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.