Three little stones in a cloth sachet…

Last night or likely early this morning, I slowly became aware that my only physical connection to the world was a breathing cycle sustained through one nostril and the force of gravity pulling me deeper into the mattress towards the floor.  After realizing this,  a monologue played in my head where each thought gracefully connected to the next.  I began to watch my thoughts and the image of Tarzan came to mind where somehow that next vine was always just in the right place to maintain momentum and keep moving forward . But in reality, I was aware that it wasn’t a vine in the jungle at all, but more likely a tangled rope that I would never be able to unwind to reveal it true length.
Something odd has happened this morning.  I have water in the sink and in the toilet, but nothing from the shower head.  This is a first.  I’ve gone around to the back of my place and to my surprise, I have water from the tap to fill my morning coffee.  As the “boulliere” begins to boil the water, I make my regular trek to the “boulangerie” to fetch my morning bread. It doesn’t phase me when I realize the tray the young boy uses to remove the bread from the oven is actually a sheet of corrugated tin that we most often associate with the roof of an old shed.  I’m even less concerned when I see the boy struggle with the long wooden handle secured to the tray and watch the loaves spill onto the ground.  Another boy casually picks up the loaves and places them on the table for sale.  The bread is hot on my finger tips and so I place them in the pouch of my hoodie.  The bread is warm on my belly and feels good, as I make my way back to the courtyard.
I’ve begun to lose my voice.  The combination of dryness, dust and floating sand in the air is beginning to take their toll.  I smile as I realize I’ve begun to mumble to myself, making my way to the SEMUS courtyard. My new voice is that of Capt. Willard (Martin Sheen) in the opening scene of Apocalypse Now.  I amuse myself by saying words like “De Nang”, “Saigon”, “I’m in it now” and “I wanted a mission, and for my sins, they gave me one."   Reflecting on the state of my room,  I think it’s starting to look like Willard’s room (when the officers first arrived to deliver his mission).  I think to myself, if a fever is to accompany this head cold, my room will make a great place to sit down and have a chat with Colonel Kurtz and Krishnamurti. I know,in a way, that’s part of why I’m here.  To explore the self, to examine the conciseness and to maybe catch a glimpse of who really is inside there.
This afternoon’s training session has been postponed as a result of last minute preparations for “le Monsieur President's” son’s wedding.  So I spontaneously decided to hop on a bus to Ouagadougou and then on to Bobo Dialasso further south.  Arriving at the bus station 30 minutes earlier, I’m surprised to find a bus loaded and ready to go.  I ask if there is room and a man gesture to me to climb in upfront with the driver.  There’s already a man sitting in the passenger seat.  He’s a large man in a suit and the expression on his face and the way he holds himself makes me think of Tony Soprano.  Tony’s not interested in giving up the window seat, so he makes way for me to climb in over him and sit between him and the driver.  The seat is slightly elevated so there I am riding shotgun with the driver and Tony, as we pull out of the Yako bus station.
There’s a cage between the driver, myself and Tony and the rest of the passengers.   Not quite out of town, I hear  “Pssssst” and 3 inches to the right of my face, I see four fingers waving a small white folded piece of paper.  I take the paper and hand it to the driver.  The driver looks at me and hands it back, with a puzzled look on his face and says “deux mille cfa?”.  I guess I hadn’t paid for my ticket yet :).  I should mention, at this point that, here in Burkina Faso, the “Pssssst….” sound is equivalent to “Hey….” back home; you hear this in the markets all the time.   So you see when the guy passed the ticket through the cage separating me from the rest of passengers, I interpreted it like “Hey…pass it[the note] along” and so I passed the paper on to the driver.  With a better understanding of the  experience,  I’m sure you can imagine the look on the drivers face.  I slipped my 2000 cfa through the cage, crossed my arms in front of me and had a private moment of laughter sitting slightly elevated with the small driver to my left and Tony Soprano to my right.
What appears to me to be Hindi music is blaring through the small radio as the sand & dried millet stock is blown across the highway.  It’s mid-afternoon and the heat is on.  We pull up to another military checkpoint and shortly after the “gendarmes” enters the back of the buss, I hear “Psssst Le Blanc”.  I casually raise my passport over my shoulder and back through the cage like I’ve been through a thousand military checkpoints…4 hours away French air strikes are hitting the town of Savare in Mali.  Retrieving my passport, I get a chance to see how lucky I am to be sitting where I am; they are packed like sardines back there.  I’ve found the Burkinabé to be quite welcoming to visitors, especially the Nasarah, it’s clear you are a visitor and they treat you with extra courtesy and privilege.  Pulling away from the checkpoint, I relish in the thought, “I can’t believe I’m reliving the same thrill I had more than 25 years ago rolling into Athens at 2:00am with no place to sleep and no disposition to blow the budget”.  I think to myself, I hope I’m not too old for this.
We pass a bus, much like the one I am on now, that has two goats on the roof.  One goat is laying down but the other is standing eating some straw.  I’m not sure how the goats, and straw for that matter, are remaining on the bus at these speeds….but I suppose it works.   I’m sorry we’re going so fast or I would have snapped a shot for you.  I glance at the speedometer and see the driver has no need for such an indicator.  There’s a huge decal pasted on the dash covering the speedometer…its title reads “The Verse of Expansion”; the rest is written in what I assume to be Arabic.  The engine light is blinking and the brown dry landscape screams at me “Sub-Saharan”.  I think, “What would I know about the Sub-Sarahan”.  Another smile as I realize “Well actually, I guess I am starting to know”
“Well I’m in it now”, I’ve stepped off the bus and passed on all the taxi offers and am walking down the street, with my knapsack secured over my shoulder in “a” direction.  The greeting, that I’ve heard so often here ,”Bonne Courage” is echoing in my head.  I finally stop and ask a woman with the word “Securité” on her shirt, if I’m heading in the direction of the TCV bus station.  TCV is a higher end bus line and is the preferred service (it has A/C) to Bobo.  She seems to have no idea where it is but a young man passing by over hears us and says he knows where it is.  We cross the street and head back in the opposite direction; back towards the station I have just left.   His name is “James” and he has hails a cab.  When we get out, no station in sight and I have misunderstood; I’m paying the full fare ($2.00).  Winding through a few back streets that TCV station appears in front of us.   We enter the TCV station and I’ve successfully purchased my ticket for tomorrow. 
James and I continue making our way through the back streets (actually almost every road appears to be a back street to me).  After some time, James realizes that I’m actually looking for a hotel for the night.  We turn around and start back towards the station.  I’m starting to get a little nervous, as I feel this dude sure is willing to spend a fair bit of time with me and we seem to be going deeper and deeper into the back streets.  The hint of dawn is in the air, and it will be dark soon but I remained cool. Unfortunately the one nice spot we stopped at is sold out and James advises if its just one night all I need is a bed for the night.  After passing on 3 other places, due to my debilitating frugality (to my regret) we finally land on a place out of pure exhaustion.  The lobby is deserted and its tough to distinguish the exterior from interior.

My room is a couple of shades of blue, except for the piece of green chewing gum stuck on the wall beside my bed.  The room is secured by a very large and heavy steal door with slats.  There is a second interior door but the bottom window is smashed out.  This explains the on slot of mosquitos that will have me considering a second dose of Malarone later in the night.  It had not occurred to me to pack my mosquito net; there is none, nor shampoo or towel for that matter.  I smile to myself, as I note this is another one lever shower experience (on and off).
I was able to reconnect with Bev and the kids through Skype that evening and with the lights out in my room, I cling to their company.  I don’t want them worrying too much, about my current predicament, but I suspect they have a clue.  It seems to me, every question they ask is compelling me to share.  All I want is a quiet night with no one aware I’m even here.  Once and a while I hear a cat in heat, outside my window and the clip-clop of over sized high-heel shoes making there way down the hall.  I think of the quote “When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves” (Man’s Search for Meaning, Viktor Frankl) as I reach for a small cloth sachet, tucked inside my knapsack. I give the three little stones in the sachet a squeeze. 
This is the bottom for me but I am completely aware. :)
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