I’m from Texas. From Irving/Dallas, to be more precise. So I’m a Dallasite. We folks from North Texas have our own peculiarities. For instance, Dallas drivers are among the worst on the planet. I was born here; I can say that. We see a cloud, we hit the brakes. Come on, Dallasites, you know it’s true. We also have some odd phrases. “More than you can shake a stick at.” OK, aside from the preposition improperly placed at the end of that sentence, WHAT does that mean? Who would want to shake a stick at anything?! What’s that about?   “At the market we saw more peaches than you can shake a stick at.” “ I have more hats than you can shake a stick at” . . . and they’re all coming with me to Burkina.

Ask anyone: vanity is not a vice I possess . . . regardless of all my flat iron talk, and despite the fact that I’m bringing more hats than you can shake a stick at. Let not my flippant blogging diminish the depth of my commitment and dedication to my host country. I’ll say it again: if you can’t maintain your sense of humor, you’ve probably volunteered for the wrong 27 months.

The packing is coming right along. I’m thrilled at how much I can efficiently pack into two bags. Almost everything on my packing list will come with me. Almost. I’ve even tossed in some food items. Sanding sugar is a must, as is crystalized ginger . . . you knew that, right? And whole spices: nutmeg, allspice . . . even a granite mortar and pestle. If nothing else, my country hosts and I can open a restaurant. How’s that for business development?! Of course, some items will remain in Dallas. First things to be removed and stay home? Quantities of clothing! Remember, I’m not vain, and a large wardrobe isn’t my thing.

It’s OK . . . you can admit it now that I’m leaving: How many of you have thought (or actually said to me), “You’re wearing that?!” We can only speculate.

My grandmother (from Sherman, Texas) was known to say, “I need someone to carry me uptown.” Now picture my little grandmother in someone’s arms being carried somewhere. That’s what I envisioned as a child when I first heard those words. What she meant was (and what I’m confident that you realize), “I would like someone to drive me to the town square for some shopping.” How could anyone misunderstand grandmother’s statement? Well, because it makes absolutely no sense. I speak English, and it still makes no sense.

T-minus three days to departure. I’m learning more and more of the Moore language. Or is that more, more Moore? In truth, I’m learning very little, but I like saying more, more Moore.

Ramadan begins Wednesday, 11 August, and continues for 30 days. If I’m lucky and work diligently on my language skills, perhaps I won’t be repatriated to the U.S. before the end of Ramadan. Fun fact: an important phrase during Ramadan is “Congratulations on drinking water.” Congratulations on drinking water?! Now I’m not entirely unfamiliar with the customs of Islam, but I am as boggled by this congratulatory statement as I was by “carry me uptown.” Still, you’ve got to adore a culture that expresses congratulations on drinking water. I think it will be great fun to learn more Moore.

Then there are the phrases and words in Moore that actually sound like English, or Spanish, or proper French, or some combination thereof. My pea-brain recalls things in odd ways. The words for a fried beignet sounds like a Spanish-English mix: Mas better. Yep. A fried beignet would be mas better than a camel lung. Come on, folks . . . work with me and use that fabulous West African accent. My favorite? Sunday. Saturday is hot, but Sunday is hot, too. Hot, too. That’s how to pronounce the Moore word for Sunday. I know a few other words, too. Yada, yada, yada. Those sounds translate to basket, basket, basket. It’s actually spelled with a G (yaga, I believe); but with that lyrical accent, the G seems to be pronounced more like a D. I want to learn to say, “On Sunday, I want a basket of mas-better/beignets.”

Will I arrive and learn that I’ve completely misunderstood, mispronounced, and generally butchered the Moore language? And what about my French? Incidentally, if the Burkinabe say congratulations on drinking water, what would they say upon knocking back an icy shot of Ciroc?! We can only speculate.

Biggest lies in our society?

• You’ll feel pressure but no pain.
• Turn right; you can’t miss it.
• I never inhaled.
• I can get all this stuff to Ouagadougou.

It began like this. . . and that was over a week ago.  It’s embarrassing, but it began like this (there were extenuating circumstances, really):











Then it got better:











Then it got worse – a whole lot worse:











And there it sat . . . for days. And still it sits.

Did I fail to mention that this room is only 5x5x5? That implies that objects are smaller than they appear, right? Is there a word of truth in this paragraph?

The check's in the mail . . . and a flat-iron is a necessary tool. Where's the BugHut™ and the new hammock? Exactly what will stay home? There aren't really two boxes to be shipped . . . are there? We can only speculate.

And so this morning as the government travel office worked with me diligently to undo the airline trouble that I caused . . . as they explained to me that the PC merely wanted to ensure that I could endure a trans-Atlantic flight in steerage (thus somehow ensuring that I could endure the challenges of Burkina Faso), I suggested that SATO Travel might explain to Washington that I’d spent a fervid night sans A/C, in the dark, with a tiny battery-operated fan. Thank you, Duracell. Could it be that the PC/Washington fails to grasp the depth of my adaptability? Indeed, one might postulate: Who can blame them? Doubtless, hours in a lovely, albeit hot, comfortable home cannot equate to 27 months in a Burkina hamlet.

Change of plans. I spent the afternoon with Rusty and REI. Bug-Hut™, check. Hammock, check. I see it more clearly now: it’s only realistic. One must acknowledge the probability of sleeping under the stars. Wasn’t it me, in this very blog, who guaranteed “no Bug-Hut™”? What’s next? Granola and Kool-Aid™? We can only speculate.

It began as the most simple of ideas. I’ve got hundreds of thousands of frequent flyer miles. Why not use some to upgrade to first or business class? American Airlines didn’t mind. Delta was happy to separate my record from the other PC travelers. Washington, on the other hand, was not pleased. Their reasoning? If I can’t make the trans-Atlantic back in steerage, I’m probably not suited for 27 months without toilet paper. Well, that may be extreme . . . perhaps I’ll occasionally see a roll of Charmin.

So, how many Peace Corps Trainees does it take to foul-up the entire airline record locator for the Burkina staging group? Just one! No speculation involved there. I haven’t even left Dallas and I’m already trouble. What was I thinking?! Was that the best judgment of a business advisor in the SED program? Hours later the issues are resolved. I’ll happily sit in my coach aisle seat. I’ve promised the Country Desk that I’ll never, never-ever, be one ounce of trouble. Truly, I will never ever intentionally be trouble. It is possible to be trouble by omission of judgment? We can only speculate.

My dear friend has provided me with a luxury spa day, during which I’ll be sugar-scrubbed, et cetera, from head to tip-of-toe, and then one final pedicure before departing for Sub-Saharan Africa. I opted out of the Moorish mud wrap. What makes mud Moorish? Is that moorish as in Yorkshire Britain, or Moorish as in Cordoba? Regardless, I’m choosing something to do with yoghourt and honey, arguably Moorish, sans mud. Thanks, Joan. You’re spoiling me rotten. Does that make me rotten to the Corps? We can only speculate.

My favorite Peace Corps joke (actually, the only Peace Corps joke that I know, yet):
Glass of water, filled halfway.
The optimist says, "The glass is half full."
The pessimist says, "The glass is half empty."
And the Peace Corps Volunteer says,
“Hey, I can take a bath with that!”




Presenting a once-in-a-lifetime offer. A chance to change lives in an exotic location. An opportunity to alter your own life, for the better, forever. Interested? Contact the Peace Corps. But wait, there’s more. That’s right, folks. During this limited-time offer, you’ll have an opportunity to live on less than $200 per month, in the climate of a Viking oven. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you: Burkina Faso. West Africa. The Sahel. All this can be yours, but supplies are limited (quite literally). In this special offer, we guarantee no running water. Imagine the interactive enjoyment of H2O that you, yourself, can filter and boil. Call now (because we can’t do this all day) and we’ll throw in scorpions, rodents, and all the dust you can inhale. But wait, don’t answer yet. If you act now you’ll also receive two (2) rainy seasons. That’s right. Two. With no additional fees for shipping and handling. What would you expect to pay for such a package? Well don’t answer yet, because we’re throwing in an outdoor loo that you’ll enjoy sharing with other members of your community. Revel in the thrill of outdoor toilet habits. Marvel at midnight nature-calls in nature’s own setting. And, for a limited time, we’ll also guarantee that you’ll be unable to communicate. That’s right – a complete lack of verbal communication skills. Feelings of inadequacy and loneliness? You have our word on it. Reliable electricity? Regular Internet access? High-calorie fast food? Nope, nope, and nope. Can you say amoebic dysentery? Now what would you expect to pay for such an adventure?

Who’s ready for the buzz that lasts a lifetime? We can only speculate.

At some point I’ll need to leave the PCJ Applicant tab and move to the blog-world of the real-live PC trainees/volunteers. I’m sad. Though the Applicant/Nominee process was lengthy, fraught with uncertainty, and completely mind-boggling, I’ve grown accustomed to the land of Applicant blogs. It’s sort of my happy nursery-school for those about to embark into the real world of the PC. I used to wonder about the blogs of Applicants who never received an Invitation (I was convinced I’d be among that unhappy group). I surmised that those Applicants simply ceased writing in their blogs . . . maybe they asked the PCJ website to discretely and unceremoniously remove their blog. I had all these thoughts about my own blog (and if you’re an Applicant reading this, stop thinking that way. You’ll be fine.).

“But now that we’re going I feel sad . . . really sad.” If that line sounds familiar (and it won’t), it's a quote from a favorite movie. You think I’ve seen Dr. Zhivago too many times? Is there such a thing as Dr. Zhivago too many times? When I leave Applicant-land, who will magically place the flag of Burkina Faso next to the title of my humble blog? Will that be the website admin folks? Do they love Dr. Zhivago, too? We can only speculate.

For years I've maintained what my friends dubbed Kathy's Girl's Gotta Flee box. It's stocked with the absolute bare minimum needed to flee the country at a moment's notice . . . just enough items for a week or so abroad. Certainly not sufficient for 27 months.

And so there was more "supply" shopping early last week. It’s just money: you can get more at the bank. Right? At the same time, I made a giant leap of faith . . . as I pared down the "girl's gotta flee" supplies and the packing list. Where is that fine line? The one between the essentials needed to flee, versus items to ensure that this girl hasn't got fleas!? Really, folks, what's truly an essential? Well for me, there will be no Bug Hut™, no hammock, no bejeweled mosquito netting. I’m not going camping. Still, as a lover of gadgets, it’s all so tempting. Also no food items, not even drink mixes.

I read the blog of a genuine PCV who said to pack a comfortable bicycle seat. That’s no joke. A comfortable bike seat. I think it was a Swaziland PCV, but I stand to be corrected. Thus, let the packing begin – or at least the staging. In go the essentials: laptop, chargers, cameras, etc. Then the few clothes. Lift, walk around neighborhood, draw stares, add more items, repeat. Unlike other PCTs who have photographed what’s going, I’m eventually going to photograph what’s staying. Maybe I'll document the entire process. Even standing at a distance, I suspect I’ll need the fisheye lens to frame all that is staying. I’m already laughing at how much stuff will be forced to remain at home. Happily, dear friends offered a great suggestion: “Let us mail you care packages with the items that must remain at home. Think of how happy you’ll be when you’re reunited with the items left behind.” Brilliant! Will the flat iron stay or go? I’ll never tell. And you can only speculate.

“We’re go, Flight.” Countdown: T-minus three weeks.

So I’m watching Apollo 13, one of my favorite movies. I never fail to cry during the take-off scenes. How can one conceive of the emotions of a lunar flight crew? The adrenaline, the excitement, the anxiety, the delight . . . the terror? How is the human mind capable of such a wide array of simultaneous emotion? I’m not going to the moon, or even into the stratosphere. I’m merely going across the pond to a small country in Africa. And yet I’m filled with exhilaration, anxiety, suspense . . . thrills, chills, and spills galore. All those emotions that we humans can only hope to experience, if we’re very, very fortunate. Already this is quite a ride, and I haven’t even begun the packing.

After the film’s launch sequence, I began listening to my lessons in Moore, one of the many local languages spoken by the Burkinabe. Is that pronounced more, as in Beth and Tom Moore? Or is it moray, as in the eel that I’ve petted? In the MP3 files produced by the PC, one of the phrases in Moore is: "Omar doesn’t need a beer." Now these MP3 files from the PC consist of a whoppin’ 20 minutes of practice. Yep, just 20 minutes – it’s intended as an intro. A completely mind-numbing, freak-me-out, overwhelming intro. Forget the ol’ phrase, it’s Greek to me. No more. New phrase: It’s Moore to me. Do they even use the traditional alphabet of most western languages? I think not.

Imagine: you’re given a quick gloss-over in a completely foreign language so that you can hit the ground speaking a few polite phrases . . . and one of the phrases that they’ve carefully selected is: Omar doesn’t need a beer. I absolutely LOVE that! Burkina Faso! Is this a great country, or what?! OK, so maybe Omar doesn’t need a beer; but why doesn't Omar need a beer? And after another 20 minute session in Moore, will Kathy? We can only speculate.