In the interest of client budgets, I sometimes work as a one-man band running camera, sound and directing. In addition to the technical challenges of shooting in remote areas without electricity, I also have practical hurtles to face like eating.
On this trip to Burkina Faso I have faced some real mental challenges when it comes to food. One of the days we went to shoot the grand opening of two new bush chapels. After the first ceremony was over, I sat on the bench that had been brought out under the mango tree for the guests and waited in terrified expectation.
The large rice bowl of gritty white rice was carried on a hostess’s head to the center of the circle of benches where I sat. Three other smaller covered pots were soon presented also.
A case of warm fruit cocktail Fanta soda was paraded out and each guest was given their own bottle. After that the non-members under another tree were given one bottle which they passed around, each taking a swig. I felt ashamed that I had so much when they did not. The children had none. To refuse mine to give to them would have been an insult.
At last the lids came off two of the small pots. Sauce! This oily brown conglomeration of mystery meat and leaves defies description. Suffice it to say that it is not something this semi-vegetarian’s stomach does well on.
With a prayer for fortitude and gratitude for the hospitality I was being extended, I began to eat. Forcing every bite past unwilling lips while seeming to enjoy the food is an art form I am learning to perfect. I discovered that if I don’t look directly at the spoon while bringing the food to my mouth, I can trick my brain into opening my jaw. You should try it sometime.
I almost forgot to mention the best part. After the sauce and rice was passed out, they brought out another pot—chicken. Here in Burkina Faso they don’t believe in wasting any part of an animal. It looked as if the entire chicken had been chopped up and thrown into the pot sans feathers. Feet and neck toothsomely beckoned from the pot’s maw. I waved this delicacy past as politely as possible. Somehow not knowing what is in the sauce I’m eating on the rice seems the lesser of two evils. I saved half of my Fanta to wash everything down with.
Watching the people around me eating takes some getting used to. They eat with their right hand. They don’t use utensils. It all seems do different to the tidy way I’ve been brought up to eat. You can’t blame them though. Poverty is rampant here and spoons and forks are luxuries.