A Very Unlucky Weekend

Superstition has it that bad things happen in threes.  In Rwanda, irksome things happens in threes.  To my face.
Somedays, the universe sends  you an unequivocal sign that you should just crawl back under your mosquito net and stay there all weekend.  I received one such omen last Friday and foolishly chose to ignore it.
Rwanda is excellent bird-watching territory.  There's a dazzling variety of colors, shapes, and sizes flitting about.  Some volunteers are proud to have identified as many as 13 different species.  But what the guidebooks unanimously fail to mention is that the birds of Rwanda are equally adept at spotting you.
The back window in my living room room overlooks the nearby valley and banana groves.  In true Peace Corps fashion, I can spend hours standing there, staring out it, watching the mist come in and recede across the hills.
It's also the best source of light in my house, so of course I lurk next to it while doing my morning hygiene routine.  Apparently, my lurking skills aren't quite up up to skulk, because last Friday I was viciously attacked.  In the face.  By a hummingbird.  On the plus side, I decided to claim it as a new species.  So next time you're in Rwanda and a hummingbird dive-bombs you, you my dear friends, have just positively identified the Howellus Intheface-us.  Most bird-watchers go their whole lives without catching so much as a glimpse of this rare and dangerous avian.  For those who do encounter it, its sharp feet and pointy beak often it the last thing they ever glimpse.
The trials of my face continued the next day at the Ministry of Justice.  I'm involved with a really awesome program to teach English to the judges and staff at the Supreme Courts of Rwanda.  And it gives me a perfect excuse to shout "lawyered," even if only in my head.
So there I was, revising prepositions of location, with a room full of professional adults, feeling quite professional (if slightly precarious myself) in my high heels, when the fold-out whiteboard abruptly collapsed.  Into my face.  It was, however, a great teaching moment.  Howe often can the phrase "the whiteboard is on my face" be both true and applicable to the lesson?
By Sunday, I was firmly gripped by paranoia.  And I was going to be spending most of the day on buses.  Vomit seemed likely to be the crowning glory of my unholy trinity of facial unpleasantness.  But I made it back to my village completely unscathed.  My nose didn't even get sunburned.  I got smug.  Complacent.  I let my guard down.  I made tea on my petrol stove.  A giant fireball exploded in my face.  Thankfully, my eyebrows remained intact, even if my dignity was slightly singed.
So, I will no longer scoff in the face of superstition.  Monday passed without a single facial incident.  It would seem my bad luck has run its course...for now, at least.  Although I did stub my toe on a goat this morning...