I swallowed a bug. Just a little Friday evening cocktail after a really poor week. Scraped my knee and four days later it looked horrible. In an environment where infection is inevitable, a scraped knee can become quite serious. However, I believe that I’ve staved-off gangrene and the knee will ultimately heal to kiss the rocky ground another day. Then I caught a cold. I never think of cold bugs in this hot land that wouldn’t appear to have a cold-n-flu season. Insect-bugs, yes; cold-bugs, no. This is my second genuine cold, and thus I might want to reconsider what and whom I touch.

So today, feverish and on antibiotics, I had to force myself to leave the hut. Piles of corn arrived in the courtyard today. Ladies heretofore unseen in the courtyard arrived to bang the corn. What a racket. I wanted to know what was happening to the corn. Only one way to accomplish that task: leave the hut and go ask. Quel bummer, because I was quite content inside, on drugs, watching South Park.

Still, as long as I was outside, why not hop in the shower and shave my legs. How long had it been? Well, kids, I’ll tell you this: I brought a-razor-a-month, and I’m nowhere near dulling a razor every four weeks. Scarier than a skinned knee, I know. Anyway, I felt better after a shower . . . soft and clean and ready for a new bandage the size of a saucer. Might as well take a cocktail out to the courtyard and get more details on the corn harvest, and the new ladies.

The permanent family in my courtyard is small, relatively, by Burkinabe standards. The main home has a lovely family of four: maman, papa, son, nephew. In the other home is a nice family of three . . . just one young daughter. Also living in the compound are at least a half-dozen cock-a-doodlin’ roosters, about eight hens, a half-dozen guinea fowl cocks, and dozens of tiny baby chicks. Guinea cocks only . . . remember, the hens don’t tarry after mating. We also have an orange kitten and two puppies, Rex and Dora. Boy, that’s what you think of when you wonder about Burkinabe dog names . . . Rex and Dora, right?

Anyway, outside this evening is when it happened. Something solid in my rum punch. And large. Maybe I’m onto something in a country sorely lacking in protein. Garnish . . . trim . . . or as they say in Ouaga, decor! Someone send the cocktail umbrella-skewers.

Last night I saw a flying frog-bug. Of course it wasn’t really a frog, or perhaps it was. Size of a medium beetle, shaped just like a juvenile frog that has almost lost its tadpole tail, with wings. There’s not much in the world that I detest more than frogs. It’s a scar from childhood. So to see and feel flying-frog-bug land repeatedly on me . . . well, it wasn’t pleasant. Couldn’t kill it . . . I’m not up to smashing something resembling a frog. Gnat, yes, Flying-frog-bug? Non.

So I can stop complaining about lack of protein . . . a bug counts, right? Didn’t I see that on Survivorman? Protein breakfast drink, fine. Protein cocktail? Non! Are we having fun yet? We can only speculate.