Three days without internet and you’d think that I had been popped into a black hole. I’m not a real PCV . . . real PCVs existed pre-internet and pre-mobile phones. How did those dear souls cope? Or were they better off?

Martin is 11 years old. He’s the son of the President of Ga Mo Wiga, in whose courtyard I live. Martin is a genius. At 11, he speaks at least three languages. His English is better than my French will ever be. Tomorrow morning I’m giving a presentation at a local school. So I prepared my presentation, in writing, in French. And then I asked Martin to listen to it. What? To Learn was conjugated improperly? Sayest thou? Grammar corrections were inevitable, I suppose. But the good news . . . Martin loved the ideas contained in the presentation. Alas, Martin won’t be in the audience tomorrow.

One December, about a billion years ago, I spent a few weeks over 250 miles north of the Arctic circle in Norway. The sun never rose above the horizon. I understand dark nights . . . or so I thought. In this relatively-equatorial land, the sun sets about 5:00-something. In other words, I’ll never have long summer days nor long winter nights. As a practical matter, the sun sets on my hut before 5:00 . . . 17:00 in BF and PC terms. That’s the time that the sun drops behind the trees, casting into deep shade my courtyard as the sun sinks behind the walls of my hillside compound. I’m tempted to draw lines inside the hut to show where the last glimmers of light shine through the shutters on 20 October, on 20 November, and on the winter solstice. But why? Dark is dark, and it won’t ever vary too much because of my proximity to the equator. I don’t think we have daylight-savings time here, but I could be mistaken. So what is now a five-hour time difference from home soon will become a six-hour difference. I think.

Point about the darkness being: by 6:00 p.m., I’m supped, clean, and in for the evening. And without internet, what’s a Po PVC to do? I reserve reading for bedtime, which occurs later and later these days . . . sometimes not until 9:00. Golly. My APCD says that he’d prefer not to see on our blogs the 50 books we’ll read during our two-year service. I’ve made it through three tomes during the four months I’ve been here. And I’ll add that I highly, highly recommend Little Bee. Run don’t walk . . . read Little Bee.

So after dark, after I’ve made my shopping list for the next day’s marche, and after noting the new residents that I’ve met, there’s not a lot to do. Last night I painted the nails of one of the girls who works, tirelessly, in my courtyard. Who needs an alarm clock? I’m awakened each morning at 5:00 to the soft sounds of Martine sweeping the gravel below my bedroom window. That’s right. They sweep the gravel! When does Martine sleep? She’s first up and I see her still doing laundry when I close my door at 9:00. I practically begged her to find a few moments so that I could paint her nails. To say that she was stunned that the nazarra wanted to pamper her would be a gross understatement. Nails painted, children and courtyard-family greeted, what next? Movie time! Merci beaucoup, Kylé! Never more appreciated than when sans internet.


How lucky am I to have an 11-year-old French tutor? Eleven!?! So, a booklist on this blog? Non, but what will Dan say about the films that I watch most evenings? Dan, will this photo of us really end-up enlarged on my wall? You think that Dick Day’s parents have a terrific sense of humor? We can only speculate.