The bridge fell down over the Nazinon River (that’s the Red Volta, to you). So the road to Pô was impassible for a day. Only a day?! That’s right. I called Yaya from Ouaga and he explained that a big machine was brought in to raise and stabilize the bridge. This didn’t instill in me a great deal of confidence. This was always a rickety, probably pre-historic bridge . . . hardly up to DOT standards. On the other hand, what were the odds that the bridge would fall again during the brief time that I’d be on it? So back to Pô I came . . . with about a hundred pounds of luggage after teaching soap making, tofu, jam making, cheese making, and tie-dye at stage.
At the gare I strapped two bags on the Barbie bike and had a hard time merely keeping my balance while walking alongside the bike. No way I could have mounted and pedaled up the hill. So I began the walk home. Less than 100 yards from the gare Louis appeared. He’d been playing in the center of the village and saw me on the bus. Louis had come to help with my bags. He took one, explained that Martin was playing down in the valley, and said he’d take home my bag and return with Martin. On I walked, not strongly relying on Martin and Louis. After all, prying children away from Sunday evening playtime can be a difficult thing.
Another two hundred yards and eight children came running, including little Sophie holding tiny Victorine in her arms. Victorine was reaching for me long before Sophie arrived at my side. The children (Martin being the eldest at 12) unstrapped my bags and took the bike. Sophie and I exchanged Victorine for my backpack. Together, we marched to the courtyard. On the way, at the pump, came the meet-and-greet with Sada, Victorine's mom. In the courtyard was Elizabeth, doing laundry, despite the fact that she has a very nice young woman who helps with all the housework. I saw no other people on my way home and didn't leave the courtyard again until this morning.
Today. Day-one of the project at the Maison de la Femme. Jean, the artiste, failed to show-up with the paint, though he promises that all mural materials will arrive early tomorrow morning. So who did show-up? A representative of Madame le Haut Commissaire. She'd come to help me renegotiate the terms of the 10-day soap formation. Wow. Let's remember that the Haut Commissaire is the most powerful person in Province du Nahouri, in which Pô is the provincial capital. And my Haut Commissaire is a woman -- extraordinarily rare in Burkina Faso. This kind émissaire also advised that a representative of some governmental ministry would be present on Tuesday to watch me work. Which ministry? I have no idea . . . I don't speak French. Nevertheless, word had spread that Katerine was back in Pô and everyone was out to see what their nasarra was up to today. Throughout the morning young women arrived at the Maison de la Femme to watch Katerine struggle with French and Kassim . . . or maybe not.
When it became clear that Jean wasn't going to bring the paint, we decided to practice soap making. Ah, but we needed more buckets, and some salt. Off to the marché . . . which would be a perfect opportunity for me to see Bibatta, whom I've not visited in weeks. Alas, Biba wasn't there.
Back to the Maison de la Femme, and who should arrive but Biba, who'd heard I was there. Biba isn't a young woman. She's respected by everyone. She was also my first friend in Pô. This morning for the benefit of the young women making soap, Biba shared the tale of how I nursed her crushed foot for many months . . . as if I'm some hero and not merely a gal with a good med kit. So while Biba regales the crowd with my medical prowess and while I ensure that each of 45 women gets their hands on soap-making, the representative of the Haut Commissaire and the President of the Maison de la Femme renegotiate for me the terms of this world map and soap project. This negotiation-help has Yaya written all over it. So it's time to visit Yaya and Satia.
I arrived at Yaya's home in time for lunch. Satia was delighted to see me. I'm a bad volunteer. I should visit Satia every single day and not just once or twice a week. I should just move in with her. Satia's face lights up when she sees me. We practically sit in each other's lap.
So I've come to Yaya's to talk business. To explain the generous donations of friends in the U.S. and to discuss our next step to complete the chicken/egg farm. Yaya, however, has other pressing business. Have I spoken with the office of the Haut Commissaire? Am I ready for a visit from the Minister of Environment? Are negotiations complete (to my satisfaction) with the women of the Maison de la Femme? Why yes, Yaya, everything is super [say it with me: zoup-pear]!
What's my point in all of this? Last night I saw eight to ten children, two women, and a new puppy. I guarantee you it wasn't the puppy who spread the word of my return to Pô. And it probably wasn't Elizabeth or the children. I didn't speak with Yaya until I arranged to meet him for lunch today. So how did word spread as far as the Haut Commissaire? Well, because we're not in Kansas any more -- it's Pô! It's Burkina Faso. It's life in a fishbowl, just as the PC promised. So you marvelous PCTs and those in the U.S. awaiting your PC invitation, never forget! Every word you say or don't say, every move you make, every failure or success will be shared in your village. It is inescapable. Nassara TV. All nassarra, all the time. But is that such a bad thing?
Incidentally, Victorine is heavy! Would I have been better off with the backpack? We can only speculate.
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