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:

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.