I'm Still Alive...but barely.

April 16, 2013

Following COS conference, I remained in Ouaga for a few days.  I was still in the capital post COS because Careth, Sami, Brook and I had a mini vacation planned for the first week of April, consisting of sand reading and an animal safari adventure out east.  We’d be heading to Fada on Monday morning, April 1.  Should have known that traveling on April Fool’s Day was not going to turn out well….

However before our adventure started, we had a couple days to kill in Ouaga.  Mainly, I just tried to get a bunch of work done: typing up blogs, uploading pictures, backing up my computer files, responding to the month’s worth of emails I had accumulated…  Molly and I also went book shopping for our village’s library.  Both our grants were filled and at the end of March, and the money was placed in our accounts.  I had gone to the bookstore before COS conference, by myself, and pre-ordered a bunch of books.  Now with Molly, we looked over what I had ordered and picked out a bunch of other fun books.  It’s air-conditioned in Djiafca (the name of the store), and basically like a Barnes and Noble.  It’s awesome.  No, you can’t read a book off the shelf while drinking a coffee, but you can browse around for hours in the air-conditioning.  They also have some games and real art supplies (paints, oils, colored paper, chalk, etc.).  When we were finally ready, they rang up the total price for us, including a 10% discount, since the books were for a library.  The total came to just about 500.000 CFA ($1,000).   We needed to pay (obviously) but first this required going to the bank.

Beforehand, we weren’t sure how much all the books would cost, though we did have a rough idea: it’d be a lot of money.  More money than is safe to just carry around in your purse.  It’s too bad Burkina isn’t more tech-savvy; it would have been nice to pay via debit card or check, but no.  They don’t do that here.  It’s all by cash.  So, now knowing our total, we had to go withdraw a large wad of cash.  Conveniently the bank is located just down the street, about 2 blocks away.  We quickly walked to the bank, only to discover the guard closing the front doors: it was 5pm.  NOOOOO!!!  I politely asked him to please let us in and gave him puppy eyes, and though he refused at first, Molly adding a sad-face caused him to let us in – but not the man who came about 3 seconds after us.

Money belongs inside Molly's shirt.

We had to wait over 30 minutes for our turn at the cashier, but, after a brief argument with the teller about whether or not that was my real signature (even though I had signed the paper right in front of her), I was finally able to withdraw my money.  Molly and I recounted the bills, making sure it was all there, split the wad in half, and each stuffed half into our shirts.  Considering we were white girls coming out of a bank, i.e. easy targets, there was no way we were going to put the money in our purses or hand wallets.  Anyone who wanted to steal our money would have to do more than snatch our purse.  They’d have to fight us first.  And by the time they’d start doing that, surely someone would notice and help us (there are always people EVERYWHERE at the grand marché).  Thus, inside the shirt was the safest and most secure place.  Inside the shirt is also the sweatiest place (sorry bookstore staff, for having to touch our damp, sweaty money).

Money and books.  Could we ask for anything more?

We got back to the library safely, and pulled the wads out of our shirts.  The look on everyone’s faces was priceless.  It must have been the first time they ever saw someone pull money out like that.  We paid for our books, and then a couple of the security guards helped us carry our boxes to the nearby taxi stop.  Yay!  Books!  In our possession!  Soon to be on the library shelves!  Molly and I spent a good hour or two that evening, looking through all of our books and playing with the interactive reading games.

Also, during all this time, it was also Passover Week, but I -- along with pretty much every other volunteer still in Ouaga -- didn’t do anything to celebrate Easter, besides hard-boil some eggs and participate in the Easter egg hunt at the Transit House.  Also, Easter Sunday supper consisted of authentic Chinese food – le porc aigre-doux (sweet and sour pork), mhhmm! 

The next morning, Monday, we set out for Fada.

Kim, a third-year volunteer in Fada, met us at the bus station and took us to the sand-reader.  Yes, sand-reader.  Like as in palm-reading.   There’s a man, he looks at your sand, and tells you stuff, like the future, or maybe the past, or something present….

I went first out of our group, and it was an experience.  I’d never been to a sand-reader before, so I didn’t know what to do or say, but fortunately our sand-reader spoke French and could explain everything.  A lot of times the sand-readers are from tiny villages and only speak local language, so there needs to be a translator involved, unless you also fluently speak that local language.  But not for us.  Our French skills would do just fine. 

An example of a sand-reader.  (This was not my sand-reader.)

I entered the empty house/room used solely for his sand-reading work, and saw the sand-reader sitting on the floor with a pile of yellow sand spread in front of him.  He motioned for me to sit in the chair and touch the sand while thinking of a question in my heart – no speaking aloud allowed.  I put my right hand into the sand and pressed down into the grains for about 60 seconds while simultaneously thinking my question:  “Will I live and work close to my family?” I repeated the phrase several times, both in English and French cuz I wasn’t sure if the sand-reader needed our thoughts to be in a language he understood.  But then again, I suppose as they were thoughts, it didn’t matter what language we thought them in…. or did it?  “Est-ce que, je vais habiter et travailler quelque place proche à ma famille?”  Kinda a vague question… what does « close » even mean?  and what family?  Who? Did I mean my parents?  I wasn’t even sure myself.  Oh well, it was just something to start with.

The sand-reader motioned for me to remove my hand.  As I placed my hands in my lap, he began to mix the sand all around, so that the sand I had touched was dispersed within all the sand grains on the floor.  Then he started drawing lines in the sand and creating circle-like shapes with his closed fist.  Lots of lines and circles.  It was almost as if he was counting them, and every so often he would “cross” one out and make a new, different, mark on the far corner of the sand.  After a couple of minutes he looked up to me and started speaking.  I won’t tell reveal all, but what follows is a good description of my experience:

Sand-reader:  Your mother, she not calm.  Why?  Does she no like that you in Burkina? …… You going to have a good future.  Be very happy.  It’s good.  Do you understand?  You’ll have fight with someone, but then everything will be fine.  You’ll leave here 6 months, go back to America….no, in 7 months…..wait, are you going back?

Beth: ***stifles laughter and shrugs, wanting to see what else the sand-reader would say before she starts giving him some information to work off of.***

Sand-reader:  ***makes a few marks in the sand and thinks for a moment*** Yes, yes you’re going back.  You’ll leave Burkina in six months from now, but not get back to America until 7 months.  But you do leave Burkina. You won’t stay.  The eighth month you find your husband.  You’ll be very happy.  You’ll work job for 2 years, but you return to school at the same time.  Then you’re going to do new job, a different job, not in education.  You’ll study little by little while you’re doing your job for 2 years, not a lot of school, like 6 months of training, a formation.  Then after that is when you change jobs. You’ll be very happy.  Do you understand?  It’s good, you understand?

Beth: ***Not sure what to say, she just stares back at the sand-reader.  Her friends later said that she should play poker, because she has such a poker face.  The sand-reader couldn’t read her emotions because her face was so expressionless.  Half of the what the sand-readers do is discern how you react to the things they say.  But Beth wasn’t giving the guy anything to play off of….***

Sand-reader:  Yes, it is all good?  Do you not have questions?

Beth: Will I work this job and live in a house that is near my family?  My parents?  Or will I work in another country?

Sand-reader:  No no no.  Not another country.  Near your family.  But not too close. You’ll live within 100 km of your family and have 3 kids.  It’s good?

Beth: Tell me more about this husband.

Sand-reader:  You meet him in 8 months.  April, May, June….November.  In November, you find him.  It’s him you marry.

Beth: What!?!?  Who!?!?!  Where do I find him?!?!

Sand-reader:  Don’t you know?  You already have a companion, right?

Beth: No.

Sand-reader:  No?

Beth: No. No boyfriend.

Sand-reader:  You are sure?  Here in Burkina, you not have one?  

Beth: No, definitely not.

Sand-reader:  He’s in America….?

Beth: No!  No boyfriend.  Anywhere.

Sand-reader:   ***looks very confused and shrugs.  Does a few things in the sand.  Picks up some sand and places it in Beth’s hand, then takes the sand back out of her hand and holds it in his palm.*** Ah, you meet the man you marry in 8 months.  But you already know him.  He’s not new.  You’ll fight because you haven’t been talking, but then everything will be good.  You’ll have 3 kids.

Beth:  Ok? 

Sand-reader:  You must buy milk and give it to a child.  On a Monday.  Then you have good future and find your husband.  

Beth: Wait, buy milk here, in Burkina?  Or in America?  I should drink it?

Sand-reader:  Either country.  It doesn’t matter.  You give it to a child to drink.  In America is fine, but right when you get back, because you find husband soon after, 8^th month.  You have other questions?

Beth:  And music?

Sand-reader:  Music?!?!  You ask what with music?   ***draws in the sand very quickly***

Beth:  Will I ----

Sand-reader:  No, no music in future.  Why, you want to do music?  No, you work different job.

Beth: Oh.  Ok.

Sand-reader:  It’s good?  You have good future.  No problems.  We’ve finished. ***motions towards the door***

                            

I found the entire conversation to be very interesting.  Sure, anything he said could have been simply general statements that he makes at everyone: for example, “Your mom isn’t happy.”  Well, I’m sure most mothers aren’t too happy if their child is in Peace Corps…especially Peace Corps Burkina Faso.  But the fact that he was able to name some pretty specific things about my life -- without me having said anything -- was amazing…if not slightly creepy.   He knew I was struggling with the decision to return back to America or to do a third year, which is why he asked, “Are you leaving?”  But he also knew that should I not do a third year, I was planning on leaving later than all my other Peace Corps friends, and then taking a trip to (hopefully) the Philippines for a month.  While everyone else will be leaving the first 2 weeks of August, I didn’t plan on finishing Peace Corps until mid-September….thus in 6 months.  Tack on a trip to the Philippines, and I return to Americaland in October…7 months.  He KNEW.  (The sand-reader’s insight did help persuade me to not extend my stay in Burkina – no third year for me!)

My other friends had similar reactions.  He knew that Brook is leaving in 4 months and that Careth will marry her significant other (Careth: “Yeah, I know we’ll get married when I get back.”).  He told Marisol a very similar thing to what a different sand-reader told her last year.  Weird how that works out.  Most volunteers make an effort to get their sand read before they leave Burkina, and almost every is satisfied with the results.  Some people’s sand has already come true.  For instance, Teal went home after only a month in country and married his girlfriend after being told he’d never be happy in Burkina and was meant to get married.  Elijah, who has almost died several times, was told by the sand-reader that he didn’t have a sand to read; his sand said he was already dead.  Considering he’s been struck by lightning, got injured in a bus accident, has had malaria in Burkina, and technically was born still-born….he should be dead.  But he’s not.  And that confused the sand-reader….  It’s very interesting.  Whether they’re reading spirits or our facial expressions or thoughts or communicating with the dead or God….who knows.  But it works.  I don’t think what the sand-readers do is untrue; it’s very real.  Which is both awesome and scary.

Also: to my future husband.  Since apparently I already know you, there’s probably a good chance you’re reading this.  You might as well buy the ring now.  See you in 8 months.

We slept at Kim’s house for the night, then left at 6am to catch the bush taxi to Diapaga for our animal safari at Park W.  We were told the bush taxi would leave at 7am.  Right.  7am Burkinabe time means 9, maybe 10am.  But just in the off chance that the taxi would leave on time, we made sure to get there by 7am.  Lo and behold, no taxi.  We sat down to wait, and someone informed us that there was no 7am car – it had already left…at 6am.  Dangit!  Why the 7am car can leave at 6, I will never understand…but that’s Burkina for you.  Fortunately there would be another car toute de suite (immediately), aka in a few hours….so they said.

We passed the morning at the bus station, waiting for our bush taxi, by reading our books, staring at the Burkinabe staring at us, eating tofu brochettes (so good!), and complaining about Burkinabe transport and punctuality.  

A guy selling meat.  It was pretty good and tender, but I had to specifically say, "No liver or intestine, only meat, please."

A bus pulled in; immediately a crowd gathered, everyone trying to sell their  products to the passengers: water, bread, yogurt, juice, bananas, etc.

tofu!

Finally, around noon, our van showed up.  It took another 45 minutes to load and put all of the motorcyles and our 4 bicyles on top, plus everyone’s luggage.

Yup, Diapaga-Fada.  That's what we want.  It's always a good sign when the vehicle is labeled as to where it's going.

Got a few motos up...

And now the rest of the motos...

Our bikes were the very last thing to get loaded.

In typical Burkinabe fashion, they sold far too many tickets than there were seats, but we all had to cram in anyways.  40+ passengers for 25 seats.  Every adult had a child sitting on his/her lap, whether or not it was actually their child (the men weren’t too happy about this…but a woman can only hold 1, maybe 2, of her 3 young children on her lap).  The plastic windows didn’t open (agh! we’ll die of heat!), unless they already were open, in which case they didn’t close (agh! we’ll die from inhaling so much dust and fumes).   There were only two doors: one for the driver and one for the front passenger.  We all had to enter through the front and step over the seats in order to get to our spots (there was no aisle).  Also, the seats weren’t attached to the floor of the van, so they moved around as we tried to take our places, making the entire process very awkward and difficult.  I can only imagine how hard it was for the older, bigger, pregnant women with 3 kids clinging to them. 

Well, we climbed in, started overheating, and tried to pass out so the ride would be less unbearable.  Fada to Diapaga would take about 5 hours.  The journey was awful, but no worse than any other transport I’ve taken in Burkina.  We got a flat tire after an hour, so we all got out and got some fresh air, and they fixed up the left back tire in a matter of minutes.

Late that afternoon, with about 1.5 hours to go until Diabaga, we stopped in village for a pit stop. Bathrooms, water, salad.  Not too bad of a break…except for that it seemed like we waited a really long time to hit the road again.  After we crammed back into the vehicle, I alternated between reading my book and napping, but couldn’t seem to do either for more than 10 minutes at a time.  Are we there yet?

BOOM! 

My eyes jerk open as I feel the car tilt to the left.

POP!

Now we’re leaning to the right, flying, swerving down the road.  People are shouting.  Babies wake up.  Dust everywhere.  Smoke.   This isn’t good.  I clutch the seat in front me, arms wrapped tightly around the plastic headrest.  Please let the car stop.  Just stop.  But we keep going.  Barreling off the right side of the road.  Just miss hitting a huge baobab tree.  Being thrown up and down; so many bumps.  Shoulda hit that baobab; we’re moving way too fast.  Oh God this is not good.  I clutch the seat tighter, burying my head into Sami’s shoulder.  She’s sitting to the left of me.  On my right are windows.  Keep your head away from the window.  Close your eyes.   Yet my eyes remain wide open, taking it all in.  We’re upside down.  I’m floating in the air.  My back smacks against the roof.  Hands still clutch the seat in front of me, but barely.  It doesn’t matter anyways, the seat isn’t attached to the floor.  Oh my god, this is how I’m going to die.  In a bush taxi in damn Burkina  Faso.  Oh my god.  The van rolls, the seats roll, we all roll.  Twice.  To the right.  Two rotations.  So quickly.  Screaming. We stop for a split second.  Am I dead?  The entire vehicle slams back to the left, collapsing to the ground. 

Silence. 

We stopped?  It stopped?  I’m still alive?  I lift my head, try to stand up, try to see.  But I can’t see anything.  Blindness.   Thank god we stopped moving!  I hear crying, screaming, a man yelling “Restez tranquille” (stay calm).  I hear myself speaking English: “Everyone stay calm!  Be calm!  It’s okay!” but inside my head I’m screaming Nooo!  Get out!  This vehicle is gonna blow up!  Get out!  Out!  Now!  But there’s nowhere to get out.  I can’t see.

My eyes adjust, I see my friends.  Sami, Brook, and …. No, no Careth. Brook standing, screaming, “Mon amie, mon amie!” (my friend, my friend!).  I see Sami, Brook, but no Careth.  Then I see.  Careth is buried, only her legs are visible.  A large woman behind us panics and screams, pushing forward, squashing Careth.  “Mon amie, mon amie!” “Restez tranquille” “Be calm,” various voices shout.  A man pulls Careth up.  We’re all okay?  All four of us are okay!  But we gotta get out!  I look around.  There’s no back door.  Can’t see the front of the car.  There’s so many people in front of me.  I look down.  We’re standing on windows – the left side of the vehicle is lying in the dirt.  I look up.  The other windows.  Can I climb out? I don’t think I’m bleeding.  I can move my arms.  Yeah, I could climb out.  Someone’s grabbing me.  Pulling my arm.  Trying to move me towards the front of the car.  No, can’t move.  It hurts.  Let go of me.  My legs are caught.  I look down, realize that a seat is on top of my feet.  Just gotta move the seat.  I tell the others to get out – the men in front are waiting, trying to pull us out, but we must move ourselves towards the light, the opening.  They can’t reach us, us here in the back.  My friends pass in front of me, a man helps lift up the seat that’s trapping me.  Oh my God!  What?  No….why?   There’s a little child under my feet.  Help!    The girl, about 4-years-old, in the orange dress.  She had been sitting behind me, on her dad’s lap, talking, singing the whole ride.  She’s mixed in with the rubble, the bags, the dirt.  Buried.  I’m standing on her.  Her arm I think.  Why isn’t she moving?  Why isn’t she crying?  I step aside, someone scoops her up.  Someone pulls me forward.  I crouch, squeezing between the 30-inch gap where the huge windshield used to be.  I hear glass crackle beneath me as I shuffle forward.  My eyes pulse from all the bright light outside.

I’m out!  I’m alive!  I can stand on my own… I’m walking forward towards my friends. They’re waiting for me.  So I must be fine.  I’m not hurt?  I’m not hurt!!!  Brook, Sami, Careth, and I embrace each other and stand in silence for a moment.  We’re all fine.  Don’t even see any blood on anyone.  My little tan purse, a gift from a Senegalese guy who sold bags in Italy back when I visited with my mom in September, is still around my shoulder, just like I had put it before I fell asleep.  Before the BOOM.  Before the rolling.  Before the chaos. 

Brook calls Peace Corps, tells them about the accident, that not to worry, we’re all fine.  It’s 5:30pm.

By now, everyone is out of the wrecked piece of metal.  A crowd has gathered around.  So many people pressing in, looking on.  Someone yells at them to get help, call the hospital.  The likelihood of the car blowing up has passed.  There’s no fire, no more smoke, the dust is settling.  I look around.  A young woman on her back, moaning.  A man with a mangled arm.  Crying children, covered in cuts and scrapes, being soothed in the arms of an adult.  A teenage boy – probably a bus worker who had been riding on the rooftop with the motos and baggage – is face down in the dirt, twisted body, blood oozing from his head.  Why isn’t anyone helping?  Someone help them!  Everyone just watches.  Stares.  No one helps. 

No one has any idea about HOW to help.  First-aid and emergency training, that doesn’t happen here.  American kids learn how to exit a bus by its various exits as soon as they start Kindergarten.  What to do during an accident, whether you’re a bystander or a victim, isn’t something that even passes through Burkinabe minds.  So when the unthinkable does happen, the only thing they can think to do is stare.  Or panic.  Like the big woman in the back of the bus, pushing to get out, trampling over Careth in the process.

I’m not a doctor, but I know more than most people.  Thanks to 7 years working in a nursing home, first-aid classes, a mom who’s a registered nurse, summers as a camp counselor where I found myself bandaging kids’ heads after their self-initiated game called “rock wars.”  Why isn’t anyone helping them?  You can’t just leave them like that!”  I go over to the teenage boy, body twisted awkwardly, bloody head, face in the dirt.  God, he can’t even breathe.  I get a shirt that’s fallen out of someone’s suitcase and slowly turn the boy’s head to the right so he can breathe again.  I put the shirt under his head.  So much dirt mashed into his wounds.  I grab another shirt lying on the ground and attempt to cover the boy’s head.  “Come here,” I motion to the crowd in front of me.  Someone come.  But they just stare.  No one moves, no one responds.  “Come here, please,” I say again, looking right at a middle-aged man.  He hesitates, but steps forward.  “Hold this.  Just a little bit of pressure.  Stop the bleeding.”  He crouches down and takes over.  Poor kid.  He was shaking and drooling.  I wanted to untangle his arms and legs, but feared that would just cause more damage.  So I left him as a I found him, except for that his head was covered and he was no longer breathing dirt.

The driver is running around, trying to help.  But he needs help himself.  His arm is all cut-up.  He drips blood everywhere.  “Stop,” I say.  He tries to shrug me off, as if he’s fine.  He probably feels responsible for what happened; he was the driver.  “No, stop.  We’re going to cover your arm,” I argue, as I grab a pair of khaki pants from the wreckage.  I shake out the glass and dust, wrap the pants around the majority of his right arm, up to the shoulder.

Is anyone dead?  I scan the people laying on the ground, the children in parents’ arms.  No one seems to be dead.  But if some of them don’t get to a hospital soon, they might die.  I even see the little girl in the orange dress, the one I was standing on.  She’s laughing as her mom holds her; she’s talking to her dad, who appears to have a broken arm, but otherwise is fine.

Within minutes, a taxi moto arrives to transfer the injured.  Men start lifting the injured into the cart on the back of the moto, one man pulling on each limb of the victim, four men in total.  No head support, no back support.  Broken arm?  We’re going to pull on it anyways.  What are they doing?  They’re going to hurt someone like that!  Why aren’t they taking the people who are the worst?  That woman is fine; she can practically walk all by herself.  The men approach a woman who is conscious but hasn’t moved much – if at all – since being placed on the ground.  A back or neck injury seems likely.  The men grab her, one man for the left wrist, one guy on the right hand, one holding the left ankle, another for the right.  “No, don’t lift her like that,” I try to explain.  But what was the point?  What else were they going to do?  Wait for an ambulance with proper equipment, like a back board, to show up?  That would take hours…. I tell them to try to keep her body flat and to hold her up, not let her hang.  The men try again, this time lifting the woman under the shoulders, someone supporting her head, holding her under her waist, someone keeping her feet together.  It was better.  Not great, but it was the best we could do in our situation.

After all the seriously injured our gone, the rest of us get on a bus that had passed by.  When it saw the accident scene, it stopped, thank god.  Brook and Careth grab all our bags and tents, anything we saw that was ours, and put it in a pile  Since everything had been strapped to the top of the bush taxi, most of it was now lying on the ground somewhere near where the van started rolling.  We each retrieved our backpack (i.e. clothes, soap, hair brush), our bug huts (tents), and our bike helmets.  Our bikes had to be left behind.  They were pretty beat-up, and, surprisingly, were still attached to the top of the van, though the top of the van was now in the dirt, to be exact.   Oh well, they said we’d get our bikes back the next day, plus we weren’t in any condition to go bike riding anyways.  We could already see and feel the bruises forming over our bodies.  

We pick up our stuff and start loading the bus.  That’s when I realize I can’t lift anything.  Not even my 1-pound bike helmet.  It’s okay, my friends grab my stuff for me.  It’s too painful to sit on the bus, so I choose to remain standing, leaning over the side of a seat.

Much to my surprise, after about 5 minutes we arrive in Diapaga.  You kidding me?  We were THAT close to our destination?  And we crash?  On a positive note, at least we were so close.  It made getting the injured to the hospital a lot easier.  Diapaga turned out to be a small city, not a village like I thought, so there was actually a hospital, not just a simple clinic where the most care you could get would be some prescription drugs.  It was a genuine hospital, with an operating room and qualified staff who could do stitches and the like.  No, not like a hospital in America.  But by Burkinabe standards, yes this was a hospital.  The doctors and nurses were already dealing with the critically injured.  The rest of us waited for our turn to be soon.  By now it was evening and the sun had set.  The hospital had electricity, but the current kept cutting.  The doctors had to do evaluations/treatment by cell phone light.

Brook and Careth call Peace Corps several times while we wait for the medical staff to get a chance to look at Sami and me. They update PC about the situation and give details about the accident.  We tell them that we’re not actually injured – just some aches and bruises – and don’t see any reason for them to send out an emergency Peace Corps car from Ouaga.  Besides, it’d take the PC car a good 10 hours to get to us anyways, and another 10 hours to return to Ouaga, so we were better off just staying in Diapaga for the night, getting a good night’s rest, and evaluating our situation in the morning, i.e. whether to return to Ouaga or continue and do the animal safari as planned.  It was during this time, while waiting for almost 3 hours, that we realized how dirty we were.  My clothes were torn.  Someone gave me a Lotus (Burkinabe version of a Kleenex) to wipe my face.  So red.  So much red dust, caked on to my skin. 

Waiting also made me realize how much I hurt.  Sitting, laying down, standing, walking, everything hurt, especially if I did it for more than 3-4 minutes.  I was getting stiff; my head pounded and definitely had a big, swollen bump on it.  I was dirty, hungry, tired, thirsty.  Maybe I don’t even need to be looked at.  Obviously I’m fine.  I’m walking, moving.  Of course it hurts.  We all hurt.  It’s gonna hurt for a couple of days.  But I’m fine.  But Jean-Luc, our PC doctor, said to get checked out, so he could put that in our medical reports.  Finally the electricity comes back on, shortly after it’s my turn to be looked at.  They don’t notice anything serious, but do recommend some pain killers, muscle relaxing cream, and an x-ray when I get back to Ouaga.

Fortunately, all this time, Careth and Brook were taking care of arrangements.  They got us rooms at a hotel, had our bags delivered, called anyone who should know about our situation, brought us water to drink, and contacted our animal safari guide, Abga Bourema.  Abga (that’s his last name) lives in Diapaga, so he came immediately to the hospital to check on us. When Sami and I were finally finished, he drove us to the pharmacy, then to the hotel.  He went to restaurant and brought back riz sauce for us to eat.  He went to check on our distorted bicycles.  When he was sure we were all right, he left, telling us to call him in the morning. 

We survived.  Safe in a hotel, with a hot meal waiting for us and hot showers at our disposal, we took a photo of the four of us.  Post-accident.  Dirty, beaten, confused.  Though upon close examination of the photo, you can see us smiling slightly.  The experience was terrifying.  But we are happy, thankful.  We’re together, alive, and uninjured. 

I realize I need to shower.  Upon looking in the mirror, I see my knotted hair, barely still tied back in its pony-tail.  I’ve lost my head scarf.  Dangit.  That was my favorite head wrap!  I wanted to bring that one back to America.  Now how am I going to keep my hair out of my eyes?  I have some cuts, some scrapes. Bruises.  My right shoulder is pink, seeping clear liquid.  No blood, but the very top layer of skin was rubbed off.  I turn to step under the shower head and catch a glimpse of something purple in the mirror.  That’s my back…?  Almost 2/3 of my back is purple, red, black.   Is it dirt?  Nope, not dirt.  My skin, my muscles.  My colored, bruised back.  I step under the water, and it stings.  Salt and dirt is getting into all my little cuts and scrapes.  The pressure of the water trickling down is too much for my tender back and swollen head.  I see the water at my feet; it’s the color of mud, as dirt washes down my face, out of my hair, off my legs.  The soap is on the floor, but it’s too much effort to bend over and pick it up.  So I just stand still.  Five minutes. Ten.  The electricity cuts out.  That’s okay, I’m used to showering in the dark anyways.   I feel like I could fall asleep, right there.  Then I remember that Sami needs to shower, too.  She’s waiting for me.  I push through the soreness of bending over and picking up my soap.  I wash my hair.  The addition of soap and shampoo causes another layer of dirt to fall from my skin, the dirt and oil that was too tough to wash away by water alone.  Much better.  I feel cleansed.

We eat our rice and sauce that Abga was so kind to deliver, making a pact to not talk about the accident during our meal.  We decide that we’ll continue on with the safari as planned, unless something should happen overnight.  Plus, the way we saw it, spending 2 days looking at wildlife in a nature reserve sounded like a much better opportunity for healing than riding for 10 hours in a crappy bus on a bumpy road the very next morning. Finding a comfortable position to sleep in was challenging, but it didn’t take long for me to pass out.  The next morning we met Abga and he took us to pick up some food and snacks at the local market.

Then we were off to Park W!  The park is located about an hour from Diapaga, and along the way, you’ll pass a couple of small villages.  The villages looked quite different from the villages in my part of Burkina.  They were more spread out, with individual enclosed courtyards containing 6-10 circle houses.  My village is compact, and houses are generally small rectangles.  

We also saw the interesting sight of boys leaving the village, heading to woods, for their initiation ceremony.  They would live in the woods (en brousse) for one-four weeks (depending on the village custom), probably be circumcised, and become a man.  The boys looked young, about 11-13 years old.  They were shirtless, carried a large stick (some had spears attached to the sticks), and had painted faces and chests.  It was intriguing. 

Finally we arrived at Park W.

Park W is a major national park in West Africa around a meander in the River Niger shaped like a "W". The park includes areas of the three countries Niger, Benin and Burkina Faso, and is governed by the three governments. The three national parks operate under the name W Transborder Park (French: Parc Regional W).  The W National Park of Niger was created by decree on 4 August 1954, and since 1996 has been listed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. In the three nations, the Regional park covers some 10,000 km² , largely uninhabited by humans, having been until the 1970s a Malarial zone of wetlands formed by the delta of the Mekrou River with the Niger, broken by rocky hills.  Historically, the area has been at one time a major area of human habitation, judged by the important archaeological sites (mostly tombs) found in the area.  The park is known for its large mammals, including aardvarks, baboons, buffalo, caracal, cheetahs, elephants, hippopotamuses, leopards, lions, and warthogs. The park provides a home for some of West Africa's last wild African Elephants. However, the rare West African Giraffe, today restricted to small parts of the Niger, is absent from the park. The W Park is also known for historic occurrence of packs of the endangered Painted Hunting Dog, although they may now be extirpated from the area.  The National Park is one of the last strongholds for the Northwest African cheetah. There is a small but apparently increasing population of at least 15-25 animals of this rare cat in the park.  The W area is also known for its bird populations, especially transitory migrating species, with over 350 species identified in the park.  The park has been identified by BirdLife International as an Important Bird Area.  (This was all stolen from Wikipedia.)

Elephant footprint!  HUGE!

The park was nice.  We were the only guests that day, so we had everyone’s full attention.  We walked around, looking at animals tracks and identifying birds.  We also road in the white land-rover, spotting elephants, buffalo, antelope, and more.  Later that evening, we road on top of the vehicle.   Abga had placed a mattress on the roof so we could sit more comfortably and take better pictures. 

the safari vehicle, mattress on top!

The next morning we set out bright and early, around sunrise, since early morning and early evening are the best times to see animals.  I didn’t realize how tiring searching for animals could be -- but I think riding in a vehicle made it worse.  We all just wanted to nap.  But we also wanted to see lions.  

Brook, Sami, Careth, and Abfa overlooking the water.

Also, it was tiring because the animals are rarely out in the open.  You really have to have good, sharp eyes to pick out the animals amongst the trees and tall grasses.   Crossing into the other countries (Niger and Benin) was fun, though indistinguishable from Burkina. 

The guest houses at camp.

Buffalo!

Beautiful overlook, leading down to the river (currently more like a  crick due to it being dry season)

Usually the roads in the park were clear and well-marked, though they were quite bumpy..

A family of ourebi taking a water break.

baboons

Our room for the night.  The smaller circle room to the left is the bathroom.

Buffalo crossing the road.

Bird.  I don't remember what kind.

Unfortunately, we never did get a good view of the elephants or lions.  We didn’t see lions at all, in fact.  We only heard them, saw new footprints in the sand, and discovered warm lion poop.  We were so close to finding them – they were probably nearby, watching us.  

lion tracks

3 countries!  The river separates Burkina from Niger, and the rocks on the bottom left are the start of Benin.

The elephants we spotted twice, but they ran away quickly both times, so we only caught their butts fleeing from us.  Crocodiles in water, tons of buffalo, porcupines (we got within a few feet of the porcupine nest!), and countless baboons and some red-tailed monkeys, too.  

crocodile skin

Ancient baobab.  400-500 years old.

Baobab is also known as "the tree of life."

See how big its trunk is?  The inside was hollowed out and was home to bats.

I tried to be a Burkinabe child and climb up a tree during the animal safari. Had I succeeded, I would've scampered like a monkey to the very top, or at the very least, the thinner branches right above my head, all in under 30 seconds. Instead, I only got about 8, maybe 10, feet off the ground (I'm sad this picture doesn't accurately portray how far from the ground I was -- I blame my photographer!) ....and regrettably, it took me at least 3 minutes. I'm ashamed. I guess I need to work harder on perfecting my Burkinabe skills.

This baobab trunk has been eaten away by elephants.

All in all, not a bad trip.  It was quite enjoyable, relaxing, and peaceful.  It was nice to be out in nature, and it helped to forget about the accident we endured to get to the park.  You might think “village” is being in nature, and compared to a city, it is.  But “village” is not fully surrounded by wild animals and bird and plant life.The villagers have scared away any wild animals that used to exist and cut down most the trees to make room for fields.  Village is nothing like a nature reserve.

  

baboons in the tree

small antelope

Sand castle.  Aka, termite mound.  It was taller than me!

Bushback remains.  Poaching.

I got so many good buffalo photos...but none of my attempts at elephants and red monkeys and crocodiles turned out nearly so well

Thursday evening, we finished our safari adventure and Abga took us back to Diapaga.  On the ride back we again passed the village boys in their initiation.  They all ran up to us and surrounded the car.  We asked if we could take a picture, but got mixed responses from their leaders, so I got a picture but not a good one because I panicked.   Apparently they are not to talk to or see females during their initiation.  But as they were surrounding the car, they were now exposed to 4 women.  Maybe being foreign made it so it didn’t matter?  Maybe the rule only applies to village females?  We offered the boys a gift of 1.000 CFA ($2), as advised by Abga, and they sang a blessing for us.  I wish I could have filmed it!  Such a cool experience! 

Back in Diapaga, Abga dropped us off at our hotel and then took us to the bank and to the bus station to make sure we’d have a place on the next morning’s bus to Ouaga.  Then he took us out for chicken and beer, where we met up with some of the local volunteers in the area who were in town for the evening, and we all had a good time.  We tried to pay for Abga’s food and drink, as a small gesture of our thanks, but he refused.  We persisted, he insisted it was already taken care of.  Turns out he’s the chef du village’s son, aka son of the big chief, aka the prince of the village.  No wonder he wouldn’t let us buy him his food!  The restaurant gave it to him for free, and as his gesture of thanks to the restaurant, he ordered a second drink for all of us.

The next morning Abga picked us up and took us to the bus station.  Our bikes were in better condition, but still not usable.  Our PC bike guy, Combari, would need to fix them once we were in Ouaga.  I looked in the pile of collected items from the accident, in hopes of spotting my head wrap, but didn’t see it. It probably got used as a bandage for someone’s bleeding hand or sprained wrist.  Oh well.  As I walked out of the building, a young man ran up to me and handed me a book.  My book!  They knew it was one of ours since the book was in English (and because who else would read a book on a bus besides Americans?).  The bus wasn’t very full, so we each got our own row of seats and were able to sleep and sit rather comfortably for the 10 hour ride.  I noticed there were a lot of cool rock formations on our way to Ouaga.  

When we got close to Ouaga, I called PC and asked if I should stop by the bureau for anything, i.e. concerning the accident.

Upon arriving in Ouaga, I immediately went to the med unit like PC had requested.  Considering it was Friday and already 5pm, they wanted to see me.  They didn’t want to have to deal with anything over the weekend, if possible.  I got to the PC bureau, and lo and behold, Jean-Luc and the med secretary were waiting for me.  Mariam shoves an envelope into my hand and Jean-Luc says, “Hurry up!  They close soon!  You must go now!  We talk when you come back!” as he ushers me towards the white PC car that was waiting for me.

We went downtown and stopped at the radiology building.  Ah-hah!  That’s what we’re doing: I’m getting an x-ray.  Since I was the last patient of the day (the x-ray guys had stayed late, waiting for me), I was seen right away and the results were printed before I left.  Jean-Luc looked at them with me later that night in the PC med unit.  Wouldn’t you know….apparently I have a fractured vertebrae.  That might explain why I hurt.  It was easy to disregard the physical pain immediately following the emotional trauma of the accident, especially while on an animal safari.  But now back in Ouaga, I was able to admit that yup, something wasn’t quite right, and I probably shouldn’t ignore it.

I know it sounds serious – and it certainly could have been, heck I could be paralyzed! Or dead! – but in all honesty, I’m fine.  I got really lucky in that it’s “just” a fracture on my last vertebrae with some muscle pressure/tension around it.  Oh, I guess I also have sprained neck.  But besides that, nothing seems to be pinched (nerves) or have slipped out of place (discs).   The neck actually bothers me the most, because I can’t seem to move my head without pain.   

I hung out in the med unit all weekend, basically just sleeping and watching some movies.  I wasn’t supposed to do a lot of moving around, and certainly no lifting.  I even got in trouble for using my computer (I got caught typing up some emails), because of the back/neck strain that staring a computer screen can cause.   Oh, and I did a bunch of skyping, too. (Shh!  I probably wasn’t supposed to do that either…but I did.  I figured I’d be going back to village after the weekend and wanted to chat with friends/family before leaving Ouaga.  Plus, being in the med unit, I had full access to the bureau’s Wi-Fi.  I was even able to video skype!  That’s usually not possible with the Transit House internet, as some of you know.  Better yet, I got to do this all while lying on a comfy couch, wrapped in blanket cuz I had the air conditioning on, drinking ice water from the med unit’s kitchen.  Ah yes, it’s like my own personal apartment.)

Despite my taking it easy, many of my pains and bruises didn’t even show up and make themselves visible until after the weekend – about 5 days after the accident had occurred.  On Monday I had a CAT scan, and those results (along with the x-rays) were sent to Peace Corps Washington for evaluation.  So I continued taking it easy, thinking any day I’d be leaving.

Well, today is Tuesday, April 16 and I got here on Friday, April 5.  I’ve been here ELEVEN days already.  I’m feeling so much better and I’m ready to go!  I’ve been doing some walking and biking, went to the bank, got some groceries, went to lunch with friends in town.  I think I’m ready!   Let me out!  Send me back to village!  I’m going to go crazy locked up in this med unit!   And Jean-Luc is ready to get rid of me, too!  But, we’re still waiting for PC Washington to approve my return to site. 

Yesterday, PC Washington had sent an email saying “Do not let her go back to site yet.”  Urgh.  What does that even mean?  Don’t let her go back to site….today?  ….tomorrow?  …for another week?  C’mon, give me a time frame!   I understand that they want to make sure I’m actually healthy before sending me back to the middle of nowhere, but it’s frustrating, especially since it’s the last month of school (I’ve now missed 2.5 weeks of class), Camp HEERE happens in my village in one month, and Molly and I have a library to get up and running.  Sitting in Ouaga watching movies does not help.  Sure, it’s hot season, and so if there is ever an “ideal” time to be sick/injured, it’s now – I’ll admit it is kinda nice to be in the air conditioning and drinking cold beverages, knowing full well my friends are broiling under the 120 degree sun. But still.  I’d rather be in village.  I’m also sick of watching movies.  I lost count, but I bet I’ve watched at least 30 movies since arriving April 5. 

Besides watching movies, time has been spent by facebook stalking, random topic google searching, YouTube video watching, and reading books.  I also thoroughly enjoy napping.  Additionally, I’ve had a few friends who were in Ouaga stop in and chat, so that’s been a nice way to break up the time.  The other night Elijah came and we ordered-in pizza.  Another day Ed and I went out for lunch at the Ghanaian restaurant.  Yesterday afternoon Alaina came by and we talked about her trip to Italy, since I had been to Italy in September; her plane should have arrived in Rome by now.  Also, lots of phone calls and texts from people in their villages.  I've made french toast, also ham and cheese omelettes (can't do that in village!).

We’re hoping today is the lucky day that I get word from Washington giving permission for me to leave anytime now.  It’d be great to peace out tomorrow!  Or at the very least, by Friday.  Because of COS and then the animal safari, I’ve now been out of village for about a month.  A whole month without seeing my cat or dog, or my neighbors, my students.  A whole month since I’ve eaten tô or other weird village food.  But, like Jean-Luc reminded me, the worst thing to do, is to do too much too soon and actually screw something up.  Then I might never heal.  And since Peace Corps is responsible for anything that happens to me during my service, they’d rather not be paying for chiropractors and back surgeries for the rest of my life.  Financially (and morally), they’d rather have me sit in the med unit for 2 weeks being completely bored, but recovering.

Also, if you were wondering why so many blog posts have appeared recently, loaded with pictures and far too many words, this is why.  Blame my injury.