Ass-cleavage: The new craze taking over the world, from behind

Cleavage has rocked the women’s fashion world for years, drawing attention to women who may have otherwise gone unnoticed. Thank you cleavage, we salute you.

Some took this style to an extreme according to some analysts, creating what is known as “mega-cleavage”:

People have found innovative uses of cleavage:

After admiring women’s cleavage for so many years, men felt left out. At the turn of the 21rst century, men began to demand equality:

Some designers caught on and took advantage of this new niche, such as American Apparel with their ever so famous “Deep V-Neck”:

Our cleavage hungry society could not stop at this. It was time to take cleavage to the next level: ass-cleavage (aka cleavass) was invented.

The new cleavage took advantage of the widespread popularity of the thong in order to gain a momentum:

But once again, could men really resist from this one; the answer is “no, they could not”. Some specialists believe that the first to adopt the trend were rappers:

Today, the trend is visible almost everywhere.

What may have started off as tease for some women has become a part of our culture. So I leave you with this: what is the future of cleavage?

Road safety, Burkinabé style

Christmas Eve: 58 reported accidents in Ouagadougou; countless more unreported. New Year’s Eve: at least twice as much.

The latest breakthrough in road safety was the forbidding of people riding on the roof of buses (loosely enforced). However, goats and chickens maintained their roof-riding rights and there’s no restriction as to how high you can pack up a vehicle.


Recently the police tried to enforce a law that already exists: helmets are mandatory for motorcyclists. Riots broke out and that was the end of it.

Pick-up trucks are an efficient way to get people around town: an efficient use of space combined with natural air conditioning.


Need I mention that seat belts are completely out of the question?

The motorcycle accident

Valerie’s sister, Ida, offered me to drive the motorcycle, an 80 cc Yamaha, popularly referred to as a “Yamaha-damme” (Yamaha for women). Before accepting to risk not only my life, but hers as well, I decided to take the Yamaha-damme for a test drive, you know, to get a feel for it. It’s simple: 3 gears, no clutch, just shift up and down and that’s it. I went a 100 meters down the street, down-shifted too early, which made a loud noise; this annoyed a (guard) dog sitting in front of a house… I turned around to head back and the dog gave chase. Dogs run fast, but not as fast as the Yamaha-damme… I decided that I was not yet ready to drive.


So I hoped on the back and we headed off for Valerie’s parents’ place. It was around 7:00 pm. The night had already fallen. People were busy getting ready for New Year’s celebrations. We were coasting on a paved road, in a straight line, at maybe 40-45 km/h… Next thing I know, I’m in the middle of the street, Ida too, my bag is somewhere off to the right, Ida’s glasses to the left, one of the mirrors in the ditch… My first reaction was to put my left hand out as we tipped to the left, protecting myself and Ida. We were on the ground for less than a second… I got up as soon as I stopped sliding and helped Ida to here feet. We were both a little confused. I was afraid that she had hit her head; both of us were not wearing a helmet (for a reason, obviously not a good one, but that’s not important for the moment). Immediately, a crowd of people formed around us. They helped us to the side of the road and tried to relax us. My whole body felt strange. My left knee was burning. Ida had a few scratches on her left knee and arm. But that was all. We were lucky.

To this day, I don’t know what caused the accident and neither does she. The scariest part was just falling. It seems like it all happened in less than a second, in slow motion. That was my last memory of 2007.

The Waiting Place

The Waiting Place is not just a creation of Dr Seuss’ imagination; it’s a very real place, more specifically the Liza Transport International bus station in Dédougou, Burkina Faso.


Although we had reserved and paid for our places, we began to loose faith when we saw the number of people waiting for the bus. A 9:00 am (Burkinabe) departure translated into real time equals 9:45—if only it were that simple… The bus fills up and tough luck, no more room! Quite tough seeing as this was the last of the 3 daily buses leaving for Ouaga. After my friend, Ismael, and his mother exchanged some heated words in Dioula with the girl who took the reservation, the manager promised to take Valerie and me in his pick-up at noon.

Again, translated, 12:00 became 3:30 pm. In the mean time, roughly 100 people show up to get on a bus headed for Ouaga. The owner had invited them for New Year’s in the nation’s capital. They pushed, they pulled, they yelled, they jumped and they even cried; the laws of physics was all that could restrict the number of people who piled into that bus.


We headed off in the pick up with 5 guys in the back for a 230 km trip. To welcome us onto the road, on our way out of Dédougou, this sign greeted us (I couldn’t get my camera out in time, so here’s a picture of that same road, with a drawing of the sign added; I promise to snap a picture of it the next time!):


… as in: “at your own risk…” At least that’s the thought that comes to mind when I see something that looks like a tombstone (the cross shape gives it away) on the side of the road wishing me a “safe trip.”

After thinking, hoping that this day had had enough waiting in it, we had to stop and wait every 15 minutes for the jam-packed bus we were following to be repaired.


We arrived in Ouaga, on the complete opposite end of town from where we were staying, in the pitch black of night… It’s not even worth trying to get a taxi when you’re White: a 200 cfa fare was multiplied by a modest 15 times…

Air EMAF and the dougous

Africans did not invent the clock and I guess they never really got the hang of using it. We awoke early in order to get to the bus stop at 7:00 am for a 7:30 scheduled departure; so the bus left at 8:30…

How to describe Air EMAF… I think the best way would be a sardine can on wheels. You see this beloved vehicle was lacking in a few key areas. Before I go on, let me clarify one thing: Air EMAF does not operate any airplanes, rest assured.

From the outside, all looked fine: a fresh coat of forest green paint—but was this in order to hide the duck tape that held the paneling together? To get the bus going, 6 or 7 men had to give it a push; already I was weary. It doesn’t give the best first impression. During the entire 6-hour trip, we kept the bus running, even when we stopped to fuel-up.

Back to the lackings… Well up there on my list of priorities, probably at the top, were the brakes, but seeing as we never went over 50 km/h (and only 30 km/h for the part of the trip on the dirt road, some 130 km), I guess that I could live without brakes. Second on my list was individual seating. I spent most of the ride with someone sitting on half of my lap. At one stop, a man gets on with a couple of chicken in his hand; they guy sitting next to/on me says “no way, you’re not sitting here, there’s more place in the back.” They stopped packing people in, not when we ran out of seats but when there was no more standing room.

Dedougou was our final destination, with a transit through Koudougou, all the way from Ouagadougou; it’s the “dougou” route. The 100 km stretch between Ouaga and Koudougou is paved and so is relatively smooth, with a few obstacles here and there; donkey-pulled wagons, overpacked motorcycles and bicycles, some cows, pigs and sheep blockings. The only problem was that Air EMAF’s max speed was 50 km/h… At one point, a cyclist passed us, no joke.

I'd like to digress for a moment. About those donkey-pulled wagons... I remember seeing them in the heart of downtown Ouagadougou when I was last in Burkina Faso. It was quite a surprise to see a donkey, downtown! Well they were thereafter banned because they created a danger by slowing down traffic. I must be more precise; donkeys were banned. Okay, but for a law to be good, it has to be vague-enough to take care of any possible loopholes... banning donkeys was too precise. Now, you don't see the donkeys downtown, but you still see the wagons—only now they are pulled by a man!

Before: donkey-pulled wagons blocking traffic

After: man-pulled wagons blocking traffic

Now, back to the dougou trip...

At the first main stop in Koudougou, I witnessed my first mobile market. As our little engine who could slowed down, women jumped up and ran from across the street. Onions, bread, bananas, cakes and more on their head, they surrounded the bus in a matter of seconds.



After Koudougou the pavement ended and the dust began. The road narrowed and we squeezed by on-coming vehicles. I could sense that we were deep in the wild. I would see signs such as “Goulouré 9 km” pointing in a direction off the road, but with no road leading there, not even a trail, just wilderness.

Ouagaweewa!

Two nights ago I arrived in a cloud of dust, like magic, in Ouagadougou. After chasing a taxi in a foot of snow, I was in 30+ degree heat but 24 hours later. But the heat doesn’t come free… Close to 40 during the day, 20 at night and dust all day long. Red dust. Dust on my shoes, dust on my feet, dust between my teeth, dust on every seat… In fact, white clothes are not allowed in Burkina Faso (or rather they are, but you’ll never see any white clothes for more than 5 minutes; then they magically camouflage to the red surroundings).

Valerie and Ida, in the back of the pick-up, after a dusty ride:

This morning, Dori, the resident puppy dog (don’t ask what kind—she’s the typical burkinabé dog: a bit of everything and not one thing at all) was hungry. Turns out the cleaning lady ate her food. Wow you say, people are so desperate that they eat dog food. Wrong. It is Dori who eats human food: rice with fish and tomatoes sauce, and variations thereof. After fixing her up some pasta with sauce as well as some milk, Dori sucked it all up; she went from a skinny puppy to a pregnant teenager in under 5 minutes!

Dori: the dog who sits on the couch to watch TV...

... and eats macaroni...

... and some milk to wash it all down (don't try to give her water, that's not what she wants)

La route du Nord et le marché de Poto-Poto

Li'Foula

9 juin 2007



Pour aller 30 km vers le Nord de Brazza on a mis 2 heures! (Merci à l'embouteillage causé par tous les taxis et les mauvaises routes.) Une petite pencarte sur la RN II indique la direction de Li'Foula: c'est une route en brousse où un 4x4 est indispensable. Là bas, dans une gorge, nous avons trouvé un aménagement fabuleux.



Jour du marché

11 juin 2007

Papa Ramdé m'a accompagné au marché pour éviter que je paie des "prix de blancs", soit 3 ou 4 fois le prix. En marchant dans les étroites ruelles du marché de Poto-Poto un jeune de passage touche mon bras et me regarde: je pense que la couleur de ma peau l'intriguait!


"Mon frère, tu es de ma famille, viens, je te fais un bon prix" dit un commerçant.
"Tu le vois là (en faisant référence à moi), il n'est pas là" répond Papa Ramdé.
"Moi, je ne vois pas de couleur..."
"Vous n'allez pas me faire peur avec le prix?"
"20 000... à dictuter"
"Ouuuuuaaaa.... À dicuter? Vous voulez dire à diviser! On continue un peu pour voir si on a d'autre famille ici..."
"Oui chef, ici c'est la famille..." propose un autre marchand.
...
En tout cas, ça a été toute une expérience!