Beep. Beep. Beep. The deaths throws of a rapidly deteriorating UPS are the only sound audible over the soft humming of the fan – who’s gentle breeze isn't quite strong enough to keep trickles of sweat from running down my back. I glance over at Karim, who is staring blankly at the screen in front of us, waiting for me to work magic. I'm at the office of the Centre d'Action Social, though it could be any of the several offices I've helped out here in Toma. As always the back story goes a little something like this:
There was a little extra money and a sore need for a computer and somewhere someone ordered a nice shiny new computer from France for use here in Burkina. It arrived in a nice shiny box with a nice shiny preloaded copy of Windows and Microsoft Office installed and ready to go. Caution is taken to try and make sure the computer is cooled and kept relatively dust free. Everyone is really excited. They hope it will last for a long time.
From the mounting numbers of random programs, poorly placed files, and other problems stemming from lack of computer knowledge people have noticed that the computer is getting slower and slower. Most civil servants have heard of computer viruses and know that they are bad, but that's about it. Maybe the organization will institute a "no USB key" rule, which will last for all of a week or two. And for the first 45 days, or however long the 'free' virus protection lasts, things will be alright - just long enough to build up a critical mass of important files. Then one day someone starts up the computer to the warning signal that the 'free' virus protection period is over. They need to log onto the internet with a credit card to get renew it. This is problem in three regards: first very few people have internet, second even fewer (if any) people have credit cards and third there isn't any money to pay for it. If the person who realizes that the virus protection is down is really computer savvy perhaps they will know how to install a free anti-virus (which can't actually be updated so it can't do much) but this usually isn't the case.
And then after the next person with a USB key comes close to the computer it's all over. Within a day's time the thousand dollar, state-of-the-art, computing workhorse has become a useless lump of metal, rendered inoperable by a host of viruses now residing in the very fabric of what once was a functioning copy of Windows and taking with it close to two months of files.
I had managed to start this particular computer started and after backing up some documents I tried reinstalling a free antivirus ( Avira found at free-av.com). Immediately after installation the warnings started rolling in. My jaw dropped. There was at least one virus attached to almost every single executable and many of the dlls. It was a nightmare. And on a restart to try once again to get into the now disabled 'Safe' Mode the viruses had devoured Avira.
Time to reinstall Windows. I sighed. It seems that no one has Windows disks here and those that do never have a key for them. I hesitated, but decided to ask Karim anyway. He left for a moment and to my pleasant surprise came back holding a stack of CDs, one of which was a Windows reinstall disk, saying it didn't require a key! I popped the disk in and started the reinstall. After an hour more of small talk with Karim we had done it and I triumphantly started up Windows. Only to be asked to validate the key.
Our only option was by telephone, and I started by looking for Burkina's recommended telephone number to call to validate. Instead of a +225 number up came the country code for Cote d'Ivoir. I asked Karim if he could make the call, he said he had enough money in his cell and after a brief fumble to choose the correct cell (most civil servants here have at least two phones) he produce the correct phone and makes the call. The number has been disconnected. I looked up the number for Mali - disconnected, Senegal - disconnected, Benin - disconnected, Togo - disconnected, Niger - disconnected. I was getting desperate and since I knew English we tried Ghana. You guessed it - disconnected.
I told Karim we might have to make a call to France. He said he would have to go out and get some more credit put on his phone. Five minutes later he was back, assuring me that his phone now had enough money to make a short call to France. There were two listed numbers. We dialed the first. It was disconnected. And so was the second.
After another trip to go charge his phone Karim said there was enough money to make a short call to the US. I hate to think what this was going to cost but dialed the number and was soon talking to the wonderful voice of the Microsoft activation robot lady. A short but expensive five minutes late every last digit had been yelled into the phone and the response field was full. I held my breath and pressed Enter. It worked.
So all's well that ends well right? Not so fast! Unfortunately for Karim, he hadn't been given the installation disks or a key for Microsoft Office 2003. All of his virus-ridden but back-upped files were still useless! And it didn't look like any of the Microsoft vendors in the area were available for business let alone willing to help. Luckily for him I had just happened to find a key and instillation disk in the woods next to my house. Attached was a note that said something to the effect of:
'Dear Karim, We're sorry that you're computer came preloaded with an OS with no virus protection (even though we could have loaded a free one on it!) that has only slightly more vulnerabilities and viruses than the amount of money we rake in from sales to impoverished African countries like yours every year. To make up for it we're giving you this CD with an install of Microsoft Office 2003 (we thought you'd like it more than 2007, everyone in the US seems to) and a valid key usable for commercial purposes. I hope this helps! Love your caring software solution provider, Microsoft'
Sometimes this heat makes me question some of the things I think I find in the woods next to my house.
I recently heard that the 100-dollar laptop project is going to be distributed with a Windows operating system. If this is true I think they should rename it the 100-dollar-paper-weight project. Or better yet the make-a-dime-at-the-expense-of-the-poorest-people-in-the-world project.
Edit: So this post was written, as you can probably tell, with a lot of frustration and probably less thinking that is generally advisable. After thinking on it a bit I now realize that Microsoft probably hasn’t changed their activation phone number in France and every country in West Africa, it’s more likely that Karim wasn’t adding the ‘+’ to the beginning of the number, thus trying to dial locally. What I think I was really trying to say is that Microsoft isn’t a viable software solution for West Africa given the realities here- low computer literacy, lots of vectors and opportunities for viruses to spread, limited monetary resources and limited internet connectivity. The thought of them making money selling their software to people here when there are free, virus-free alternatives is depressing.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Just Dance
I turn off my headlamp as I pull up on my bike, braking a little too hard to cause my bike to skid across the dirt of the road – needlessly adding to the large amount of dust in the air (but it sounds cool!). After a quick scan I see Dieudonné waiting for me at our usual table. Unusually he isn’t accompanied by Alex and Jean Luc. As I sit down he explains that they are on their way, as if it is perhaps the most pressing news of the evening. And perhaps it is.
It’s Saturday night and I’m in Toma. I’ve been traveling or sick for six of the past eight weekends and it’s really nice to be here and just relax. Saturday nights in Toma are “clubbing” nights for me. There are two dance clubs in town but I only frequent to one, called “La différance.” It has the essentials of a dance club – music and alcohol – without having anything I look for in a dance club in America – music I like, anything besides beer, a gender ratio better than 10:1. Despite this, I usually quite enjoy myself. There is something really fun about a bunch of guys dancing together and enjoying themselves on the dance floor without the American gender roles. On top of that any way I dance here can only be silly to me – to everyone else I’m just being an American.
Alex and Jean Luc arrive shortly after I do, and they decide to move inside, citing the excess amount of dust to be found outside. I’m a little disappointed; inside is fun, but loud, very loud. I’m also skeptical that the amount of dust constantly raining down on us is somehow less in the opened air club, but I don’t say anything and in we go.
And let the dance party begin. There are perhaps twenty young men on the raised, tiled dance floor, surrounded by a ring of beer-drinking spectators sitting at small metal tables. Our table is, as usual, unoccupied. Then comes the next important part of the evening: ordering beer. Service in restaurants, bars and the food industry in general is slow, if it comes at all. Tonight a server walks close to our table and we’re able to get her attention through a series of yelling and hissing (a sound that it seems you never quite get used to). Tonight they only have one kind of cold beer. I’ll take it.
Our server returns carrying two of three beers we ordered, hovering with the bottle opener above mine for me to give permission to open it. I reach out – feeling to make sure the beer is indeed cold – and nod my head approvingly. An average bottle of beer here is about two and half times bigger than a bottle of beer in the states. It took a bit of getting used to, but now when I see an American sized beer (which they call “small” sized here) for sale I wonder how I’ll ever go back to paying so much for so little beer.
The music has been so far par for the course but suddenly something American comes on. I’m stunned for a moment – the only time I’ve heard American here is after begging for it several times – before jumping up to the dance floor. And I’m dancing, trying not to pay too much attention to the ring of gawking spectators around me. I like to think that they are impressed instead of just surprised to see a white person. Hopefully they are a little of both.
And then something happens that I did not expect, someone dances over to me in a slightly spastic but unmistakably Western style. And he’s in my face. Dance off! A few minutes, several-hundred calories and a few cries of surprise later I’m out of breath and pleasantly surprised, that was completely unexpected and a lot of fun!
It’s Saturday night and I’m in Toma. I’ve been traveling or sick for six of the past eight weekends and it’s really nice to be here and just relax. Saturday nights in Toma are “clubbing” nights for me. There are two dance clubs in town but I only frequent to one, called “La différance.” It has the essentials of a dance club – music and alcohol – without having anything I look for in a dance club in America – music I like, anything besides beer, a gender ratio better than 10:1. Despite this, I usually quite enjoy myself. There is something really fun about a bunch of guys dancing together and enjoying themselves on the dance floor without the American gender roles. On top of that any way I dance here can only be silly to me – to everyone else I’m just being an American.
Alex and Jean Luc arrive shortly after I do, and they decide to move inside, citing the excess amount of dust to be found outside. I’m a little disappointed; inside is fun, but loud, very loud. I’m also skeptical that the amount of dust constantly raining down on us is somehow less in the opened air club, but I don’t say anything and in we go.
And let the dance party begin. There are perhaps twenty young men on the raised, tiled dance floor, surrounded by a ring of beer-drinking spectators sitting at small metal tables. Our table is, as usual, unoccupied. Then comes the next important part of the evening: ordering beer. Service in restaurants, bars and the food industry in general is slow, if it comes at all. Tonight a server walks close to our table and we’re able to get her attention through a series of yelling and hissing (a sound that it seems you never quite get used to). Tonight they only have one kind of cold beer. I’ll take it.
Our server returns carrying two of three beers we ordered, hovering with the bottle opener above mine for me to give permission to open it. I reach out – feeling to make sure the beer is indeed cold – and nod my head approvingly. An average bottle of beer here is about two and half times bigger than a bottle of beer in the states. It took a bit of getting used to, but now when I see an American sized beer (which they call “small” sized here) for sale I wonder how I’ll ever go back to paying so much for so little beer.
The music has been so far par for the course but suddenly something American comes on. I’m stunned for a moment – the only time I’ve heard American here is after begging for it several times – before jumping up to the dance floor. And I’m dancing, trying not to pay too much attention to the ring of gawking spectators around me. I like to think that they are impressed instead of just surprised to see a white person. Hopefully they are a little of both.
And then something happens that I did not expect, someone dances over to me in a slightly spastic but unmistakably Western style. And he’s in my face. Dance off! A few minutes, several-hundred calories and a few cries of surprise later I’m out of breath and pleasantly surprised, that was completely unexpected and a lot of fun!
Sunday, February 14, 2010
ISO Softball
I dug out divets in the soft sandy ground surrounding the large black mat used as home plate. I glanced up at the pitcher, preparing myself. Keep your eye on the ball. I put my bat up and the pitch is up. It’s slow and over the plate. I swing and connect, glancing to see a grounder heading past the pitcher and sprint towards first base. Safe.
Whew. I’m quite happy to get on base. After not playing any form of baseball/softball since T-ball as a seven year old I’m quite bad. Luckily a softball is pretty big and most of the other people playing aren’t exactly softball champions as we’re playing in the non-competitive league.
About a month before I had gotten a text saying there is going to be a softball tournament at ISO (International School of Ouagadougou) and that Peace Corps is going to have a team that we could join if we were interested. I was a little bit worried about the softball thing, but really excited about ISO. ISO has green, beautiful grass, a nice pool, lots of English speakers and a ridiculously priced American restaurant. How ridiculously priced? Well if I ordered what I wanted to every meal for a three day weekend probably more than half of my month’s salary would be gone. But in America terms probably a bit more pricey than a Perkins.
The thing I loved most about ISO was being on the green, wonderful grass. Playing Ultimate Frisbee barefoot on grass is one of the things I look forward to the most on my monthly weekends there. Though I’ve had an aversion to all things baseball I decided it would be worth it to get on that field for a weekend. And it turned out much more pleasant than I was expecting. Softball is FUN.
With raw competition coursing through my veins I took a look around from first base. I had been the first hitter of the inning and this was the third time this game I had gotten on base. I was quite proud of myself as this was a much needed departure from my normal hitting. And our team needed every hit it could get. It was the bottom of the last inning of the semi-final (which happened to be the fifth). After getting off to a rough start (11-0 at the start of the bottom of the second) our team had made a comeback and now it was 9-11. We had three outs to get two runs – three would send us to the finals.
Next up to bat was Tim, our only lefty on our team of 15. Crack. A grounder sends me on a quick sprint to second. Our next batter misjudges a pitch, which is really easy to do. After three games I don’t quite still understand what a strike looks like. We have a giant black mat placed on home and if the ball hits there it’s a strike. But sometimes it isn’t. And the mat is very large. Unfortunately for him we start off with a strike and a ball, making the count 2-1. The next pitch is up. It’s headed for the mat. Whiff. Our first out.
The next hit sends me scurrying to third. I greedily eye home plate. Batter up, the pitcher winds up. Please get a hit, please get a hit. And I’m off down the home stretch. I demand all I can out of my legs atrophied from months of laze. Two more steps. And I’m past it and running up the batting cage. YES!
Unfortunately Tim doesn’t quite make it to third. Two outs. Bottom of the ninth (fifth). Bases (almost) loaded and at the top of our batting order. The anticipation is palpable. I’m suddenly very glad I’m not up to bat. Very glad.
I miss the first pitch, but turn around to see the umpire calling a strike. 2-1. My heart is in my throat as I watch the next pitch is thrown. It’s maybe a little short. He’s swinging. Strike.
After a good team shoulda-coulda-woulda session we headed to the pool to drown our sorrows. After a few hours of excellent sunbathing, swimming, and a couple good cocktails I felt like a hundred bucks. But I still wouldn’t have minded taking that trophy home.
Whew. I’m quite happy to get on base. After not playing any form of baseball/softball since T-ball as a seven year old I’m quite bad. Luckily a softball is pretty big and most of the other people playing aren’t exactly softball champions as we’re playing in the non-competitive league.
About a month before I had gotten a text saying there is going to be a softball tournament at ISO (International School of Ouagadougou) and that Peace Corps is going to have a team that we could join if we were interested. I was a little bit worried about the softball thing, but really excited about ISO. ISO has green, beautiful grass, a nice pool, lots of English speakers and a ridiculously priced American restaurant. How ridiculously priced? Well if I ordered what I wanted to every meal for a three day weekend probably more than half of my month’s salary would be gone. But in America terms probably a bit more pricey than a Perkins.
The thing I loved most about ISO was being on the green, wonderful grass. Playing Ultimate Frisbee barefoot on grass is one of the things I look forward to the most on my monthly weekends there. Though I’ve had an aversion to all things baseball I decided it would be worth it to get on that field for a weekend. And it turned out much more pleasant than I was expecting. Softball is FUN.
With raw competition coursing through my veins I took a look around from first base. I had been the first hitter of the inning and this was the third time this game I had gotten on base. I was quite proud of myself as this was a much needed departure from my normal hitting. And our team needed every hit it could get. It was the bottom of the last inning of the semi-final (which happened to be the fifth). After getting off to a rough start (11-0 at the start of the bottom of the second) our team had made a comeback and now it was 9-11. We had three outs to get two runs – three would send us to the finals.
Next up to bat was Tim, our only lefty on our team of 15. Crack. A grounder sends me on a quick sprint to second. Our next batter misjudges a pitch, which is really easy to do. After three games I don’t quite still understand what a strike looks like. We have a giant black mat placed on home and if the ball hits there it’s a strike. But sometimes it isn’t. And the mat is very large. Unfortunately for him we start off with a strike and a ball, making the count 2-1. The next pitch is up. It’s headed for the mat. Whiff. Our first out.
The next hit sends me scurrying to third. I greedily eye home plate. Batter up, the pitcher winds up. Please get a hit, please get a hit. And I’m off down the home stretch. I demand all I can out of my legs atrophied from months of laze. Two more steps. And I’m past it and running up the batting cage. YES!
Unfortunately Tim doesn’t quite make it to third. Two outs. Bottom of the ninth (fifth). Bases (almost) loaded and at the top of our batting order. The anticipation is palpable. I’m suddenly very glad I’m not up to bat. Very glad.
I miss the first pitch, but turn around to see the umpire calling a strike. 2-1. My heart is in my throat as I watch the next pitch is thrown. It’s maybe a little short. He’s swinging. Strike.
After a good team shoulda-coulda-woulda session we headed to the pool to drown our sorrows. After a few hours of excellent sunbathing, swimming, and a couple good cocktails I felt like a hundred bucks. But I still wouldn’t have minded taking that trophy home.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Test Day
I look around my dusty lab at a sea of lost, confused and sometimes fearful faces. It’s test day. Every Friday afternoon two hours is set aside for tests and the schedule of tests is prepared and distributed at the beginning of the semester. This is my first test of the semester and the first time I’ve attempted a practical test – that is actually using computers.
This afternoon I’m with my youngest class, 6eme, who don’t quite get computers, but are sure excited to mess around on them anyway. There are a few exceptions, but for the most part I’m forced to repeat myself a lot, and use very simple language. For example, in my older classes what once was a long drawn out, five minute process of me explaining every step to them has now become three words, “Arrêtez votre ordinateur” (Shut down your computer). In contrast, most of 6eme hasn’t quite got the double click down perfectly yet and ‘shut down your computer’ remains a five minute explanation.
Going into this test I knew that I would have to make the test pretty easy, and I thought I had done a pretty good job. The test was broken into ten steps which were divided into four groups. After you had finished all the steps in a group you were to raise you hand and I would come around and check to make sure you did it correctly. Then you could move on to the next group of tasks. For each step you did correctly you got a point, giving a possible of ten points. Here is the English version of the test.
1. Open the Recycle Bin (1)
Minimize the Recycle Bin (2)
Raise you hand.
2. Close the Recycle Bin (3)
Open the calculator (4)
With the calculator calculate 79-49 (5)
Raise your hand
3. Close the calculator (6)
Open Encarta Junior (7)
With Encarta Junior find the number of countries in Africa (8)
Raise your hand
4 Close Encarta Junior (9)
Open Paint and draw a dog (10)
Raise your hand
I thought it would be a cake walk to get a passing grade (50%) as we had done each of these things in class, many of them several times. As I walked around the room, I saw that my students begged to differ.
Almost every screen I looked at the students were doing one of two things. About half the class had found the recycle bin on the desktop, but instead of double clicking on it or using one of the other ways of opening it we discussed and practiced in class, most were clicking and dragging it across the desktop. This was remarkable in that the concept of clicking and dragging had been the concept that had given everyone the most difficulty, and now they were pros. Many right clicked on the Recycle Bin, bring up the menu which included such helpful options as open. No one actually clicked on open, but several raised their hands to show me that they had opened the Recycle Bin. Several clicked on “Create a shortcut” which led to much confusion. Now there are two Recycle Bins!
The other half of the class had opened the Start Menu and was bewilderingly looking around at the submenus opening and closing as they moved their mouse around. I asked several of them where the Recycle Bin was, and they hesitantly moved their mouse over to rest on it. When I asked them how to open it, the mouse eventually moved back to the Start Menu and resumed their browsing.
At the end of the allotted fifteen minutes I looked down at my checklist. Out of fourteen students here, there were four checks. I gave them a few extra minutes. I was testing both classes of 6eme each which has about 40 students. Breaking them into three groups each and at fifteen minutes a group the whole affair took just over two hours. By the end I was exhausted.
Watching my students who I knew knew somewhat what they were doing languish painfully on step one was a bit depressing. But I think there are mitigating factors such as the novelty of the test format, the stress of a live test, and poor ability in French (mine and in some cases theirs, French is a second language to most) that took their toll. When I added up the results 26 of 76 students passed, with the average of the number of steps completed being 3.
There were some brighter moments though: the first student to get to the last group, the look of triumph on the face of a student who had taken the last ten minutes desperately trying to open the Recycle Bin and had just figured it out, shooting his or her hand in the air with pride, the first drawing of a very sickly looking dog.
This test has shown me a lot and is going to lead to some changes in the way I’m teaching, specifically what I’m doing in lab. Giving them all the instructions for a lab can only teach them how to follow instructions. I think the first step to moving beyond that is attaching concepts and names to these instructions so that a series of steps becomes a phrase, shut down your computer, or, as was lacking today, double clicking on an icon becomes launching or opening the icon. I haven’t been pushing them enough towards that transition. Or at least that what it seems like to me. Anyone out there skilled in the art of instruction have any advice?
This afternoon I’m with my youngest class, 6eme, who don’t quite get computers, but are sure excited to mess around on them anyway. There are a few exceptions, but for the most part I’m forced to repeat myself a lot, and use very simple language. For example, in my older classes what once was a long drawn out, five minute process of me explaining every step to them has now become three words, “Arrêtez votre ordinateur” (Shut down your computer). In contrast, most of 6eme hasn’t quite got the double click down perfectly yet and ‘shut down your computer’ remains a five minute explanation.
Going into this test I knew that I would have to make the test pretty easy, and I thought I had done a pretty good job. The test was broken into ten steps which were divided into four groups. After you had finished all the steps in a group you were to raise you hand and I would come around and check to make sure you did it correctly. Then you could move on to the next group of tasks. For each step you did correctly you got a point, giving a possible of ten points. Here is the English version of the test.
1. Open the Recycle Bin (1)
Minimize the Recycle Bin (2)
Raise you hand.
2. Close the Recycle Bin (3)
Open the calculator (4)
With the calculator calculate 79-49 (5)
Raise your hand
3. Close the calculator (6)
Open Encarta Junior (7)
With Encarta Junior find the number of countries in Africa (8)
Raise your hand
4 Close Encarta Junior (9)
Open Paint and draw a dog (10)
Raise your hand
I thought it would be a cake walk to get a passing grade (50%) as we had done each of these things in class, many of them several times. As I walked around the room, I saw that my students begged to differ.
Almost every screen I looked at the students were doing one of two things. About half the class had found the recycle bin on the desktop, but instead of double clicking on it or using one of the other ways of opening it we discussed and practiced in class, most were clicking and dragging it across the desktop. This was remarkable in that the concept of clicking and dragging had been the concept that had given everyone the most difficulty, and now they were pros. Many right clicked on the Recycle Bin, bring up the menu which included such helpful options as open. No one actually clicked on open, but several raised their hands to show me that they had opened the Recycle Bin. Several clicked on “Create a shortcut” which led to much confusion. Now there are two Recycle Bins!
The other half of the class had opened the Start Menu and was bewilderingly looking around at the submenus opening and closing as they moved their mouse around. I asked several of them where the Recycle Bin was, and they hesitantly moved their mouse over to rest on it. When I asked them how to open it, the mouse eventually moved back to the Start Menu and resumed their browsing.
At the end of the allotted fifteen minutes I looked down at my checklist. Out of fourteen students here, there were four checks. I gave them a few extra minutes. I was testing both classes of 6eme each which has about 40 students. Breaking them into three groups each and at fifteen minutes a group the whole affair took just over two hours. By the end I was exhausted.
Watching my students who I knew knew somewhat what they were doing languish painfully on step one was a bit depressing. But I think there are mitigating factors such as the novelty of the test format, the stress of a live test, and poor ability in French (mine and in some cases theirs, French is a second language to most) that took their toll. When I added up the results 26 of 76 students passed, with the average of the number of steps completed being 3.
There were some brighter moments though: the first student to get to the last group, the look of triumph on the face of a student who had taken the last ten minutes desperately trying to open the Recycle Bin and had just figured it out, shooting his or her hand in the air with pride, the first drawing of a very sickly looking dog.
This test has shown me a lot and is going to lead to some changes in the way I’m teaching, specifically what I’m doing in lab. Giving them all the instructions for a lab can only teach them how to follow instructions. I think the first step to moving beyond that is attaching concepts and names to these instructions so that a series of steps becomes a phrase, shut down your computer, or, as was lacking today, double clicking on an icon becomes launching or opening the icon. I haven’t been pushing them enough towards that transition. Or at least that what it seems like to me. Anyone out there skilled in the art of instruction have any advice?
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Welcome Back
After too long a time away from blogging, I’m back at it, this time with internet at my site so there are no excuses!
Unfortunately there are a few things that have passed that I don’t have a good enough memory to describe them. This is going to be an entry of mini entries of the things I was going to blog about, but didn’t get around to.
September 2nd?, 2009
I sat under Andrea’s thatched hanger watching drops hurl themselves against the concrete floor. It was drizzling out, something I’d never really seen before in Burkina. The strong winds and dark clouds that were a hallmark of rain had disappeared, giving way to a light breeze and soft, grey, streaky clouds.
The ride over had been wet, at times the water was so high my feet disappeared into the muddy water as they reached the nadir of the cycle. I remember looking down into the water and shuddering, remembering some of the pictures we saw during the medical sessions in training. I could practically see the parasites swimming around, looking for an opening.
The bike ride to Andrea’s is a short 13km but with most of the road underwater it had taken me the better part of an hour. The road itself could be found in some of the more remote parts of Montana. It’s navigable but the combination of rains and relatively heavy traffic has taken their toll. Put a foot of water on top of that and you’ve got yourself a challenging road.
What is around the road is much more interesting. Every shade of green imaginable painted on plants, trees and bushes. What was hard packed dry dirt broken up by a few trees and shrubs etching out a living has come alive. And everywhere there is water.
I learn a few days later that there was so much rain that week that there were heavy floods in Ouagadougou and elsewhere, sweeping away hundreds of mud-brick homes and leaving thousands homeless.
October 14th, 2009
I’ve never been that afraid of spiders. I remember once when I was a kid we found a black window in our garage and we brought it outside to look at. I’ve always admired the way spiders look – sleek, graceful and deadly. I decided it would be a good idea to pick the black widow up with a leather glove. The spider started to crawl upwards toward the skin of my exposed arm and I flung that glove off so fast I think the impact maimed or killed the spider. I tell you this as a precursor.
A couple days ago I needed some socks. Not the most glamorous start to a story but it is true none the less. I’m quite lucky to be able to use the Frères’ laundry service, a guy named Luke who comes around once a week. Every Tuesday morning he drags out three giant dented metal bowels and fills them with water and the local laundry detergent Omo which is the central theme in many wonderful commercials on RTB (Radio and Television of Burkina) and which I unfortunately have burned into my memory. A few hours and a lot scrubbing later he breaks out the iron and gives everything a professional once over. The next day we have a clean, ironed pile of clothes awaiting us in the common room where we eat our meals.
This pile was now sitting on one of my two giant green trunks. I haven’t quite got a good system for storing my cloths, and on top of the chest they stay off of the dirty floor and high enough to stay out of the mini floods that take over my room in especially strong rainstorms.
I knew that my socks where somewhere in the middle – I could see their white shapelessness sticking out from the middle of neat creases and folds. I lifted up the first couple shirts and stopped. There, sitting calmly on my sock was a spider. A camel spider. A large camel spider.
The first, and really only thing you notice about camel spiders are their two giant wickedly curved fangs. They would seem almost comical if they weren’t attached to a creature inches away from your hand. At this point in my service I was still at peace with the critters living in my apartment and not wanting to break the truce now I picked up the sock and headed to the door. I got about halfway there before the thing moved.
As I vainly hurled the sock toward the door I tried to remember if camel spiders were poisonous. I didn’t think so, but I seem to remember some pictures floating around on the internet that didn’t bode well for those unfortunate enough to be bitten by a camel spider. I didn’t want to find out.
He hit the ground running and was gone. I didn’t realize that camel spiders where so fast.
I adopted a ritual the next couple days. Each night before bed I would take my only sheet and shake it, then thoroughly check my pillow and look over my mosquito net before determining that there was no camel spider present and it was safe to go to sleep. I figured that he must have left the apartment by after a few days went by with no sign of him and my routine slowly began to break down.
One night I was extremely tired and couldn’t be bothered to do more than a precursory check before plopping my iPod speakers in my ears, starting up some soothing music and setting my weary head to rest. Even though I’m close to half a mile from the nearest dog, donkey or dance club, a lovely mélange of the three make their way into my room at night. At my host families house in Ouahigouya I thought I could find nothing worse than the call to prayer at 5am. I was wrong. And thus I fall asleep each night with the sounds of music from America land soothing me to sleep.
Tonight I heard something that I didn’t expect – a faint scratching sound. Oh man, please don’t let that be my ear buds, I need these. Scratch, scratch. My head popped off the pillow like a cork as my ears found the source of the scratching sound. It was coming from in the pillow.
I ran across the room and flipped on the light switch, turning back to the pillow as the sole florescent light in my room blinked into existence. I lifted it up gingerly, hoping that I wouldn’t find what I knew I would find. Two large beady black eyes stared back up at me from behind two fangs which I swear had grown a little bit. Camel spiders are tough, but they go down pretty hard when you hit them with a Chaco.
Edit: Sorry the picture upload isn't working. I'll try and get one up later.
Unfortunately there are a few things that have passed that I don’t have a good enough memory to describe them. This is going to be an entry of mini entries of the things I was going to blog about, but didn’t get around to.
September 2nd?, 2009
I sat under Andrea’s thatched hanger watching drops hurl themselves against the concrete floor. It was drizzling out, something I’d never really seen before in Burkina. The strong winds and dark clouds that were a hallmark of rain had disappeared, giving way to a light breeze and soft, grey, streaky clouds.
The ride over had been wet, at times the water was so high my feet disappeared into the muddy water as they reached the nadir of the cycle. I remember looking down into the water and shuddering, remembering some of the pictures we saw during the medical sessions in training. I could practically see the parasites swimming around, looking for an opening.
The bike ride to Andrea’s is a short 13km but with most of the road underwater it had taken me the better part of an hour. The road itself could be found in some of the more remote parts of Montana. It’s navigable but the combination of rains and relatively heavy traffic has taken their toll. Put a foot of water on top of that and you’ve got yourself a challenging road.
What is around the road is much more interesting. Every shade of green imaginable painted on plants, trees and bushes. What was hard packed dry dirt broken up by a few trees and shrubs etching out a living has come alive. And everywhere there is water.
I learn a few days later that there was so much rain that week that there were heavy floods in Ouagadougou and elsewhere, sweeping away hundreds of mud-brick homes and leaving thousands homeless.
October 14th, 2009
I’ve never been that afraid of spiders. I remember once when I was a kid we found a black window in our garage and we brought it outside to look at. I’ve always admired the way spiders look – sleek, graceful and deadly. I decided it would be a good idea to pick the black widow up with a leather glove. The spider started to crawl upwards toward the skin of my exposed arm and I flung that glove off so fast I think the impact maimed or killed the spider. I tell you this as a precursor.
A couple days ago I needed some socks. Not the most glamorous start to a story but it is true none the less. I’m quite lucky to be able to use the Frères’ laundry service, a guy named Luke who comes around once a week. Every Tuesday morning he drags out three giant dented metal bowels and fills them with water and the local laundry detergent Omo which is the central theme in many wonderful commercials on RTB (Radio and Television of Burkina) and which I unfortunately have burned into my memory. A few hours and a lot scrubbing later he breaks out the iron and gives everything a professional once over. The next day we have a clean, ironed pile of clothes awaiting us in the common room where we eat our meals.
This pile was now sitting on one of my two giant green trunks. I haven’t quite got a good system for storing my cloths, and on top of the chest they stay off of the dirty floor and high enough to stay out of the mini floods that take over my room in especially strong rainstorms.
I knew that my socks where somewhere in the middle – I could see their white shapelessness sticking out from the middle of neat creases and folds. I lifted up the first couple shirts and stopped. There, sitting calmly on my sock was a spider. A camel spider. A large camel spider.
The first, and really only thing you notice about camel spiders are their two giant wickedly curved fangs. They would seem almost comical if they weren’t attached to a creature inches away from your hand. At this point in my service I was still at peace with the critters living in my apartment and not wanting to break the truce now I picked up the sock and headed to the door. I got about halfway there before the thing moved.
As I vainly hurled the sock toward the door I tried to remember if camel spiders were poisonous. I didn’t think so, but I seem to remember some pictures floating around on the internet that didn’t bode well for those unfortunate enough to be bitten by a camel spider. I didn’t want to find out.
He hit the ground running and was gone. I didn’t realize that camel spiders where so fast.
I adopted a ritual the next couple days. Each night before bed I would take my only sheet and shake it, then thoroughly check my pillow and look over my mosquito net before determining that there was no camel spider present and it was safe to go to sleep. I figured that he must have left the apartment by after a few days went by with no sign of him and my routine slowly began to break down.
One night I was extremely tired and couldn’t be bothered to do more than a precursory check before plopping my iPod speakers in my ears, starting up some soothing music and setting my weary head to rest. Even though I’m close to half a mile from the nearest dog, donkey or dance club, a lovely mélange of the three make their way into my room at night. At my host families house in Ouahigouya I thought I could find nothing worse than the call to prayer at 5am. I was wrong. And thus I fall asleep each night with the sounds of music from America land soothing me to sleep.
Tonight I heard something that I didn’t expect – a faint scratching sound. Oh man, please don’t let that be my ear buds, I need these. Scratch, scratch. My head popped off the pillow like a cork as my ears found the source of the scratching sound. It was coming from in the pillow.
I ran across the room and flipped on the light switch, turning back to the pillow as the sole florescent light in my room blinked into existence. I lifted it up gingerly, hoping that I wouldn’t find what I knew I would find. Two large beady black eyes stared back up at me from behind two fangs which I swear had grown a little bit. Camel spiders are tough, but they go down pretty hard when you hit them with a Chaco.
Edit: Sorry the picture upload isn't working. I'll try and get one up later.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
