The (Unexpected) Men in My Life

- August 2001
-- a Peace Corps Volunteer, Burkina Faso

Imagine my surprise. Before accepting the invitation to serve as a Peace Corps volunteer in Burkina Faso, I had done what research there is to be done on the subject of homosexuality in West Africa. The search results were unanimous (and, I am now convinced, complicit): if homosexuality existed in West Africa, it was only in expatriate communities. Homosexuality, or so I was told, did not “exist,” per se, in West Africa; it was a social abhorrence, a lamentable intrusion (an imposition even) from The West - when it managed to slip by airport customs officials, that is. True, African men held hands, enjoying a casual public intimacy, but nothing else.
Call me a glutton for punishment, or an incorrigible idealist, or a dupe. I accepted the invitation. And for nine months I ignored my intuition and common sense and hormones, all of which told me that even if homosexuality did not exist as a component of identity politics here, homosexual acts surely take place everywhere, as they have for ages. I bought into to the propaganda: I held hands with the best of them, kept a tight lid on my mouth and pants, and accepted that that was all there was to it.

So imagine my surprise when, after nine barren months and way to many calabashes of millet beer, I found myself making out with a man in the health center of a small, remote, impeccably traditional village. Then it popped into place; homosexuality in Burkina arranged itself in some kind of bizarre order. During the Renaissance, for example, homosexual acts were a widespread, hush-hush social norm, disruptive and demonized only once they were identified verbally. It would be kind of like instating a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy in a San Francisco bathhouse.

The same can be said, generally speaking, for Burkina Faso in 2001. As all the brochures promised, people here do, at least verbally, abhor the very notion of homosexuality. And yet, homosexual acts are taking place in mud huts (and health centers) across the country at this very moment. Boys will be boys. Shame on me for every doubting, eh?

Intriguingly enough, each ethnic group has a unique, mostly unspoken code dictating which acts fall short of the feared homosexual dividing line. Draga boys indulge in mutual masturbation, while the Bissa have a strict above-the-waist rule. Men in the Gulimance district are very hands-oriented and prone to kissing, and pretty much anything goes for the chancy, lucky Mossi, the nation’s ferocious, predominant ethnicity.

The divergence between Elizabethan England and twenty-first century Burkina Faso comes in the form of a conversation that is just beginning to unfold. For starters, homosexuality is not an unheard of or taboo topic of discussion here; in fact, conversations about it are refreshingly candid and frequent. And while it’s true that most of the filth that people spew about homosexuality here is worthy of the most unforgiving fundamentalist preacher, a handful of daring and intelligent individuals are nonetheless unafraid of the queer sleeping giant. As one of my colleagues demanded to know during a heated debate (whose theme was “Free Love”), “Why shouldn’t two men be allowed to love each other? I’ve seen donkeys do it.” Or take the man from the health center (a brave soul indeed), who declared frankly, “Homosexuality is a path I’d like to explore more.” Extreme cases, to be sure, but not necessarily isolated ones. (In fact, the majority of the above information about various homo-practices among the different ethnic groups here was gleaned from conversations.) What’s important is that homosexuality is making its way into the national vocabulary, and the terms themselves are not always sodomized.

All of this is not to say that there isn’t an excessive amount of care to be taken when determining whether or not to come out to someone. It’s a choice I’ve made twice in Burkina, and luckily to people who possessed the courage, the kindness, and the openness of spirit to look right through the propaganda and straight at me; and the discretion to keep it a secret. And all of this is not to say that there still isn’t a twinge of fear every time I feel safe enough to become intimate with someone here. Or that this uncharted “don’t ask, don’t tell” hodgepodge doesn’t eat away at the psyche of a young, liberated American. But be it as it may, a quiet, steamy revolution is underway in the minds and beds of Burkina Faso. Just make sure you don’t tell anyone. Yet.

Editor’s note: Once again we’ve not included the author’s name for safety issues. To contact him, e-mail the editor at 103571.2317@compuserve.com and we’ll put you in touch.