I believe that I was born with the Inquisition gene. Lack of wonder is not one of my faults. To the contrary. Anyone out there who knows me want to disagree? I can interrogate . . . ad nauseam. But in Burkina Faso I’ve suffered from a deplorable lack of curiosity. Other PCTs and PCVs pose questions that I’ve never thought to ask. Questions about my village of Pô . . . about my bureau . . . about my host family. Questions for which I should have answers.

How is it that this Grand Inquisitor has lost her questioning ability? Well, I chalk it up to language skills. Sometimes I do have a question; but I’ll never understand the answer, so why bother? This seems to be changing; and those of you who know me will no doubt rejoice that my interrogation techniques are returning. You have my Kassim instructor to thank (or curse) for this. His name is Raoul. Raoul?! Is that really a Burkinabé name?

I’ve missed curry, and it’s missed me. This morning Raoul accompanied me to the marche. I told him yesterday that he was in for a treat insofar as I’ve got lots of gals at the marche who love to hear me try to speak Kassim. Today I went in with several new phrases . . . and questions! Raoul laughed and laughed (which I love) as the ladies and I made our transactions. And the mere fact that I was there with tutor in tow, with my desire to learn Kassim in tangible human form, resulted in lots of gifts.

After the marche we were off to see Pouabizan, owner of the general store. Pouabizan has been on a five-month mission to teach me the Kassim word for everything in his store. Tchewn! Sounds like an abbreviated sneeze, but it’s the word for nails. Tchewn, nails, as opposed to tchew meaning tree, which sounds like someone imitating an abbreviated sneeze. Then there’s the tchew in tchew long dinley meaning morning, my friend, which sounds like a loud, throaty sneeze. See the difference? Me neither.

The Barbie bike got new air in its tires thanks to some children whom I paid 100 CFA (20 cents) to take the bike for air. My tutor seemed shocked that I’d send my bike with unknown children; but I know the Gendarmes and I naively believe that my bike is generally safe from theft.

So tonight I zoomed home up the hill with fully-inflated tires, greeting the vieilles with my new Kassim phrases. All sounds carry quickly and far on my hill. I can hear ducks and donkeys that live in the valley as clearly as if they were on my terrace. So, who among ye knows how far my voice can carry? Anyone? Well combine my voice with a windy afternoon atop the highest hill in Pô. I’m doing the meet-and-greet, evening version; and upon hearing their nassara speaking Kassim, the older ladies come out of the woodwork (or the mud-work, I should say).

So thanks to the marche-run, onions, peppers, piment, and cabbage have returned to the hut . . . to this very kitchen. All my traditional curry needs, and more. Po has carrots! And beautiful, long, thin green beans. This is unheard of . . . we never have good veggies like carrots. What accounts for this? Asking questions? Sun spots? Cold day in . . . someplace other than Dallas? So what do you think of my kitchen? We can only speculate.