Welcome once again to the inundative style of writing that is my blogging experience. I have trouble holding any predetermined schedule because sometimes I have nothing to write, or something to write but I don't yet know how to write about it. What am I to do? Drink 50 cups of coffee in a Balzacian-like quest for inspiration? Sacrifice chickens and burn entrails? Or simply wait around until the moment feels write and then just purge myself of all creative energy in one fell swoop and surprise you with adequate reading material for a weeks worth of bathroom breaks. Well whether or not you read my blogs while residing upon the can I cannot say, but I'm sure you all have noticed that I have opted for the later method of creative juicing. This explanation is my half attempt of apology for how late my coup d'etat blog post is, and also why it would be safe to assume that this style of blog posting is probably going to endure for the remainder of my service.
As hinted at in the end of my last post as well as in this very blog title. Today we discuss home, and the many implications stemming from that most comforting of words. It took a military coup for me to realize it, but my village really has become my home. While stuck in Leo in the south of Burkina, faced with the possibility of never returning to village I found myself missing the oddest things about my life in Kogho. I of course missed my dog, I missed hanging out with my friends. But more than that I missed the feeling of being in Kogho, of being part of this huge, crazy, sometimes dsyfunctional family. I missed being invited to drink water from some strangers water satchet. I missed students coming by simply to say hi. I missed people biking by my fields and almost falling of their bikes when they realized I was some white dude farming. I missed the conversations that followed these near accidents.
"White dude, what are you doing?"
"I am farming?"
"Farming what?"
"Soy...it's like beans"
"...like beans....white dude! I like you!!"
*big grin* *bikes away*
I missed the smaller things about my smaller life in my courtyard. I missed watering my plants, wondering when my tangerine tree will start fruiting. I missed mixing my compost pit and being serenaded by that earthy smell as I would sink the shovel into the pile. I missed eating fresh beans off of the plant. Sun dried peanuts. Daily cucumbers. Those sudden rains storms that would sweep in pounding against your house for two hours, blotting out all else with its noise and intensity until just as suddenly. Stops.
I guess what I am getting at is that it was amazing to see how much I couldn't wait to get back to site when I look back at my first week in Kogho and that panicked feeling that I got thinking about how unbelievably long two years was. Back then I thought two years would never end. Now that the end is in sight I can't believe how fast it all seemed to fly by. In a way I'm glad I was forced to face the possibility of leaving Burkina, because I had forgotten that saying good bye is a very real part of serving here. This scare alerted my to the difficult reality that I am going to have to face as my service begins to come to a close over here. We have 8 months left, which I know sounds like a long time to some people. But once you've gotten lost in a village, that's just the blink of an eye.
I write this post lounged out in my chair under my hangar waiting for the noon heat to pass so I can go out and inspect my fields, my harvest time is upon me so stay tuned for news on how that goes and how tasty home grown soy ends up being. And to end this post as I end all of my classes.
Thank you for your attention. Even if you think I am boring. Until next time!