On a suffocating afternoon in Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso, a group of 15 young men turn a dusty corner and descend upon the Yangoseen Water Pump I. Ten others, who had been napping under a tree, wake to the sound of the men’s arrival. It is not the perfect way to start a revolution, but it will have to do. What transpires in this dusty lot is part family reunion, and part political rally. It is also history: A group of young men attempting to transcend their meager economic existence to take control of their destinies, if only for a few minutes. The groups greet each other with handshakes amidst the noise of broadcasts coming in over the pocket-sized AM/FM radios that seem to be ever-present in Burkina Faso.

These young men are water pushers, delivering water to the many houses built without indoor plumbing. Watching these teenagers, it’s hard to picture them doing anything other than this work. Their uniform consists of ripped jeans, flat-as-a-pancake flip-flops, and t-shirts with the sleeves cut off. Their bodies are hardened from lugging water over pot-holed roads and uneven courtyards in a barrique, a 55-gallon drum turned sideways and placed on two (often wobbly) wheels.

Youssef Ouedraogo and Hamidiou Sandwidi call the meeting to order. They are two of oldest, most respected pushers in the adjoining Dapoya neighborhood. They are also exact opposites. Tall and lanky, 23-year-old Youssef is known around the neighborhood as Capitaine Américain, because he wears T-shirts emblazoned with American patriotic themes, and his red, white, and blue barrique can be seen flying a 14-star Betsy Ross-style flag that a friend purchased in a dollar store in the United States.

Hamidou, in his late 30s, is shorter and quiet, and works under the name Le Gouverneur. He has been pushing since 1983, when a load brought in 12 cents. Today, pushers charge 40 cents per load. This is the point of the meeting: the 40-cent fee has been in place for the past seven years. Isn’t it time that the pushers charged a bit more?  

Capitaine Américain does most of the talking. He’s got sheets of paper in his hand (written by Le Gouverneur) that explain the proposed 10-cent price increase, slated to go into effect tomorrow. He reads a little of it, but the papers are mainly meant for the local radio stations. Capitaine Américain proposes putting the matter to a vote, but is held off by the concerns of the pushers — “How will our customers react? Aren’t these the same customers who break windows at gas stations when the price of fuel rises? Aren’t these the same customers who burn tires in the street when the price of bread goes up?” These are honest questions, and Capitaine Américain knows it.

If all area pushers simultaneously raise their prices, the Capitaine asserts, customers will have no choice but to pay up. By the looks of it, the pushers are not yet convinced. They ask more questions, this time in harsh, aggressive tones: “What happens if the customers reject our price? What happens if they go elsewhere to for their water?”

To some of the pushers, this is beginning to sound like a pipe dream.

Capitaine Américain’s barrique is up front with its patriotism.

Pushing a union

I met Capitaine Américain standing in front of the U.S. embassy. He was patiently asking to see someone inside about getting another U.S. flag. His khaki uniform, colored for desert warfare and adorned with American flags, fell over him like a large dress. Behind him stood four young body guards who, when they spotted me, jumped to attention and majestically unrolled a Tommy Hilfiger bath towel containing the image of an American flag. They held the towel/flag in place while Capitaine Américain looked at me, tightened the beret on his head, and offered a very formal salute.  

“So, someone stole your flag?” asked the guard at the gate. “Yes,” Capitaine Américain explained, wearily. “He is known as ‘Osama bin Laden’ and he stole my flag because he hates Americans like me. I am an American. I am Capitaine Américain.” At this, he was politely told to go home.  

Back at the water pump, Capitaine Américain and Le Gouverneur receive similar treatment: Twenty-five men, hundreds of flailing gestures, and enough shouts to wake the entire neighborhood out of its afternoon slumber. There are very few nice words spoken about the price increase. Their faces all say the same thing: It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

Water pushers live in fear, Le Gouverneur tells me, and that’s part of the problem. Every day, hundreds of people abandon their homes in Burkina Faso’s countryside and set their sights on the bright lights of Ouagadougou — the Promised Land! When they arrive, they seldom find much hope or redemption. Instead, it’s only Ouagadougou, the sprawling, dusty capital of the world’s third poorest country, where under-educated and low-skilled workers need not apply.  

There are jobs in Ouagadougou, but they can only be found in the informal sector: an underground economy of low-wage service or sales positions that barely provide a living wage. These jobs remain outside the legal realm of the state, keeping the thousands of water pushers, street vendors, and parking lot attendants unprotected by Burkina Faso’s generous labor laws that guarantee paid holidays, sick leave, and protection from dismissal.

All of the water pushers were newcomers, at one point. Now, they fear that the latest crop of newcomers will walk off with their customers by undercutting their prices, offering the same services at rock-bottom prices. Customers leverage these age-old worries to drive down the price of labor, leaving the pushers with nothing.

A few younger pushers at the pump tire of the political talk and retire to a foosball table. Capitaine Américain quickly joins the game, and Le Gouverneur makes his way over to personally address Yangossen’s head water pusher. Le Gouverneur speaks in low, hushed tones, almost forcing his listeners to lean in as he speaks. The two look over the press release, and the older pusher summons a few others. Then, something strange begins to happen. As more pushers speak to the leader, the mood of the crowd shifts. People are soon speaking positively about the increase. It’s as if the bitter argument had been purely for show. After more talk, everyone gives their thumbs-up to the increase. A cheer breaks out among the crowd.

We walk back out to the blinding sun, our crowd swelled a little. Only five more pumps remain.

Pushing and suffering

Who says the informal sector is really that bad? Ask Le Gouverneur. Like every other water pusher, he pays 50 cents a day to rent his barrique. On top of that, he must reimburse the local water company 12 cents for each load of water drawn from the public pump. An average day consists of between five and seven deliveries, which earns Le Gouverneur about $1.40 (after costs). This amounts to just enough to buy breakfast, lunch, and dinner, with a bit left over to send his family in the village.  

His earnings won’t pay many bills — especially if he gets injured while steering his unstable barrique down the unpaved streets, or if one of his cuts becomes seriously infected. “All we do is push water and suffer,” says Le Gouverneur. “You can’t eat with that.”

Still, the informal economy is on the march. Africa’s sputtering commercial sector and shrinking state apparatus lead the International Labour Office to predict that the informal economy will create 90 percent of new jobs on the continent. This unprotected economy is already responsible for more than three-quarters of the non-agriculture jobs in Africa, and more than 60 percent of its urban employment.

We all stand at the next pump, Yangossen II, which lies at the edge of a wide road lined with low-slung houses and a few semi-permanent kiosks that contain small businesses. The neighborhood, Yangossen, is named after a word in the Mossi language (Burkina Faso’s predominant ethnic group) for welder, since metal workers traditionally inhabited this part of town. Metal shops, constructing anything from agricultural tools to school desks to large art pieces, still occupy many buildings here, their stock often spilling out into the street.

Across from the pump there is an earthen mosque, and a few old men in long, white robes sit against the building, reading the newspaper. We all look on as Le Gouverneur speaks to the pump’s lead water pusher, who wears a baseball cap low over his eyes and reclines in a small chair, a radio sitting in his lap. As the Muezzin summons Muslims to prayer, the two mosque speakers crackle with a low, throaty “Allah u Akbar, Allah u Akbar.” The old men fold their newspapers, get up, and go inside.

Le Gouverneur continues his plea. An older woman approaches the group and begins to lecture the idle pushers. “It’s going to start raining soon and nobody is going to buy water anyway, so why would you raise the price?” she asks, indignant. A chunky girl of six or seven years, wearing only underwear, begins harassing Capitaine Américain. “Capitain, Capitain,” she calls. He smiles and gives her a few cents, which she takes before running off.

By the time the prayer is over, the old men are once again reading their newspapers, and the pusher in the baseball cap nods. He mutters something to those sitting next to him, and Le Gouverneur grins. Things are definitely looking up, and a small cheer rings out. “This is just like the Americans: fighting for what is right,” says Capitaine Américain, walking to the next pump. “Cool.”

The African dream

The American dream is that anyone who works hard enough will be justly rewarded. In Africa, the dream is to travel beyond your borders to find good work and riches. This dream is especially powerful in Burkina Faso, a country that is not blessed with many resources. At one point, claims popular opinion, the country’s greatest export was its workers.  

For decades, the Cote d’Ivoire, just to the south of Burkina Faso, was the most popular destination of Burkinabé workers. Packed with thousands of acres of cocoa, banana, and rubber plantations, hundreds of miles of coastline, nearly 50,000 French expatriates, and pragmatic political leadership, the Cote d’Ivoire held the crown of West Africa’s economic engine. It attracted millions of émigrés trying their luck in its rural areas and teeming urban centers like Abidjan, the commercial capital. Before the civil war began there, nearly one quarter of Cote d’Ivoire’s population were immigrants, and half of those immigrants came from Burkina Faso.

It was in Abidjan that Capitaine Américain was born, and was raised with the knowledge that he had to leave Burkina Faso for a better life. His father had immigrated there as a young man, rose through the ranks to become the assistant to the manager of the Treichville market — an endless, chaotic, sprawling bazaar. As proof of his financial success, his father eventually took three wives, and Youssef was the second child born to the first. His blanket of prosperity was pulled out from under him at the age of 10. His mother and father died in an automobile accident, and he was sent to live in central Burkina Faso, where he spent his time tending cattle and attempting to avoid his uncle’s frequent beatings. He lasted two years before running away to Ouagadougou.

He doesn’t talk much about those times, living alone, sleeping on the streets of Dapoya. He first made ends meet by selling cigarettes and lottery tickets in front of bars in the neighborhood, and traveled the city selling shirts and music cassettes. He also tended cattle for a while, transporting a herd down to Ghana on foot.

Six years ago, he was accepted by members of the Dapoya water pushers, where he was allowed to rent a barrique and begin pushing for himself. A friend helped him move into an apartment, where he still lives with his younger brother. It doesn’t offer much for his oversized personality, but the place is neat and organized. The apartment is teeming with American paraphernalia, like the flags that ring the television set that is run on battery power. The Tommy Hilfiger towel hangs proudly on the wall. He will gladly show you pictures of the days before his large flag was stolen. Mostly, the apartment is notable for what it does not reveal. How did Youssef Ouedraogo, runaway, morph into Capitaine Américain?

Last stand

Let it be known that Ouagadougou’s ubiquitous art sellers — dealers in batiks, statues and other forms of folk art — are official members of the informal economy. Let it also be known that a certain art dealer next to the Sankaria I pump can be thoroughly annoying. Flying high after one more “yes” vote at the pump in the Nioksin district, we made our way through a large market area, weaving through hundreds of idling trucks waiting to be filled with sacks of rice and millet. We were about to descend upon the Sankaria I pump until a tall man cut through the group and stopped me in the middle of the road, demanding that I accompany him to his shop to buy some art. Typically large and aggressive, these salesmen beg your pardon, and then require you to just look at their beautiful wares. You don’t have to buy — just look, for the pleasure of your eyes.

I tried to pass him, but the grotesque fanny pack hanging under his shirt blocked me. From afar, I glimpsed Capitaine Américain and Le Gouverneur beginning their arguments. The art dealer was pointing me in the direction of his shop, and I watched the Sankaria’s lead pusher interrupt Le Gouverneur by holding his hand in front of his face. For the pleasure of your eyes, my friend. But my eyes don’t have any money. You know, I don’t make very much money, myself. I could only watch from a distance as Capitaine Américain tried to interject before a few pushers with thick necks began to mock him.

By the time I escaped from the vendor, I heard the head pusher impatiently explain to Capitaine Américain that a lack of houses near this pump forces pushers to charge a mere 150 West African francs (30 cents) a load — far less than the going rate. This puts any increase out of reach. Capitaine Américain was openly agitated, talking loudly and gesturing wildly. Le Gouverneur, who had walked away and turned his back to the small group, pleaded with them to reconsider. Nothing came of any of it.

The group walked off, heads down. Half a block away, a few younger pushers violently turned back and started back towards the pump. They huffed at Sankaria’s pushers, forcing others to rush back and restrain them. Capitaine Américain was incensed. “They’ll have to respect the boundaries between neighborhoods,” he said of the pushers at Sankaria I. “They can’t cross the line and sell water for 150. That’s taking away our food.” What happens if Sankaria pushers will not respect the boundaries? “There will be combat.”

The pushers at the next pump are waiting for us. They are all young and aggressive. Groups of three or four chase each other around, punching and kicking. Others harass the young women walking by. Capitaine Américain is still too angry to talk; Le Gouverneur finds few people willing to listen.

“It’s not easy, working this hard,” says Idrissa, another pusher, between fights. “You can’t find enough money for food.” He is 21 years old, and began pushing water six months ago. “I’ll be doing this for the next three to four years.”  

Capitaine Américain entered the tent that covered the pump. Pushers crowded in, jockeying for position. Voices boomed, but Capitaine Américain’s was the loudest. It was the same debate as before. Pushers work too hard to get paid so little, he’d say, which elicited a great cheer. Multiple discussions broke out for a few minutes before people began laughing and clapping, signaling their ratification of the price increase. Finally, Capitaine Américain emerged from the tent with an older pusher in a grey cutoff shirt, grabbed his hand, and shook it. The older pusher pointed at Idrissa who, with the least seniority, had to chip in for the radio advertisement. “He’ll help pay,” he said. The other pushers stopped running around as Le Gouverneur approached Idrissa, who placed his hands in his pocket and turned it inside out, indicating he was empty. “The other one,” asked Le Gouverneur. Idrissa gave his boss a distressed look, but the head pusher repeated the command. He pulled out a wad of coins and glumly handed over the equivalent of 50 cents.

52 States of America

That left only two pumps, and they were pushovers. Looking back, Sankaria I proved to be the only hurdle to the water pushers’ first raise in seven years. Most pushers, as Le Gouverneur and Capitaine Américain had predicted, were only too happy to go along with the plan.  

Nearly as impressive, the customers had only mild reactions when the price increase went into effect. Most grumbled, but everyone was resigned to paying a bit more. This, of course, didn’t stop people from trying to sweet-talk their way into a deal. “I have been like a mother to you, so you should charge me 200 [the equivalent of 40 cents],” a woman pleaded with Capitaine Américain. He smiled. “If I do that, Le Gouverneur will find out and he’ll be all over me.”

For Capitaine Américain, the euphoria over the price increase only lasted a few weeks. By then, the rains began to fall more frequently and customers cut back their water deliveries. He was already starting on his next project: to get a visa to the United States. I should have guessed it all along, with his dropped hints, and his complaints about life in Burkina Faso. His friends made the first overtures (“He’s so American, it scares me,” someone said), but one day he finally broached the subject himself. He showed me his new tattoo, for which he had paid a fortune. It had the name of his latest girlfriend next to a large American flag, and the words: “U.S.A. — 52 States.” I was angry about the money he had spent. As for the visa, I told him I couldn’t promise anything. There just isn’t a big market for water pushers in those 52 states. He took it in stride, letting me know that he won’t give up just yet. “I am American; I need to be doing better,” he told me. “That much is clear.”

A final salute.

In The Fray Contributor