Welcome to their Hut

So apparently, while enjoying a delicious beverage at the Marz bar last night, I didn't even notice that this woman was sitting behind me. I guess that's Telluride for you. I spent the last night of 2007 in T-Town. Apparently, it was the place to be. Why? Do not ask me. It was so cold. No. Let me rephrase. It. Was. SO. COLD. After the kickball was tossed at 11:55pm from the steps of this building (the clock was 5 minutes slow. I found the absurdity of it all, when combined with the fact that my knees went numb, to be distinctly Telluride), we shuffled quickly to the car, wanting nothing more out of the new year than a warm bed to crawl into.

It's New Year's day. I feel compelled to write something to mark this once-a-year event. But I just don't have the energy to come up with anything of notable (or otherwise) substance. So I found a piece that I wrote for a Volunteer Quarterly Newsletter. Each issue has a story called "welcome to my hut" (think MTV's Cribs, Peace Corps Burkina style). I went to my nearest neighbors' home (the home of this married couple) and wrote about my findings. Do enjoy.

Oh yeah, and Happy New Year.

And forgive me for being so lazy as to not write a real blog entry.

Welcome to Our Hut

By Joel Turner.

Titao. 45-55 km northeast of Ouahigouya (depending on which set of road meters you trust), on the cusp of the majestic, lip-chapping Sahel lies this burgeoning spud of a provincial capital. Even though this dusty town boasts such amenities as 100 franc meat sandwiches, tepid beer and a boutique equipped with over priced Pringles, I found Titao, at its heart, to have a lingering bucolic tranquility. Frankly, I could see myself retiring here. But I'm a few years away from retirement and I didn't come here to find out if the Nescafe/bread stand has a senior citizens discount (they don't). I came to Titao to see what all the fuss was surrounding the McKay-Fleisch estate.

Now, I am no expert in Burkina Faso real estate, but upon entering the paint-chipped, lockless gates of their courtyard, “cha-ching” were the only words that could escape my mouth, because the place was MONEY. If certain Peace Corps policies and basic codes of common decency existed not, I would move in with this happily married couple of three years. Just inside the courtyard, I see a lone, quaint structure to the right. “What is this cute little cottage with its own little chimney?” I ask, with furious curiosity. “Guest quarters? Teleportation chamber?”

“Um, Joel, that is our latrine.”

A latrine is a place where people can do their business. Others would refer to it as a comfort salon. I'm not sure what that means. Anyway, if the relative opulence of their latrine was any indicator, I could not wait to set foot in their actual home. The anticipation was mounting like those mashed potatoes Richard Dreyfus was mounting in Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

The courtyard is a lovely sanctuary, a place where animal, insect, and human alike can enjoy Burkina Faso's diverse foliage. The courtyard is home to eleven species of noxious weeds, two cats, one chicken, six large rats, and a colony of lizards. Shade is provided by an encroaching shea plant and various west African endemic trees. The high courtyard walls allow you to have practically no idea what events may be unfolding outside, in the town of Titao in the country of Burkina Faso. If you're thinking oasis, you've got it.

Perhaps my favorite part of the entire estate is the terrace. Shaded by a lattice-inspired thatch hangar, this shady area is a great place to read one of Jill and Markus's many outdated National Geographic Magazines. Plenty of rocks are on hand to throw at the chicken, which is an old McKay-Fleisch Titao family tradition. Markus is generally on hand to help you with long division and adding fractions in between rounds of tea, if you are so inclined. Jill is on hand to tell you all about Sigmund Freud, evolutionary psychology, and how the two combine to epitomize her love for the social sciences.

Upon entering the house, be not surprised if you smell something tasty coming from your right. No, it is not the smell of the litter box situated just next to their very own solar panel power system. It is probably Markus whipping up some concoction that involves mayonnaise, taco seasoning, and canned processed chicken. Snap! Culinary genius. The salon is a modest open floor plan, with the kitchen area to the right, and a petit bois table to the left, piled with all kinds of science magazines, GRE prep books, and old paperbacks. There is no shortage of pulp in this house. Their west-facing wall is clothed in postcards from around the world.

Beyond the salon is what saw as a labyrinth of rooms, corridors, secret passageways, and hidden staircases (probably). I am still not entirely certain how many rooms Jill and Markus have in their house. Frankly, I am not entirely certain that they know. I lost count at four, not counting the newly tiled bathroom, which I will get to in a moment. “What do they do with all those rooms?” you may ask. I asked the same question. Room 1: the master bedroom. This is, I assume, where Jill and Markus sleep the two months out of the year that it is not too hot to sleep inside. The water stain in the northwest corner of their paneled ceiling add a nature lover's feel to the bedroom. Moving on. Room2: this is where the care package cardboard boxes go to rest. Without this room, they would be forced to address the issue of their ever growing arsenal of cardboard. Luckily, the room is only 40% cardboard. Room 3: in the very back of the house, these is a hidden room, of equal size to the other rooms, which contains seasonal items. On one visit, I saw a table with two chairs. Another time, I saw two bikes and a confused cat. Hallway 1: when the bikes are not in room 3 nor are they transporting their owners to and from the high school, they are most often left in hallway 1. Other than that, I have no other comment on this dark corridor of sadness. Hallway 2: this hallway ultimately leads to a secret second entrance into the McKay-Fleisch residence; however, one must never open this door. Ever.

And finally, on to the bathroom. I know, I know, you must all be confused. If you refer to paragraph two of this piece, you will be reminded that they do have a latrine house. But nothing says bling like having a latrine AND an indoor douche, complete with non-functioning European style toilet and sink. The McKay-Fleisches recently went guns blazing and got their bathroom floor professionally tiled. I even think they made a friend out of the mason. Either that, or he simply fell in love with their house. Can you blame him?

All good things, like a smothered black bean burrito or a game of Scrabble must come to an end. Such was the case with regards to my visit of the McKay-Fleisch estate. The house alone leaves the guest satisfied, but let us not forget the wonderful hosts, Jill and Markus, for it is they who put the “we” in SWEET. Is it possible to fall in love with a married couple's home? Well, if this isn't love, I don't know what love is.

The End.