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 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.
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