Writer's Block

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I know that when I am so hot, so hot that rather than drying off after a bath I just start sweating, rain will come. Sooner or later, rain will fall and my toes will be cold and I will be able to drink coffee or tea at 14h. I know I have to wait, though. I might sweat for a long time, a couple days even, before the world finally cools down. I also know that rain cancels any plans.
I love not needing to wear real clothes for the majority of most days. I get dressed to leave the house, but most other waking moments, aside from those cold and rainy ones, I am wrapped only in my pagne. I love cooking; my most recent success was chili. I cooked the beans over an open fire after church last Sunday and the sun burned me, because all I was wearing was my pagne.
I know the sweet scent of the yellow luceana tree blossoms. I smell those blossoms every day while leaving and entering my home. I know that the gray plantain eaters will spook as I bike beneath the branches, and fly off to settle in the neem trees in the front yard.
I know without looking that when the wire-tailed swallows begin to fly in and out of their nest in the corner of the veranda, the clock reads 18h20 (give or take a few rays of sunlight). And when night falls, which it does quickly, only an hour has passed since the swallows came home.
I love spending the evening with a book on the front porch, savoring the sweet breezes. When night falls, I love putting on music and cooking dinner. I love eating dinner. I love that I can start dinner by 19h30 and finish with after-dinner coffee while writing in my journal at 22h30. Depending on the quality of the book at the moment, I make it to bed between 23h and 0h30 (that is, thirty minutes past midnite).
I know that Patrice will be at the garden. I know that he knows how busy I am and how lazy I am, and he can tell which part of me is winning at the moment. But I know he is always there, working.
I know the path between the vegetable garden and the tree nursery: from the sandy soccer field, I walk my bike past a bean patch and up a small but steep incline. Once on my bike, I feel similar to “Alice in Wonderland” while passing through a field of manioc. The manioc is taller than me on my bike, with stems thick like ropes and leaves with five fingers. At one bend in the path I could look to see Patrice still working, but I keep my head straight to maneuver around the rock-and-tree stump obstacle. From the manioc, I pass into a short palm tree forest. Short = still taller than me, and taller than the manioc. From the short palm trees I enter the tall palm tree forest, where the palm leaves and nuts are harder to reach but the air is always a dark, earthy cool, with birds too quick to be well studied darting from palm frond to palm frond. At one point there is a big ditch in the path, as much fun to ride my bike on as the one in the front yard in Kansas, the one on which I dislocated my thumb while riding my bike. The weeds have nearly choked off the end of the path. At one point my bike is pulled to a complete stop because the vines have caught the pedal. Once free of the overgrowth, I am on open, boring, main-thoroughfare dirt, and have only a kilometer or so before making it home.
I know Imelda likes UNO. We take turns beating each other. I know she slips away from her home duties and homework to play five, six, okay-just-one-more rounds of UNO before slipping back home again. I know we both like winning because we equally enjoy taunting the loser.
I know Guillaume likes cinnamon rolls. He is someone I really like to make smile, which I can do easily by calling him “chef du quartier,” or the chief of the neighborhood. I do nothing in or about my home without first having the “chef” approve. I know, also, that he prefers to study and nap on my front porch, especially when I am not home so that he is sure to not bother me.
I love the smell of fresh cut grass.
I love bathing. Once re-settled and clean, yet not content to just sit at home talking to the dogs, I know I can visit Mathurin for a beer before eating la pate, or I can visit Mimino and her baby son Zildan, whom I love to hold while chatting with his maman before eating la pate.
I know that if someone offers me la pate to eat, I don’t need to worry if there is enough for everyone. There is always enough pate for everyone.
I love and have come to know that if I start talking about what I know and love, I could talk for a long time.

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Photos

George the Tortoise is Fair Play
I did play softball in Niger, and if you look very closely, you can find George the Tortoise making his way to left center field. He's really big.

Moon over Niger
At the Benin-Niger border. It took a while to get across, but the moon and the riverplain was lovely.

The Team
The team as we wait for the next game. We lost a lot, but won the party. We had a really good time.

Comments

[nancy]

just wanted to let you know i read, and i'll try calling soon.:)

[Cindy Stuart]

Loving to live
Your blog was inspiring. That constant pressure of too much to do, stress, hurry seem to be absent in your present environment. You are rich! Love you.

[Nettie]

be still
Oh, Erica, this one should be published. I love the title, hinting at something lacking, and then the bounty of what you write!! I hope you can keep this feeling when you come back to this crazy world! Love You.