NOTE: The following was written last autumn for publication by PSDN. Some of you have asked to see the entire article. Here you go:
Bien integree? Heck, I can’t even spell it. Integree . . . I think it’s pronounced with the long-A sound, so that could indicate an accent somewhere around those last two Es. On the other hand, French words ending in ER and in Z also have the long-A sound, and I don’t think they have an accent mark. What’s up with that? Those wacky French -- they have a word for everything. 

I speak ten languages. No joke. I can say “good morning,” “where is the toilet?” “another beer, please,” or “thank you” in ten languages. Beer, toilet, thanks. That may be all that I can say, but frankly, what more do I need? There are people who have a natural talent for acquiring new languages. I, however, am not one of those people. At my home in Pô, the English of my 11-year-old neighbor is better than my French will ever be. Ever. Did I mention that he’s only 11?!

In the U.S., I don’t do malls and I hate the grocer. I avoid both . . . like the plague. If it can’t be purchased at a drive-through window, Starbucks, or Dean & Deluca on-line, I probably won’t be eating it. My idea of shopping is a com-link with the Mother Ship . . . a/k/a, Neiman-Marcus on-line with second-day delivery. The PC Application should consider an essay question about malls, grocers, and customary levels of retail-therapy.

In the U.S., I order my stamps on-line; but I’ve heard rumor that there’s a place called the post office where one can make purchases, too. So, that post office guy who purportedly sells postal stuff? . . . he’ll never expect anyone to sit and observe as he sells commemorative stamps and boxes. Absurd, right? And in the States I would no more ask the name of the Walgreen’s employee than I would go inside the Mall-of-America. I perfunctorily say “Good morning, how are you?” That’s enough, right? Ah, but this is Burkina Faso. Retail-therapy has an entirely new meaning . . . and purpose: bien integree.

So that magnificent day arrives. The swear-in after-effects almost disappear, and the PC elves deliver my 17 pieces of luggage to site. I’m alone, in the rain, in Po . . . with no Starbucks. No biscotti, no muffins, no food! Poof! I’m at site . . . alone. It’s what all PCVs envision from the first moment we glance at our PC Application . . . the application sorely lacking questions about grocers, Neiman’s, and on-line shopping. So now what? Well, I could order the new Kate Spade sandals, but Po doesn’t have a cyber. Good Lord, I’ve got to go shopping . . . in a foreign language! Actually leave the hut and then the courtyard. And not Mother-Ship shopping, but shopping at the BF-equivalent of a mall, which just happens to contain a grocer . . . lots of ‘em, in fact. It’s my worst nightmare: a mall with grocers . . . and they call it a marche. Somebody wake me! Did I mention that I was alone?

I previously had not been to a marche in BF. No kidding. I made it all the way through PST without ever stepping foot in a real marche. Ouahigouya? Nope. Koudougou or Fada? Non, et non. Ouaga? Duh . . . no! But one morning in Po I am left with no choice. I stroll through the marche with that deer-in-the-headlights look. I do the meet-and-greet. Hi, how are you, my name is, I’m the new volunteer, I’ve replaced Daniel. And I buy my peppers and onions and ride back home as quickly as my purple Barbie bike will carry me.

Early one morning at the market, my favorite vendor gives me a look. I know that look. It’s the look that says “you stupid American woman, you’re not getting the best prices, I’ll help you because you’ve been here three days in a row and still have the PCV-in-the-headlights look.” Voila! Bibatta . . . my new personal shopper . . . with two-minute delivery. Ah, but there’s a catch. I’ve got to ask her how’s the family, how’s the work, how’s the courtyard? I have to ask her where she’s from, does she have a husband, how many children . . . personal things! There’s no escaping it. And that’s when it clicks: I am actually curious and interested in her answers.

Then one day I begin to remember names, which becomes my new mission in Po . . . meeting and remembering five new people each day. I find myself sitting on the ground at the market watching Bibatta sort through leaves of some variety. I drink drinks ordered for me by Bibatta from a vendor with a 30-gallon trash can and I meet the trash-can-punch vendor. I stop to meet tailors, carpenters, men who do laundry, and ladies who sell dough . . . who, incidentally, may say gateau all day long but that stuff ain’t ever gonna be gateau.

I make a list of the people I meet with at least one personal bit of info. Mohammed at the Poste has a brother in Texas. Blandine is from Ghana and her son, Sullivan, is a tailor. David thinks it’s hilarious that his name and my last name are pronounced the same. I have my first project. I cannot be bothered with a French tutor; I have names to remember. Besides, David at the Poste is bilingual and I’m tutored every time I go to the Poste . . . not to conduct business, but merely to see what David is doing today. How’s the family? How’s the courtyard? Is Friday extra busy because of something about Islam that I don’t yet understand?

Someone said that I was bien integree. I completely disagree, but it was a nice compliment. However, if there’s any grain of truth to it, I must wonder: bien integree – how did I do it? Well it wasn’t any singular altruistic trait, that’s a certainty. Nay, I’m merely a garden-variety PCV. It wasn’t my ability as a linguistic virtuoso. Far from it. I may be a bit like you . . . or perhaps I’m far less suited to becoming a good PCV. I shall, therefore, share what worked for this linguistically-challenged, mall-hating PCV.

For Your Community:

• Keep an updated list of names with as much detail as possible. Smila is in charge of seeds, he’s short and has a small gap in his teeth when he smilas. 
• Bribe! 300 CFA of bon-bons will bring about 100 people to you, and not just children. I call this the bon-bon-magnet effect . . . I believe it’s Newton’s Third Law. No bon-bon until they’ve said my name nor until they’ve repeated it to say Merci, Katerine. Giving bon-bons to ladies at the marche results in lots of free, bizarre veggies and cool drinks from garbage cans. 
• Buy something from a new vendor, even if it’s something you don’t need. Wait! Especially if it’s something you don’t need. Then go give that yam or cucumber to someone new and update your list with a new name. Miriam, sells green oranges outside the main market and looks at me as if I’m crazy for giving away a cucumber. 
• Learn to sit still, an almost impossible task that I have certainly not perfected. However, there’s nothing so pressing in my life that I can’t sit with Sephora for an hour. And think of how many new folks you’ll meet in an hour. Kodaram has a name that sounds like Kodak film and teases Sephora about holding hands with the Nassara.
• Let your village laugh and have fun with you. If you can’t maintain some sense of humor, you’ve probably volunteered for the wrong 27 months.

For Yourself:

• You are automatically a reality-show celebrity. It’s the Nassara-Show, and everyone wants to co-star. It’s a great high, so leave the hut and go embrace it. 
• When you’re feeling useless, ask yourself what you’d be doing at home. I often find that I’d be doing the same thing in Dallas that I’m doing in Po – nothing important. So I’m perfectly capable of being worthless on two continents. That makes me feel better. 
• Recognize that at any given moment you’re not forced to do a single thing. This isn’t PST, and such freedom opens lots of possibilities for things that you might want to do . . . cook something new; stand outside the alimentation and drink not-one-but-two cold Cokes; try to explain to the guys at the alimentation that you can’t really afford two Cokes. Bienvenu works at the alimentation, has some freckles, and tells me that indeed I can buy two Cokes because I can’t be “pauvre” since I’ve got a Barbie bike. 
• A mental health day works magic. Whatever it is that you need, give in. Three hours of South Park? Why not? A pedicure, new pagne, a cocktail, and an expensive phone call home? Absolutely, why not? Hole-up in the hut and refuse to come out? Why not indeed?
• Never, never-ever forget: laugh at yourself. If you can’t maintain your sense of humor, you’ve absolutely volunteered for the wrong 27 months.

I believe it was Teddy Roosevelt who said: Do what you can with what you have . . . where you are. I speak very little French, but I’ve got an entire village anxious to help me. I don’t have second-day delivery from Neiman’s, but I’ve got Bibatta. I still don’t have that cute pair of Kate Spade sandals, but I’ve got new tapets onto which I’m going to glue beads. I don’t have a pumpkin for Halloween, but I’ve got a knife, a watermelon, a candle . . . and 25 children waiting to see the fate of that watermelon.

Bien integree? I very greatly doubt it. Get back to me in 18 months. In the meantime, what will I do? What will I do without Humbolt-fog cheese, without Kate Spade accessories, and with very poor language skills? Well, I’ve got a vague idea. On my list of top-five-films is David Lean’s Dr. Zhivago. And my favorite lines from the film? Strelnekov asks the doctor, “What will you do in Yuriatin?” and Zhivago replies, “Just live!” So I ask myself: Kathy, while you’re waiting to feel like a real-live PCV, what will you do in Po? And the answer is invariably, just live!

So . . . will I ever learn to spell bien integree? We can only speculate.