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.