I recently discovered that the definition of  desertification has nothing to do with ensuring that I get ice creme after dinner. OK. I already knew that. But I’d almost abandoned all hope of stopping the desertification of Sub-Sahelian little Pô. One word. Bamboo! Yes, Dan, bamboo is finally here.

My very dear aunt and uncle have been great supporters of my PC work, in every conceivable way -- financially, emotionally . . . every possible way. And they recently commented that it was nice to know that I was enjoying my service, and not counting the days until I’d return to the States. Hmmm. Well, that’s almost correct.

The PC isn’t the army. We’re not forced to remain here. But with that said, I do have days when I’m counting the days until I can return . . .  it's 376 and less than 18 hours! More often, however, I’m counting the few remaining days that are flying-by until I must leave this country. I love it here . . . wherever here is . . . either in Africa, or West Africa, or Burkina Faso, or Pô.

Actually, I don’t think it’s Burkina that has me so enchanted, though I’ve found the Burkinabe to be universally kind and tolerant. Rather, I think it’s my little village of Pô. And this man, Yaya, my homologue. Yaya knows exactly how to handle me. When it comes to my brain-storming about community development, Yaya's not afraid to ask, Kathy, have you lost your mind?! And he is supremely patient with my French. I'd be lost and miserable without Yaya, despite the miracle that is the village of little Pô. Pô, the parallel universe of Burkina Faso or possibly all of Africa . . . the twilight zone where everything that should happen in this culture happens opposite of the norm. And am I ever lucky that it does.

Laundry is women’s work in Burkina Faso. Operating a mill is men’s work, though it’s the women who walk for miles with whole grains and corn in giant tubs on their head. But not in Pô. Here we have what I term Laundry Alley. It’s a little dirt lane with no less than four laundry services, all owned and fully staffed by men. Whoa! And our mill? Run by women for women. Here's our newest mill, which can be mounted to a bicycle for portability and for easy of use. Parallel universe, I tell you. In a country where the chief complaint of most PCVs is the difficulty in changing the culture, I must wonder, why endeavor to change the culture? Just work within it. Easy for me to say. I live in Pô.

In Burkina all things happen at a snail’s pace. A simple meeting can take weeks to arrange. But not in Pô. Here, if you’re gone for a few days or dare to blink, something has changed . . . a business come or gone, fields created from nothing, a chicken farm is built, the creating of a two-day classes on climate change. True. Climate change education . . . at the mayor’s office, right here in little Pô. How is it that Burkina Faso is next-to-last in the U.N.’s rating of 3rd world countries, yet Pô is so extraordinary? I’ve decided to begin taking some small measure of credit . . . though Pô will continue to be fine long after I’m gone. Here’s what I’m doing, and this is only note-worthy because it’s taken me 11 and ½ months at site to see any accomplishment(s) directly attributable to me . . . and to the generosity of my friends and family.

The chicken coop, which is so far beyond your concept of a chicken coop that it’s really a chicken farm. A real farm, with living accommodations. We’re still waiting on financing for high-volume egg-producers and a wealth of other necessary equipment (like a way to get water to the farm); but the project will eventually be a huge success, providing training to the young people of Pô and providing additional protein (eggs) to many residents throughout the entire Province.

But my current favorite and pet project? The bamboo project is finally underway. This was my primary personal objective for Pô, and it’s finally begun. Just three little bamboo stands, but more plants have been ordered. Why bamboo? Because it’s the fastest-growing plant in the world and, when dried, its stalks have the same burning properties as traditional hardwood trees. Think BTUs. So Pô can stop the desertification and deforestation and use bamboo for its cooking fires. Additionally, the bamboo stalks can be used to replace the traditional wood used for construction; and villagers can use smaller bamboo stalks for furniture (in lieu of the traditional wood presently utilized). Bamboo also makes effective wind-breaks, can be used as a living fence (keeping rapacious hens at bay), and prevents erosion in this wind-blown, deforested land that is constantly under threat of desertification.

We will soon have completed two internet spots, one at the high school and one at the mayor’s office (in the revamped library), which will offer computer classes covering topics from general usage (how to use a mouse) to word processing and research on the internet. Note that the computer classes will be taught by my students. Worked myself right out of a job.

Soon we'll be bringing nutritious soy products to Pô, including classes in tofu production and cheese making. Protein is the name of the game.

Then there’s the tiny little things hardly worth mentioning, though I will:

• My Club de Commerce teaching business skills to students; 
• Polio and meningitis vaccination campaigns;
• Soap making, hand-make paper, crafts, tie-dye, and cooking classes;
• English classes;
• Classes on the importance of crop rotation and irrigation techniques;
• Tree planting and grafting mango and gardening instructions, including competitions;
• Placing trash barrels throughout Pô;
• Mural for World AIDS day with a pledge by the residents of Pô to live healthy lifestyles at the Maison de Jeune (Youth Center);
• The Mural for International Women’s Day with a world map and advertising board at the Maison de Femme (Women’s Center).  Obviously, Pô is big on murals . . . and I'm just the gal to paint 'em.  

A few weeks ago I hosted Demyst. This means that trainees of the new agriculture stage came to my little village, my litte courtyard, my little hut and learned what it's like to be a real-live PC Volunteer. To be demystified. Right.

The frequency with which I reference movie lines should be a clue as to what I miss most (or almost most) about home. I miss movies. And it's not as if I'm without movies here in Burkina. Between what I brought and what's been given to me, I've watched enough movies to make my APCD cringe. Favorite movie? Well, it used to be Lawrence of Arabia . . . look right and you'll see my favorite quote from that (or any) movie.

But let's examine more closely that philosophic line given by David Lean to the character of ol' T.E. Lawrence. At the time our pal T.E. says, The trick, William Potter, is not minding that it hurts,  the good Lieutenant is still in comfy Cairo and hasn't yet ventured into Arabia. Nay, he's not yet eaten Bedu food. Hasn't yet drunk from the Harith well. Ah, the Harith are a dirty people. And so he doesn't yet know that he'll have five days of diarrhea from the Bedu food, nor that he'll get parasites and amoebic dysentery from the water at the Harith's well. I believe the same can be said of my demysters and their upcoming 27 months in Burkina. . . and who am I to warn them. Oh, wait! I was their demyst hostess.

I had a good group of new trainees. I'm confident that they'll each find their way and become excellent volunteers in the new agriculture program. Despite all my complaints about my French skills, I know that they've got the best LCF (Language and Culture Facilitator), Cathy, because she was my LCF. Here are the girls and I at the farm, or maisonette, sitting in chicken poop and saw dust. Remember, the trick, new PCTs, is not minding that it hurts. Although the chicken coop is far from complete (still awaiting those high-volume egg producers), it was a fun experience to show off my first real project and run our fingers through dozens of chicks.

Two of the new trainees discovered the wonders of my marche and pagnes. I think you can guess which two. And there's Kyle holding my pet genet, Ono-Flower. Little Flower has now gone to live at the farm, and no, that's not a euphamism. Flower is now at Ranch Nazinga where she'll thrive until she's old enough to make baby genets and assist with the repopulation of genets here in The B.F. Cute, huh?

So is that a shower cap that Elijah is wearing? What tailor would create such a cap? And if Cathy indeed is the best LCF, how do we explain my lack of French? So over a year in country -- do I yet mind that it hurts? We can only speculate.

Mike recently posed an interesting question: where in the world are you if you can say Today I went to the Poste and feel quite proud of the accomplishment? Why, it must be here in The B.F. If you were asked in the States, what did you do today? and if you replied I went to the post office, you'd really seem like a total Loser . . . capital L! But not here in The B.F. Capital T.

Long ago Hilary and I came up with a motto: Just one thing! I even wrote in on the chalkboard that I painted on my kitchen wall: Just one thing. One thing every day. Simple! Seeing my chalkboard, numerous volunteers have commented on the wisdom (or simple-mindedness) behind this motto. In all candor, you'd be surprised how difficult it is to get out of the hut, then leave the courtyard, then go into the village, and then accomplish anything. Anything! So I embraced this challenge . . . optimistically, if not enthusiastically. For instance, two days ago I picked bell peppers from my garden. Mission accomplished. Just one thing: Food Security harvest from Model Garden. I can VRF that . . . and for you non-PCVs, that means it will get reported to Congress. As if Congress doesn't have better things to do.

In reality, I've been quite busy. I learned how to make cheese and tofu. Francoise is a young woman here in Pô. I want to make her rich . . . rich in The B.F. defined as being able to feed and educate one's children. She knows how to make cheese and tofu, and I want to help her start a business. GaMo Wigna is fascinated by the concept of tofu. Especially fascinated that its by-product can be fed to chickens and used in making bars of soap. Giant cauldrons of soy milk, tamarind juice, vinegar. Double double toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble . . .this has giant mess-o-fun written all over it.

Then there's the planning for World AIDS Day. A little project called Paint The Town Red. This involves yet another mural, this time with a painted pledge to indulge in a healthier lifestyle. Everyone in attendance will have the opportunity to dip their hands in red paint and plaster their handprints onto the white wall below a red AIDS ribbon. It's finger-painting at it's best. Got to love that.

And then there's the new mill, or moulin.  This little mill will grind corn, millet, and yes, even soy beans for tofu. But wait! There's more. The mill is sturdy yet tiny. So small that it can be mounted on a bicycle and taken from courtyard to courtyard or from village to village. Not only can it be mounted on a bicycle, it can be powered by a bicycle. Just raise that back tire off the ground and pedal-away on a stationary bike, grinding corn all the while. Nifty, huh? How is it that the simplest of things here in Burkina can make such a tremendous impact? I think it's the Just One Thing philosophy.

A few other smalll things. I'm seeking funding for some trash barrels to be placed in our marche. Stop with the trash, already! In some ways Pô is very progressive. Our mayor recently instituted a trash pick-up program. This involves two men with a donkey cart who will empty a trash container (oh-so rare here) into the cart. It's hilarious. We still have trash everywhere on the streets; but if presented with trash barrels, most of Pô's residents will use them. If you built it, they will come. Or in this case, if you built it, they will toss. And yes, you can bet that the trash barrels will be painted with the PC logo by yours truly. I may not leave Pô until I've painted every paintable surface.

So if I've been so busy, so seemingly productive, why doesn't it feel that way? If I'm so busy, how is it that I've got time to begin a new blog? And since the The in The Netherlands is capitalized, why shouldn't I capitalize the the in The B.F.? Who can name the idiom describing the photo at the top of this post? We can only speculate.

Ebben has a theory. Or perhaps it was originally someone else's theory, and Ebben merely exposed me to said theory. Ready? OK. Donkeys regularly pass gas, and evidently the noise or the wind or the smell frightens them. Then they run and cry. Ebben says cry. I say bray. Donkey’s don’t cry . . . they bray, right? And I’m not positive that they’re donkeys. I say burros.  Burro: is that a Texas-thing? Anyway, there's not much more amusing to me than seeing a burro running and braying at the same time. And we know all too well that burros bray in the night, waking everyone . . . so I wonder whether they run in the dark. I like Ebben's theory. I think it has some validity. In a little burro brain, I suspect they wonder, what the heck was that?! and they turn, look, and run-off braying.

Golly, the things you think you can’t handle until you have to and do. So I’m standing outside on the terrace Wednesday night pouring cups of bisap into flimsy plastic sachets using a funnel, and suddenly I’m surrounded by ants. Millions . . . nay, probably billions of ants. I scream for Martin (who, praise the Lord, is home from vacation) and retreat to the hut. But Martin is either having his dinner, from which absolutely nothing will interrupt him (other than Elizabeth), or he’s left the courtyard. In any event, I find myself inside the hut stomping on ants, very large ants . . . some very, very large ants. But no amount of stomping stops the ants, which are coming in under the closed door and on both sides. The floor is literally crawling . . . moving . . . alive with ants. No amount of squealing seems to be attracting any attention. Eventually a crowd arrives, but no one will dare step onto the moving terrace. Finally, I throw 5000 cfa out the door and scream for a child to take my bike and buy some insecticide. With the arrival of the insecticide (an eternity later), the crisis slowly subsides. Coincidentally, everyone from GaMoWigna decided to drop by throughout the evening. Now these guys are specialists in everything plant-and-animal-related. Experts! But no one can agree as to what caused the ant invasion. The troupe was derranged. Yeah, I'd say so. The rain caused the movement. What rain? The cool temperature puts them on the move. Cool!? OK. And they won't hurt you. Really!?! So why would no one venture forth to my terrace?

Recall that Sada's mother recently lost her life. I say recently, but check the date of my last blog post and you'll realize that it was over a week ago. Evidently the funeral is this Saturday. What?! All those folks in the courtyard last Sunday . . . the ones to whom Leon was pouring Scotch . . . that wasn't the funeral? Talk about wildlife! I've been told that in Burkina there may actually be one or more days of what we would consider a wake or a funeral service and (get this) that the actual burial may not take place for months! In this climate? Think about that.

So if it's not a fight with a mother hen [her chicks got into my well-fenced garden], or the very large lizard that lives behind the map in my kitchen, or ants on the march, it's a bat in the house. Martin will simply trap a bat in his cupped hands and release it to the wind. I like a bat; I really do. And I've had my rabies shots, but still I'm not inclined to touch one.

So here in the B.F., if it's not one thing, it's your mother. And, yes Virginia, they are burros! Hasn't anyone in this country read Brighty Of The Grand Canyon? Have we learned a lesson about always keeping insecticide on hand? Where do you suppose Sada's mother is being kept? We can only speculate.

Coined by the genius that is Hugo, we have a new term for Burkina Faso: The BF. This morning I was wildly busy here in The BF . . . laundry, dusting, cleaning the courtyard after a devastating rainstorm, etc.; and having stepped away for too long, my coffee & Baileys got cold. So I popped it into the microwave while I was waiting for the bathtub to fill. Oh, wait! Dreaming again. No microwave . . . certainly no bathtub. But I do have Baileys.

It’s a very emotional time for, I dare say, about 99% of we PCVs who arrived last summer. Mid-service blues, I believe it’s called. Blues?! Mid-service panic-attacks, depression, paralysis, and anger would be much more accurate descriptions. Most all are suffering from one or more of these maladies; in my case, the former. Refusal to leave the hut, arguably, is the number one symptom.

So I returned from my Mid-Service Conference to discover that Sada’s mother had died in the night, only 12 hours before I arrived back in Pô. Unfortunately I didn’t discover this sad news until I had run-up to Sada, skipping and frisky as a baby goat, delighted to be back in Pô, whereupon I saw the sadness on Sada’s face. Sada, what’s wrong? Upon her announcement, I burst into tears, sat beside her, and hugged her. My behavior was a bit inappropriate for The BF, where everyone is completely stoic upon even the saddest of occasions; but I suppose I achieved Goal 2 of the PC: providing the Burkinabe with an insight into American behavior.

I’ve had loads of visitors during my 11 months here in Pô. Other PCVs seem to enjoy Pô . . . or perhaps they simply can’t resist my charismatic personality. Right. Anyway, after comparing sites with other PCVs, I’ve begun to realize that I live in a dreamy, insulated bubble here in Pô. This isn’t the typical village in The BF. Pô is an oddity among Burkinabe towns. We have an ATM, but no eggs. We have a biomass digester that powers our clinic, but one can’t purchase a simple sleeping cot here. We have champagne, but no yoghurt. Bizarre, right?

Equally bizarre is that I’ve lived here for 11 months and have yet to know of any deaths. So with the loss of Sada’s mother, this will be my first funeral. Culturally, I’m looking forward to the event. Emotionally, I’m dreading it. In The BF, one doesn’t bring food to the family following a death. Well, Goal 2 of the PC again . . . Americans do; so I’m taking Sada’s family my Nassarrachide sauce. This is a blend of the words Nasarra and arrachide (peanut). Silly me: I thought that the ubiquitous peanut sauce in The BF was made from peanut powder, not peanut butter! Wrong. The Burkinabe laugh and laugh at me; but everyone for whom I’ve made this sauce (and that’s dozens of Burkinabe) roll with laughter as they consume copious quantities of the stuff. So clearly, they genuinely love it. Hopefully, Sada’s family will be no exception.

Indeed, some days are tougher than others, even without the Mid-Service issues. Still, there’s always Lady GaGa and Bruno Mars to help me through my day. I’ve been sobbing pretty much non-stop for the past day. Yes, in large part with empathy for Sada. But, in all candor, how many of my tears are related to the fact that my refrigerator is broken? We can only speculate.