I’ve somehow been omitted from the “cc” portion of the memo list. Either that, or I’m just plain stupid. It was laundry day. We stagaires were to bring laundry downstairs. I did just that. Left it on the table that I saw with many other parcels of laundry. Yo, heads-up, Kathy . . . evidently everyone else got the memo that said to pick-up their parcels after breakfast and take them on to the ISO. Hmm. The follow day at the ISO, everyone received nicely laundered clothing. Where was mine? Back on the table at the hotel. Yep, still on the table. Helloooo . . . earth to Kathy! Oh well. Who needs clean clothing to work in a compost heap?


I think that I saw bats. It was well after sundown . . . just a faint glimmer of orange light on the horizon, illuminating the dust that perpetually hangs in the air. There they were. Dozens, possibly hundreds. Flapping, flying animals. I don’t think that birds flap that much. Not continually, anyway. And what birds fly in such huge groups, after sundown? A flock of owls? I don’t think so. Bats? Could be. Perhaps some research is in order.

Just when I’m almost malnourished to the point of withering-away (well, maybe not so much) . . . but just when I cannot and will not continue without good food, in a sufficient amount with enough time and the proper cool setting to enjoy it . . . just when I’m at that point, we’re invited to the ACPD’s home for a luncheon prepared by our PCVFs. I know, that’s a lot of acronyms; but what it mean is (wait for it, Becky): eggplant parmesan, and mounds of green salad. Did you get that? Green salad, and egglant parmesan! Yes, another day of hardship conditions here in PST. And the cost of this fine dining experience? 500CFA. That’s about one dollar.

Someone told me that goats have tails that go up, while sheep tails go down. Say that with me: sheep tails. Cute, isn’t it? So, I never thought about it, but I believe that this tail tale is indeed true. As far as I know (being a Texan) there are many ways to distinguish sheep from goats; but this is a useful tool, especially if the animal is running directly away from you. Now come on – that’s a fun fascinating fact. Happy tail up? Goat. Tail down about-to-be-dinner? Sheep.

Back to the laundry issue. I returned from demyst, dirty but happy. Then I was sick. Then I returned to school sans laundry. On Tuesday, however, I finally got the memo about getting laundry done. It’s a miraculous thing. One problem: my laundry is now lost. OK, it cannot truly be lost, but it’s certainly MIA. Now the amazing thing is that I’ve got laundry that can go missing. Yes, this means that some very thoughtful Burkinabe woman has washed my clothing. She did her part . . . even returned it to the ISO on Wednesday, whereupon it went missing. The cost of laundry? 500CFA, including ironing. Is there anything in Burkina Faso that doesn’t cost 500CFA?

What is a CFA? Well, it’s a common West African unit of money that (similar to the Euro) crosses borders for ease of commerce. That’s common as in in common, not common as in ubiquitous. But here’s a better question: how is it pronounced? Some say: say-fa. Others say: sah-eff-ah or sah-eff-ay (but say it quickly).

Where’s my laundry? Will I have something to wear tomorrow for the field trip? Did I miss another memo, or is it true that the field trip involves the petting of tail-down-sheep and tails-up-goats? Could I be any more excited about farm animals? How is CFA truly pronounced? Am I really just plain stupid? We can only speculate.

Two girls, one bath, and 27 months of household items. You do the math. Think this isn’t a condition of hardship?!

So my roommate went to visit her Burkina Faso permanent site this morning, and I’m alone. This means that I can string laundry across the room . . . smoke leaning far out the window.

Tonight was the first evening and first week of Cocktail of the Week. It’s amazing that we PCTs can turn a regular Mojito into a cocktail using Coke or even Fanta Orange, if required to do so. Obviously mint, lime, and Sprite were our first choice. But there comes a time when one must improvise. Are we a resourceful group, or what? And Ali had to soak the mint in diluted bleach-water before use. Talk about conditions of hardship.

Want to know something about this county? Something that doesn’t involve me, me, me? The birds are incredibly colorful. Blues, greens, and reds that you wouldn’t believe. Itty-bitty tee-nine-sy birds. And we have giant tortoises at our school. You’d be surprised at how quickly they walk.

The people? The Burkinabe? The most friendly that I’ve encountered outside of Wales. One cannot simply say Good morning. One must inquire How’s it going? How’s the family? How’s the courtyard? Rusty & Becky, it’s like meeting Barbara Johnson . . . when one says, How are you, one really, really means it! How’s the courtyard? What kind of question is that?! Well let me tell you, it’s a genuine inquiry. Indeed, how is the courtyard? Who doesn't want to know the details of the courtyard. How IS that courtyard?

And here in Burkina Faso, we have tailors. I’m reminded of the line from The Sound Of Music: I may have the best couturier in Vienna . . . . These folks truly have personal tailors. Their work is gorgeous and quick. If you can draw or describe it, the tailors can create it. Move over, Project Runway.

Today another cultural difference was confirmed. In the U.S., if you break it, you buy it. Here, if you sniff it, you buy it. In other words, don’t be sniffin’ the food at the corner vendor. How rude! However, it's not that sniffin' isn't instinctual. Guess why! There are some odd (to say the least) scents. However, if you sniff it, you buy it. This is great if you’re a meatavore and visit what I’ve termed meat world, which is down the street from our school. Mmmm. Meat World . No, that’s not a euphemism. Meat World, next to the Madame Legume, is a gigantic grill filled with beef steak and grilled goat meat. They wrap it in brown paper with grilled onions and peppers. Enough said? However, have I eaten it yet? Non. There's not enough time in the day.

Okay, I know, I know. You want to know what happened at Cocktail-of-the-Week happy hour. We played games. What else . . . games, right? You knew that. And for my pals who are old, like me, we played something called Chuck-‘Em, F—k-‘Em, Marry-‘Em. I’ll leave that to your imagination. 

Then, we played Never In My Life . . . . OK, kids, I’ll walk you through this one. Hold up both hands, ten little fingers up. Make your statement, I’ve never in my life . . . been to the south pole. True? Keep all fingers up. False? Now you’re playin’ with nine little fingers. But let’s get realistic. No, one mentioned the south pole. Rather, it was: No, I’ve never in my life done it on an airplane. Opps. One finger down. First one with no fingers loses, or wins, depending on your point of view . . . I can’t remember. Great game. Guess you had to be there.

Again, I must state: My darling, adorable roomie is gone. I’m here alone. iPod blaring!. No, it doesn’t mean that I can dance on the beds, or in front of the windows. But now can I really whistle Vivaldi Quatre Saisons, or Counting Crows. Go-Gos? Our Lips Are Sealed (and indeed, they are).What happens at Cocktail-of-the-Weeks stays there! How much is privacy cherished in this land? We can only speculate.

Did you know that the bacteria called Giardia Lambia is known as the cover girl of bacteria? OK kids, get our your pencil and paper. Draw the valentine-shaped heart. Now place three dots in the center, to form a happy face. You know . . . two dots for the eyes and a dot for a cute little mouth. Now at the tippy-tip bottom of your heart, draw a long curly line for a tail. Voila, the image of Giardia Lambia under the microscope. And no kidding, even in the medical community of infectious disease, it's truly known as the Cover Girl for its attractive little shape. Hey, I don't make the rules. There you go -- medical lesson of the day.

I was sick today. No, not what you'd expect in West Africa. Merely a little upper GI issue; and very likely not Giardia. Let me stress that again -- upper GI issue. Yes, toilet hugging was involved. Take a handful of Dramamine and get back in bed. A minor blip on the PCMO radar.

This week we're back to training here in the capital. More language; and I'm in love with my LCF (Language and Cultural Facilitator). She seems to know exactly what I need to gain language skills (besides speaking very slowly and exhibity an extraordinary amount of patience).

Also more SED classes this week. We SED trainees are brainstorming about what will become our IGAs (Income Generating Activities) . . . the ideas that will enable our host country nationals to bring-in just a little extra income. IGAs are in addition to our primary projects. So I'm leaning toward a cooking club, but perhaps that merely because food is an all-consuming issue here. Can you tell that my tummy is on the road to recovery? So regarding the cuisine, I'm always asking myself: What would Dede do? What would Alton Brown do? In all likelihood, the Burkinabe need mango-pineapple salsa like they need a hole in the head. Or maybe they've been waiting all their life for a Texan with a taste for home-brewed cider and southwestern chile. We can only speculate.

Groups of us (the Small Enterprise Development [SED] team) went out of town. We left the capital in groups of two to four . . . on buses in separate directions to meet-up with PCVs in various parts of the country. Our bikes accompanied us. The four-day trip was called Demyst, which undoubtedly stands for demystification. I returned on Sunday morning, 11 July, completely mystified.

My particular group took a three hour bus ride on a luxury motor coach due east of the capital. OK, it wasn’t a luxury coach, but neither were there goats and chickens. Observation: he who controls the window controls life. Perhaps that’s a bit overblown; but there is something to be said for sitting next to one of the windows that opens. Oddly enough, despite the heat, the Burkinabe don’t open their windows. I heard something about a genuine concern of TB in this windy, dusty, Sahelian land; however, but I don’t know that TB quite explains their willingness to sit in the heat. Probably just of one of the myriad cultural differences.

So we arrived on Thursday afternoon in a lovely town in the east, not far from the borders of Niger and Benin (check your map, kids). On Friday we dug in the fields and planted corn. For those of you who know me, you know that I was in heaven. Give me some dirt and a garden spade . . . or in this case, a daba. Yes, I had my hot-pink garden gloves. I’ll embrace manual field labor, but I won’t ruin a manicure. Somewhere one simply must draw the line.

Speaking of lines, the Burkinabe turned-over the sandy ground, then dug small holes for the corn. Me? I made a small plot containing furrows, in lines, which create rows of little hills called (I believe) mottes de terre. My corn was then planted, nicely spaced, atop the lines of mounds. The goal here is to retain water in between the mounds. So someone tell me: why didn’t the entire village create mounds?

We ate lunch in the field: black-eyed peas and rice, which is called benga. It’s topped with oil and usually with a spicy/peppery powder called pimient. Yes, it’s eaten by everyone, with hands, from a single large bowl. The Burkinabe call their peas beans. I pointed out the black-eye spots on these so-called beans, and said points avec les yeux noires (peas with black eyes). Everyone laughed, mostly likely at my French, not at the American name of the vegetable . . . . I guess you had to be there.

We returned to our villa tired but happy, slept outdoors on the ground, and awoke in the middle of the night to a herd of cattle being driven in from another country to, arguably, the largest cattle market in West Africa. Looks just like the Fort Worth Stock Yards. I kid you not. So much mooing and clip-clop of hooves. Again, I was in heaven.

On Saturday we visited a group of folks who were wrapping-up a three-day seminar on growing sesame. Have you ever seen a sesame plant? I thought sesame seeds came from Whole Foods. Evidently, I was mistaken. These tiny seeds grow on upright plants in small pods that look like tiny-baby okra. Inside each okra-type pods are hundreds of seeds. Sesame seeds. Duh. Who knew?!

Here comes the fun part: after the seminar, we visited the office of the PCV in Eastern Burkina and were presented with glasses of dolo. Dolo is a locally/regionally produced drink, which is fermented from sorghum. It’s not carbonated, it’s not cold, but it is alcoholic (my guess is around 7%). It tastes like a mix of a very dry cider and a very mild IPA.

Odd fact: I’d say that of the 17 or 18 SED members, at least 60% of us cook, and cook well. A la Alton Brown, we’re all fascinated by the science of cooking and food processing. And we’re all delighted inasmuch as we’re just discovering this about each other. Most of us are experienced in at least one or more of the following: cheese-making, home-brew, yoghourt-making, baking, preserving, flavour-building. In other words, one can just look at an SED member eating or drinking and see the gears turning inside that head.

And the case of dolo? Mmmm. What this stuff needs is a bit of tampering with the yeast (I’m thinking champagne yeast). Would a dab of the local honey affect the specific gravity? What would refrigeration do? Can a recipe be consistently reproduced? What is the alcohol content? Does Chris really have the recipe? And . . . wait for it . . . was I really stung by a scorpion? We can only speculate.

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.