How many PCVs does it take to make a hookah work properly? We may never know. But what we do know is that four ordinarily-clever PCVs placed an emergency call to another PCV, and that still didn’t do the trick. What’s up with that? Where's the hookah reference manual?

But wait, it gets worse. My refrigerator has quit working, again. All too often I’ve* returned home to a frigo that has* quit working during my absence. How quickly grows a moldy mess inside. Believe me, not a pretty sight. Furthermore, getting the bloody frigo to work again after being without power has become a serious issue.  I don’t rest when the frigo isn’t cold. I fret. It messes with my Zen place . . . or something like that.

So I left the frigo plugged-in last week when I was in Ouaga . . . despite the fact that the electricity had been* off for the two days prior to my departure. When I returned home, still no electricity; but something had* worked at some point because I had* water partially frozen. However, since my return on Sunday . . . nothing, nyet, nada, zip, bupkis [A Fish Called Wanda reference]. We are not happy [Lawrence of Arabia reference].  I’m fairly alarmed here [Jurassic Park reference]. I genuinely believe that it wants to work . . . it's trying. Where's the bloody reference guide?

Rusty used to say, give me a tampon and some duct tape and I’ll build you an airplane. Or maybe that’s what I used to say about Rusty. In any event, I'm suddenly so MacGyver-y. Yes . . . despite the hookah fiasco, and despite the fact that I cannot identify the reason that my frigo won't work, perhaps some of Rusty's MacGyver ingenuity has rubbed off on me.

Today I built a better hand-washing station. I got the idea after being faced with the eventuality of having* to make the BF/PC version. Now the pathetic part is that I took a bidon (that's a jerry can to you non-BF PCVs) and all the bits to my bureau, ready to struggle drilling a hole with my trusty multi-tool’s knife . . . and then Yaya stopped me. Talk about MacGyver-y. Took me and the bits and the bidon to the quincailliere (is that a really word?), where a nice fellow punched a hole right through the lid. So that's what happens at a quincailliere. I felt like an idiot. Lord, what fools these mortals be! [Midsummer-Night's Dream reference]. I made this handy-dandy reference for other PCVs . . . or in case you're bored at home.

Perhaps if I worked on more MacGyver-y projects I'd smoke less and wouldn't worry about cherry hookah. Or perhaps if I napped more. Isn't jerry can terribly prejudiced?  *Will I ever again write a sentence with any conjugation of the verbs to be or to have without thinking: What kind of crazy language has fourteen (14!) verb conjugations, plus the impératif? Who was the lunatic who thought up that?! And what's up with that MacGyver hair style? We can only speculate.

Sometimes Peace Corps Washington does magical things, not the least of which is ensuring our safety, if not always our sanity. This year being the 50th anniversary of the PC, they’ve evidently solicited post cards from school children; and Burkina Faso was fortunate to receive many cards, including one very special card from a talented young lady named Sophia. She's ten!

Children were evidently instructed to write greetings on one side and draw pictures on the other. Each post card arrived with the 50th anniversary USPS commemorative PC postage stamp, naturally. Let me tell you, although all are charming, not all cards are equal . . . and such is life.

I’ve snagged the card from Sophia, which is so brilliant on both sides that there’s nothing to do but make a mobile and hang it from the ceiling so that I can enjoy every inch of it. Sophia's card (like your painting, Miss Abby) ensures my sanity . . . though I realize that's arguable. In any case, Sophia writes (and this is verbatim):

Hi. My name is Sophia! I live in the USA. I have 1 dog, 2 cats and a mouse. I love to read! I am 10 years old. I really enjoy drawing. Cats are 1 of the things I draw best. Violin is the instrument I play. What I really would not be able to play too well is acordian (I’m not sure that’s how you spell it). I am not too good at drawing people. Bye, Sophia.

Who is this child? Who, at age ten, can properly spell too? I ask you. Heck, I know 30-year-olds who can't. I am utterly enchanted. I picture her in six or seven years at Juilliard or the Sorbonne. No, of course this isn't her work. But I thought I'd toss in some nice images representative of her style.

Regrettably, what you are unable to see here are the four pencil illustrations, all brilliantly done, that Sophia sent to Burkina Faso. Her mouse is named Maple Sugar (cute, right?), and Sophia’s illustration includes a special notation that Maple Sugar is a blown-up image. Sophia is absolutely correct; and indeed, Maple Sugar's image is a bit large for a mouse, though perfectly to scale as he stands in a three-quarter profile, one little eye mischievously peering over his shoulder at her cats, Fiona and Yehudi. I bet she's cleverly, prodigiously, named Yehudi after the violinist, but that's just a guess.

Seriously, who is this child prodigy? Yehudi and Fiona are shown curled together in a ball. Brilliant. Her dog, Holob, is lying down; and Sophia notes that the image is sideways. I’ve shown this card to the best PCV illustrators whom I know and all agree that she’s a genius. And she's only ten!

I have news for you, Sophia: while you certainly draw cats extraordinarily well, your dog is equally fabulous. And don’t sell yourself short – I suspect that you also can draw people exceptionally well. On my next trip to Ouaga I’m going to scan this card and post it on this blog. It’s breath-taking. I want a mouse named Maple Sugar. I was so inspired that I tried to draw Jill-the-Pill on my kitchen blackboard, with poor results. Sorry, Jill.

I’m sure that Sophia’s family has many of her beautiful illustrations. But it would be so nice to return her card to them, all the way from Burkina Faso, as a permanent addition to her portfolio. Where can this next Mary Cassatt be found? Do you think Chaim Soutine entitled his painting, Rabbit with Forks, Sideways? Anyone out there know a little girl named Sophia with a mouse, 2 cats, and a dog? We can only speculate.

There are certain rules we follow . . . as humans, as PCVs, and certainly as expats in a very hot climate. I don't generally embrace rules. No poster child for Rule-Follower is this PCV from Pô. Yet common sense (or vanity) dictates that some rules were indeed intended to be followed. Always. We try to avoid classic blunders by following said rules. We were raised from childhood with these rules, either by society as a whole, or by our families, friends, teachers. For instance, as stated to Wesley in The Princess Bride:

You only think I guessed wrong. That’s what so funny. I switched glasses while your back was turned. Ha-ha, you fool. You fell victim to one of the classic blunders. The most famous is never get involved in a land war in Asia; but only slightly less well-known is this: never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line.

Me, I was raised on just a few simple rules:

No patent leather before Easter;
No white after Labor Day;
Never leave the house without lipstick;
A lady never walks with a cigarette;
And never eat anything containing mayonnaise at a summer picnic. It’s the heat. Makes the mayo go bad. Turns it into a playground for bacteria.

But here in The B.F. the mayo requires no refrigeration after opening, and it keeps for months on the shelf. Months! Something’s very wrong with that. Makes you wonder about why type of chemical can stop all that bacterial playground fun. Whatever . . . I'm not taking chances and will continue to avoid any mayo that doesn't require refrigeration . . . especially in a land that's hot like Mexico. Maybe my next PCV assignment will take me to Finland, where I'll again enjoy tuna salad.

I’m reading The Bell Jar. You'll recall that Esther and 10 of her friends are violently ill after eating crab-stuffed avocado at their luncheon. It was the mayonnaise. I guarantee. Didn’t Mrs. Greenwood ever teach her daughter the mayonnaise rule? Pauvre petite Elly . . . what trouble might have been spared with that one simple mayo rule?  And am I the last person on the planet to read any Sylvia Plath? Do they have PCVs in Finland? We can only speculate.

Saturday marked the one-year anniversary of my swearing-in as a PCV. The actual date, 27 August, was Saturday. Friday was the on-this-very-Friday anniversary. I celebrated both. It’s hard to believe that I’ve been in The B.F. for over 14 months.

When I came to The B.F. I swore that there were a couple of things I’d never do. Ever. I’d never freak-out over large insects; I’d never make a list of the books I read in-country; and I’d never poop on myself. Come on . . . one can always scream for the bus to stop to get off and poop. How hard is it not to poop oneself? And I was going to be way too busy being a good little PCV to read many books . . . and I was going to woman-up and not be alarmed by scorpion carrier spiders. These were my promises to myself, despite all the warning from the PCVs who’d gone before me. And then one day everything goes wrong.

I just spent a week in Ouaga for TDE (Training, Development, and something that begins with an E). This means that I’m so important, that my comprehension of acronyms is so complete, and that my PCV opinion is so highly valued (right!) that I was invited (one of only two SED volunteers) to form the training program for the new group of volunteers arriving in October . . . so you kids better watch out.

Time has little meaning in this land. Days fly by, but sometimes weeks drag by. So a few weeks ago (or perhaps it was just the other day) I took a header off my terrace, flying head-first to the concrete about four feet below. Hey, the electricity was out and I was in total darkness trying to toss a glass of water (I swear it was just water) over the edge of my terrace. Now I’m just over five-foot-four, and if my head hit first . . . OK, you do the math. How far did I fall? And did I hit the concrete step about two feet below my terrace before I finally landing on the concrete ground of the courtyard? I have no idea. In any event, next thing I knew Mike and my courtyard residents were carrying me up the stairs. I awoke the next morning with a very tender chin, twisted ankle (yes, that same ankle), and a very swollen left knee.

It’s rainy season, and I’ve been working from home quite a bit. Just as the Burkinabe do, my new laptop refuses to go out in the rain. So Yaya and I sit in my hut and crunch numbers for projects . . . or perhaps I’ll bike quickly into the village. But overall I’ve not been called upon to do a great deal of walking. Until I got to Ouaga. Two days into TDE my ankle was the size of a grapefruit. My PCMO insisted that I be moved to the med unit and sent for x-rays. Nothing broken . . . a soft-tissue-thing. What? Again?!

Our med unit might as well be a comfortable, air-conditioned, two-bedroom apartment in the U.S. Complete with kitchen, television (VCR/DVD), balcony, and a lovely bathroom with a real tub. It’s a little slice of American comfort in the middle of The B.F. And since our TDE meetings were right down the hallway, I was in heaven. Not a bad place to spend a few nights.

On Thursday morning about 3:30 a.m., I awoke needing to visit that luxury bath. And I almost made it. You see where this is going, right? Let’s omit the details and suffice to say that I’ve broken at least one of those initial pledges. Found myself doing laundry at 4:00 a.m. . . . with a lot of bleach. Suddenly my fall seemed of little significance. What was really wounded was my pride.

So what’s that ligament in your knee? The MCL, the TMI, the PDF, the MIT? Something with alphabet letters, right? Whatever, it’s one of those things that is torn by hard-core athletes . . . not by a garden-variety uncoordinated PCV, right? And certainly not from a simple fall. We find out in a few weeks when I return to Ouaga for the 50th anniversary fair and will be sent to the orthopedic surgeon.

Do I have the French language skills to explain Doctor, it hurts when I do this? And will I understand him when he replies, well then don’t do that? Have I started that book list yet? We can only speculate.

Without being too stereotypical, I wonder whether many of us Americans have a very limited view of the world outside our borders. Yes, we recognize that other countries speak different languages; but speaking for myself, it never occurred to me that some sounds (not words) are indeed words in other languages.

Elizabeth yells Martin, and Martin replies Aaaaae! This would be the sound you make when you touch a hot stove  . . . or the sound I made when I saw that a teeny-tiny lizard had crawled into my water bottle. Spit it out! When I first arrived in Pô I thought Martin sounded quite rude screaming back to his mother from down in the valley. In fact, Martin is merely replying, yes ma’am. As Americans, we say uh-uh when we really don’t want a third-helping of cheesecake. Here in Kassim-land, that same sound means, yes, of course I understand and quite agree. In Dallas when I put my foot in the pool in early October to confirm that it’s too cold to swim, the squeal I make is merely a squeal. Here, that same squeal sounds means you’ve got to be kidding, you want how much for that pagne? Think about that the next time you spit out a sound that has clear meaning in your world, unmistakable by your partner in conversation . . . because in another language you may have just said that's yummy after unknowninly eating a skewered lizard. Ugh, quick, spit it out.

Lately I’ve observed more spitting. Yes, you read that correctly. Spitting! I presumed that I’d merely failed to recognize all the spitting in The B.F., which, surely, has taken place for ages, albeit previously unobserved by this PCV who generally notices everything. Wrong. It’s Ramadan. And during this fasting period the faithful don’t even swallow their saliva, much less water. Really?! Who knew? Makes sense . . . in an odd way. Thus the prevalence of spitters throughout The B.F. Ramadan. Of course.

I love the sound of the muezzin. It’s so musical. When I return to the States I may need to live near a mosque. It is humorous to me, however, that even the muezzins work on W.A.I.T. time (West African International Time). So, at which five times daily are the faithful called to prayer? Are they concerned that they’re late? I can tell you this: something happens daily around 15h00 and 18h30 . . . but the call to prayer around these times may vary by as much as 40 minutes. Perhaps this is a tradition in Islam. I suspect, however, it’s W.A.I.T. time. I’d know if I weren’t a typical American, sometimes blind to cultural nuances beyond my own little world. This past month, with complete oblivious insensitivity, I’ve offered water to visitors who are fasting, either by my not realizing they were Muslim or simply by trying to be polite while inexcusably forgetting cultural distinctions. Should the names Ali or Azize have been my first clue?

So the end of Ramadan happens any day now. I should take a peek at my calendar. I think it’s Tuesday. It forecasts quite a party. But the real feast happens a month from then with the arrival of Tabaski. I confess, I don’t fully understand the significance of Tabaski (which isn’t a hot sauce from Louisiana), but I do know that it means a great day and night of partying with lost of dead goats and a tasty feast. Does this fully explain all the bleating of late? Are those sweet little goats warning each other? Did I feel guilty yesterday for drinking an icy Coke and eating apples all the way home from Ouaga? We can only speculate.