There’s so much that I don’t understand. So very much. For instance:

I don’t understand why it rained, hard, for about six hours yesterday; yet the cool wind never made it inside, past my screens and open doorway. Actually, I don’t even understand why it rained at all in April. It’s hot season. No rain until May, at the earliest. And this so-called mango rain was supposed to have occurred in March; yet there was no rain in March. I don’t understand. It’s like the cold-season that I was promised . . . don’t understand which hour of my PC service that occupied. Maybe I slept through it.

I don't understand why this man isn't a Follower of my blog. Do you understand that? Me, neither.

And, Becky, sorry if I'm the first to tell you . . .  this is the new J.D. But you understand everything . . . so you already knew, right?

I don’t understand why I don’t have the authority to remove a Facebook photo that’s been posted on my wall by someone else, even if it’s clearly the worst photo ever taken. Especially because it’s the worst photo ever taken. I don’t understand why FB doesn’t have the destroy-all-evidence-that-this-photo-ever-existed button.

I don’t understand why the three sutures in my head required twine so thick that you could truss a turkey.  And why can't I remove them myself? It's not brain surgery.

I don’t understand how much warmer it must be before chicks hatch without the need for mother hens. In a closet at GaMoWigna, we have either eggs waiting to hatch, or baby chicks. The sign says Do Not Enter, and the cord running under the door is for a heater. But perhaps I've failed to understand Yaya's French and it’s not an incubator at all. In this heat? Perhaps it’s a rotisserie!


I don’t understand why my French isn’t improving at a faster pace . . . unless it’s the amount of time that I spend reading novels in English.

So, do Jake and Lady Brett ever live happily ever after? Is Ms. Kate Mayfield ever going sky-diving again? And is it possible to read Atonement without picturing, deliciously-so, James McAvoy? Isn't it pretty to think so? We can only speculate.

As with so many incidents of unrest, it starts small and quickly escalates; so you may want to sit-down for this one.

One day the courtyard is peaceful and quiet. Then in creep the interlopers. A goat. Others follow. All too soon there are three goats. Then come sheep and a lamb. Finally, burros and cattle. Mooing and braying animals who don't know how to tell time. Two in the morning? Time to bray. That braying sound . . . the same sound that I once paid money to hear from the South African JackAss penguin . . . well it isn't quite so charming here in my own courtyard.

Hot season . . . and my first night sleeping outdoors; but not merely to avoid the oven that has become my hut. Nay, my flight to the outdoor hammock was prompted by riotous unrest . . . a true invasion. With le chauleur here and temps rising, I keep my door open almost at all times. The entrance of Rex and Dora was inevitable, and, as it happens, not altogether undesirable. The courtyard canines nap for hours on my concrete floors, acting as dust mops. Wherever Rex and Dora nap, upon their return to the courtyard there are nicely dusted spots on the floor. Jill the Pill could do no better.

But alas, with the open-door invitation, also entered a mouse. And a lizard. Now I'm not particularly unraveled by a mouse, nor by a lizard; however, the idea of a mouse running across my bed in the night isn't appealing in the slightest. And a lizard? Hey, remember the ol' Dragon Hotel . . . first night in-country . . . size of a kitten . . . PTSD! Enough said.

So now what? Well, I'm a PCV and thus resourcefulness is second nature. Or not.  But it's the age of the world wide web, and thus, I cheated. Before ever leaving Dallas I had read the blog of another volunteer (Morocco, I believe) who truly invented a better mouse trap. I followed her brilliant example. In truth, I'd been waiting for the opportunity to try-out her wickedly evil scheme.  A scheme so simple and yet so brilliant. Here's how it goes, step by step.

1. Empty PC water filter bucket.
2. Duct-tape a pencil onto the very tip-end of a ruler.
3. Insert pencil into the empty cardboard roll from toilet paper. Yes, toilet paper is so precious here that I even keep the cardboard tubes.
4. Place raspberry jam onto the distal end of the toilet paper core. You're catching-on now, right? That cardboard tube is going to roll right over the moment anything steps onto it.
5. Create a mouse ramp from the kitchen shelf using ruler/pencil/T.P.core.
6. Exit hut to comfortable hammock. Wait for mouse to step onto the cardboard roll in its attempt to eat my overpriced raspberry jam.
7. Run into hut when the cardboard tube rolls-over under the weight of the mouse.
8. Laugh at mouse now trapped in the empty water filter.

Worked like a charm. The next morning children were beckoned and instructed to remove the mouse and end its mouse life. Face facts, kids . . . there's never just one mouse. It had to go.

The lizard-removal, however, created a greater challenge. Mats were removed from the floor and placed vertically to block any entrance to the bedroom and closet (OK, you know it's not really a closet). Children were called to assist. They brought their straw brooms and sticks. Instinctively they knew to be gentle with the lizard. I was very impressed. Impressed as I waited outside . . . way outside . . . ready with an empty tin of butter cookies in order to capture & contain the lizard. Remember the first rule of the PC: Do no harm. OK, that may not be the first rule, but there was no need to harm a lizard.

Lizard contained and urged to find other accommodations, calm returned to Po's best courtyard. If Rex or Dora had even an ounce of terrier in their eclectic heritage, this would have never occurred. So I think that the PC's Do No Harm rule requires some clarification. Surely it does not apply not to mice. So how can I leave-open my door and still keep-out these unwanted rodents and reptiles? We can only speculate.

This post is not about poop . . . or at least not about my poop. There! I heard it . . . your big sigh of relief. It is, however, about dehydration.

James says he saw a large water rat in my latrine one night. I have no reason to doubt him, though I've never seen even a mouse. Still, it's a bit off-putting when I think about a rat during a quick dash to the latrine on a night with no moonlight. So what's the obvious answer? Fewer trips to the latrine. How is this accomplished? Simple, unhealthy, life-threatening dehydration. Or maybe not.

It's hot season. Think of what room temperature means in the States. Now imagine a glass of room-temp water when it’s 115 outside and probably hotter inside. Hardly thirst-quenching. Happily, I have a small freezer; and when the electricity is working, I have unlimited icy cold water . . . or Crystal Light (thanks, friends!). This means that I'm not in a constant state of dehydration. And that's a good thing . . . something that my PCMOs love. It's a healthy thing. Right? Or is it?

Living on the stipend of a PC volunteer isn't easy, but neither is it impossible. It's all a matter of priorities. Food isn't costly, especially when it's difficult to contemplate cooking during hot season. I sometimes make a bowl of popcorn in the mornings when it's cool (meaning about 95), and this serves as lunch and dinner. So spending money on food and chilled, expensive sodas isn't a high priority. However, toilet paper is . . . and it's not cheap here. In fact, a roll of toilet paper is somewhat of a luxury for most Burkinabe. Guess why.

And thus the toilet paper dilemma. Well-hydrated means more trips to the latrine . . . or to the large jar in the house if I'm feeling particularly intimidated in the dark by rodents-of-unusual-size. In any event, well-hydrated means more toilet paper usage. Swoooosh. Hear my thirty-dollars-a-week literally going down the toilet?

The paper money here is often very old, very tattered and, yes, I'll say it, soft! I could probably use old 1000 cfa notes in lieu of toilet paper, and the cost would be about the same. Well, maybe not . . . not to mention the sanitary conditions of paper money in Burkina. But you clearly see the dilemma. Hydrated = high T.P. usage.  Dehydrated = low T.P. usage . . . and savings.

Now it is universally acknowledged that I had/have the best PC Recruiter in the world. After all, I'm the Burkina PCV with the red PC book bag and the PC patches sewn on to my bucket hat. And, on the subject of toilet issues, I'm the PCV whose recruiter sent this video. I rarely do, but if called upon to do so, I absolutely can Poop In A Hole.

So, after seeing the Poop video, you think you want to join the Peace Corps? Have I found a way to reuse, reduce, recycle my T.P. usage? Does anyone even want to ponder that? Are some luxuries worth any price? We can only speculate.

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.