What’s a hangar in Burkina? It’s large tree branches somehow mounted into the ground that support other branches creating a sturdy frame for a thatch-type roof called secco. Think of it as the West African HGTV pergola. I like to think of these hangars as outdoor dining pavilions . . . just awaiting a well-set table, some tea lights, and a chilled bottle of Voigner. Unfortunately, the hangar belonging to my courtyard is the carport for my host family’s little red car . . . so I don’t have to worry about not having any tea lights . . . or Voigner.

Somewhere in an Old American West film is the scene where the entire town comes together, water-filled buckets passing along a sea of humanity to extinguish the fire in the ol’ barn. Got the image? Well today was Pô’s version. Actually, my courtyard’s version.

Now that the rains have ended, grass dead, and with the harvest complete, the courtyard’s trash pile is glaringly evident. Not pretty. I always deluded myself – believing that my weekly personal trash burning would ultimately prompt others to burn their trash. Be careful what you wish for . . . this morning was the trash fire in the courtyard’s trash pile. Big trash pile, big fire. And when the winds picked up around noon, burning debris floated up, then downwind to the newly secco-thatched hangar. Guess what happened.

There are two ways to get water in my courtyard: my outdoor shower, or the water pump in the center of the courtyard. Guess which one produces more water quickly. Following a loud commotion in the courtyard, I stepped onto the terrace, looked left, and saw flames rising about eight feet above the courtyard walls. Time to grab my three buckets and the official PC water filter. I assigned myself the task of filling buckets . . . standing under the shower, water bucket on my head, which I discovered long ago to be the most efficient way to fill a bucket without wasting a drop . . . and it’s easier to balance a 20-pound bucket on my head than to use arm strength and lift the bucket under the shower head.

Martin and the other kids came to grab the filled buckets and return to the fire. By the time I had filled buckets about thirty times the secco was completely consumed and the wooden hangar timbers were charred. Exciting? Very. Alarming? Absolutely! Fire is a serious threat to the ship, to quote Denzel Washington. But the most interesting part was the number of neighbors who appeared from nowhere with giant calabashes to dip into buckets and toss water on the steaming timbers. These ladies have amazing aim. You’d think they have experienced this before. I suggested to Martin and Yak that the fire in the grass and trash pile was not out, merely smouldering, and should be stirred and extinguished with more water. No, I have no idea what the French word is for extinguish. But the gist of the idea was clearly grasped, and children and vieilles alike stirred and splashed water on the huge area of smouldering trash. I melted a pair of sandals (tappets) walking on the smouldering pile.

When the action had nearly concluded, two men arrived in a nice Mercedes Benz. Before even assessing the situation, they politely greeted me with the five-minute litany of Kassim good day, how are you, how’s the family, and finally, how’s the courtyard? Duh . . . not very well, thank you very much. I believe that had flames been climbing into the sky, greetings still would have been de rigeur. Elizabeth arrived (as in Elizabeth, Leon’s wife, owner of the courtyard) and she, too, greeted me. Ça va, Katerine? Well, Elizabeth, not ça va . . . your carport just burned. Eh, she shrugs, Ça va aller . . . in other words, this too will pass, it will be OK.

Ah, the Burkinabe attitude . . . it’s always OK . . . don’t ever let it get you down. Got malaria? Three hours late to a meeting? Just lost your dog to rabies? Ça va aller. Garage just burned threatening your entire home with all the flammable corn and grain inside the courtyard? Ça va aller.

So there I am, soaked, feet covered in red mud; and there’s Elizabeth and the vieilles in their starched and ironed Sunday complets – how do these women do it? Will there be a barn-raising now that the fire is out? Or a hangar-raising? Who drives a Mercedes here in Pô and knows me by name? I understand Ça va aller . . . but don’t you think this family deserves some peanut brittle and a icy cold beer? We can only speculate.