27 september 2008
once every 10 - 14 days i leave my village, ride a bike 3 miles to my friend Liza's house, and we make for the hills the following mornings on whats
called locally a bachee - a bush taxi. these are 15 passanger vans that become 34 passanger boxes of death. as we ride the bumpy, divited, rain-ruined
roads (more dirt paths than actual roadway), squished together with babies on our laps, vomitous teenagers surrounding and
sleeping men to the left and right, we ride. slowly. bumpily. we travel through multiple villages, often stopping to load, unload, reload and sweat.
this last trip i was vomited on, projectile vomit, by not one but two people. one was a small teenage girl who couldn't help it, the other was a man who
none of us even knew was sitting, probably strapped down, atop the bus, along with two goats, two bicycles and 34 people's luggage. it came pouring, sloshing
down but luckilyl i was wearing my travel scarf with my head propped against the window and was only slightly soaked by the time it was all said and done.
i'm thinking that the 6 hour bike ride might be worth it. next time, i'm coming on my own feet and wheels and time.
kita, the town in which Peace Corps rents us a Stage House for use to group, regroup and maintain sanity, is quite disgusting. not unlike a college house, Whitis
and Walling come to mind everytime i enter the gate, which of course brings happy, homey feelings but also sticky, filthy memories... no offense fellas.
anywho, thats where i am now. sitting, typing, thinking too much.
i'm ready to go back to site. weird, right?
as a reminder, there are photos up on flickr.com (big thanks to Cass Engle and Ryan O'brien), my book wishlist is on amazon.com and i am always looking
forward to friend, family and foe updates!
funny stories are innumerous and in the works.
more updates will come, in (pathetic) timely west african fashion.