Yes, I admit it: I do speak French. I’m talking to you, Burkinabe. And while my future-verb conjugation is appalling, at least I know how to ask whether my phrase employed the proper future tense . . . to which the answer is almost always, Uh-uh. Except for oublierai . . . Jamais je ne t'oublierai (I will never forget you). This I owe to the film, The Painted Veil, and the children’s song À la Claire Fontaine, which I love teaching to children. Oublierai is a great verb. One of my favorites. I will forget. I’ll never forget. Don’t’ forget. I can do all sorts of things with oublierai. Think about it.
So my speaking ability (never my weakest-link) makes you Burkinabe think that I understand French; but I don’t. See? I didn’t understand a word that you just said to me . . . except for the marriage proposal.

Last week I had one of those amazing African days, from start to finish. I began the day at the school with my students, tying ribbons and cadeaux around bottles of our soap . . . preparing for the school fair. One of the teachers pulled me aside and said, in French: Ah, American marketing and merchandising finally arrives in Burkina . . . and we need it. Happily, marketing is the same in French (isn’t that odd?), so I did understand this observation, which was one of the nicest compliments I’ve ever received. Three hours later, the fair finally began . . . over three hours late, which is actually right-on-time for West Africa International Time (or WAIT time). Great fair, great kids, great games, great traditional costumes. Why do I never have enough info to dress appropriately for the occasion. Oh, right . . . it’s because I don’t understand French.

I played the ring-toss game (you know it from every carnival or American fair that you’ve ever attended), trying diligently to win the Obama flashlight. Come on, now . . .who doesn’t want an Obama flashlight? I could have bought three for the money I spend trying to win just one.

Regrettably, I had to leave the fair before the dancing began (and before the beer was cold) to deliver a my pink straw hat to Ami. You know that pink straw hat, right? Ami wasn’t at her restaurant. Surprise surprise; but some nice folks were there, wanting the hat (as well as my Castro cap) and insisting that I could speak French. Speak, yes; understand, no. Still, it was a fun encounter.

Off to the hut to prepare for the Club baking class in the afternoon. Into the courtyard arrived five men, looking in every home and inspecting everything. Where was Leon?! How odd that men are snooping about. I went to do my meet-and-greet in Kassem, but they didn’t understand me. Clearly not from these parts. So I reverted to French. Ah, they said, you speak French. Yeah, right, but I don’t understand it. These nice fellows were clearly a group of grand types. No one would dare enter and snoop in the Copia courtyard without permission and an invitation.

Baking class was chocolate cake and chocolate frosting (thanks again for the powdered sugar, Michael). What would I do without powdered sugar? Do the President and First Lady know that their faces on flashlights fetch only 20 cents? We can only speculate.

As you know, Martin and Louis are the only two children who are permanent residents in the courtyard (other than little Victorine, who is about 13 months). But Martin and Louis have friends. Loads of friends. About 15 boys visit regularly. And they often ask if they may borrow a pen, or some chalk, or some little something. Today they ask for a big marker. Blue Marks-O-Lot is what I gave; and no, it never occurred to me to ask why they wanted it. Martin is extremely responsible. Who am I to question a 12-year-old?

So, what can you do with a bottle of dark rum, cider vinegar, nail polish remover, and nail files? Refinish the coffee table in Elizabeth’s salon! Why was this necessary? Because Martin and his friends decided to make a charming greeting for a special visitor arriving in Pô this weekend. Next thing I know Martin is asking for something, in French . . . a word I’ve never heard. A word which neither of us can find in the dictionary. OK, Martin, show me what you want to do.

Well, it wasn’t so much of what Martin wanted to do. It was Martin had to do. The boys had placed a thin piece of paper on Elizabeth’s coffee table and wrote their welcome greeting. Guess what happened. That’s right. Bled right through the paper onto the table . . . just as clear as the greeting written on the paper. So Elizabeth’s coffee table also reflected the greeting. Permanently!

No soap, not even Club de Commerce soap . . . nay nor the toughest dish-scrubber would remove the permanent blue greeting. The solution? Quickly, before Elizabeth returns: refinish the coffee table. Well, I didn’t have any Holmer Formby’s . . . but I haven’t lived here for almost a year without learning improvisation. Two pricey nail files later, the blue was gone . . . or at least barely visible. But, alas, so was the varnish . . . a golden oak. Hmm. Vinegar did a nice cleaning job on the overall table but did nothing to restore the finish. And nail polish remover could damage the remaining finish. But what about nail polish remover, combined with a little dark rum? Yep. Worked like a charm. Blended the finish nicely.

As I left the Copia living room, Martin’s great aunt (or maybe she’s his grandmother) said Dinley, or thank you very much. I said Kodalay! It’s nothing. And that, I know how moms are.

So what did Martin learn about permanent markers and the need for thick paper? And what did I learn about handing-out seemingly innocuous markers to the children? We can only speculate.

So, your best friend sends a great little bottle of gin. You put it in the freezer. And you finally decide to buy a bottle of tonic for a cocktail. The tonic is placed in the freezer until it chills beautifully. . . without becoming frozen. You pour yourself a drink and find yourself busily doing things in the courtyard before darkness falls. And then your gin & tonic gets warm.

I don’t have the largest hut in Burkina, but I’ve got the best hut. I don’t have the fanciest toilet, but I’ve got the best toilet. I don’t have the most luxurious shower, but I’ve got the best shower . . . certainly the best group shower. I don’t live with the most important family in Burkina, but I live with the best family (and, in truth, they may be the most important family).

My latrine cannot even be called a true latrine. It’s a room, outdoors, open-air, with a plumbed porcelain toilet and a running-water shower with a rainfall-type shower head. No, not donated by the Peace Corps but by the best family in Burkina Faso. And for almost three weeks of each month, the shower and toilet are nicely illuminated after dark by the moon, which has most certainly been placed in the heavens just for me . . . so that it may shine like a little night-light directly into my . . . my . . . well, I don’t know what to call that area of my world. Because it’s a shower, true enough. But it’s also my dish-washing/laundry area, not to mention my toilet. Lizards love this area for some reason. Hens, too. But they scurry away long before I can even step into the . . . the . . . this place needs a name. Anyone? And then one day the best family in Burkina does you a great favor, and everything falls apart.

I returned from Tiebele to find the following:

My bureau, Ga Mo Wigna, wants a library. A library? From what? Books from where?! Oh! All that stuff in Yaya’s office?! That stuff is informative?! Good Lord. How embarrassing. Eight months and I’ve never dug through Yaya’s office to see what all that junk is. A library! Community- (or at least Bureau-) driven . . . just the way the PC likes it. OK. This has Kathy Davis written all over it. Dust off those books and pamphlets, find someone literate in French to catalogue ‘em, and make a library in the front room of the bureau. Why, look! There are even coloring books donated years ago by the Minister of Environment. I can bring the colored pencils that Sue & Tom donated, and students can learn about gardening and environmental issues. What a brilliant idea. Now I’d like to think that this library inspiration came from my recent interest in the Mayor’s library . . . but I’m entirely delusional. This is totally a Ga Mo Wigna project, as it should be.

Next: The eggs in the little room at Ga Mo Wigna have hatched without me. Chicks wait for no man . . . or woman. I didn’t get to sit on the floor and run my fingers through chicks. Some people may dream of running their fingers through cash or gold or diamonds. I dream of chicks. OK, I do dream of diamonds, too; but chicks are almost as thrilling. Alas, the chicks have already been moved to the maisonette.

Martin and Louis have diligently watered my seeds, and I now have sturdy seedlings. Regrettably, I’ve forgotten what I planted, though some are clearly destined to be peppers.

The Pô ladies with whom I made an impromptu batch of soap have sold everything and want more. Again, can’t I just make soap all day, every day?  And my students made a batch of soap from the products I left for them; but I didn't leave the perfume, and they won't continue without it . . . which may reveal their keen insight into consumerism here in Burkina.

Lastly, a roof and a door are being installed in my . . . my . . . whatever we’ll call it. My bath-suite-slash-laundry-room-slash-dish-washing-area. How thoughtful. Best family in Burkina. Or maybe not. Today craftsmen were in the courtyard with large, denuded tree trunks. Four of ‘em. What is going on? And there’s a 2x4 and some corrugated metal roofing material. Indeed, what is going on? Oh no! They’re enclosing my . . . my . . . whatever. Change of plans. Time to call-in the Kathy Davis architect-student. No, those tree trunks absolutely are not going inside the walls of the shower. Group shower rules demand space. Please place the four tree trunks outside each corner; and yes, I realize that means placing two of ‘em outside the courtyard wall. And I really don’t want a door at all, but OK, if that’s what Leon has ordered. Then up goes the roof, forever eliminating the moonlight placed in the sky just for me and my evening dishwashing/laundry tasks. But wait, it get’s worse. Their plan is to entirely enclose the . . . the “whatever-room" with wood and/or wire mesh. Nooooooo! Lizards will be trapped in there with me . . . in the dark . . . with no escape . . . for any of us. Uh-uh . . . which is the Kassim word for ain’t-no-way. Seriously, Uh-uh is Kassim for Nope!

So Leon arrives in the late afternoon and I try to explain that the roof is fine (after all, rainy season will inevitably bring large limbs and debris), but please leave an open area under the roof for lizards to escape. Leon agrees. After all, he’s the best host-father in Burkina Faso.

And thus my moonlit room is now moonless. And the craftsmen considerately clipped-off the metal bars that had previously stuck-out from the mud brick, serving to hold my Spam can in which rested my dish-scrubber (hey, what else ya gonna do with an empty Spam can?), and which also held a roll of toilet paper. So, toilet paper holder . . . gone. Spam-can holder . . . gone! Darkness falls.

But perhaps this bathroom roof will have as-of-yet unforeseen benefits. The genies. For ‘tis a well-recognized fact that if one showers after 6:00 p.m., genies will curse you and turn your children into thieves. I’m known for taking a shower sometime after 9:00 p.m. So, you be the judge. Saved from genies by the best family in Burkina? Or doomed to squeal about lizards? Is there such a thing as a water-proof headlight? Are those electricians who are headed my way? We can only speculate.

So I've suggested to the Peace Corps that the next time circumstances arise necessitating consolidation (e.g., the move to Tiebele), that they make every effort to do so only during hot season. Here's Idress, the PCV in Tiebele, with his homologue and moi-meme. Idress was kind enough to introduce me to the mayor, various chiefs, and to his lovely friends, including Emmanuel. I stayed with Idress for two nights, then sought-out cooler accommodations. Ah, we PCVs . . . ever-resourceful, even under conditions of hardship.

I don't really know the French word for air-condition. Does climatisée mean "air-conditioned". . . is climatisseur an "air-conditioner"? It really doesn't matter because when this nassara begins a word, struggling with the sound of climatiss--something, every Burkinabe knows that I want air-conditioned air with an air-conditioner creating air-conditioning. So, yes, that air-condition(ing/er) in Tiebele was great, but I had to leave the room from time-to-time, if only to appreciate the cold when I returned. So what did I do for two weeks? Well, Mr. Rooney, you'll be proud: I only read one book.

I did, however, make some liquid soap with a group of ladies who didn't know how to make liquid soap. I grilled them about whether they would use and/or sell liquid soap . . . having been forewarned that women in smaller villages prefer hard soap. They assured me that they'd use the liquid soap; and after the two-day formation, I believed them. What fun, although I had to send Emmanuel to my Pô hut for the soap-making products. Lesson learned: don't leave home without lye-gel. Can I just travel the globe making liquid soap and teaching people to teach soap-making? Is that job-description somewhere on The Ladders? And if so, does it include air-conditioned accommodations?

By the second week I was giving lessons in restaurant and hotel management. I also gave instructions on making toad-in-the-hole. This I did for Jean Claude, who is arguably the best-trained, most unrecognized, brilliant chef in all of West Africa. But he didn't know toad-in-the-hole (go figure), which I translated to grenouille-souterrain (frog underground).
In all due respect to the Brits, toad-in-the-hole in no way resembles a toad, nay, nor any type of frog . . . in or out of a hole. The best I could do was to laugh with Jean Claude about such a silly name for a brunch dish. Jean Claude! What a chef! Makes a sauce arrachide that actually makes me want to eat sauce arrachide . . . drink it, in fact. Soup, maybe. His kitchen is immaculate, and I was invited to use it anytime. See that oven? A real oven! I made chocolate cake for Jean Claude and I thought he was going to cry. The cake mix? Yes, Emmanuel and the Pô-run (don't leave home without it).

So who remembers this man? Anyone? You've seen him on this blog. I recognized him immediately as I spied him drinking a Guinness at 8:33 a.m. one morning in the bar area of my Tiebele auberge. Told him that I had his photograph and ran upstairs to bring down the laptop (don't leave home without it). He's wonderful, a chief, great taste in beverages, and knows about bamboo . . . or so he said. Bamboo won't grow in Pô because there's too much salt in the soil and water. Really?! We'll see what Yaya says about that. Still, the Chef loved the fact that my Kassim had improved . . . or so he said. I was so enchanted by the compliment that I prepared dinner for him: Fettuccine Alfredo and corn-black-bean salad. Boy, nothing satisfies a Burkinabe like an Italian/Mexican dinner. But from whence cometh the black beans? Thanks, again, to Emmanuel, who made the Pô-run to my kitchen for black beans (don't leave home without 'em).

Just a few other fun events in Tiebele. I helped Idress with his elementary school children who are just learning English. We learned body parts and simple prepositions like in, out, about, and around. And how was this feat accomplished? How else? With the Hokey-Pokey song. You put your booty in, you put your booty out, you put your booty in and your shake it all about. Elementary school children went wild with laughter at the nasarra shaking a booty all about?

Indeed, Tiebele was fun, and not just the air-conditioned part -- I made so many friends. I feel as bien integree in Tiebele as I do in Pô. Why, I feel like Becky: everywhere I turned I encountered someone that I already knew, albeit often by at least two degrees of separation.

Still, it's good to be home in Pô. I finally broke-down and spent a few CFA for some fencing here in my courtyard. I sit outside and laugh at the hens who cannot get to my seedlings. The seedlings aren't planted. They're merely in their little peat pots behind the fencing. I could have easily left them on my table to keep hens at bay, but where's the fun in that? No, it's much more fun to frustrate a hen with delectable seedlings just out of reach.
So, you think the Peace Corps will speak with Burkina's military to ensure that I'll be nicely cool next year during hot season? We can only speculate.

So one afternoon you’re conducting a tie-dye formation with some students and the neighborhood boys, and six hours later you’re under shell fire. Hey! The color-wheel experts might not condone our tint selection, but was it bad enough to merit gun fire through the night and until dusk the following day? I seriously envisioned Elizabeth marching out of the courtyard, grabbing someone’s mortar launcher, and saying “Does your mother know what you’re doing?!” I'd have probably gone with her.

I suppose you want to know about the military, its RPGs, its automatics and semi-automatics, and rifles, right? Well, there’s actually not that much to tell, except that they sport cute red berets. Perhaps that cute beret emboldened the group to send message about tie-dye color. Regardless, I never felt endangered, ever . . . only excluded . . . excluded from the cute-red-beret club.

The military in Pô was merely demonstrating solidarity for the other military groups around the country. So why were they so up-in-arms? Probably myriad reasons, but the theory most frequently propounded was insufficient housing allowances. Hey, I feel their pain; I want a dishwasher and air-conditioning, but I didn’t bring my Tikka 300 WinMag to make my point.

So the day after the military exhibition and cute beret demo, I was forced to temporarily leave my quiet village. I spent two weeks in the neighboring village of Tiebele . . . about 30 klicks away, to use the military term . . . in an air-conditioned room in an auberge, or little motel/hotel. On the second floor of a small building were two rooms upstairs with a nice little balcony outside the rooms, and a bar and a kitchen below the upstairs rooms. Charming? Oui.

As you see (above), the balcony has two tiny metal chairs so one may sit and overlook this lovely landscaping in the courtyard. In the courtyard are several round huts (the un-air-conditioned rooms), all painted to resemble the beautiful painted royal houses here in Tiebele.

And my room, itself? Double bed (no box springs) on a little wooden frame that elevates the mattress just inches off the floor. One sheet. ONE SHEET!?! Night stand and a two-self stand was the only furniture, all made with unfinished 2x4s. Seriously, 2x4s. Someone’s old piece of chewing gum was stuck to the two-shelf stand.

The floor is beige 12x12 tile. The very same tile you’ll find in so many beach homes or hotels from the Mediterranean to the South Pacific. It’s perfectly fine tile, but not here . . . not in Burkina. Because here isn’t really a hotel room . . . it’s a luxury retreat. But, yet . . . it’s not. It’s a Twilight Zone paradox, because the palate remembers . . . and somewhere in my past memory I know that this isn’t the luxury suite that I believe it is. The tile appeared as fine as any luxury villa’s of St. Barts; and at the same time, the tile was oh-so typical Burkinabe. It's like the baklava at Cafe Istanbul . . . seems great at the time, but the palate remembers what is truly great bakalava. And my palate for great hotels remembers, too.

How are the mighty fallen? From Eze’s Chateau du Chevre d’Or to some auberge whose name I know not. From the luxury bath suites of Jack’s Camp to a tiled room with a toilet and sink but no running water. Buckets of water were delivered by the staff, or at least they were for the first few days that a nassara was in residence. Should I design a flag (such as the Scots have) reflecting when the nassara queen is in residence?  I ask because by the second week I seemed to haul lots of buckets to the upstairs room from the water-tower pump across the courtyard . . . though I didn’t mind because there was air-conditioning in said room. The thermostat said 16̊. I can’t accurately convert Celsius to Fahrenheit, but I think that 16̊ equals deliciously freezing.

So the room with no running water, whose toilet seat was broken and slid about like a sled on ice, whose toilet was also broken requiring three buckets of water to effectively flush, the room that gave-off an untraceable foul odor daily from 16h00 to 19h00 . . . this very room was the most luxurious room in which I’ve ever resided, ever! To say I was sad to leave the air-condition is a gross understatement. To say that I’m simply too embarrassed to order an a/c unit for the bedroom of my own hut is quite accurate. Way too embarrassed. Or am I? We can only speculate.