Le 10 Octobre 2008

Thunderstorms – at once both the most mesmerizing and the most terrifying spectacles I’ve beheld in Africa. They come at you like a tiger pounces as you turn your cart into the cereal aisle at the supermarket – quickly, ferociously, and most unexpectedly. Clouds black, winds howling, the storm is upon you before you can say, “Man! I’ve never had a storm come upon me this fast! Is it for REAL?”

The other day, shortly after lunch, the sun was shining brightly, fit to bake the earth and any American crazy enough to be here. So, I went into my backyard to set out my solar charger. Leaning over to set it on the ground, I was pushed violently from behind. As I turned around to confront my assaulter, I found nothing; nothing but about 90 miles an hour of wind! The sky turned black, though it wasn’t dotted with the stars and radiant moon which usually accompany such darkness.

Why was it so dark? Maybe it was much later than I’d thought – I’d just finished my regular lunch of bread, fruit, and peanuts, so it could only be about 1:30, right? Then again, I eat the same thing for dinner (and breakfast, too, for that matter), so maybe the hours were all beginning to melt together on me like a Dali painting. I went back into the hut to fetch my watch and verify that I was either a) an incredible keeper of time and the darkness was actually a harbinger of an enormous storm to come, or b) still on American time after three months in Africa.

In the time it took to find my watch, I heard “Bang! Pow! Crash! Pour! Whoosh! Krack!” – all at once. I emerged from my hut to stunning blue skies, two shattered trees clinging to my fence in final attempts to remain vertical, and about a foot of rain as far as the eye could see. Such is the way of storms in Guinea.

Okay, so that was a bit of an embellishment. But that’s what it seems like to me every time I wake up, only fifteen minutes after going to sleep under starry skies, to the sounds and vibrations of a freight train driving straight through my hut.

You see, in Forecariah, I relished the moments when storms raged and I could sit back and enjoy it, pulling the covers a little closer to ward off the breeze. In Forecariah, though, I was protected by a solid roof, concrete walls, and a door free of cracks and holes for fit mice and lizards to seek refuge.

Things are a little different in a mud hut. You wake up to the howling of the gale force wind and the pummeling rain, wondering how much longer it will be before the grass roof gives up the ghost. It’s obvious at least some of the roof already bought a non-refundable, one-way ticket to the neighbor’s yard, as evidenced by the numerous leaks and muddy pools covering the floor of the hut. That’s probably the only drawback to living in a mud hut (cough cough) – when the roof springs a leak, it doesn’t come in the form of rain, but a nice, dark mud. Delicious.

Each time I wake up to a storm, I get out of bed to inspect the damage and make sure everything that needs covering is covered. Assured that nothing will be ruined with the current leaks, I climb back under my mosquito net to settle in and wait for the storm to run its course. This way I can monitor any new leaks in case the rain gets even worse.

The other night, I climbed back into bed only to find a nice, fat mouse had nestled his way under my pillow while I had been making my inspections. As I went to the door to shoo him out, his lizard friend was trying to make an entrance of his own through the gap between the door and the floor. No such luck, my man! Turns out brooms can sweep more than just dirt..

Back in bed, I relax as the pounding of the rain slackens. The thunder, though – man alive! Once the rain has been gone for a while you begin to wonder if that’s actually thunder you feel pulsing through your veins or if maybe rebel invaders have launched a blitzkrieg on the village; although, I doubt any rebel invaders possess any firepower to rival this cacophony.

Growing up in the countryside, my sisters and I used to like riding out the big storms in the comfort of our basement. I remember being petrified by the powerful thunderclaps. Erin and Hilary would comfort me by saying it was just God up in Heaven, bowling. Well, when you’re living in a mud hut in Africa, God doesn’t bowl – he drives a dump truck through a nitroglycerin plant… or something like that; ask Ryan, he knows the quote.