That's bull crap, Whitney Houston!

The hot equatorial sun was beating down on my newly buzzed head as I raised my polo shirt collar. Say what you want, but I was trying to protect my neck, not make a fashion statement. I immediately regretted the decision to hop on the back of this huge dumb truck, as I had no sunscreen with me. One of the unfortunate perils of a white man choosing to live in a place meant for those with more melanin--the constant war with the sun.

But I didn't want to miss this opportunity, as my work doesn't often allow me the freedom to stretch my horizons beyond the confines of the clinic property. Our 22 member cultivating and landscape crew, along with our two volunteers from America and Burkina Faso, Will and Zoum, had already gone down the mountain to the town of Mugara earlier and loaded on one load of manure, and the truck had brought it back to the site. I was now with the truck on this return trip, the second of 4 it would make in the day.

I had originally tried to sit in the front of the truck with Zoum and Will, having been accustomed to always given preferential treatment due to my skin color and offending people by not accepting it. (Many of you will remember Zoum, he is my good friend from Burkina Faso, who has volunteered his time and knowledge to come help us with our food security program!) I then realized I had taken the place of someone else, and used that as an excuse to climb in the back of the dump truck, something I knew would make the ride down the mountain all the more exciting.

With my popped collar, I was standing in the front side of the 'dump' part of the truck, right behind the cab, holding onto a bar placed there for that purpose. Standing there, I was trying to maintain my footing on the now slippery surface of the bed due to its previous load. Despite everyone's efforts, most had some amount of manure on them, mainly on their feet and hands. I knew I would be no exception.

I was on the left edge, next to Jean Marie, one of our cultivators, and the only one who speaks French. Incidentally, he is currently our only cultivator I can communicate with, as the learning curve for Kirundi seems to be very high for native English speakers. This spot on the left edge gave me a great (and often too close) view of the steep 3000 foot slope down to Mugara to my side. It was an incredible view from this height. Although, my position on the truck, along with the way the truck was built, gave the eery illusion that we were seconds away from tumbling down the steep hill.

The view at this point is priceless, and I never tire of it. Velvety green mountains, with spots of small pine forests, reflecting the strong sunlight, leading down to forests of palm trees, which are often harvested for the vitamin-rich and very tasty palm oil. The green pine forests lead all the way to the nearby Lake Tanganyika, which casts a white glare from the sun onto the tall mountains of Congo on the other side.

Riding in the back of this dump truck requires a lot more skill than one would think. The dirt road is very crude, although its presence alone is very impressive. Its 4 miles were built in 4 days entirely by the many hands of the community to be able to bring building materials to the top of the mountain to build the clinic. The community had really come together to show how excited they were about having a clinic in their village! But 2 ½ years later, the road has succumbed to the bullying of the many rainstorms this tropical area invites each year, and is very bumpy. The bumps, rocks, potholes, and many other trademarks of this route cause the huge dump truck to wobble back and forth as it slowly climbs down the mountain.

With me and Jean Marie in the back were two other cultivators, one of the dump truck workers, and a police escort. Riding down, bump after bump, we all had a good time joking about the road. And you can imagine the many looks from the people tending their gardens as they looked at the huge dump truck passing with a short, goofy-looking white guy in the back, holding onto the bar for dear life and trying to look like it wasn't the first time he had done this.

After a few minutes, the sun decided to take a rest from beating the humid soil and took a little nap behind some clouds, something that I took as a little favor from God for my white, un-sunscreened skin. We continued to wind down the mountain till we got near the town and had to pass through the palm forest. From above, the densely planted palm trees look like a bed of soft green feathers. Up close, though, their spiky branches and rigid leaves reveal they're anything but.

As the dump truck was so tall, man of the branches kept coming at us with their death spikes trying to clothesline us. We would squat down behind the cab to keep from getting smacked. I quickly learned the Kirundi (language of Burundi) word for “Watch out!”--Orogaba!.

We kept yelling “Orogaba” as we went along. One time, out of sheer panic as I saw one of the crazy palm trees coming running straight at me, I yelled “Orogabo”, which, incidentally, means “man”, not “Watch out!”. Luckily they are very forgiving with their languages, but not without letting every one within a 5 mile radius know about my mistake. But it just added to the fun, because we just started yelling “Orogaba orogabo!”, or “Watch out, man!”. I was too busy watching out for my own life, but I am afraid to know how many people we scared as we rode by seemingly yelling at everyone to watch out. For what?, they must have wondered after diving out of the way.

So along we went—the truck on the road going up and down, up and down, and us in the back, going up and down, up and down. It felt like we were living a nursery rhyme. Finally we got to the home that we were buying the cow manure from. A huge team of our workers were standing by waiting for the truck's return, and as with usual Burundian custom, gave me a huge welcome, especially since my trip was spontaneous..

“Karibu Cory, karibu!!” (Welcome Cory, welcome!) There were many high fives and handshakes and hugs to go around, this culture loves greeting each other, something I love about living here. Although, there was no sympathy for my clean hands as they all embraced me and my hands, sharing the wonderful germs of their labor with me. No big deal, I was about to get my hands dirty as well.

We were all very excited about being able to buy the manure. The economy has had its effects on our clinic too, and money has been very tight for several months now. Because of this, we haven't been able to buy the things that we need. Luckily, we got a grant to buy things for our fields that we use to feed our patients and staff. So we are now able to buy all this cow excrement to fertilize our fields!

I'm not sure exactly where to jump in (pun intended), although everybody is looking at me to start. As this trip was spur of the moment, I happened to be free at the right time, I didn't exactly come dressed appropriately. My freshly washed corduroy pants and white linen shirt are probably the worst thing to be wearing when you're about to tackle a huge pile of manure (again, pun intended).

The work happens in kind of an assembly line, involving about 25 people. There are people that use hoes and pitchforks at the pile to pass it along to a smaller pile, where it is then put onto small little 'stretchers'. Then two men take these little stretchers of manure and carry them to the nearby truck, where a couple other people receive it and drop the load into the back of the truck. This process is continued over and over until the truck is full.

I start working with Zoum and Will at the pile, but am not used to using the type of hoe they have here, so I try to find somewhere else where I can be more useful. It's a tough situation to be in. I want to show them that I am helping them, while also appearing like I know what I'm doing (or rather appear as little of an idiot as possible), while at the same time trying to keep my clothes from getting dirty—a tough day's work.

One of the stretcher carriers calls me over to help him, which I gladly do.

Even though the small stretcher is only 1' x 2', the manure is quite heavy, surprisingly, and I have to really hold on tight to the corner of the old plastic rice sack we're using. We run quickly, shouting “Heeeeeeeeeeeey!” as we approach the vehicle, to let anyone in the way to move away quickly unless they want a face full of cow poop.

Because of the language barrier, we all use a lot of sign language, and there is a lot of miscommunication and laughing. And the carrying of the manure doesn't sound that difficult, I know, carrying one side of a bag 30 feet and then lifting it up to a dump truck. But the grass has become slippery due to the constant traffic, and manure is heavy. And every time I have to lift the stretcher over my head up to the dump truck, I close my eyes out of fear of a slipped hand and a face full of, well, you get the picture. I work with Louie, my partner, for quite a while, and it starts to wear me out. Suddenly I realize they have turned music on in the cab of the truck. And after a few minutes, Whitney Houston's new song “I Didn't Know My Own Strength” comes on—here in this French- and Kirundi- speaking country, even they like Whitney Houston! I love that woman! And hearing that song gives me my second wind!

Finally, the truck is full, and I climb in the back with Zoum and a couple others, this time being about 3 feet higher than before, and prepare for the trip back to the clinic to unload the load. Because we're so much higher than before, we now have to squat down twice as far every time we pass an orogaba branch.

As we go along, Zoum and I joke about the difficulty in riding in the back of the truck. He reminds me that this is the worst road he's ever seen, which is saying a lot considering everywhere on this wonderful continent he's been to. But at least there is a road, and many people use it to get care at the clinic. I keep an eye on the sky to see if the sun will wake up from its nap and come bully my skin again, as we climb back up the steep mountain to the clinic. But at least I know, with a dirty shirt, almost sun-burned skin, and stinky hands and feet, that all this work will provide enough fertilizer for this year, and will help many patients. And even Whitney Houston lent a hand.