I am a rock-star . . . if only to children. They know me by name. Dozens of ‘em. All over my Po hill. We shake hands. Sometimes we argue (good-naturedly) about French words. I find that I argue well in French. The right words seem to come so easily and I even understand what’s being said to me. Imagine me, arguing . . . incredible, right? In any event, the children love me. Could it be the cylume glow-in-the-dark necklaces that I occasionally hand out? True enough, jewelry never hurts.

OK, yes, it’s true. I just spent almost two weeks in the med unit of the PC Bureau in the capital city of Ouagadougou. Tomorrow would have been a full 14 days. And except for the final two days, I was essentially confined to quarters . . . meaning confined to the lovely two-bedroom apartment with full bath (including a tub), nice kitchen (I made ice cubes, constantly), and balcony. In a country where everything is either very dusty or very muddy, not to mention quite poor, my holiday in this little slice of America may sound nice, and indeed there were some good times. I found time to visit with my stellar PCV friends and even made my way to the roof of the bureau to watch a beautiful Burkinabe sunset.

This morning I caught the 7:00 a.m. bus from the capital back to Po, a two-hour journey that took over three hours due, I suppose, to road construction near Po and due to the multiple stops that all busses seem to make. Why do they stop? Well, silly, it’s so passengers may purchase food and beverages through the windows of the bus. At every wide spot in the road (to borrow a phrase of my mom's) women sell everything from bananas and bread to sachets of water and bissop. Rattling windows are forced open, and coins and goods are passed up and down. And when it seems that the passengers have concluded business, the bus proceeds. This is odd, but if you’re thirsty, it’s fantastic.

Not until the bus was at the station did I realize how happy I was to be back in Po. I exited the bus to a station full of folks asking me, in French of course, whether I needed further transport across the frontier into Ghana. Most natural question in the world. Really, it is. When you look like I do, the most natural question in the world at a Po bus station is, Lady, are you going on to Ghana . . . maybe to the beach? And it was with overwhelming delight and pride that I announced to each person, No, I live here. Each appeared incredulous. Really, I said, I live on that hill with Leon and Elizabeth. I live here in Po.

I live here. Here! In Po. I’m not merely on vacation. This is my home. I called Yaya (my homologue) to tote home my bags and boxes; and he was at the station within two minutes . . . two minutes, I kid you not, with hand shakes and that French head/face/kiss-action-thing that has been far-improved by the Burkinabe. And on the way home, all the way up the hill, the fans of this PC rock star squealed, Katrine, Katrine, you’ve come back! And inside my beautiful courtyard my neighbors and their children welcomed me home, and I almost cried. Maybe my ankle merely hurt. Seriously, however, I don’t remember when it felt so good to be home and when it felt so real to be home.

And then I spied him. My new best friend. Il s’appelle Zach and he’s building my new, private latrine. On W.A.I.T. [ that's West African International Time . . . for those of you new to this blog], while two weeks is indeed a long time to be away, it’s not a very long time to commence latrine construction. And yet, during the course of the excavation and construction, Zach has also made time to re-landscape the already-picturesque area beneath my huge shade tree. So it seems I’m getting a new stone retaining wall with room for a huge flower/herb bed and a rock garden. I’m talking huge rocks. Po is essentially on one, big rock; so imagine the work required by Zach to excavate, by hand, a very deep latrine. Deep . . . we’re talking meters, not merely a few feet.



I can see the herbs and flowers already. Is it time to plant the seeds, or should I wait until Zach has completed work? Will chickens decimate the seedlings? Is tonight an occasion special enough for glowing jewelry? I think we all know these answers, but we can only speculate.

I don’t know how to do things. Lots of things. I know how to change the little propane tank (size of a Lafi water bottle) on my grill in Dallas, but I don’t know how to change the large tank that’s used for cooking with a real live propane gas stove here in Burkina Faso. It’s a big tank. The PCV who previously lived in my Po home left me with a tank. Thanks, Daniel. But one day that tank will run-out, and judging by its weight, that day is at hand. Someone with experience will need to change my tank. Change it, that is, if and when I can locate propane and somehow tote it to the top of my mountain. Note that my Po hill has recently increased in size. The PCV Who Went Up a Hill and Came Down a Mountain. Wasn’t that a film? Maybe not; but it should be after my little spill on the Barbie bike. So at whatever point I’m released from the med unit in Ouaga, that Po hill is going to seem like a mountain. Or so I believe.

Back to the issue of propane. The Rumor Corps has it that something happened to the ship with the propane. The ship?! Burkina is landlocked. Nevertheless, we’ve indeed heard that something to do with the ocean has prevented propane from arriving in Burkina. A ship, a dock, maybe a rogue wave, or a rogue whale. And thus there is a propane shortage, countrywide. That’s right. No propane. No magical curry stir-fry. No lentil soup. No toad-in-the-hole. That ol’ expression of my mother’s, now you’re cookin’ with gas truly doesn’t apply here. There aren't  many Burkinabe ever cookin’ with gas. The Burkinabe most often cook with wood, thus the problem with deforestation, which I’m here to solve (Details at Eleven).

Ah, but I’m in the med unit, where I’ve been for about nine days. Nine days for four petite sutures on my ankle. And I’ll probably be here for another four to five days. That’s approximately four days per suture. When my dog was spayed I don’t believe she required such a lengthy recovery. Heck, if I was a terrier, I’d be chasing squirrels by now.

Squirrels. That’s something else that I don’t really know how to do. I’m not a skilled chaser of squirrels. Why is this relevant? Because I have a rodent in my home . . . and as we all well know, there’s never just one mouse, ever. Judging by the size of the rodent’s (shall we say) pellets, it’s not a mouse. So face facts, Kathy: you’ve got a rat.

Now what is a rat? And what is a squirrel? And what is a capibara? These are simply members of the rodent family. Famillia Rodentia. I doubt that’s an official title within the animal kingdom, but doesn’t it sound nicer than rats? So I’ve decided to dub the creature a ground squirrel . . . or ground squirrels, plural. Sounds rather cute, I think. I’ll likely return to my Po home to find famillia rodential groundum sleeping on the big bed and listening to my iPod. Time to formulate a plan to eliminate said famillia . . . and time is the one thing I’ve plenty of.

God, I hate to end a sentence in a preposition, but sometimes one simply must. And sometimes one simply must insist that ground squirrels move to other grounds . . . like Nigeria . . . maybe Somalia.

If I knew how to do more things, I’d know how to lure Burkinabe rodents eastward across the Sahel. Get those rodents the Sahel out of my Po home. Indeed, if I knew more I’d know how to safely install propane (possibly even get the precious stuff off of the high seas). Most importantly, if I knew how to do anything worthwhile, I’d know how to juggle. Like my charming friends, Bri and Ali.




Is it true? Can PCVs really juggle four projects at a time . . . and apples, too? Is there enough time in med unit to learn to juggle and to devise the rodent-ridding scheme? What would I juggle? Cipro? Amoxicillin? Real ice cubes?! We can only speculate?

Someone call Holbrook, ‘cause this one’s for him.

Let’s talk more about my PC Med Kit. It’s an emergency ward in a box. Well, condoms may not be the stuff that E.R.s require; but the other items would shame a small town trauma center. Heretofore I’ve tied to ignore my medkit. It is so crammed full of ER supplies that to open said kit would be like opening a life-raft inside a small airplane. It ain’t ever going back in its original package. Ever. And thus sat the kit, at ready . . . for some other Po PCV, but not this one. Until today. There was . . . an incident.

They say that vehicular accidents (aside from diarrhea) are our number one threat as PCVs. We’re restricted as to where we must sit on buses and bush taxis, no riding on motos, ever, etc. We’re discouraged from bike-riding in the capital of Ouaga simply because drivers of cars and motos know no boundaries. Makes Rome look like a deserted country lane in Madill. But no one specifically mentioned the dangers in the Po lanes and paths.

This morning on my way to the bureau I was biking on my side of the road (the right side . . . meaning the proper side and the right side). Remember, Burkina is old French colonial, not British; and driving is on the right-side of the road. Or so it should be. In fact, motos go where they please, as evidenced by the moto heading directly for me on my side of the dirt path. I stopped abruptly, but not too quickly. The moto stopped too; and all was right with the world. These little encounters occur daily. However, this morning when I put down my left foot to balance the Barbie bike, I stepped onto a tall pointed rock in the ground. It was at that point that I lost my balance and tumbled to the right, directly on top of the Barbie bike that was tumbling beneath me. Ne pas tombe! Right, Joan?

People rushed to see the crazy PC volunteer and literally picked me up and stood me up straight. I didn’t feel injured. Nay, not a bit. It was then that I saw the blood, and lots of it.

So here you go, John, dear. Who, who can fall and rip apart the top part of her ankle? The top?! Who indeed? And yes, it was that ankle. Two slight gashes and one large, deep gouge. But hey, I’m a PCV . . . ever resourceful. I simply reached into my official PC book bag, gathered the last few pieces of Lotus, and applied pressure. Hmm. How to maintain pressure on an ankle and leave the scene of the accident. Ah-ha. The watch-and-housekey-carrying lanyard around my neck. Perfect. Made a quick triple loop around the Lotus, tucked it under the velco strap of my Teva sandal, and off I went to my bureau. At the bureau my patron insisted on seeing it. Vous etes pret? I asked. Are you really ready . . . because it ain’t pretty. He agreed. Not pretty. I think gaping is a well-merited description.

Now one thing that we PCVs learn is that to be treated locally is usually not an option. Stitches, shots . . . rarely an optiion. And I’m two hours away, at best, from the PCMOs in Ouaga. But as my friends and family well know, few M.D.s are as good as I at diagnostics; and I’m nothing if not an excellent ER tech. However, a call to the PCMO is de rigeur in this situation; and those PCMO are ever-brilliant. They ponder the issue and state that they will call back. By call-back time I’ve rewrapped the wounds with my lanyard/tourniquet and made my way home. The real issue: am I needed in Ouaga for stiches? No. Absolutely not. P-p-p-pleease, I beg. This is a gaping wound and there’s nothing to stitch closed . . . or is there? My professional opinion is that butterfly closures, in sufficient quantity, will do the trick. Remember my rifle-in-a-raffle Tikka-300-Win-Mag gun-scope wound?

So why did I refuse any suggestion of a trip to Ouaga? Was it the fact that I hadn’t shaved my legs in in five days? . . . a situation quickly remedied in my outdoor shower without regard to pain and blood . . . just in case I was required in Ouaga (rather brave of me, I thought). Or was it the horror of being in the med unit in Ouaga, immobile, and not being able to play at the Transit House? Or was it mere vanity and the instinct that my butterfly closure would leave a smaller scar than the stitches of a pro?

Golly. And I thought I was bored yesterday. Will I finish my book? Did I bring enough of my personal prescription pain pills? How many movies can I watch (thanks, Kylé). It’s a long walk to the loo with an ankle that is supposed to be immobile and elevated. So what’s Plan B? Will a new cute sandal cover the inevitable scars? We can only speculate?

Tissue is precious in the country. It’s sold by boys on the street, in bus stations, in the al fresco restaurants . . . OK, food stands/kiosks, not really restaurants . . . and just about everywhere else. It’s sold in the convenient tiny packages that we American’s know as travel-size facial tissue. I don’t think the Burkinabe use it as facial tissue. We Americans know it as Kleenex; here’s it’s called Lotus (pronounced loe-tuse).

I have a cold. A real-live cold with a terrible sore throat and a sniffly nose. Who get’s a cold in this warm climate? Is it cold season? What’s up with that? I don’t feel bad, but in any event, I’m going through my precious Lotus like it’s . . . well, like it’s Kleenex. This is not good. This means that for every Lotus tissue I sneeze into, it’s one less trip to the latrine. Can they be dried and reused as I formerly did with paper towels in the U.S.? Yes, this U.S. gal who’d spend $50 on a bar of soap would reuse a paper towel . . . I’ll clarify: a paper towel that had merely been used to dab up a few drops of clean water by the sink.

So I see that the end is near, and tissue is gonna be a hot commodity by this evening. Time to make the downhill run to town to the alimentation. Gonna make the big expenditure and buy the four-pack of genuine papier de toilet. Yes, it is actually sold here, somewhere. Then it begins to rain.

When it rains here, at least in Po, it’s like a hurricane. Winds in excess of 40 mph, torrential downpours, things blow all over the courtyard (things such as chickens and clothing and cookware). Chickens . . . really. It’s like a tropical storm force gale, at the least; and sometimes it can last for hours. So much for my tissue run.

I’m utterly and totally bored. I realize that the PC job is 24/7. I’ve done 24/7 jobs before . . . no big deal; but this time I need a day off. A me day when I don’t have to speak French or Kassim, when I don’t have to smile and meet and greet, and when I can simply wallow in self-pity for feeling so worthless. Po Kathy.

I received calls this morning from three special friends in my stage, each of whom (without prompting) stated that they, too, felt useless, bored, anxious to get to work. So I know that I’m far from alone. This helps. It’s the three-month lock-down and acclimate-to-village-life theory. We understand. Intellectually one understands the importance of becoming well integrated into the community. But as a practical matter, on some days it’s boring. Come on now, how many hours a day can one meet-and-greet? No, we don’t question PC methods. I’m drinkin’ the Kool-Aid and have bought into all of it. Still, I’m bored. I’m bored, and it’s pouring rain under black-as-night clouds, and I’m sniffly and I need tissue.

And I need Zain. Zain is the equivalent of T-Mobile or Verizon. It’s a little scratch-off card with a code that is revealed for additional pay-as-you-go mobile time. We PCVs are on a plan whereby we have unlimited talk time between PC HQ and other PCVs, but this doesn’t include texts. Why would Kathy Davis care about texts? Because I’ve finally become a fan. Hey, I said that I was drinking the Kool-Aid. This isn’t a generational-thing. I have friends far older than I who love to text . . . who embrace their Blackberries and iPhones and text. I was a staunch anti-text counter-revolutionary, but no more. Becky, you’d be so proud. I can text with my eyes closed. However, it’s not something of which I’m proud.

So I’m bored and I don’t know what to do. Already did my nails. Removed the whore-red polish from my fingers and toes and gave myself a pedicure. I’m anxious to decorate my home . . . either hang pagne fabric on the walls and/or paint some walls. Just can’t decide what and where to paint. And I’m not a person known for her indecision. Sometimes I think I’m wishy-washy, and other times I’m just not so sure. Maybe I should paint little symbols around the grey “painted-on” baseboard that surrounds my home. That’s probably 200 interior linear feet just beggin’ for little symbols. That should keep me occupied for a while. But what if I made an error and needed a tissue to make a correction?!

Why would some Burkinabe paint-on something intended to look like a baseboard? This baffles me. Why can’t I decide what symbols to paint on the painted-on baseboards? Should I paint words on my kitchen walls? French cooking words? French verb conjugations? Do I sound a smidge whiny? How does one say, in French, Kathy, get over it! ? We can only speculate.

I like to think that my life operates on a need to know basis. Do I need to know? Do I really need to know. If I don’t really need to know, don’t tell me. Although I’m a SED volunteer, I don’t think that I really need to know about abstract macro-economics theory. This outlook simplifies things; and need to know sounds rather James Bond espionagesque. I like saying it: need to know basis.


I live on a hilltop. Possibly the highest hilltop in Po. On my bike-ride to my home, I can look down over other smaller hills. I think that I’m at the top, and I go up and down several times daily. One thing boggles me: it’s my Barbie-purple mountain bike with lots of gears. The final 50 feet to my home is straight uphill. I mean really up a steep hill. Ask anyone.

I’m not a biker. I don’t understand gears. Once I had a ten-speed bicycle, but I didn’t understand that either. All I ask for is a cute basket . . . maybe some tassles. But no. Here in Burkina Faso, the PC has equipped me with a mountain bike. It has gear-shift levers on each handle. That’s two sets of gears that are somehow associated with the bike chain. The left handle shifts into three different gears, and the right handle has eight different gears. Eight! I don’t know what these gears do, and I don’t think that I need to know. I’ve been told that if the left-handle gear is in first [is that the number one 1 or the number three 3? I presume it’s 1], then the right hand gear should not be in 8 . . . or maybe it’s 1 – I forget. I don’t know why this gear guideline exists. I don’t want to know why. Need to know basis.

Here’s what I do know: The higher the number on the right hand gear (7 or 8, for instance), the more difficult it is to pedal. As for the left-hand gear, the lower the number, the easier it is to pedal. I’ve never used the number 3 gear on the left hand. I’m a number 2 type of gal. In general, I ride around Po with number 2 gear on the left and number 6 or 7 on the right. After all, you want to be pedaling and accomplishing some forward motion, not merely spinning the pedals. I do know, too, that gears affect this physical aspect of cycling.

So I live on a hill, and yet, after that first 50 feet leaving my home, I have to pedal harder to get into town. Conversely, upon returning home, I can go flying up toward my home with almost no effort . . . until that last 50 feet. I’d like to see a topographical map of my hilltop. On the other hand . . . need to know basis. Would it really affect my daily rides?

I’m always thrilled when there are no cows, no burros, no herds of goats in my path, and I can put the right gear in 8, pedal with some effort, and fly right up to that last 50 feet, whereupon I quickly downshift (is that the word?) all the way from 8 to 2-3 and climb the hill. This gear-shifting strategy doesn’t work with livestock in the path. When faced with livestock there’s nothing to do but go steadily, which makes it very difficult to climb that hill. When slowed by livestock, I’ve actually been known to use gear 1 on the left side and gear 2 on the right . . . and still not make it to the top of my hill. I’ve been told that grown men, strong grown men have difficulty getting to the top without stopping.

How can it be that I’m on a Po peak and there’s an uphill run into town? It’s a mysterious topographical-thing, right? Today, with a little jar of mayonnaise I made the uphill run without stopping. We Texans? We’re genetically equipped to know that all mayonnaise must be refrigerated at all times. We’re born knowing this as surely as we’re born knowing how to breathe. Now I’m told that mayonnaise really doesn’t need to be refrigerated here in Burkina Faso. How can that be? What’s in this Burkina mayonnaise that eliminates the need for refrigeration? Need to know basis, right? We can only speculate.

OK, we all know the best-seller, and here in Burkina Faso I’ve got the second two down pat. Pray. I prayed that the food placed in front of me by my kind host family could at least be observed (meaning stared-at without nausea . . . ‘cause you know it ain’t gonna be eaten) for the 30 minutes that had to be spent with the family. It was God’s way of getting even for all those meals at which I forgot to pray and give thanks. These days my prayers are more simple, please, God, let my mobile phone find its way back to me.

Then there’s Love. I’m in love with everyone. For the most part, despite some first-week-at-site-set-backs, I’m obviously back in the PC honeymoon phase. There’s David, my new friend at the post office – I stop in just to say hello. He thinks it’s funny that his name is David and that my last name is Davis. I don’t get it, and I wonder what his real name is; but I do love David. Plus, he does not charge any fees for items that we PCVs must always pay for at the Poste. Good friend to love, right?

Then there’s Bibatta at the marche. I’ve got my own personal shopper. No joke. A personal shopper . . . and this gal’s a dream! After two days here in Po, she took me by the hand as if to say, You stupid American woman. Just tell me what you want and I’ll walk you through the grand marche and collect your items at the best prices. My own personal shopper. So I love Bibatta. And I’m still in love with my stage and the PCVFs. No surprise there. I also love exploring Po. I love laughing with my host country nationals. If I manage to speak French well, they hit me with Kassim, just to see how I do at their local language. Gotta love that.

But how about Eat? Haven’t mastered this one yet. I’m turning yellow from Daniel’s Magical Mystery Curry Mix . . . or maybe it’s Hep A. Oh, come on now . . . of course it’s not Hep A, though I wouldn’t be the first in my stage to contract with the virus.

And so, a few words on food . . . or, rather, cooking here in Burkina Faso. My Po kitchen may not see much action. Meat, or any source of protein, is definitely an issue. It’s still frightening to me, so I avoid it . . . both the meat and the issue of protein. But the produce? It’s fine, albeit not at Central Market standards (not by a long shot). All produce must be washed several times then soaked in bleach water. Yeah. It’s true.

So what’s available? What is my personal shopper finding for me? Onions, peppers (all sorts), tomatoes (learning to love ‘em, sans seeds and pulp, etc., which doesn’t leave a lot of meat on the fruit), eggplant, chives, cucumbers (still not a favorite), cabbage (great in a stir-fry). And all of these veggies are fabulous with Daniel’s Magical Mix. I could eat this daily. Wait! I do eat this daily. And it’s yummy, but in no way constitutes a balanced diet. So Eat has yet to be perfected. And I’d be excited about potential weight loss, but it comes with a price: loss of muscle and loss of hair. Great googly moogly!

And then there’s the problem with the produce. It goes bad within a day or two, and it’s not even hot season, when I’m told that produce goes bad within hours. There’s also the little matter of dishwashing. Imagine cooking your best recipe, and when it’s time to clean-up, you’ve got no sink. No water. No dish soap. No scrubber. Certainly no dishwasher; and even the PC elves draw the line at magically washing your dishes while you sleep. Of course, who’s going to leave any dirty dish or morsel of food in a home with a gnawing creature roaming about. Rather places a damper on preparing a yummy feast, wouldn’t you say?

But let’s stop the complaining and get down to the recipes. Here we go:  Onions, peppers, well-cleaned/seeded tomato flesh, chives, sauteed in oil with Daniel’s curry and a squeeze of lime. Oh, God. I could lick the bowl. In fact, I should lick the bowl. This would solve the dishwashing problem. This same concoction can be spooned atop bruschetta slices sauteed until crisp in heart-stopping palm oil. What could be better?

Variation on the above theme. Omit curry, add tomato paste, and serve over fried eggplant slices browned in oil with breadcrumbs (which Rob later announced weren’t bread crumbs . . . let’s go no further). Chopped cabbage can also be added to either recipe. Then there’s tabbouleh. I got couscous in Ouaga, and menthe is plentiful but must be used within about two hours. What’s up with that? It’s menthe . . . you can’t kill it in Texas.

Today I bought four little eggs. Real hen eggs. Heretofore I’ve only eaten guinea fowl eggs with my host family. Did you know that the female guinea fowl isn’t really a domesticated hen. She won’t sit on her eggs. Thus, after a hit-and-run mating, she’ll roam away from the male and from her eggs. Bitch! So her eggs must be collected and secretly placed under a sitting chicken. Remember the Leave It To Beaver episode when Beaver touched the bunnies and the mother rabbit wouldn’t nurse? Gus put vanilla on the nose of the mother rabbit. Well, with guinea eggs and chickens, it’s something like that. But on with the story. Tomorrow for breakfast I’m making toad-in-the-hole . . . with my lovely loaf of Ghana bread (Google it, you’ll see why we think it’s so lovely), two eggs, and some delicious American hot sauce that I also bought in Ouaga. I can’t wait.

Then there’s the little tricks to eating, which vary greatly depending on the day. For instance, Saturday I was after a pineapple. I was craving pineapple, a squeeze of lime, with a final tiny dip in the hot sauce. But alas, no pineapple today. Are they out of season? Did the truck break-down? Did the pineapple ladies have a hangover and fail to get to the market? How does this culture work? So I made-do with bananas . . . also with lime and hot sauce, and a dab of sugar. Should have flambeed ‘em. Why not, right? Who doesn’t love bananas flambe? As Brie would say, I don’t know a person!


All this doesn’t sound too bad, does it? And if you’re not craving something now, I’m surprised. So the obvious question – does cocktail of the week continue? Absolutely. And in preparation for the BikeAThon beginning here in Po, I actually have cooked and entertained. In fact, back in Ouaga I made simple snack-type meals for some of the PCVFs, and these guys looked as if they’d never before been fed. Must have been the Belgian endive or the pita and feta. So you see, when one controls one own ingredient-destiny, Burkinabe cuisine is, in fact, oh-so doable.

Will I finally overcome my fear of the local flour (bugs, you know), make dough, and try to recreate magical Daniel’s egg rolls with Thai peanut dipping sauce? Did I really use the monogrammed linen cocktail napkins for entertaining? When will I next have an opportunity to wow someone with a simple snack? I’m under the standard three-month lock-down when we new PCVs aren’t allowed to leave site. Will I abide . . . or is Marina Market just too alluring? We can only speculate.

Composed Wednesday, 1 September (not quite a week ago): Tuesday was my first full day at my permanent site. My electricity went off sometime in the night of August 31st. I know this because I was awakened by the sound of a medium-size creature in my room. Sounded as if it was on the night stand by my bed. I use the words night stand loosely. It’s merely my two large FedX boxes, now soft from humidity, stuffed with old clothing to maintain the box shape, stacked atop each other, and covered with one of my saree scarves. How girly, huh? And on this night stand are girly items. Candles (including the flameless variety), photo of Jill (naturally), the stone box of aroma balm from French Lick (of course it’s there, Sally), and a few other items.

My point is, what was the creature doing at the girly bedside other than frightening me? Was it the aroma therapy balm? We must acknowledge: few can resist a balm. I reached for the light switch; and you know what happened next. No lights. So I banged on the boxes and asked the creature to quiet-down, put-in my ear plugs, and tried to fall asleep. What was the creature? Sounded too large for a mouse. Rat, perhaps? Lizard? I’m thinking not a reptile inasmuch as I thought I heard gnawing. Yeah, that’s right, gnawing. Not what you want to hear your first night alone in West Africa.

OK. So yesterday was that inevitable day. The day when the official PC vehicle dumps you and your luggage at site and drives away. And you’re alone. All alone. Have I failed to convey the fact that I was alone? I had twelve (12, count ‘em) luggage items and boxes . . . not including little items such as my medical kit and gift boxes from my fabulous state-side friends, plus my Barbie-purple-floral mountain bike . . . though I wonder whether Barbie rides mountain bikes. Well, I suppose 21st century Barbie bikes up mountains. In any event, most everything arrived; a few items somehow didn’t make the trip from Koudougou to Ouagadougou to Po. Don’t you love saying all those words? Here, I’ll help: KooDoGoo, WahGaDoGoo, and Po . . . as in Poe. To use my southern drawl, Po Kathy lost her mobile telephone. And did I mention that I was alone? No one’s phone to borrow to call the bureau to report that my phone just rode away in the PC car. Over 24 hours later, still no phone, no electricity, and I spent most of the day without water. But remember the PC’s promise: sometimes under conditions of hardship. It was the phone that I missed most.

So what did I do on my first day? After several trips to my obscenely filthy latrine, in the rain, I biked down the hill to my office. Spent about an hour at the office where my counterpart (homologue, in French) was kind enough to call my phone to see who answered. And indeed someone did answer; so it’s well known by PC officials that my mobile is missing. Somehow, sometime, those ubiquitous PC elves will return the phone; until then, I’m not a happy camper. And I’m an unhappy camper in the dark. Alone . . . did I mention that? So with my quickly-dwindling laptop battery, I’ve made a list of successes and failure of the day. This probably best sums-up my mood. First, the successes. Today I successfully:

• Unpacked and organized my charming home and kitchen.
• Hung a dry-erase board.
• Visited the market for luncheon items (veggies) and received two marriage proposals. Guess that sacrifice of a large animal won’t be necessary, after all. So much for Tuareg seers.
• Made lunch at 3 p.m. – my first meal since Monday lunch. Today is Wednesday.
• Maneuvered the maggot-ridden toilet in the rain, countless times. I think that’s enough said on that topic.
• Made an ashtray *
• Cried and was happily reminded that I very much have feet of clay.
• Found a gabazillion new blue ballpoint pens. Quite an achievement, actually.
• Found my way to my office and back home again. I also use the word office loosely. I sat in the courtyard of my bureau. It is, however, a lovely courtyard with papaya trees.
• Made a collage from magazine photos for my kitchen wall. Lots of black. Seriously, lots and lots of black. I told myself that I needed lots of black for contrast; but I think we all know that’s a big fat lie.
• Figured out what today’s date is – 1st September. This is truly a success as I’ve been that disoriented for the two weeks leading up to swear-in.

Now, the failures. I completely failed to:

• Hang a mirror on the wall. And after the dry-erase board installed so easily.
• Locate my mobile telephone.
• Understand any more French speakers. Why can I speak it but cannot understand it?!
• Be useful in any manner whatsoever.
• Get over my PCV and PCVF withdrawal. Tops on my to-do list and I failed miserably - exclamation mark, exclamation mark.
• *Quit smoking; and I vowed to go to a pay phone, if necessary, to have more cigs sent from the states (but I did not!) Bad day, wouldn’t you say?
• Be culturally sensitive to Ramadan . . . asked Yakama (or maybe it’s Yakaba) to take tea with me this weekend. Ooops. Yak is a new friend that I’ve made in less than a day. He visits often and we chat on my covered veranda (covered veranda . . . conditions of hardship, right?).
• Get a grip on the directions here in the small town of Po. I still get lost.
• Plant my garden seeds at the proper depth. The soil here is difficult, despite my ultra-light spade and cute pink gardening gloves.
• ID and eliminate the mysterious bedroom creature.

So when you think of Kathy Davis you think fashion icon, right? Obviously not. But today I really topped myself. I wore a skirt inside-out. True. It’s a new wrap skirt (horrible light green colors) made from pagne fabric. Wrap skirt . . . get it? So there are no seams. Or are there? Ah ha! I spy a hem and a piece sewn into the ruffle near the hem. Seams! Should have been my first clue. I wore said inside-out skirt while biking all over Po. Po Kathy in that Po inside-out pagne wrap. I stopped at two bus stations trying to locate my mobile, just in case some PC elf sent it via bus. I wore it to the poste, to the internet-key store, and finally to a grocer for a Sprite. No, the fact that the skirt was inside out didn’t escape my attention. But let’s remember, I’m not living in a land where one can run into a bathroom in any office and reverse the skirt. Bathrooms are virtually non-existent, and even latrines are often hard to find . . . and if you find one you’ll wish you hadn’t. Hey, at least my hair looked good.

Speaking of hair. Last week I blew-out an international surge protector with my flat iron. It made a very loud pop and filled the room with that dreaded electrical smell. The good news is that the flat iron survived. I was a tad angry until reminded that the surge protector did exactly what it was intended to do. It saved the flat iron. I think we all know which I would have rather saved. Someone should call Magellan’s and tell them that their very expensive international made-especially-for-valuable-laptops white surge protector with the French plugs works beautifully. Wish they’d send me a new one for all that money I’ve given them over the years. Here’s the odd thing: the flat iron is dual voltage. I didn’t really need the surge protector, or did I? Did I use the word ruffle in this post? Me, in ruffles? So is it all lighthearted fun and games such as described in this post? Hardly. Do I really continue to have good hair days? When will I tell you the truth about my first week at site? We can only speculate.

After the talking we new PCVs marched about to be assessed by the other genuine VIPs. Then it was off to the air-conditioned Embassy for a small party with splendid cocktail trays of food (finally, decent food) and wine. I don't remember much after that . . . probably the excitement of the afternoon, right? I talked with some VIPs, perhaps a Japanese Ambassador . . . I believe that's what someone told me.

Remember the film Roman Holiday? Where Audrey Hepburn greets dozens of VIPs with different greetings, all in their native language. I felt just like that. The PC did a marvelous job of handing me a dozen ways to say "Yo, lookin' good rockin' that pagne; great to meet ya!"

I also recall being collected for the signing of the official oath. It wasn't enough to swear-in orally in 100-degree heat, oh no. Someone took me from the wine bar to execute the official form. We then returned to our hotel where we continued the traditional ceremony of my stage, aka Cocktail of the Week.

There . . . I did it. A detested abbreviation AND five (5) exclamation marks. Got some great video that I'll try to add to this posting ASAP. In the meantime, where's Kathy Davis? Where is acronym-hating, exclamation-mark-detesting Kathy?! Is the PCV transformation complete? We can only speculate.