I am a rock-star . . . if only to children. They know me by name. Dozens of ‘em. All over my Po hill. We shake hands. Sometimes we argue (good-naturedly) about French words. I find that I argue well in French. The right words seem to come so easily and I even understand what’s being said to me. Imagine me, arguing . . . incredible, right? In any event, the children love me. Could it be the cylume glow-in-the-dark necklaces that I occasionally hand out? True enough, jewelry never hurts.
OK, yes, it’s true. I just spent almost two weeks in the med unit of the PC Bureau in the capital city of Ouagadougou. Tomorrow would have been a full 14 days. And except for the final two days, I was essentially confined to quarters . . . meaning confined to the lovely two-bedroom apartment with full bath (including a tub), nice kitchen (I made ice cubes, constantly), and balcony. In a country where everything is either very dusty or very muddy, not to mention quite poor, my holiday in this little slice of America may sound nice, and indeed there were some good times. I found time to visit with my stellar PCV friends and even made my way to the roof of the bureau to watch a beautiful Burkinabe sunset.
This morning I caught the 7:00 a.m. bus from the capital back to Po, a two-hour journey that took over three hours due, I suppose, to road construction near Po and due to the multiple stops that all busses seem to make. Why do they stop? Well, silly, it’s so passengers may purchase food and beverages through the windows of the bus. At every wide spot in the road (to borrow a phrase of my mom's) women sell everything from bananas and bread to sachets of water and bissop. Rattling windows are forced open, and coins and goods are passed up and down. And when it seems that the passengers have concluded business, the bus proceeds. This is odd, but if you’re thirsty, it’s fantastic.
Not until the bus was at the station did I realize how happy I was to be back in Po. I exited the bus to a station full of folks asking me, in French of course, whether I needed further transport across the frontier into Ghana. Most natural question in the world. Really, it is. When you look like I do, the most natural question in the world at a Po bus station is, Lady, are you going on to Ghana . . . maybe to the beach? And it was with overwhelming delight and pride that I announced to each person, No, I live here. Each appeared incredulous. Really, I said, I live on that hill with Leon and Elizabeth. I live here in Po.
I live here. Here! In Po. I’m not merely on vacation. This is my home. I called Yaya (my homologue) to tote home my bags and boxes; and he was at the station within two minutes . . . two minutes, I kid you not, with hand shakes and that French head/face/kiss-action-thing that has been far-improved by the Burkinabe. And on the way home, all the way up the hill, the fans of this PC rock star squealed, Katrine, Katrine, you’ve come back! And inside my beautiful courtyard my neighbors and their children welcomed me home, and I almost cried. Maybe my ankle merely hurt. Seriously, however, I don’t remember when it felt so good to be home and when it felt so real to be home.
And then I spied him. My new best friend. Il s’appelle Zach and he’s building my new, private latrine. On W.A.I.T. [ that's West African International Time . . . for those of you new to this blog], while two weeks is indeed a long time to be away, it’s not a very long time to commence latrine construction. And yet, during the course of the excavation and construction, Zach has also made time to re-landscape the already-picturesque area beneath my huge shade tree. So it seems I’m getting a new stone retaining wall with room for a huge flower/herb bed and a rock garden. I’m talking huge rocks. Po is essentially on one, big rock; so imagine the work required by Zach to excavate, by hand, a very deep latrine. Deep . . . we’re talking meters, not merely a few feet.
I can see the herbs and flowers already. Is it time to plant the seeds, or should I wait until Zach has completed work? Will chickens decimate the seedlings? Is tonight an occasion special enough for glowing jewelry? I think we all know these answers, but we can only speculate.
I don’t know how to do things. Lots of things. I know how to change the little propane tank (size of a Lafi water bottle) on my grill in Dallas, but I don’t know how to change the large tank that’s used for cooking with a real live propane gas stove here in Burkina Faso. It’s a big tank. The PCV who previously lived in my Po home left me with a tank. Thanks, Daniel. But one day that tank will run-out, and judging by its weight, that day is at hand. Someone with experience will need to change my tank. Change it, that is, if and when I can locate propane and somehow tote it to the top of my mountain. Note that my Po hill has recently increased in size. The PCV Who Went Up a Hill and Came Down a Mountain. Wasn’t that a film? Maybe not; but it should be after my little spill on the Barbie bike. So at whatever point I’m released from the med unit in Ouaga, that Po hill is going to seem like a mountain. Or so I believe.
Back to the issue of propane. The Rumor Corps has it that something happened to the ship with the propane. The ship?! Burkina is landlocked. Nevertheless, we’ve indeed heard that something to do with the ocean has prevented propane from arriving in Burkina. A ship, a dock, maybe a rogue wave, or a rogue whale. And thus there is a propane shortage, countrywide. That’s right. No propane. No magical curry stir-fry. No lentil soup. No toad-in-the-hole. That ol’ expression of my mother’s, now you’re cookin’ with gas truly doesn’t apply here. There aren't many Burkinabe ever cookin’ with gas. The Burkinabe most often cook with wood, thus the problem with deforestation, which I’m here to solve (Details at Eleven).
Ah, but I’m in the med unit, where I’ve been for about nine days. Nine days for four petite sutures on my ankle. And I’ll probably be here for another four to five days. That’s approximately four days per suture. When my dog was spayed I don’t believe she required such a lengthy recovery. Heck, if I was a terrier, I’d be chasing squirrels by now.
Squirrels. That’s something else that I don’t really know how to do. I’m not a skilled chaser of squirrels. Why is this relevant? Because I have a rodent in my home . . . and as we all well know, there’s never just one mouse, ever. Judging by the size of the rodent’s (shall we say) pellets, it’s not a mouse. So face facts, Kathy: you’ve got a rat.
Now what is a rat? And what is a squirrel? And what is a capibara? These are simply members of the rodent family. Famillia Rodentia. I doubt that’s an official title within the animal kingdom, but doesn’t it sound nicer than rats? So I’ve decided to dub the creature a ground squirrel . . . or ground squirrels, plural. Sounds rather cute, I think. I’ll likely return to my Po home to find famillia rodential groundum sleeping on the big bed and listening to my iPod. Time to formulate a plan to eliminate said famillia . . . and time is the one thing I’ve plenty of.
God, I hate to end a sentence in a preposition, but sometimes one simply must. And sometimes one simply must insist that ground squirrels move to other grounds . . . like Nigeria . . . maybe Somalia.
If I knew how to do more things, I’d know how to lure Burkinabe rodents eastward across the Sahel. Get those rodents the Sahel out of my Po home. Indeed, if I knew more I’d know how to safely install propane (possibly even get the precious stuff off of the high seas). Most importantly, if I knew how to do anything worthwhile, I’d know how to juggle. Like my charming friends, Bri and Ali.
Is it true? Can PCVs really juggle four projects at a time . . . and apples, too? Is there enough time in med unit to learn to juggle and to devise the rodent-ridding scheme? What would I juggle? Cipro? Amoxicillin? Real ice cubes?! We can only speculate?
Back to the issue of propane. The Rumor Corps has it that something happened to the ship with the propane. The ship?! Burkina is landlocked. Nevertheless, we’ve indeed heard that something to do with the ocean has prevented propane from arriving in Burkina. A ship, a dock, maybe a rogue wave, or a rogue whale. And thus there is a propane shortage, countrywide. That’s right. No propane. No magical curry stir-fry. No lentil soup. No toad-in-the-hole. That ol’ expression of my mother’s, now you’re cookin’ with gas truly doesn’t apply here. There aren't many Burkinabe ever cookin’ with gas. The Burkinabe most often cook with wood, thus the problem with deforestation, which I’m here to solve (Details at Eleven).
Ah, but I’m in the med unit, where I’ve been for about nine days. Nine days for four petite sutures on my ankle. And I’ll probably be here for another four to five days. That’s approximately four days per suture. When my dog was spayed I don’t believe she required such a lengthy recovery. Heck, if I was a terrier, I’d be chasing squirrels by now.
Squirrels. That’s something else that I don’t really know how to do. I’m not a skilled chaser of squirrels. Why is this relevant? Because I have a rodent in my home . . . and as we all well know, there’s never just one mouse, ever. Judging by the size of the rodent’s (shall we say) pellets, it’s not a mouse. So face facts, Kathy: you’ve got a rat.
Now what is a rat? And what is a squirrel? And what is a capibara? These are simply members of the rodent family. Famillia Rodentia. I doubt that’s an official title within the animal kingdom, but doesn’t it sound nicer than rats? So I’ve decided to dub the creature a ground squirrel . . . or ground squirrels, plural. Sounds rather cute, I think. I’ll likely return to my Po home to find famillia rodential groundum sleeping on the big bed and listening to my iPod. Time to formulate a plan to eliminate said famillia . . . and time is the one thing I’ve plenty of.
God, I hate to end a sentence in a preposition, but sometimes one simply must. And sometimes one simply must insist that ground squirrels move to other grounds . . . like Nigeria . . . maybe Somalia.
If I knew how to do more things, I’d know how to lure Burkinabe rodents eastward across the Sahel. Get those rodents the Sahel out of my Po home. Indeed, if I knew more I’d know how to safely install propane (possibly even get the precious stuff off of the high seas). Most importantly, if I knew how to do anything worthwhile, I’d know how to juggle. Like my charming friends, Bri and Ali.
Is it true? Can PCVs really juggle four projects at a time . . . and apples, too? Is there enough time in med unit to learn to juggle and to devise the rodent-ridding scheme? What would I juggle? Cipro? Amoxicillin? Real ice cubes?! We can only speculate?
|
|
Let’s talk more about my PC Med Kit. It’s an emergency ward in a box. Well, condoms may not be the stuff that E.R.s require; but the other items would shame a small town trauma center. Heretofore I’ve tied to ignore my medkit. It is so crammed full of ER supplies that to open said kit would be like opening a life-raft inside a small airplane. It ain’t ever going back in its original package. Ever. And thus sat the kit, at ready . . . for some other Po PCV, but not this one. Until today. There was . . . an incident.
They say that vehicular accidents (aside from diarrhea) are our number one threat as PCVs. We’re restricted as to where we must sit on buses and bush taxis, no riding on motos, ever, etc. We’re discouraged from bike-riding in the capital of Ouaga simply because drivers of cars and motos know no boundaries. Makes Rome look like a deserted country lane in Madill. But no one specifically mentioned the dangers in the Po lanes and paths.
This morning on my way to the bureau I was biking on my side of the road (the right side . . . meaning the proper side and the right side). Remember, Burkina is old French colonial, not British; and driving is on the right-side of the road. Or so it should be. In fact, motos go where they please, as evidenced by the moto heading directly for me on my side of the dirt path. I stopped abruptly, but not too quickly. The moto stopped too; and all was right with the world. These little encounters occur daily. However, this morning when I put down my left foot to balance the Barbie bike, I stepped onto a tall pointed rock in the ground. It was at that point that I lost my balance and tumbled to the right, directly on top of the Barbie bike that was tumbling beneath me. Ne pas tombe! Right, Joan?
People rushed to see the crazy PC volunteer and literally picked me up and stood me up straight. I didn’t feel injured. Nay, not a bit. It was then that I saw the blood, and lots of it.
So here you go, John, dear. Who, who can fall and rip apart the top part of her ankle? The top?! Who indeed? And yes, it was that ankle. Two slight gashes and one large, deep gouge. But hey, I’m a PCV . . . ever resourceful. I simply reached into my official PC book bag, gathered the last few pieces of Lotus, and applied pressure. Hmm. How to maintain pressure on an ankle and leave the scene of the accident. Ah-ha. The watch-and-housekey-carrying lanyard around my neck. Perfect. Made a quick triple loop around the Lotus, tucked it under the velco strap of my Teva sandal, and off I went to my bureau. At the bureau my patron insisted on seeing it. Vous etes pret? I asked. Are you really ready . . . because it ain’t pretty. He agreed. Not pretty. I think gaping is a well-merited description.
Now one thing that we PCVs learn is that to be treated locally is usually not an option. Stitches, shots . . . rarely an optiion. And I’m two hours away, at best, from the PCMOs in Ouaga. But as my friends and family well know, few M.D.s are as good as I at diagnostics; and I’m nothing if not an excellent ER tech. However, a call to the PCMO is de rigeur in this situation; and those PCMO are ever-brilliant. They ponder the issue and state that they will call back. By call-back time I’ve rewrapped the wounds with my lanyard/tourniquet and made my way home. The real issue: am I needed in Ouaga for stiches? No. Absolutely not. P-p-p-pleease, I beg. This is a gaping wound and there’s nothing to stitch closed . . . or is there? My professional opinion is that butterfly closures, in sufficient quantity, will do the trick. Remember my rifle-in-a-raffle Tikka-300-Win-Mag gun-scope wound?
So why did I refuse any suggestion of a trip to Ouaga? Was it the fact that I hadn’t shaved my legs in in five days? . . . a situation quickly remedied in my outdoor shower without regard to pain and blood . . . just in case I was required in Ouaga (rather brave of me, I thought). Or was it the horror of being in the med unit in Ouaga, immobile, and not being able to play at the Transit House? Or was it mere vanity and the instinct that my butterfly closure would leave a smaller scar than the stitches of a pro?
Golly. And I thought I was bored yesterday. Will I finish my book? Did I bring enough of my personal prescription pain pills? How many movies can I watch (thanks, Kylé). It’s a long walk to the loo with an ankle that is supposed to be immobile and elevated. So what’s Plan B? Will a new cute sandal cover the inevitable scars? We can only speculate?
|
|
Tissue is precious in the country. It’s sold by boys on the street, in bus stations, in the al fresco restaurants . . . OK, food stands/kiosks, not really restaurants . . . and just about everywhere else. It’s sold in the convenient tiny packages that we American’s know as travel-size facial tissue. I don’t think the Burkinabe use it as facial tissue. We Americans know it as Kleenex; here’s it’s called Lotus (pronounced loe-tuse).
I have a cold. A real-live cold with a terrible sore throat and a sniffly nose. Who get’s a cold in this warm climate? Is it cold season? What’s up with that? I don’t feel bad, but in any event, I’m going through my precious Lotus like it’s . . . well, like it’s Kleenex. This is not good. This means that for every Lotus tissue I sneeze into, it’s one less trip to the latrine. Can they be dried and reused as I formerly did with paper towels in the U.S.? Yes, this U.S. gal who’d spend $50 on a bar of soap would reuse a paper towel . . . I’ll clarify: a paper towel that had merely been used to dab up a few drops of clean water by the sink.
So I see that the end is near, and tissue is gonna be a hot commodity by this evening. Time to make the downhill run to town to the alimentation. Gonna make the big expenditure and buy the four-pack of genuine papier de toilet. Yes, it is actually sold here, somewhere. Then it begins to rain.
When it rains here, at least in Po, it’s like a hurricane. Winds in excess of 40 mph, torrential downpours, things blow all over the courtyard (things such as chickens and clothing and cookware). Chickens . . . really. It’s like a tropical storm force gale, at the least; and sometimes it can last for hours. So much for my tissue run.
I’m utterly and totally bored. I realize that the PC job is 24/7. I’ve done 24/7 jobs before . . . no big deal; but this time I need a day off. A me day when I don’t have to speak French or Kassim, when I don’t have to smile and meet and greet, and when I can simply wallow in self-pity for feeling so worthless. Po Kathy.
I received calls this morning from three special friends in my stage, each of whom (without prompting) stated that they, too, felt useless, bored, anxious to get to work. So I know that I’m far from alone. This helps. It’s the three-month lock-down and acclimate-to-village-life theory. We understand. Intellectually one understands the importance of becoming well integrated into the community. But as a practical matter, on some days it’s boring. Come on now, how many hours a day can one meet-and-greet? No, we don’t question PC methods. I’m drinkin’ the Kool-Aid and have bought into all of it. Still, I’m bored. I’m bored, and it’s pouring rain under black-as-night clouds, and I’m sniffly and I need tissue.
And I need Zain. Zain is the equivalent of T-Mobile or Verizon. It’s a little scratch-off card with a code that is revealed for additional pay-as-you-go mobile time. We PCVs are on a plan whereby we have unlimited talk time between PC HQ and other PCVs, but this doesn’t include texts. Why would Kathy Davis care about texts? Because I’ve finally become a fan. Hey, I said that I was drinking the Kool-Aid. This isn’t a generational-thing. I have friends far older than I who love to text . . . who embrace their Blackberries and iPhones and text. I was a staunch anti-text counter-revolutionary, but no more. Becky, you’d be so proud. I can text with my eyes closed. However, it’s not something of which I’m proud.
So I’m bored and I don’t know what to do. Already did my nails. Removed the whore-red polish from my fingers and toes and gave myself a pedicure. I’m anxious to decorate my home . . . either hang pagne fabric on the walls and/or paint some walls. Just can’t decide what and where to paint. And I’m not a person known for her indecision. Sometimes I think I’m wishy-washy, and other times I’m just not so sure. Maybe I should paint little symbols around the grey “painted-on” baseboard that surrounds my home. That’s probably 200 interior linear feet just beggin’ for little symbols. That should keep me occupied for a while. But what if I made an error and needed a tissue to make a correction?!
Why would some Burkinabe paint-on something intended to look like a baseboard? This baffles me. Why can’t I decide what symbols to paint on the painted-on baseboards? Should I paint words on my kitchen walls? French cooking words? French verb conjugations? Do I sound a smidge whiny? How does one say, in French, Kathy, get over it! ? We can only speculate.
I have a cold. A real-live cold with a terrible sore throat and a sniffly nose. Who get’s a cold in this warm climate? Is it cold season? What’s up with that? I don’t feel bad, but in any event, I’m going through my precious Lotus like it’s . . . well, like it’s Kleenex. This is not good. This means that for every Lotus tissue I sneeze into, it’s one less trip to the latrine. Can they be dried and reused as I formerly did with paper towels in the U.S.? Yes, this U.S. gal who’d spend $50 on a bar of soap would reuse a paper towel . . . I’ll clarify: a paper towel that had merely been used to dab up a few drops of clean water by the sink.
So I see that the end is near, and tissue is gonna be a hot commodity by this evening. Time to make the downhill run to town to the alimentation. Gonna make the big expenditure and buy the four-pack of genuine papier de toilet. Yes, it is actually sold here, somewhere. Then it begins to rain.
When it rains here, at least in Po, it’s like a hurricane. Winds in excess of 40 mph, torrential downpours, things blow all over the courtyard (things such as chickens and clothing and cookware). Chickens . . . really. It’s like a tropical storm force gale, at the least; and sometimes it can last for hours. So much for my tissue run.
I’m utterly and totally bored. I realize that the PC job is 24/7. I’ve done 24/7 jobs before . . . no big deal; but this time I need a day off. A me day when I don’t have to speak French or Kassim, when I don’t have to smile and meet and greet, and when I can simply wallow in self-pity for feeling so worthless. Po Kathy.
I received calls this morning from three special friends in my stage, each of whom (without prompting) stated that they, too, felt useless, bored, anxious to get to work. So I know that I’m far from alone. This helps. It’s the three-month lock-down and acclimate-to-village-life theory. We understand. Intellectually one understands the importance of becoming well integrated into the community. But as a practical matter, on some days it’s boring. Come on now, how many hours a day can one meet-and-greet? No, we don’t question PC methods. I’m drinkin’ the Kool-Aid and have bought into all of it. Still, I’m bored. I’m bored, and it’s pouring rain under black-as-night clouds, and I’m sniffly and I need tissue.
And I need Zain. Zain is the equivalent of T-Mobile or Verizon. It’s a little scratch-off card with a code that is revealed for additional pay-as-you-go mobile time. We PCVs are on a plan whereby we have unlimited talk time between PC HQ and other PCVs, but this doesn’t include texts. Why would Kathy Davis care about texts? Because I’ve finally become a fan. Hey, I said that I was drinking the Kool-Aid. This isn’t a generational-thing. I have friends far older than I who love to text . . . who embrace their Blackberries and iPhones and text. I was a staunch anti-text counter-revolutionary, but no more. Becky, you’d be so proud. I can text with my eyes closed. However, it’s not something of which I’m proud.
So I’m bored and I don’t know what to do. Already did my nails. Removed the whore-red polish from my fingers and toes and gave myself a pedicure. I’m anxious to decorate my home . . . either hang pagne fabric on the walls and/or paint some walls. Just can’t decide what and where to paint. And I’m not a person known for her indecision. Sometimes I think I’m wishy-washy, and other times I’m just not so sure. Maybe I should paint little symbols around the grey “painted-on” baseboard that surrounds my home. That’s probably 200 interior linear feet just beggin’ for little symbols. That should keep me occupied for a while. But what if I made an error and needed a tissue to make a correction?!
Why would some Burkinabe paint-on something intended to look like a baseboard? This baffles me. Why can’t I decide what symbols to paint on the painted-on baseboards? Should I paint words on my kitchen walls? French cooking words? French verb conjugations? Do I sound a smidge whiny? How does one say, in French, Kathy, get over it! ? We can only speculate.
|
|
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.
|
|
