Cujo Can’t Drive

        Another day, another smoothly completed lab installation. This one’s for OIC, some aid organization the expansion of whose acronym I don’t recall, and completed in well under 2 hours. Only notable occurrence is some smart guy we were training who must have been painting and out of turpentine: he’d washed his hands with gasoline that more than stunk up the small room we made a lab. Whether a measure of their devotion to technology or desire for substance abuse, a good half of the people present worked through the fumes.
        Interesting is a twilight run. Beginning before the light starts to fade, I set out solo for a jog, blatantly American in Champion shorts, hiking shoes, and prescription sunglasses (contacts aren’t too fond of being on the same body as bug spray). Many bicyclists look at me amusedly as they pass, some kids wave as they smile, and most stare at the unusual sight of an obroni (“white guy” in the Ghanaian language of Twi) running around shirtless. I forget any worries about the rumors of an Al Qaeda plan to kidnap Americans jogging abroad during most of my run, as they’re completely unreasonable. However, I do get a rush with a tinge of nervousness at the unfamiliar when I’ve made a wrong turn and hear a man singing the Muslim call to warship at their evening prayer... In spite of my overactive American nerves, I make it back to the hotel in one piece.
        I worry whether we’ll stay as safe in our van: Cujo’s definitely of questionable sense behind the wheel. Don’t get me wrong: he’s definitely pulled impressive passes and quick swerves to safety. It’s other occurrences that worry me, ie looking back when anyone speaks to him at some times and seeming like he’s too out of it to hear (let alone answer) direct questions at others. Today he’s flat-out dangerous, moving from safely if annoyingly screaming “Ricaaaaaardo” every other second to speeding down a narrow dirt road with brake checks and close calls every few feet. It might be tough to handle the few more days of Cujo’s uniqueness that we have left...
        After a walk to that’s (intentionally) a break from Cujo’s road skills, there’s dinner followed by dinner. Some of us are so bored with the same food from the same place that we get Abraham and Cujo to take us to another restaurant after we eat our white rice at the boring place. It’s Indian food, so needless to say that I’m more than content with the meal. With a full stomach and tired legs, I’m back to the hotel for sweet malaria-medicine-induced dreams.

<links> <pictures> <writings> <me>