The Storm

July 7th, 2009

The wind hits without warning, the dirt it carries stings my eyes and makes breathing difficult as I hurry to clean up the remains of our medical session. The light had slowly faded from the sky in the last few minutes as the storm approached and though it was just after midday, an artificial night had fallen over Ouahigouya. I had seen several storms before but I had never seen darkness like this. Another gust of wind hit, overpowering our feeble kickstands and knocking over several of our bikes. This was going to be a big one.

Today we got a break from the usual class at ECLA and were meeting for a medical session at the house of Ryan’s host family. Medical sessions are always one of the more popular ones, as the PCMOs (Peace Corps Medial Officers) usually brought treats. Today we had been sipping cold orange juice under the thatched-roof porch while learning some basic first aid for situations we were likely to encounter here. We were learning basic do’s and don’ts with snakes and spider bites, scorpion stings, acid-beetle burns, dehydration, car accidents, cuts and some other basic first aid stuff.

As we went through the last scenario in the safety of the living room the power cut plunging us into darkness just as the first few drops of rain hit. Within seconds thousands upon thousands of drops were pounding in the tin roof above our heads. I looked out the window to see a tree bowing to the wind, looking very much like hurricane footage from Florida.

“So this is where hurricanes come from,” Ryan remarks. We all nod our heads in agreement, awed at the sheer power of the storm. After a while, conversations start up. After a month of being here, the topic on everyone’s mind is site placement. We’re scheduled to find out on Thursday where we are to spend the next two years of our lives. Some really want to be in the rainy green south. Some want an area where the local language is Djoula, some want Mooré. Personally, I hope that I get a site where I can learn Djoula but I would be fine learning whatever local language I need to.

There are two different types of volunteers in our staging group, secondary education (SE) and girls’ education and empowerment (GEE). As one of three dedicated IT people, I am one of few likely to end up in a large city with a house with internet.

We talk for several more minutes before the sticks holding the water-soaked thatched roof have had enough and one of them gives way with a loud crack. Heads snap toward to door as wire, thatch, and sticks fall to the floor. I look around at the others, glad that no one was out there. They seem to be thinking the same thing.

“Clang, clang, clang” something a little more solid strikes the roof. Hail? Here? I laugh to myself, trying to remember the last time I actually saw ice. I look outside to see pea-sized hail bouncing off of the fallen thatch. Someone ventures out to grab a couple pieces and passes them around. They melt quickly. It is nice to feel ice again. I close my eyes, trying to remember what it feels like to be cold.

In time the storm passes. I step outside to breathe the air, cleaned by thousands of raindrops. I fill my lungs with deep breaths. It feels good.