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.