There’s so much that I don’t understand. So very much. For instance:

I don’t understand why it rained, hard, for about six hours yesterday; yet the cool wind never made it inside, past my screens and open doorway. Actually, I don’t even understand why it rained at all in April. It’s hot season. No rain until May, at the earliest. And this so-called mango rain was supposed to have occurred in March; yet there was no rain in March. I don’t understand. It’s like the cold-season that I was promised . . . don’t understand which hour of my PC service that occupied. Maybe I slept through it.

I don't understand why this man isn't a Follower of my blog. Do you understand that? Me, neither.

And, Becky, sorry if I'm the first to tell you . . .  this is the new J.D. But you understand everything . . . so you already knew, right?

I don’t understand why I don’t have the authority to remove a Facebook photo that’s been posted on my wall by someone else, even if it’s clearly the worst photo ever taken. Especially because it’s the worst photo ever taken. I don’t understand why FB doesn’t have the destroy-all-evidence-that-this-photo-ever-existed button.

I don’t understand why the three sutures in my head required twine so thick that you could truss a turkey.  And why can't I remove them myself? It's not brain surgery.

I don’t understand how much warmer it must be before chicks hatch without the need for mother hens. In a closet at GaMoWigna, we have either eggs waiting to hatch, or baby chicks. The sign says Do Not Enter, and the cord running under the door is for a heater. But perhaps I've failed to understand Yaya's French and it’s not an incubator at all. In this heat? Perhaps it’s a rotisserie!


I don’t understand why my French isn’t improving at a faster pace . . . unless it’s the amount of time that I spend reading novels in English.

So, do Jake and Lady Brett ever live happily ever after? Is Ms. Kate Mayfield ever going sky-diving again? And is it possible to read Atonement without picturing, deliciously-so, James McAvoy? Isn't it pretty to think so? We can only speculate.

As with so many incidents of unrest, it starts small and quickly escalates; so you may want to sit-down for this one.

One day the courtyard is peaceful and quiet. Then in creep the interlopers. A goat. Others follow. All too soon there are three goats. Then come sheep and a lamb. Finally, burros and cattle. Mooing and braying animals who don't know how to tell time. Two in the morning? Time to bray. That braying sound . . . the same sound that I once paid money to hear from the South African JackAss penguin . . . well it isn't quite so charming here in my own courtyard.

Hot season . . . and my first night sleeping outdoors; but not merely to avoid the oven that has become my hut. Nay, my flight to the outdoor hammock was prompted by riotous unrest . . . a true invasion. With le chauleur here and temps rising, I keep my door open almost at all times. The entrance of Rex and Dora was inevitable, and, as it happens, not altogether undesirable. The courtyard canines nap for hours on my concrete floors, acting as dust mops. Wherever Rex and Dora nap, upon their return to the courtyard there are nicely dusted spots on the floor. Jill the Pill could do no better.

But alas, with the open-door invitation, also entered a mouse. And a lizard. Now I'm not particularly unraveled by a mouse, nor by a lizard; however, the idea of a mouse running across my bed in the night isn't appealing in the slightest. And a lizard? Hey, remember the ol' Dragon Hotel . . . first night in-country . . . size of a kitten . . . PTSD! Enough said.

So now what? Well, I'm a PCV and thus resourcefulness is second nature. Or not.  But it's the age of the world wide web, and thus, I cheated. Before ever leaving Dallas I had read the blog of another volunteer (Morocco, I believe) who truly invented a better mouse trap. I followed her brilliant example. In truth, I'd been waiting for the opportunity to try-out her wickedly evil scheme.  A scheme so simple and yet so brilliant. Here's how it goes, step by step.

1. Empty PC water filter bucket.
2. Duct-tape a pencil onto the very tip-end of a ruler.
3. Insert pencil into the empty cardboard roll from toilet paper. Yes, toilet paper is so precious here that I even keep the cardboard tubes.
4. Place raspberry jam onto the distal end of the toilet paper core. You're catching-on now, right? That cardboard tube is going to roll right over the moment anything steps onto it.
5. Create a mouse ramp from the kitchen shelf using ruler/pencil/T.P.core.
6. Exit hut to comfortable hammock. Wait for mouse to step onto the cardboard roll in its attempt to eat my overpriced raspberry jam.
7. Run into hut when the cardboard tube rolls-over under the weight of the mouse.
8. Laugh at mouse now trapped in the empty water filter.

Worked like a charm. The next morning children were beckoned and instructed to remove the mouse and end its mouse life. Face facts, kids . . . there's never just one mouse. It had to go.

The lizard-removal, however, created a greater challenge. Mats were removed from the floor and placed vertically to block any entrance to the bedroom and closet (OK, you know it's not really a closet). Children were called to assist. They brought their straw brooms and sticks. Instinctively they knew to be gentle with the lizard. I was very impressed. Impressed as I waited outside . . . way outside . . . ready with an empty tin of butter cookies in order to capture & contain the lizard. Remember the first rule of the PC: Do no harm. OK, that may not be the first rule, but there was no need to harm a lizard.

Lizard contained and urged to find other accommodations, calm returned to Po's best courtyard. If Rex or Dora had even an ounce of terrier in their eclectic heritage, this would have never occurred. So I think that the PC's Do No Harm rule requires some clarification. Surely it does not apply not to mice. So how can I leave-open my door and still keep-out these unwanted rodents and reptiles? We can only speculate.

This post is not about poop . . . or at least not about my poop. There! I heard it . . . your big sigh of relief. It is, however, about dehydration.

James says he saw a large water rat in my latrine one night. I have no reason to doubt him, though I've never seen even a mouse. Still, it's a bit off-putting when I think about a rat during a quick dash to the latrine on a night with no moonlight. So what's the obvious answer? Fewer trips to the latrine. How is this accomplished? Simple, unhealthy, life-threatening dehydration. Or maybe not.

It's hot season. Think of what room temperature means in the States. Now imagine a glass of room-temp water when it’s 115 outside and probably hotter inside. Hardly thirst-quenching. Happily, I have a small freezer; and when the electricity is working, I have unlimited icy cold water . . . or Crystal Light (thanks, friends!). This means that I'm not in a constant state of dehydration. And that's a good thing . . . something that my PCMOs love. It's a healthy thing. Right? Or is it?

Living on the stipend of a PC volunteer isn't easy, but neither is it impossible. It's all a matter of priorities. Food isn't costly, especially when it's difficult to contemplate cooking during hot season. I sometimes make a bowl of popcorn in the mornings when it's cool (meaning about 95), and this serves as lunch and dinner. So spending money on food and chilled, expensive sodas isn't a high priority. However, toilet paper is . . . and it's not cheap here. In fact, a roll of toilet paper is somewhat of a luxury for most Burkinabe. Guess why.

And thus the toilet paper dilemma. Well-hydrated means more trips to the latrine . . . or to the large jar in the house if I'm feeling particularly intimidated in the dark by rodents-of-unusual-size. In any event, well-hydrated means more toilet paper usage. Swoooosh. Hear my thirty-dollars-a-week literally going down the toilet?

The paper money here is often very old, very tattered and, yes, I'll say it, soft! I could probably use old 1000 cfa notes in lieu of toilet paper, and the cost would be about the same. Well, maybe not . . . not to mention the sanitary conditions of paper money in Burkina. But you clearly see the dilemma. Hydrated = high T.P. usage.  Dehydrated = low T.P. usage . . . and savings.

Now it is universally acknowledged that I had/have the best PC Recruiter in the world. After all, I'm the Burkina PCV with the red PC book bag and the PC patches sewn on to my bucket hat. And, on the subject of toilet issues, I'm the PCV whose recruiter sent this video. I rarely do, but if called upon to do so, I absolutely can Poop In A Hole.

So, after seeing the Poop video, you think you want to join the Peace Corps? Have I found a way to reuse, reduce, recycle my T.P. usage? Does anyone even want to ponder that? Are some luxuries worth any price? We can only speculate.