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?