The title of this post is from a favorite film: Everything is Illuminated. Last week someone obviously performed a very rigid search and located an ideal venue for a summer gala. And thus we had a pool party . . . at the International School in Ouagoudou. Perhaps it's one of those schools for children of the diplomatic corps . . . or something like that. But school is out for summer now, and we had the huge facility to ourselves. Gianormous pool. Pool games, soccer, basketball courts, swings and playground equipment. You can clearly see that PC trainees have a rough life. And that’s what Peace Corps is all about . . . sometimes living under conditions of hardship. We dined on burgers, potato salad, and Fourth of July cake . . .all compliments of our Country Director, my SED Director, and the always-there-for-us PC Volunteer Facilitators (PCVFs). Indeed, it is a rough life, but trainees are always up for a challenge.

The pool party was a week ago. Since then we’ve had little access to internet, and even less time to do anything but study. Despite the party-party weekend, pre-service training (PST) is actually hard work. I’m talking loads of homework and no downtime. No me time.

But the good news is that my French is improving. I’m learning to bargain in French, and I purchased the makings for guacamole this week. Yummy . . . and delightful to add something/anything green to the all-carb diet.

Thus begins Week 3 in PST, and with it a new tradition: Cocktail of the Week, brought to you by a few resourceful SED volunteers. Yes, I’m in that group. We’ll probably begin with Mojitas. So, you ask yourself: How can this be? From whence cometh this little slice of America? Refreshing swimming pool? Cocktails? Guacamole? And a Fourth of July party with the icy cold beer? Is all this another example of PC elves? We can only speculate.

I'll make it as short and sweet as possible. Actually, there is nothing in this tale that is sweet; and if you possess delicate sensibilities, turn away now.


So the day finally arrives. The day when there is no real toilet -- only the pit in the ground. And it's time. Now don't play coy, here . . . you know what time it is. And so one musters all of one's courage and walks from the classroom of 67 people, all of whom also know what time it is. Off to the loo. I don't know what I was expecting; perhaps I had been in denial. There are a dozen little stalls (no doors) . . . I walk to the one that is most remote, for privacy. Now there is no delicate way to put this: all God's creatures poop. We all poop. And sometimes, due to diet or stress, the poop is more poopy. Is that a fair statement? Does that give you the gist of the situation?

Mission accomplished, I returned to classroom, albeit with dizziness, shock, disgust, and the total conviction that the PC is not for me.

Later that morning my roommate announced that she, too, needed the loo. She was terrified. Most natural thing in the world – we were all terrified. I assured her that I'd go with her, walk her through the process, and even stand guard. We approached the first stall, which appeared to be out of order inasmuch as there was a metal cover over the hole. Same story with the next stall, and the next and the next and the next. Metal covers over each hole. So I walk her down to the same latrine that I used. The one with the tiny hole in the floor (about the size of a bathtub drain). She can't go . . . it's all too horrible.

Now here's the earth-shattering part: It wasn't the loo that I had used! It was the shower! My God in heaven! It was the shower that I had used as a toilet . . . for poo! And those metal plates covering the out of order latrines? Those are the covers that always stay in place until the user is ready (reduces flies, as you can imagine)? Those covers gave me no clue, thus indicating just how clueless I am. And to put the finishing touch on this horror tale, there I was trying to instruct others on how to use (or misuse) the SHOWER as a latrine. Oh, the horror! Now come on . . . is that the most embarrassing story, ever?

OK, so you were expecting a certain amount of grubby details, right? And it is these "mishaps" involving daily life that you really want, right? And that wasn't too much info, and you didn't just finish your dinner, right? We can only speculate.

Did you know that within 45 minutes of being bitten by the female anopheles mosquito there are already active parasites in your liver, just waiting to find a parasite playground in your body. In other words, I've already got the malaria parasite (there are several species, some more serious than others). In any event, I'm on prophylaxis to prevent the proliferation of the parasite(s); and in just over two years I'll take some magic pills that will kill the parasites. Sounds like a Jack and the Beanstalk tale, doesn't it? Can you tell that yesterday was medical day? Got my rabies shot (another of many) and learned how to prepare microscopic slides to test for malaria, which means that there was more blood-letting (mine). We also learned how to collect a poop sample so that our PCMO can determine whether we have some life-threatening intestinal bug, which I'm assured that we'll all face, eventually. Incidently, the PCMO is PC Medical Officer. Never again in my life will I have such excellent medical care. I won't bore you, but the process is astounding. And, admit it, what's more fascinating than tropical diseases and dystenery? These are the details you've all be wating for, right? And now, what you've truly been awaiting with baited-breath. The latrines! Yes, it's a hole in the ground surrounded by concrete. There is, however, toilet paper . . . of a sort. Yes, it is absolutely horrible the first time (more on this later). Did I stress this enough? It's horrible to the point of becoming dizzy. But after one or two visits, just as all other PCVs before me, you become accustomed. Two weeks ago I would not have believed it possible. But the outdoor loo is indeed the least of our problems. On a more serious note, the US Department of State issued a "Warden Notice" (or something like that), and last night we were moved to a "consolidation point" in our training town of Ouahigouya. This means that we were not allowed to return to our host families and had only the clothing on our backs (and bums). Hey, we're PCTs, we adapt. So, what's a consolidation point? Well for us in meant a lot of mattresses on the floor of large rooms . . . we looked like a refugee camp. No running water (though there's nothing new in that regard). It was all very "Hotel Rwanda" without the gunfire, or course, and without drama or any threat of violence. So I suppose that makes it quite unlike Hotel Rwanda. However, in an abundance of caution, gendarmes were brought in to protect us during the night, and we had escorts back into the capital this afternoon. Now don't overreact. We were in no danger . . . very likely won't ever by in any danger at all! In fact, the PC is hosting a 4th of July party for us. Does that tell you how spoiled we are? The PC is completely prepared for little incidents like this, and their efficiency, as usual, was astounding. Today we were shipped back to the nation's capital and will simply roll with the PC's plan to continue our training. On a more positive note, I've got internet access while I'm here in the capital . . . and a flush toilet. Once again, I am a piece of flotsam on the PC training sea. The fascinating behind-the-scenes facilitators of the PC organization are totally prepared with emergency action plans and logistics personnel! It's a beautiful thing to watch. And we all wonder . . . are there really little PC elves that make the magic happen? It's likely the equivalent of Santa's Elves, but in the Sahel insteast of the North Pole, right? We can only speculate.

This eMail was composed sometime last week, during our first stay in Ouagadougou, before we moved north for PST at Ouahigouya. My, how the days run together. Someone send some nail laquer! It must be the dust. My nails! They're gray. We procure our mobile phones tomorrow. Maybe the phone store will have a few bottles of Opi. Right. Thus far, I've barely toted one piece luggage. Must be the baggage elves. Items magically disappear and then reappear. I predict that a burro will tote my bags to my ultimate site. This is all too Medicine Man-y, right? So this gal that doesn't do acronyms is surrounded . . . absolutely surrounded by acronyms. The CD, the XC, the TDA, and so many more, none of which I can remember. Then there's the APC-something, who may be the most important person in my world. You'd think I could remember his acronym. He's the man in who is my boss. The man with the power to select my job duties and, more importantly, my permanent site/village/hut. And I love him . . . we all do. He provided us SED (Small Enterprise Development) Trainees with a letter. To paraphrase, he said congratulations on winning the lottery and getting in the Burkina Faso program. He is absolutely correct. We're all so privileged to be in this country. I'll rave more later on this topic. The biggest news is that I have a strong suspicion that he's already selected my site . . . probably the one we discussed at some length during my initial interview. Golly, and we're less than 48 hours in country. Another member of his staff has already stated, "Kathy, you're going to absolutely love it," and I believe her one-hundred percent. So I obviously passed the French competency exam, about which I was really nervous. I've already been placed into the Moore language program, while some other trainees are perfecting their French. Of course I'm proud, and yet astounded. I still have deer-in-the-headlights moments when I don't understand a word of French. So imagine this – there are about 11 of us who are competent enough in French that we're being taught Moore by French speakers. Did I make that clear enough? Other than the Moore language (which is beautiful, though positively bizarre), the only other language spoken is French. No English. So when we have a question, or when the instructor needs to assist us, it's all done in French. I can't decide if I'm terrified, or if the excitement and exhilaration is the best drug I've ever known. Despite my adrenaline high of learning Moore, this does not mean that you shouldn't send cigarettes. Can I be any more clear about that?! Like cockroaches, the smokers are slowly coming out of the woodwork. Must be a stress-thing . . . or the personality flaw/trait that brought us all here in the first place. Are you getting the impression that I'm floating on a cloud? Clearly the honeymoon has begun. We left Ouagadougou and arrived in Ouahigouya to the traditional African welcome (Rusty, you know what I'm talking about). Do I sound excited? Am I completely in love with the PC, the program, the country, the continent, and life? Am I ever, ever coming home? Baby Jill, I should alert you . . . we can only speculate.

This update was written last week, on or about 24 June. It's als.o a test to determine whether I can update a blog directly by sending an eMail.   Yes, it's really, really, really hot. Yes, I'm still running on adrenaline. And yes, we're all in Ouagadougou now – all 67 of us. I have a charming roommate, and there's a lizard the size of a kitten in our room. It's freaky, I confess. It's so very fast! In truth, there are three lizards in our room, but only the kitten-size lizard is super-freaky-fast. OK, I know . . . we're PCTs. We must acclimate to reptiles the size of household pets. But it's still unnerving. Ordinarily-brave, adult men ran for their lives. It's true. One of the great guys in our group, a real manly-man, appeared at our doorway to resolve our problem. He took one look at the size of the creature and retreated as he proclaimed, "looks like you've got it under control." Now what does that tell you about the size of the beast!?   Today we were fitted for a mountain bike, interviewed by our medical officer and program director . . . and then the best part: the French language testing. I didn't understand most of the questions, but I had plenty of French answers . . . to something. We're all easing into more and more French, with a few words of Moore. Last night I called the front desk for a wake-up call. I understand enough French to understand that the patient gentlemen did not understand a word I said, and he asked that we come to the front desk. At the front desk, face-to-face, he still didn't understand my French. Finally, he asked me to write my request. Now what do we know about my French? We know that I'm completely illiterate and cannot write. But somehow I made known the request, and our wake-up call was received. The call was unnecessary, however, because scampering lizards were our alarm.   I've voluntarily turned-over my debit cards to the PC staff. It's OK, since I'm broke. I'll be reimbursed eventually, however, I had to pay for my airline ticket from DFW to Philly (long, boring tale). Then there was the cost of my excess baggage. I'm talking about my luggage, not my psychological issues. A very few of my new PC friends know the actual cost; but we decided in New York that what happens at JFK stays at JFK. So how many pounds of kitchen equipment arrived in that baggage with me? How hot is the temperature? Will my mountain bike have tassels, a basket . . . and a bell? We can only speculate.