Many Firsts

Last night we ate dinner fairly late. After eating, Mom didn’t pull out a mango or an apple, so I was a tad disappointed. She said something about drinking, and I figured she was giving me the typical hard time about how much I drink at dinner. She doesn’t understand that I sweat it all out, so it doesn’t ruin my appetite. My novice French, however, missed one key word: bierre. Beer. She pulled out a beer (twice the size as they are in the US), and poured me a glass. Delicious. Refreshing. Tasty. Cool. Reminds me of home. I’ll take a Saturday night beer anytime.

As I left the table to go to bed, she told me that I could not sleep outside tonight. This was not good news. She said that it was going to storm and that I should go into my room and shut my doors and windows. Now the only thing worse than sleeping inside is sleeping with my door and window shut, so I was not a happy camper. She would hear none of my pleading, so I sulked off to bed like a disgruntled five year-old.

Barely had I shut my screen door when the sky broke loose. I heard the wind approaching as an oncoming freight train. Similar to my first earthquake, I didn’t know what to make of the situation until it was on top of me. Wind and sand are not a good combination. With no warning, the yard was transformed into the opening tornado scene from “The Wizard of Oz”. I closed my shutters and locked the door. Outside all I could hear was massive debris flying everywhere, and my tin roof amplified each sound ten-fold. After a minute, Dad came to my door and told me to bring my bike inside. Good thing. As soon as he left, the wind increased again. My electricity went out, and I was now getting dust in my room. What if my roof lifts off? It is only being held down by a few bricks. I could barely breathe and was covered in a layer of dust thickening by the second. I lay on the bed with a sheet covering my body; it was the only way I could avoid suffocation. I prayed for rain; at least then the dust would settle.

Finally the rain came. It makes a distinctly different, more pointed, sound on my roof. I still could not have had a conversation above the wind and rain, but at least I could breathe normally. I almost opened the door to wash the soot from my body, but I quickly thought better of that idea. The rain continued, and soon my fan came back to life. The storm lessened a bit, so I opened the shutters and my outside door. Cool breeze with the rain put me right to sleep.

After breakfast this morning I went to church for probably the first time since M’s wedding last summer. Mom and at least J and M are Catholic, so I went with the two kids to church. Biking through town, we got to survey the storm’s damage. Roofs were completely removed from homes. Branches were tossed about like toothpicks. But everyone was smiling; the temperature was 10-15 degrees cooler than yesterday.

Catholic mass is very similar to what it would have been in the US. The building is very large, shaped like a cross, and has high ceilings. There are no stained glass windows, but the existing windows and ceiling-to_floor doors allowed in plenty of light and outside air. There were well over 500 people, maybe close to 1000. Some were dressed in their Sunday best: women in colorful dresses made of fabric from the market; men in slacks and bright shirts. A choir occupied the first ten rows, and they sang frequently throughout the 90-minute service. Always behind the choir was the African drums. The band sat to the side of the choir and reminded me constantly that this was not Sunday morning mass in Minnesota. Off-beat drumming, singing, praying. The whole service was in Moore, so I understood not a word. I think that made it more interesting though.

We spent the afternoon lounging at the pool at the hotel. They have a pool and bar, so we treated ourselves to a day away from Africa. Unfortunately the pool had been trashed in last night’s storm. Dirt and dust everywhere, and the cleaning equipment was broken. No problem. We sat on the deck, talked in English, and drank a few beers. In there it is easy to forget the garbage on the streets, the half-clothed children, and the education statistics. In there we talked of cheeseburgers, banana splits, and margaritas. But we didn’t ask for the Hawaiian vacation or Peace Corps in Paris (sorry Grandma). So we had our break then biked back through Africa to our waiting families. A nice break, but paradise ain’t got nothin’ on Burkina Faso. Everyone in my neighborhood greets me now. The dogs in my courtyard bark knowingly at me when I return home. Dinner is good and much-appreciated. And I love falling asleep under the stars.