I spend my mornings in the courtyard of the Lumana house, reading whatever book I’ve checked out that week from the local Peace Corps-affiliated community library. It thus seems appropriate that, having spent so much time there, I should describe it.
A decades-old mango tree dominates the environment—its oblong, waxy leaves grant shade to most of the courtyard. The tawny sand covering the ground travels in ripples, as though each indentation were pressed into it by a giant thumb. Multi-colored laundry lines undulate in the perpetual sea breeze, strung from the porch (painted a shade of green reminiscent of the plastic grass one finds in Easter baskets) to the iron spikes that rise from the top of the burnt red gate. A few untended shrubs mark haphazardly a path from gate to porch, their form resembling the comical tuft of hair you’d find atop the muppet Ernie. In the corner lies a pile of refuse: black plastic bags, cans of tinned tomatoes, dried branches fallen from the mango tree above, all wait to be burned, their only chance at disposal in a community where officials haven’t the opportunity to ostensibly praise their sanitation workers. A few yards away lies a two by four heap of composting coconut husks, fruit scraps, and egg shells, a feeding ground for birds and oversized, murky green geckos. Mid-distance between the two juts from the ground a spout and nozzle, our source of water for doing laundry by hand. A palm bush that would otherwise look impressive huddles against the cement-bricked wall near the trash heap, as if bullied there by the domineering mango tree. Near the base of it rest the remains of a ten foot circle; half crumbled away, its fragments lie scattered around it, like crumbs tossed by a generous hand. It is here that I read and write, body ensconced in a bamboo chair, atop a dusty, patched cushion with a faded floral pattern, arm and book resting on a grimy mottled wood desk. Out here, the whir of fans and the harshness of LED lights are replaced by the sounds of trees breathing in the wind and the muted light which, filtered first by the clouds and then by the leaves overhead, lands gently atop my pages. An ever moving wind whips away the heat, and birds chatter back and forth.