The PC promises hardship, and it certainly delivers. This past week many little things went right, but a dozen major things, and one big one, went horribly wrong. OK, two . . . the second being: I broke a glass (and I only had three) . . . a glass half-full of Irish Whiskey. Get out your tissues; I know I did. I think the aroma still lingers in the air . . . or perhaps only in my mind. But the glass aside, the real drama here and what's really happening in Southern Burkina Faso probably has already reached CNN. The heart-breaking, tragic catastrophe here in Pô . . . ?





So it’s true: once you’ve had running water (albeit outside in the courtyard), once you’ve had electricity for a fan, and once you’ve had cold water, icy vodka, and ice cubes, the loss of these little amenities is completely devastating. And never more so than when the average afternoon temperature hits 108. And I’m told that in April it’s really hot. What? 108 isn’t hot enough? Cold season lasted a total of 10 days in January with overnight lows around 85-83. Not what I was promised. But enough of these little issues. Let’s consider very real conditions of hardship.

So, to anyone who read my Packing List, actually saw my luggage and boxes during stage, or who may have observed my Pô kitchen, you must realize that I was only half-joking when I’ve said, If all else fails, I can open a cooking school. As far back as our first days in Philadelphia, we PCTs quizzed each other on the most odd thing(s) packed. My favorite: Kate’s solar garden lights (why didn’t I think of that?!). But my marble mortar & pestle ranks right up there, as does my wooden citrus juicer.

Well, the cooking school became a reality this week, though only by happenstance. Week One: Baking 101 . . . in a dutch oven that uses sand . . . over an outdoor fire that children must light for me because I cannot use charcoal without lighter fluid (and no, Alton Brown’s oil-rubbed-paper promise isn’t working here). This is bona fide hardship.

Then there was the ash that got in my eye as tried to maintain a constant temperature in a vessel that holds sand and three tiny cans upon which sits a baking pan (I don’t remember dutch ovens like this from Girl Scouts). I’ve lost count of the number of batches of Brownies that I’ve made. I believe we’re at four . . . maybe five. Say it with me: hardship.

This morning was hand-rolled chocolate truffles . . . Dean & Deluca cocoa, naturally. A tad non-sustainable, don’t you think? Now truffle-making is a challenge in this climate, especially hand-rolling. And had the frigo still been out-of-whack, or had the electricity been off (as it is this afternoon), we’d have had trouble. Hardship, again. You’re seeing it all clearly now, right?

In addition to truffles and Brownies (some with yummy frosting), we’ve done bisap and popcorn balls, though we totally missed the mark on the ball element. A candy thermometer here, and I still can’t get the syrup right. I continue to blame the bizarre Burkina sugar. Hardship! That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it. Still, think great caramel corn, like Poppycock™.

You can see that my week has been fraught with hardship. Hand-rolled truffles with no B&B . . . no espresso? Raise your hand if you can’t see the hardship. So, who among you knows the origin of the term dutch oven? We can only speculate.

NOTE: The following was written last autumn for publication by PSDN. Some of you have asked to see the entire article. Here you go:
Bien integree? Heck, I can’t even spell it. Integree . . . I think it’s pronounced with the long-A sound, so that could indicate an accent somewhere around those last two Es. On the other hand, French words ending in ER and in Z also have the long-A sound, and I don’t think they have an accent mark. What’s up with that? Those wacky French -- they have a word for everything. 

I speak ten languages. No joke. I can say “good morning,” “where is the toilet?” “another beer, please,” or “thank you” in ten languages. Beer, toilet, thanks. That may be all that I can say, but frankly, what more do I need? There are people who have a natural talent for acquiring new languages. I, however, am not one of those people. At my home in Pô, the English of my 11-year-old neighbor is better than my French will ever be. Ever. Did I mention that he’s only 11?!

In the U.S., I don’t do malls and I hate the grocer. I avoid both . . . like the plague. If it can’t be purchased at a drive-through window, Starbucks, or Dean & Deluca on-line, I probably won’t be eating it. My idea of shopping is a com-link with the Mother Ship . . . a/k/a, Neiman-Marcus on-line with second-day delivery. The PC Application should consider an essay question about malls, grocers, and customary levels of retail-therapy.

In the U.S., I order my stamps on-line; but I’ve heard rumor that there’s a place called the post office where one can make purchases, too. So, that post office guy who purportedly sells postal stuff? . . . he’ll never expect anyone to sit and observe as he sells commemorative stamps and boxes. Absurd, right? And in the States I would no more ask the name of the Walgreen’s employee than I would go inside the Mall-of-America. I perfunctorily say “Good morning, how are you?” That’s enough, right? Ah, but this is Burkina Faso. Retail-therapy has an entirely new meaning . . . and purpose: bien integree.

So that magnificent day arrives. The swear-in after-effects almost disappear, and the PC elves deliver my 17 pieces of luggage to site. I’m alone, in the rain, in Po . . . with no Starbucks. No biscotti, no muffins, no food! Poof! I’m at site . . . alone. It’s what all PCVs envision from the first moment we glance at our PC Application . . . the application sorely lacking questions about grocers, Neiman’s, and on-line shopping. So now what? Well, I could order the new Kate Spade sandals, but Po doesn’t have a cyber. Good Lord, I’ve got to go shopping . . . in a foreign language! Actually leave the hut and then the courtyard. And not Mother-Ship shopping, but shopping at the BF-equivalent of a mall, which just happens to contain a grocer . . . lots of ‘em, in fact. It’s my worst nightmare: a mall with grocers . . . and they call it a marche. Somebody wake me! Did I mention that I was alone?

I previously had not been to a marche in BF. No kidding. I made it all the way through PST without ever stepping foot in a real marche. Ouahigouya? Nope. Koudougou or Fada? Non, et non. Ouaga? Duh . . . no! But one morning in Po I am left with no choice. I stroll through the marche with that deer-in-the-headlights look. I do the meet-and-greet. Hi, how are you, my name is, I’m the new volunteer, I’ve replaced Daniel. And I buy my peppers and onions and ride back home as quickly as my purple Barbie bike will carry me.

Early one morning at the market, my favorite vendor gives me a look. I know that look. It’s the look that says “you stupid American woman, you’re not getting the best prices, I’ll help you because you’ve been here three days in a row and still have the PCV-in-the-headlights look.” Voila! Bibatta . . . my new personal shopper . . . with two-minute delivery. Ah, but there’s a catch. I’ve got to ask her how’s the family, how’s the work, how’s the courtyard? I have to ask her where she’s from, does she have a husband, how many children . . . personal things! There’s no escaping it. And that’s when it clicks: I am actually curious and interested in her answers.

Then one day I begin to remember names, which becomes my new mission in Po . . . meeting and remembering five new people each day. I find myself sitting on the ground at the market watching Bibatta sort through leaves of some variety. I drink drinks ordered for me by Bibatta from a vendor with a 30-gallon trash can and I meet the trash-can-punch vendor. I stop to meet tailors, carpenters, men who do laundry, and ladies who sell dough . . . who, incidentally, may say gateau all day long but that stuff ain’t ever gonna be gateau.

I make a list of the people I meet with at least one personal bit of info. Mohammed at the Poste has a brother in Texas. Blandine is from Ghana and her son, Sullivan, is a tailor. David thinks it’s hilarious that his name and my last name are pronounced the same. I have my first project. I cannot be bothered with a French tutor; I have names to remember. Besides, David at the Poste is bilingual and I’m tutored every time I go to the Poste . . . not to conduct business, but merely to see what David is doing today. How’s the family? How’s the courtyard? Is Friday extra busy because of something about Islam that I don’t yet understand?

Someone said that I was bien integree. I completely disagree, but it was a nice compliment. However, if there’s any grain of truth to it, I must wonder: bien integree – how did I do it? Well it wasn’t any singular altruistic trait, that’s a certainty. Nay, I’m merely a garden-variety PCV. It wasn’t my ability as a linguistic virtuoso. Far from it. I may be a bit like you . . . or perhaps I’m far less suited to becoming a good PCV. I shall, therefore, share what worked for this linguistically-challenged, mall-hating PCV.

For Your Community:

• Keep an updated list of names with as much detail as possible. Smila is in charge of seeds, he’s short and has a small gap in his teeth when he smilas. 
• Bribe! 300 CFA of bon-bons will bring about 100 people to you, and not just children. I call this the bon-bon-magnet effect . . . I believe it’s Newton’s Third Law. No bon-bon until they’ve said my name nor until they’ve repeated it to say Merci, Katerine. Giving bon-bons to ladies at the marche results in lots of free, bizarre veggies and cool drinks from garbage cans. 
• Buy something from a new vendor, even if it’s something you don’t need. Wait! Especially if it’s something you don’t need. Then go give that yam or cucumber to someone new and update your list with a new name. Miriam, sells green oranges outside the main market and looks at me as if I’m crazy for giving away a cucumber. 
• Learn to sit still, an almost impossible task that I have certainly not perfected. However, there’s nothing so pressing in my life that I can’t sit with Sephora for an hour. And think of how many new folks you’ll meet in an hour. Kodaram has a name that sounds like Kodak film and teases Sephora about holding hands with the Nassara.
• Let your village laugh and have fun with you. If you can’t maintain some sense of humor, you’ve probably volunteered for the wrong 27 months.

For Yourself:

• You are automatically a reality-show celebrity. It’s the Nassara-Show, and everyone wants to co-star. It’s a great high, so leave the hut and go embrace it. 
• When you’re feeling useless, ask yourself what you’d be doing at home. I often find that I’d be doing the same thing in Dallas that I’m doing in Po – nothing important. So I’m perfectly capable of being worthless on two continents. That makes me feel better. 
• Recognize that at any given moment you’re not forced to do a single thing. This isn’t PST, and such freedom opens lots of possibilities for things that you might want to do . . . cook something new; stand outside the alimentation and drink not-one-but-two cold Cokes; try to explain to the guys at the alimentation that you can’t really afford two Cokes. Bienvenu works at the alimentation, has some freckles, and tells me that indeed I can buy two Cokes because I can’t be “pauvre” since I’ve got a Barbie bike. 
• A mental health day works magic. Whatever it is that you need, give in. Three hours of South Park? Why not? A pedicure, new pagne, a cocktail, and an expensive phone call home? Absolutely, why not? Hole-up in the hut and refuse to come out? Why not indeed?
• Never, never-ever forget: laugh at yourself. If you can’t maintain your sense of humor, you’ve absolutely volunteered for the wrong 27 months.

I believe it was Teddy Roosevelt who said: Do what you can with what you have . . . where you are. I speak very little French, but I’ve got an entire village anxious to help me. I don’t have second-day delivery from Neiman’s, but I’ve got Bibatta. I still don’t have that cute pair of Kate Spade sandals, but I’ve got new tapets onto which I’m going to glue beads. I don’t have a pumpkin for Halloween, but I’ve got a knife, a watermelon, a candle . . . and 25 children waiting to see the fate of that watermelon.

Bien integree? I very greatly doubt it. Get back to me in 18 months. In the meantime, what will I do? What will I do without Humbolt-fog cheese, without Kate Spade accessories, and with very poor language skills? Well, I’ve got a vague idea. On my list of top-five-films is David Lean’s Dr. Zhivago. And my favorite lines from the film? Strelnekov asks the doctor, “What will you do in Yuriatin?” and Zhivago replies, “Just live!” So I ask myself: Kathy, while you’re waiting to feel like a real-live PCV, what will you do in Po? And the answer is invariably, just live!

So . . . will I ever learn to spell bien integree? We can only speculate.

Christmas came early in 2011 and brought me a van to deliver me and the Canadians to the closing ceremony of the Fete des Jardins. So I didn't have to bike over 70 km. It was an amazing day, and I believe that the photos speak for themselves . . . though I suppose some narrative is required. Voila! The winner of the 2011 competition. Now it's hot today, but a velvet cap is fine, even in this climate, as long as it's not worn after Easter. So the guy in the lower left corner appears happy, wouldn't you say?

So here are some of the products from the winning gardens. The display was like a little State Fair display, under tents, with each garden having its own number showing the ranking. Everything but the blue ribbon.

Lots of children at the party. Children don't fully comprehend the beauty of the 200mm lens. And I don't know the Kassim words for back-up . . . more . . . a little more. But I did get some nice close-up shots of the beautiful Burkinabe children. Oh sure, they look lovely and well-behaved in front of the camera; but you should experience the stampede brought-on by a box of Tic-Tacs.

Here's our other drummer. Now come on, admit it . . . that expression is priceless. Think this guy enjoys his work? Wouldn't mind finding one of these drums for the current redecorating occurring at chez moi. And as I think of it, actually, I believe that I prefer his hat . . . like the blue band.

Where have these babies been for the past six months!? Still haven't seem them at my marche, but perhaps some of these European eggplant will find their way to my hut before they're all gone to Ouaga for better prices. We do get African eggplant from time to time, but they're just too bitter.

I just love the face on this gentleman. What a warm smile. Of course, I did a lot of meet-and-greet in Kassim. Sought-out every Chef de Village that I could spot. And it didn't take long. One Chef would call out to another: Hey, Nassara is speaking Kassim and she's asked me about my family and my fields . . . come check-out her sad accent. Or at least I believe that's what they all said to each other.
Our drummer, again, looking rather pensive. Gots to get me one of those hats. What do you suppose happened to his nose? Chinatown-Roman-Polanski moment? The back-story on this photo is my risk of life-n-limb climbing atop a rickety board, onto which the kids decided to climb, too, and commence jumping.

When it comes to images of the women, I don't know what impresses me most: their smiles and laughter, which accompany a sometimes riske sense of humor . . . or their colorful attire . . . or the magical way that they can tie those scarves. I've not mastered their head-wrap technique, despite my kokoi lessons in the Kalahari.
I hate tomatoes, but these are gorgeous, non? So much so that I see the handwriting on the wall: I'm going to buy tomatoes (yuk) and attempt to make and freeze tomato sauces . . . maybe a Burkinabe version of Ro-Tel with a smidge of piment and onions. Gotta click on this and see the enlarged version.


OK. Here I truly am speechless, all evidence to the contrary. I think that face says it all.
We're nearing the end of the ton-ton entertainment here . . . but not the end of the  dancing and singing. So, in addition to the hat, that skirt's not bad either, right? Income generating activity [IGA]for a tailor maybe? Making me a hat and skirt? So the fete began with the usual speeches, award, presentations by the VIPs, and concluded with the dancing. We left for lunch soon thereafter, but I suspect that the folks who had come in from the surrounding villages in the Province du Nahouri are probably still dancing. I'll save photos of my pals for another time. Today I was so very proud to be even a small part of GaMoWigna and Po.

Again with the colorful female headgear. I prefer the pagne-look when it's all scrunched up as headwear. Yes, Rusty, Maggie & A.Kaye . . . I know that I need to work on my depth of field. For your amusement and consideration, I should mention one thing -- since I thought that I'd be biking to the fete, I dressed accordingly. Typical American . . . always over-dressed or under-dressed for the wrong occasions. At least I was brightly colored in my fish swimsuit cover up. No, I'm not joking. You know the one.

This little boy didn't get to attend the fete . . . probably didn't even know about it. I met him while the Canadian group was touring the Royal Palace (known to me as the painted houses) at Tiebele. Been there, done that . . . so I sat with kids and handed out bon-bons. OK, OK, I also did some bargaining for a few household items.

Well there's a glimpse into my day. Do I look as happy as I feel? I'm speaking Kassim and French . . . and learning to understand Canadian French, which is totally different that France-French and Burkina-French. What else is in store while the Canadians are visiting? Got a trip to Nazinga planned this week; and I may join them for my second trip up the Pic du Nahouri. Golly, it's nice to have my camera with me here in Burkina Faso. Will I ever be a photographer? What would A. Kaye say? We can only speculate.

One of our cross-culturual classes during stage covered the importance of showing-up. Bac, wedding, funeral, etc. Just show up. True, gifts are important; but nothing is as important as merely showing-up. My mother was right. Event to exorcise a genie's doings? At least make an appearance!

Speaking French on a mobile is totally different from French in person. Imagine: no hand gestures, no eye-movement, no furrowed brow that says, I'm a total idiot and have no idea what you're saying . . . so let's draw a picture in the sand.

Friday Yaya called to invite me to an event. I was so flattered. He told me the event was the next day and told me the time. Fabulous. And since I had Yaya on the phone and needed a few answers about a project, I asked-away. I did understand his responses, but then, I was expecting simple yes or no answers . . . easier to understand, even via mobile, when you're anticipating a specific response.  But as to the invitation to a fete, what did Yaya say?! Fete for a grand bassin? A fete for a lake? Surely not. But this is Pô so anything is possible. Or did he say a fete for the new baby? And what time was it? Six-thirty? No, they use a 24-hour clock here, and no one would have a baby fete at 6:30 a.m. So either it wasn’t a baby fete, or it wasn’t at 6:30 a.m. I was totally befuddled when I ended the conversation. I sat, paralyzed . . . no clear plan to ascertain any answers.


In the midst of my angst, a gentlemen called at my hut door. The interior painter (nay, artiste) referred to me by Leon. He’s going to paint my walls; and he explained that he was the artist who had painted the murals at Ga Mo Wigna, among many other paintings. Ah ha, that artist. And tomorrow, he explained, at 8:30 he was to begin a new mural at Go Mo Wigna. Hmm.

I called back Yaya. What time tomorrow? Surely that would give me an idea of the event? How could I say, Hey, I’m really stupid and still don’t understand your French . . . so is it a fete for a baby or a fete for a lake or a fete for a new mural? So I didn't ask specifics, only the time; and Yaya confirmed 8:30 a.m. At that point I was certain that it must be the mural project with the artist at the bureau. Surely Yaya had said grand designe and not grand bassin. . . . unless he had said bebe and bebe sounded like bassin. Who has a fete for a lake? But on the other hand, who has a fete for a newborn at 8:30 a.m.? Oh wait! I know! A family in a country where the women awaken at 5:00 a.m. and start sweeping gravel. As you can see, I was entirely too embarrassed to confirm the nature of the fete; but you know where this is headed, right?

Saturday, I arrive at Ga Mo Wigna before 8:30 . . . ready to greet Yaya and anyone else who might have been invited to the fete for a new mural. Jean le artiste was present, with his helpers. Waiting for attendees is the norm in Burkina Faso. A two-hour delay isn't unusual. And so, about 10:00 a.m., Jean-Bernard, my Canadian friend, appeared at the bureau. Well, whatever is happening certainly must be happening there. Ah, non. Jean-Bernard explains that the fete did begin at 8:30 at Yaya’s . . . for the baby. Oh #*@%-edy #*@%! But now it’s too late – I’ve got a Kassim class beginning in 10 minutes.

So what did I do? Explain my incompetence in French? Beg for pardon? Comment dit on en francais . . . Je vous demand pardon? Over-compensate with beaucoup des cadeaux . . . in the way only a guilty American can do? We can only speculate.