Common Now (Oct 29th)

So much of my life is transition. In Rambo, the people here are as settled as is possible. Ouedraogos have been here for as long as anyone can remember. Nothing much changes beyond seasons. It is the opposite of my life. This little settled piece is another station on my ever-changing track.

Here, people bond to me as if I was going to stay but it is well known I am leaving in a year. The idea of my departure has little bearing on how open they are to relate to me. Am I deceiving them or are they deceiving themselves? Really, I think neither. For if there is one thing we share, it is the sentiment of now.

In Rambo, life is taken as it comes and the now is what matters most. Seasons will change and nobody can predict the weather (the all important force in their lives) so why try to view beyond today? In a wandering life, the future is always uncertain, the past is your haven but the present is the essence of life. It is the crossing of their now with mine that allows us to exchange a greater sense of community and relationship than might otherwise not be possible. Somehow we both prioritize what exists in front of us, though for those far different reasons.

Our views on what to build for the future and where to place our work varies significantly. Yet, as the sun sets, Husseini and I reflect on the day and the coming evening as if it was just another piece of a continuous cycle, as if we will always be standing there at that hour. It is a sort of liberty that defies ideas of preparation. Though such ideas still haunt me a bit.

After all, are we not suppose to gather sentient pieces around us? Friendships and relationships should exist to support and nourish our future, right? We should build houses in neighborhoods filled with our friends and family, n'est pas? It seems so often I hear that voice (speaking from my former life in small town Midland, Texas) echoing along, making me wonder if I should not be trying to build something more for tomorrow.

Remember the story of the ant and the grasshopper? The grasshopper spent his time playing and the ant working. Grasshopper starves. Ant survives winter. Is it really so cut and dry? Work or play? Is it all about tomorrow or all today? Of course not. Like all things, it is a matter of degrees. My degree of now is higher but that suits the temperature here in Burkina. When things exist at 100F without much shade, it overwhelms your ideas of tomorrow. It supplants you directly into the sweat and stickiness of the present moment.

death and school

(from October 2 2009)

it is a season of death in Rambo. over the past two weeks, there have been at least seven deaths amongst my neighbors in and near my compound. one could wonder what plague is sprouting its fingers into our water or air, what devil is hiding in mosquitos swirling about or what tainted potatoes lay waiting to spear us with poison. truth be told it is age and humidity. over the wreck of this season, we have seen torrential downpours that lay waste to Ouagadougou and pushed the crop yields higher here. the barrages and streams spilled over into our lives and left so much water about that it soaked into the very air. that sort of humidity is like a blanket sewn with heat. the burning day hides itself in even the smallest of drops floating on the breeze.

so this season of latent warmth drives the aged into a final sleep. they have become too old to adjust and continue the fight against the warm-laced wet that fills up their lungs. who can blame them for giving into the cooler night and resting there for eternity? at ages around 80 years old, they are truly titans falling back to earth to be buried beneath. such longevity is hardly the norm and is looked upon with awe by those villagers left in the swelter.

funerals here the quietest of occasions, the time of sitting and resting amongst those that knew the deceased. pieces of cooking and small amounts of money may change hands or find themselves in the pockets of mourners but there is hardly a fanfare. no wakes. no grand ceremonies. simple quiet with a motion of dirt on top. funerals here are vigils, the members of the congregation becoming the candles burning beneath the blaze of the midday sun.

in this, begins the school year. from the season of death and change will come the new sprigs of life and education. for these first few weeks, we will adjust to sitting in tin-roofed rooms amongst a hundred before we truly dive into any material. then the days of test will come and go, the heat and humidity will pass. before long, it will be another semester's beginning and end. we will have survived the latent heat of summer's end but find ourselves one step closer to the day our neighbors hold our vigil.