I like to think that my life operates on a need to know basis. Do I need to know? Do I really need to know. If I don’t really need to know, don’t tell me. Although I’m a SED volunteer, I don’t think that I really need to know about abstract macro-economics theory. This outlook simplifies things; and need to know sounds rather James Bond espionagesque. I like saying it: need to know basis.


I live on a hilltop. Possibly the highest hilltop in Po. On my bike-ride to my home, I can look down over other smaller hills. I think that I’m at the top, and I go up and down several times daily. One thing boggles me: it’s my Barbie-purple mountain bike with lots of gears. The final 50 feet to my home is straight uphill. I mean really up a steep hill. Ask anyone.

I’m not a biker. I don’t understand gears. Once I had a ten-speed bicycle, but I didn’t understand that either. All I ask for is a cute basket . . . maybe some tassles. But no. Here in Burkina Faso, the PC has equipped me with a mountain bike. It has gear-shift levers on each handle. That’s two sets of gears that are somehow associated with the bike chain. The left handle shifts into three different gears, and the right handle has eight different gears. Eight! I don’t know what these gears do, and I don’t think that I need to know. I’ve been told that if the left-handle gear is in first [is that the number one 1 or the number three 3? I presume it’s 1], then the right hand gear should not be in 8 . . . or maybe it’s 1 – I forget. I don’t know why this gear guideline exists. I don’t want to know why. Need to know basis.

Here’s what I do know: The higher the number on the right hand gear (7 or 8, for instance), the more difficult it is to pedal. As for the left-hand gear, the lower the number, the easier it is to pedal. I’ve never used the number 3 gear on the left hand. I’m a number 2 type of gal. In general, I ride around Po with number 2 gear on the left and number 6 or 7 on the right. After all, you want to be pedaling and accomplishing some forward motion, not merely spinning the pedals. I do know, too, that gears affect this physical aspect of cycling.

So I live on a hill, and yet, after that first 50 feet leaving my home, I have to pedal harder to get into town. Conversely, upon returning home, I can go flying up toward my home with almost no effort . . . until that last 50 feet. I’d like to see a topographical map of my hilltop. On the other hand . . . need to know basis. Would it really affect my daily rides?

I’m always thrilled when there are no cows, no burros, no herds of goats in my path, and I can put the right gear in 8, pedal with some effort, and fly right up to that last 50 feet, whereupon I quickly downshift (is that the word?) all the way from 8 to 2-3 and climb the hill. This gear-shifting strategy doesn’t work with livestock in the path. When faced with livestock there’s nothing to do but go steadily, which makes it very difficult to climb that hill. When slowed by livestock, I’ve actually been known to use gear 1 on the left side and gear 2 on the right . . . and still not make it to the top of my hill. I’ve been told that grown men, strong grown men have difficulty getting to the top without stopping.

How can it be that I’m on a Po peak and there’s an uphill run into town? It’s a mysterious topographical-thing, right? Today, with a little jar of mayonnaise I made the uphill run without stopping. We Texans? We’re genetically equipped to know that all mayonnaise must be refrigerated at all times. We’re born knowing this as surely as we’re born knowing how to breathe. Now I’m told that mayonnaise really doesn’t need to be refrigerated here in Burkina Faso. How can that be? What’s in this Burkina mayonnaise that eliminates the need for refrigeration? Need to know basis, right? We can only speculate.

OK, we all know the best-seller, and here in Burkina Faso I’ve got the second two down pat. Pray. I prayed that the food placed in front of me by my kind host family could at least be observed (meaning stared-at without nausea . . . ‘cause you know it ain’t gonna be eaten) for the 30 minutes that had to be spent with the family. It was God’s way of getting even for all those meals at which I forgot to pray and give thanks. These days my prayers are more simple, please, God, let my mobile phone find its way back to me.

Then there’s Love. I’m in love with everyone. For the most part, despite some first-week-at-site-set-backs, I’m obviously back in the PC honeymoon phase. There’s David, my new friend at the post office – I stop in just to say hello. He thinks it’s funny that his name is David and that my last name is Davis. I don’t get it, and I wonder what his real name is; but I do love David. Plus, he does not charge any fees for items that we PCVs must always pay for at the Poste. Good friend to love, right?

Then there’s Bibatta at the marche. I’ve got my own personal shopper. No joke. A personal shopper . . . and this gal’s a dream! After two days here in Po, she took me by the hand as if to say, You stupid American woman. Just tell me what you want and I’ll walk you through the grand marche and collect your items at the best prices. My own personal shopper. So I love Bibatta. And I’m still in love with my stage and the PCVFs. No surprise there. I also love exploring Po. I love laughing with my host country nationals. If I manage to speak French well, they hit me with Kassim, just to see how I do at their local language. Gotta love that.

But how about Eat? Haven’t mastered this one yet. I’m turning yellow from Daniel’s Magical Mystery Curry Mix . . . or maybe it’s Hep A. Oh, come on now . . . of course it’s not Hep A, though I wouldn’t be the first in my stage to contract with the virus.

And so, a few words on food . . . or, rather, cooking here in Burkina Faso. My Po kitchen may not see much action. Meat, or any source of protein, is definitely an issue. It’s still frightening to me, so I avoid it . . . both the meat and the issue of protein. But the produce? It’s fine, albeit not at Central Market standards (not by a long shot). All produce must be washed several times then soaked in bleach water. Yeah. It’s true.

So what’s available? What is my personal shopper finding for me? Onions, peppers (all sorts), tomatoes (learning to love ‘em, sans seeds and pulp, etc., which doesn’t leave a lot of meat on the fruit), eggplant, chives, cucumbers (still not a favorite), cabbage (great in a stir-fry). And all of these veggies are fabulous with Daniel’s Magical Mix. I could eat this daily. Wait! I do eat this daily. And it’s yummy, but in no way constitutes a balanced diet. So Eat has yet to be perfected. And I’d be excited about potential weight loss, but it comes with a price: loss of muscle and loss of hair. Great googly moogly!

And then there’s the problem with the produce. It goes bad within a day or two, and it’s not even hot season, when I’m told that produce goes bad within hours. There’s also the little matter of dishwashing. Imagine cooking your best recipe, and when it’s time to clean-up, you’ve got no sink. No water. No dish soap. No scrubber. Certainly no dishwasher; and even the PC elves draw the line at magically washing your dishes while you sleep. Of course, who’s going to leave any dirty dish or morsel of food in a home with a gnawing creature roaming about. Rather places a damper on preparing a yummy feast, wouldn’t you say?

But let’s stop the complaining and get down to the recipes. Here we go:  Onions, peppers, well-cleaned/seeded tomato flesh, chives, sauteed in oil with Daniel’s curry and a squeeze of lime. Oh, God. I could lick the bowl. In fact, I should lick the bowl. This would solve the dishwashing problem. This same concoction can be spooned atop bruschetta slices sauteed until crisp in heart-stopping palm oil. What could be better?

Variation on the above theme. Omit curry, add tomato paste, and serve over fried eggplant slices browned in oil with breadcrumbs (which Rob later announced weren’t bread crumbs . . . let’s go no further). Chopped cabbage can also be added to either recipe. Then there’s tabbouleh. I got couscous in Ouaga, and menthe is plentiful but must be used within about two hours. What’s up with that? It’s menthe . . . you can’t kill it in Texas.

Today I bought four little eggs. Real hen eggs. Heretofore I’ve only eaten guinea fowl eggs with my host family. Did you know that the female guinea fowl isn’t really a domesticated hen. She won’t sit on her eggs. Thus, after a hit-and-run mating, she’ll roam away from the male and from her eggs. Bitch! So her eggs must be collected and secretly placed under a sitting chicken. Remember the Leave It To Beaver episode when Beaver touched the bunnies and the mother rabbit wouldn’t nurse? Gus put vanilla on the nose of the mother rabbit. Well, with guinea eggs and chickens, it’s something like that. But on with the story. Tomorrow for breakfast I’m making toad-in-the-hole . . . with my lovely loaf of Ghana bread (Google it, you’ll see why we think it’s so lovely), two eggs, and some delicious American hot sauce that I also bought in Ouaga. I can’t wait.

Then there’s the little tricks to eating, which vary greatly depending on the day. For instance, Saturday I was after a pineapple. I was craving pineapple, a squeeze of lime, with a final tiny dip in the hot sauce. But alas, no pineapple today. Are they out of season? Did the truck break-down? Did the pineapple ladies have a hangover and fail to get to the market? How does this culture work? So I made-do with bananas . . . also with lime and hot sauce, and a dab of sugar. Should have flambeed ‘em. Why not, right? Who doesn’t love bananas flambe? As Brie would say, I don’t know a person!


All this doesn’t sound too bad, does it? And if you’re not craving something now, I’m surprised. So the obvious question – does cocktail of the week continue? Absolutely. And in preparation for the BikeAThon beginning here in Po, I actually have cooked and entertained. In fact, back in Ouaga I made simple snack-type meals for some of the PCVFs, and these guys looked as if they’d never before been fed. Must have been the Belgian endive or the pita and feta. So you see, when one controls one own ingredient-destiny, Burkinabe cuisine is, in fact, oh-so doable.

Will I finally overcome my fear of the local flour (bugs, you know), make dough, and try to recreate magical Daniel’s egg rolls with Thai peanut dipping sauce? Did I really use the monogrammed linen cocktail napkins for entertaining? When will I next have an opportunity to wow someone with a simple snack? I’m under the standard three-month lock-down when we new PCVs aren’t allowed to leave site. Will I abide . . . or is Marina Market just too alluring? We can only speculate.

Composed Wednesday, 1 September (not quite a week ago): Tuesday was my first full day at my permanent site. My electricity went off sometime in the night of August 31st. I know this because I was awakened by the sound of a medium-size creature in my room. Sounded as if it was on the night stand by my bed. I use the words night stand loosely. It’s merely my two large FedX boxes, now soft from humidity, stuffed with old clothing to maintain the box shape, stacked atop each other, and covered with one of my saree scarves. How girly, huh? And on this night stand are girly items. Candles (including the flameless variety), photo of Jill (naturally), the stone box of aroma balm from French Lick (of course it’s there, Sally), and a few other items.

My point is, what was the creature doing at the girly bedside other than frightening me? Was it the aroma therapy balm? We must acknowledge: few can resist a balm. I reached for the light switch; and you know what happened next. No lights. So I banged on the boxes and asked the creature to quiet-down, put-in my ear plugs, and tried to fall asleep. What was the creature? Sounded too large for a mouse. Rat, perhaps? Lizard? I’m thinking not a reptile inasmuch as I thought I heard gnawing. Yeah, that’s right, gnawing. Not what you want to hear your first night alone in West Africa.

OK. So yesterday was that inevitable day. The day when the official PC vehicle dumps you and your luggage at site and drives away. And you’re alone. All alone. Have I failed to convey the fact that I was alone? I had twelve (12, count ‘em) luggage items and boxes . . . not including little items such as my medical kit and gift boxes from my fabulous state-side friends, plus my Barbie-purple-floral mountain bike . . . though I wonder whether Barbie rides mountain bikes. Well, I suppose 21st century Barbie bikes up mountains. In any event, most everything arrived; a few items somehow didn’t make the trip from Koudougou to Ouagadougou to Po. Don’t you love saying all those words? Here, I’ll help: KooDoGoo, WahGaDoGoo, and Po . . . as in Poe. To use my southern drawl, Po Kathy lost her mobile telephone. And did I mention that I was alone? No one’s phone to borrow to call the bureau to report that my phone just rode away in the PC car. Over 24 hours later, still no phone, no electricity, and I spent most of the day without water. But remember the PC’s promise: sometimes under conditions of hardship. It was the phone that I missed most.

So what did I do on my first day? After several trips to my obscenely filthy latrine, in the rain, I biked down the hill to my office. Spent about an hour at the office where my counterpart (homologue, in French) was kind enough to call my phone to see who answered. And indeed someone did answer; so it’s well known by PC officials that my mobile is missing. Somehow, sometime, those ubiquitous PC elves will return the phone; until then, I’m not a happy camper. And I’m an unhappy camper in the dark. Alone . . . did I mention that? So with my quickly-dwindling laptop battery, I’ve made a list of successes and failure of the day. This probably best sums-up my mood. First, the successes. Today I successfully:

• Unpacked and organized my charming home and kitchen.
• Hung a dry-erase board.
• Visited the market for luncheon items (veggies) and received two marriage proposals. Guess that sacrifice of a large animal won’t be necessary, after all. So much for Tuareg seers.
• Made lunch at 3 p.m. – my first meal since Monday lunch. Today is Wednesday.
• Maneuvered the maggot-ridden toilet in the rain, countless times. I think that’s enough said on that topic.
• Made an ashtray *
• Cried and was happily reminded that I very much have feet of clay.
• Found a gabazillion new blue ballpoint pens. Quite an achievement, actually.
• Found my way to my office and back home again. I also use the word office loosely. I sat in the courtyard of my bureau. It is, however, a lovely courtyard with papaya trees.
• Made a collage from magazine photos for my kitchen wall. Lots of black. Seriously, lots and lots of black. I told myself that I needed lots of black for contrast; but I think we all know that’s a big fat lie.
• Figured out what today’s date is – 1st September. This is truly a success as I’ve been that disoriented for the two weeks leading up to swear-in.

Now, the failures. I completely failed to:

• Hang a mirror on the wall. And after the dry-erase board installed so easily.
• Locate my mobile telephone.
• Understand any more French speakers. Why can I speak it but cannot understand it?!
• Be useful in any manner whatsoever.
• Get over my PCV and PCVF withdrawal. Tops on my to-do list and I failed miserably - exclamation mark, exclamation mark.
• *Quit smoking; and I vowed to go to a pay phone, if necessary, to have more cigs sent from the states (but I did not!) Bad day, wouldn’t you say?
• Be culturally sensitive to Ramadan . . . asked Yakama (or maybe it’s Yakaba) to take tea with me this weekend. Ooops. Yak is a new friend that I’ve made in less than a day. He visits often and we chat on my covered veranda (covered veranda . . . conditions of hardship, right?).
• Get a grip on the directions here in the small town of Po. I still get lost.
• Plant my garden seeds at the proper depth. The soil here is difficult, despite my ultra-light spade and cute pink gardening gloves.
• ID and eliminate the mysterious bedroom creature.

So when you think of Kathy Davis you think fashion icon, right? Obviously not. But today I really topped myself. I wore a skirt inside-out. True. It’s a new wrap skirt (horrible light green colors) made from pagne fabric. Wrap skirt . . . get it? So there are no seams. Or are there? Ah ha! I spy a hem and a piece sewn into the ruffle near the hem. Seams! Should have been my first clue. I wore said inside-out skirt while biking all over Po. Po Kathy in that Po inside-out pagne wrap. I stopped at two bus stations trying to locate my mobile, just in case some PC elf sent it via bus. I wore it to the poste, to the internet-key store, and finally to a grocer for a Sprite. No, the fact that the skirt was inside out didn’t escape my attention. But let’s remember, I’m not living in a land where one can run into a bathroom in any office and reverse the skirt. Bathrooms are virtually non-existent, and even latrines are often hard to find . . . and if you find one you’ll wish you hadn’t. Hey, at least my hair looked good.

Speaking of hair. Last week I blew-out an international surge protector with my flat iron. It made a very loud pop and filled the room with that dreaded electrical smell. The good news is that the flat iron survived. I was a tad angry until reminded that the surge protector did exactly what it was intended to do. It saved the flat iron. I think we all know which I would have rather saved. Someone should call Magellan’s and tell them that their very expensive international made-especially-for-valuable-laptops white surge protector with the French plugs works beautifully. Wish they’d send me a new one for all that money I’ve given them over the years. Here’s the odd thing: the flat iron is dual voltage. I didn’t really need the surge protector, or did I? Did I use the word ruffle in this post? Me, in ruffles? So is it all lighthearted fun and games such as described in this post? Hardly. Do I really continue to have good hair days? When will I tell you the truth about my first week at site? We can only speculate.

After the talking we new PCVs marched about to be assessed by the other genuine VIPs. Then it was off to the air-conditioned Embassy for a small party with splendid cocktail trays of food (finally, decent food) and wine. I don't remember much after that . . . probably the excitement of the afternoon, right? I talked with some VIPs, perhaps a Japanese Ambassador . . . I believe that's what someone told me.

Remember the film Roman Holiday? Where Audrey Hepburn greets dozens of VIPs with different greetings, all in their native language. I felt just like that. The PC did a marvelous job of handing me a dozen ways to say "Yo, lookin' good rockin' that pagne; great to meet ya!"

I also recall being collected for the signing of the official oath. It wasn't enough to swear-in orally in 100-degree heat, oh no. Someone took me from the wine bar to execute the official form. We then returned to our hotel where we continued the traditional ceremony of my stage, aka Cocktail of the Week.

There . . . I did it. A detested abbreviation AND five (5) exclamation marks. Got some great video that I'll try to add to this posting ASAP. In the meantime, where's Kathy Davis? Where is acronym-hating, exclamation-mark-detesting Kathy?! Is the PCV transformation complete? We can only speculate.