Thanksgiving in Sindou

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For Thanksgiving this year, Radhika and Leslie kindly planned us a grand camping trip in Sindou, in Southwestern Burkina. PCVs came from all over the country to this scenic but remote town. Since there is no regular public transport to Sindou, all of the volunteers had to find their way - most biking, some hitching rides with bread trucks.

I threw my bike on a bus that dropped me at Mahon, a small village along the paved road. As I was tying my things to my bike, PCV Cory rolled up, surprised to see another tubabu. I hadn’t seen Cory in months until we ran into each other on the side of the road.

We biked 8 km and arrived at PCV Leslie’s house in Kangala late in the afternoon. She was hosting five of us for the night and was all excited about it in very-Leslie fashion. She and Veronica had put up a Happy Thanksgiving banner across the courtyard and made us fancy hors d’oeuvres, Leslie prancing around the whole time in her Party Dress. Marc, Rory, and Aaron had arrived earlier that day and this sudden influx of tubabus in the village had drawn a crowd of children to the fence around Leslie’s courtyard, staring, whispering, and clinging to the fence posts. Any sudden movements in their direction would send them scattering with fear; this was just too many tubabus in one place and they weren’t taking any chances.

Veronica and Leslie cooked us a huge meal - pasta, garlic bread, the works. They even had brownie mix from the States. We were so excited about the brownies that we couldn’t wait for them to cool so we ate them hot, straight from the pan with our hands as if we were eating a bowl of to’o.

The next morning we had a 50 km bike ride south to Sindou. The South is a lot greener than the rest of Burkina, and there are even a few mountains (ok big hills). The scenery was lovely and the weather was pretty mild, so the ride was nice. Except for poor Rory and Vero, who despise biking and wanted to die.

We arrived in Sindou around noon, sweaty and covered in dust. We met other dirty, tired PCVs at a small hotel. Most of them came in from Banfora, 50 km from Sindou in the other direction. We all got cleaned up and hung out at the hotel most of the day. By dinnertime we were starving and the guy running the hotel said he would cook us chicken and spaghetti. It sounded like a good deal, so we paid him and waited…and waited. After three or four hours our cook returned and proudly presented us the pot he’d prepared. It was the most overcooked, rubbery, flavorless meal we’d ever tasted. But we dared not complain. Perhaps there’s a reason why Burkinabe women usually do the cooking.

The next day, a total of 22 PCVs hiked up to Sindou Peaks for Thanksgiving. The Peaks are the location of the ancient village of the Senoufo, a broad plateau crowned with sandstone spires. The relief provided protection for the village during centuries of tribal wars. When peace was finally established in the early 20th century, the villagers moved onto the plain, the current location of the village of Sindou. The peaks are still sacred to the Senoufo, and certain areas are off-limits except to those who are sacrificing animals to talk to the ancestors.

We had hired a Senoufo guide to arrange our fête, and we’d gotten permission from the village chief and the mayor to camp in the peaks for the night. Our guide gave us a tour up the rocks to where we could see the bright green rice fields on the plain below. He explained with pride his culture’s history and thanked us for celebrating our culture’s holiday in this sacred place.

Our guides provided all of our food, drinks, and entertainment for the evening. They managed to find turkeys to cook for us and they even made an attempt at mashed potatoes! (Though I’ll admit that when Leslie took the lid of the pot of mashed potatoes, it really looked like a giant bowl of to’o and everyone was hushed for a moment as tears came to our eyes and we all collectively thought, “Oh no…they just made us to’o…”)

But the food was delicious and it was followed by a concert by a local band of drummers and balafon artists. The balafon looks something like a wooden xylophone, with hollow gourds of different sizes under each key. The band brought a few local dancers and the music attracted dozens more as the night went on. Eventually we had a crowd that was half volunteers, half Senoufo, and all had a good time.

After the band left we eventually pitched our mosquito-screen tents and slept for a couple of hours until the sun woke us. Waking up in the sun in Burkina is what I imagine it’s like to wake up on fire. You wake compelled to leave your tent immediately and find shade.

That morning we biked the 50 km south to Banfora, the major city in southern Burkina. We caught up on sleep at a comfy hotel that gives Peace Corps discounts, and ate at MacDonalds. (A Burkinabe restaurant called MacDonalds. But they make good hamburgers fast so we consider it pretty much the same thing.) Overall, it was an adventurous and memorable Thanksgiving: good food, good people, and Will’s rendition of “Seka, Seka” on the harmonica. What more could one ask for?

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