How many PCVs does it take to make a hookah work properly? We may never know. But what we do know is that four ordinarily-clever PCVs placed an emergency call to another PCV, and that still didn’t do the trick. What’s up with that? Where's the hookah reference manual?

But wait, it gets worse. My refrigerator has quit working, again. All too often I’ve* returned home to a frigo that has* quit working during my absence. How quickly grows a moldy mess inside. Believe me, not a pretty sight. Furthermore, getting the bloody frigo to work again after being without power has become a serious issue.  I don’t rest when the frigo isn’t cold. I fret. It messes with my Zen place . . . or something like that.

So I left the frigo plugged-in last week when I was in Ouaga . . . despite the fact that the electricity had been* off for the two days prior to my departure. When I returned home, still no electricity; but something had* worked at some point because I had* water partially frozen. However, since my return on Sunday . . . nothing, nyet, nada, zip, bupkis [A Fish Called Wanda reference]. We are not happy [Lawrence of Arabia reference].  I’m fairly alarmed here [Jurassic Park reference]. I genuinely believe that it wants to work . . . it's trying. Where's the bloody reference guide?

Rusty used to say, give me a tampon and some duct tape and I’ll build you an airplane. Or maybe that’s what I used to say about Rusty. In any event, I'm suddenly so MacGyver-y. Yes . . . despite the hookah fiasco, and despite the fact that I cannot identify the reason that my frigo won't work, perhaps some of Rusty's MacGyver ingenuity has rubbed off on me.

Today I built a better hand-washing station. I got the idea after being faced with the eventuality of having* to make the BF/PC version. Now the pathetic part is that I took a bidon (that's a jerry can to you non-BF PCVs) and all the bits to my bureau, ready to struggle drilling a hole with my trusty multi-tool’s knife . . . and then Yaya stopped me. Talk about MacGyver-y. Took me and the bits and the bidon to the quincailliere (is that a really word?), where a nice fellow punched a hole right through the lid. So that's what happens at a quincailliere. I felt like an idiot. Lord, what fools these mortals be! [Midsummer-Night's Dream reference]. I made this handy-dandy reference for other PCVs . . . or in case you're bored at home.

Perhaps if I worked on more MacGyver-y projects I'd smoke less and wouldn't worry about cherry hookah. Or perhaps if I napped more. Isn't jerry can terribly prejudiced?  *Will I ever again write a sentence with any conjugation of the verbs to be or to have without thinking: What kind of crazy language has fourteen (14!) verb conjugations, plus the impératif? Who was the lunatic who thought up that?! And what's up with that MacGyver hair style? We can only speculate.

Sometimes Peace Corps Washington does magical things, not the least of which is ensuring our safety, if not always our sanity. This year being the 50th anniversary of the PC, they’ve evidently solicited post cards from school children; and Burkina Faso was fortunate to receive many cards, including one very special card from a talented young lady named Sophia. She's ten!

Children were evidently instructed to write greetings on one side and draw pictures on the other. Each post card arrived with the 50th anniversary USPS commemorative PC postage stamp, naturally. Let me tell you, although all are charming, not all cards are equal . . . and such is life.

I’ve snagged the card from Sophia, which is so brilliant on both sides that there’s nothing to do but make a mobile and hang it from the ceiling so that I can enjoy every inch of it. Sophia's card (like your painting, Miss Abby) ensures my sanity . . . though I realize that's arguable. In any case, Sophia writes (and this is verbatim):

Hi. My name is Sophia! I live in the USA. I have 1 dog, 2 cats and a mouse. I love to read! I am 10 years old. I really enjoy drawing. Cats are 1 of the things I draw best. Violin is the instrument I play. What I really would not be able to play too well is acordian (I’m not sure that’s how you spell it). I am not too good at drawing people. Bye, Sophia.

Who is this child? Who, at age ten, can properly spell too? I ask you. Heck, I know 30-year-olds who can't. I am utterly enchanted. I picture her in six or seven years at Juilliard or the Sorbonne. No, of course this isn't her work. But I thought I'd toss in some nice images representative of her style.

Regrettably, what you are unable to see here are the four pencil illustrations, all brilliantly done, that Sophia sent to Burkina Faso. Her mouse is named Maple Sugar (cute, right?), and Sophia’s illustration includes a special notation that Maple Sugar is a blown-up image. Sophia is absolutely correct; and indeed, Maple Sugar's image is a bit large for a mouse, though perfectly to scale as he stands in a three-quarter profile, one little eye mischievously peering over his shoulder at her cats, Fiona and Yehudi. I bet she's cleverly, prodigiously, named Yehudi after the violinist, but that's just a guess.

Seriously, who is this child prodigy? Yehudi and Fiona are shown curled together in a ball. Brilliant. Her dog, Holob, is lying down; and Sophia notes that the image is sideways. I’ve shown this card to the best PCV illustrators whom I know and all agree that she’s a genius. And she's only ten!

I have news for you, Sophia: while you certainly draw cats extraordinarily well, your dog is equally fabulous. And don’t sell yourself short – I suspect that you also can draw people exceptionally well. On my next trip to Ouaga I’m going to scan this card and post it on this blog. It’s breath-taking. I want a mouse named Maple Sugar. I was so inspired that I tried to draw Jill-the-Pill on my kitchen blackboard, with poor results. Sorry, Jill.

I’m sure that Sophia’s family has many of her beautiful illustrations. But it would be so nice to return her card to them, all the way from Burkina Faso, as a permanent addition to her portfolio. Where can this next Mary Cassatt be found? Do you think Chaim Soutine entitled his painting, Rabbit with Forks, Sideways? Anyone out there know a little girl named Sophia with a mouse, 2 cats, and a dog? We can only speculate.

There are certain rules we follow . . . as humans, as PCVs, and certainly as expats in a very hot climate. I don't generally embrace rules. No poster child for Rule-Follower is this PCV from Pô. Yet common sense (or vanity) dictates that some rules were indeed intended to be followed. Always. We try to avoid classic blunders by following said rules. We were raised from childhood with these rules, either by society as a whole, or by our families, friends, teachers. For instance, as stated to Wesley in The Princess Bride:

You only think I guessed wrong. That’s what so funny. I switched glasses while your back was turned. Ha-ha, you fool. You fell victim to one of the classic blunders. The most famous is never get involved in a land war in Asia; but only slightly less well-known is this: never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line.

Me, I was raised on just a few simple rules:

No patent leather before Easter;
No white after Labor Day;
Never leave the house without lipstick;
A lady never walks with a cigarette;
And never eat anything containing mayonnaise at a summer picnic. It’s the heat. Makes the mayo go bad. Turns it into a playground for bacteria.

But here in The B.F. the mayo requires no refrigeration after opening, and it keeps for months on the shelf. Months! Something’s very wrong with that. Makes you wonder about why type of chemical can stop all that bacterial playground fun. Whatever . . . I'm not taking chances and will continue to avoid any mayo that doesn't require refrigeration . . . especially in a land that's hot like Mexico. Maybe my next PCV assignment will take me to Finland, where I'll again enjoy tuna salad.

I’m reading The Bell Jar. You'll recall that Esther and 10 of her friends are violently ill after eating crab-stuffed avocado at their luncheon. It was the mayonnaise. I guarantee. Didn’t Mrs. Greenwood ever teach her daughter the mayonnaise rule? Pauvre petite Elly . . . what trouble might have been spared with that one simple mayo rule?  And am I the last person on the planet to read any Sylvia Plath? Do they have PCVs in Finland? We can only speculate.

Saturday marked the one-year anniversary of my swearing-in as a PCV. The actual date, 27 August, was Saturday. Friday was the on-this-very-Friday anniversary. I celebrated both. It’s hard to believe that I’ve been in The B.F. for over 14 months.

When I came to The B.F. I swore that there were a couple of things I’d never do. Ever. I’d never freak-out over large insects; I’d never make a list of the books I read in-country; and I’d never poop on myself. Come on . . . one can always scream for the bus to stop to get off and poop. How hard is it not to poop oneself? And I was going to be way too busy being a good little PCV to read many books . . . and I was going to woman-up and not be alarmed by scorpion carrier spiders. These were my promises to myself, despite all the warning from the PCVs who’d gone before me. And then one day everything goes wrong.

I just spent a week in Ouaga for TDE (Training, Development, and something that begins with an E). This means that I’m so important, that my comprehension of acronyms is so complete, and that my PCV opinion is so highly valued (right!) that I was invited (one of only two SED volunteers) to form the training program for the new group of volunteers arriving in October . . . so you kids better watch out.

Time has little meaning in this land. Days fly by, but sometimes weeks drag by. So a few weeks ago (or perhaps it was just the other day) I took a header off my terrace, flying head-first to the concrete about four feet below. Hey, the electricity was out and I was in total darkness trying to toss a glass of water (I swear it was just water) over the edge of my terrace. Now I’m just over five-foot-four, and if my head hit first . . . OK, you do the math. How far did I fall? And did I hit the concrete step about two feet below my terrace before I finally landing on the concrete ground of the courtyard? I have no idea. In any event, next thing I knew Mike and my courtyard residents were carrying me up the stairs. I awoke the next morning with a very tender chin, twisted ankle (yes, that same ankle), and a very swollen left knee.

It’s rainy season, and I’ve been working from home quite a bit. Just as the Burkinabe do, my new laptop refuses to go out in the rain. So Yaya and I sit in my hut and crunch numbers for projects . . . or perhaps I’ll bike quickly into the village. But overall I’ve not been called upon to do a great deal of walking. Until I got to Ouaga. Two days into TDE my ankle was the size of a grapefruit. My PCMO insisted that I be moved to the med unit and sent for x-rays. Nothing broken . . . a soft-tissue-thing. What? Again?!

Our med unit might as well be a comfortable, air-conditioned, two-bedroom apartment in the U.S. Complete with kitchen, television (VCR/DVD), balcony, and a lovely bathroom with a real tub. It’s a little slice of American comfort in the middle of The B.F. And since our TDE meetings were right down the hallway, I was in heaven. Not a bad place to spend a few nights.

On Thursday morning about 3:30 a.m., I awoke needing to visit that luxury bath. And I almost made it. You see where this is going, right? Let’s omit the details and suffice to say that I’ve broken at least one of those initial pledges. Found myself doing laundry at 4:00 a.m. . . . with a lot of bleach. Suddenly my fall seemed of little significance. What was really wounded was my pride.

So what’s that ligament in your knee? The MCL, the TMI, the PDF, the MIT? Something with alphabet letters, right? Whatever, it’s one of those things that is torn by hard-core athletes . . . not by a garden-variety uncoordinated PCV, right? And certainly not from a simple fall. We find out in a few weeks when I return to Ouaga for the 50th anniversary fair and will be sent to the orthopedic surgeon.

Do I have the French language skills to explain Doctor, it hurts when I do this? And will I understand him when he replies, well then don’t do that? Have I started that book list yet? We can only speculate.

Without being too stereotypical, I wonder whether many of us Americans have a very limited view of the world outside our borders. Yes, we recognize that other countries speak different languages; but speaking for myself, it never occurred to me that some sounds (not words) are indeed words in other languages.

Elizabeth yells Martin, and Martin replies Aaaaae! This would be the sound you make when you touch a hot stove  . . . or the sound I made when I saw that a teeny-tiny lizard had crawled into my water bottle. Spit it out! When I first arrived in Pô I thought Martin sounded quite rude screaming back to his mother from down in the valley. In fact, Martin is merely replying, yes ma’am. As Americans, we say uh-uh when we really don’t want a third-helping of cheesecake. Here in Kassim-land, that same sound means, yes, of course I understand and quite agree. In Dallas when I put my foot in the pool in early October to confirm that it’s too cold to swim, the squeal I make is merely a squeal. Here, that same squeal sounds means you’ve got to be kidding, you want how much for that pagne? Think about that the next time you spit out a sound that has clear meaning in your world, unmistakable by your partner in conversation . . . because in another language you may have just said that's yummy after unknowninly eating a skewered lizard. Ugh, quick, spit it out.

Lately I’ve observed more spitting. Yes, you read that correctly. Spitting! I presumed that I’d merely failed to recognize all the spitting in The B.F., which, surely, has taken place for ages, albeit previously unobserved by this PCV who generally notices everything. Wrong. It’s Ramadan. And during this fasting period the faithful don’t even swallow their saliva, much less water. Really?! Who knew? Makes sense . . . in an odd way. Thus the prevalence of spitters throughout The B.F. Ramadan. Of course.

I love the sound of the muezzin. It’s so musical. When I return to the States I may need to live near a mosque. It is humorous to me, however, that even the muezzins work on W.A.I.T. time (West African International Time). So, at which five times daily are the faithful called to prayer? Are they concerned that they’re late? I can tell you this: something happens daily around 15h00 and 18h30 . . . but the call to prayer around these times may vary by as much as 40 minutes. Perhaps this is a tradition in Islam. I suspect, however, it’s W.A.I.T. time. I’d know if I weren’t a typical American, sometimes blind to cultural nuances beyond my own little world. This past month, with complete oblivious insensitivity, I’ve offered water to visitors who are fasting, either by my not realizing they were Muslim or simply by trying to be polite while inexcusably forgetting cultural distinctions. Should the names Ali or Azize have been my first clue?

So the end of Ramadan happens any day now. I should take a peek at my calendar. I think it’s Tuesday. It forecasts quite a party. But the real feast happens a month from then with the arrival of Tabaski. I confess, I don’t fully understand the significance of Tabaski (which isn’t a hot sauce from Louisiana), but I do know that it means a great day and night of partying with lost of dead goats and a tasty feast. Does this fully explain all the bleating of late? Are those sweet little goats warning each other? Did I feel guilty yesterday for drinking an icy Coke and eating apples all the way home from Ouaga? We can only speculate.

I recently discovered that the definition of  desertification has nothing to do with ensuring that I get ice creme after dinner. OK. I already knew that. But I’d almost abandoned all hope of stopping the desertification of Sub-Sahelian little Pô. One word. Bamboo! Yes, Dan, bamboo is finally here.

My very dear aunt and uncle have been great supporters of my PC work, in every conceivable way -- financially, emotionally . . . every possible way. And they recently commented that it was nice to know that I was enjoying my service, and not counting the days until I’d return to the States. Hmmm. Well, that’s almost correct.

The PC isn’t the army. We’re not forced to remain here. But with that said, I do have days when I’m counting the days until I can return . . .  it's 376 and less than 18 hours! More often, however, I’m counting the few remaining days that are flying-by until I must leave this country. I love it here . . . wherever here is . . . either in Africa, or West Africa, or Burkina Faso, or Pô.

Actually, I don’t think it’s Burkina that has me so enchanted, though I’ve found the Burkinabe to be universally kind and tolerant. Rather, I think it’s my little village of Pô. And this man, Yaya, my homologue. Yaya knows exactly how to handle me. When it comes to my brain-storming about community development, Yaya's not afraid to ask, Kathy, have you lost your mind?! And he is supremely patient with my French. I'd be lost and miserable without Yaya, despite the miracle that is the village of little Pô. Pô, the parallel universe of Burkina Faso or possibly all of Africa . . . the twilight zone where everything that should happen in this culture happens opposite of the norm. And am I ever lucky that it does.

Laundry is women’s work in Burkina Faso. Operating a mill is men’s work, though it’s the women who walk for miles with whole grains and corn in giant tubs on their head. But not in Pô. Here we have what I term Laundry Alley. It’s a little dirt lane with no less than four laundry services, all owned and fully staffed by men. Whoa! And our mill? Run by women for women. Here's our newest mill, which can be mounted to a bicycle for portability and for easy of use. Parallel universe, I tell you. In a country where the chief complaint of most PCVs is the difficulty in changing the culture, I must wonder, why endeavor to change the culture? Just work within it. Easy for me to say. I live in Pô.

In Burkina all things happen at a snail’s pace. A simple meeting can take weeks to arrange. But not in Pô. Here, if you’re gone for a few days or dare to blink, something has changed . . . a business come or gone, fields created from nothing, a chicken farm is built, the creating of a two-day classes on climate change. True. Climate change education . . . at the mayor’s office, right here in little Pô. How is it that Burkina Faso is next-to-last in the U.N.’s rating of 3rd world countries, yet Pô is so extraordinary? I’ve decided to begin taking some small measure of credit . . . though Pô will continue to be fine long after I’m gone. Here’s what I’m doing, and this is only note-worthy because it’s taken me 11 and ½ months at site to see any accomplishment(s) directly attributable to me . . . and to the generosity of my friends and family.

The chicken coop, which is so far beyond your concept of a chicken coop that it’s really a chicken farm. A real farm, with living accommodations. We’re still waiting on financing for high-volume egg-producers and a wealth of other necessary equipment (like a way to get water to the farm); but the project will eventually be a huge success, providing training to the young people of Pô and providing additional protein (eggs) to many residents throughout the entire Province.

But my current favorite and pet project? The bamboo project is finally underway. This was my primary personal objective for Pô, and it’s finally begun. Just three little bamboo stands, but more plants have been ordered. Why bamboo? Because it’s the fastest-growing plant in the world and, when dried, its stalks have the same burning properties as traditional hardwood trees. Think BTUs. So Pô can stop the desertification and deforestation and use bamboo for its cooking fires. Additionally, the bamboo stalks can be used to replace the traditional wood used for construction; and villagers can use smaller bamboo stalks for furniture (in lieu of the traditional wood presently utilized). Bamboo also makes effective wind-breaks, can be used as a living fence (keeping rapacious hens at bay), and prevents erosion in this wind-blown, deforested land that is constantly under threat of desertification.

We will soon have completed two internet spots, one at the high school and one at the mayor’s office (in the revamped library), which will offer computer classes covering topics from general usage (how to use a mouse) to word processing and research on the internet. Note that the computer classes will be taught by my students. Worked myself right out of a job.

Soon we'll be bringing nutritious soy products to Pô, including classes in tofu production and cheese making. Protein is the name of the game.

Then there’s the tiny little things hardly worth mentioning, though I will:

• My Club de Commerce teaching business skills to students; 
• Polio and meningitis vaccination campaigns;
• Soap making, hand-make paper, crafts, tie-dye, and cooking classes;
• English classes;
• Classes on the importance of crop rotation and irrigation techniques;
• Tree planting and grafting mango and gardening instructions, including competitions;
• Placing trash barrels throughout Pô;
• Mural for World AIDS day with a pledge by the residents of Pô to live healthy lifestyles at the Maison de Jeune (Youth Center);
• The Mural for International Women’s Day with a world map and advertising board at the Maison de Femme (Women’s Center).  Obviously, Pô is big on murals . . . and I'm just the gal to paint 'em.  

A few weeks ago I hosted Demyst. This means that trainees of the new agriculture stage came to my little village, my litte courtyard, my little hut and learned what it's like to be a real-live PC Volunteer. To be demystified. Right.

The frequency with which I reference movie lines should be a clue as to what I miss most (or almost most) about home. I miss movies. And it's not as if I'm without movies here in Burkina. Between what I brought and what's been given to me, I've watched enough movies to make my APCD cringe. Favorite movie? Well, it used to be Lawrence of Arabia . . . look right and you'll see my favorite quote from that (or any) movie.

But let's examine more closely that philosophic line given by David Lean to the character of ol' T.E. Lawrence. At the time our pal T.E. says, The trick, William Potter, is not minding that it hurts,  the good Lieutenant is still in comfy Cairo and hasn't yet ventured into Arabia. Nay, he's not yet eaten Bedu food. Hasn't yet drunk from the Harith well. Ah, the Harith are a dirty people. And so he doesn't yet know that he'll have five days of diarrhea from the Bedu food, nor that he'll get parasites and amoebic dysentery from the water at the Harith's well. I believe the same can be said of my demysters and their upcoming 27 months in Burkina. . . and who am I to warn them. Oh, wait! I was their demyst hostess.

I had a good group of new trainees. I'm confident that they'll each find their way and become excellent volunteers in the new agriculture program. Despite all my complaints about my French skills, I know that they've got the best LCF (Language and Culture Facilitator), Cathy, because she was my LCF. Here are the girls and I at the farm, or maisonette, sitting in chicken poop and saw dust. Remember, the trick, new PCTs, is not minding that it hurts. Although the chicken coop is far from complete (still awaiting those high-volume egg producers), it was a fun experience to show off my first real project and run our fingers through dozens of chicks.

Two of the new trainees discovered the wonders of my marche and pagnes. I think you can guess which two. And there's Kyle holding my pet genet, Ono-Flower. Little Flower has now gone to live at the farm, and no, that's not a euphamism. Flower is now at Ranch Nazinga where she'll thrive until she's old enough to make baby genets and assist with the repopulation of genets here in The B.F. Cute, huh?

So is that a shower cap that Elijah is wearing? What tailor would create such a cap? And if Cathy indeed is the best LCF, how do we explain my lack of French? So over a year in country -- do I yet mind that it hurts? We can only speculate.

Mike recently posed an interesting question: where in the world are you if you can say Today I went to the Poste and feel quite proud of the accomplishment? Why, it must be here in The B.F. If you were asked in the States, what did you do today? and if you replied I went to the post office, you'd really seem like a total Loser . . . capital L! But not here in The B.F. Capital T.

Long ago Hilary and I came up with a motto: Just one thing! I even wrote in on the chalkboard that I painted on my kitchen wall: Just one thing. One thing every day. Simple! Seeing my chalkboard, numerous volunteers have commented on the wisdom (or simple-mindedness) behind this motto. In all candor, you'd be surprised how difficult it is to get out of the hut, then leave the courtyard, then go into the village, and then accomplish anything. Anything! So I embraced this challenge . . . optimistically, if not enthusiastically. For instance, two days ago I picked bell peppers from my garden. Mission accomplished. Just one thing: Food Security harvest from Model Garden. I can VRF that . . . and for you non-PCVs, that means it will get reported to Congress. As if Congress doesn't have better things to do.

In reality, I've been quite busy. I learned how to make cheese and tofu. Francoise is a young woman here in Pô. I want to make her rich . . . rich in The B.F. defined as being able to feed and educate one's children. She knows how to make cheese and tofu, and I want to help her start a business. GaMo Wigna is fascinated by the concept of tofu. Especially fascinated that its by-product can be fed to chickens and used in making bars of soap. Giant cauldrons of soy milk, tamarind juice, vinegar. Double double toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble . . .this has giant mess-o-fun written all over it.

Then there's the planning for World AIDS Day. A little project called Paint The Town Red. This involves yet another mural, this time with a painted pledge to indulge in a healthier lifestyle. Everyone in attendance will have the opportunity to dip their hands in red paint and plaster their handprints onto the white wall below a red AIDS ribbon. It's finger-painting at it's best. Got to love that.

And then there's the new mill, or moulin.  This little mill will grind corn, millet, and yes, even soy beans for tofu. But wait! There's more. The mill is sturdy yet tiny. So small that it can be mounted on a bicycle and taken from courtyard to courtyard or from village to village. Not only can it be mounted on a bicycle, it can be powered by a bicycle. Just raise that back tire off the ground and pedal-away on a stationary bike, grinding corn all the while. Nifty, huh? How is it that the simplest of things here in Burkina can make such a tremendous impact? I think it's the Just One Thing philosophy.

A few other smalll things. I'm seeking funding for some trash barrels to be placed in our marche. Stop with the trash, already! In some ways Pô is very progressive. Our mayor recently instituted a trash pick-up program. This involves two men with a donkey cart who will empty a trash container (oh-so rare here) into the cart. It's hilarious. We still have trash everywhere on the streets; but if presented with trash barrels, most of Pô's residents will use them. If you built it, they will come. Or in this case, if you built it, they will toss. And yes, you can bet that the trash barrels will be painted with the PC logo by yours truly. I may not leave Pô until I've painted every paintable surface.

So if I've been so busy, so seemingly productive, why doesn't it feel that way? If I'm so busy, how is it that I've got time to begin a new blog? And since the The in The Netherlands is capitalized, why shouldn't I capitalize the the in The B.F.? Who can name the idiom describing the photo at the top of this post? We can only speculate.

Ebben has a theory. Or perhaps it was originally someone else's theory, and Ebben merely exposed me to said theory. Ready? OK. Donkeys regularly pass gas, and evidently the noise or the wind or the smell frightens them. Then they run and cry. Ebben says cry. I say bray. Donkey’s don’t cry . . . they bray, right? And I’m not positive that they’re donkeys. I say burros.  Burro: is that a Texas-thing? Anyway, there's not much more amusing to me than seeing a burro running and braying at the same time. And we know all too well that burros bray in the night, waking everyone . . . so I wonder whether they run in the dark. I like Ebben's theory. I think it has some validity. In a little burro brain, I suspect they wonder, what the heck was that?! and they turn, look, and run-off braying.

Golly, the things you think you can’t handle until you have to and do. So I’m standing outside on the terrace Wednesday night pouring cups of bisap into flimsy plastic sachets using a funnel, and suddenly I’m surrounded by ants. Millions . . . nay, probably billions of ants. I scream for Martin (who, praise the Lord, is home from vacation) and retreat to the hut. But Martin is either having his dinner, from which absolutely nothing will interrupt him (other than Elizabeth), or he’s left the courtyard. In any event, I find myself inside the hut stomping on ants, very large ants . . . some very, very large ants. But no amount of stomping stops the ants, which are coming in under the closed door and on both sides. The floor is literally crawling . . . moving . . . alive with ants. No amount of squealing seems to be attracting any attention. Eventually a crowd arrives, but no one will dare step onto the moving terrace. Finally, I throw 5000 cfa out the door and scream for a child to take my bike and buy some insecticide. With the arrival of the insecticide (an eternity later), the crisis slowly subsides. Coincidentally, everyone from GaMoWigna decided to drop by throughout the evening. Now these guys are specialists in everything plant-and-animal-related. Experts! But no one can agree as to what caused the ant invasion. The troupe was derranged. Yeah, I'd say so. The rain caused the movement. What rain? The cool temperature puts them on the move. Cool!? OK. And they won't hurt you. Really!?! So why would no one venture forth to my terrace?

Recall that Sada's mother recently lost her life. I say recently, but check the date of my last blog post and you'll realize that it was over a week ago. Evidently the funeral is this Saturday. What?! All those folks in the courtyard last Sunday . . . the ones to whom Leon was pouring Scotch . . . that wasn't the funeral? Talk about wildlife! I've been told that in Burkina there may actually be one or more days of what we would consider a wake or a funeral service and (get this) that the actual burial may not take place for months! In this climate? Think about that.

So if it's not a fight with a mother hen [her chicks got into my well-fenced garden], or the very large lizard that lives behind the map in my kitchen, or ants on the march, it's a bat in the house. Martin will simply trap a bat in his cupped hands and release it to the wind. I like a bat; I really do. And I've had my rabies shots, but still I'm not inclined to touch one.

So here in the B.F., if it's not one thing, it's your mother. And, yes Virginia, they are burros! Hasn't anyone in this country read Brighty Of The Grand Canyon? Have we learned a lesson about always keeping insecticide on hand? Where do you suppose Sada's mother is being kept? We can only speculate.

Coined by the genius that is Hugo, we have a new term for Burkina Faso: The BF. This morning I was wildly busy here in The BF . . . laundry, dusting, cleaning the courtyard after a devastating rainstorm, etc.; and having stepped away for too long, my coffee & Baileys got cold. So I popped it into the microwave while I was waiting for the bathtub to fill. Oh, wait! Dreaming again. No microwave . . . certainly no bathtub. But I do have Baileys.

It’s a very emotional time for, I dare say, about 99% of we PCVs who arrived last summer. Mid-service blues, I believe it’s called. Blues?! Mid-service panic-attacks, depression, paralysis, and anger would be much more accurate descriptions. Most all are suffering from one or more of these maladies; in my case, the former. Refusal to leave the hut, arguably, is the number one symptom.

So I returned from my Mid-Service Conference to discover that Sada’s mother had died in the night, only 12 hours before I arrived back in Pô. Unfortunately I didn’t discover this sad news until I had run-up to Sada, skipping and frisky as a baby goat, delighted to be back in Pô, whereupon I saw the sadness on Sada’s face. Sada, what’s wrong? Upon her announcement, I burst into tears, sat beside her, and hugged her. My behavior was a bit inappropriate for The BF, where everyone is completely stoic upon even the saddest of occasions; but I suppose I achieved Goal 2 of the PC: providing the Burkinabe with an insight into American behavior.

I’ve had loads of visitors during my 11 months here in Pô. Other PCVs seem to enjoy Pô . . . or perhaps they simply can’t resist my charismatic personality. Right. Anyway, after comparing sites with other PCVs, I’ve begun to realize that I live in a dreamy, insulated bubble here in Pô. This isn’t the typical village in The BF. Pô is an oddity among Burkinabe towns. We have an ATM, but no eggs. We have a biomass digester that powers our clinic, but one can’t purchase a simple sleeping cot here. We have champagne, but no yoghurt. Bizarre, right?

Equally bizarre is that I’ve lived here for 11 months and have yet to know of any deaths. So with the loss of Sada’s mother, this will be my first funeral. Culturally, I’m looking forward to the event. Emotionally, I’m dreading it. In The BF, one doesn’t bring food to the family following a death. Well, Goal 2 of the PC again . . . Americans do; so I’m taking Sada’s family my Nassarrachide sauce. This is a blend of the words Nasarra and arrachide (peanut). Silly me: I thought that the ubiquitous peanut sauce in The BF was made from peanut powder, not peanut butter! Wrong. The Burkinabe laugh and laugh at me; but everyone for whom I’ve made this sauce (and that’s dozens of Burkinabe) roll with laughter as they consume copious quantities of the stuff. So clearly, they genuinely love it. Hopefully, Sada’s family will be no exception.

Indeed, some days are tougher than others, even without the Mid-Service issues. Still, there’s always Lady GaGa and Bruno Mars to help me through my day. I’ve been sobbing pretty much non-stop for the past day. Yes, in large part with empathy for Sada. But, in all candor, how many of my tears are related to the fact that my refrigerator is broken? We can only speculate.