden by my tendency to always try for a high score: I haven’t bothered to find out how many extra lives you get.
Here,the general rule for people on bikes is to stay on the right hand edge of the road. The faster the vehicle, the more toward the center of the road it goes. Something that has happened to me more than once: as I was passing a slower person on a bicycle, there was a motorcycle passing the moped that was passing me. This sort of thing can only happen, of course, when there happens to be nobody on the half of the road meant for traffic going the other direction (I don’t want to use the word lane, since there are hardly ever lines on the road).
During fairly heavy traffic hours (daytime), there are always plenty of things along the right hand edge of the road you need to dodge. Look over your shoulder, make sure there’s nobody coming up right behind you to prevent you from swerving around the car that’s driven partway into the street as it tries to force its way out of a driveway and into traffic. Then peek back again to make sure you can move left enough to pass the donkey cart that’s leaving entirely too much unused space to the right of it. Then quickly glance back to see that it’s safe to move over for the guy driving directly at you, having decided to drive on the left shoulder of the road for a block since he didn’t want to have to wait to cut through traffic for his left hand turn. Look back once more before passing the woman walking along with a bowl of bananas atop her head. (never mind that there’s more than enough space to walk directly beside this paved road)
Really, it reminds me of a video game. A classic racing game. Coming from a place where there are sidewalks for pedestrians and a police force that prevents people from driving along on the wrong side of the road, it seems to me as though many of these things I have to dodge are out of place; it makes no sense for them to be there. They’ve simply been placed there by programmers who wanted to give players a few extra obstacles to spice things up. I can imagine the conversations of the game designers:
“What else can put in the way?”
“How about goats.”
“Hahaha. I love it! Goats! Let’s call the guys in graphics to make sure that won’t take too long. “
“And how about speed boosts?’
“Nah. Too fun. Speed bumps!”
It’s not the best game – it’s one of those games that can be tedious after a little while, but since there’s no way of saving your progress and coming back later, you feel obliged to continue until you arrive at the checkpoint. I happen to be quite good at this particular game - not a single crash to date. As of yet, my basic curiosity has been overridden by my tendency to always try for a high score: I haven’t bothered to find out how many extra lives you get.
Friday, February 19, 2010
More than gum stuck underneath the desk
So don't get me wrong. I love picking my nose. But with Ouagadougou traffic being what it is...
Perhaps it's best to begin by explaining my daily transport. I ride a bike to work in the morning, then back home for lunch/nap time, back to work in the afternoon, and finally home again. It isn't a long distance. In all, it amounts to maybe 45 minutes on a bike each day.
More background: Each year, roughly between the end of November and the beginning of March (Wikipedia cited Enclopedia Britannica on that one), winds known as "Harmattan" carry Saharan sands across West Africa, out into the Atlantic Ocean, and occasionally even as far as North America. This can sometimes result in decreased visibility, reduced air qulity, etc. Now. Add to this another (generally more significant) effect: heavy traffic on unpaved roads. The air can become unpleasant to breathe. Many people in Ougagadougou who get around using bikes, motorcycles, or mopeds wear masks on the road to help filter the air they breathe. Often, the masks used weren't originally made to wear over your mouth; you might be surprised by how well the eye masks handed out on airplanes can work to keep the dust out. Usually, however, as a matter of personal preference (detailed risk assessment calculations proved too cumbersome for my patience), I bike maskless. Sometimes I think about the dust and exhaust fumes I'm inhaling on my way to work. It makes me fear for my lungs.
Fortunately, humans come ready-made with some basic methods of diminishing the amount of unwanted particles we inhale. I myself happen to have a marvelous quantity of nose hair. And in the spirit of trapping nasty little particles before they get to my lungs, I have made the decision to keep this nose hair covered with healthy quantities of snot.
It's been a sacrifice. Nose-picking was once a satisfying (if undervalued) part of my life. I recall the health-conscious days of the beginning of my term here, when I would always apply hand sanitizer before picking my nose. That period has given me a delicoius fruity aroma now associated with my nose-picking memories.
I put on hand sanitzer. I become suddenly keenly aware of what must be a gargantuan bugger lurking in my left nostril. Dare I hunt the beast?
My recent nasal reflections have made me increasingly aware of the nose-picking of others, and what you can learn from it. Picking your nose can signal comfort - a feeling of being at ease with the people, objects, and events surrounding you - it represents a lack of self-consciousness. Recently I was almost overcome with excitement when Alima - my host family's house help who lives with us and is (at least from my perspective) basically a part of the family - picked her nose while in face-to-face conversation with me. I took this as a clear sign of our friendship, true and steadfast.
But as meaningful as picking one's nose can be, with Ouagadougou traffic being what it is...
Perhaps it's best to begin by explaining my daily transport. I ride a bike to work in the morning, then back home for lunch/nap time, back to work in the afternoon, and finally home again. It isn't a long distance. In all, it amounts to maybe 45 minutes on a bike each day.
More background: Each year, roughly between the end of November and the beginning of March (Wikipedia cited Enclopedia Britannica on that one), winds known as "Harmattan" carry Saharan sands across West Africa, out into the Atlantic Ocean, and occasionally even as far as North America. This can sometimes result in decreased visibility, reduced air qulity, etc. Now. Add to this another (generally more significant) effect: heavy traffic on unpaved roads. The air can become unpleasant to breathe. Many people in Ougagadougou who get around using bikes, motorcycles, or mopeds wear masks on the road to help filter the air they breathe. Often, the masks used weren't originally made to wear over your mouth; you might be surprised by how well the eye masks handed out on airplanes can work to keep the dust out. Usually, however, as a matter of personal preference (detailed risk assessment calculations proved too cumbersome for my patience), I bike maskless. Sometimes I think about the dust and exhaust fumes I'm inhaling on my way to work. It makes me fear for my lungs.
Fortunately, humans come ready-made with some basic methods of diminishing the amount of unwanted particles we inhale. I myself happen to have a marvelous quantity of nose hair. And in the spirit of trapping nasty little particles before they get to my lungs, I have made the decision to keep this nose hair covered with healthy quantities of snot.
It's been a sacrifice. Nose-picking was once a satisfying (if undervalued) part of my life. I recall the health-conscious days of the beginning of my term here, when I would always apply hand sanitizer before picking my nose. That period has given me a delicoius fruity aroma now associated with my nose-picking memories.
I put on hand sanitzer. I become suddenly keenly aware of what must be a gargantuan bugger lurking in my left nostril. Dare I hunt the beast?
My recent nasal reflections have made me increasingly aware of the nose-picking of others, and what you can learn from it. Picking your nose can signal comfort - a feeling of being at ease with the people, objects, and events surrounding you - it represents a lack of self-consciousness. Recently I was almost overcome with excitement when Alima - my host family's house help who lives with us and is (at least from my perspective) basically a part of the family - picked her nose while in face-to-face conversation with me. I took this as a clear sign of our friendship, true and steadfast.
But as meaningful as picking one's nose can be, with Ouagadougou traffic being what it is...
Thursday, December 24, 2009
My Christmas Eve, Take One
I was at Virginia's, baking cookies for my host family, while on her TV - a documentary on caves - glow worms and cockroaches were eating and defecating. And then I was at my host family's, watching "Home Alone," and I liked being reminded of childhood, home, but as soon as they leave him - before he can scream - I have to go, because it's time to be at Debora's, baking cookies for the church's evening service, while on her TV, Goku - hero - releases explosive amounts of energy, and then the Palestinian's face - his face - ... - and then I'm outside, amidst a world of people all eating and defecating, and after the boys passing out candles outside of a church, for three whole blocks there's no sign of the Christian holiday other than the decorations on the store where the rich people shop - and then I'm riding behind her on her motorcylce - and why do I want to embrace her? - and why not - and it's Christmas Eve, and I'm stressed, I'm stressed, I'm happily stressed, and I'm home again but not quite alone, and I do want to be part of this family - "Blake Djerma" - "Djerma, Blake" - and the TV is singing "
The...
little....
lord Jesus...
no crying...
he...
makes...
"But why not? WHY NOT?!? I want my baby Jesus to cry, to weep in Mary's arms, and I want to weep in my mother's arms, and I want a candle and a quiet to reflect, and now that I've eaten - there were cookies - it's time for me to defecate.
The...
little....
lord Jesus...
no crying...
he...
makes...
"But why not? WHY NOT?!? I want my baby Jesus to cry, to weep in Mary's arms, and I want to weep in my mother's arms, and I want a candle and a quiet to reflect, and now that I've eaten - there were cookies - it's time for me to defecate.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
", things you notice, and what you think about "
I notice the faces of old people. Old men, who I see walking along the shoulder of the road beneath cone-shaped hats. Hats similar to, but smaller than, the hats I picture atop Southeast Asians stooping in rice fields. Sometimes these old men carry small bundles, not unlike the stereotypical bag-on-a-stick-over-the-shoulder, and if there's no indication that they have just come from somewhere or are on their way to a particular destination, I like to imagine that they're constant travelers, wandering the roads of Burkina Faso - roads only recently paved in their memories - living off of ancient wisdom in the form of punch-line proverbs and the generosity of strangers.
Or the faces of elderly women working in the sun. Yesterday I passed a magnificently old woman who was pushing a wheelbarrow down the street. When I see scenes like that I always wonder: does she have a family that she is working to support? Has she spent 80% of her life working for the welfare of grandparents and then parents and then children and grandchildren and finally great-grandchildren? Or must she work because there is no family, no one left to support her? Perhaps the contents of the wheelbarrow might have offered a clue as to which is the case, but I didn't take note of what was in the wheelbarrow - my eyes couldn't leave her face. I only remember it as a wheelbarrow full of the color green. I think of colors as weightless. I hope for her sake that this was the case.
Virginia told me that she likes the faces of the elderly because of how much character they show. I think of literary theory and discussions of how meanings and characters (as understood by the reader) are created as much by the the reader as by the author, and I wonder whether, in reading faces, the character is placed there as much by the viewer as by the face being read. In seeing an old face, a face folded by years of smiles and sunlight and winces of pain, I know that I'm seeing a person who has lived through a lot. I think this allows one's imagination more room in which to work when recreating their lives, and telling the stories hidden deep in the wrinkles.
.... So anyway, I think I'm saying I might have a bias in favor of the elderly when it comes to making assumptions about a person's character. So if you're old, good news! I think you're great! Conversely, if I think you're great, good news! I probably I think you're old.
p.s.
Dear Mom and Dad,
I love you SO MUCH! You're the greatest.
Blake
Or the faces of elderly women working in the sun. Yesterday I passed a magnificently old woman who was pushing a wheelbarrow down the street. When I see scenes like that I always wonder: does she have a family that she is working to support? Has she spent 80% of her life working for the welfare of grandparents and then parents and then children and grandchildren and finally great-grandchildren? Or must she work because there is no family, no one left to support her? Perhaps the contents of the wheelbarrow might have offered a clue as to which is the case, but I didn't take note of what was in the wheelbarrow - my eyes couldn't leave her face. I only remember it as a wheelbarrow full of the color green. I think of colors as weightless. I hope for her sake that this was the case.
Virginia told me that she likes the faces of the elderly because of how much character they show. I think of literary theory and discussions of how meanings and characters (as understood by the reader) are created as much by the the reader as by the author, and I wonder whether, in reading faces, the character is placed there as much by the viewer as by the face being read. In seeing an old face, a face folded by years of smiles and sunlight and winces of pain, I know that I'm seeing a person who has lived through a lot. I think this allows one's imagination more room in which to work when recreating their lives, and telling the stories hidden deep in the wrinkles.
.... So anyway, I think I'm saying I might have a bias in favor of the elderly when it comes to making assumptions about a person's character. So if you're old, good news! I think you're great! Conversely, if I think you're great, good news! I probably I think you're old.
p.s.
Dear Mom and Dad,
I love you SO MUCH! You're the greatest.
Blake
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