A hen snuck into the bureau and was busted whilst pecking at a zucchini by yours truly. My precious zucchini. The hen was urged to leave. I then broke-off and ate a few bites of baby zucchini. Mmm. Yes, I ate after a hen. An automatic device has been installed to keep closed the bureau gate – a long rubber-band-type device known here, phonetically, as cow-shoes. I’d like to see that word spelled in whatever native language it might be. Folks use these long, black, stretchy-rubber strips to tie things to their bike . . . or as an automatic gate-closure device. Cow shoes. Go figure. Me? I use bungee cords. They have that singular Nazarra look.

They won’t take me to see the dead elephant. In order to see the dead elephant, one must travel to a village about 17 km away, and then go off-road (in a land with very few roads) to another tiny village about 10 km down the way. So, yo, what’s the problem? I was certainly willing to entertain the idea. The final non from my bureau came as they explained that after getting to the tiny village, which borders the parc, it’s another 7 km walk through the brosse, through grasses and plants that are over my head, if I understood correctly . . . I don’t understand French. So no dead elephant’s society for me. This is a shame because I understand that the elephant is the largest that anyone can remember. Now I realize that the average life-span here isn’t long, but there are plenty of vieilles in village; and no one alive can remember hearing of such a large elephant. It’s probably an urban myth . . . an elephant as large as a 747. Don’t be fooled, kids.

So I left the bureau, heart-broken. Well, not really, but the prospect of a gigantic dead elephant was quite exciting. Hens have probably attacked the body, leaving little to see. I left the bureau to buy envelopes. Took me forever to explain what I needed. Know what the French word is for envelope? Enveloppe . . . with a Burkinabe-French accent. Ruth, pronounced Root, at the photocopy shop looked at me, and I believe I heard her say Duh! in French. Then a hen walked into the shop, so I left for the marche.

I made six new friends at the marche. I don’t think I can tell them apart; but with two Miriams and a Meary, in the future I can probably just make a Me-sound and begin my litany of Kassim greetings. These women sell something that they called a yam, but I think it was manioc. Regardless, I had no use for it. Still, we sat and chatted in Kassim. Six women to sell a small quantity of yams. Something tells me that it's more about socialization than sales. Oh, yeah . . . it’s my SED APCD who tells me that! While we chatted a young boy arrived with a sling-shot, made from (what else?) cow-shoes. I always picture a happy cartoon Guernsey wearing red sneakers. Anyway, I learned a new word: lance-pierre . . . sling-shot. Then hens came to attack the trash pile in front of the yam stall, so I went vegetable shopping.

Watermelons have arrived. This may be the most exciting thing I’ve seen during my four months in country. I bought two (they’re small). And feeling so elated by something new in my diet, I celebrated with the purchase of eight sachets of bisap and other colorful-but-basically-sugar-water drinks and took them back to my six new friends. 200 CFA, or about 40 cents. The hens had moved on down the hen road. Wonder if the cow-shoes lance-pierre motivated them to leave.

Still no eggs. There are, however, new chicks in my courtyard. Tiny baby chicks. The idea of new chicks seems so adorable, and chicks are indeed cute. However, try to capture a chick and prepare for the ire of the hen. Check-out the barbs on the back of a chicken foot, and hen wrath has new meaning. Makes the chicks lose some of their charm . . . don’t be fooled, kids. Now a baby goat? There’s not much cuter in this world than a baby goat.

So I went to Google Earth and looked for Po. Well there’s Po listed way west of Koudougou . . . so it’s way wrong! Who gets to cite such nonsense on Google Earth? Po is due south of Ouagadougou, just north of the frontier of Ghana. Don’t be fooled, kids. My exact coordinates? Turn that globe to 11.09.43.44̊ north, 1.08.39.53̊ east, and you’ll be looking at the big tree that shades my terrace. Look closely and you’ll see a hen. OK, I’m kidding. You won’t see a hen, nor will you see greenery anywhere in sight on the satellite shot. So clearly Po has a long, dry, brown season. I can look forward to brown season . . . and to hens eating watermelon seedlings from the seeds that I’ve tossed into the courtyard.

Jill is absolutely right. As Jill always says, worldwide, birds are the enemy. Specifically, hens! And I thought that cotton was the enemy (do your history homework, and don’t be fooled, kids – cotton is the enemy).

Is the rumor true that there are real brooms here, and if so, why don’t the Burkinabe use them . . . versus their little tied-up straw bundles? I’m going on a broom hunt . . . apropos pre-Halloween, don’t you think? Would a real broom be an effective weapon against the Po hens? What about a lance-pierre? Had someone gathered some eggs from ‘neath these hens . . . performed some chickus-interruptus . . . then Po might have eggs, mightn’t we? We can only speculate.

Covered in black paint again . . . how I’ve missed the fumes . . . that fresh-paint aroma. Eloosh, my carpenter, last night delivered four little perfectly square tables that I designed. For the entire time that I’ve been at site, eating my sad vegetarian diet, I’ve held my little bowl or plate in my hands. Laptop dining is no longer acceptable in light of the fact that I’ve got six guests arriving next week for demyst. That’s right, I get to host PC demyst weekend for four of the new trainees and their two language instructors. Well, this gal with monogrammed linen cocktail napkins absolutely will not have guests eating off their laps. Never mind that I don’t have enough plates, cups, glasses, or flatware . . . or a closet for their backpacks. I’ll cross that bridge next week.


My tiny hut, which isn’t all that tiny by PC standards, is actually growing crowded with furnishings . . . and I still don’t have any place to store clothing other than in a tiny trunk on the floor. No closet, but by golly I’ve got linen cocktail napkins and a French press. I don’t have a doorknob . . . just a Molton Brown ribbon to pull on, hooked to the door; but by golly I’ve got satellite phone.

I was late to my bureau today, and I didn’t even call. This may be the most irresponsible thing I’ve done at site, other than not locking my door. I was trying to translate into French my bamboo proposal. Took me over four hours, and I was merely discussing plants. What happens when I need to translate the details of a biogas digester? When I finally arrived au bureau, I believe that all was forgiven with the delivery of my translated bamboo proposal. Yaya seemed excited . . . but perhaps his excitement didn’t involve me at all. I think that an elephant has died in the park. I’d know if I understood French.

Yaya wants to go to the park to see the elephant, at least I think that’s what he said. I want to go, too. Yaya wants to find a GPS to preserve the location of the deceased beast. I’m not certain that I quite understand this concept. I suppose that a trail of bread crumbs wouldn’t work. So we were talking about Yaya’s need for a GPS when it occured to me: I’ve got a sat phone . . . with GPS. So the device is charging in anticipation of tomorrow’s dead-elephant tracking.

Yesterday I gave a brief presentation to a class of about 90 students at the high school, or lycée. Asked ‘em if they’d like to start some clubs to make some money. Sort of the Burkinabe version of Junior Achievement. Imagine a high-school math class with 90 well-behaved students, whose ages vary from about 14 to 20-something. Lots of little brown gingham shirts and khaki skirts and slacks, though not everyone was in uniform. The mention of money-making always goes over well in this land, so we’ll see what the students want to do. Wonder whether they’d consider a California Closets endeavor?

Is there really an elephant dead in the park? Are my new tables truly perfectly square? What are the odds? So that empty room in my home, what I am waiting on to transform it into a closet? I’m not really considering black-paint designs on the walls, am I? We can only speculate.

Three days without internet and you’d think that I had been popped into a black hole. I’m not a real PCV . . . real PCVs existed pre-internet and pre-mobile phones. How did those dear souls cope? Or were they better off?

Martin is 11 years old. He’s the son of the President of Ga Mo Wiga, in whose courtyard I live. Martin is a genius. At 11, he speaks at least three languages. His English is better than my French will ever be. Tomorrow morning I’m giving a presentation at a local school. So I prepared my presentation, in writing, in French. And then I asked Martin to listen to it. What? To Learn was conjugated improperly? Sayest thou? Grammar corrections were inevitable, I suppose. But the good news . . . Martin loved the ideas contained in the presentation. Alas, Martin won’t be in the audience tomorrow.

One December, about a billion years ago, I spent a few weeks over 250 miles north of the Arctic circle in Norway. The sun never rose above the horizon. I understand dark nights . . . or so I thought. In this relatively-equatorial land, the sun sets about 5:00-something. In other words, I’ll never have long summer days nor long winter nights. As a practical matter, the sun sets on my hut before 5:00 . . . 17:00 in BF and PC terms. That’s the time that the sun drops behind the trees, casting into deep shade my courtyard as the sun sinks behind the walls of my hillside compound. I’m tempted to draw lines inside the hut to show where the last glimmers of light shine through the shutters on 20 October, on 20 November, and on the winter solstice. But why? Dark is dark, and it won’t ever vary too much because of my proximity to the equator. I don’t think we have daylight-savings time here, but I could be mistaken. So what is now a five-hour time difference from home soon will become a six-hour difference. I think.

Point about the darkness being: by 6:00 p.m., I’m supped, clean, and in for the evening. And without internet, what’s a Po PVC to do? I reserve reading for bedtime, which occurs later and later these days . . . sometimes not until 9:00. Golly. My APCD says that he’d prefer not to see on our blogs the 50 books we’ll read during our two-year service. I’ve made it through three tomes during the four months I’ve been here. And I’ll add that I highly, highly recommend Little Bee. Run don’t walk . . . read Little Bee.

So after dark, after I’ve made my shopping list for the next day’s marche, and after noting the new residents that I’ve met, there’s not a lot to do. Last night I painted the nails of one of the girls who works, tirelessly, in my courtyard. Who needs an alarm clock? I’m awakened each morning at 5:00 to the soft sounds of Martine sweeping the gravel below my bedroom window. That’s right. They sweep the gravel! When does Martine sleep? She’s first up and I see her still doing laundry when I close my door at 9:00. I practically begged her to find a few moments so that I could paint her nails. To say that she was stunned that the nazarra wanted to pamper her would be a gross understatement. Nails painted, children and courtyard-family greeted, what next? Movie time! Merci beaucoup, Kylé! Never more appreciated than when sans internet.


How lucky am I to have an 11-year-old French tutor? Eleven!?! So, a booklist on this blog? Non, but what will Dan say about the films that I watch most evenings? Dan, will this photo of us really end-up enlarged on my wall? You think that Dick Day’s parents have a terrific sense of humor? We can only speculate.

In Burkina Faso there is no curbside trash pick-up. My twice-weekly trash pick-up in Texas . . . that and a kitchen sink with running water . . . these may be the niceties that I miss most. Reduce, reuse, recycle . . . never more true than in Po. The yoghourt bottle? Easy. But some things cannot be reused. That paint brush, now hard with toxic paint . . . how could anyone reuse that? So . . . hmm, what? Burn it? And release possibly toxic and explosive fumes and residue? I think not.

Daniel left some old bicycle tire-tubes and a tire. I don’t know how to use my bike’s air pump, but I’m certain that someone in my courtyard does. So if the tubes are still good (what are the odds?), I’ll keep them. Otherwise, I see potential for a circular barrier to stop the hens from eating plants. I might finally plant the vine seedlings from Fada . . . seedlings that I started in little planters made by reusing the plastic sachets that hold water in this country (I simply look on the road – the empty sachets are absolutely everywhere).

So I burn anything that can be reduced; and since I’m now a complete vegetarian, most food refuse I reuse in the garden as compost or as insect deterrent. But as for any trash that won’t burn . . . trash that must be taken to the courtyard’s trash pile in the tall grass outside the courtyard? I’ve learned that such items are inevitably sorted and returned by children. What can children do with the empty aerosol can that I found in my hut? They bring back a can, but leave a man’s shoe. Go figure. I may take the shoe!

Here’s what else I’ve learned:

• Don’t build your paper-trash fire right outside your window. Duh. What was I thinking?
• Today is International Hand-Washing Day.
• Friday is clothing-day at the market. There’s less fruit and lots more clothing. ‘Course this time of year, there is very little fruit. Literally . . . very little. Tiny bananas and guavas, which I love.
• Bibatta and I exchanged phone numbers. She told me to call her Biba -- golly, do you think I've misunderstood her name? We sat together today for about an hour and I watched her conduct business . . . selling leaves, tiny onions, and a few hot peppers. Bibatta has a nice spot in the shade, but it was still hot. She called to one of the vendors to bring me a cool drink.
• OK, what’s the number one rule? Well, actually, in Africa, I think that the rule is: whatever you do, don't run!  My number one rule is: don’t panic. Like the time the very well-dressed young lady rode away on the Barbie bike. I knew she was just teasing me. Don’t panic. Or the loss of my mobile phone . . . or a badly bleeding ankle. Don’t panic. But the PC’s number one rule is: don’t drink the water! Don’t drink anything offered to you. Ever. Be polite and hold the gourd to your lips but don’t sip and never swallow. Right. Like I’m going to turn down a cool drink ordered by Bibatta . . . sold by a young girl . . . contained in a 30-gallon blue plastic garbage can. Who's going to turn down cool, minty, gingery water known as ZoomKoom.

This afternoon I zoomed to the latrine, repeatedly. So . . . the cool drink from the market, maybe? Ya think?! Should the garbage can have been a clue? What was Daniel doing with an extra bike tire, when bike parts are so coveted here? Why do I have Bibatta’s number? So I can listen to Kassim on my mobile? Could I make a planter out of a gentleman’s shoe? Might be a good idea to get familiar with the bike pump . . . ya think? We can only speculate.

It’s dark. Electricity is out. It’s can’t-see-your-hand-in-front-of your-face dark. It’s not eyes-will-ultimately-adjust dark. So it’s dark! Get it?

I’ve been told that the Burkina military does exercises near here. Yesterday there was a military parade for the guys that just completed the Burkinabe version of boot camp. After the PC’s pre-service training, I know just how they feel. I once had that same deer-in-the-headlights look . . . and some days I still have it. Today I made an unsolicited telephone call, in French, to someone who speaks only French. Think about that. No hand gestures or facial expressions. It was a PCV-in-the-headlights kind of day.

I heard what sounded like thunder this afternoon, then I realized it was more like cannon fire. Repeated cannon fire. Maybe RPGs? Google that acronym. Rather freaky, but a Po possibility. Then came the true rumble of thunder, and now it’s noticeably cooler . . . cooler being a relative term.

Children love total darkness. I hear them giggling and moving about in the courtyard. Truth be told, I love darkness, too. The problem? Cooler is still hot; and after a late afternoon glass of espresso, I’ve been frenetically organizing and cleaning my kitchen. It’s warm inside, and I’m very hot. After sweeping with the world’s tiniest broom (about 5 x 3 inches, seriously . . . it’s the size of an index card), I applied bug powder around the inside perimeter of the house. Ah, caffeine . . . what legal stimulants can accomplish.

Although dark, I’ve got a wind-up lantern. Doesn’t make me giggle, but it’s useful for locating my nightly malaria prophylaxis. . . malaria prophylaxis also being a relative phrase, or an oxymoron, or both. Anyway, the lantern enabled me to locate the laptop.

So I’ve got a clean new kitchen, and a new countertop-table was delivered. New, relatively. I feel as if HGTV was here . . . even more so in the darkness. Why? Because Maggie sent me a tee-ninsy 360-degree LED light clipped onto a gourd nailed to the wall over my little stove. I mounted the gourd-cup to hold matches for the stove. So the effect is that of a tiny spotlight in the kitchen. It’s fantastic, so thank you, Maggie.

While high on caffeine, I painted furniture. Furniture, too, being a relative word. I painted some wood that is pieced together as a bookcase, and now I’ve painted the new table and the little stand on which my cooktop sits. Black. Glossy, smelly, probably lead-based-gonna-kill-some-brain-cells black. With these pops of black, the walls actually appear clean . . . or cleaner, relatively. Eight dollars for killer paint, or $40-plus to paint the walls? Not a difficult decision. I think I'll paint the door. Fumes are fumes . . . and to borrow an African phrase -- if there's enough for one, there's enough for two . . . right Keith?

With no electricity, complete darkness, a cool evening outside, and lots of paper trash, wouldn’t it be a fine night for a poubelle fire? Maybe make some ash for the garden? Between bug powder and paint fumes, will I survive until the end of my two-year service? How many relative terms are there in West Africa? Do they still make cannons? And where’d I find espresso? We can only speculate.

The first name of my homologue (counterpart) is Yaya. He plays an integral role at my association, Ga MoWigna, which is pronounced GahMoeWayAh. I’ve been told what those words mean, but I’ve forgotten. I’ve also been told what Yaya does, but I’ve forgotten that, too. Mostly what he does is demonstrate the utmost patience enduring my French and Kassim. We sit in his office that overlooks the beautiful courtyard through metal-slatted shutters. Yaya sits behind his laptop doing something of which I’m not aware. I sit with my notebooks reviewing things that should be supremely important to my service . . . one day. Ga Mo Wiga specializes in agro-forestry and environmental issues. Fun, huh? Seriously, I could not have hand-selected a position for which I’m better suited and have more interest. We plant trees. And one day we’re going to alter this country by planting bamboo. Put an end to deforestation . . . all that nice environmental and biodiversity stuff. But for the moment, I’m working on a small garden inside Ga Mo Wigna’s courtyard.

Yesterday there was a meeting at Ga Mo Wigna. The association works with about 40 villages up to 70km away from Po. A representative from almost every village attended the meeting held under the tin roof of our large, colorfully-painted pavilion. A table was set-up for the staff at Ga Mo Wigna, with benches for the attendees. I counted about 35 men and women. I sat in the back, under the large painted mural of our globe. Yaya sat beside me to translate from Kassim into French. Right. Like I’m going to understand French terms about agro-forestry and farming issues . . . particularly since Yaya is whispering as if we’re sharing secrets.

Then I hear that word. The n-word. The village members are saying nazarra and the Ga Mo Wigna representatives at the table are repeating it with a word that I also recognize: Katerine. Oh no. This is it. I know what comes next. This is the part where I’m about to be called to the front to say a few words. And I can do this . . . hopefully. I know the appropriate greetings in Kassim. I can say my name. And they won’t ask me any questions . . . right? Wrong. So the conversation went something like this (again, I spell phonetically). I say:

Dinley! [Hey there, how’s it going?]
Dim paga [good morning]
N’zong kogara? [how are you?]
Songo tina yurani? [how’s the family/the household?]
Ah tee-tunga yeetay? [how is your work?]

Now the fun part, which I know without even thinking:

Ahm yuri ye Katerine [my name is Katerine]. Ahm noog Amerique [I’m from the U.S.]. Ahm yee volunteer [I’m the new volunteer].

Now the response from the group to each of these statements is either Kogara or KoBone-ah. And that’s the one easy part about Kassim. No matter what anyone says to you, you can always respond with Kogara. I think it’s like saying ça va in French. And speaking of French, as long as I’m up there, I repeat the entire monologue in French.

Now comes the scary part. Yaya and the leaders of Ga Mo Wigna ask me, in French, if I have any comments or observations. Good Lord! They’ve secretly planned this, obviously, and they’re proud of their new nazarra. I’ve barely understood a word (save and except nazarra and Katerine), and now they want my opinion. Someone tell me this isn’t happening. So I’ll spare you the dialogue, but I say a few words in French about so many of the folks having similar problems. I tell them that I’m excited about the Fete des Jardins and want to see their villages. Way wrong thing to say.

I sit down and the meeting eventually concludes in the early afternoon. Yaya speaks to the group and explains what’s going on in the courtyard with Katerine’s new garden of typiquee Americain vegetables. Not only are the vegetables and fruits typically American, so too are some of my gardening methods. The irrigation system (just an upside down water bottle stuck in the dirt), the method of staking the green peas. Nothing complicated. So roughly 40 people now want me to explain myself and my garden. OK, this is fun. In French, I explain how and why it is really just a small experiment.

So how long does it take to view a small garden and discuss the grafting of a mango tree? Evidently, it takes awhile. Like an hour. This is so much fun. I begin to ask “what’s your name”: Mu year-ee eBay? [this one’s easy because it ends with eBay]. I couldn’t tell you the name of a single person I met. My brain was spinning. Finally, the crowd disbursed and I hopped on the Barbie bike to head for home, t-totally overwhelmed.

Then it occurred to me. While in mode-Kassim, I should stop and chat with the ladies at the shea butter association, Wematou. And so I did. And we laughed and laughed at my Kassim. With my friend, Alima, I had no qualms about taking out my notebook and reading my phrases. This really caused some laughter and she telephoned her husband to come laugh at me, too. I love this. I really, really do.

And today another day dawned in Africa. I’m at the bureau before 8:00 weeding the garden. After all, I’ve got a reputation to uphold . . . and agro-forestry, here I come. Yaya arrives soon and asks whether I’m ready to go visit the villages, as evidently I agreed to do yesterday during the meeting! Well, hmmm, in a word: non! We PCVs are not allowed on motorbikes, even small Vespa-types . . . not without a great deal of bureaucracy. So I’m left weeding the garden while Yaya departs on his moto. Then Yaya reappears with an announcement . . . evidently some forgotten secret. The villagers are anxious to see what becomes of my garden – they want to sell exotic zucchini, cantaloupe, and green peas in the capital of Ouagadougou. Golly, this garden better work. More importantly, the seeds from these plants had better be sustainable.

Does Burpee™ engineer their seeds so that gardeners must return to the company source year after year? How else would they stay in business? Can’t you plant a cantaloupe seed and get a new melon plant? Was I so overwhelmed yesterday that I turned down a meeting with the mayor of Po . . . that didn’t really happen, did it?! And, my-oh-my, what else did I agree to yesterday? We can only speculate.

Remember the scene in Gone With The Wind when Scarlett tears-down the draperies to make a new frock? Well, Daniel, that’s what became of the pagne panels that hung over the door to your bedroom. They’re now my new complet, a skirt and top, custom designed, lined, and tailored for a grand total six dollars US (3000 CFA). Fits like a glove.

I hadn’t needed any retail therapy lately; but this new outfit brought me back to my senses, and so pagne shopping I went. This time my tailor, Salaam, is making another complet (meaning two matching pieces, top and bottom) whose top will have custom embroidery. The bottom is a culotte-jupe, meaning it’s actually culottes with a wrap disguising the fact that I’m not in a skirt. Women’s slacks are almost never seen here. Skirts only. Women’s jeans are not acceptable. Burkinabe women wear beautifully designed garments that fit skin-tight. Really, I mean tight. As I was being measured for my new complet, Salaam took the measurement of my head. I don’t think he had any doubt about the size of my brain pan, so I’m guessing that I’ll have a matching chapeau.

My body is craving protein. Meat would be ideal. When I was in Ouaga I had steak delivered. Two tiny pieces of tender, tasty beef . . . ten bucks and no larger than a small hamburger patty. Still, I was thrilled to get it, despite the fact that $10 is more than I’m allotted for two days’ expenses. Prior to that med unit meal, I hadn’t had any meat since the August 27 night of swear-in . . . a couple of meat-filled pastries at the American Embassy. Hardly counts. And prior to that, it was sometime out west in Koudougou in early August when I ate eight (yes eight!) little kebabs, which are called brochettes. Doing without meat isn’t the end of the world. Still, my body wants protein, and it’s hard to find in Po. 

There are peanuts everywhere in Burkina. I often wonder whether Burkina Faso isn’t the unrecognized peanut capital of the world. I like peanuts well enough, but not enough to consume enough to get an adequate amount of protein. Peanuts have their place, but for me it’s in Kung Pao chicken . . . maybe inside their shells at a Dallas Stars game.

There are eggs, our course . . . all fertilized. I’ve been educated by the PC to identify a fertilized egg that’s gone too far into the chick process. The test is easy but not fool-proof. I’m still waiting for that horrific morning when I see . . . oh, let’s not go there. Eggs are great, but I limit their purchase for the obvious chick-process reason.

So I’m on a mission for more protein. I’ll end-up ill without it. But there is one nice thing about a very tiny and all veggie diet, and you guessed it . . . presently it takes very little fabric to make a great new outfit that fits like a glove . . . a la mode de les femmes Burkinabe. If gain even half a pound, it’s back to Salaam for alterations.



Conversely, what if I lose more than a pound? Speaking of dapper clothing, there’s Ebben (with me and Austin) in his custom-tailored pagne. Ebben, I’m getting eMails from around the world about how great your outfit is. Who are these eMails from and how did they find you on YouTube? With no jeans and no real pants, what will happen when it’s time for me to work in the fields? Anyone notice that I've got a new mailing address posted on this blog? Most importantly, what will my new hat look like? We can only speculate.

It’s not difficult to see how it begins. Possibly with children who overhear the word from some adult. And then one day the n-word is all over town . . . then all over a nation, perhaps all over a portion of a continent.

It’s a harmless, essentially meaningless word. Some simple alphabet letters on the lips of a child. I’ve heard myriad explanations as to the word’s origin, none of which I find completely satisfactory. I suppose that the origin of the word is unimportant. After three months it’s mildly irritating. So imagine the n-word bantered about for generations. Irritating? Offensive? Is sickening too strong to describe the n-word?

The n-word . . . every single bloody day. Morning, noon, night. Endless! Everywhere you go:



Nazarra. What does it really mean? Foreigner? White foreigner? Crazy person on a purple Barbie bike with helmet? Lady riding through water in the rain? . . . when any rational Burkinabe knows to stay inside during a rainstorm.

How do you stop it . . . end the n-word? My approach? Hit the brakes on the bike and pull up to the dozen children squealing nazarra! This completely astounds children, every single time. I introduce myself. Moi, je m’appelle Katerine (or Kat-ee, or Kate . . . because Kathy is never going to be pronounced here). I try also in Kassim: Am yuri yi Katerine. I beg them to say my name. I tell them; Dit bonjour, Katerine. Dim paga, Katrine. N’gahn kozara, Katrine? I even try Moore: Nay yeebeogo, Katerine. And with three languages from which to choose, a dozen little voices say Bonjour, Katerine. Voila! Problem solved. No more n-word. One potential problem . . . have I really accomplished anything, or will female PCVs forevermore be known as Katerine? . . . light-skin lady on a bike with a helmet. Perhaps Katerine (sometimes Kay-Tee) has the same meaning as nazarra. Was progress made? Well, on my Po hill, yes. I think they get it.

How much fun will 300 CFA buy? Let’s remember that 500 CFA, roughly equals one dollar U.S. So 300 CFA is what? About 60 cents? And I call myself a SED volunteer? I have a sad lack of regard for CFA value and its spending. As Daniel says, I’m spending money like it’s my job. Well maybe it is my job. Speaking of SED, here’s my SED stage. Me, front row left.

OK, so at the marche children and adults call out to me: Nazarra! Ah, but yesterday before I hit the marche I stopped and purchased a bag of individually wrapped hard toffees. At least a hundred in the package. And at the market? Same drill . . . call me nazarra and I’m walking right up to you for introductions . . . with the offer of a bonbon. I don’t think this plan worked. I doubt that one single person remembered my name or even cared. But let me tell you, women and children came from all parts of the market. Stalls were left empty while ancient-appearing women came for toffee. Word must spread quickly in Kassim.

So as ineffective as my bonbon approach was, it was tremendous fun. My host country nationals are so friendly, and they’re always stunned when I say the French equivalent of comment ca va? which, in Kassim is Dinley or N’gahn gogara (I’m spelling phonetically).

One day when my 5-iron arrives (hint, hint, Rusty), a 300 CFA bag of bonbons is going to equate to 60-cents for practice at the driving range. With my home atop a hill overlooking nothing but lush grassy fields, I’m essentially living beside a picturesque elevated tee.

Will the Po children ever remember my name? Will my 5-iron ever arrive? Will children return a golf ball for a bonbon? I feel fairly confident, but we can only speculate.

Bugs are a way of life here in Burkina Faso. Bugs are everywhere. When I was in Eastern Burkina we found a bug that we dubbed the red velvet sofa spider. It was small, red, and completely velvety . . . and shaped like a little velvet hassock.


Just today I found bugs on the bottom of my wooden, slatted soap dish in my outdoor shower. This surprised me. One isn’t surprised by bugs in the latrine, but bugs on the bottom of a wooden soap dish? And not pretty bugs, either. Don’t ask.

Then are the bugs at night. Yes, I mean bugs that get on you when you’re in bed. It’s one thing each evening to have tiny bugs on your arms, your shoulders, your legs while you’re reading or waiting hours to upload a blog . . . outside and even  indoors in the living room. However, it is downright unnerving to feel a bug on you in bed. Even a tiny bug. Even a tiny bug that is clearly nothing to worry about. So what type of bug(s) may be ruled out in bed? Don’t ask.

There was I time when I loved to argue at the market. Not only about prices, but about silly little things such as why I hope it will rain, why I will not sell my purple Barbie bike, and why I want my chicken cut my way . . . and will not purchase a chicken until my butcher agrees to cut it as I wish it. This can only be helping my French, right? Either that or I’ve got one angry chicken butcher, though I think not. These days, especially after my two-week absence and still with a bandage on my ankle, we argue less.

The Burkinabe have an unusual custom, which we American’s might well consider. Yes, the Burkinabe do shake hands. In fact, there’s lots of hand-shaking in this land and lots of ways to shake hands, including the palm-press-with-middle-finger-snap-shake. Did you get that? It’s my favorite and I always get a smile from the Burkinabe when I successfully make an audible snap. However, whenever a Burkinabe’s right hand is not completely clean, they do not shake. The alternative is to merely to bump wrists, thus avoiding the transference of germs, dirt, dinner . . . whatever is going on with their hand at that moment. Obviously, this rule doesn’t apply to children, and it is horrifying to think of the germs that I carry around inasmuch as I shake hands with any and every child that comes near me.

So today there’s my personal shopper at the market: Bibatta. When Bibatta sees me she is in the middle of cleaning some type of leaves, so her hands are dirty. She offers forth her wrist and we touch wrists. But this will never do. I love my personal shopper, so I must move around the pile of vegetables with which she’s working while seated on the ground, and I must do the Burkinabe version of the head/cheek/kiss-thing, which is similar to the French version but involves four repetitions. Some day soon I’m going to bring a gift to Bibatta and sit on the ground with her and . . . well, I won’t be doing much talking since she speaks mostly Kassim and very little French. I suppose I’ll just sit with Bibatta. I certainly don’t argue prices with her any longer. How much will she charge to go and gather the best bell peppers in the marche? I don’t ask. I’d bet anything that it’s a better price than I’d get; but really, it doesn’t matter.
  And so I return home with the bounty that Bibatta has collected for me. I cut a head of cabbage into thirds and place a third into the bleach water with the peppers and chives. A little separation of cabbage leaves is called for, naturally. Then, out crawls a thin-but-quite-lengthy bug. Oh no. It tries not to drown by crawling back in between the cabbage leaves. Was it really in danger of drowning? Any idea what happened next? Don’t ask. I won’t tell, so just don’t ask. With bugs in the cabbage, was Daniel’s recipe for magical curry cabbage stir-fry really worth it? What is that bag of white powder that Daniel left on the floor of the closet? Bug-be-gone, by chance? Boric acid? What would two of my favorite gals do, Bri and Hillary? Bri (au gauche), I think I know what you’d do, but as for Hillary (a droit) . . . We can only speculate.