I’ve been completely suckered. Yaya wasn’t particularly happy, though not unhappy with me. More disappointed, I think, that I didn’t take him with me to what, in hindsight, turned out to be demanding negotiations with the Maison de la Femme. Hey, it was the Maison de la Femme, not the AFL-CIO. What’s so frightening about negotiations with a nice bunch of Burkinabe girls and women? On the other hand, I live and work with these tough-as-nails gals every day, and have done so for 15 months. What on earth was I thinking?!

A few months ago, long before my recent negotiations (and I didn’t realize they were negotiations until it was too late), I’d determined not to undertake any new projects without Yaya’s full involvement. But my world map project was with a group of young women and girls. What could be more simple to arrange, right? Wrong. Way wrong.

These gals are tough negotiators and should be political operatives . . . lobbyist. Yes, too much of The West Wing, I know, I know. I came to the table with generously donated funds to paint a world map as well as a useful blackboard. I was quickly beaten into submission by a group of young women who advised that it wasn't enough to involve them in painting a big wall. Nay, I must also show them how to make hard and liquid soap. OK. I live to make soap. And yes, I can afford to donate all the materials for a few days of soap-making. But . . . wait for it . . . .still not enough. They want a 10-day formation on soap making.

In reality, in Burkina, once is never enough. My former site mate imparted that bit of wisdom. One can demonstrate even the most simply process, but for the Burkinabe to really grasp the concept and practice, a second demonstration is required. Again, fine. We’ll made a couple of batches of hard and liquid soap. Uh-uh . . . they weren’t buying it. So . . .10-days, really? Any idea how much this is going to cost? Think of it this way: the daily cost will exceed what I make each day as a volunteer. But alright. As I too often say: the most expensive job you’ll ever love. I agreed to 10-days of soap making. But wait . . . it gets worse . . . because . . .

The real negotiations had yet to begin. Each of the 45 women will require notebooks and a new pen. Un Bic. In describing what I'd done, this is where Yaya really lost it. To paraphrase, Yaya said: It’s soap, for crying out loud. Soap! Why does anyone need a notebook to write a recipe for soap?! Salt, soap gel, water, stir. Fini!

OK, Yaya. I goofed. And hard though it may be to believe, it actually gets worse. Each of the women want and expect lunch every day after the morning’s work. Forty-five women, ten days. Do the math on even an inexpensive sauce. And the women advised that we’d need a 50 kilo sack of rice to go with the sauce. That’s 25000 cfa, or about $60 U.S. Yaya pretty much lost it again at this point. I didn’t even tell him that, as I left the meeting, the gals asked for money for gasoline for their motos (think Vespas) that they’ll use to get to the formation. I put an end to that notion immediately and on my own. In describing my rookie mistake, Hassan was standing under the terrace at GaMoWigna with his mouth open . . . simply not believing that I’d been suckered by a group of young women. And Yaya and Hassan were correct. If this had been negotiations with my young men this would have never happened. I was taken-in by these gals, who are dangerously charming.

Yaya doesn’t get angry. I’ve never heard him raise his voice. I’ve never even seen a facial expression remotely resembling anger. It’s what he doesn’t say . . . what he doesn’t have to say. Extreme disappointment . . . in me, for allowing this to happen. Yaya constantly reminds me that I must be vigilant. Despite his repeated warnings, I failed in my commitment to vigilance. OK, Yaya, give me a day or so to get myself out of this pickle.

Back I went to the Maison de la Femme. After 20 minutes of negotiations, round two, I walked away from the table with their offer to reduce the participants from 45 to 30. So I was still in a jam. Had I gone to the PC Handbook (and there is a handbook, but it doesn’t cover stupid, novice mistakes like this), I’d turn to the chapter entitled: How Your APCD Can and Cannot Help You. For this, I'm alone . . . except for Yaya.

I left Pô to work stage in Saponé with no clear exit strategy and a planned two-week site absence. So yesterday I hit the ground back in Pô with less than 24-hours to begin this morning's map and soap project . . . with lunches . . . and notebooks, and a new pen. Mais sans l'essence.

Sadly, I’d really like to do everything that these young women asked. Everything. It would feel so good. So Peace Corps-y. But the reality is that this was a test. They tested me to see if I’m an idiot. I am! I failed the test . . . with flying colors. All I wanted to do was paint a map and teach these girls to earn some extra money by making soap. What went wrong and how will I get myself out of this jam? What are the odds that by tomorrow Yaya will have extracted me from this pickle? We can only speculate.