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.