The Little Things

Stephanie Gottlieb

Bringing oneself into a foreign place sometimes brings the foreign place closer.

The sun peeks through my straw hangar. The thwack of an axe from across my courtyard and the neighing of donkeys signal another day has begun. In Burkina Faso, the last thing I need is an alarm clock. As if set to a timer—even though usually NOTHING runs on time—my village comes to life as the sun peeks over the horizon. The people—and animals—start their day whether I am ready for them to or not. There is no snooze button.

I jump out of bed, thankful for the morning coolness flowing over me, knowing that, in three hours, the sun will beat down and I will have to take refuge from its rays. The mornings have always been my favorite, not only for the gracious breeze and cool air, but for the sounds and sights of my village coming to life.

My mornings are all the same. I lace up my shoes, take a gulp of water, and set off. I pass several of my neighbors, all of whom have been up for hours already, preparing breakfast and lunch, washing the children, cleaning the house, and preparing to set off to the fields—it is the rainy season, and everyone has a field to tend to. As I run, I wave hello and pass my morning greetings to my neighbors—“Aw ni Sogoma,” I shout as I jog by—“Good morning” in my village’s local language of Joula. We rush through the greeting ritual.

At this point the odd looks have subsided, and most people just know me as the crazy American girl that “faires le sport.” Running is never done unless one is trying to get away from something, or in playing soccer...and most certainly not done that often by a girl.

I continue on my path through the mango groves teeming with ripe fruit. Their scent fills the air, and I have to resist ripping one off a tree and eating it right there.

I don’t know if I will ever be able to buy fruits from a supermarket again.

I wave to the villagers and children who are already in the grove, picking mangos for sale in the market. I pass as the children make their way to school in the morning, carrying their little rice-sack backpacks as they bound along. I dodge the various cattle, goats, and pigs along my route. Passing the river, I can see the dark outlines of the hippos as they float lazily amongst the marsh grasses, and I continue on into the rice fields. The view is spectacular, and a far cry from nine months ago when I was staring at the New York skyline from my office window. Oh, how much my life has changed in such a short time.

As amazing as all of this is, it is the end of my run that I look forward to the most. As I crest the hill out of the mango grove, the familiar cry pierces the air. There is Brahim, my two-year-old neighbor.

“Madame! Madame!” he cries as he sees me come over the hill. He darts toward me from his courtyard, his little legs carrying him as fast as he can go. His eyes are lit up, and there is a smile on his face that could light the world. Normally we shake hands, high five, and I pat him on the head...but today is different. As he runs up I put my hands out and up he jumps giving me the biggest bear hug that he can muster. He has been so shy up to this point, and his affection surprises me. Most children—having never seen a white person—howl at the sight of a “fantasme” (ghost), but not Brahim.

“Bonjour,” he says, the only word of French he knows. He props on my hip and I jog him back to his mother. He pops down to the ground, gives me a hug and then runs back to his house.

I wave goodbye and finish up my run, just a little more energized than the moment before. Happy...content...his hug is one of the highlights of my day...and something to look forward to every time I crest that hill to make my way home.

Stephanie Gottlieb, who spent two years in Burkina Faso (2006-08), currently works as the Communications Director for a non-profit that serves the African Immigrant community, African Services Committee.