Biking

July 3rd, 2009

I shift my bike up to 20th gear and it feels like I’m flying down the road, whizzing by both motos and bikes. My blue and silver Peace Corps’ issued Trek 820 ST sticks out like a sore thumb among the many other bikes on the road. The wind blowing through my cloths and drying the sweat on my arms and face feels glorious. I love biking on the paved road here. Unfortunately up ahead is my turnoff to go a home. I hop my bike off of the six inch drop off, which probably isn’t the best idea for the longevity of my tires, but I do enjoy it so. My bike immediately starts to kick up dust and rocks, just like every other vehicle here, but my mud guards protect me from most of it.

“Nissahara! Nissahara! Nissahara!” I see five toddlers waving and smiling at me up ahead to the left, chanting the Mooré word foreigner. I wasn’t quite sure how to feel about this the first time I heard it, but I’ve decided to think of it as my theme song. The smiles on the faces of the children who chant it show that they really do mean me well. Being recognized here is something to be strived for, and I think that is part of the reason why every kid I see says it. Also they just seem like they don’t really see a lot of foreigner’s whizzing by on a bike, wearing a helmet and sweating buckets. I wave to them, smile and say “Bonsoir!” as I pass them, careful to keep my distance, which is careful in the tight alley. Kids here see it as a badge of courage to come up and shake one of our hands, and I’ve had a couple try to dive at me and touch my hand while I was on my bike!

The rest of my two mile ride home is on dirt roads between rows of houses. Every house here has a walled courtyard, partly to keep animals in, partly to keep people out. There is a garbage pile for almost every third house, which is burned on a regular basis, usually in the morning as I am biking to school. Most houses have a dog sitting outside, and many have goats or a cow standing outside, munching on random things they find on the ground that look sort of like food.

The road itself is pretty bad shape, but is easily navigable during the day. Dry stream beds from the latest rain rut the road in random places, exposing rocks that look like they would like very much to shred my bike tires. Usually there is a pretty smooth trail that people have formed throughout the course of the day, and sticking to this is usually the best idea, I usually only leave it to pass someone or get out of the way of an oncoming moto.

The road opens up as I get further from town and the ruts start to get deeper. I pass a couple dirt fields on my way, inhabited by a random assortment of broken objects, garbage, rocks, sticks and dirt. There are very few plants here. I’m told that there will be more by the end of the rainy season, but I’m not getting my hopes up.

I cross the last field to get to my house. There are several small shops around the perimeter of the field, selling little bits of everything. I haven’t visited any of the shops as I’m saving up for a guitar. I’m hoping to get one when we go to the capital in a couple weeks. I pull up to the dusty red door of my courtyard and push my bike inside.