I don’t speak French. No phrase exits my mouth with greater frequency than this: I don’t speak French. My PCV pals tease me that 20 months from now I’ll still be using the excuse, I don’t speak French. And so it’s time to woman-up and parler in French with the folks in my courtyard . . . the folks who know and love me best . . . the same folks by whom I am most intimidated.

Elizabeth is Leon’s wife. They own the courtyard and the homes within, including mine. Elizabeth runs the local bank. She is intelligent, well-educated, beautiful, and has an amazing sense of humor, as evidenced by her frequent laughter when her friends visit. When Elizabeth is outside laughing with friends, I move to the deepest recess of my hut praying that I won’t be asked to join the party. After all, I don’t speak French. And Elizabeth and her friends mix their French with Kassim, Moore, and Jula. Great googly-moogly. I cannot go out there.

Then there are the folks who live in my courtyard whose names I don’t know. How is this possible? I’ve lived here for five months and I still don’t know the names of two or three people who live within a stone’s throw of my hut. And after five months, it’s too late to ask. How rude! Hi, I realize that I’ve lived here for almost half a year and I greet you every day, but I’m so rude that I’ve never asked and/or remembered your name and now I’d like to know. Not gonna happen! So I developed Plan B. Ask Martin to make a courtyard-family-tree with me. Worked like a charm. One problem: Elizabeth came home in the middle of the project. Good Lord. Now I’ve got to talk to Elizabeth.

A few weeks ago Elizabeth arrived in the courtyard followed by a small (but not a baby) goat. A goat! The same goat that I'd seen once before, which I assumed had snuck into the courtyard. It’s got salt-n-pepper fur, and it’s not so large that it’s lost its baby-goat charm. Still. Elizabeth, we don’t live with farm animals. We sleep in blissful silence without braying donkeys and cock-a-doodlin' roosters. Elizabeth, why is there a goat here? And she just seats herself beside me on the steps, pats my hand, and laughs and laughs.

Turns out the goat is for Tabaski next year . . . or this year, I should say. But wait, goats are for the end of Ramadan, sheep are for Tabaski. Elizabeth laughs again. She’s not Muslim. In other words, in a rough translation of Elizabeth’s explanation, any excuse for a party. Now come on, you’ve got to love this woman. And so we talk farm animals, including the story of the birth of the lamb that I witnessed when I first visited Pô last August.

It was at this point that Martin approached with Rex the dog in his arms. Rex is hurt. Kathy, please examine Rex to see if his leg is broken. Martin, I am not a veterinarian. Martin places Rex at my feet and I begin the exam . . . starting with the pads of his feet and working north to his shoulders. Nothing is broken, Martin. Ask Rex to limit his running-around and he should be fine. I pick-up Rex to feel each leg, and the blasted dog poops on me. Raise your hand if you think that Elizabeth isn’t having a laughing fit at this point. Martin, Rex’s problem is that he eats too much To and has probably been kicked by our new goat.

Dog healed, goat accepted, Nassara showered, Elizabeth still laughing, and Martin filling-in the proper spelling of names of the courtyard residents, all is right with the world. And I must confess, I do speak and understand French. Still, the I don’t speak French is my favorite safety net and one which I will undoubtedly retain as long as possible. How long? We can only speculate.

Welcome to the world of Pô and to the little courtyard in which I live. Come. Join me on a tour, won't you?

On the very, very rare occasions when a vehicle drops me at my courtyard, I tell the driver that we've arrived when we see the little round hut that forms the southeast corner of the courtyard wall. It's a cute round hut, don't you think? Naturally, everyone wants to peep inside the courtyard. Let's go inside and have a look.

As you enter the courtyard, you're likely to be greeted by Rex. Here's Rex with his sister, Dora (aka Dori). Rex is still favoring his right front paw, but I suspect it's merely a ploy to get another rawhide treat. When I arrived in September 2010, Rex and Dora were mere pups. Rex and Dora bark a lot. It's hard to hear what's happening on South Park with so much barking; but I've discovered that a rawhide treat will keep 'em quiet for a few minutes. Yes, those are leaves in this photo. This means that it's afternoon and Martine hasn't returned from repose to perform her afternoon sweeping of the courtyard.

Immediately upon entering the courtyard you'll again see the charming thatch hut, which is currently full from the autumn corn harvest. Those are secco rolls leaning against the wall of the courtyard.Look closely . . . secco woven with patterns like this is generally used for walls. It's possible that this secco will be used to replace the burned roof of Leon's hangar, but I doubt it. I suspect that someone's getting a new wall somewhere in the courtyard. This is fine secco, true enough. But I know a blind man who weaves beautiful secco. That's no joke . . . he's blind and it's beautiful! Evidently, his people don't know Leon's people. Perhaps you're thinking that the charming thatched hut looks a tad lonely and isolated, but it's not. My bedroom wall is just outside this image on the left. If I had a water pistol, I could shoot right through my bedroom shutters and easily hit any mark on the hut. It's that close. And yes, this is the area where Martine sweeps every morning at 05h00.

Ah, so we've arrived inside the courtyard, looking back toward the blue metal entrance gate. What's that? Why, it's the Barbie bike, parked just below my hut. The dust from the Harmattan has masked the bright purple and the flowers. I suppose I could wash it. Note that stunning helmet dangling from the handlebar. The mandatory helmet . . . the very helmet that ruins the occasional good-hair-day.

That's my hut wall on the left, and if you look closely you'll see my kitchen window. What a lovely flower bed, non? Even though it's dry season, Leon still waters it. Imagine the bed filled with colorful flowers in the summer. Not too shabby, eh? Hens live in this bed, or at least they do a great deal of their pecking-work in it. I've given-up growing flowers in the bed. Yes, I realize that it appears lush now, but you should see it during rainy season. Stunning! Look, someone is hanging some corn to dry; and no, it's not me. What's that about?

Let's tarry a  moment at the Barbie bike and catch a glimpse of the hut, itself. You can see that I'm on an elevated terrace. In fact, I'm several feet above all the other homes in the courtyard; and the courtyard is on one of the highest hills in Pô. So I've really got a sweet spot; and being at the top means that I get a nice breeze when there's even a hint of wind. Unfortunately, a hint of wind brings mountains of dust. So you don't think that I've got real windows, do you? You've not imagined any glass windows, surely. No glass . . . only screen on the outside of metal-slatted shutters. Blue metal shutters . . . just like that blue metal door. Cute bird cage, huh? Never seen a bird inside.

Now as we approach the hut you'll see the full glory of my tin-roof hangar. Note the rough-hewn steps that lead up to my private terrace. And that's the safe way up and down. Had this photo been taken yesterday, you'd have glimpsed my round plastic table. I've moved it inside until Harmattan season ends. The table accumulated about a half-inch of dust daily. No kidding . . . daily!

Look closely. There's presently a mat on my terrace, but it's never left unrolled and unattended. Remember the goat. And Rex. And the hens. Don't need any gifts atop the mat. This mat is so old and full of sand that no amount of shaking and beating will remove the dirt. Thus, it's now an outdoor mat used for seating for me and the children when we play Uno. That tree on the left is the same tree you can see from the Google Earth image. It's odd to me that trees in this climate lose their leaves, but they do. In rainy season, my entire terrace is in deep shade. Look to the left and you'll see the path to my latrine and shower. Well, it's actually not a path, merely a little side-yard with a few immature Moringa trees, the fire pit, the beginning of a compost pit, and my clothes line. It's sometimes an obstacle course after Rex and Dora have visited; but obstacles don't last long . . . not with Martine's sweeping. On the right you'll see the grand home of Leon & Elizabeth. Wonder who is visiting, because that's not Elizabeth's moto.

Yes, I know you're anixous to peer inside. But before we step into Burkina's best PCV hut, let's venture off to the back wall of the courtyard and check out the view in the opposite direction. Voila! The fire pit. And what do we know about a fire pit? Never build your fire pit directly under your living room window. Now you get it, right? Smoke goes up and right into that window. Note how the screening is stretched on a wooden frame attached to the mud hut. And there's that tree again -- the Google Earth tree. Note the lush landscaping beneath the tree. Kidding! Got the hens to thank for that. Across the way . . . there's the home of Leon & Elizabeth. That's probably their laundry. I realize that it's difficult to detect the scale, but perhaps you can tell from the number of doors and windows that Leon's home is considerably larger than mine. Considerably!

So here's what you've been waiting for, right? Where I spend my time indoors. Here is the Kathy Davis living room. What do you see, and what don't you see? See the flat-screen plasma TV? No? Hmm. But you do see the new draperies that I brought back from my recent trip to Texas, along with the fabric covering the sofa and the pink saree scarf draped over the lit pico. Look closely between the windows and you see an African mask, left to me by Daniel; and under the mask is the beautifully-colored drawing made for me by Miss Abbey. It's Barbie, and she's trying to decide what to wear today . . . the skimpy mid-drift or the spaghetti-strapped T . . . none of which we're allowed to wear in this culture. Thus, I find the image hilarious. Plus, it's girly pink and goes well in the newly transformed living area. Note those pricey plastic golden chairs. Actually, what color is that? Curry? See all the furniture that I've painted black. Tip to you future BF PCVs: don't paint anything black or white. Should have painted everything curry. That's a Burkina map over the sofa, which is soon to be replaced by some fabulous miniature, retro, B-movie posters provided by Michael. Thanks, Michael. I've selected a dozen images with lots of pink and orange, and they will be fabulous in this room. The kite that my kids fly down in the valley is hanging over my bookcase.

Step to the back of the living room with me, please. Now you see it, don't you. Dust! Harmattan dust everywhere . . . and I dusted about 20 mintues before taking this photo. In some ways I get a kick out of the dust. After all, it travelled all the way from Libya to land in my living room. OK, so let's look at the door, also foolishly painted black by yours truly. Gray ring-around-the-door, you say? Yep, someone probably cut that door hole as an after-thought; then the mason smeared concrete around the crumbly opening. Abbey, your framed lion cub painting is hanging just to the left of the door. Incidentally, I never, never-ever sit on that sofa. It's only a sofa in the loosest sense of the word.

A quick peek in the bedroom and we'll be concluding our tour, folks. Perhaps I should have removed the newly installed curtains before the photo session. You're missing that prison-chic-look with the blue metal shutters covered by a curtain (again, a saree scarf). Yes, I realize that the walls are in dire need of decoration. I'm thinking of painting a globe above the bed and a chalkboard on the left wall above that little black truck on which the pith helmet sits. If you'll look closely at the shoes of the floor, you may get an idea of the scale of the mat, and thus the scale of the room. It's tiny. That's a queen-size bed (God love you, Daniel!), and it leaves no room to walk around. No complaints, however. I'm convinced that it's the most cushy bed in all Burkina.

What? OK, I know. You're not leaving until you've seen the latrine. Of course you want to see the luxurious bath area. And it's only natural to be curious about the only outdoor porcelain toilet south of the Volta Rouge. Well here you go. Note the built-in shelving aside the toilet . . . perfect for . . . for . . OK, I've not figured out what it's perfect for. It's in no way level, and shampoo bottles roll right off. It's also gritty, thus inappropriate for a bar of soap. Raise your hand if you see a door on the shower/toilet combo? The small black sachet directly under the shower head contains a papaya tree, recently ravaged by a hen. But it will survive to grow again . . . it always does. And soon it will be transported to the school garden for planting. The blue and yellow bucket leaks, but it's fine for catching run-off shower water, which I use to water the Moringa trees. OK, now imagine this shower pre-toilet-install and you'll see why I refer to it as the group shower. Six people, easily. Yes, sometimes I climb up on the shelves and peek over the courtyard wall to see what's going on down the hill.

I'd like to thank you for joining us on today's tour. I hope you've enjoyed my little corner of the world. Anyone feeling sorry for me for living under such sad circumstances? Or . . . anyone out there sarcastically saying "Oh, poor you . . . girly curtains, queen-size bed, porcelain toilet, artwork by Abbey" ?

How long do you think the Barbie bike would stay clean in Harmattan season? Can you click on these photos and see a larger version? When will you get a glimpse of the gourmet kitchen . . . and more of Pô?  We can only speculate.

All evidence to the contrary, I actually do some Peace Corps-y things here in Pô. Regrettably, few have anything to do with my assigned Ga Mo Wigna job in agro-forestry and environmental issues. Hopefully that will change after in-service training [IST] . . . two weeks of more training that begins on Monday in Ouagadougou. Didn’t I just finish PST?! I would highly object to more training except that IST is where PCVs gain skill in: show me the money! This means that we’ll learn about grant funding . . . blah, blah, blah. Sometimes I simply want to get out my checkbook and get things done. Ah, but that’s not the PC way. It’s all about sustainability. What happens after Kathy and her debit card leave Pô?

Ultimately I want to provide Pô with a biomass digester that will produce algae. Wanna know why? Too bad . . . trust me, you’d be bored. Google it someday while you’re waiting for water to boil. I’m also going to help my bureau with Pô’s first maisonette (chicken coop). Maisonette? Really? With those wacky French who have a word for everything, you’d think they’d have some better term for chicken coop than a word that means little home. Anyway, Pô needs chicks that will become hens that will make eggs. This is a genuine necessity, and you’d think that someone would have thought of this long ago. Not to worry, Yaya; we will make this a reality.

Perhaps my greatest success (or my only success), to date, is achieving the second of three PC goals: showing host country nationals what Americans are like. True enough, I still have days when I don’t want to leave the hut . . . when I just want to be invisible and not be Pô’s brand-new Nassara. But in general, I’m out and about in Pô, being laughed at, asking questions that any reasonable Burkinabe knows the answer to (is that dog I petted really rabid? how will that burro find its way home?), and trying to teach simple lessons (you will not get a bon-bon until you stand nicely and form a single line).

But there are other successes, too . . . tasks for the greater good. I have a Club de Commerce at the combo-high-school/middle-school about 5 km out of town. The club has two parts: a group of students in the Journalism Club, and a group in the Sales Club. The Journalism Club produces a newsletter for sale and sells ad space to small businesses in Pô. The Sales Club has a school garden, and we make liquid soap, among other things. Anything that will sell. Anything that will teach the kids about profit margins, marketing, merchandising, and money management [this from the woman who spent $80 on a taxi].

Speaking of the garden-sales group, one Saturday morning I was at the school to help make mud bricks for a new garden wall. For animal-predatory reasons, gardens need high fencing here, not mud bricks. Mud bricks? Really?! Silliest thing I’ve ever heard, albeit loads of fun. In my opinion, a goat will hop right over this new wall and take what it wants from the garden . . . but what do I know? Well, actually, I do know goats. Goats are willful, intelligent, and work in teams to take what they want. There’s probably a group of scientists somewhere worried about whether some tiny virus will ultimately devastate our planet. In my mind, scientists' energies would be better applied to worry over goats. Anyway, I was squatting on the ground working with a little wooden mold to make mud bricks, two at a time. Mud up to my elbows. I felt like the Israelites in DeMille’s The Ten Commandments. It was fabulous. Not much better than mud . . . unless it’s mud and animal poop. We made about 80 bricks. and I had the kids carve their initials into each brick. Not nearly enough bricks for a garden wall, but it’s a beginning. About 3000 more and we might win the goat versus garden battle.

Last month some of the kids were treated to a trek in the nearby Parc de Nahouri with the second-highest peak in Burkina Faso, the Pic du Nahouri. Thank you, UNESCO. Heck of a view all the way into Ghana. It was a weekend trip that included Saturday night dinner (I’ll spare you the menu), all-night singing and dancing with a local drum band (these folks know how to party), and a Sunday morning trek through the park to the mountain. We climbed the peak (465-ish meters) and met with the Chef de Village at the foot of the peak. The Chef wanted a sacrificial goat before we climbed the mountain, but he ultimately settled on a Kassim-speaking Nassara asking about his family.

So where does grant money come from? How does it get to Burkina? Will algae pellets really feed the hens in the maisonette? Indeed, how does a burro find its way home? And finally, perhaps there is indeed another reason to not object to IST . . . will there be dining and dancing in Ouaga? We can only speculate.

So I’ve been doing some traveling. Tiebele with its 16th century painted houses, Gaoua with its Lobbi culture, Brusssels with its airport-closing snowfall, and Grand Prairie with my dog . . . you know, just a quick trip here and there.

About a month ago I harvested the first of my Pô cantaloupe. Very, very large . . . the mother of all cantaloupe. Perfectly ripe. Smelled oh-so cantaloupey even through the rind . . . and also through the hole in the rind where a mouse had gnawed. But hey, I’ve eaten after a hen, so no mouse was going to stop me (us) from enjoying a melon. I took it home to be refrigerated and returned it to my bureau the following morning. Everyone seemed to really enjoy their first cold cantaloupe; but perhaps the Burkinabe are simply too polite to say that they prefer watermelon.

The five second rule doesn’t apply in this country. Drop it on the floor -- eat it. Drop it in mud -- wash it in amoeba-filled water and eat it. Mouse gnaws on your fruit . . . cut-away the mousy bits and eat it. Evidently Burkinabe mouse mothers teach their children well. Despite Hassan’s liberal application, no amount of mouse poison halted the mouse consumption of cantaloupe. After my recent travels, I returned to Pô to find that my cantaloupe garden had been excavated and replaced with cool season onions and cabbage. When rainy season returns, me and some mouse mothers are going to go round and round. I will have cantaloupe this summer.

Shortly after the cantaloupe harvest in early December I boarded a bus for Burkina’s southwest . . . plan being to visit a friend in Gaoua, stop in Bobo-Dioulasso to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the nation’s independence, and then go on south to Banfora to see the Cascades. I was also on a mission for bamboo. Gaoua is fantastic. I had lunch at The Four Seasons. Then I visited a museum dedicated to the Lobbi people. The Lobbi women pierce their upper and lower lips and fill the holes with two thimble-size wooden pegs. Holy Mother! Ouch! When the women are angry with their husbands the two pegs are replaced with a single long peg that seals their mouth. This gives the men the ol’ silent treatment.

Returning from Gaoua’s Lobbi museum, I didn’t feel terrific. Dehydration, I thought. By the evening I had a high fever. The next morning I caught the bus for Bobo, and when I arrived I had a temperature of 103. I was quickly returned to Ouagadougou where I spent a week in the Med Unit. Why? Dengue Fever, also known as break-bone fever. So the ol' malaria mosquito takes the night shift. She only bites from dusk til dawn. But the mosquito that carries dengue works days carrying the dengue virus. The bitch! There is no protection, no prophylaxis. And this mother of a mosquito is always out there . . . waiting.

Finally, on the day that I was released from Med Unit to return home to Pô, I received word that my own mother was hospitalized in the U.S. Long story short: I was returned to the U.S. for two weeks . . . from just before Christmas until a few days after New Year’s. Not altogether a bad thing. Thanks, mother; and I’m glad you’re better now.

So between my Dengue and my mother’s illness, I was away from Pô for just over four weeks. How will I ever reintegrate? Is my APCD correct . . . does Dengue Fever really sound more exotic than malaria? Is there really a Four Seasons in Gaoua? Do you really think that those Lobbi husbands mind the silent treatment? We can only speculate.

I really have no business in the SED program. I don’t do numbers. Well, perhaps I do numbers, but I don’t like it and I must use silly equations to perform simple tasks. Converting kilometers into miles? Divide by three and then multiply by two. That will get you very close. Converting the dollar into Burkina’s CFA? Multiply by five and add some zeros . . . and I still get confused about the number of zeros, which is a rather important element, don’t you think? Taking CFA to dollars? Well, there’s the obvious division by five and removal of some zeros; but dividing by five is hard for me. I must have missed the division day in school. Thus, I multiply by two. Ten thousand CFA is 20 dollars U.S. I don’t know why this works but it does. In fact, my brain hurts trying to remember the elementary school reason that this works.

I was in Ouagadougou last Friday, wanting to go home to Pô. I said to Ashley that I was ready to go home, and she remarked on my calling Pô home. I’ve sometimes pondered the fact that I really do consider Pô home, but hearing Ashley’s observation really struck me. Pô is home. I just spent two weeks at home in the U.S., and I still think of Pô as home.

As ready as I was to go home, I overslept  in Ouaga (jet lag) and missed the 10h00 bus to Pô. And with the speed at which I was moving (or lack thereof), I was obviously going to miss the 12h30 bus, too. PCVs aren’t allowed to travel after dark, so the 16h00 bus was out of the question . . . or was it? Not being the poster-child for rule-follower, I called my favorite taxi driver [yes, I have a favorite taxi driver]. We made a quick stop at the PC HQ Bureau to pick-up the Barbie bike and then headed to the bus station. That’s when it occurred to me . . . why not have Seydou drive me to Pô? Drive me right to the door of my courtyard with the bike and over 100 pounds of luggage . . . luggage which would have taken me all weekend to lug home from the bus station.

Seydou looked at me as if to say, Hey Nassara, I really like you, but this is gonna cost you. I opened my wallet and literally handed him every CFA bill contained therein. Didn't even count it first . . . we counted it together; and with my stupendous math skills, I quickly realized I was paying $80. Eighty dollars versus 3,000 CFA via bus (hey, you do the math). I was so ready to go home to Pô that I would have paid anything. Anything!

So why was I in Ouaga and away from site for over four weeks? Can you say Dengue Fever? Well, indeed there was a brush with Dengue, but that didn’t keep me away for four weeks. Details to follow; thus soon I will not make you speculate. Better question: where are all the holiday gifts sent to me in Burkina before I realized that I’d be spending the holidays in the States? For this answer we can only speculate.