“Time ees Mahnay”

I went for a walk out in the fields this morning. Man, I miss walking. Walking used to be recreation for me. In college, I walked everywhere in all weather. I took long cuts between classes or rambled around campus and downtown. My friend, Jessie, and I used to spend entire afternoons strolling and talking. I had a nice bike, but I didn’t use it very often because it got me where I was going too quickly so that I didn’t have time to appreciate the sun and grass and cute boys. Give me a good Cd, headphones and some form of footwear and I’m off to contentedly wander and meander. Sure, I walk everywhere I go here in Bol, but it’s not the same. Everyone walks super slow, so that I have to slow my normal pace, which might be described by certain short-legged people as “brisk.” Even when I walk at my Bol-adapted pace, people still say, “Why are you in a hurry?” I say, “We Americans are always in a hurry.” Then they respond, “Ah, time ees mahnay, n’est-ce pas? Who taught the people of Chad “time is money”? I don’t know. Plus, when walking here, you have to stop every two feet to greet someone. A head nod, smile, or wave just won’t cut it. You’ve got to stop, shake their hand, ask about their family, their house, their health, the heat or cold, the mosquitoes, etc.

Then there are thorns and the sand and the sun to deal with, the combination of which is somehow less pleasant than the nicely landscaped sidewalks of a college campus. My feet have become repulsive and Flintstoney. They’re not only scarred up from mosquito bites and thorn scratches, but they’re leathery. The soil here is very very salty, so that my feet have been mummified. The skin is all creased into deep deep wrinkles, like elephant skin. And no amount of soaking or exfoliating or lotion slathering helps because the salty sand just sucks all moisture right out. God help the girl who gives me a pedicure when I get home