I’ve been completely suckered. Yaya wasn’t particularly happy, though not unhappy with me. More disappointed, I think, that I didn’t take him with me to what, in hindsight, turned out to be demanding negotiations with the Maison de la Femme. Hey, it was the Maison de la Femme, not the AFL-CIO. What’s so frightening about negotiations with a nice bunch of Burkinabe girls and women? On the other hand, I live and work with these tough-as-nails gals every day, and have done so for 15 months. What on earth was I thinking?!

A few months ago, long before my recent negotiations (and I didn’t realize they were negotiations until it was too late), I’d determined not to undertake any new projects without Yaya’s full involvement. But my world map project was with a group of young women and girls. What could be more simple to arrange, right? Wrong. Way wrong.

These gals are tough negotiators and should be political operatives . . . lobbyist. Yes, too much of The West Wing, I know, I know. I came to the table with generously donated funds to paint a world map as well as a useful blackboard. I was quickly beaten into submission by a group of young women who advised that it wasn't enough to involve them in painting a big wall. Nay, I must also show them how to make hard and liquid soap. OK. I live to make soap. And yes, I can afford to donate all the materials for a few days of soap-making. But . . . wait for it . . . .still not enough. They want a 10-day formation on soap making.

In reality, in Burkina, once is never enough. My former site mate imparted that bit of wisdom. One can demonstrate even the most simply process, but for the Burkinabe to really grasp the concept and practice, a second demonstration is required. Again, fine. We’ll made a couple of batches of hard and liquid soap. Uh-uh . . . they weren’t buying it. So . . .10-days, really? Any idea how much this is going to cost? Think of it this way: the daily cost will exceed what I make each day as a volunteer. But alright. As I too often say: the most expensive job you’ll ever love. I agreed to 10-days of soap making. But wait . . . it gets worse . . . because . . .

The real negotiations had yet to begin. Each of the 45 women will require notebooks and a new pen. Un Bic. In describing what I'd done, this is where Yaya really lost it. To paraphrase, Yaya said: It’s soap, for crying out loud. Soap! Why does anyone need a notebook to write a recipe for soap?! Salt, soap gel, water, stir. Fini!

OK, Yaya. I goofed. And hard though it may be to believe, it actually gets worse. Each of the women want and expect lunch every day after the morning’s work. Forty-five women, ten days. Do the math on even an inexpensive sauce. And the women advised that we’d need a 50 kilo sack of rice to go with the sauce. That’s 25000 cfa, or about $60 U.S. Yaya pretty much lost it again at this point. I didn’t even tell him that, as I left the meeting, the gals asked for money for gasoline for their motos (think Vespas) that they’ll use to get to the formation. I put an end to that notion immediately and on my own. In describing my rookie mistake, Hassan was standing under the terrace at GaMoWigna with his mouth open . . . simply not believing that I’d been suckered by a group of young women. And Yaya and Hassan were correct. If this had been negotiations with my young men this would have never happened. I was taken-in by these gals, who are dangerously charming.

Yaya doesn’t get angry. I’ve never heard him raise his voice. I’ve never even seen a facial expression remotely resembling anger. It’s what he doesn’t say . . . what he doesn’t have to say. Extreme disappointment . . . in me, for allowing this to happen. Yaya constantly reminds me that I must be vigilant. Despite his repeated warnings, I failed in my commitment to vigilance. OK, Yaya, give me a day or so to get myself out of this pickle.

Back I went to the Maison de la Femme. After 20 minutes of negotiations, round two, I walked away from the table with their offer to reduce the participants from 45 to 30. So I was still in a jam. Had I gone to the PC Handbook (and there is a handbook, but it doesn’t cover stupid, novice mistakes like this), I’d turn to the chapter entitled: How Your APCD Can and Cannot Help You. For this, I'm alone . . . except for Yaya.

I left Pô to work stage in Saponé with no clear exit strategy and a planned two-week site absence. So yesterday I hit the ground back in Pô with less than 24-hours to begin this morning's map and soap project . . . with lunches . . . and notebooks, and a new pen. Mais sans l'essence.

Sadly, I’d really like to do everything that these young women asked. Everything. It would feel so good. So Peace Corps-y. But the reality is that this was a test. They tested me to see if I’m an idiot. I am! I failed the test . . . with flying colors. All I wanted to do was paint a map and teach these girls to earn some extra money by making soap. What went wrong and how will I get myself out of this jam? What are the odds that by tomorrow Yaya will have extracted me from this pickle? We can only speculate.

Rusty, Becky and your family, Maggie, Deeders and my AIN friends . . . and don't forget Jill The Pill. For these freinds and family I am thankful. And while you already know that, please, never forget it. This year I have more than ever for which I am thankful.

I’m in Saponé working with an amazing group of the new PCTs. The T is for trainees, versus PCVs (volunteers), which this awe-inspiring intelligent and motivated group will become in mid-December. Tomorrow they’re preparing Thanksgiving dinner for us, their PCVFs (PC Volunteer Facilitators). Our role as PCVFs is to facilitate PCT technical and cultural training . . . not to mention moral support. In their PCT roles as Thanksgiving chefs, however, no facilitation required. We’re expecting quite a feast. For their enthusiasm and generosity on this their first major holiday away from home, I am extremely thankful.

But even more than working with the next generation of volunteers, I am thankful, always and yet again, to Yaya, his wife Satia, and to the people of Pô. Last week Yaya and his wife packed up all their gear to show the women in this little village (which is small even in contrast to little Pô) how to make tofu. Yes, Yaya, Satia, and tiny 10-month-old Kamsa traveled here; and as you know, travel in this country is never an easy feat. Nevertheless, they came. And as it turns out, they came for me.

Throughout last week the kind staff from the Ouaga office of the PC repeatedly expressed their gratitude to my homologue and his wife, reinforcing PCHQ's understanding of the difficulties of traveling such a great distance from Pô.

Anyone out there ever been a mom? Anyone ever packed-up a baby for a play-date across town? Bottles, formula, cloths, blankets . . . right? Now imagine not having those modern baby-care conveniences and packing up a baby, kilos of soy beans, all the accouterments for tofu, and leaving three other children under the age of 16 at home in Pô. But this they did . . . for me.

I naively assumed that Yaya and Satia felt honored to come demonstrate Satia’s prowess as the tofu queen, particularly in light of the fact that VIPs from the U.S. Embassy were to watch her, along with members of the Burkinabe press. In fact, I was wrong, again . . . just as I am so often mistaken during every day of my PC service. Satia cared nothing for the publicity, she came for me.

And let’s remember, Satia doesn’t speak French. She speaks Kassim and Moore. So a translator was required at all times. Anyone want to speculate at how intimidated she must have been with the press and members of the Embassy? And yet Satia was poised and lovely, as always. When the three-day program concluded, my direct PC supervisor thanked Satia again for traveling so far. Satia’s response? I’ll try to paraphrase it:

I came here for Kathy (which she pronounced Cahtty). I would have gladly traveled two or three times as far for Kathy. I will never be able to thank Kathy for what she has given me and my family. I am not an educated woman. I left school before I completed elementary school. I have no money of my own and am dependant on my husband. When he is busy, unhappy with me, or away from Pô, I have been forced to borrow money from friends to buy a box of matches [the U.S. equivalent cost being about 2 cents].

And then . . . get ready for this, Satia said:

Only God could do more for me and my family. God is great. We are thankful for his blessings. But Kathy has left an impact of our family that only God can understand and exceed.

OK, by the time I heard this tears were streaming down my cheeks. You’ve read this blog. You know how humble, inadequate, often flippant, but also sometimes totally useless I feel as a PCV. These feelings may never change while I’m in The B.F. . . . I was humbled months ago. But hearing the words from my darling Satia made me realize just how very little it takes to greatly impact one life, or one family. Satia is so mistaken – only God could give me more than she and Yaya have given, unknowingly . . . merely by allowing me into their lives. I don't deserve to be included in the same sentence when Satia thanks God. I am in no way next to Godliness in anyone's life . . . though sometimes I am extra clean.

The odd thing about Satia’s gratitude? I absolutely guarantee that I have received far more from her and Yaya than ever I could give to their family. So isn’t that often the way it is? We set out to help someone who will be genuinely thankful for our assistance, and it is we who are, in fact, receiving the greater benefit.

Honestly, I am again moved to tears as I type this. Happy thanksgiving. Do I need to tell you what I’m most thankful for on this holiday? So, anyone else reading this ready to snag a tissue? We can only speculate.

This morning I bought more minutes for my Internet key. When my Internet service dies, I never immediately know whether it’s due to the typically poor internet in The B.F. or due to the simple fact that my 30-day purchase has expired. Perhaps I should calendar my purchase dates of what we call unité. Today I noticed the calendar on my computer and decided that I’d probably remember today’s unité purchase since it was 11/11. I had the new unité loaded into the key around 11h11. Then it hit me: I should eMail someone and say Happy 11.11/11 at 11h11. Alas, for everyone in the States, it was not even 5:30 a.m. Wake up, people, it’s 11/11/11 11:11 in my world.

I had to wait until 17h11 GMT until it was 11/11/11 11:11 in Dallas. And by that time, naturally, I had no Internet connection. I wondered whether this 11/11/11 11:11 phenomenon was a big event in the U.S. media. I suspect it was, if only in the form of friends eMailing each other with this trivial tid-bit. Of course, while it was a whole bunch of ones for many people, it was just six ones for many others. And for those who observe anything but the Gregorian calendar, it wasn’t even 11/11/11 . . . and don’t kid yourself, friends, that includes a lot of people . . . for whom it’s not 2011 but 1432 or 5772.

Yesterday I gave a presentation to 45 women . . . in French . . . and then in Mooré . . . and then in Kassim. Actually, I said little more than the pleasantries in Mooré. But when it came to Kassim . . . wow! How sad that I did better in Kassim than in French. Anyway, I felt quite honored when, following the presentation, I was asked to write a press release in French to be read on the village radio next week. My second press release [a few weeks ago I was asked to write another for the consideration of the U.S. Embassy]. What fun . . . a communiqué for the radio. Sadly, it took me an hour to write it in French. Three short paragraphs . . . one hour. And then another hour to confirm with my 501 French Verbs book that my conjugations were correct. Finally, another three hours to wait for 12-year-old Martin to return from school to confirm that my grammar was correct, which, surprisingly, it was. A 12-year old. The critic for my communiqué is twelve years old!

Yesterday I friend of mine arrived back in Pô. She’s from Germany and speaks perfect French, Norwegian, English, Italian, Mooré, Kassim, Jula, and, of course, German. I hate people like this. After boring her with my German, sad Italian, and two phrases of Norwegian, Regina said, with all honesty and kindness, that it’s my French accent (or total lack thereof). The accent is why my French sucks, and probably why my comprehension is so low. She kindly suggested that perhaps I’m expecting everyone to sound like I do when speaking. Hmm. Sounds as egocentric as my expectation that it was 11/11/11 11:11 everywhere in the world.

But the good news? My Texas accent evidently works perfectly for Kassim. This must be why I speak and understand so much more Kassim than French. And good thing, because the director of the Maison de la Femme worked with me to translate my French press release into Kassim so that I can read it on the radio on Monday. Me, me, me. He was kidding, right? Not so much. Actually, since Kassim has about 30-something alphabet letters, I won’t actually read it. I’ve merely written it phonetically, will memorize the sounds, and on Monday start talking. This morning we practiced, and indeed, I can do this. It’s a simple process of memorizing sounds. Like learning a song in another language. Heck, if we counted all the songs I can sing in other languages, I could say that I speak Portuguese.

Wonder what happened to the press release for the Embassy? Is it a frightening thing that the students whom I tutor in English will inevitably develop a Texas accent? So what do you think . . . does anyone else lead a sad little egocentric life? Is it really not all about me . . . or you? It is, however, all about Jill, right? We can only speculate.

I cut my foot. Actually, I tried to slice-off the outer corner of my big toe. Did it on a rock . . . in the dark . . . so I never saw the weapon of mass destruction, but it must have been a mighty sharp rock. Part of the toe was dangling. This was last Monday night. The following morning Yaya insisted that it would become infected if I didn’t lop-off the dangling piece. Now Yaya’s very wise, but I’m a medically-trained, fully-equipped PCV with a PC med kit; and we know what delightful drugs and accouterments that kit includes. Pardon , I pray thee, Yaya, but I’m not lopping-off anything!

On the other hand, when has Yaya ever been mistaken?

I wasn’t looking forward to prying loose the toe-piece and cutting it . . . the dangling piece had re-adhered under the bandage during the night. Old women visiting the courtyard offered to hold me while the procedure was performed. Yeah, that’s gonna happen. Are you mad?!

Couldn’t this be a situation like the tail of a lizard? Might not the toe grow back? OK, not so much. And as Yaya had predicted, infection set-in with 20 hours. Clearly, I was mistaken; and the dangling piece had to be removed. Don’t you love these little glimpses into PC service?

I don’t believe I’ve cried as much during my entire PC service as I have this past week while my toe has healed. And, indeed, it’s healed nicely. A few weeks ago during stage Jordan gave me The West Wing – every episode, including extra footage . . . every season. OK, am I that odd? Am I the only American who had never seen a single episode of The West Wing? I’ve loved it . . . I’m through Season 4. And, I declare, in every episode there’s something that I find moving. Not sad, but very moving. Thus the tears. Or perhaps I'm mistaken.

Maybe the tears are for dear friends in times of need. . . or for my wounded toe . . . or due to the fact that my time here in Pô is slipping away so quickly that I’m both panicked and sad. Anyway, I don't think the producers of The West Wing are culpable. Perhaps it was 12 hours of Brideshead Revisited . . . always a favorite, though thoroughly depressing on so many levels. Good ol' melancholy He-Waugh.

I think this situation calls for a whole bowl of Jell-O, which I can make now that my frigo is repaired. Or maybe Jell-O and a pub-crawl. I can crawl now that my toe is repaired . . . along with my frigo. So, pub crawl, right? Do you really believe there's anything here in Pô that can be reasonably called a pub? Perhaps it's time to stop with the TV-via-laptop and get back to the business of being a PCV . . . ya think? We can only speculate.

The PC’s slogan, or one of many, I should say, is: The Toughest Job You’ll Ever Love. I sometimes complain about how much of my life's savings I’ve spent in country. I could live on my PC allowance, but I choose to eat, drink, and live well. Along those lines, my frigo is finally repaired; so you’ll be spared that ongoing complaint.

For the most part, the personal savings that I’ve spent in country benefitted the wonderful and deserving people of Pô. I spend money on little things that tend to add-up. Photocopies, printing color photos for the kids, cooking and baking for my quartier. Indeed little things, but they do add-up.


Last Monday night was worth every penny of savings that I’ve spent. Nay, it would have been cheap at twice the price. Halloween in my quartier for my 30 kids. Since they understand that November 1 is All Saints’ Day, explaining all hallowed eve was relatively easy to explain. Last year I was honored to host four wonderful new PC trainees during demyst, and we had a marvelous time. I felt that last year’s party and talent show would be difficult to top. Not so much.

This year’s fête was mine-all-mine. Just me and my kids. The same kids who spread the word throughout Pô when they saw me get off the bus on Sunday. By the time I had biked 300 meters from the gare, my kids were screaming Bon soir, Katerine! By the time I reached my quartier, my kids were grabbing at my purse and luggage. They insisted that I get off the bike, hold their hands, and walk to my courtyard. I’m rarely allowed to carry anything. Do I ever wonder whether a child will steal-away with my purse, camera, laptop, bike, or anything? Never. Ever!

Although I hadn’t planned on a mask-making event, they insisted. I myself insisted that every tiny morsel of cut-up colored paper and string be placed in a trash bucket. And this they did with vigilance. Even little Victorine (she’s almost two) got a mask. Victorine has learned to say Katerine, and we take turns saying each other’s rhyming names as fast as we can.

The ring-toss game was a huge success. Adults came out to see their children squealing with delight. Little Sophie, about eight years old, has deadly aim . . . like all females in this country. Signs saying Halloween were all over my door, exterior walls, and on the posts that support my terrace roof. Some signs said Appy Allowine, which I love.

I had to come-up with 30 prizes, in addition to the chocolate/caramel bon-bons that were distributed. A packet of peel-off stickers is absolutely thrilling in this land. So imagine the delight of a yo-yo or a kazoo. A tennis ball was probably their favorite, though this afternoon in the daylight we’re going to play with the balloon-powered helicopters.

What’s up with the women of Burkina and their ability to hit any target with anything in their hands? Can you close you eyes and hear thirty little voices squealing treeek ooo treet? Does life get any better than this? We can only speculate.