A hen snuck into the bureau and was busted whilst pecking at a zucchini by yours truly. My precious zucchini. The hen was urged to leave. I then broke-off and ate a few bites of baby zucchini. Mmm. Yes, I ate after a hen. An automatic device has been installed to keep closed the bureau gate – a long rubber-band-type device known here, phonetically, as cow-shoes. I’d like to see that word spelled in whatever native language it might be. Folks use these long, black, stretchy-rubber strips to tie things to their bike . . . or as an automatic gate-closure device. Cow shoes. Go figure. Me? I use bungee cords. They have that singular Nazarra look.

They won’t take me to see the dead elephant. In order to see the dead elephant, one must travel to a village about 17 km away, and then go off-road (in a land with very few roads) to another tiny village about 10 km down the way. So, yo, what’s the problem? I was certainly willing to entertain the idea. The final non from my bureau came as they explained that after getting to the tiny village, which borders the parc, it’s another 7 km walk through the brosse, through grasses and plants that are over my head, if I understood correctly . . . I don’t understand French. So no dead elephant’s society for me. This is a shame because I understand that the elephant is the largest that anyone can remember. Now I realize that the average life-span here isn’t long, but there are plenty of vieilles in village; and no one alive can remember hearing of such a large elephant. It’s probably an urban myth . . . an elephant as large as a 747. Don’t be fooled, kids.

So I left the bureau, heart-broken. Well, not really, but the prospect of a gigantic dead elephant was quite exciting. Hens have probably attacked the body, leaving little to see. I left the bureau to buy envelopes. Took me forever to explain what I needed. Know what the French word is for envelope? Enveloppe . . . with a Burkinabe-French accent. Ruth, pronounced Root, at the photocopy shop looked at me, and I believe I heard her say Duh! in French. Then a hen walked into the shop, so I left for the marche.

I made six new friends at the marche. I don’t think I can tell them apart; but with two Miriams and a Meary, in the future I can probably just make a Me-sound and begin my litany of Kassim greetings. These women sell something that they called a yam, but I think it was manioc. Regardless, I had no use for it. Still, we sat and chatted in Kassim. Six women to sell a small quantity of yams. Something tells me that it's more about socialization than sales. Oh, yeah . . . it’s my SED APCD who tells me that! While we chatted a young boy arrived with a sling-shot, made from (what else?) cow-shoes. I always picture a happy cartoon Guernsey wearing red sneakers. Anyway, I learned a new word: lance-pierre . . . sling-shot. Then hens came to attack the trash pile in front of the yam stall, so I went vegetable shopping.

Watermelons have arrived. This may be the most exciting thing I’ve seen during my four months in country. I bought two (they’re small). And feeling so elated by something new in my diet, I celebrated with the purchase of eight sachets of bisap and other colorful-but-basically-sugar-water drinks and took them back to my six new friends. 200 CFA, or about 40 cents. The hens had moved on down the hen road. Wonder if the cow-shoes lance-pierre motivated them to leave.

Still no eggs. There are, however, new chicks in my courtyard. Tiny baby chicks. The idea of new chicks seems so adorable, and chicks are indeed cute. However, try to capture a chick and prepare for the ire of the hen. Check-out the barbs on the back of a chicken foot, and hen wrath has new meaning. Makes the chicks lose some of their charm . . . don’t be fooled, kids. Now a baby goat? There’s not much cuter in this world than a baby goat.

So I went to Google Earth and looked for Po. Well there’s Po listed way west of Koudougou . . . so it’s way wrong! Who gets to cite such nonsense on Google Earth? Po is due south of Ouagadougou, just north of the frontier of Ghana. Don’t be fooled, kids. My exact coordinates? Turn that globe to 11.09.43.44̊ north, 1.08.39.53̊ east, and you’ll be looking at the big tree that shades my terrace. Look closely and you’ll see a hen. OK, I’m kidding. You won’t see a hen, nor will you see greenery anywhere in sight on the satellite shot. So clearly Po has a long, dry, brown season. I can look forward to brown season . . . and to hens eating watermelon seedlings from the seeds that I’ve tossed into the courtyard.

Jill is absolutely right. As Jill always says, worldwide, birds are the enemy. Specifically, hens! And I thought that cotton was the enemy (do your history homework, and don’t be fooled, kids – cotton is the enemy).

Is the rumor true that there are real brooms here, and if so, why don’t the Burkinabe use them . . . versus their little tied-up straw bundles? I’m going on a broom hunt . . . apropos pre-Halloween, don’t you think? Would a real broom be an effective weapon against the Po hens? What about a lance-pierre? Had someone gathered some eggs from ‘neath these hens . . . performed some chickus-interruptus . . . then Po might have eggs, mightn’t we? We can only speculate.

Covered in black paint again . . . how I’ve missed the fumes . . . that fresh-paint aroma. Eloosh, my carpenter, last night delivered four little perfectly square tables that I designed. For the entire time that I’ve been at site, eating my sad vegetarian diet, I’ve held my little bowl or plate in my hands. Laptop dining is no longer acceptable in light of the fact that I’ve got six guests arriving next week for demyst. That’s right, I get to host PC demyst weekend for four of the new trainees and their two language instructors. Well, this gal with monogrammed linen cocktail napkins absolutely will not have guests eating off their laps. Never mind that I don’t have enough plates, cups, glasses, or flatware . . . or a closet for their backpacks. I’ll cross that bridge next week.


My tiny hut, which isn’t all that tiny by PC standards, is actually growing crowded with furnishings . . . and I still don’t have any place to store clothing other than in a tiny trunk on the floor. No closet, but by golly I’ve got linen cocktail napkins and a French press. I don’t have a doorknob . . . just a Molton Brown ribbon to pull on, hooked to the door; but by golly I’ve got satellite phone.

I was late to my bureau today, and I didn’t even call. This may be the most irresponsible thing I’ve done at site, other than not locking my door. I was trying to translate into French my bamboo proposal. Took me over four hours, and I was merely discussing plants. What happens when I need to translate the details of a biogas digester? When I finally arrived au bureau, I believe that all was forgiven with the delivery of my translated bamboo proposal. Yaya seemed excited . . . but perhaps his excitement didn’t involve me at all. I think that an elephant has died in the park. I’d know if I understood French.

Yaya wants to go to the park to see the elephant, at least I think that’s what he said. I want to go, too. Yaya wants to find a GPS to preserve the location of the deceased beast. I’m not certain that I quite understand this concept. I suppose that a trail of bread crumbs wouldn’t work. So we were talking about Yaya’s need for a GPS when it occured to me: I’ve got a sat phone . . . with GPS. So the device is charging in anticipation of tomorrow’s dead-elephant tracking.

Yesterday I gave a brief presentation to a class of about 90 students at the high school, or lycée. Asked ‘em if they’d like to start some clubs to make some money. Sort of the Burkinabe version of Junior Achievement. Imagine a high-school math class with 90 well-behaved students, whose ages vary from about 14 to 20-something. Lots of little brown gingham shirts and khaki skirts and slacks, though not everyone was in uniform. The mention of money-making always goes over well in this land, so we’ll see what the students want to do. Wonder whether they’d consider a California Closets endeavor?

Is there really an elephant dead in the park? Are my new tables truly perfectly square? What are the odds? So that empty room in my home, what I am waiting on to transform it into a closet? I’m not really considering black-paint designs on the walls, am I? We can only speculate.

Three days without internet and you’d think that I had been popped into a black hole. I’m not a real PCV . . . real PCVs existed pre-internet and pre-mobile phones. How did those dear souls cope? Or were they better off?

Martin is 11 years old. He’s the son of the President of Ga Mo Wiga, in whose courtyard I live. Martin is a genius. At 11, he speaks at least three languages. His English is better than my French will ever be. Tomorrow morning I’m giving a presentation at a local school. So I prepared my presentation, in writing, in French. And then I asked Martin to listen to it. What? To Learn was conjugated improperly? Sayest thou? Grammar corrections were inevitable, I suppose. But the good news . . . Martin loved the ideas contained in the presentation. Alas, Martin won’t be in the audience tomorrow.

One December, about a billion years ago, I spent a few weeks over 250 miles north of the Arctic circle in Norway. The sun never rose above the horizon. I understand dark nights . . . or so I thought. In this relatively-equatorial land, the sun sets about 5:00-something. In other words, I’ll never have long summer days nor long winter nights. As a practical matter, the sun sets on my hut before 5:00 . . . 17:00 in BF and PC terms. That’s the time that the sun drops behind the trees, casting into deep shade my courtyard as the sun sinks behind the walls of my hillside compound. I’m tempted to draw lines inside the hut to show where the last glimmers of light shine through the shutters on 20 October, on 20 November, and on the winter solstice. But why? Dark is dark, and it won’t ever vary too much because of my proximity to the equator. I don’t think we have daylight-savings time here, but I could be mistaken. So what is now a five-hour time difference from home soon will become a six-hour difference. I think.

Point about the darkness being: by 6:00 p.m., I’m supped, clean, and in for the evening. And without internet, what’s a Po PVC to do? I reserve reading for bedtime, which occurs later and later these days . . . sometimes not until 9:00. Golly. My APCD says that he’d prefer not to see on our blogs the 50 books we’ll read during our two-year service. I’ve made it through three tomes during the four months I’ve been here. And I’ll add that I highly, highly recommend Little Bee. Run don’t walk . . . read Little Bee.

So after dark, after I’ve made my shopping list for the next day’s marche, and after noting the new residents that I’ve met, there’s not a lot to do. Last night I painted the nails of one of the girls who works, tirelessly, in my courtyard. Who needs an alarm clock? I’m awakened each morning at 5:00 to the soft sounds of Martine sweeping the gravel below my bedroom window. That’s right. They sweep the gravel! When does Martine sleep? She’s first up and I see her still doing laundry when I close my door at 9:00. I practically begged her to find a few moments so that I could paint her nails. To say that she was stunned that the nazarra wanted to pamper her would be a gross understatement. Nails painted, children and courtyard-family greeted, what next? Movie time! Merci beaucoup, Kylé! Never more appreciated than when sans internet.


How lucky am I to have an 11-year-old French tutor? Eleven!?! So, a booklist on this blog? Non, but what will Dan say about the films that I watch most evenings? Dan, will this photo of us really end-up enlarged on my wall? You think that Dick Day’s parents have a terrific sense of humor? We can only speculate.

In Burkina Faso there is no curbside trash pick-up. My twice-weekly trash pick-up in Texas . . . that and a kitchen sink with running water . . . these may be the niceties that I miss most. Reduce, reuse, recycle . . . never more true than in Po. The yoghourt bottle? Easy. But some things cannot be reused. That paint brush, now hard with toxic paint . . . how could anyone reuse that? So . . . hmm, what? Burn it? And release possibly toxic and explosive fumes and residue? I think not.

Daniel left some old bicycle tire-tubes and a tire. I don’t know how to use my bike’s air pump, but I’m certain that someone in my courtyard does. So if the tubes are still good (what are the odds?), I’ll keep them. Otherwise, I see potential for a circular barrier to stop the hens from eating plants. I might finally plant the vine seedlings from Fada . . . seedlings that I started in little planters made by reusing the plastic sachets that hold water in this country (I simply look on the road – the empty sachets are absolutely everywhere).

So I burn anything that can be reduced; and since I’m now a complete vegetarian, most food refuse I reuse in the garden as compost or as insect deterrent. But as for any trash that won’t burn . . . trash that must be taken to the courtyard’s trash pile in the tall grass outside the courtyard? I’ve learned that such items are inevitably sorted and returned by children. What can children do with the empty aerosol can that I found in my hut? They bring back a can, but leave a man’s shoe. Go figure. I may take the shoe!

Here’s what else I’ve learned:

• Don’t build your paper-trash fire right outside your window. Duh. What was I thinking?
• Today is International Hand-Washing Day.
• Friday is clothing-day at the market. There’s less fruit and lots more clothing. ‘Course this time of year, there is very little fruit. Literally . . . very little. Tiny bananas and guavas, which I love.
• Bibatta and I exchanged phone numbers. She told me to call her Biba -- golly, do you think I've misunderstood her name? We sat together today for about an hour and I watched her conduct business . . . selling leaves, tiny onions, and a few hot peppers. Bibatta has a nice spot in the shade, but it was still hot. She called to one of the vendors to bring me a cool drink.
• OK, what’s the number one rule? Well, actually, in Africa, I think that the rule is: whatever you do, don't run!  My number one rule is: don’t panic. Like the time the very well-dressed young lady rode away on the Barbie bike. I knew she was just teasing me. Don’t panic. Or the loss of my mobile phone . . . or a badly bleeding ankle. Don’t panic. But the PC’s number one rule is: don’t drink the water! Don’t drink anything offered to you. Ever. Be polite and hold the gourd to your lips but don’t sip and never swallow. Right. Like I’m going to turn down a cool drink ordered by Bibatta . . . sold by a young girl . . . contained in a 30-gallon blue plastic garbage can. Who's going to turn down cool, minty, gingery water known as ZoomKoom.

This afternoon I zoomed to the latrine, repeatedly. So . . . the cool drink from the market, maybe? Ya think?! Should the garbage can have been a clue? What was Daniel doing with an extra bike tire, when bike parts are so coveted here? Why do I have Bibatta’s number? So I can listen to Kassim on my mobile? Could I make a planter out of a gentleman’s shoe? Might be a good idea to get familiar with the bike pump . . . ya think? We can only speculate.

It’s dark. Electricity is out. It’s can’t-see-your-hand-in-front-of your-face dark. It’s not eyes-will-ultimately-adjust dark. So it’s dark! Get it?

I’ve been told that the Burkina military does exercises near here. Yesterday there was a military parade for the guys that just completed the Burkinabe version of boot camp. After the PC’s pre-service training, I know just how they feel. I once had that same deer-in-the-headlights look . . . and some days I still have it. Today I made an unsolicited telephone call, in French, to someone who speaks only French. Think about that. No hand gestures or facial expressions. It was a PCV-in-the-headlights kind of day.

I heard what sounded like thunder this afternoon, then I realized it was more like cannon fire. Repeated cannon fire. Maybe RPGs? Google that acronym. Rather freaky, but a Po possibility. Then came the true rumble of thunder, and now it’s noticeably cooler . . . cooler being a relative term.

Children love total darkness. I hear them giggling and moving about in the courtyard. Truth be told, I love darkness, too. The problem? Cooler is still hot; and after a late afternoon glass of espresso, I’ve been frenetically organizing and cleaning my kitchen. It’s warm inside, and I’m very hot. After sweeping with the world’s tiniest broom (about 5 x 3 inches, seriously . . . it’s the size of an index card), I applied bug powder around the inside perimeter of the house. Ah, caffeine . . . what legal stimulants can accomplish.

Although dark, I’ve got a wind-up lantern. Doesn’t make me giggle, but it’s useful for locating my nightly malaria prophylaxis. . . malaria prophylaxis also being a relative phrase, or an oxymoron, or both. Anyway, the lantern enabled me to locate the laptop.

So I’ve got a clean new kitchen, and a new countertop-table was delivered. New, relatively. I feel as if HGTV was here . . . even more so in the darkness. Why? Because Maggie sent me a tee-ninsy 360-degree LED light clipped onto a gourd nailed to the wall over my little stove. I mounted the gourd-cup to hold matches for the stove. So the effect is that of a tiny spotlight in the kitchen. It’s fantastic, so thank you, Maggie.

While high on caffeine, I painted furniture. Furniture, too, being a relative word. I painted some wood that is pieced together as a bookcase, and now I’ve painted the new table and the little stand on which my cooktop sits. Black. Glossy, smelly, probably lead-based-gonna-kill-some-brain-cells black. With these pops of black, the walls actually appear clean . . . or cleaner, relatively. Eight dollars for killer paint, or $40-plus to paint the walls? Not a difficult decision. I think I'll paint the door. Fumes are fumes . . . and to borrow an African phrase -- if there's enough for one, there's enough for two . . . right Keith?

With no electricity, complete darkness, a cool evening outside, and lots of paper trash, wouldn’t it be a fine night for a poubelle fire? Maybe make some ash for the garden? Between bug powder and paint fumes, will I survive until the end of my two-year service? How many relative terms are there in West Africa? Do they still make cannons? And where’d I find espresso? We can only speculate.