Hotter Than Satan's Cleavage

So, Burkina has three seasons: the rainy season from June to September; the “cold” season from November* to February; and the hot season from March to May. The lines dividing these seasons are as rigid as a prison warden, i.e. it doesn’t rain during the hot season—ever—and the second the cold season is over, you can rest assured that it ain’t coming back for another year.

The hot season arrived here overnight late last week—quite literally, I might add. That is to say, I went to bed shivering in the 55ºF chill, wishing I had packed my footie PJs (complete with zipper up the back, of course) when I left America, and woke up on the surface of ten thousand suns. Mean suns, too. Like that asshole sun in Super Mario Bros. 3 who swoops down at you in the pyramid levels. Man, I hate that guy.

I don’t think I’d ever realized what a profound effect weather has on my mood—and, subsequently, the way I act—before now. This is one of the most poverty-stricken corners in all of Africa; it’s not like I can lounge around some air-conditioned enclave all day long reading Us Weekly and shuddering at Nicole Richie’s hammertoes. Instead, I force myself to suck it up and bear the heat, which includes not getting all stank about having to bike across 20km of scalding pavement on a daily basis. Eventually, though, everybody cracks, right? Like, the other day, I almost lost it when I couldn’t get that ridiculous paperclip with eyes in Microsoft Word to disappear. I mean, we’re talking banging on keys here. Saying horrible things about Bill Gates’ momma. The works. Hmm, maybe I’m prejudiced against inanimate objects with human facial features. The Mario sun, that dumbass paperclip? I’m sensing a theme here. Whatever, that “Office Assistant” is totally wack and anything BUT helpful in any climate, so I think my behavior was justified in the end.

I used to be so proud of myself for living in New York City for two successful years (while attending grad school, no less). I mean, if I could make it there…well, you know what Frank says. Now that I’ve been in Burkina for a while, though, I’m realizing what a cakewalk New York is: Starbucks as far as the eye can see; reliable transportation (after riding West African bush taxis, I will never complain about the L train or the MTA in general ever again); culinary splendor … sure, the rent’s a little high, but so what? Does that compare to the three-day water outage my neighborhood endured a couple of months ago? It’s not like we can walk downstairs to the bodega or Duane Reade and pick up a bottle of Dasani, you know. So, as far as juxtaposing NYC and BF goes, we’re not even talking about the same ballpark. I’m not trying to begrudge someone’s flagrant loathing of New York society, but, shit, dude, it doesn’t hurt to think beyond Gotham from time to time.

It seems like every season has its own habitus: the rainy season finds us optimistic and well-fed, but also working tirelessly, thanks to all the harvesting; the cold season is subdued and introspective, with Burkinabé concealing themselves in fur-lined parkas (really), and mostly quiet, except for the jubilant November/December holidays (Christian and Muslim); and the hot season, as far as I can tell, is when the harsh realities of Africa truly become compounded. Seriously, it’s amazing how much this jump in temperature has made me reevaluate (for the thousandth time) my experience here. Without the comfort and luxury of A/C and swimming pools, you experience heat for the force of nature that it really is, and with a change in habitus comes a requisite change in perspective.

So, I’m really hoping the hot season flies by. I mean, this whole Peace Corps experience has had wings up to this point (has it really been eight whole months?), so maybe it’ll be June before I know it. I can’t imagine how I’ll react when that first rainstorm of the season bursts down from the heavens, but I’m sure I’ll be hearing the Hallelujah Chorus in my head. Okay, I have to go stand under my showerhead on full blast with all my clothes on for the eleventh time today.

*What happened to October? Well, that’s kind of its own mini hot season. A hot pocket, if you will. Mmmm, three cheese and broccoli…