All my life I’ve heard the expression, mad as a wet hen. Well let me tell you, a wet hen isn’t all that mad. In fact, drench a hen in a morning thunderstorm, and she’s still not particularly angry. Go figure. Hens have better things to do than waste energy on wrath. But here’s another myth busted: in a warm country such as Burkina Faso, it doesn’t take all that much sittin’ gettin’ chicks to hatch. I know. I know lots of hens. These hens spend a lot of time pecking, scratching, and eating plants. My garden will be in serious jeopardy unless I can accomplish some hen-proofing. And I've got to get ready for my garden, because . . . .

Tomorrow is the big day: swearing-in ceremony at the U.S. Embassy. Lots of VIPs, the First-Lady of Burkina Faso, you can well imagine. And just a few days after that, we leave the lovely capital of Burkina Faso for our permanent sites. And the title of my blog will change. It'll say "Peace Corps Volunteer" instead of PC Trainee.

My site is going to be on the southern frontier of Burkina Faso, in a town near Ghana called Po. Po Kathy. Po, po Kathy. Some Po dog came and ate my dinner. The Po chicken lost its feathers. You can imagine the possibilities. The Po market didn’t have any spinach today.

So Po is supposed to be a small village or town . . . not so small as the solitary mud-brick and thatch villages, but not as large as the small regional capitals, despite its location on the route to Ghana. Here’s an exciting part: one must travel through a national park in order to get to Po in which (wait for it) there are elephants! I’m told that sightings are extremely rare. My primary project will be working with an organization called GaMoWiga doing environmental work. I have no idea what that means but I’m hoping for plants, animals, marketing and public relations. I do know that I'll work with groups to reforest Burkina Faso. I'm planting trees. What a fabulous job . . . can you imagine? Getting paid (in a sense) to spend 27 months planting trees. My secondary projects will be mine-all-mine; and I’m told that resources are mine for the taking. This refers to my sparkling personality and not to some sum of available funds. Right. We’ll see.

Here’s what I know about my house. It’s purportedly on a hill (one of the few hills in the entire country) with a fantastic view. I’m expecting three rooms and a small closet with 10-foot ceilings, electricity, and ceiling fans. Is that unbelievable? However, Po has no internet access (no Cyber), so I’m not exactly in the lap of luxury (but close enough to see the color of its eyes). Of course, I’ve got a satellite phone for internet use. So with that said, the site seems perfect for me. Don’t know whether I’ll have a thatch patio and thatch-fenced jardin; but if there’s not one waiting for me, I’ll have one in a week. And the toilet facility? I’m told that it’s one of the worst in Burkina Faso. Seriously. So I’ll need to get right to work on having the friendly host country nationals construct a new, private toilet.

My local language is Kassin. So I’m presently learning yet another language. First French, then Moore, and now Kassin.

Po is supposed to be one of the first areas to receive rain in the rainy season and allegedly is green with lots of trees. I’ll be the judge of that! I think that my Po trees will surely need rain, but we can only speculate.

Our little lamb, in the meantime, is right there at mom’s side . . . or rear. That’s when it happened. Mommy’s scent is dribbled (for lack of a better word) onto little lamb. Let the confusion begin. Monsieur ram can’t tell fertile mom from virginal daughter. To make things worse, the other four females were laughing. Seriously, they stood in the corner laughing. Whether they laughed at the ram or the lamb remains a topic of debate; but they were definitely laughing. Mom, on the other hand, was merely relieved to shirk her duty. Headache? . . . maybe.
This is where I got involved. I had to announce to my host family that the ram was after the young lamb. Time to rescue the lamb. No, I wasn’t sent into the pen. My job was merely to carry the crying lamb back to its original pen with the other youngsters whereupon . . . yes, you guessed it, all the young lambs escaped. So I was put in charge of herding three lambs. Most importantly, I was put in charge of running to close the courtyard gate lest the lambs escape into the village. Lambs are returned; and the young lamb forgets about mommy, so relieved is she that the attempted rape has ended. Thus, with the gorgeous hunk of ram in front of her and sans youngster . . . nature proceeds as nature always will. How long does it take to make a baby lamb? We can only speculate.

The Burkinabe. So they have goats, and they eat yoghourt. They have cows, and they drink milk . . . but only powdered (milk, not cows). And they eat cheese, if you can call it cheese . . . the no-need-for-refrigeration version called Laughing Cow. Here in Burkina Faso, it's called VQR. Or maybe that's a typique PC acronym. In any event, it stands for Vache Que Rire (cow who laughs). No complicated French needed there: Rirer is the French infinitive verb meaning to laugh. So they eat and enjoy cheese – the Burkinabe, not the laughing cows. And when it comes to this yoghourt, actually, they drink it, even when it's served in little American-type yoghourt cups.   So let's do the math on this one: we have female goats, and we have baby goats, thus we have goat milk. And we have a nation with a healthy appreciation for dairy. What's missing in this equation? Wait for it. It's goat milk! Why isn't someone milking these cute animals? Would a little bit of milk loss now and then ruin the health of the baby goats? Is that how it works? Answers needed here. At the Disneyland/Marina Market in Ouaga there is chevre cheese, and it's mild and delicious. Again, my daily boggle. Where are all of the goat-milk produits? Details to follow.   I've been sick, with too much time to ponder. Too much time, that is, when I've not been sleeping in a drugged stupor. Evidently some bacteria caused severe flu-like symptoms. Don't get excited, no GI symptoms. God, I love the PCMOs. They take no chances. You look a bit pale? They'll toss you in bed and begin treatment with their plethora of miracle cures. And after that happens, it doesn't take long. Another PC miracle. It's such a beautiful machine that it's enough to make you want to be sick. OK, obviously that's an overstatement. In fact, I felt so poorly that I cried for hours. Anyone who knows me appreciates that the sight of Kathy Davis crying for hours is a rare occasion. Probably didn't help with the dehydration, either; but weeping surely felt good. Did I mention that the PCMO makes house calls? That's right . . . home-delivered drugs. Gotta love that, right Alan?! We can only speculate?

Let's talks movies, TV, screen images. The other day in French class we played a game with lots of hypothetical questions. One of the questions was: If Raquel Welch was a stagiere, what would you say to her? OK. That tells you how long they've been using these questions. Remember, the PC is 50 years old . . . and obviously, no one knew who she was. Until . . . I explained that she was the ex-wife of the murder victim in Legally Blonde II. And that put everything in perspective, naturally, right? The bizarrely funny part is that, in French, I explained that she also was in an old moved called Fantastic Voyage where a team of doctors is miniaturized and injected into a patient to save his life. Remember? The leukocytes attached to poor Rachel's chesticles? Yes, I explained this as best I could in French. Wait for it: Our host country national LCF (Language & Cultural Facilitator) actually knew this movie. We laughed and laughed. I think that makes it a pretty small world, indeed.   Here in Burkina Faso, images from films pop into my head often: Painted Veil: Walter in the cholera ward . . . . 'nough said. French Kiss: Kate so bored that she's cleaning her computer keyboard with a Q-tip. Out of Africa: Farad says, When God is happy he plays with us. Fiddler on the Roof: We suffer in silence. True? Of course true. Willow: Giselle, the fairy queen (or whatever she is) in the form of a lamb saying, Willow, you iddddiiiot. The white lambs in my courtyard repeat this about a zillion times daily. Seriously, they say, Willow. Sometimes they say Mom or Noooo. Other times they say Waaaait. Sheep are funny that way. Legally Blonde: Asian manicurist says, She'll never get him back with those cuticles. That's how I feel . . . I'll never get a man with my terrible cuticles. How terrible? Well last night I washed dishes for an hour in two buckets of cool and tepid water with a bar of mushy soap and something that may have once had aspirations of being a loose piece of plastic mesh. Started to go grab my latex gloves (you know I brought some) but decided to woman-up and go with the culture. But now . . . ?   In fact, I'll never get a man – not with these cuticles. Well, that's not exactly true; but my fate has been foretold and my future is sealed. A few weeks ago while on demyst in Fada, we visited an ancient seer. Tuareg, possibly. He spreads out the sand, holds your hand, and presses your fingers into the sand. Fingers removed (from the sand, not your hand), he then patiently creates myriad designs in the sand. It's beautiful – like a sand painting. With the assistance of a translator, my fortune was told. What did I learn? That I've left at home a man who wasn't thrilled at the idea that I've come to Africa (he didn't mention the unhappy Lakeland Terrier that I left behind). That I could find a Burkinabe, or possibly some other man who might take me, but only after I sacrifice a large animal. Well define large. Are we talking rabbit, or camel? Dove, or water buffalo?   Didn't realize that I was so desperate for a man. But Tuareg seers don't lie, right? From his lips to God's ears, right? True? Of course true. But we can only speculate.

PC lesson number one finally hits home: Host nationals must want change for change to be effectual. I could not convey why my mud/cow-poop stove would save time, wood, and smoke/soot-filled eyes. My poor language skills failed me; but moreover, no one wants a new stove because the old stove is just fine for their purposes. Silly me – lost their attention in less than 10 minutes. All that time trying to describe and then illustrate a better stove.   So tell the Inuit people that they need a better mouse trap. Hey, they don't have much of a mouse problem, so why would they need a better mouse trap? Moose trap? Maybe. But trying to sell a better mouse trap to someone who hardly has a mouse problem and you're going to encounter some cultural obstacles. Thus it was with my better stove. Not an easy sell. And thus I returned to making dinner with the girls.   Tonight's fare? Something that I believe is called (or at least phonetically pronounced) benyadoh. Here's how it's made.   Take a large scoop of leave from any bean plant. Not the beans, just the leaves. Pound the heck out of 'em in my favorite Burkinabe device, the old mortier and pilon. Make a green, liquidy pulp. Mmmmy, right? Toss the watery pulp into a gigantic bowl and add about a pint of finely sifted millet grain. Then put some raw peanuts into the mortier. Again, pound the living daylights out of the poor little nuts, sift the powder, and add another pint of peanut powder to that gummy green leaf mix. To this, disolve in water about a golf-ball sized piece of potass (I think it's potassium). Mix, mix, mix, but only with your right hand. Add water as needed to make a fairly soft paste that just barely holds together. Then form (right hand only) into golf ball sized balls. This isn't difficult. It's not even difficult to get fairly uniform little balls. But the girls laughed and laughed at me. FQR. Filles qui rivent. I saw at least 40 balls in the pot, and for the life of me I could not distinguish their balls from my balls. Finally, one of the girls remarked, about my ball, tres jolie. Very pretty. This escapes me. I thought my balls were fine.   To conclude this tall ball tale, the raw balls are placed atop of the raw greens from the peanut plant (roots and all, peanuts removed, however), which rest on a devise like a steamer inside a large marmite over a flame. So I suppose the leave-nut-balls are steamed. They don't taste bad . . . like a vegetarian meat substitute. I can actually image that, with tomato sauce, they be great as meatballs or even lasagna filler for Italian food. Maybe meatloaf. With lots of lettuce and mustard, possibly even a burger.   Wouldn't things would go so much quicker here if we could use our left hands? We can only speculate.

Ever seen the film Blood Diamond?   I have Dengue Fever, which has nothing to do with a movie. OK, I don't really have Dengue, but I love saying that. It's so much more exotic than malaria, which I don't have, either. I do, however, have some disease. Very high fevers that rarely break. General malaise. This makes for some odd dreams, obviously, and also for a teeny bit of crankiness. Well, let's call it a teeny bit . . . in fact, I've been a bitch (sorry SED pals). And with this illness that's lasted three-to-four days, yes, there are times when I wonder "why was I so keen on becoming a PCV?" But those moments are very fleeting. After the hottest day that I've ever experienced, ever, I return to a bucket shower and genuinely believe that I've got the best life in the world.   TIA . . . when the usually-filthy/muddy piglets are soft pink after a hard rain. TIA . . . when I ride through rivers following an afternoon deluge . . . and I finally realize exactly why they gave me a mountain bike. When radios blare with West African music in the early morning on the way to class, TIA. When I ride home well after dark and after Wednesday night cocktails, through rushing rivers (not kidding) with my beloved, tricked-out, purple mountain bike, covered from nose to tip-of-tail with red mud, smiling . . . TIA.   So it's all true. Everything that the 50-years of PC experience promised: it's not the day-to-day challenges that get to you. OK, it is the loo, but it's not the lack of running water, nor the culture. It's definitely not the culture, which I absolutely love. It's the language barrier; it's the beaten-down feeling when I believe that I will never learn the local language. Alas, TIA, too.   Last night I dreamed, again, that I was a PCT in Indonesia. Don't know how I knew that it was Indonesia. I had left the staging/training site and flown home to Dallas. In one of those only-in-a-dream moments, I realized that I was in Dallas without permission. Lord, I was AWOL. I dashed off to the airport at DFW, pulled-out my credit card, and purchased a first-class ticket on British Airways to return to Asia. Again, in a dream-zapped moment, I was back in the PC, whereupon I was discretely advised by a PCVF that I had been MIA for 27 days and I that I should probably just return home, without even mentioning my attempt to return to the PC life.   What does that mean?! For those of you who know me well, the first-class credit card purchase on British Airways is oh-so obvious. It's so me. But why the recurrent dreams that I go MIA. I always go home, and I'm always returning to Asia (not Africa). Sometimes I go home to go shoe shopping at Neiman's. I find this hilarious. Sometimes I go home to visit my daddy – fairly obvious, right? Buy why, in my recurring dreams, do I never see my friends at home? And what about the baby Jill? I am boggled by this. Anyone dare take a stab at this? It's the fever, right? We can only speculate.

Only five to six weeks in country (I lose count) and I've now held every baby animal that I've encountered. Baby goats, baby sheep, baby kittens, baby puppies . . . and I'm still trying to capture baby chicks. We asked our neighbor the word for the baby chicks. Took forever merely to convey our question. Finally we got across the point – merely asked how does one say in French, small chickens? And he looked at us, with that classic francophone incredulous look and replied, in French "small chickens." For this answer we spent ten minutes trying to convey our question? For this I searched for words and gestured with hands and arms imitating a baby chick?! We are confident that there is another word, in French, for a chick. But the look on his face, trying to explain to two agriculturally-challenged American women, was absolutely priceless. Little chickens, you idiots.   Speaking of smarts: goats are smart. Truly. Goats are smart enough to find the smallest scrap of shade at midday when the blinding sun is directly overhead. Sheep don't do this. Goats will stand in the sliver of shade by a wall. They'll also work in teams. Goat packs? I think not. However, they will use teamwork to get to a morsel of food. I said to a PCT who [wink-wink] shall remain nameless, "Goats are intelligent" to which Chris replied, "And cute, to boot."   Donkeys aren't as smart. A tied-up burrow will rub raw its fetlock just to get to a new area of turf . . . all that when there's a fine patch of green grass well within reach. Not so smart . . . and sad with its little raw ankle. Alas the adage . . . the grass is always greener.   Who has done a thesis on goat intelligence? Who would want to? Baby kittens and baby puppies . . . it's redundant, I realize, but it's fun to say. . . and admit it: you want to say it too, right? So who out there knows the word for a baby chick? Anyone? We can only speculate.

Did you know that there are over 130 million malnourished children in the world. It's true. And over 53% of child mortality (age of five and under) is due to malnutrition. Now come on folks, if that doesn't shake-up your brain, it should. Combine that figure with families affected by malaria, HIV/AIDS/ARMS, and with something as simple as diarrhea (which ain't all that simple, believe me), and we've got some serious issues facing the planet. In other words, improve even one of the aforementioned conditions, and wait for the trickle-up effects and improvement in just a few of these maladies. There are no simple answers. Don't send your dollars to some well-meaning charity. Well, by all means, send money. But solutions to these issues are not as simple as money – not by a long shot.   Now before you run for your box of tissues (which, in fact, I hope you'll do later), let's look on the bright side. All children love to laugh, clap, and sing. And thus, I've learned a new children's song, in French, for 260 million-plus little hands. A song that I sing to children, regardless of health status, which seems to bring-on a smile every single time. Incidentally, to answer your questions, yes, it's getting more and more difficult to type solely in English. Lots of spell-check action, and lots of delete-key action. But for now, excuse the French spelling errors. Ready with your hand gestures? Ready to sing?   Tappez, tappez petites mains; Tournez, tournez petit moulin. Nagez, nagez petits poissons; Volez, volez, volez jolie pappion.   There is some debate regarding the hand gestures representing the nagez-ing of the fish in this land of dams where there is no ocean, though the debate is totally one-sided (mine). In fewer than 72 hours, I've taught this song to anyone who will listen. To any group who will stand still. Kids love it. Those of you who know me best can well imagine. However, did I see some other PCTs fleeing as I approached with my nagez-ing hands? We can only speculate?

Dans le sac . . . but sur la table. I found myself helping another PCT with these prepositions. Me?! With my poor French? Inside the bag, but on the table. Dans . . . sur. Don't they have over-priced kitchen-ware stores in Burkina Faso. Doesn't everyone know the kitchen boutique: Sur La Table? Speaking of kitchen wares, here's a recipe that requires a few. It's Bissop. Sssssh. Don't tell. Don't let the recipe get out. Anyone caught marketing this recipe in the U.S. will be charged with patent violation by us BF stagieres. So get your litle Bics ready. One scoop of fleurs d'oiseilles (big scoop, about the size of a soccer ball). One scoop of gingembre roots . . . enough that you'll need both hands to hold the scoop (I like lots of gingembre). You could halve that amount of gingembre and still have a fine brew. One very large handful of menthe. Now you're ready to make the best juice drink in the world. Place the fleurs in a large pot and simmer in enough water to cover for about an hour. Be certain to maintain that water-covered status for the entire hour. Don't need a rigorous boil here, just a simmer. Wash the gingembre very thoroughly, rinse, repeat. Break the clean gingembre into pieces and rinse it again. You can now grate the pieces or simply place the broken pieces directly into a large mortier. Here's the fun part: Pilez away. Pile, pile, pile until it's mush; and when you think that it's really mush, pilez some more. Wash the menthe very well and set aside. If you're in Burkina, you'll want some bleach in the menthe wash-water. Remove the gingembre mush to a new bowl and cover with water (about a cup). Stir to make your jus de gingembre. Pour the watery mixture through a strainer into a new bowl pressing firmly to get all of the flavor from the pulp. Replace the gingembre mush back in the first bowl. Repeat the process again with another cup of water. Your new bowl should now contain about a pint of jus de gingembre. Rip-apart/crush the well-washed menthe to release oils. Remove simmering fleurs d'oiseilles from heat. Add menthe to the very hot liquid and allow to rest for about 15 mintues. Then add the strained gingembre juice to the warm liquid. Stir and then strain the entire mixture into a new bowl or a heat-resistant pitcher or bottle. Add sugar to taste. Don't go overboard on the sugar (I like about three tablespoons). You now have Bissop concentrate. It's good with about a 1:1 addition of water, but you may desiree more water and sugar. Alternatively, a 1:1:1 ratio of Bissop, water, and gin makes a nice martini. Shake over ice and add a twist of lime. Enjoy.   What are fleurs d'oiseilles? I'm told that they're hibiscus flowers; but they're not any hibiscus variety known to us Texans. So what are they and where can we get the seeds in the U.S.? Do we really use a cocktail shaker and ice here in Burkina Faso? We can only speculate.

In Burkina Faso, all PCVs offer periodic presentations called sensibilisations. Now say that word with a French accent. There's a lot of vowels, non? Admit it, the pronunciation takes a bit of practice. Joan, I can just hear you saying this word. So what is a sensibilisation? Well, the colloquial definition would be, as my mother says, "to knock some sense into you."   So I did my first sensibilisation. I used the coffee grounds from the French Press. Yes, the same French press that I toted over 7,000 miles from Dallas (knew it'd come in handy for something). Placed those used coffee grounds right on the base of a canna plant. Yes, canna . . . the flower/plant from rhizomes, just as in Dallas.   Initially my family said "Whoa!" in French, of course. Whoa doesn't really translate to French, but I certainly got the gist of their meaning. I explained that the coffee grounds were good for plants and flowers. And then, a mere three days later, viola. A canna bloom. Any my mother (my sister) showed the bloom to my host father and repeated my words to him, "Bon pour les fleurs." Sensibilisation complete.   In my current host family the mother is only eight years my senior. So we call each other grande soeur and petite soeur. I've never been a petite anything. Well, maybe a petite fool, but even that's arguable. Anyway, I never know the culturally appropriate term for her? My mother, my sister, my mother my sister? Roman Polanski, where are you when I need you most?   I have a pagne. In fact, I wore a pagne. What's a pagne? It's a gorgeous piece of fabric (think large beach-towel size) that can be used for all sorts of things: bath towels, sheets, fabric for tailors who create the most gorgeous clothing designs you've ever seen. The pagne can also be wrapped via some native-and-talented fashion to form a skirt. So, yes indeedy, I wore a pagne . . . and nothing under it. Hey, it was wash day and sous-vetements were limited. So what happened next? Hmmm. Difficult to say, but it had my mother/my sister shaking her head. Was it the wind? Was it the bike ride? Was it my lack of pagne-rolling/tying skills? Do I need a pagne-rolling sensibilisation? We can only speculate.

I"m not an exclamation mark kind of gal. They're grossly overused and so often misused. Oh sure, there's a time and a place for an exclamation mark; but these are few and far between, and their overuse drives me crazy. I mean, come on . . . just go ahead and end a sentence in a preposition – the exclamation mark makes me that crazy.   Quick update on the past few weeks. We made mud stoves. Here's the recipe: Take a large pile of almost-dry-but-still-crumbly mud consisting of about two parts good earth (as good as a pile of earth can be here in western-central Burkina Faso) and one part manure mixed with straw. Combine that first large pile with one part of very heavy and very sticky gray clay (looks like the clay with which you'd make pottery, and I have no idea from whence it comes). Now, the fun part. Top the first two parts with one part cow poop. That's right. Nice, fresh cow poop. No, I'm not talking about compost made from cow poop; I'm talking about actual fresh poop from the cow. En francais, that's vache shit. How large is each large pile, you ask? Picture a small burro lying on the ground. That's the size of each pile. Three, count 'em . . . three of 'em.   Now how is this eye-catching, very large and aromatic mixture mixed? Two guesses -- the first one doesn't count. With your hands. No gloves. And when the pouring afternoon rain comes, and when it's actually chilly, and when the hands of at least 12 other trainees are flicking the concoction, you can just imagine the mickle of this thrilling project. I'll try to post some photos ASAP. I'm sure I don't have to tell you: it was an absolute blast. Exclamation mark.   So the purpose of this stove is not to cook food. Nay. The mud is built-up from the ground, enveloping three foot-ball-size rocks. The three rocks serve to support the cooking pot. The the mud covering the rock is augmented with more mud, forming a circular well on which rests a metal cooking pot known as a marmit . . . or perhaps marmite. Sounds like the meat-paste-spread from safari, doesn't it, Rusty? Or some little pet animal that you'd keep in a shoebox. Or maybe a fine wine? Chateau Marmite. In any event, the purpose of the mud-stove/well is to retain heat, thus requiring far, far less wood, thus reducing the devastating deforestation across West Africa. Fascinating, huh?   Other fun activities included the medical session on infectious disease. Who doesn't love the bilharzia tale? Dengue, typhoid, and worms, oh my. We're learning local language(s) and getting close to receiving the formal announcement about our permanent site. My hands quiver as I type. Well, maybe that's from yesterday's illness; nevertheless, site announcements are pretty darn exciting.   So, a word about a PCT who will (almost) remain nameless. I'm not talking about the cheese; I'm talking about one of my favorite PCTs – Brie. No, of course not -- I can't use her real name; so I'll substitute a cheese name. If you have read very far in this blog, you'll know that I often pose questions to myself . . . or questions to you, gentle reader . . . or to the universe . . . or to the PC gods. I'll ask things such as "Who doesn't love a sock?!" "Who doesn't love a cocktail on clear-liquor-Wednesdays?" "Who doesn't love working in poop up to your ears (literally) in the pouring rain?"   These are all valid questions. Questions that I often pose aloud to my fellow PC Trainees, especially within my SED group. And in response to these questions, inevitably and just like clockwork, Brie's answer is an audible, charming, filled-with-glee-and-laughter, rapidly-stated, "I don't know a person!" Emphasis on the words 'a person!!!" I adore this (and many other things) about Brie. Sometimes I'll be biking, or walking all alone, or just wandering around my courtyard looking at poultry (that's right, I love to look at poultry). . . and I'll think to myself, "who doesn't love a reposing hen?" and I laugh aloud (I mean really loudly) thinking of Brie's "I don't know a person!!"   Does that laughter make me exceptionally weird to the Burkinabe? And Brie's phrase . . . is it possible to translate into Jula."I don't know a person"? And if translatable, wouldn't it lose it's charm without Brie's laughter and quick wit? I'm quite confident of the answer, but I'll say it anyway: we can only speculate.

Those socks from Barney's. It's amazing what the mere glimpse of socks from Barney's does for a girl's morale. Still wrapped in their crinkly tissue paper . . . still with their little tags. Crunchy to the touch any time I get near them while digging inside my trunk. I have yet to find a good use for socks in this land. Goodness knows it's not cold enough for socks; and oh what the dirty floor would do to a sweet little pair of pink socks. Nevertheless, they're there . . . some secret and very powerful talisman against my occasional capricious whim to go completely Heart-of-Darkness-native.   I asked for a porcelain toilet at my site. Yes. It's true. It's the ultimate humiliation, but I did it. I was told, with the utmost patience and with only a teeny smidge of condescension and patronization that "no, Kathy, I've got 50 sites and none have porcelain toilets." This response was quickly qualified with the caveat, "But Kathy, you might be original and have something created." To which I responded, quite sheepishly, "Oh no! I could not possibly! It would be way too embarrassing. I wouldn't belong in the PC at all. But where can I buy one?!?!" Embarrassing but true. That ol' flat-iron dilemma is looking rather silly about this time, right? Come on . . . who asks for a toilet in a land without clean drinking water? Where are my priorities?   So what really happened? What have the history books omitted? Byrd? Meade? Livingston? Selous? Goodall? Do you suppose they took even one, tiny Western convenience? Maybe a pair of socks from Harrod's . . . maybe silk PJs from Jermyn Street? The Tiffany cocktail shaker? We can only speculate.

So the PC emphasizes the importance of stress relief. Some use yoga, and I highly approve of this technique. Exercise fanatic that I am (NOT!), I don't have the challenge of where to jog . . . because we can't jog here. Not alone, ever. It just makes sense. A buddy system is always for the best. Happily, this is a non-issue for me.   So you've all read my Packing List by now. And I concede, it's a bit over-the-top. Overambitious. Ludicrous, some might say. But who's already come to me begging to buy or borrow items? Huh? Riddle me that? Surely not my fellow stagieres? And not the PCVFs, right? Or am I kidding?   So, in fact, what should not have come all the way from Dallas? The flameless candles? Indeed, arguably they could have stayed on Burnwood. Not that the concept wasn't valid; but the wax has melted during multiple transports, and their shape is now random. Not in the least candle-like. OK, one mistake in judgment, compounded by multiple rides inside luggage atop a bus in 100-degree heat. But one mistakes doesn't not a poor packer make. What I'm thrilled about having with me? The mortar and pestle, the French press, all the seeds, the good knives.   And then there's the flat-iron.   Now most of us know that I'm the sedentary mouse (reference to HBO's Alzheimer's documentary). And, sedentary mouse that I am, my new method for stress management is flat-ironing my hair. Yes, now come on – you knew very well that the flat iron was coming. In fact, it's the world's smallest, dual-voltage, traveling flat iron. And breaking it out has been long overdue. Just ask the 80-plus folks who've had to look at my scarey hair for the past month. Even when my hair is up in a scarf, I look like Jacques-Louis David's Death of Marat. Equally chilling. So, new tradition: 30-minutes nightly, apres shower, with my old pal, the flat iron. What was once a three-minute activity now takes-up 30 minutes of valuable study time. It's because the device is about the size of a nail file. Still, it's therapeutic, right? And there's no need to frighten my host nationals unduly, right? How long will this therapy last? At least while were back in yet another hotel (security reasons again). But after we leave the capital, will my solar charger handle the flat-iron? We can only speculate.

That the dirtiest, tiny shower stall in the world, with cold water, would make you feel so delicious and clean. So, define dirtiest. At least there wasn't poo from some PC trainee. Still, it looked yucky. Yucky . . . that's a universally understood adjective, right? That you can learn to wash clothes, many while they're still on your body, in the dirtiest shower in the world. That the dirtiest-appearing water (things clearly floating in it) would become potable. So how do we make drinking water? It's a very simple process. Set-up the filter-unit, which contains an inside-the-top-unit paper-type filter (think air-filter for a car) . . . through which water flows into the bottom carbon-type filter (think aquarium), through which the water again flows out into its permanent receptacle. Add bleach – about three drops per litre. It's all quite easy providing (wait for it) . . . providing there's any water of any type, from any source, to place into the filter. Did I mention that the device isn't really attractive. Picture white 5-gallon pickle bucket*. Surely there's a way to turn the white-white device into art. Stacey? Rusty? Sally? Anyone? Help me out here. Becky, can you delegate this art-transformation request to someone?  *On a more positive note, the device has (figuratively) fermentation unit written all over it. So, drinking water versus cider? Hmmm. Verdict is still out. That you could willingly, voluntarily, without remuneration reside in a land where there are more internal parasites and worms that you can shake a stick at. Go ahead, I dare you . . . read-up on the Guinea Worm. That there exists gorgeous Gorgonzola, 1664 beer, cold Perrier, and gourmet jams in Burkina Faso. All that, and beautiful endive. Oranges that are the color orange (what a concept). It's nothing that about $50 US won't buy. I'd heard the rumor . . . thought it was a myth perpetuated by PCVs about to end their service. Nope. It was real. So we journeyed to a place called the Marina Market in the nation's capital of Ouogadougou. Three stories tall. It's ex-pat Disneyland where Snow White's castle is a food market on par with Central Market. Epcot Center is the kitchen gadgetry level (modern devices from around the world). And the Mad Hatter's Tea Party is the home furnishings floor where you'll believe, without a doubt, that you must have dropped a few hits of microdot. Put down the hookah. Was Tim Burton was hired to be the new West African IKEA designer? I declare, it's Edward Scissorhands in A Clockwork Orange. Milkbar meets Versailles. In any event, the furniture is bizarre with a capital B. I'm talking complete living room and bedroom suites (a la IKEA), but with over-the-top colors and contours. Indescribable. And we're looking around like newlyweds, giggling . . . Honey, do you like this? How would this set look in our mud hut? Here's the best part. We spy the Hippocampus mattress. That's no joke. It's called the Hippocampus mattress. It's big, easily king-size, and it's protected on all sides with a thick layer of clear plastic. Obviously this is something wonderful and very valuable. A mattress to be coveted by those fortunate few who can afford it. We lean back and plop onto the Hippocampus. Weel, suffice it to say, we might as well have plopped onto a concrete slab. Surely there is a misunderstanding. The real mattress must be in the back of the warehouse, right?. This hippocampus mattress was merely the demo . . . like fake sushi in the restaurant window. A mattress done-up by some fake-hippocampus mattress-stylist, right? Then why wrap it so carefully in plastic? In truth, it was the real-McCoy Hippocampus. What is up with that? Is the Hippocampus mattress named after the concrete-lined play-pool for zoo-kept hippopotami, and as such has a rock-hard feel? Or is the mattress named after the part of your brain? The hard-as-a-rock part. The, Kathy, you've got rocks in your head part? Is the hypothalamus mattress the soft version? So how about the frontal cortex mattress pad? How soft is that?! Who has the answers to these questions? We can only speculate.