The Good News Is, I'm Still Alive

The bad news is, I didn’t think I would be last Monday. Our first Sunday in Burkina was spent in village to be formally adopted into host families. The SED volunteers stayed in Ouahigouya, and the Health volunteers were split up into 3 different villages no more than 10K from Ouahigouya. I, a long with 4 other volunteers, am now a resident of Sissamba. I’m living with my host dad, his two wives, and many many kids (unsure which ones belong to my host family and which ones belong to others in the compound. Note that I said compound, not house. Its not a house with rooms, but rather a compound compose of many small buildings. My ‘room’ is a building at the far corner of the compound: it is spacious with two rooms, and is furnished with a twin bed and mosquito net, two small tables, a foot locker of sorts, and a water filter. I have my own “shower” area for bucket baths and my own latrine

Its Burkinabe custom to shower atleast twice a day: once in the morning before breakfast and once in the evening before dinner—it is unacceptable to eat and talk with people until you bathe. Once I bathe, I typically eat breakfast (bread and some glorious Nescafe instant coffee) with my main host mom, and I’ll eat dinner with my host dad outside with all his kids sitting and staring.

Day one went relatively well.

Day two, however, went a bit differently.

After a day of language and health training, I took a bucket bath (which is actually very nice to take outside when the temperature begins to go down and the stars come out), wrapped myself in a pana (a large cloth), and headed into my room. I have two doors—a screen door and an aluminum door. Instead of closing the aluminum door, I thought it would be best to pull a curtain over my door to change. Immediately after touching the curtain, I felt a sharp sting on my finger. It felt like nothing I have ever felt before. I figured it must have been a spider or something, but the sun was down and I didn’t have enough lighting in my room (composed of lanterns and flashlights) to make out what had happened. I was feeling a little tense, being near to naked, blind in darkness, and trying to find out what had happened and where my clothes were. Once I threw some clothes on, I rushed to my med packet and French/English dictionary. Being completely ignorant of French, I found my host father, pointed to the word for “sting” in French, and pointed to a picture of a bug I had found in my med book. My host dad came into my room and looked around the corner nearest the curtain I had touched to find a scorpion.

So I begin to panic.

I pick up a list of important PC Burkina numbers and point to the medical number and find the word for “help” in French (its “aide” for anyone who is in a sticky situation like I was). But naturally, being in the rural village that is Sissamba with the only existent electricity coming from generators, my host father’s cell phone did not have reception in the compound—he had to travel about a mile away to make the call.

So I stay by the entrance of my room, at this point now surrounded by atleast 20 adults and children. I tell myself I’m not going to panic, I’m not going to cry, that everything will be alright. But time is passing slowly. One of my host brothers speaks French, so I begin to ask him questions, like “are scorpions poisonous?” and “are scorpions fatal?” Over and over a again my host brother said “Oui, oui.”

So I start to freak out. A lot.

The ugly cry comes out. I’m shaking. I feel weak. I need to sit down. The intense stinging and burning sensation spreads down my thumb.

And all I can think about at this moment is that I’m surrounded by people who barely speak French. I barely speak French. And I’m slowly dying in the middle of nowhere with no one who can understand me.

You learn French a lot faster when you’re in an urgent situation. I formed sentences like “when is my host dad returning?”, “will he be returning soon?”, and my personal favorite “I would not like to die!” The crying is uncontrollable at this point, and instead of helping comfort me or rubbing my back, I am just getting stared at by atleast 30 people at this point.
As I begin to seriously consider writing a goodbye letter, my host father pulls up on a motorcycle with my Language Teacher, a native Burkinabe woman. She tells me (in English) that the scorpions here in Burkina are not deadly. I’m relieved, to say the least, but would still like someone from the medical staff to verify. So a call is made, and within 20 minutes a PC van pulls right up to my door. The staff that showed up told me to pack a bag because I will be staying in Ouahigouya for the night. I’m rushed out of Sissamba on uneven dirt roads and taken to the PC medical office in Ouahigouya, where I’m given ample amounts of Benadryl and Ibuprofen.
Despite the poor cell phone reception in Sissamba, word still manages to travel fast. That next morning, fellow Sissamba volunteers were told of my unfortunate night by their host families…and for the rest of that week I have been approached by strangers asking how my scorpion bite is. I’m even called Nanga (meaning scorpion in Moore) by one of the host families. I’m trying to convince myself that this is all endearing and not mockery.

On the plus side (other than surviving, of course), is that I’m the first volunteer to have a crazy PC experience in our group, and my new nickname is the Scorpion Queen. I wouldn’t wish this experience on anyone, as its has by far been the most alarming experience of my life—thinking I would die in a Podunk village in Burkina Faso surrounded by no one who understood me and far far away from loved ones. But now that over a week has past, I’ve become pretty proud of myself to know that my eagerness and happiness here has grown exponentially despite such a traumatic event.