Bizarro summer camp

I can't quite shake the feeling that I've flown halfway around the world to get to my junior high summer camp.  Okay, so it's still Africa.  Instead of being woken at 7 by reville, we hear the call to prayer at 4:30.  And instead of going to the commissary to buy M&Ms or Snickers bars, we go to the house next door to buy masala-sprinkled french fries and fried dough rolled in sugar.  And instead of filling our plates each day with hamburgers and spaghetti at the lunch line, we spoon rice or pasta and some type of stewed vegateble or sauce out of hot pots.  But otherwise, it's just like summer camp.

There's the camp gossip and cliques among the volunteers who I'm sure I'll describe in more detail at some future point.  I'm coming to be familiar with the way along the path between office and center, office and beach.  There are scheduled activities - a volleyball game every Thursday, a party on the roof this Friday - to look forward to.  I see everyone in the same clothes so much it begins to look like a uniform. My day has become centered around the food - lunch and dinner are the highlights of the day.  Lights out is early and in the middle of the night I have to fumble for my headlamp to find my way to the bathroom.