Like the little engine that could my junkbox computer started back up! Thatta girl! I can once again retreat to the nearby hotel in the midday heat and write my thoughts in completeness, as apposed to boiling away in the dark cyber cafe, while watching my time tick away.

We are doing the last fire today, and as a thank you, I am cooking a big mountain of spaghetti and Parmesan cheese. As a non cheese eater, I hope I can do it well, but I have learned about cooking here, people are pretty happy with salty, greasy and garlicky things, so I cant go that wrong. Someone told me yesterday that spaghetti and mayonnaise is much better and is called spaghetti bolonaise. I am no expert on spaghetti but I am pretty sure that is not correct. Anyways, we shall see how it goes. In my last week, I am relaxing with my hilariously crippled workforce. In an effort to appease me for being so late with orders, Isa is now trying to make 75 extra pieces, which I don’t know if I can carry, pay for, or if I want, but I have adopted a new motto which is helping the absurdity- roll with it baby. I may end up fifty pieces short, or with 75 too many.

Yanick has gone off to a traditional healing village to get traditional medicine. It started with a chicken sacrifice, but seems to be the closest thing to medicine around, so my motto has another purpose in my life right now. This is a text he sent me word for word yesterday: “se bocou d malad ici. Le nui se tub dan mon nez avec de feuil sr m tet. Sa fai boucoup mal. Il coup toot de mon scheve apre je suis dan un mesoin avec boucop de fume.” Translation of of bad SMS french- “Lots of sick people here, last night there was a tube in my nose attached to my head. It hurt. They cut off my hair and right now im sitting in a house full of smoke.” Oh boy. Well, actually something is happening, so I feel pretty good. People have managed to survive on this harsh continent for millions of years, so they must have figured something out.

About a week ago I was really excited to go home. I still am, but as the date approaches, its starting to feel bitter sweet. I have real friends here. A real life. Who knows when I will come back. I tell people November, but I wont really know until I come home and reflect a bit on it. The kids in my neighborhood might be big when I see them next, or maybe I never will. I am buying stockpiles of hot pepper, shea butter, dried mangos, and bright fabric, so I can keep Africa on my taste buds and in my heart next week, when I am in my own country.

Now I gotta get back to my comedy of a workforce, because if I stay here and write for more then an hour they will all go off to drink tea.


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