Peace Corps - Hot Season

It began March 1st, as if upon that day the Earth rotated the exact degree to expose West Africa to the full force of the sun. I woke up in a sweat that couldn’t seem to stop. By 2PM, I was sitting outside, baking under my aluminum hanger, hoping the hot wind would provide some semblance of relief. I was hoping, as on most other days, that a livable temperature would resume after the sun had set, but my cement house seemed to push out all the heat it collected during the day in an attempt to cool off too: leaving me to sweat through my clothes, sheets, and mattress throughout the night.

Thus began hot season, and thus it persisted for three and a half months. Waking up in heat and falling asleep in heat, day after day. I have never been through a situation that has required such physical, mental, and emotional endurance.

I went from drinking three liters of water a day, to drinking six. I shed what little fat was left on my body, then my muscles started atrophying. It was not just the caloric consumption from attempting to cool my body that left me emaciated, but the overwhelming nausea from the heat that prevented me from eating. I remember counting down my bites of food, counting how many times I had to chew before I could swallow, and counting extra sugar cubes into my oral rehydration solutions just to try and surpass 1200 calories in a day.

I would sweat. I would drench clothes through just laying on the ground, trying to keep as still as possible. I stopped using my sleeping pad at night because it held too much heat, so I started sleeping on a plastic mat at on my concrete floor. Even then, I would wake up to sheets so wet during the night, I sometimes thought my Nalgene spilled its contents. Then the heat rash began. It started in prickles up and down my back, and quickly turned into red inflammation on my neck, arms, sides, and legs. The only cure was to keep my skin dry, which was impossible, because I never stopped sweating.

I couldn’t sleep through the night, I couldn’t eat properly, the heat rash had me in periodic bouts of pain, and the bug bites infesting my body from not being able to sleep under my bed net itched like crazy.

The degradation of my body took a toll on my mental faculties. I remember waking up one morning and being unable to speak with anyone in village without wanting to burst into tears because I barely had the mental strength to remain composed and hold a simple conversation in French or Mooré.

Besides going to the CSPS everyday, and completing the renovation project in Pibaoré, I spent as much time as I could doing nothing because I simply didn’t have the energy to do anything. I would try to pass through the hottest parts of the day by laying on my side, and fanning myself to keep my heat rash at bay. I started only wearing Burkinabé clothing made from local fabrics because they wicked sweat, and dried quickly. I learned to immediately find the shade, and stay off my feet. I stopped showing expression in my face both because it took too much effort, and I was unsure I would emote properly if I did. I started letting my environment dictate my behavior, because if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be able to operate.

I suddenly found myself more Burkinabé than I realized. Forced to adapt, not in order to be like those surrounding me, but in order to survive. It was then I realized how culture was shaped by geography. It was then I grew greatly in appreciation for Burkinabé culture because I finally lived it.

I remember sitting outside one evening just after 4PM, when the worst of the heat was over, looking at the sky above me, and being thankful it was a windy day. Windy days meant dust was kicked up in thick clouds, serving as protection from the sun. Later sunrises and earlier sunsets meant less heat. The trees I thought were going to provide shade during the summer had all shed their desiccated leaves. I drank my warm water mixed with a powdered chocolate milk wondering when the hell of hot season would end.