Happy New Years!

I'm alive and well, and I have internet time scheduled in about three hours so I can put up pictures and write a bit more. See you then! And Happy Birthday Maggie!!

a large blog entry

Wow, it has been an awfully long time. First and foremost, happy birthday to my old man. Love and miss you over here. And Happy Thanksgiving to everyone. Everything is good here, had a rough time getting access to the internet for over a month now, but I'm back in action for at least the next few days. So what's been going on here in Burkina? Hmm, why not start with a picture of Kampti, since that's where I've been spending 99 percent of my time.


School has finally started, and I've been following classes and getting to know the teachers and students. I've also met with other volunteer organizations in the area, the local medical center, and the caisse (the village equivalent to a bank). On top of that I've been getting my clubs started. I would like to concentrate on literacy, confidence, creativity, motivation, and broader thinking. To do that I'll have a reading club, but I'm going to incorporate a drawing club into that as well, since the kids here love to draw. Each week during the club, I'll write a short story to go along with our drawings (I'll draw on the board and they'll follow, step by step, onto their notebooks), and I'll also have guest speakers come and give presentations on things like daily health, the importance of school, sports, and anything else that sounds like a good idea. Through the club, I'm branching out into other things that are also important to me (and the kids), including a geography club, a huge world map we're going to paint on the side of the school, and a library project. I'm also interested in working to plant special trees that have nutritious leaves that can be added to their diets, begin gardening programs to raise money for the orphanages here, and building cheap courtyard fireplace things (I don't know the word in English, sorry) that are fuel efficient. This will singlehandedly save the environment and allow girls to study more, as they won't have to go look for brush all evening long. Okay, maybe it won't do that, but it's a decent start.
These constitute about a tenth of all the projects I'm working on, but I'm going to email my Mom a detailed description of everything I'm doing that's work-related. A lot of you have expressed interest to help me out financially (with one project in particular), and I've got to say that I've never been more touched or felt more blessed than I do when I hear from yall about that. I always knew how great all of you were, so I can't say it's a surprise, but to be reminded like this is really something else. So you can email my Mom if you want that (I'll work on it tomorrow and Thursday, and have it done by Friday).
Also, I talked to an uncle of mine the other weekend, and he asked about the practicalities of washing clothes over here. I thought that I'd share with yall in case anyone was sitting at work and wasting time thinking, how does Clay wash his clothes? Well, step one: Get a metal bucket. Step two: Go to the well on your bike with two empty jugs and fill them up. Go back home, balancing the jugs of water on the back of your bike with one hand, and steering with the other. You could pay someone to do this step, and it would be less than 3 dollars a month, but cmon, then you wouldn't be able to say that you pumped your own wellwater. Step three: Add water to the bucket, and add soap to that. Step four: Start scrubbing the hell out of your clothes until your arms hurt and you have to retreat from the advancing sun into the trenches of your windowsdown house (step four takes about three hours). Step five: Get out of your house, you're not done yet. Hang up your clothes on your latrine and cantine (the building you cook in) walls, and on the clothesline going in between your house and the cantine. Voila, you've now done your laundry (This is usually followed by an hour long nap, and then lunch at a restaurant down the road. No one should have to cook for themselves after doing laundry).
I remember one time when I was a kid. We had just moved into our new house, and my Dad was making me build the back fence with him. All day long we dug holes, mixed concrete, and hammered in posts; it was boring, and the outside air wasn't airconditioned. It went on for a long time. At the end of the day when we'd finished, my Dad stopped me from going inside and made me sit down. He told me to look at the work we'd done, and said that after a day of work you should always look at it and know that you've done it. Then he just sat there silently, and looked at it for a full quarter of a minute, thinking some thought that would probably put the pragmatist Tolstoy to shame. I sat there thinking about how the Super Nintendo sat there unused inside, and how the refrigerator door was closed and should be open, with me peeking in. I didn't get it then, and maybe I don't get it now, but either way, here's a picture of laundry day.

And now, about cooking. I cook a lot. It's enjoyable, and it's cheap. I use a gas stove. Things are seasonal here, so it makes it hard to cook lots of big combinations. Well, things are seasonal everywhere, we just have the farming and transportation equipment to get things from all over the world into the Pflugerville HEB all year long. It is a feat of modernity I never appreciated until here. Yes, strawberries are expensive out of season, but you can still eat them all year long. That is a beautiful thing.
For breakfast, I usually make banana pancakes. My neighbors have chickens, so I walk over there and get eggs, and this family down the way sells cold milk for a few months out of the year that I can have. The cows don't get enough water during the other months, so it's back to powdered milk mixed with water. The stuff is surprisingly good though, and after six months here I really enjoy sitting down to a nice tall glass of room temperature powdered milk. I also make oatmeal and mix in some peanut butter I have made from a woman in the village.
For lunch, it's all about the restaurants and street vendors. I eat rice with a peanut sauce and some type of meat, usually goat or sheep or something I can't identify. I usually get a coke too, and then for dessert some yogurt. It is goooood and cold.
Snacks keep the hungries away. I eat snacks like they're going out of style, and manage to eat about six bananas a day and at least four packages of peanuts. The bananas here are good, and I'm not allergic to them the same way I was back home. Also, plantains (sp?) are really good, and I'm thinking about making some banana chips with them. That would be ridiculous with some yogurt.
I like dinner, but HATE cooking by lamplight. This means I usually cook around five and eat before six. The sun is getting lower and lower earlier and earlier, so I have to keep rolling my dinner dates back with it. It's a headache for my social calendar, but I guess it keeps village life interesting. I love making pasta with toms, onions, and garlic. I remember when I went to Yellowstone with my aunt a few years back, and I told her that I didn't like onions on my burgers. She looked at me and said, for me, onions make the burger. I thought at the time that cheese made the burger, and I continued to hate onions for another two years. In 2006 I started liking onions for some reason, and I'm glad I did. They are the most common thing I can find at the market, and I love em. With my pasta I usually buy some meat from a street vendor. He has a good selection, and calls me chief, so I go there every day. I switch it up from time to time, but lately this has been what I've been going by. A few weeks ago I got a package from my mom with velveeta and rotel. I only used a little bit of the rotel to make the cheese sauce, so what I had left I poured into some rice, got some mint and rosemary, and had that with lamb. It was the classiest thing I've ever tasted.
Phew, practical things like food and laundry are getting to me. I think I've already posted a picture of my friend Adlai, so here is one of my other best friend throughout this whole ordeal, Becca.


In that picture she had just given me a haircut. She's from Arkansas, and consequently the best Arkansan hairdresser in the entire semi-continent of West Africa. She's also a teacher up in the Sahel, where it is hot and dusty, and therefore I will never visit her. Just kidding.
As far as getting together goes, I spent over a month in village without leaving. I thought it was important to do, for self sufficiency and getting over the fears of speaking french and local language for such a long period of time, but after going over a month without hearing English (except for my family and Jennifer through the phone), I was glad Thanksgiving decided to poke its head through the door. Here is my turkey story.
The turkeys in the South are about 15 to 20 thousand francs each. In the North they are over 45 thousand. So it was my job, since the big thanksgiving feast was uncomfortably in the Sahel, to bring the turkey. My neighbor had three of them, and told me I could buy one of them from him the day before I left. I said okay, and was happy with the arrangement until I woke up the day before Thanksgiving and realized all three turkeys were dead. They had eaten something funny and died in the middle of the night. Oh man, I thought, and I jumped on my bike and went up and down 45km of hills to Gaoua, where they have a big market. I looked for a turkey but couldn't find one. Someone said they saw some in Batie, another 65km, but I couldn't go that far. I jumped on my bike and headed home, flagging down a truck on the way that gave me and my bike a ride the rest of the way. I jumped off the truck, said a quick merci, and biked home, dejected, until I heard a villager yelling my name. It was Gladys, my counterpart. She was waving from the corn fields, making local village beer, called dolo, and wearing a philadelphia 76ers shirt. I told her what I was looking for, and she took me straight for a woman that speaks only Lobiri. I followed this woman on a small path through some trees until we hit a clearing, where about eight or nine turkeys were hanging out in the middle. 90km, and they were right there behind some trees. I sat down with the owner of the turkeys, drank some dolo, and struck a deal after discussing down the price. 15 thousand, and not a minute too soon.
The next morning, at around 6:15am, I went to her place to pick up my gobbler. I needed a box to put it in for the twelve hour bus ride (changing buses and busstations two separate times), and I found one. I put the guy in the box and he started freaking out. The villagers said, take him out of the box, that's why he's so nervous. I told them that I thought he would just run away, but they insisted so I took him out anyway. He immediately started running away. I caught him, but as I picked him up he decided to use the restroom all over my left arm. The villagers surrounding me then asked why I took him out, and as I was losing my temper the bus honked. 6:30, time to go. I jumped in the bus, hung my head out the window, yelled for a cup of water, and grabbed the cup and washed my arm off, leaning out of the window as the bus pulled away. I threw the plastic cup behind me for a kid to come fetch. What a way to start the day.
But the next day was great. I met twenty two of my best friends that I hadn't seen in three months, and planned our vacation to Ghana. We killed the turkey, a pig, and ten chickens. Here is the pig. Markus also made sushi with seaweed he had sent from America.


His name is Charles In Charge. I named him Charles In Charge because I thought it was funny, as he obviously wasn't at all in charge. He was a smart pig though, and drank all the water we gave him throughout the day before we had to kill him. By the way, never try to kill a pig with an unserrated, dull knife. It is the most horrible thing in the world to see and hear, and I now know where the phrase "squeal like a pig" originates. Thanksgiving was great though. I loved seeing everybody, and seeing people like Mac was especially great. Mac is an Oregonian chemist, and he is one of the wisest guys you'll ever meet. We sat around the table before we ate, and went around a circle telling everybody what we were thankful for. It was a surreal experience, and the night was followed by a bonfire. Jennifer called me the first night I was there, before the feast, as I was getting into my sleeping bag under the stars. She asked me what I was doing, and I looked at the pig sleeping a few feet away, the house next door which belonged to the prince of the entire area, all the other volunteers falling asleep in their sleeping bags and tents in the courtyard, and the constellations unfettered by any artificial light for miles, and didn't really know what to say. I guess I can say that it was a Thanksgiving unlike any other.
As far as Thanksgiving and the annual procession of fall and winter go, it hasn't felt much like November here. It is cooling off, yeah, but it's still in the nineties everyday and is a bit different for other reasons. So as some of you are getting comfortable and cozy in your winter coats, or at least long sleeve shirts in Texas, I've had to look elsewhere for that invaluable lived in feeling. What have I done? Reread the good ones of course. I picked up a book of American Haiku by Kerouac I've always loved, and the short poems have been great. He basically took three short lines, removed all movement, and then injected a little bit of verb back in, hoping to create a larger effect with a smaller catalyst. I do them all the time, and I've gotten a couple other volunteers to text me the ones they come up with each day (we have a lot of free time in village). When I'm really bored, and I can't sleep, I draw something in front of me and then write one about it. Here's a sample.

I'm also trying to write a novel. I had intended it to be strictly about air conditioners, one of the reasons being that I hate it when movie producers, in the predictable hype preceding opening day, say something to the effect of, "football, although a big part, isn't what this thing is about. It's a vein through which people experience real emotions, and grow together." I hate that. They do this only for the girlfriend effect. There's more of a chance that the girlfriend or family of four will be persuaded to go if there's even the slightest hint of a love interest. My book isn't a vein for anything, I wanted to say. It's a dramatic novel concerning air conditioners. Take it or leave it. But, alas, my info man has been too busy making a living for our family to get back to me, so I've had to add characters and a human-driven plot line. We'll see how it turns out.

I've read a lot, and I'll give people book reviews that really want them (you can email me and we can go on and on), but I'll just say one thing about one book that I really liked. I was lucky enough to find Salinger's Franny and Zooey, and it is one of the best examples of good writing I've ever seen. It's a short read, taking only about an hour or so, and I have read it at least three times a week for the last couple of months, enjoying it and at the same time searching for some type of "error." I still haven't found one, and as far as dialogue goes, and spirituality, and the good domestic loving family, and a good look at New York intelligentsia life in the fifties, it cannot be topped. The first story is good but not great, but the second story (they're both related) is the best thing I've ever read in my entire life, tied with Hemingway's short stories. Argh now I've gotten started, so forgive me if I mention one more thing. I was lucky enough to read Faulkner's Light in August a week before reading C.S. Lewis's The Great Divorce, and they somehow make a great spiritual contrast. The characters in Faulkner's work always feel that God is behind their actions, while Lewis writes of the importance of having God in one's actions. It is the thinking that having God behind one's will is what can be monstrous, and I loved The Great Divorce. I talked with a good friend of mine named Pete, another volunteer, and we were talking about what we've been reading and I mentioned it to him. He immediately said that it was his favorite book in the world, so check it out. 2 people out of 7 billion recommend it. Okay, enough talking about books, sorry.

As a nice segway, here's a picture of my kitchen area.

This is where the magic happens. It's usually about this messy, and the velveeta on the cutting block is thanks to Mom. I had taken a nice picture of it when everything was arranged and neat, but that wouldn't be very honest. On the left are my spices. I use curry powder on just about everything that isn't spaghetti. I love it. When I run out I'll start making curry from scratch. It's the new thing at the LaPoint household in Kampti.
Here's a picture of me. During Thanksgiving I was having such a good time that I forgot to pull my camera out and take any pictures. However, this one was taken at some point before I went to sleep at some point in the last few weeks. I promise I'll take some pictures soon. I think Becca might have taken one of my covered up in sheets and blankets while everyone else was eating breakfast. Another volunteer sat on my head, and I didn't even wake up. It was vacation, why in the world were people getting up like it was a regular day in village. The sun doesn't stop me, nor do the Muslim prayer chants at five am, so there was no way I was going to let a bunch of my colleagues get me up any earlier than 6ish.

Okay, this next little piece is something I wrote on the bus when I was bored and tired of reading after a few hours of losing my page each time the bus jumped up and down over a pothole in the road. This first one is about the wind here at night.

The wind here at night I can hear before I see the lamplight feed and dance, wrinkling across my page if something so liquidlike can wrinkle before smoothing out flat and flush, again leaving the shadows to the purlieus of the desk. But it is heard before it is seen. Indiscriminate in its request it rouses everything of substance into augurs of its arrival; leaves are not leaves but cue cards, screendoors banging nothing more than gossips going on about a collective whoosh that after so many generations leaves us still and listening. And that is both to what we listen and why. Like a strand of lit up christmas lights unexpectedly seen out of season, it brings us back to an age, some call this innocence, when we were all helpless in our demands.

This next one is about the full moon, and how much it keeps me up at night. Here's a picture of it.

The full moon comes and stays and is too much, a cloying ratiocination managing form. The shapes of the trees down to the leaf stay exact, are sharper even as they are no longer limping away from the day's heat, but afixed like those faded plastic stars always present on kids room ceilings, chiaroscuros without the expense of an art history class. A lamp isn't needed to walk into town. At ten pm you don't even have to squint to make out the person behind the good evening. You see him, his face, his walk, the gravel he kicks underfoot as he walks past your porch. The moon is useful then but unwelcome. At two am you can't say that the dog next door has woken you up again; you were never asleep to begin with. By four am crossword puzzles, french newspapers, music, and calculating your quarterly budget have all become partners in a foolproof dragnet. But sleep escapes. Seven am, it is time to go to school. You walk to the fifty yards and stand respectfully at attention for the raising of the flag, think how similar it is to your own pledge of allegiance, and wait for the three hour sieste to start at noon. Only then, with the heat blurring everything together and all energy spent, will you fall off into the contented static of a happy and healthy exhaustion.

Alright, I think that was the longest blog entry of my life, and I'm going to ride my bike home and get some sleep before my meetings start again tomorrow. I hope everyone is doing well. Don't worry about me, everything is good here, and I promise I'll be better with updating. I love doing it, and it's good for me to stay in touch. And Larry English is flooding my Mom's email with requests - her boss is starting to complain. Just kidding about that last one. Here's one more picture, the first picture I ever took with my digital camera, and it's from last Christmas. It's me and my Dad living it up in the ol' cul-de-sac. Happy Birthday again Dad.

Pictures!

Hey there, welcome to Kampti. Sorry I haven't written lately, the internet in Gaoua and I aren't on the best of terms. This first picture is of me, I'm out in the bush exploring. But rain is a comin'.

I head for the hills, well, a hill, to find shelter. Halfway up everything is "shrouded in mist," "veiled in haze," and (to use a more personal description) the trees look like little broccoli crowns fresh out of the steamer, just before the carrots find their way into the packaged melange that is the jason's deli side of steamed vegetables (a good thing to get if you really want the california club but don't want to skimp on nutrition).

But the rain clears just as I reach the plateau. It looks like this. Exactly like this.

It's kind of high up, should I jump?

Nah, too lazy. I'll just turn around, scratch my neck, and smile.

The next day I stumble across the ruins of Loropeni, about ten miles from home.

Neat huh? I'm pretty tired at this point, so I head home. From my porch I can tell that it's a good thing I left the ruins when I did, night's on the way.

There ya go, hope you like em! Oh and for some reason I never got around to taking an actual picture of my house. But I took one of my desk. No idea why.

I can't tell you why I, when describing pictures I'm posting, write like a 4 year old explaining the steps one takes when making a peanut butter sandwich. For some reason, I get the vague feeling I'm an old person in a curtains drawn living room showing you my slides from a vacation you made the mistake of asking about. So I fight that thought back with childish minimalism. But in any case I hope you like the pictures. I love the area I'm in, and I'm really excited that I'm able to share it with everyone I like and love back home.

The last couple of weeks have flown by. School is starting up this week, so I'll be sitting in on classes and getting to know everyone a bit better. I've read some great books too. Dry by Augusten Burroughs is good stuff, as is anything and everything by David Sedaris. Also, Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas by Robbins is okay, but not as accessible or rewarding as Jitterbug Perfume. Atonement is awful, don't ever buy it. Winesburg, Ohio is good but repetitive, so you can stop after the first story. Mother Night by Vonnegut (I can never spell his name) turned out to be really well done, a lot better in my opinion than Breakfast of Champions. I've forgotten a few others, but I'm loving the fact that I get to read so much. When I was a kid every so often I used to wake up in the middle of the night and then read until just before morning, when I stole an hour of sleep before Cheerios and school. Now I have plenty of time to do all the reading I want.

So what do I do for fun out in village? Well, I'm lucky in the fact that there are restaurants around me. My favorite is Le Prestige. I actually ran out of gas to cook with, so I've been eating out every day for the last two weeks. It's not that I can't get gas, just that I realized I can eat out 4 times a day for about a dollar and seventy five cents. Also, there is a movie theatre (or a place where you sit outside in plastic chairs and watch the side of a building). A guy comes around and you can order Cokes and grilled chicken from him. Each movie is 50 francs, or ten cents. So far I've seen two Arnold Schwarzenegers, a Jean Claude Van Damme, some french films, and french dubbed episodes of Two and a Half Men. So to answer the question that opened the paragraph, I eat out and watch movies and TV. Oh and I read and write. And talk to Mom and Dad on the phone.

I hang out with my neighbors and some kids that come around and want to talk. Also, anytime you see people eating here in Burkina, they always let you know you're invited to join them. Not one to refuse such an invitation, I usually drink tea three or four times a day with various villagers including, but not limited to: the guy I buy phone cards from, the woman I buy bananas from, the kids I buy milk from, the woman I buy beans from, the guy I go biking with, the local military officer, the school teacher, the guy I buy bread from, and the guy I buy eggs from.

Speaking of all this food, I have a bit of an appetite. See you all not soon enough, Clay.

Anytime I See Park Benches I Want to Smash Them

When I was a senior in college, something wonderful happened. Actually, two things. The first was that I became aware of the Mcdonalds 50 piece bucket of chicken nuggets, with ten sauce cartons, for only eight or nine dollars. They only did this on home football games, which served another purpose as it saved me from having to wake up early, and, half asleep, attempt to tailgate, at which time I gave up before starting and stared with no hesitation or time limit at pretty sorority girls who came to the games with their equally feminine fraternity boyfriends. To this day I have no idea who spent more time or money shopping for burnt orange clothing. Not that I was any better than them. At least they knew how to drink before 10am and didn't wear burnt orange "soccer" shirts, as did I, hoping someone would recognize and congratulate me on the genius wit required to wear shirts which played on the different meanings of football on the two sides of the Atlantic.
The first discovery was tertiary to what came next. Activision games released X-Men Legends for the X-box, Gamecube, and PS2. If it didn't change my life, it sure made it a whole lot better. All of a sudden, with three friends, I could play as the comic book characters for which I'd grown up searching odd corners of the house in order to scratch together enough change to buy comics I still reread today. Not finding any substantial change under the sofa or in the vacuum cleaner bag, my mom would overpay me for the small jobs I should have done for free anyway. Not only could I beat up on bad guys, but with the correct button manipulations, I (as Jean Grey) could fling mailboxes across the screen using telekinesis. And as Wolverine, I could size up any park bench I wanted, and then smash it. As you progressed further into the game, your powers grew. Whereas ten hours ago it would take 6 hits to demolish a city bench, now you could reduce two in one punch into something that termites wouldn't even call an appetizer. Thankfully, my friend Phil and I were luckier than these termites, as we each had a bucket of nuggets, with ten sauces, close within reach.
The other afternoon I was at my kitchen table, working on some reading that had been abandoned since breakfast, when I was surprised to see a giant lizard crawl out of the rafters, shimmy down the wall, and strut out of the front door. My surprise wasn't about the lizard's sudden appearance, but that I hadn't seen a lizard in my house in such a long time. It had been three or four days, and I was starting to wonder where they had gone. Maybe with the end of the rainy season they've looked for water elsewhere, I thought. Or are they tired of my steady diet of oatmeal, propel water, peanut butter, tomatoes, and beans? I had no idea, but I wished they'd been thoughtful enough to leave a note.
The weekend after, I was in Ouaga having coffee with two other volunteers who just happened to be married to one another. They were busy showing me the apartment they had decided to rent after another year of service. Staring at pictures of a hardwood high rise in Seattle, I was quick to ask a ridiculous question: Does it have water and electricity? Everybody at the table laughed, passing my query off as a statement on the reality of 99.9 percent of the houses here, but I had been serious. For a split second, I was actually thinking I was doing them a favor, reminding them not to skip over that ever-important detail before signing the dotted line. What is happening to me, I started to ask myself. Thank God I already knew.
Playing X-Men Legends and, a year later, X-Men II: Rise of Apocalypse, had taught me a lesson which was just then appreciated. Descending the stairs to the equally bohemian and conservative streets of West Campus (Each, may I add, making the other seem even more so. I mean seriously, do a bunch of gutted televisions aligned on your roof in a strange crown of performance art really make you a hippie, and does wearing two polo shirts, crisp khaki shorts, and brown loafers while driving in your "W" embossed Tahoe with people that are indistinguishable from you really make you a part of the fraternity crowd?), I saw park benches and mailboxes, all of which I wanted to smash. Not only that, I thought I could. All I had to do was approach one, punch it, and watch as it slowly faded away into video game graphic heaven. Not only that, people blocking a doorway on 6th street during that phase of my life required only an optic blast by Cyclops. Nothing too extreme, just enough to move their conversation to the more polite arena of the sidewalk. As I was still connected to reality, I never actually tried any of these superpowers. What's more telling is that they were placed so firmly in my mindset.
Some people falsely think of me as mildly creative. Actually it's just the opposite. I'm so uncreative that I just soak up whatever is around me, and expound on it internally and externally to anyone unfortunate enough to be near. I'm also the laziest person I know. So lazy, in fact, that I just use the technique mentioned above, and allow its results to shape my mentality. Whether that something is using superpowers on inanimate, tax-funded objects, the accepted presence of lizards as roommates, or the general idea that houses don't come with running water or electricity, I'm not choosy. I'm not a sponge, but a 6 foot Frankenstein made from velcro and bubblegum. I'm not absorbing anything I come into contact with, I just can't help but come into contact.
As kids my sister Katie and I went to see Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Immediately after getting home, we went into the backyard, picked up the ends of croquet mallets for stakes, and kicked down a few fenceposts. We weren't angry, nor were we suddenly in love with our neighbors and wanting a communal lawn; no elemental change had occured in us. What had occured was that we had just spent two hours in the dark, watching a nice looking blonde girl kicking things. And that was that. At a young age, we somehow knew that life is what you see in it. My dad of course came home, noticed our victory over the vampires, thanked us for saving the neighborhood, and nailed up the fallen boards.
Keeping all this in mind, I wasn't at all surprised that, while biking to the bus station in Ouaga last weekend, I passed a bus-stop bench under an awning, and, without giving it a second's thought, said to myself, two punches, maybe three.

Hmm

I thought the computer was doing something funny while I was writing that last blog earlier today. I just looked and there were words and letters added in, weird. Anyways, I just came from the post/bank, and the guy said he didn't have the key for the post office part of the building, so for at least the next month I'll have the same email address. Instead of Clay LaPoint, PCT you can now write Clay LaPoint, PCV, as I'm now a Peace Corps Volunteer instead of a trainee. Honestly though I don't think it makes a bit of difference what you write, as long as something close to Clay LaPoint is scratched somewhere on the front. Oh and for faster communications, the email in my town is down for the rainy season. They'll fix it sometime after that's over, in a month or so, but I wouldn't put an exact date on that. I figure I'll bike into Gaoua (where I am now) once a week and check email...And my phone is doing better now, that guy still hasn't found the right charger for the phone he sold me, but I've been using my solar charger and it's been working well (thanks Mom and Dad). If some woman starts speaking French, that means my phone is either turned off or out of battery. I actually was able to set up an answering machine thingamabob, but Mom said when she tried it the same woman came on speaking French. Maybe if you press 1 or 2 or something it'll take you to the answering service where you can hear me say a lovely message in French (in case somebody from work calls), followed by the same in English (in case someone in my beautiful family or group of friends calls). I'll try it again tonight or something and see if I did something wrong, which is a good possibility. And if you are using a cellphone, you can always send me a text to see if my phone is working before you call, I'll text you back and let you know asap. As far as more news from here, it is HOT today! It rained pretty good last night, but this morning it was as hot as ever. I can't even imagine how it must be for my fellow volunteers up North. Also, I was at a restaurant between this blog and the last one, and some little girl comes up to me and starts speaking in English!! Haha, it was such a shock that I didn't even know what to do at first. Her family, who I think must be British based on her perfect British accent, was eating inside and she was strolling through the courtyard when she decided to tell me all about how she likes to skip and drinks Sprite and Fanta but not Coke because her mom says it is forbidden. Then she said that it is important not to start a panic in the lunchroom just because your friends don't have an empty seat for you, because they have other friends that need to sit there too. This little girl was very wise. I told her that I like Sprite, but Coke is really good too. Then we watched David Beckham play soccer against some team called Chivas (sp?) until she and her family left, and me and my bike left. It was a nice lunch. Okay, see you soon, Clay

Yes, those kids are doing karate moves in that last pic

more The kids here, for the most part, only know about America through Jean Claude Van Damme movies, with theerudite movie buffs also knowing Terminator. And for music, horrible rap music that revolves arounddiamonds, money, and negative connotations for women. I keep thinking they must be pretty disappointedonly seeing a bunch of skinny white people all the time here in Burkina...
My last day with Beth was fun. We biked in the rain to a nice restaurant, found the dining room completely empty, and ordered beers as we sat down. Dripping wet, we were quite the pair of foreigners. The Burkinabe have motorcycles, and generally know when it's going to rain; they have a better chance of staying dry than us. After ordering our second and third choices, we then waited for our food. I say second and third, because, although the menu boasts two pages complete with: hot courses, cold courses, side dishes, breakfasts, main courses, drinks, desserts, seasonal courses, and courses alimentaire, the restaurant only has one or two offerings at any given time. I settled into my non-decision to eat rice and tomato sauce for a second time that day, and was excited when my food arrived. I love rice with tomato sauce, it is great! Last night actually, I made some fried rice with eggs from my neighbor who has chickens, and I think it turned out really well. But back to the restaurant. After dinner, Beth asked about the crepes. Oui, nous avons les crepes. Sweet, can we order some for dessert? Oo la la, we will have to prepare a minimum of three crepes. Oh, okay, I guess we can order three plates of crepes, if that's the only we can get them. How much are they? Oo la la, une mille (1000) francs for each plate. Sigh, alright, bring em on. Twenty minutes later we were eating crepes, and I realized, wait, was it too good to be true? Was I actually....full? I was, and it's a feeling I'll never forget. Beth had still yet to try her dessert, and asked me about it. I looked up, mouth stuffed, and said, "they're good, just like country pancakes." Beth took one bite, agreed with me, and said back, "well, these are some expensive country pancakes." I looked up and said back, "yep, we paid a whole 6 dollars for em." Haha, we laughed and laughed and I felt like some contented redneck happy to be out of the rain. Anyways, it was good to have a neighbor as nice as Beth, even for a week. I'll miss her.
As for me, I'm doing well. That first week was hard. I was nervous, exhausted, hungry, and completely unfamiliar with my new town. But each day is better, day by day it's changing. I still think about home a lot, and I probably always will, but it's good. And the longer I'm here, they less I think about things back home, just people. I'd love to take my little sister to get ice cream after a hard day of navigating the halls of a new school, spend time with my friends and Katie and Ben, do the Sudoku with Mom, or watch movies with Dad, but that'll happen soon enough. And the pace of life here is pleasant. People have plenty of time to stop and chat with eachother, and its simple and good. The rooster wakes me up around 6:30 or 7, I make oatmeal and coffee, check my phone, read, and by 9 or so I'm thinking about what I'm going to do to make it an honest day. It's good work if you can get it. I've got some good book reviews too (I know how you all love them).
But first, and I don't want to sound preachy at all, but malaria is a huge problem here, and July's Natl Geographic has a good article on its resurgence. We don't even think about malaria in the US, but it's definitely real here, and should at least be heard about. On a personal note, even with my net, I get bitten pretty often, and I'd be scared of going to sleep without my anti-malaria medication. Having to be afraid like that for yourself and your family, I couldn't even imagine.
On a less preachy note, Harry Potter, wow times 7. Thanks Jennifer for sending it. I don't want to say anything though, in case someone hasn't read it, so I'll mention another book that I read. A Year In Provence is so good. This british couple moves to Provence after vacationing there every year or so, and it's their story of their first year there. The writing is a little too British, or should I say rather too British, but it is still a great short read, and you'll feel like you're actually spending time in Provence while reading.
Every day is different here, so each time I want to give you a general outline of life here I struggle. I'll try to say a few things now, though please forgive my tangents. The marché, or market, is a 5 minute bike ride down one hill and up another. I pass the police station, some bars full of plastic and wooden tables, and people drinking dolo (the local beer) at them, and some little boutiques. The boutiques sell dry goods, soap, lottery tickets, cell phone cards, pasta, toothpaste, etc...a bohemian Walgreens as far as I can tell. I leave my bike at one close enough to the market, and head in.
When I go into the marché, I first see and smell fresh bread being baked and sold. I like to buy a loaf or two there, rather than at the boutiques, as the bread is warm and smells pretty good. I continue on and buy vegetables, rice, and sugar. For rice and sugar you tell the vendeur how much you want, and he weighs it out on a scale, bags it, and trades it for a few hundred francs. For vegetables it's just as easy. On tables are stacked little clumps of veggies, 5 toms here, 3 peppers here, etc. When you ask how much, you have to listen to the response. If the girl says 50 50 you know she is talking about about the group as a whole for a total of 50 francs. If you ask the price for garlic, she's more likely to say 50, meaning that one bulb is 50. People usually don't buy groups of garlic, except for vampires of course, who do it in an attempt to corner the market, thus driving the price for garlic so high that your basic vampire hunter can't afford to stay in business. Such is life. Now, if they like you, they'll give you one or two extra vegetables for free, as a thanks for business. To guarantee this present, all you have to do is try a little local language. For example, when the girl tells me the price in French, I respond with the number in my butchered attempt at Lobiri. All the girls and their mothers and grandmothers laugh, and my extra veggies are in the bag.
After twenty minutes of the marché (I'll tell you about buying fabric next time, as I only have a few minutes left here), I'm ready to go home. I head back to my bike, tell the boutiquier thanks for letting me park there, and head for home, my spoils dangling from the handlebars, crashing into the bike bridge like some drunk metronome, staggering home after dark, keeping time only for himself.
Okay, gotta go. I'll write soon about my phone, new address (if I have one), and some more parts of life here. Love you and be safe.

3 Pictures

A little crazy this week, but some pictures...


Above, some of the guys at our swear-in ceremony.
Below, a typical road in the Southwest.


Now compare this with the village I lived in, before the rains came...

Pretty different huh?! Okay I just tried to add a couple more, but they were taking too long. Have a good week and stay in touch.
Clay