A Day in the Life

So, for the last few weeks, schools have been closed due to student striking. As a result, I’ve been in a bit of purgatory—I don’t quite know when school will start again, but I can’t go too far from home, because we could start up again any day now. Serendipitously, there was a nation-wide polio vaccination campaign going on at the time, so as soon as I found out, I stopped by the village hospital to ask how I could help. Psyched to have me, they sent me out with a vaccination team to go door to door, giving the oral vaccine to kids under five.

Vaccinating, I thought, is serious business. The goal was to vaccinate all kids under five in Thyou and its surrounding villages—about one thousand of them. We headed out on the first day on bikes with a cooler full of vaccine, sweet “Kick Polio OUT of Burkina!” apparel, and some forms to document the vaccination. The vaccination team I joined comprised one of my closer friends in village, a woman who makes millet beer and sells it at market. “It’s a shame it’s Friday,” she said, referring to the Muslim day of rest. “Otherwise we could quench our thirst.” The meaning of her statement didn’t quite register with me—it was hot, and I was thirsty too. Luckily, I’d brought water. We were very productive, able to vaccinate almost all the kids in our assigned area.

Well, the next day, Saturday, was market day. Market day is always huge. People come in from all over, they visit friends and cruise around the village on mopeds and bikes. All the while, we were trying our best to vaccinate.

7:00am: I arrive at the village hospital. As always, I’m the first person there. Even when I try to show up late (more than fashionably), I look the fool, and wait a half hour for others to start trickling in.

8:00am: Everyone’s finally in, we’re given our assignments and we head out to cover the ground we missed the day before.

8:15am: My team and I hop on our bikes and head out.

8:17am: First stop of the day. We walk into a big family’s courtyard. There’s a lot of kids running around, so I set down the cooler and set about checking to see if they’re vaccinated (we mark a fingernail with a permanent marker to avoid double-vaccinating). I soon realize that all these kids were vaccinated the day before. I ask my friend, “Oh, yes,” she says. “We got them all already. Here, have a seat.” She immediately passes me a calabash full of millet beer, and I realize the purpose of our visit. After a few good gulps, we move along. Onto vaccinating children.

8:45am: “Hold on, Monsieur, let’s stop here for a second and have a drink.” There’s a woman with a big blue barrel full of millet beer on a stool under a tree, a few early customers lounging about. And who am I to refuse? This is not my culture, and I can neither pass judgment nor change their plan. We have some more. We move along.

8:50-something am: We’re following through now. It’s getting hot. I can feel some sweat dripping down my back. I haven’t touched the water bottle in my backpack. We manage to find a few kids who weren’t at home yesterday. We give them vaccines; move around to a few other families. No worries.

9:30-something: “Monsieur, we should go to market now and see if we can’t find some children at market who’ve been skipped over.” Seems logical to me.

10-ish: “Hold on, let’s stop in the shade here and rest while we fill out the documentation.” We stop in the shade, go back through the numbers, cool down a little bit. Down the path, we see a woman and an older girl approaching, donkey in tow. In a cart strapped to the donkey, there’s another big blue barrel. She’s got the goods. “Hey!” the other woman on my team calls out. Says something in Moore. She pulls a calabash out of the cart and dips it in the barrel. Brings it over to us, balancing carefully—it’s filled to the brim.

10-ish, later: “Let’s get going.” I stand up and steady myself. The two women suppress a chuckle. I’m not used to this like they are. But I’m a coordinated young man. I hop on my bike and start following. Further down the road, we cross paths with a young man in vaccination apparel. They converse in Moore. I catch “going to market” something about “Monsieur”. The young man turns to me, “Will you go back out with me, Monsieur?” No objections. He’s going alone and could use the help.

Almost 11:00: “Are you thirsty?” he asks, stopping next to the second woman I saw today. “I am, will you join me?” Well, I don’t want to be culturally inappropriate… A few gulps, and we’re on our way. We hit a family courtyard that was having a funeral the day before, where it was inappropriate to come by vaccinating. A bunch of kids here. We shake hands with the older family members, give a few condolences. Vaccinate, mark their hands. Say thanks, God bless, God bring you health, God will help us, God will repair us. Amen, Amen, Amen. “Shall we continue, monsieur?”

Sometime before noon: I see we are approaching another tree with two millet beer vendors sitting underneath. Obviously, we can’t be biased towards one, so we taste it from both. A tipsy old lady challenges the white man to a foot race. He counts down in Moore (laughter), fakes injury (laughter). “Is your foot okay!?” “Oui, oui. I was faking.” (laughter).

Is it Saturday?: “Shall we continue to market, Monsieur” Well, I suppose so. We continue. We grab a few kids to check if they’ve received vaccines. “HEY!” we hear, cruising by. Something is said in Moore. “She’s offering us a drink, Monsieur”. It’s one of the vendors from before. When it’s offered, you don’t pay. Well, we’re not the types to turn down a free drink.

Sometime in March, some place in Africa: We’re walking through market. The young man I’m with calling out to every woman-with-child nearby. “Did your kid get medicine?” “Did your kid get medicine?” We stop in one of the dens. The young man offers me more. I’m trying to count how many times I’ve stopped to drink millet beer today—I’m totally lost on volume. “I’ve had a lot,” I say. “Well, I haven’t!” says the young man. He buys a calabash. The vendor doesn’t have change. He takes change in the form of another calabash.

Quelle heure es-(wait...how do you conjugate that?): “Let’s get back to the hospital, Monsieur. It’s about time to eat.” We start on the way back. He sees a large group of children. Turns out, they’re not vaccinated. But we’re out of medicine! We get the kids to follow us back to the hospital—about 20 of them in tow behind our bikes. We show up. The nurses are filling out paperwork. They find some extra vaccine for these kids. “Thanks Monsieur, you can head home. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

Lunch time: This will be the first time I eat today. I need a nap.