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A fellow volunteer, Christina swears that if you just stay up late enough, or maybe if you just get up early enough, the night is completely silent between three and four.

But when I go to bed, cricket-chirps buz relentlessly through the air, and the frogs who meet nightly around my latrine croak to each other like frightened dogs. (presumably passing around the latest gossip at the local watering hole) There is a disco down the street that is four mud walls and no roof. It plays into the evening as long as the there is enough gas for the generator. Motobikes rocket by. People laugh at the boutique down the street and buy each other cigarettes by the one. They sit together under a blue light that barely illuminates cans of condensed milk, phone cards, and individual packets up laundry detergent.

At five it is still dark and at four fifty-nine, I was dreaming about irregular french verbs, lying on a bed of crinkled hand-outs on Burkinabe agriculture practices and UN statistics, but now I hear the chanting melody of morning prayers coming from the local mosque. It's a man on a loud speaker and I can anticipate all of his off pitch notes, but I hope I never get so used to his songs as to sleep through them. I can't imagine a better way to wake up.

You wouldn't believe the sounds donkeys make at dawn, and I wonder why only the rooster is known for its morning song, as he is clearly only a part of the chorus as the sun rises. By six all of the wives are out in the courtyard pounding millet and sorghum for the evening meal. It's a slow food culture here, but that's the point. They exchange greetings and I say the words in my head along with them as they ask again about how the job and family are, even though I'm sure nothing has changed since last night.

The day starts and it is loud out, but the loudness is aliveness. The aliveness is the rhythm that defines this place. At ten, we will be sweating and in class and I'll be daydreaming about the riz gras I'm going to have for lunch and I'll have forgotten I'm even in Africa. But as I get up and hear all of the sounds, I can't believe I'm in Burkina and I can't help but smile and be so thankful.

I started this blog to write about my experiences in Burkina. The posts might come slowly. but I hope I can help you understand the beauty of this country through my words and stories.