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.