The walk home from the hospital

It’s the beginning of my time here in village.  Everything is new – the scenery, the people, the language, the “routine”.  After two months in country, many every day happenings have become “normalized” – the melody of pounding baked yams to make fou fou, the sight of vehicles that seem to squeeze people and balance items only appropriate for Harry Potter’s Knight Bus, young children wandering unattended – however, the vernal nature that is a new place inspires a foreigner to create romanticized observations. 

I left with just enough time to get home before the daily rainstorm.  I watched the clouds move over distant villages, and approach mine.  I felt the cool winds that carry a fresh storm.  I was a spectator of a bath along the road – a fully lathered brother and sister pouring bowls of water over one another.  Sounds were of work – carpenters shaping wood, motorbikes honking, women boiling oil and frying yams.  Sounds were of greetings – there is always time to inquire about one’s family, work, and health.  Traffic moved from mosques, as men exited from the most recent worship.  Women and children passed by with items – bread, tomatoes, chili peppers, sandals, soap, beauty products, school supplies – the day’s work was complete, and it was time to go home for shelter before the storm arrived. 

Such seems to be the walk home from the hospital during this season.  I remind myself of my time and place as I find myself surpassing others along the route.  The only reason that a quick pace is necessary here is to beat the rain.