Rainy Season Ramblings

Well there I was, using half my mind to admire Mambolo’s new green coat it bought for the rainy season and the other half to mark student’s papers, when I felt a quickening in my village. The drums aren’t uncommon to hear down at the warf any time of day, but the persistent, brassy Z undertone to the rhythm was something that even stopped the game of “throw-shoe” (really simple rules) the kids were playing in front of my veranda. Images of racing across Fall Creek or Dexter reservoir on an Oregon afternoon were boiling in my mind- had a speedboat really wandered up the Great Scarcies River? I was skeptical- the previous evening I’d heard a roar overhead and had a little start when I saw a metal bird carrying green and red lights across the sky. Had a metal fish come to visit me now, too?

Even though I lied very earnestly to myself and said the only reason I was going was to buy bread, I nevertheless noticed I was oriented with the rest of my village, like iron filings being pulled towards our magnetic visitor in the river.

I could’ve ridden, pants-less, on a dragon while sparks and marshmallows shot out of my ears for all anyone at the warf cared. Feeling stymied and unsure of what had become of the celebrity-status I usually enjoyed, I grumpily approached the river bank where knots of inebriates were assiduously trying to bang their drums louder than the nearest, rival knot.

Well there sure was a metal fish. A brand new Bayliner with the Minister of Works at the helm flanked by several extremely European, gray-haired gentlemen that looked like they could spend long hours discussing the EU financial crisis. They all took turns hoisting (what I can only imagine were cold) Heinikens to their mouths while executing lazy turns in front of the crowd at the speed of fun. To maintain the picturesque theme, they had loaded the bow full of wide-eyed, job-stricken children picked up off the shore.

I bought myself a drink and spent the rest of the afternoon watching people enjoy themselves, deciding it was a relaxing change to just be in the crowd.

I’ve been thinking lately that if Peace Corps were a game of Oregon Trail, I estimate my group would be creeping down the West side of the Rockies. Getting to this point hasn’t been easy- eight passengers in our wagon have fallen off and gone back to Independence, Missouri , meat has always been scarce, and Giardia or snakes are a constant threat on the trail. But two of our party have found love anrd are planning matrimony even before we reach our destination. We’ve had the benefit of following the wagon tracks of the first group (two more months and they’ll be at the end of their trail).

Something quickly approaching on the map is the arrival of the third group of PC volunteers in Sierra Leone. This not only means there will be gads of pudgy American faces to marvel at, but will mean it’s my own one year anniversary of having my feet on the Africa part of the earth.

Radical Rachel, Beautiful Brian, and myself have been asked to greet the new arrivals at the airport in Freetown and escort them to Bo where they’ll have their PST- I giggle in anticipation to see what I must’ve looked like stepping onto the sweltering tarmac a year ago.

Other landmarks on the map this summer will be Ivy and Cody’s wedding. Nine days after that happy event I’ll be boarding a plane to fly to planet America for several weeks. And it’s absolutely impossible to neglect mentioning I’ve already started making plans for my favorite day of the year- the 4h of July. What a calendar of events.

So I saw a working TV the other week. It reminded me of all you guys back home, and I spent some time wishing each and every one of you well.

Springbreak '11

“Kinda pretty…” I thought as the scaled tube slid over my foot. The neon green of its back washed in to a vivid red- like a fire truck that had crashed nose-first into a leprechaun convention. Pico seconds had been stretching into days since I’d first felt the punch on the outside of my sneaker and I was using the distortion of time to generate memorable words I could utter as I gazed up into the middle-distance, sinking to my knees stricken by a deadly snake.

All that bullet-time contemplation was completely useless though- I wasn’t going to die. Somehow I’d forgotten a kindly old medicine ma had taken a razor to my shoulders, and, with some crushed, burnt leaves, made me immune to snakes. Black marks on the shoulders of others I’ve seen protect them from witch guns, sways, and poisoning. But since I carry a lime in my pocket, have money to remove a sway, and already had built an immunity to poison via my university’s cafeteria, I wasn’t concerned about those. A trickle of blood down both arms, three vertical marks, and one dizzy-head later, I was feeling safe as a snail.

And so, it was only after I had formulated my earthly exit words did I realize the 7’ long, pop-can thick snake was only sliding over my paralyzed foot to pay homage. Nevertheless, after that the hills I was hiking in seemed to harbor a few more dangers than I had calculated before.

The sun had laser-rayed its way through clouds earlier that morning to illuminate myself and a jolly band of travelers. We were on phase-1 of our spring break fiesta. Having been chained to an oar through university, doing daily doubles instead of drinking doubles, I decided my two-week break from school this time would be forcibly strangled, assertively wrung, and gently milked of whatever adventure it was pregnant with.

Phase-1 hiking was by far the most potent prescription that adventure could’ve written us. Conscious the ink in all my pens isn’t sufficient to catalogue the events of that trip, I’ll paraphrase. Cows can be terrifying. I won the closest-to-death award three days running. Iodine tastes like Iodine. The view from the top was great- now I know what Mufasa felt on top of Pride Rock. Thanks to Dylan for bringing jerky and Brian for bringing the Crème. I will never voluntarily make that hike again….barring amnesia or offers of large amounts of money.

Anyway, surprised at our still-living, not-dead state and completely wrecked from Phase-1, a faction of our mountain conquering regime fled for the far side of the country to the maternal, comforting arms of the Peace Corps hostel and associated white sand beaches. At this point my break adopted the hue of an American vacation- relaxation being the sole goal we toiled towards. Thanks to our work ethic and our steely resolve, we managed to enjoy ourselves. The denouement of phase-2 was the genesis of the much more productive third phase.

Phase -3 was a lifeskills workshop. It was good and stuff. Then I went back to Mambolo.

Right, so time is being pushed along, experiences are being had, strange foods are still being eaten, rain clouds are forming, and bored bloggers are abusing the passive voice and ignoring parallelism. I sure hope all y’all are taking care of yourselves and summer finds you quickly.