I broke my water filter. Or perhaps I didn’t break it, perhaps the new parts simply don’t fit. Or perhaps there’s some trick to assemblage that I’ve forgotten, which is probably the case. That’s one theory.

So my stunningly beautiful water filter, the one that would be a gorgeous accent in any home and the pride of any kitchen (not so much), does require an occasional cleaning. In fact, the PC recommends weekly cleaning. I cleaned mine today – first time since it was given to me, new, in June. What’s today’s date? As I popped-on the new white cartridge, it wouldn’t fit. And the black cartridge? Well, it screwed into place but water won’t come out. This is probably something as simple as my failure to remove a cap, or puncture a seal . . . or something. But perhaps it’s like programming the DVR . . . women simply weren’t intended to do it (or at least not this woman). That’s another theory, albeit most sexist! Some things never change, do they, Rusty?

So assume I was given the wrong parts for the filter. How quickly do we think that the Bureau in Ouaga can get new parts to Po? Before I’m thirsty? Are cocktails the answer? Nice, clean tonic and distilled gin? With unfiltered ice? If I had a freezer, I could make unfiltered ice and then I’d be queen of the world, though not a true PCV. In fact, I’ll never be a true PCV. I have electricity (usually), running-water out in the courtyard (most days), and a USB key that allows internet access (sometimes). I’ve also got a flat-iron (which I rarely use), a nutmeg grater (in my professionally-equipped kitchen), a Clarisonic™, and a Braun™ electric toothbrush. Who brings a nutmeg grater to West Africa . . . with a jar of whole nutmeg? Is it nutmeg, or nutmegs?

Now the icing on the cupcake is: on Tuesday I’ve got a date with Seydou to shop for a small refrigerator/freezer. I’ve saved for two months and I’m going to pull the trigger and purchase a used frigo. And if all this luxury isn’t enough to eliminate me from being a real PCV, now I have a toilet. It’s true! A white, porcelain, European-push-button-flush, still-got-the-sticker-on-it toilet. I have my Association to thank for this; and incidentally, I did not ask! It was installed inside the walls of my outdoor shower, so now my shower will only accommodate four . . . six if they’re really good friends.

Of course the toilet isn’t plumbed to any sewer lines. To my knowledge there are no sewer lines in Po. Only the customary pit. My new private toilet is plumbed to the waterline in the courtyard, but flushing merely results in waste going into the traditional drop latrine. And so I wonder: how many flushes do I get before the latrine is full? I saw its construction. Roughly a meter square and two meters deep . . . with my brilliant SED number-crunching ability, I calculate that as two cubic meters. So how many flushes? No idea, but this keeps me awake at night. How long has it been since I thrilled my gentle readers with a juicy toilet tale? Well that’s too long. Now you can stay awake, too.

Any mathematicians out there (actually, I know about a dozen) who can calculate the cubic volume of a flush, divided into two cubic meters? Where am I going to find ice cube trays in Po? Is it culturally appropriate to have the gals over for cocktails after work? Oh, wait, they never stop working here, so when would they find time for happy hour? Can one sweep gravel with straw in one hand and a gin & tonic in the other? We can only speculate.