The Hyatt Life

Much has happened since I last posted to my blog. The school year is finished. I visited Obama Land. And now I am on the tail end of a ten day vacation to Ghana. For those of you who pity my life which lacks water, electricity, climate control, fast food, Starbucks and paved roads, please don’t. 

I left my village June 25^th to catch a flight leaving to the States from the capital city July 4^th. I took my time getting to the capital city and spent the week visiting friends, sitting poolside, and eating chickens. Once in the states, my days were filled with golfing, playing scrabble with my mom, hitting the links, catching up with friends over drinks, teeing it up, and road-tripping with my family.  There were many nights when I got in late from hanging out with friends knowing that my dad would be waking me up early the next morning for a 7 AM tee-time. My waking moments were filled with so much good that sleep seemed to be a waste of time. 

Taking out the trash. With FIRE!

Returning to Burkina Faso, I spent two weeks in my village. Coming back to my new home was nice, but my village seemed deserted. My fellow teachers had left to spend summer vacation with their families in the city, and my village friends spent all day in the fields. When I could sleep and read no more, I wandered around my village and explored the wilderness beyond. An hour’s walk from the village center and I still found myself among fields with people busy at work. In an area the size of a football field, I commonly could count 30 pairs of hands busily prepping the soil and burying seed. Field after field, all full of working boys, girls, old men and women, cows and mules, it became clear that every pair of capable hands and hooves was devoted to cultivation. My hands suddenly seemed baby soft and my clothes embarrassingly dirt-free. Coming from America, I was culture shocked. But it made me smile. 

Family compound at the base of Loumana Mountain

Overgrown field before cultivation nestled in Loumana Canyon

 After two weeks, I hopped on a bus to the Ghanaian coast. Barged, haggled, forced, and ‘jammed myself into’ could all replace the word hopped. And a bus actually means several buses, taxis and tro tros (Ghanaian version of bush taxis). The 2-day hassle of actually getting to the beach was quickly forgotten when I found myself eating lobster, body surfing, boogie boarding and sunbathing on pristine wilderness beaches. Imagine Hawaii 100 years ago. Vast stretches of the coastline are yet to be developed where the only thing between impassable rainforest and crashing waves is a white sand beach – and the only thing on the beach, me.  Sunbathing.

Butre Beach and Lagoon. Didn't sleep there but will next time.

This picture will look much different 100 years from now - more resorts, people and pavement.

I am writing this from a balcony on the third floor of a hostel next to the bus station in Kumasi, Ghana. Kumasi is home to the largest open-air market in the world. I walked there this morning. To get a better view of the market, I climbed a two-story building crowded with one-roomed telephone stores with a surprisingly wide selection of smart phones. Looking down over the market reminded me of standing on top of the Grand Canyon but looking down on a sea of people, carts and tin roofs instead of open space and the Colorado River. I descended the steps, never went into the market, and returned to the tranquility of this hostel balcony to write this blog. 

Incredibly massive but I'll pass. I'm not much of a shopper.

I said goodbye to Leslie Otto yesterday. We traveled together and had the beach to ourselves between the rainforest and crashing waves. Having finished her two years, she is on her way to Europe en route ultimately to the states leaving me to travel solo back to Burkina Faso to finish my second year of service.

It is now 1:30 PM. My bus leaves at 5 PM. Again, words in italics are loosely defined. I wish myself Godspeed.  

One last thing, my September will be devoted to the solar panel project as I just received an email confirming the money is in my account so I can give the green light to get the project underway. Exciting times! Again, thanks to all those who donated and know that every cent will go directly to helping the students of my school.

Welcome to the real world

Sitting at Charles de Gaulle in Paris, I am surrounded by so many interesting people! The most interesting of these were there three people that just sprinted past me while sitting patiently at gate E74. 

Over the intercom, a voice speaking in French with an Japanese accent called three individuals to the ticket counter. Stress, worry and anger filled the three travelers on one side of the corner. Apathy and annoyance flowed from the Japanese workers on the other. 

Having finished their business, the three travelers rushed away to catch their flight at another gate that could have been very far away. The three voyagers were three very different people in body type and fashion sense. 

The first voyager to pass, the voyager in the lead, was a young lean man who reminded me at the same time of the hip men I saw in turkey sporting classy Euro-mullets and the brutes I see on T.V. when watching Jersey Shore. He was clearly going to be the first to arrive at the new gate leaving the two others in his manicured wake. 

The second was a tall bald guy, a few inches taller than me, wearing a pink button-up shirt and grey dress pants. His style of running was less urgent and vainer. My guess is that, he was aware of the hundreds of Asians gawking at the silly white people who went to the wrong gate. 

The third voyager was my favorite. An overweight American in her forties, she wore a tight pink T-shirt and mom pants that probably fit properly during her first pregnancy. I think she has gained weight since then. She was already in a full sweat and out of breath as she passed me just 50 feet away from the ticket counter. I couldn’t help but turn around and watch her as she ran off down the terminal. The other two men were already out of site. Poor woman. 

I was sitting in a seat closest to the aisle leaving most of the terminal seats in front of me, all of which were filled with Asians. I turned back around from watching the women leave, and all of the Asians in front of me apparently hadn’t had enough of the spectacle. Their heads were still all turned watching the poor woman bounce away. The spectacle ended with wife turning to husband and brother to sister to share in a short chuckle in mutual appreciation of what just happened. I didn’t have the benefit of a travel companion to laugh along with me. Something about laughing at the expense of another is so much better when there is someone to chortle alongside you. Perhaps that is why I felt the need to write this blog; or perhaps I am just that bad of a person. I blame it on the culture shock.

Solar Panel Project FUNDED!!

Mabougouri (center), after being held back last year, earned the highest average of  82 boys and girls for this year's third trimester.

Three months ago posted a single blog and a single Facebook update describing a project to install solar panels at my school giving my students a place to study after dark. I wanted to send personal messages to all of my family and friends, but SONATEL, the sentinel phone company in Burkina, was on strike the weekend I came to the city to use the internet. The internet came back on Tuesday giving me just a few hours on slow internet to get the message out. I had to return to village unsatisfied with the number of people I told about the project I care so much about – a project my village is so anxious to see become a reality. 

I was nervous when I recently came back to the city to check the status of the fundraising for the project. My stomach dropped when the project was no longer listed on the Peace Corps website. I thought perhaps that there was a problem and it was taken down before all the money could be raised. A few phone calls and emails later, the Peace Corps is a great organization, but like all be organizations, talking to the person to whom you really should talking is always difficult, I confirmed that the project is indeed fully funded!

Shortly after I put my project online, friends started donating. A special thanks to Danielle Hutchings, Jordan Elwell, Bryant Crubaugh and Kyle Huffman for your help. Your willingness to help is a personal encouragement to me and a warm comforting taste of a home that often feels so far way.

The fifth donor, whose identity still remains a mystery, decided to fund the remainder of the project (the project in total will cost around 5,000 dollars)! My personal thanks and the gratitude of everyone in my village are extended to the person whose generosity will greatly impact the education of the 500 students at my school for years to come.  I am humbled by such generosity and do not take the responsibility lightly to ensure that every cent goes directly to helping the students of Loumana. 

I am returning home to America in four days! I am so excited to spend time with my family, see my friends and hold a golf club in my hand while standing on green grass. I return in August and will begin working with an engineer to purchase and install the materials so that everything will be ready for the first day of school October 1^st (also my 24th birthday). 

To all my friends and family, I will see you soon.

Things to miss...or not

I am sitting on a bus destined for the Oaugadougou, the capital city of Burkina Faso. I have completed my first year as a teacher along with my first year abroad away from my family and the lifestyle I grew up with. Being on the verge of go back to America after living a very simple life for the past year, I find myself thinking about the things from the states that I really missed, and other things that I thought I would miss but found rather easy to live without. 

Grinding coffee keeps me in shape

Here is a list of things I definitely missed and anxious to enjoy during my three weeks in the states:

Ice cream: All things cold were missing from my life for the past year. Ice cream, being the king of all things cold, is going to be quite the treat. 

Golf: In a country without lawns, I expect to have a new appreciation for trimmed fairways and greens.

Hot tubs: the idea of sitting in hot water is appalling in the heat of Africa, but being in cool Michigan air craving to soak my body in hot water will be quite the contrast to my experience in village. Such a contrast should be appreciated. 

Sports Center: During long hot nights in my bed at night, I dream of the theme song… da ne neh, da ne neh.

White people: My celebrity like status in village is quite taxing. I look forward to being ignored and blending in. 

Carpet: I miss the touch, soft to the feet- and clean. 

Guitar is still difficult

Things you’d think I’d miss but haven’t:

Air conditioning: Okay, climate control is nice, but sleeping under the stars in nothing but basketball shorts and a light blanket is something I have grown to love. 

Indoor plumbing: Some inherently dirty acts, such as pooping, are best done outdoors. When using indoor plumbing, I now feel that I am doing an outdoor activity indoors. I expect someone to slap my hand and berate me for dirtying the inside of a house.  

 

Junk food: Food in plastic packaging just seems to be extra work. Almost everything I buy comes straight from the gardens. I also have no other way to get food.

When it comes down to it, food is food, comfort is comfort, and luxuries are luxuries. They are merely things. Even my yearning for pints and pints of Ben and Jerry’s is nothing compared to my excitement to see my family and friends.  

Solar Panel Project

Renewable Energy Renewing Minds

EIGHT DOLLAR KING

I make eight dollars a day and I am rich.

I do not mean figuratively rich enjoying God’s blessings anew every morning. I literally have a lot of money and often search for ways to spend it. My salary is eight dollars a day.

Two weeks after graduating from Taylor, I boarded a plane bound for Burkina Faso officially becoming a teacher with the Peace Corps. After a year’s worth of burnt candles and bucket baths, I can’t say that I miss either running water or electricity, both of which I live without.

I send a boy to the pump every other day to fetch water for my 80L cistern. He straps a yellow 20L plastic jug to the back of my bike and makes the trip four times. I pay him one dollar a week and his friends are jealous of his job.

Every other Saturday, I give a neighbor girl my dirty laundry, a packet of powdered soap and 40L of water. Also for a dollar, she happily does my laundry laboring over buckets bent-over straight-legged forehead to knees scrubbing my clothes over the washboard.

Everything I eat, with the exception of spaghetti, tomato paste and Blue Band (margarine), I buy at a farmers market to which I bike 8 km every sixth day. In absence of a fridge, my weekly diet is a function of which foods spoil first. Meat, for example, taken from slabs of cow or goat hanging from the butcher’s tree, needs to be fried and eaten within 36 hours. If kept wet, leafy greens can keep for up to 48 hours. Since meat and leafy greens spoil first, I often have meat and salad on market day – a meal fit for a king.

Day three after the market, I make a tomato or peanut sauce from scratch. Cabbage, eggplant and lentils give the sauce substance but don’t spoil like meat would. This allows me to eat the same sauce for several days cooking new only the rice, spaghetti or macaroni.

Yacouba does English exercises at the blackboard 

This brings me to day 5. Having eaten all the vegetables, I am forced to make do with peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Village peanut butter makes Whole Food’s peanut butter seem like Wal-Mart’s. The process is simple. Grind campfire-roasted peanuts at the local generator powered mill and out comes nothing-but-peanuts village peanut butter.

Waking up on day 6, I face an empty house, nothing to eat. Thankfully it’s the sixth day and I can bike to the market after teaching class.

Keep in mind that I live the most posh lifestyle in all of Loumana. The sauces I make, sauces fit for a king, would be cut and diluted many times over to fill the many stomachs of a large African family. The stomachs may be full but the bodies are left malnourished and fatigued.

I am at a loss when I discipline a student for sleeping in my class when staring back at me are eyes sunken and bloodshot seeing nothing but hunger. I try not to think of my thick and hearty sauce waiting for me at home. I tell them fatigue can be overcome by a strong mind knowing that the strongest of minds cannot function without proper nourishment. I would invite kids to eat at my home, but between my four classes, I have nearly 300 students. Even the richest man in Loumana can’t daily fill 300 stomachs.

The obstacles preventing my students from advancing in their education are sobering. Class sizes exceed 100. Overworked teachers often juggle 30 hours of class per week making a mere 200 dollars a month. From crumbling chalkboards, students copy diagrams of chemistry experiments and drawings of plants as the majority can’t afford the eight dollar textbook. Beakers and graduated cylinders are foreign objects the teachers can only explain in theory.  

It is not surprising that every year nearly half the students fail each grade. Their scholastic careers are ended if they fail a second time relegating them to a life of farming or herding.

How do you choose who to help when it can’t be everyone? One answer is to find projects that empower people to help themselves.  

The students at my school have no way to study at night. There is no electricity in Loumana rendering the homes pitch black after dark. The lack of tables and chairs leaves my students crowded around lanterns on plastic mats sprawled around dirt courtyards.

Additionally, the children must help with chores around the home. Studying is set aside until the chickens are fed and in the coup, wood gathered, cisterns full, dinner cooked and dishes cleaned. Children also help the parents with whatever their family trade may be: making soap, baking bread, butchering meet, making furniture, watering the garden. These distractions create a chaotic, not to mention dark, environment making effective study nearly impossible.

Students flood out of the afternoon's English clss

To give their students a place to study after dark, the community has expressed an interest in illuminating the village school. Since the slow-growing electrical grids of Burkina Faso are a long way from Loumana, light would have to come in the form of solar panels and car batteries.

Solar panels and other necessary equipment are no cheaper here than they are in the states. The community needs five thousand dollars to get the project off the ground. This money would light two classrooms, the on-site community library and the administration building. For the first time, students would have access to a place devoted to their studies with proper tables, desks, chalkboards and textbooks away from the distractions and duties of home. Go to my blog (gatorsinafrica.blogspot.com) for pictures and information.

Go to https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=686-148

if you are interested in helping.

The day I am writing this is a market day. After lesson planning, I look forward to enjoying my weekly meat and salad, a meal fit for an eight dollar king.

Only in Africa

The day of a math test, a student approached me saying he couldn’t take the test. 

“Why?” I asked. 

He showed me his hand – his writing hand. 

Due to a parasite, it was swollen and black. He was partially correct. There was no way he could use his normal hand to write. 

I was faced with a decision. His hand may never get better. If that is the case, he will have to learn how to write with his other hand. 

“You are going to take the test.” I said. “Use your off hand and don’t worry about time or penmanship.

I told him he could finish the test at my house over lunch if he failed to finish on time. I gave him computer paper allowing him more space to work. He finished on time with a passing grade. Too tough? I think not.

Add parasites to the long list of obstacles facing education in Loumana:

1.      80+ kids per class

2.       Limited textbooks

3.       Classes taught in a second language

4.       Strikes

5.       No lights*

6.       Parasite infested limbs

*Working on solution in soon to be introduced solar panel project. Keep an eye out for it on my blog and Facebook in the near future.

The life of a chomeur (bum)

Classes have been suspended nationwide. I find myself suddenly unemployed. Yesterday I busied myself with cleaning my house. I think my house maintains an acceptable level of cleanliness. My visitors disagree. Funny, I had the same problem in college. 

Poignana and Pascaline wash clothes

I wonder why I get satisfaction in cleaning places I never see, touch, smell. Do I sense they are dirty? Does merely knowing the floor under my bed is littered with mouse poop keep me from a good night’s sleep? Do I better enjoy a book that comes from a shelf under which is clean and proper? I hope the answer is yes to all these questions because I labored in sweat all day cleaning places I never see. At the end of the day, my house pretty much looked the same. But I knew it was clean?

I didn’t even get to enjoy the clean floor under my real bed as I slept outside for the first time last night on my cot. The heat in a sun-baked, cement-walled, tin-roofed house has become unbearable. I will continue to sleep outside until the rainy season starts – May or June depending on the year. 

The air was cool and the stars bright sleeping on my porch- my new bedroom for the time being. Contentment and restfulness accompanied the rising sun erasing like fog nightmares of nocturnal scorpions and serpents. 

My neighbors were stirring at daybreak. Unfortunately, they are not equipped with a snooze button. Poignana swept the courtyard and Pascaline washed the dishes from the day before. The days of illegitimate children start early in village. Even now, my ragged clothed bastard neighbors are shining shoes, fetching wood, and have not yet finished washing the dishes. My well clothed legitimate neighbors heat water for Nescafe, play with the baby, and mix in sugar with a spoon that the illegitimate Pascaline just washed. My neighbor, the father of all the children, both ‘legit and not, only the former of which he finds the money to send to school, greeted me this morning in broken English. 

“I love you. You are kind.” He said with a chuckle. 

I don’t know if he understood what he said or was just saying what he could with his limited English. 

Regardless, this warm greeting made me cold. It’s not his fault really, it’s the injustice of it all that makes me sick. The world around groans for better days.

Cinema Burkina

So what does a bachelor of 23 do on the weekends in a village with no bars, let alone beer, no video games, let alone electricity, and no woman, at least none that are not married or one of his students?

This is a great question; the answer to which at least to me is at the same time amazing and depressing. At the very least it makes me smile. 

What I hope will be an enlightening introduction is in order. I hope that through this introduction, I can bridge the gap between African village life and America.

To you I present the Guru. 

The Guru is bottom-right.

The Guru is the senior of the six teachers at my school. He teaches French, History and Geography masterfully juggling more classes and students than any of his colleagues. The Guru is at the same time the shortest and heaviest among us teachers. This feat, bringing shame in the states, earns him instant respect. In Africa, a stomach well fed belongs to a person who knows how to look out for his own. A bulging waist-line is the African equivalent to driving a Beamer or sporting a Rolex, yet much more indicative of the owners actual well-being. A person will fed in Africa is probably the happiest and most content. While in the States, the man behind the Benz may very well be the saddest of the bunch. 

The Guru is a widely known as a man who does life well. His reputation is not in small part due to the four solar panels gleaming deep blue perched in his courtyard. With these solar panels, he has lights to see inside and out, a boom box to blare music day and night, and a fan to keep him cool while the rest of us swim and sleep in our own sweat. His most prized contraption, and most beneficial to others, is his home entertainment system. 

Each and every night preceding a day without school, which has been numerous lately considering the student strike, he hauls outside his battery and clamps together wires connecting a DVD player, TV and speakers. With one push of a button, poof, like magic, shining blaring into the dark African wilderness is modern cinema.

This is what I do on Friday nights. I huddle around a small TV in the company of my fellow teachers. To take a break from the likes of Steven Segal, Chuck Norris, and Jean Claude Vandam, all of which the Burkinabe consider gods, I tilt my head skyward.  Often, the only think better than Cinema Burkina is Cinéma des étoiles – cinema of the stars.

When my opponents cannot afford to lose

I recently had a FaceBook conversation with the mother of a college friend. She is remarkably experienced with the American education system for her remarkable young age and resplendent beauty [Mrs. Convey I am speaking of you]. Between discussing her famed tomato sauce recipes, she commented that American students have it too easy. I believe she means to say we pamper our students and guard their self-esteem in such a way that we end up blinding them to the realities of the world. The students in my classroom do not have the luxury of such sheltered blindness – or ignorance if you prefer. If my students were guilty of such apathy that I remember seeing among American students, they would be kicked out of school and into abject poverty before once watching SportsCenter or Hannah Montana [or Boy Meets World for those from my generation].

Let me explain.

Nearly half the kids from each grade earn failing marks and get held back each year. That is to say that half of my English students are taking first year English for the second consecutive year. In my math classes, half of my students, for the second year in a row, are failing to wrap their minds around the concept of negative numbers. It frustrates me know that I am failing to transfer knowledge from myself to my students, the ultimate goal of education. It hurts even more knowing the grave and eminent consequences awaiting students who fail to grasp the concepts.

A student is allowed to repeat a grade one time without consequence other than burdening his family with an extra year of tuition fees. A student is barred from school if held back a second time. Being a math teacher, I calculated with minimum effort that one in four of my students will not be allowed to return to school after this year. When grading tests and giving multiple consecutive failing marks, 7 out of 20, 5 out of 20 and even 1 out of 20, I can’t help but think that I am contributing to the termination of my students’ education. It doesn’t take an overly compassionate person to understand the frustration and anger I feel when my students fail to do homework, sleep in class or in general fail to recognize, or perhaps have repressed, the gravity of their situation. Keep in mind my students are malnourished, ragged clothed and often smelly 6th and 7th graders.

This is the context in which I need to play the game. What game you ask? It is really no game at all and the manner in which is played is by no means playful. The objective of the game is simple. The students try to gain every point possible regardless of the morality of the means. That is to say come test day, if my students realize that their laziness has caught up with them and remembering that they failed the previous two tests, they no longer hesitate to cheat if the opportunity presents itself. With one hundred kids to a class and three to a bench, the opportunities are plenty. 

I recognize and understand my students, my opponents and friends. For me, victory would be to see each of them earn the right to move on to the next grade. This will not happen as the resulting log jam would cause the entire system to implode. So my redefined victory is to give the right, to those who have earned it, to pass. This means recognizing those students who have worked hard and grasp the concepts. This is easy at first. But the difficulty comes in separating student number 75 from 76. The former will pass and continue to be educated. The latter will be relegated to a life in the fields. [I shall argue the fault in assuming a life in the fields as undignified later.] This decision will be mine to be made come May. For now, it is for me to punish the cheaters and corner-cutters, allow the students to work hard, and accurately reward those who do. This is my game. A good life.

I think I'll shower today...or brush my teeth

Describing life in village is a difficult task. Simply saying that I live without running water, plumbing, electricity or climate control provides enough shock value. Even though this might be my token summary of my experience upon return, it does little to describe my actual life. To describe my emotions and reactions to things I see every day is too ambitious a task to start and finish in one sitting. This is why I have found telling short vignettes the best way to provide windows into my life.

Stories that come to mind before my computer dies (1:45 and counting):

Where I sit

Under a secko terrace on a plastic chair, I am listening to Ben Harper enjoying a four day weekend. I biked 15K to Kyle’s house to enjoy the company, cold drinks and internet at a nearby gold mine. The stone well directly in front of his house and in my clear view is frequented by girls and women. I thought today that I could make my millions with a workout DVD called “The Strength of Africa.” I would simply take common exercises that people do in the states and rename them according to the daily activity people do here that work the same muscle. A lawn mower would become a well bucket heave. A woman now at the well is in the middle of here tenth set as write these very words. I counted. A lat pull-down and lateral shoulder raise would be combined into one super move: the tô pulverizer. I could continue but the cleverness of these names is lost on both Americans and Africans alike as Africans don’t understand working out and Americans don’t understand Africa. Kiss those millions good-bye. So are the thoughts of where I sit.

“ID Please” – said Pooh Bear

I live very close to the intersection of Burkina Faso, The Ivory Coast, and Mali. A recent surge in moto smugglings has necessitated checkpoints along the back routes connecting the three countries. The main road running through Loumana is one of these back routes. On my way to market at a nearby village, I came upon one of these checkpoints. I had really had nothing to worry about considering I was on my bike and had the proper paperwork. Nonetheless, armed uniformed strangers make me nervous. I waited my turn with ID and paperwork in hand. Approaching my turn, I noticed the soldier wearing a winter hat. This was bizarre to me considering I was on the verge of a heat stroke. Even more bizarre was that the hat had round yellow ears. Facing the soldier, he asked for my ID and paperwork. I handed them to him and saw looking back at me, not a soldier, but Winnie the Pooh. The hat was fully equipped with fuzz, moving plastic eyes, and fluffy ears all belonging to my childhood hero. He told me to be on my way. “Ookayyyy,” I said in the best Eor voice I could muster. Thankfully, the joke was lost on the soldier. I rode off smiling and less intimidated by the AK-47.

Two big men in a small sinking boat

I was given the opportunity to meet new families grace to the generosity of the Hammond family, They donated filters which my mom brought with her during her visit. Working with the local clinic and an elder, we chose families who have many kids and drink dirty water. [I will write more about this project later]. One of these families was the village fishermen.

Loumana is situated next to pretty rock formations and cliffs. Nestled next to these is a man-made barrage stocked with fish. The barrage is of good size and its’ location make it a good place to have a picnic. Unfortunate I did not discover my village had a beach until after my mom and sister visited.

After discussing the water filter with the fishermen and his family, he invited me to join him the following morning to go fishing. I did just that the following dawn. I met him at his house and followed him during the thirty minute hike back to the barrage. I have never been much of a fisherman, so the novelty of fishing, let alone in Africa, had me quite riled up. In the back of my mind were images of a YouTube video of lions and crocodiles fighting over a wildebeest. Didn’t that take place in Africa?

Arriving at the shore, there was no sign of danger, or a boat. Instead there were several shipwrecked canoes with their noses poking out of the water. The fisherman indicated as to which one was ours. I chuckled eager to get things under way. He bailed out the water, not all of it, and told me to hop in.

I should take the time to note that this fisherman is the one man in all of Loumana that might weigh more than I do. And this boat, or shanty pirogue, reminded of an annual cardboard boat-building contest at Taylor Lake. A contest in which I refused to participate knowing the basic laws of buoyancy and common sense. The same red flags that kept me from getting in the cardboard boats were hoisted at full mast climbing into the pirogue.

We pushed off, me sitting and him standing in back. Being on the water was peaceful and a stark contrast to the dry dustiness of Sub-Saharan Africa this time of year. For two hours, he checked his nets for fish and I bailed out water to keep us afloat. I left that morning with a sack full of fish and a new friend, my first fishing buddy ever.