I don’t speak French. No phrase exits my mouth with greater frequency than this: I don’t speak French. My PCV pals tease me that 20 months from now I’ll still be using the excuse, I don’t speak French. And so it’s time to woman-up and parler in French with the folks in my courtyard . . . the folks who know and love me best . . . the same folks by whom I am most intimidated.

Elizabeth is Leon’s wife. They own the courtyard and the homes within, including mine. Elizabeth runs the local bank. She is intelligent, well-educated, beautiful, and has an amazing sense of humor, as evidenced by her frequent laughter when her friends visit. When Elizabeth is outside laughing with friends, I move to the deepest recess of my hut praying that I won’t be asked to join the party. After all, I don’t speak French. And Elizabeth and her friends mix their French with Kassim, Moore, and Jula. Great googly-moogly. I cannot go out there.

Then there are the folks who live in my courtyard whose names I don’t know. How is this possible? I’ve lived here for five months and I still don’t know the names of two or three people who live within a stone’s throw of my hut. And after five months, it’s too late to ask. How rude! Hi, I realize that I’ve lived here for almost half a year and I greet you every day, but I’m so rude that I’ve never asked and/or remembered your name and now I’d like to know. Not gonna happen! So I developed Plan B. Ask Martin to make a courtyard-family-tree with me. Worked like a charm. One problem: Elizabeth came home in the middle of the project. Good Lord. Now I’ve got to talk to Elizabeth.

A few weeks ago Elizabeth arrived in the courtyard followed by a small (but not a baby) goat. A goat! The same goat that I'd seen once before, which I assumed had snuck into the courtyard. It’s got salt-n-pepper fur, and it’s not so large that it’s lost its baby-goat charm. Still. Elizabeth, we don’t live with farm animals. We sleep in blissful silence without braying donkeys and cock-a-doodlin' roosters. Elizabeth, why is there a goat here? And she just seats herself beside me on the steps, pats my hand, and laughs and laughs.

Turns out the goat is for Tabaski next year . . . or this year, I should say. But wait, goats are for the end of Ramadan, sheep are for Tabaski. Elizabeth laughs again. She’s not Muslim. In other words, in a rough translation of Elizabeth’s explanation, any excuse for a party. Now come on, you’ve got to love this woman. And so we talk farm animals, including the story of the birth of the lamb that I witnessed when I first visited Pô last August.

It was at this point that Martin approached with Rex the dog in his arms. Rex is hurt. Kathy, please examine Rex to see if his leg is broken. Martin, I am not a veterinarian. Martin places Rex at my feet and I begin the exam . . . starting with the pads of his feet and working north to his shoulders. Nothing is broken, Martin. Ask Rex to limit his running-around and he should be fine. I pick-up Rex to feel each leg, and the blasted dog poops on me. Raise your hand if you think that Elizabeth isn’t having a laughing fit at this point. Martin, Rex’s problem is that he eats too much To and has probably been kicked by our new goat.

Dog healed, goat accepted, Nassara showered, Elizabeth still laughing, and Martin filling-in the proper spelling of names of the courtyard residents, all is right with the world. And I must confess, I do speak and understand French. Still, the I don’t speak French is my favorite safety net and one which I will undoubtedly retain as long as possible. How long? We can only speculate.