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The following is another excerpt from the story of our travels to Burkina Faso. Read along as we brave the Metro in Paris, become red with African Dust, and climb rickety ladders to reach rooftops. Our intent? To learn more about Earth Roofs in the Sahel and to see for ourselves the life-changing effect of this program. If you’re reading for the first time, you can see the other entries here.

Last night, we said goodbye to Thomas, and this morning we headed to the airport to fly to a completely different land.

Our airplane into Burkina Faso lands. When we exit, the night takes us in like a smoky oven. We walk across the tarmac like young children, entering a new world, not sure of what to expect. It is dark and hot, and in the airport building we squeeze into line, waiting patiently as it inches forward. When we reach the desk, we find that we missed the Visa area. Bummer. Turns out the sign was blocked by all the people standing in front of it.

It is the beginning of a communication obstacle course. The officials speak only French, the forms are in French, and we don’t have certain vital information, like which hotel we are going to be staying at. The official takes our forms on faith that I will run outside and ask our friend- I gesture wildly to the outdoors “Mon ami, Mon ami!” and he apparently believes my frantic sincerity.

We are leaving the airport without our passports. It’s part of the deal- this quick way of getting a visa. All we have in their place is a slip of paper, which we hand over to the secretary of La Voûte Nubienne, a woman we are just now meeting for the first time. This is the beginning of the beautiful trust that continues throughout our entire trip. We are safe here. Our citizenships are in Burkina Faso hands now. All of our time is in Burkina hands, as it turns out. We are now children, treasured guests, dependant on any interpreter and any tiny bit of French that I have retained from elementary school, as well as the language of facial expressions and ridiculous hand signs.

The customs official motions us through without checking our bags after complimenting my hair. “I want this,” he says, gesturing to my dreadlocks. We walk out of the airport into a sea of people. I spot a tall woman holding a sign that says LJ Urban. She is the secretary, Zalissa. We ward off eager porters and make our way to her. We have arrived.

***

We have changed money, we have found our taxi, and now we are sitting. In our jeep we are spinning through dark air that smells of diesel fumes and burning. We’ve been transported.

To me, at first Burkina Faso seems just like India, except that there are no rickshaws and everywhere I look there are long-legged African people striding down smoky streets. I am in love, already, the diesel fumes have entranced me. This is the smell of a developing country, the smell of so much of the world. This burning wood smell has halted me in my tracks at times, at home, brought me back in my memory to my travels. It is unhealthy, this diesel smell. It is not clean. But it causes nostalgia so strong that I find all my reservations flying out the car window.

I am here again. Suddenly it all seems all right. Fluorescent lights, the slow walk of people who don’t hurry. People look up as we go by, then set their glance unconcernedly on something else. We are moving so quickly- the people outside our car move as if in a slow dance. I feel that there should be music coursing through the air. I feel like every cell in my body is rejoicing over being here.

I realize that I may be a little exhausted and giddy. I am close to tears. But Jessie and Cindy seem to feel the same way. I am not sure, exactly, what they are feeling, because we are all so quiet, but I believe it is a little of the same wonder. How did we get here? Weren’t we just in Paris, with Christmas lights lining the streets? Now we sit in the taxi with Zalissa. She is taking us to our hotel, and then out for dinner. Thomas has told us that he wants us to eat in Voûte Nubienne, to sleep in Voûte Nubienne… he wants us to spend our time here wading into the full experience of these incredible vaults. We are on our way to the Hotel Song Taaba, one of a few beautiful buildings with vaults that have been built in Ouagadougu.

We park in what seems like a tiny street, almost an alley, and we realize that we have arrived at our hotel. As we walk into the gated courtyard, the manager comes forward to greet us and show us to our rooms. It is our introduction to the Voûte Nubienne building method, our very first glance. The rooms are arched and very cute. There is a toilet and shower. At this point, of course, we don’t know that this is the last time we will see a toilet until we are on the airplane headed home, but the bathrooms seem nice anyway. Jessie and Cindy and I all check each others’ rooms out, and try to make sure that all the baggage has made its way into the right rooms. I know that the very first thing I need to do is get into some sandals. My thick socks and shoes suited the weather a lot better in Paris. It is not winter anymore. We are in Ouagadougu. We are in Africa. Tomorrow we travel to Boromo to meet Séri, the African director of La Voûte Nubienne. We can barely wait for what is ahead.