Goodbye Ouagadougou

2.6.07 Goodbye Oaugadougou

My final day in Ouaga. I walk slowly home; anticipation perks itself on one of my shoulders while reluctance sits firmly on the other. In the three weeks I have been here, I have come to really appreciate the loud music shifting from Maquis, the dirt roads that wind like bumpy veins through the city, the deep smoky barbeque aroma that sometimes mixes with such acrid pollution I can hardly breath, the masses of motorbikes and bicycles that swerve across the roads, and the people. The people, how do I begin to describe the warmth and humor and generosity with which these people have welcomed me into their country?

I have made friends with an old woman who sits under one of the makeshift structures that line the outer walls of the Mosque. She wears a sunshine yellow shawl over her shaved head and her hands are dry as sandpaper. She sits on a green rug, and today she has hung a piece of fabric up to keep out the blazing sun. It is still hot when I squat to greet her; I know because immediately the sweat begins to collect in the places my legs touch each other. We shake hands over and over, her rough palms enclosing my one damp hand. I feel desert in her skin. Our conversation is more an exchange of gestures and repetitions than a conversation. In fact, all I understand of what she says is her name “Mariam, Mariam” and my own “Say-la, Sayla” as well as the names of her daughter and grand daughter “Fatimata, Kahdou, Fatimata, Kahdou” we shake hands and say each others names. I think she is telling me that Fatimata and Kahdou have gone back to the cluster of rooms they share with many other families. She will return in the evening, but I will be gone. Mariam offers me a bunch of carrots, a small cluster of orange on the ends of straggled leaves. I try to refuse, I have just eaten and I believe she probably needs them more than I. Nevertheless, she insists, and I take the small bunch, eat a piece and thank her. “Barrakah, barrakah” Thank you. She responds in my own language “mesi, mesi” thank you, merci. I move to leave. She bends her head forward and touches the top of it. I do the same, then touch the top of her head too. Her grey hair bristles under my fingers and she laughs.

As I turn up my road, and walk a few steps towards my house, shrieking bits of laughter fill my ears, and I look up to see two small children sprinting towards me, hands outstretched. One in a dirty yellow shirt with gaps in his teeth, the other in a dress, her hair in five tightly metal wrapped ‘horns’ sticking out from her head, a small mousy face. They giggle up to me, I shake their hands, and they turn around and sprint back to the skeleton of a car they had been playing in while the second shift of two children follow their lead. They run, bare feet over the red dust, towards me, hands outstretched, laughing. I shake and they run back to the car.

There is a certain bittersweet challenge to leaving a place like this. I have developed relationships. I feel, in some way, that I have committed myself to these people, the children in the car, the boys who slack line with me, and play football in the streets, throwing marbles in the dirt, Mariams’ bending head and desert hands. I can’t resist their shy smiles, tentative handshakes and laughter. The exchange is so precious to me, and yet I feel almost guilty for getting to know them then walking away from them. One part of me asks Why not share yourself with these people? Why not open to them, give them what you are, share your own smile? The other part cringes when they say “don’t leave, it makes me sad”. I am trying to find the balance because I am beginning to believe that the life of a westerner in a place like this is bound to be full of such interactions, and the inevitable truth is that, one day, we will all leave. I will always have Oregon to go home to, and I think it is that knowledge sets me apart from these people more than anything else.

I remember an afternoon in Washington DC saying goodbye to someone I cared for. I stood in the arching hall of the metro station, feeling the woosh of air as the trains flew by. In my hand was a fresh, ripe plum. As he boarded the train, and it swept away, I felt the smooth curve of the plum in my palm. I took a bite, the smooth skin resisted a moment before breaking and a sweet, subtle, violet flavor flooded my mouth. I could not imagine anything better than enjoying that plum at that instant, having known someone and shared with him some small part of myself, the fruit now tasted so much more alive. I have come to believe that relationships are what make life sweeter. The moments we share with others are the ones that help us receive greater pleasure and participate to a fuller extent in our lives. I hope that all my interactions will end with the same ease as the children running, laughing back to their gutted car: A smile, handshake, an acknowledgement of each others differences just as much as an appreciation of them. And after, the great appreciation of life itself, as it is, full and sweet and delicious.