Toto was right. The band, not the dog.

July 2009

The sound of rain on the tin roof lifts me out of sleep earlier than I’m use to- grogy, and overwhelmed by a sensation whose name elludes me. After existing ten months sans goosebumps….could it be… could I finally be… cold… in the dessert? Fumbling in slight disbelief, I extract a sleeping bag from the array of useless items stored under the bed. I won’t attempt to put in words the contentment I feel, to be warmly buried under covers. Because it’s nothing words can do justice to, as a Minnesotan living like a fish out of water in the dessert. Bonfires and snowy nights- cozy is a precious adjective I’ve missed, almost as much barbacoa burrito bowls with three cheese queso, quac and those chips that have the slight lime taste.

I bless the rains down in Africa…

The sleeping bag made its second debut under slightly more interesting circumstances. Like clock work, downpours in Burkina are proceeded by an episode of gall force winds. Sand, assorted garbage, chicken feathers, and millions of black plastic baggies are lifted into the sky like pieces of unsightly glitter in a sorry snow globe. Most of the time in Burkina is spent outdoors and therefore, more often than not the sudden onslaught of wind finds us all at the market or otherwise en route to somewhere other than home. Of course the ultimate goal in such a predicament is not just to make it to any shelter but to your particular home shelter, because once the rains starts its where you’ll most likely spend the rest of the day. Racing mottos, runners, walkers, cows, goats, bush taxis, vendors with their carts, women with their vegetables, children on galloping donkeys and white girls on ten speed bikes all push against the winds as they converge and dodge one another on the paths of Koupéla… I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t entertaining… but then again, almost anything is entertaining when you live in Africa.

The ten speed is in low gear as I book it over bumpy paths to my courtyard door, an effort so frenzied I can almost watch it unfold in slow motion. It seems as though I get back to the house right as the rain begins, using my last energy to gather odds and ends into the house, and play tug of war with the wind as I fight to latch the door. The rain that pelts the tin roof is so loud, I can’t hear the music when my headphones are in and on full volume.

Usually the winds are tempered as soon as the first drops of rain give way to downpour. But sometimes the winds and rains miss their usual timing completely, colliding in a marvelous storm. I know because I recently had such an experience. When straight-line winds lifted the overlapping slates on my tin roof apart- allowing heavy rains and chicken feathers to pour into the house in comical amounts. When faced with the onslaught of a flood, and pieces of bird, you try in vein at first to exert some control. And after having uttered some choice profanities, you realize there’s little more you can do than protect the things you can and have a good laugh. Unfortunately I couldn’t save the bed, it was drenched, but the “useless” sleeping bag underneath it was fine and again came in handy as Ollie and I huddled in a corner to watch our house fail as a shelter.


I admitt, the song “Africa” by Toto was my ring tone for probablly a little over a year. Its perhaps the only song I’d be passionate enough to embarrass myself over in a round of karaoke. In fact I’ve blessed the rains in Africa so many times, I’m sure the words must have made a deep imprint of rainy season expectations somewhere deep in my subconscious. Fear not, happily I report that the rains are as magically spectacular and as potent a relief as I could have imagined.

But to fully appreciate the transformative power of the rains, I’d like to first review the chaotic aesthetic I’ve found myself in for the past 10 months. Koupéla can be described in one word - “jalopy.” With two words at my disposal I’d say “rusty jalopy.” Of course if you’ve been to the developing world, you know that I could be describing any and every minor capital. The city has the type of endearing character that makes you shake your head and smile at the same time. The wipers don’t work, the clutch is shot, and the springs in the seat pose a constant threat of tetanus while the horn manages to spontaneously honks itself. Any parts that function are unreliable at best and dangerous at worst. And its not exactly pretty- why so many jalopies find their fate ditched in a field, slowly to be hidden by the slightly more attractive over growth.

And outside the city you’ll find Burkina for the most part to be a deforested, barren, dessert land… “Intense” seems to be a choice word among volunteers when describing our surroundings, and I think the reason stems in part from the fact that humans are, at our most primitive levels, undeniably governed by our subconscious survival instincts. There’s just something about miles of barren sun scorched earth that contradicts life and invokes feelings of restlessness and slight claustrophobia. Lone trees dot the desolate landscape as if to stand as eerie pillars of strength, owing their existence to some unexplainable phenomena or chance of fate. There’s a gut instinct that doesn’t quite let you be comfortable in such conditions, some survival warning signal ringing “move on, no life here” in the back of your head.


I don’t have words for the first drops of rain to hit the parched soil, and how it wasn’t until that moment when I realized that I too, like the land, was desperate for water. Then slowly, despite the seeming odds, plants and grass slowly emerged through gravel and cinder block strewn soils. Spaces once desolate of all but trash, stray dogs and walking paths were suddenly combed into neatly plowed rows of sprouting crops. Even a month earlier, I couldn’t have fathomed that my running route was once a field a corn. With crops sprouting in every conceivable corner, getting around the neighborhood takes more time. But at least there’s a scenic route. At least there’s scenery, period. The heaps a trash and debris, half burnt clothes, shoe’s with lost mates, plastic baggies, pieces of fabric, charred plastic parts which characterize Koupela's urban landscape all slip slowly out of focus and under a veil of shrubbery. Fields that were desolate miles of sun scorched earth held down by lone trees explode in a mixture of towering corn, twelve foot high millet, and rustling prairie grass; a tapestry of green as far as the eye can see. Like an old Jalopy receiving a paint job, the rust and grit of Koupela has a stunning new disguise. And though it’s still far from a tropical oasis, Burkina appears habitable and plentiful and satiates my dessert claustrophobia.

After ten months of dessert living, spending the first Burkina rains in side was just not an option. I will never forget the sweetness, and even more, the profound feeling that a life force had returned as I puddle jumped among happy ducks and pigs. It was so sweet. Rain has never felt so comforting. It was also one of the first moments that being seen as the crazy white girl absolutely and totally did not matter in the least bit. Yes, I’ve done crazy things before. Like walking to walk, and not to go anywhere. Or running to run, not to escape. But walking in the rain out of sheer pleasure was pushing it.

“WHERE ARE YOU GOING?!” My neighbors cry out as they see me from their shelters.

I act as though a pre-meditated journey was somehow interrupted by this sudden rain, to justify my excursion. Sometimes I just point to my raincoat, as if it were superman’s cape making me impervious to doing anything as culturally inappropriate as bearing the elements. Look out, I’m wearing the jacket.

I don’t think its any surprise that the truth of the essence of things is found in the cradle of humanity. At least that is how I’ve always felt about Africa- that the laws of the land and its universal truths are revealed here in a comparatively potent dose. Though I’m increasingly less inclined to think that the absence of frivolity found in poverty is the sole catalyst… though it is, undeniably, a prominent influence. Africa has a spirit, a passion, a truth, that seeps through this fickle land of red earth for those who are ready to hear. One truth which seems to incessantly re play itself during my service is the innate balance to the things which occur in our lives. All situations are innately neither good nor bad, but rather a balance ultimately found in temperance an acceptance. No matter how elated or dejected I am in reaction to a little or big experience here, I am invariably lead to the flip side of the coin for better or worse.

For all the beauty and rejuvenation rainy season brings, I can’t say that I’ve been thrilled about the influx of insects- whose populations seemed to explode overnight. Keep in mind that I live in something I call a "barely house," which, as it implies, basically means that I share with all the insects who easily find there way in. They come in seasons- like the termite season. So thick were the termites in the air, that I had to wear glasses at all times while biking, and often shield my eyes while simply walking. I had to be strategic with the lights at night, and when opening and closing the door. * Fried termites aren't half bad. Then, there was the locust season, which made many biblical stories come alive in new and horrifying ways. Did you know, when a locust flies into you, it can actually hurts? They make thumping noise when they hit a wall. And the fact that mosquitoes came in droves goes without saying. Every person I knew at one point or another has had malaria since the rains begun. Except me, thanks to the daily doxycycline which has killed every good bacteria in my system, and left me a GI mess.

But when it comes to insects, I’ve saved the best for last. In Burkina, there exists an insect so foul, that one may argue it has perfectly evolved to scare the living bejesus out of white girls attempting to live in Africa. It’s a spider, whose French name translates roughly as “Scorpion Carrier.” My personal theory is the name is the reflection of the spider’s size and subsequent physical abilities. On one dark night I learned another endearing characteristic of the Scorpion Carrier is the fact that its eyes are big enough to reflect light in the dark. This, my friends, is the measure of a big spider. If you think you’ve seen a big spider, tell me if it looks like a deer in the headlights when under a flashlight beam. Because that’s where the bar is now set. Also- Scorpion Carriers are attracted to light. At least this adds a dimension of excitement to reading in bed at night.

I smell a RAT

It was around 8pm when I pushed open our stubborn courtyard door, intending to finish night chores as quickly as possible and dive into the next episode of Dawson’s Creek. Never watched a minute of the show in “real life,” but when I saw season five among the slim pickings at the PC transit house, I knew I had at least a week’s worth of precious English entertainment on my lifesaving laptop. By disc two, I’m finally getting into it. Dawson and Joey can be slightly compelling, in the “you live in an unrealistic alternative universe” type of way.

Have you ever had an experience of immediately sensing that something is not quite right, except your mind can’t fill in the blank quickly enough? It took a couple seconds of processing to realize the missing link. Olie, the sixth sense dog who, according to Yolan, starts waiting for me five minutes before I get home, has yet to great me. I call his name a couple times. Nothing.

Whether or not Dawson and Joey will ever figure was now officially the last of my concerns. Naïve, plump, Americanized dog missing after dark- an ideal target for dog meat lovers and testosterone filled territorial male dogs trying to be alpha during the current love making season. My baby! As I ran to my house to find a good flashlight, the “what-if?!” alarm bells were chiming so loudly that I hardly noticed Olie and company parked on the side of the house. The bugger hadn’t gone missing after all. He was unmistakably right there, completely occupied by something he was struggling to pin underneath him. Is that the tail of a cat protruding from underneath my young dog? Thoughts of Olie’s wellbeing quickly shift to my own as I realize my dog quite possibly killed a neighbor’s animal, a social transgression of the highest order. Sara’s social capital: about to plummet.

I yell his name and lock him inside, grab the flashlight and return to the scene to assess the damage. I didn’t get far. When the flashlight’s beam revealed an obscenely long and hairless tail that was still moving- I knew it was not a cat. My feet decided to run outside before my mind could wrap itself around what I just saw.

I guess the benefit of living across the street from a loud teenage hangout is the ability to find capable wee-men at any hour of the day. And so I will describe to you what I consider one of my whitest and girliest moments in Africa. I venture out of my house, still in church clothes- wearing a nice dress, necklace, makeup, in addition to shoes with heels, to ask for help.

“Um, excuse me but I seem to have a wild animal that is injured next to my house, and I wonder if someone can come and remove it?”

Teenage boys giggle amongst each other until three boys, all very nice, get up to regard my situation. Surprisingly their curiosity turns to apprehension as they enter the courtyard. Together we cautiously venture to the animal’s last known where a bouts until we see two beaty eyes reflecting our several flashlights. Bingo.

At first I think it’s a Wallaby… at least it seemed to be the closest match to the animal object schemas in my head. Understand that mutant monster rats have previously only existed in my life through the riveting series Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. My Splinter phase died out years ago. When I think of rats I see cute spotted rodents playing nicely in their cages at Petsmart. But lo, on this fateful night my mind expanded to the unnerving possibility that rodents bigger than house cats can and do exist.

Its tail was at least three feet long.

Fortunately my disgust didn’t kill the mood. The boys went giddy and quickly brought sticks and rocks to the scene to end the animal’s last miserable chapter. A chapter including the animal’s initial attempt to fake death, which was discovered when it thrashed about violently when a boy picked it up by the tail. Phase two of the stoning did end up yielding one unmistakably dead monster rat. I’d had quite enough excitement for the night after the bloodshed. All I could say was, “please, just throw it over the wall now.”

The boys looked at me in shock but patiently explained, “Madame, we eat this.” I laugh, of course you do. And why wouldn’t you, its free meat. Having the memory of the first bat I ever ate still fresh in my mind, eating a rat now didn’t seem nearly as fear-factor-esque. So I chime in- “ok, bring me a piece when it’s cooked, I want to try.” After all, this is the spirit that made me realize I prefer cow tongue to goat meat- a pretty great discovery. And apparently they sell cow tongue in upper end grocery stores in the states. It will surely cushion my culinary re-adjustment.

But unfortunately as the story goes, my palate never expanded to include mutant Rat. The youngest of the three boys knocked on my door five minutes later and informed me:

“Madam, the old women next door says you can’t eat Rat because you’re a woman. Because the Rat is an animal that steals things, if you eat it your children will become thieves.”

I didn’t argue- some risks just aren’t worth it. Plus, the next chapter of Dawson and Joey’s angsty relationship was waiting.

Polio Vaccination

I sometimes have a hard time writing because my reality is so scewed, random, and hard to translate. I could relay the most eventful thing of this week- the discovery of oats in a nearby city, and the fact I can now eat oatmeal for breakfast. As you see, monumenal news is not always great reading material.

The other day, Yolan and I found one of our chickens dead in the courtyard. He’d been missing for a couple of days, and it was hard to say just how long he had been dead. Long enough that some animal had time to excavate pieces of meat from the breast and thigh. But we ate him anyway. Yolan’s son saw I was having a hard time getting it down so he piped up “Hey, in Africa its like that. You find something dead and you eat it.”

Yolan has had a couple moments. Her chicken decided to lay its eggs in a garbage heap on the far side of our courtyard. She’s been up in arms about her hens poor nest selection ever since. We build a plastic bag teepee around the bird to protect it from the rain.The other night we went out to examine the nest, and to our surprise found that one of the eggs had actually hatched. Yolan seeme excited and terrified.

“What if the animal with the black nose comes?”

“What?!”

Yolan grabs her flash light and starts digging around the yard for a certain leaf, and proceeds to sprinkle it around the hens nest.

“If the black nose comes, he’ll die if he walks past these leafs.”

OK Yolan. Ps- the black nose animal, I later find out, is a Rat.

Yesterday it rained nearly all day. By nightfall it had cooled to 80 degrees…I was wearing a fleece. Yolan wanted to go out and get beers, and I wasn’t about to argue. Yolan’s beer order is as follows:

“Yes, I want a warm beer”
“We don’t have any beer that’s warm”
“Well, can you take the beer out and put it in warm water.”
“Yes ma’am.”

I give Yolan the eye. Usually we’re fussing over the beer not being cold enough. Because its never cold enough. But Yolan insists:

“I’m not drinking cold beer when its cold outside, I need to warm up!”

To each their own.

Now that I think of it, I haven’t mentioned Burkinabe and their weird beverage habbits. Mixing beverages is common place. Beer with tonic, tonic with coke, coke and beer. But beer and tonic is probablly the most common. “It tastes like champaigne”

Anyway, I also work here in Burkina. The CSPS just finished our fourth Polio vaccinatation this year.

Polio is much more common in Burkina than it should be, but from the look of things it’s not for a lack of effort by the Ministry of Health. Every couple of months Burkina has a country wide, four day, door to door vaccination campaign. Burkina has even managed to market Polio eradication with a catchy little soccer player logo, and the moto “Kick Polio out of Burkina Faso.” The logo appears on the jerseys vaccinators wear, the portable vaccine coolers they carry, and large bill boards in the capital city.

I helped organize and cheer on three polio campaigns, but when it came to the fourth and most recent I wasn’t willing to stand by.

“Major, I want to work in the field on the campaign.”
“You can?”
“Sure! Why not?”
“Ok, you’ll be in sector three.”

* Note the Major’s reaction “You can?” because we’ll revisit it.

So here I am, excited to do some hands on field work. Not so hard, right? Just a friendly door to door/ neighbor hood round up of kids 0-5 years old- the population’s largests demographic group. A couple drops of vaccine in the mouth, a little permenant marker on the finger. Afterwards you mark the number of kids you vaccinated with chalk on their courtyard door/mudwall/ what have you. If no one is home you put a zero, if they refuse to be vaccinated you put a zero with a slash.

I was at the CSPS by 6am the first day of vaccination, and even stoped for a cup of coffee before. By 6:30 my partner and I had hit the streets, or paths, as they are. Finding unvaccinated kids the first day was easy, and I enjoyed getting them in little groups and going down the line with vaccinations. I know a few phrases in Moore, like “come here,” and “good job.” But what amazes me is how much communication is accomplished souley with body language. Like, hold out your left pinky finger to mark, like this. Or, here I’m squatting on the ground on your level, don’t be scared.

Around 9:30 my sense of fulfillment was being undermined by a merciless sun on a cloudless day… It was already atleast a 100 degrees in the shade. By 10:30 I could feel my nose and forehead burning, and was kicking myself for forgetting my sunscreen. We were a good thirty minutes on foot away from my house- there was no going back. By 11 my legs started cramping, and I drank atleast a liter of unfiltered water because my nalgene had long since been empty. Koupéla doesn’t exactally follow the block system of organization. There’s a lot of going down dead ends and retracing ones steps, winding around random dirt paths, or walking 15 minutes between housing clusters. There’s a lot of walking, is my point. Did I mention my partner was a fast walker to boot?

Even though I was parched and hurting, it was nice to get to know a sector of Koupela in depth. It’s a big city, 18,000 people. And after seven months of brown, to say it was refreshing to visit my city in green would be an understatment.

Each campaign day, there are certain vaccination quotas we are expected to meet. Everyone generally agrees that it’s inhumane to work past noon in the sun- its kind of a given. If you meet quota before noon you’re expected to continue until all of your viles are empty. If all of your viles are empty, ofcourse you can make your way home regardless of time.

During that first day, we didn’t reach quota and get back to the CSPS until 12:15. Most of the thirty other teams were already back, including several doctors that had been surveying on moto. People started cheering when they saw me, and making an entirely too big of a deal out of the fact that I had made it through the morning. Ok, I guess the cheering was kind of nice. And I admitt it was really hard, much harder than I thought, but at the same time the fact they were so shocked that I could do it made me want to prove to them I wasn’t a weak little white girl. Even though, comparatively, I totally am. At the time I was somewhere in between throwing up and passing out in heat exhaustion. I went home, chugged a liter of oral rehydration salt, dumped a bucket of water over my head, and slept a few hours until the pains in my stomach reminded me that I took a chance with some shady water earlier in the day. So begins the story of the night- between the sound of rain pounding on my tin roof and the chronic dihareah which had me grabbing my raincoat atleast every hour, I hardly slept.

The next morning I explained to Major, “I’ve been running like a fawcett, I need something strong to plug me up if I’m making it through the day.” Major and I are very comfortable talking about these things. I was hoping he’d take one look at the bags under my eyes, the threat of dehydration and suggest that I sit this day out. Its was wishful thinking to be sure- taking sick days just isn’t part of the culture.

The morning proved to be difficult. Most of sector three had been covered by our group of six volunteers the day before. It was a matter of hitting the villages on the outskirts, and re walking everything to find the doors marked with an O where no one was home the previous day. Much more walking than vaccinating.

The first five children we found threw tantrums. Apparently they hadn’t slept that well either. Let me tell you, its hard to vaccinate a child that doesn’t want to be vaccinated. I took it upon myself to quickly pin the screaming children to the ground and pop the drops in their mouth between screams. It wasn’t pretty, but after witnessing parents the previous day I felt better being the one to exert any necessary force, rather than bearing witness to a parents royal beating. But I almost got bit once. Another kid immediately spit the serum out and onto my cheek. It’s one of those times you’re thinking, “well, I’ll go ahead and put pinning others people’s children to the ground” on the list things I’d never do in the States. However it did, for a short time, wake me up.

By ten oclock we were on the outskirts of Koupela, where green has finally blanketed the countryside. Huts on the outskirts of town are scattered, and we quickly found them to all be empty. Because of the rains the previous night, everyone had left their houses to cultivate in the fields. My partner, the one who actually knew where we were going, said there was a compound further out that had atleast 40 children… it would go a far way towards reaching quota. Further out? Great, I say, looking around to acknowledge the vast nothingness. Where is it? Alizeta points in a direction, with trees and fields as far as the eye can see. Burkina’s a flat country, and I’m not seeing any houses. Anywhere. The thought of walking into the abyss under African sun didn’t exactally sit well with me- particuarly because I had no reason to think this compound would be different than any other compound. People are in the fields! Yet we began our mini million mile march to oblivion. I balanced the vaccine cooler strap on my head and leaned forward until it was on my forhead, starring at me feet as I willed them to keep pace. Step by step, step by step, until a half hour later the compound was reached.

Every so often I see a muslim woman in a burka walking through the streets of Koupela. When we reached the compound, as suspected we didn’t find any children. But I did find out where all the burka wearin’ divas were hiding out. This muslim family could not have been more isolated. We took a fifteen minute break under a tree in the family’s courtyard. As I watched the women in burka’s working around me, I couldn’t help but attempt to see their faces- a compulsion I hoped wasn’t too obvious.

The overall results for the first two days were excellent. I think the diminished sense of urgency allowed Major to take pitty on me- or maybe it was my beet red face and dragging legs, or the fact I was pounding ORS salts to stay hydrated.

“Sa-ra. Do you see now? You said yes yes, I can do this work. And I thought no no, you can’t do this work. I think its better if we use you on the computer”

I conceed. Perhaps it’s best to let the Burkinabé be the ones to march under their sun.

Other work related news: I started a theater group! I have tweleve students, most in high school, some in from primary school. We meet every Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday in the empty Youth Center. The CSPS has graciously allowed us to bring benches over there so we don’t have to sit on the floor. Our first subject is broadly infant and child health, and touches on issues such as when and how to wean, the three food groups and what nutrition is important for growing kids, how to prevent illness, and general rules for caring for a sick child. We are going to do an enriched porridge and ORS salt demonstration in the skit as well. I’ve already started talking with various NGOs around Koupela to let them know we’ll have a theater troup ready to preform.

Part 1

Street vendors outside of Banfora

(Stay tuned for Part 2)

Baby Goat Parade

Sweet Success

The kid who made it all worth it

While my projects have been struggling to get off the ground, I find most of my contributions on an individual level. And such is life. I have accumulated a following of street kids who I feed. They call me Aunty, and I’m greeted with smiles and high fives when our paths meet. I’ve witnessed two old women get hit by mottos… and let me tell you, few things get to me like seeing a grandma face down on the cement. Both confused ladies were accompanied to the CSPS where I paid for their treatment. But the most difficult yet rewarding interactions I’ve had are with malnourished kids I find in my neighborhood. Recently I discovered a pair of twins and mother who left the Ivory Coast to be cared for by their family in Burkina. The mother’s breast milk had stopped, and the eight month old twins were entering the terminal stages of severe malnutrition- where the body’s systems begin shutting down and the smallest whimpers are hard to muster. One of the twins, Husayn, is the most acute case of malnutrition I’ve seen. And because I’ve been witness to children better off dying on a whim, there was a very real worry that we may only be moments away from loosing him too. He was unresponsive, lifeless; the nothingness of his body was a heavy burden on my heart as I carried him to the hospital.

If a baby was dying on Grey’s Anatomy, all relationship drama would halt to a stop as the world of machines and professionals converged in the fight for life. When you hold a dying baby, your fighting instinct and that child are the only things in the world that matter. But when a child is going into organ failure from severe malnutrition, there’s no dramatic ER moment. There is no quick medical fix and thus no satisfying outlet for your desire to do something, anything and everything for the child. The fact of the matter is, as critical as it is to nourish such a child, their body is too broken to maintain basic homeostasis- let alone metabolize food or IV fluid. An IV can actually kill a malnourished kid, even though they may be dying from dehydration. All you can do is give a few small servings of nutrients a day. And all you have to go on is hope- hope that the child won’t die before the small doses of nutrients have a chance to revive him.

Husayn and his family have been living at the nutritional rehabilitation center called The CREN for the past month, where I've been checking on them frequently. I breathed a sigh of relief and amazement every morning I found Husayn was still hanging on with his carefully rationed doses of nutrients. Then over the Fourth of July I took a week long vacation, continuing to think of the family while I was away. So anxious was I to see the babies when I got home, that I simply untied my bags from my bike and pedaled right to the CREN.

I didn’t recognize Husayn at first; he had become a different baby entirely

Not only was he sitting up by himself, but smiley and even laughing. The nasal tube which had been placed to force food into his stomach had been replaced with his growing appetite and energy to eat. His eyes were bright with the life which had returned, and the joy it brought my heart is too precious for words.

Husayn is a diamond of success in my ocean of frustrations.


Closer to Fine, on a fairly personal note..

“The less I seek my source for some definitive…”

Research done by the Peace Corps concludes the 6-8 month mark at site is a time of maladjustment. The honeymoon is over. It’s too early to derive satisfaction from your struggling projects… and it’s definitely too early to feel at home. However 6-8 months is quite an adequate amount of time to realize what types of things won’t work…through a steady succession of “learning experiences” (aka, failures). According to my self-declared “anthro-nerd” friend in Burkina, the process of cultural adjustment can be roughly broken into the following categories: the honeymoon period, homesickness, hostility, and finally- not quite but kind of like home. Like the stages of grief these stages are expressed in a non-linear fashion. But seven months at site has unmistakably landed me in the stage termed “hostility”… just fed up with the way things work, the things I’m unable to change, and the things I have to tolerate (see “the honesty factor” below).

Strange things come to pass with having too much time on your hands and being isolated. You memorize the daily and weekly schedules of World BBC, as well as how to judge the quality of short wave radio reception by the position of the sun. Novels are consumed within days. (A Prayer for Owen Meany is hands down my new favorite book). And slowly your scattered inner monologues begin merging into a super-ego monologue whose purpose is:

- to be the voice of reason and perspective *and assert you aren’t going crazy
- remember that life still exists outside of Burkina Faso
- create purpose and structure within a day

Dealing with isolation is something you learn as you go, and not a moment sooner. I find spending so much time by myself as insightful as it is challenging. Its easy to clearly see how the fullness of life in the US as well as the ability to mindlessly fill down time with whatever’s on the tube or friends kept my mind from plunging into its present state of being with itself. But in the expanse of time and space I currently find myself, many thoughts, feelings and experiences which were strategically tucked away (repressed) are finding their way to the surface… putting their unsightly faces right up in mine as if to say “hey, deal with me.” And as hard as that is, the super-ego “you’re not going crazy” monologue I mentioned likes to tell me, “hey, it’s really a blessing to have an opportunity to see things for what they are and work through them… it makes you better.” I was doing some reading in the inspirational/spiritual genre and came across this perfect quote:

“But it is the being still that is so hard for us. It often takes illness, loss, suffering of some kind, isolation and loneliness. Only when we have come to the end of our own resources, when few distractions are left to us, does it become possible to be quiet” (and thus, spiritual)

Burkina forces you to find new levels of inner strength. The remedy for a hard day in the states is in a great conversation with a close friend, or a drive to my favorite song. A shameless trip to Taco Bell for a chicken quesadilla. Or watching missed episodes of the Daily Show on my computer. The people and things I love in the US fill me, and are an instant source of comfort after a hard day. In other words, it doesn’t take a lot of effort to turn a bad day around… my coping systems are time tested and guaranteed. But Burkina has wiped my hard drive clean and forced me to reboot- quickly. When you’re even slightly isolated outside of your element and something gets under your skin, without quick productive action and a book of inspirational quotes, the affliction quickly boils and festers and sticks like a splinter. There’s so little else to distract you, and new coping mechanisms are only beginning to take form. Subsequently, one thing I’ve been forced to improve on is the skill of just letting things go before they have a chance to touch me… lest they enter the tunnel vision of my small world and wind me into a funk. It’s an extremely mindful exercise. The challenge cultivates optimism and resilience and I’m willing myself not to forget this gold lining.

I took karate for many years when I was younger. The word DISCIPLINE was driven into me through knuckle pushups and pushing through an asthma attack during my black belt exam. I’ve carried bow heavy canoes for miles through the Boundary Waters while mosquitoes dug into every inch of exposed skin. I thought I had this discipline thing down. But I’ve realized that physical discipline comes much easier for me than mental strength and resilience. It’s been a humbling observation, to say the least. Being a health volunteer is one of the more unstructured Peace Corps assignments. Because nothing gets done unless you’re not only a self starter, but have the energy to motivate others. At first the motivation was second nature- I’m sincerely passionate about this work. But I’m the first health volunteer in Koupela- which means I start from scratch. And after months of trying to learn, of being overwhelmed, of having kids die and finding people too busy or apathetic to start up projects… my energy has dwindled to the point where it takes discipline to stay focused and some days to move one foot in front of the other. Because really, I don’t have to be anywhere or do anything… and sometimes that’s precisely how inspired my frustrations have left me. Life has never been more, or less, of what I make it.

I’ll just throw it out there- food continues to be an issue. I started thinking about Tostitos chips and good salsa last night- but the delicious fantasy became infused with anxiety and a twitching leg. Yes, late at night I fantasize about food…it might be my super-ego’s way of torturing itself. The only other thing I’ve ever fantasized about to the same degree was living in Africa when I was back in the states...funny how one fantasy has led to another. To date I’ve had three dreams of McDonalds, a not so guilty pleasure of mine. Each dream happened early in the morning and involved me being immersed in large quantities of burgers and fries, like a scene out of Honey I Shrunk the Kids. And let me tell you-it was great. Hands down best dreams ever. Once I thought of my parents eating steaks and potatoes at the cabin and became teary-eyed in the middle of a work day. After suffering through the various food references in books and DVDs, I now make sure to keep a bag of peanuts on the bedside table when I read or watch a movie… It took coming to Africa to realize that a disproportionate number of classic American novels make food references- specifically to greasy burger diners. A Prayer for Owen Meany, The Color Purple, Grapes of Wrath, On the Road, and The Dharma Bums immediately come to mind. And it’s extremely rare to watch a movie without seeing food or at least a restaurant. When good food enters my head instead of my mouth, it’s a huge itch I can’t reach to scratch. This paragraph seems dramatic when I read it, but be assured, I state my simple truth. The good news is, from time to do I do have cravings for my Burkinabé options. Tonight, for example, I will indulge in over-cooked greasy spaghetti noodles rolled in tomato past, magi cubes, and a few onions- and I look forward to it. Another local favorite is red millet To dipped in Gumbo sauce. Like taking a bath, I eat my To until my fingers are pruney. Its quite filling.

This all being said (blog therapy), I have a plan. Super-ego monologue says: you just need to keep kicking your own butt, this is making you better, and things will come along. Super-ego motivational themes currently include:

1. Its just growing pains, you’ll be a better person
2. Don’t forget the big picture
3. BE POSITIVE
4. Dream


Its all Relative, the challenges of culture

The Honesty Factor

After hand washing my clothes and sheets for eight months, I finally decided to pay someone to do my laundry. Best. Decision. Ever- If only to feel supported, and to never again have to hand wash a fitted sheet. Anyway, doing the laundry required a lot of water, so I always fill up my jugs before she comes over. So one day I go to the water pump to do just that, and talk to the guy who employs the boys who bring people water. He assures me water will come within the next couple of hours, “the boys are out working right now, when they come back to refill I’ll tell them to go to your house right away.” Perfect, I call my laundry girl over. But the boys never came. And when I questioned the guy about it later he shrugs “the boys don’t work today.” Apparently I didn’t get the memo that today ways “Opposite Day” or national “Say the Opposite of What You Mean” day. So I paid my laundry girl for coming, and had her do a couple dishes.

But the thing is, if its not “Opposite Day” in Burkina, its “Say Yes When You Mean No” day, or “Say You’ll Do Something You Haven’t the Slightest Intention of Ever Doing” day. I’d say roughly 90 percent of my interactions end with me thinking “What?! But you just said…” So from the American standpoint, its easy to feel as though Burkinabé lie and manipulate like its their job… and that they do it so easily so innocently. Of course I say this knowing that my version of truth is my cultural lens. We have a scientific based, information-fused culture -We expect the facts. Lo, this is not how Burkina operates. People will smile and shake my hand under God that the bus is leaving in 15 minutes. After two hours I give up arguing for my money back, and after five hours we’re pulling out of the bus station. I could have found another bus. I could have been home already. So I invoke my super-ego monologue and attempt not to feel manipulated, while reminding myself that matters of logistics are not Burkina’s strong suit. As my friend Julia said while we waited five hours for the bus:

“You hate to feel like your complaining and frustrated all the time, but this type of thing happens all the time”

My boyfriend-no-more taught me that for Burkinabé, every day is national “Say What You Need to Say to Get What You Want” day, or “Say What You Think She Wants To Hear” day. Suffice it to say, “la verité,” the truth, was a recurrent debate in our doomed relationship… usually after I discovered something I would have liked to have know before getting myself involved, or while trying to plan, or merely trying to understand our interactions. “You think there can be one definitive truth?” He would say. To which I would reply, “Many conflicting facts does not a truth make.” I wish it translated as nicely in French.

Yes, my first inter-cultural relationship was a beautiful mess of misunderstandings, small and large, mainly centered on the fact that I never knew what was going on or what to think due to this whole truth factor. I’ll give you a relatively benign example.

“Hey, do you want to do something tonight?”
“Yes, let’s eat dinner.”
“Ok, I’ll make dinner for us.”
“Ok sounds good.”

7pm, 8pm, finally at 9pm I call

“Where are you, dinner’s been ready”
“I’m working.”
“What, we were having dinner? I made you dinner!”
“I can’t I work at the hospital tonight.”
“You said ‘Yes, let’s eat dinner.”

Why do you tell me we can do something if you work? Probably for the same reason the water boy says he’s working when he’s not.

IT IS NOT LOGICAL.

I’m just trying to live my life here people. Throw me a bone. I’m a planner, I’m an American, I NEED something concrete, something sure, something HONEST.

Intellectually I know I can’t look at this in terms of honesty. Compared to Americans, Burkinabé are not as concerned with exactitudes, certainly not as hurried, and not as bound by foresight or planning. Of course the challenge with intellectual concepts is translating them into emotional truths.

Oh Burkina

The endearing side of culture

Burkina’s cute quirks

Its true- Burkinabé drive me crazy. But they’re also a lot of fun. Burkina Faso has a closed culture. As Yolan says, “when you look at someone else, you know they are just like you.” Whereas in the states we posture and categorize people before entering into anything remotely real or intimate. Burkina is more like a close friend group on a population level- its one big click with the same sayings, annotations with certain words, sense of humor and gestures. I’ve been here long enough now to feel a part of the click. I know when to drop the “ah bon?” oh really? and how to drop it. And I know where and how to inject the emphatic “uh-huhs” when I’m being told a story. I know to clap my hands and bend my knee when I’m greeting a group of people, and to put a snap in a handshake. My sense of satisfaction deepens with my understanding of culture, and the looks on people’s faces when I great them like a Mossi. When I sit in a group of people and drink fermented millet beer called Dolo, I’m frequently referred to as “Nasarra Muaga” which means the white Burkinabé, or “Neseblega” which simply means African.

It’s precisely what I’m going for.

It’s hard being in the spotlight all the time. Hundreds of people call out my name every day. And they’re attentive, too. “Sara, you’ve lost weight.” And “Sara, you’ve gained weight” Because yes, my weight is up and down… but its nothing more than 5 pounds either way, so how do they even know? I don’t even know. The worst is when they say “Sara, you have a button” Which is their way of pointing out a zit. Yes, this I know. Granted, the word button is so much cuter than zit that I might just use it with my own kids. But to have your button pointed out 10 times a day? And they are very concerned with scratches. After a slight scratch on my arm from playing with Ollie, I had several concerned people inquiring into the “injury”. Again, these are details I don’t even notice. Bug bites too, they point out bug bites, and ask me if I’m using my mosquito net. People I don’t know make comments about all of these things. They pick at my skin and play with my hair and wrinkle their brows when they see a scratch.

The kicker is, I could walk around with something on my face and food in my teeth all day and no one would say a word.

Oh Burkina.

A note

Id like to send a special thanks to my Family, my Grandparents, the Yaganagis, and Jill for your thoughtful packages.

And to Al and Hitch, for letters beautiful inside and out.

You guys keep me going, much thanks!

Also, Im encouraging feedback on the blog. I love it.

I hope you enjoy this entry... though its a little intense. Best to all.

Love,

Sara

And a few pictures for you

Here are some pictures from around the house. Yes, they focus on Olie. Ive been camera shy out in the town. Clinic pictures are on the way for next blog. Keep scrolling down to read the blog entry. Sorry it took so long...

Getting so big!

Olie in his bucket on a hot day

Olie

Self Portrait

Drugs and Vitamins for living in Africa

Kirstin with a small Olie

And some pictures from Senegal. Only a few of them uploaded, Ill try again next time.

Goreé Island Slave House

Locals on Goreé Island

Tourism on Goreé

Matters of Moon Rings

Mother has nagged us to write letters home to our classmates at Bethlehem High… We’re still wondering, where do you start? “This morning I got up…” I’d begin, but no, “This morning I pulled back the mosquito netting that’s tucked in tight around our beds because mosquitoes here give you malaria, a disease that eats your blood which nearly everyone has anyway, but they don’t go to the doctor for it because there are worse things like sleeping sickness or the kakakakak or that someone has put a kibaazu on them, and anyway, there’s really no doctor nor money to pay one, so people just hope for the good luck of getting old because then they’ll be treasured, and meanwhile they go on with their business because they have children they love and songs to sing while they work, and...”

And you wouldn’t even get as far as breakfast before running out of paper. You’d have to explain the words, and then the words for the words.

The Poisonwood Bible

I finished The Poisonwood Bible in three days. There are still some things I do well in 120 degree heat, such as sweating, reading, drinking, and daydreaming of the beach. I could also make a rehydration drink blindfolded if need be. Then there are the things I wish I could do better in the heat, such as sleeping, relaxing, thinking, feeling sane, chores, work, going to the market, and being patience. Yes, this inactivity frustrates me. But honestly, what can you do? Its so hot out, the noon greeting Ney Windiga, which literally means sun, has taken over the morning greeting Ney Bioogo, and pushed the afternoon greeting Ney Zaabre back to four or five o’clock. On particularly hot days, I might not even leave the house until Zaabre…Instead I lie under my thatched roof terrace, on a mat or the hammock (mom, you’re the best) and send my mind into fiction. And sweat. And I shake off the flies, who gravitate to our shady hideout. It’s so hot, the lizards which lazily sat on my courtyard walls now lift their bellies to scurry across the same pavement.

Nights are a bit of a toss up- when the sun goes down it’s cool enough to do dishes, laundry and clean. My activity level is definitely on par with a nocturnal animal. And don’t get me started with Olie- who crams his puppy energy and antics into a few frenzied hours each night. Though the sun is at bay, the heat still radiates from my cement enclosure and patio. The tin roof has likewise betrayed me in its affinity for heat. My house is an excellent sauna, but a sorry kitchen indeed.

For this reason, neither I nor Yoyo, my neighbor, cook dinner that often. Almost every night we go out to enjoy the finer things in life (cold drinks) Despite its exhaustive qualities, I do value the appreciation heat has instilled in me for the simple things in life… like a cold drink… a beautiful luxury. The contentment I feel drinking cold water surpasses the contentment any one action can give me in the states…at least that I can remember.

Anyway, Yoyo and I were heading out one night to rummage up street food and drinks when the night sky stopped me in my tracks. There were two distinct sections, symmetrical, divided by an impeccably straight line between the horizons. One half of the sky was a dark vortex marked with stars. The other, a cloud filled basin radiating light from the full moon within. The clouds pushed right up to the clear cut line, not a whisp breaching the invisible divide. The sky was perfectly divided between black and white, and it was weird. The oddity was punctuated by the full moon, who shown through the cloudy side of the divide with a brilliant red halo of filtered light.

Coming to a large field I again stop to gaze. Nature, you so cool. Like a little kid pointing to candy on a shelf I excitedly point the sky out to Yoyo. She responds by taking my hand and pulling us onward towards food. Rejected. More than a few times I’ve wished I had a miniature white person living in my pocket, so I could pull him out and share my version of culturally appropriate sentiments when need be. Like excitement when my puppy learned to sit and shake. Or surprise at the really really weird sounds goats are capable of making. Or disgust at the intolerable heat. I digress. Pulling me close and out of my trance Yoyo says,

Here, in Mooré ( in our culture) the sky right now isn’t good. Don’t look at it. It’s really bad.

Are you serious? But the depth of concern in her voice is surprising, and my immediate reaction was something along lines of: Ok. If it means that much to you, I won’t look.

When the moon is like that, it means someone great will die. And bad things will happen. Just wait a month, three months, and you will see.

I feel bad to admit, that I laughed a little when she said it. But to appreciate the story, I should clarify that on some levels I feel more connected to Yoyo than to most people…even in the states. There’s just something about the way we can sit and do nothing but do it together. Or maybe that’s the language barrier. At any rate, it seems foreign when our wildly different belief systems are made obvious within this circle of comfort. And, its just plain interesting.

Yoyo spends the next month elaborating on the significance of the moon halo. Blurps from these conversations include:

Do you know that everyone is still talking about that night?

When people from village come into town they ask what we’ve sacrificed to avoid bad fortune

All of the Chefs are trying to be the one to offer the biggest sacrifice, so they aren’t the one to die

The old say that they have never seen anything like it in Africa, ever.

This isn’t good, you see, this isn’t good.

I guess the moon halo is the equivalent of their stock market crashing.

After respectful listening and light inquiry, one hot night I decide to dive deep over dinner. It starts off in vein with a ill attempt explaining wavelengths to Yoyo in French, so I could ultimately explain the moon halo. It went a little something like this:

How many colors are there? Many.

Yes, and when all colors are put together they make white. OK? Mmmm-hmm…

Ok. So, what happens when it rains and you have sun, and then you see many colors in the sky, what’s that called. A rainbow

Right. And do you know why you see many colors? Because the rain breaks up the sun’s white light into its many colors. Its like, if you broke benga into rice and beans. Mmm.hmmm.

What color do you see at sunset? All colors

Ok but mostly it’s red… right? OK.

(Note: I am being ridiculous. Yoyo is a fifty year old widow who didn’t finish high school. She almost died from measles as a kid. She wears nail polish, but not on the hand she eats with because it could kill her).

Ok, the sunset is mostly red because colors come in different sizes. All of the colors of white light- red, blue, green, violet, orange- they are all different sizes, even though they make white when you put them together. The sun is the furthest away from the earth at sunset, and only the red light can still reach us because it’s the biggest of all the colors. Orange is the next biggest, that’s why we see some orange at sunset too :: no comment:

*(I’m still noting how ridiculous I’m sounding).

The clouds broke up the white light of the moon the other night, like the rain breaks up the sun’s light and forms a rainbow. But like the sunset, we only saw red light around the moon because red light is the only one big enough to reach us. The moon is very far away.::no comment::

Yoyo, that’s why we saw the red circle around the moon. Because of the clouds breaking up the light. :: patiently correcting me:: The circle means that someone great is going to die. Just wait a couple months and I’ll say, remember the moon and what I was telling you about someone dying? You’ll see, something will happen.

Yoyo, what if I spilt water on the ground, and then told you that something bad was going to happen because of it. If we waited long enough something bad will happen, because that’s life (and we’re in Africa). Would you think it’s because the water spilled, because I told you so. I don’t know what the water means, but I know when there’s a circle around the moon, it means that something big will happen, someone great will die.

Culture says: Yoyo understands a phenomena through the event’s significance, while I’m most comfortable with theories of science- a culture which understands the world by deductive reasoning and isolation until we have atoms and string theories- rather than focusing on connections, causal relationships, and perhaps a bit of superstition ( Yay African History Major!). Though my western system fundamentally operates on science, the power of measurable proof and replicity does not suggest the system exclusively correct... even though it’s our measure of truth. Here matters of well-being are tied to many factors including superstition, a dualistic etiology that allows biomedicine to be accepted in Africa at all. Despite its exclusive nature, you’ll find it in the medicine cabinet right next to sacrifice, voodoo, witchcraft and traditional medicine. An open system doesn’t pick favorites…

Africa has a way of getting under your skin, into your blood and challenging you. Your need for information, reasonable explanations, logical actions, your preference for efficiency (particularly cost and time efficiency), and not to mention the desire to be taken seriously as a woman… all these things are uncomfortably in question. They drive you nuts. If the taxi isn’t leaving for another two or three hours, don’t tell me its leaving in 15 minutes. Just don’t. If you tell me you’re dropping something off in the afternoon, tell me what time. You’ll find the time noted on your cell phone, which is conveniently located in your pocket. Don’t be upset if I leave after waiting three hours. If you are going to be late, you could send me a text message, so I know when the appropriate time to wait will be. And for the love of God, we aren’t getting married. Its been four months now. Stop trying to convince me your wife doesn’t exist, and that your love has nothing to do with money or the prospect of going to the US. Your insulting my intelligence.

And then there are times when Africa demands humility in the face of the things you don’t believe in. Like the red moon halo. In Koupéla, the Chef des Femmes (Chief of Women) ended up dying. More personally, my Grandmother’s boyfriend died. He went down hill fairly quickly. And my 3 year old measles patient Abduli died. It was my first experience loosing a child patient. These things happen not even two weeks after the moon halo.

Scoreboard says: Africa 1, Sara 0.

****************************

Abduli was the second child with measles I saw at our CSPS. But this was more than a month ago. Since then I’ve opened our Youth Center as an overflow ward for measles isolation. Funny how I used to think Measles was a glorified chicken pox. Correction! It will put a full grown man on his back for a week. It kills kids… though anything greater than a cold virus will pretty much kill a malnourished kid. I’ve noticed some things since I’ve been here.

Three year old Abduli came in while I was shadowing the head nurse, the Major. I smelled him before I saw him. Major took a quick glance and turned to me. Sa-ra, do you know what this is?

Conjunctavitis? Check. Fever? Check. Swollen Gums? Check. General look of death? Check check. Though the rash had yet to appear, I was confident in my diagnosis.

Major, it’s measles.

And at the same time, Abduli was more than measles. He was a pungent smell of suffering, the emaciated look of malnutrition. I’ve seen bad but this was b-a-d. His spine could poke my eye out. Holding him as Major began running IVs and meds, I felt an intense feeling come over me that was madly fierce… perfectly calm, not sad, scared or worried. Just meant business…

Death, I dare you to touch this kid. I will annihilate you. Ps- watch your back.

Yes, I was threatening a force exceedingly greater than myself. Just like the mother hens in my courtyard who charge at hungry dogs.

Abduli was hospitalized in the contagious disease ward, a fancy word for a small cement room crumbling in on itself 500 feet from the CSPS. Major gave me his big white doctor’s coat to wear when I visited Abduli… which made me feel terribly important while I was otherwise helpless. No mother wishes to see her child suffer. But when you see a kid as bad off as Abduli, its nearly impossible to wrap your head around anything other than negligence… though I know it can’t be it. I understand poverty. I understand the lack of choice. But why did the mother wait so long to bring him in? And why did she refuse the free measles vaccine in the first place? Often people either outright reject biomedicine or try many therapies before turning to it. And at that point, as in Abduli’s case, its too late to do much of anything anyway. I’m told its ignorance… which would certainly explain the innocence of a mother in the death of her child. But there is so much I have to learn; the complex answers are still out of focus- abstract- like the moon halo.

Over the next three days I embarked on various “you’re not going to die” types of projects with Abduli in the hot dirty cell whose smell I won’t soon forget. The first was a series of talks with the Mother translated by Yoyo into Mooré, to explain basic nutrition, the importance of vaccines, and how to make a rehydration drink. Yoyo stood in the doorway the whole time because she couldn’t stand the smell. Ever since then I call her Nasarra, white person- or snob in other words (note: calling Burkinabé Nasarra is a newfound joke that apparently never gets old ). On Abduli’s third day of refusing food I took a more hands on approach. I would spend hours on my knees trying various porridges and methods of administration to get him to swallow, much as I did with baby birds during my childhood. I guess I never really expected the result to be much different, but you still have to try.

Yoyo hurried home one night to tell me Major had transferred Abduli to the regional hospital, which is conveniently located in Koupéla. In about 24 hours I would learn the treatment for measles at the CSPS and hospital levels are the same. Major referred him to the hospital not for better treatment but because it was the natural progression of an impossible situation.

I hopped off my bike at the hospital’s emergency room, ran up the stairs and greeted three women nurses in Mooré. After quickly explaining who I was, I asked where I could find Abduli. In the morgue. It took me a second to catch on... but yes, this was their way of telling the wide eyed white girl the kid was dead. Nicely done.

What I felt for Abduli’s mom is not an emotion which can neatly fit in words. I was plagued with guilt for ever entertaining the thought of negligence, extraordinary though his condition was. She was sitting stone faced against a wall as if looking past the mirage of a world around her. She had placed her hands on her very pregnant belly. It was my first attempt to comfort someone here and anything I wanted to say in Mooré I couldn’t. So I sat beside her and began rubbing her back, sensing the emotions she willfully banished to the abyss of her soul. Showing emotion in Burkina is a serious taboo.

Be that as it may, I happen to be talented emotionally (sounds better than “am an emotional person”). And like clockwork the bitterness of death had me choking on tears by the time I reached my Major back at the CSPS. Major opens coke bottles for me, texts me when I travel to make sure I’ve arrived safely, and frets over the smallest bumps and battle wounds I incur. He teaches me medicine, and says “bye bye” to Olie. He is my father figure. But when it comes to me crying, he’s not a big fan. I learned this during the bush taxi hitting me incident. So there I was, again, in a cultural check-mate with my inappropriate sentiments. Digging through my pockets- nope, no mini American to share in emotions. But I do have a cell. So I sent an SOS text to have my Dad call. He raised three American daughters and knows what to do. On the walk home I saw the emaciated neighborhood puppy I’d been trying to ignore, whom I picked up now to have something to save. This is how so Skeletar entered my life, for both of our rehabilitation.

But to give Major credit, he knew and cared that I was fairly affected. So the next day when I brought the disease vector up as a public health concern, he suggested he drop everything so we could take a trip to do some monitoring en brousse and check up on the Abduli’s family the following morning. YES PLEASE. The thought of doing proactive work and getting out of the city boosted my spirits.

It took us two hours of bush adventure to find Abduli’s family compound. It was remote by village standards, but I was giddy to be with Major as we bushwhacked our way through the bush in pursuit of a needle in a haystack. Out of the twenty four children in Abduli’s courtyard, two had completed their childhood vaccinations and four were showing early signs of measles. What I found more disturbing was that the “Chef de Famille” had a nicer Moto than Major, and kept his cell phone in a leather pouch around his neck. He also had around fifty head of cattle, so money for treating Abduli was clearly not the limiting factor. Neither was location. Turns out the CSPS is only a 20 minute ride when you know the way. It could be ignorance. I have to believe the detection of suffering is instinctual. Is going to the CSPS such a far fetched response? The questions are much bigger than the answers.

And this is my life as a health volunteer. I live in 120 degree heat as close to village level as reasonably possible to gain a particular advantage over other development agencies by way of perspective. Though I cherish this, I’m struggling just to find the right approach. How can I explain to mothers the things we don’t see inside called proteins and how they help your baby get big, without sounding as ridiculous as telling Yoyo white light is made up of many colors. Who’s to say a spell or God’s will is any less instrumental than peanuts and beans when it comes to healthy kids. Lord knows it’s cheaper. Hopefully two years is enough time to live into these answers. But of one thing I’m sure- I’ve been in Africa for seven full moons. When you don’t have electricity, the moon is a pretty big deal- its phases go noticed. And if the moon could tell us anything, its secrets would be hidden within the minds and hearts of people who live their lives by the cycles of the night.