Fousena, Hamidou's wife in the village, wanted to go to the market, and offered to show us the local market there. Fousena does not speak English, but speaks several African languages and good French. Our French is extremely limited, but Fousena has been patiently coaching us, using slow, very articulated French with many hand gestures: "Va au marche!" went with a fist swinging forward like we were on an important mission. Our repetition of the phrase was too wimpy for Fousena, who made us repeat the phrase several times until our voices and fists had enough chutzpah. Fousena has a lot of chutzpah. When she was very young her family left her village iin Burkina Faso to search for more economic opportunity in Cote d'Ivoire. They stayed in Cote d'Ivoire for 18 years, until violence among ethnic groups specifically targeted Burkinabes and her family had to run for their lives as groups went through the countryside burning villages. She returned to her village and married Hamidou, having seen more than most of her in-laws who had stayed in peaceful Burkina Faso.
The economic worlds of the genders are rather distinct: men are in charge of the storefronts along the main road, including gas stations, tire shops, imported food and goods, and restaurants. We had seen a lot of this while driving around with Hamidou, but we hadn't yet seen "the market" and we accepted her invitation enthusiastically. Hamidou offered his car and we all climbed in. He asked who would drive and I answered that Fousena would drive. He looked at me and said, "Fousena doesn't drive!" Oh, dear lord, that means I have to drive. Driving in Africa is not like driving in the US. In Hamidou's words, "Driving in the States is easy! You don't have to swerve around the animals, the roads aren't washed out, all you have to look for is other cars!" So I said a little prayer for the cows, goats and chickens to stay out of the road, vowed not to go faster than second gear would take me, and climbed into the driver's seat. Fousena directed me through cornfields, around potholes the size of canyons, through scattering flocks of chicks, and we made it to the market.
We finally found the women's scene! Everyone was there! Thousands of women, sitting on small stools in a large open area, with piles of dried beans, mountains of peanuts, tennis ball-sized piles of homemade shea butter, fried dough, stunning fabric (some of which featured pictures of Obama), plastic housewares, jewelry, and other beautiful things spread out on fabric spread on the ground. With our eyes and nostrils full, we wandered around, met Fousena's older sister, shook hands with many and gently asked if we could take pictures. Some allowed it, others wouldn't, and by now we understand people's resistance.
We made it back home without crashing the car and we all congratulated ourselves as we stumbled back, "Bravo! Les femmes va au marche!"
The economic worlds of the genders are rather distinct: men are in charge of the storefronts along the main road, including gas stations, tire shops, imported food and goods, and restaurants. We had seen a lot of this while driving around with Hamidou, but we hadn't yet seen "the market" and we accepted her invitation enthusiastically. Hamidou offered his car and we all climbed in. He asked who would drive and I answered that Fousena would drive. He looked at me and said, "Fousena doesn't drive!" Oh, dear lord, that means I have to drive. Driving in Africa is not like driving in the US. In Hamidou's words, "Driving in the States is easy! You don't have to swerve around the animals, the roads aren't washed out, all you have to look for is other cars!" So I said a little prayer for the cows, goats and chickens to stay out of the road, vowed not to go faster than second gear would take me, and climbed into the driver's seat. Fousena directed me through cornfields, around potholes the size of canyons, through scattering flocks of chicks, and we made it to the market.
We finally found the women's scene! Everyone was there! Thousands of women, sitting on small stools in a large open area, with piles of dried beans, mountains of peanuts, tennis ball-sized piles of homemade shea butter, fried dough, stunning fabric (some of which featured pictures of Obama), plastic housewares, jewelry, and other beautiful things spread out on fabric spread on the ground. With our eyes and nostrils full, we wandered around, met Fousena's older sister, shook hands with many and gently asked if we could take pictures. Some allowed it, others wouldn't, and by now we understand people's resistance.
We made it back home without crashing the car and we all congratulated ourselves as we stumbled back, "Bravo! Les femmes va au marche!"
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