Tofu has come to Pô. And I thought soy beans were just for Aveno® skin-care products. Heretofore my sole use for tofu was in a bowl of delicious Hot & Sour soup. Who knew? But hang on, it’s not merely tofu. Golly, what can’t be done with soy beans? Candles? Detergent? Add it to hard soap? Why, even the by-products can be used to feed someone . . . or some thing. Nothing goes to waste here in The B.F.

OK, so hang on, kids . . . get out your Kitchen-Aid® with the meat grinder attachment, and let’s begin . . .    Tofu 101.

Start with about two kilos of dried soy beans. Sort well (this takes forever) to eliminate any bad or dark beans or tiny stones. Stones aren't good. Soak the beans overnight in a 10-liter bucket and watch them swell. I was in Leo last week for a formation on the transformation of soy (that’s soja, here). The girls told me that we were working with two kilos of soy. Really? Then why can’t I lift the bucket? Ah, because those two kilos swell to about 15 kilos, plus the weight of the water, and that’s before they’ve gone through the mill.

Next, tote your bucket of wet, well-picked-through beans to the mill (the moulin). But not just any moulin. You need the wet moulin. Move over, you silly nassara. You can’t use the same mill that’s used to grind dry corn for meal, for goodness sake! So at the wet mill, you’ll pour-in your beans and add a lot more water.  Out comes this wet, extraordinarily heavy paste. I can tote a 20 kilo suitcase on one arm; but I couldn’t budge the bucket full of milled soy paste. It took two of us to tote it from the mill to my bicycle, whereupon it was mounted on the back of the Barbie back to be walked back to the laboratoire.


For every kilo of dried beans (and we began with two), you’re going to add 10-15 liters of water. Do the math. That’s 20 liters of water (imagine what that weighs) . . . and that's just for round-one. Someone's going to need a very large pot. Use your hands, it’s fun. Not you, nassara. Your hands aren't big enough. Move over. Mix the water with the soy mush and you’ll get the consistency of thin oatmeal. Here's Satia, Yaya's wife. How she does this in her best complet without getting splashed is absolutely beyond me. 

Now take some fine linen or muslin (cheese cloth is too hole-y), tie it to a rope strung between two tall wooden stakes in the ground, and make a hammock-type cradle. What, you don't have two stakes in your yard? Well you're going to want at least four strong gals to hold the cloth. Have I mentioned that this stuff is heavy? Using a bowl, start pouring the mush into the linen filter. About three liters at a time is the max. Fills up quickly, doesn’t it? And it’s so thick that it won’t filter any longer, right? Wrong. Move-over, nassara! The Burkinabe can squeeze out another two liters of liquid from what I believed to be a fully dry paste. OK, so now what?


Let the professionals continue wringing the linen filter until no more liquid will come out. Remove and save the paste residue in a clean basin. Continue until all 20-plus liters of mush have been strained. Then add more water to the saved paste (at least another 10 liters) and repeat the entire process. Yes, we do it all again to glean more soy-rich liquid. As you can see, one batch is going to fill-up both of these large basins with liquid. These basins are also used to bathe children. Well, not these specific basins, but basins of this grand size.

Just imagine . . . earlier in the day it was merely a bunch of raw beans, and now it's soy paste inside that cloth. What happens to the dry paste at the end of phase two? Just stay with me.

OK, so now you’ve got a frothy, milky liquid, ready to make soy milk. Gallons and gallons of it! No, nasarra, move over -- you can't make froth since you can't lift a full bucket of liquid this high. This is a Burkinabe art form, and I should have known from the same art used to prepare a frothy, sweet tea. Aeration and height are the keys to the froth. At this point, simply boil the liquid for about 45 minutes, and voila! Move over Silk®! This is really good soy milk. But we’re not aiming for milk. The people want tofu . . . though they don't know it. Important note: Never say tofu in The B.F. It's called viande du soja, or soy meat. And oddly enough, no one asks what animal produces soja meat. Is it just me, or is this odd? Me, I like to know where my meat comes from.

OK, so while your soy milk is boiling in a giant pot (called a marmite), grab about two kilos of crushed tamarind. OK you folks in Texas, don't tell me you don't have tamarind. Add water to cover, and let it sit. After about 30 minutes, strain the tamarind (new linen cloth, please) and toss it from a bowl by handfuls into the boiling soy milk pot. Move over, nasarra. You can't even scoop-up a handful of liquid. So true, and the girls laughed and laughed at me. Soon, before your eyes curds will form. It’s astounding! Don’t have any tamarind handy? Use vinegar or lemon/lime juice.

When all the curds have formed, use a slotted spoon (a really, really big spoon) and scoop out the curds into another linen cloth. Start wringing, again. Wring it dry . . . and then, move over, nasarra and let the pros do their work. Twist, turn, push, mash. You’re aiming for something the size of a very large round of Gouda. Now, while all those curds are still smashed together inside the linen cloth, place a heavy slab of wood on top to flatten the product. In fact, the product under that press is almost the size of that slab of wood, and about half as thick.   Don’t have a six-inch thick slab cut from a baobab tree? Use a cutting board and sit on it. Yes, it will take that much weight. Now you have tofu, . . . excuse me, viande du soja. Set the slab aside, still in linen, in a bucket, or even in the frigo. We’ll deal with it tomorrow.

As for what’s left in the pot . . .the whey, if you will? Well strain it (yes, in a new linen cloth), add a bit of sugar and/or some flavoring (like vanilla or rum) and you’ve got a delicious, nutritious drink ready to be placed in plastic sachets and sold . . . though it's best after refrigeration.

Day two. Remove your tofu from its cloth and place it in a bucket of water to wash off the outside. Then start cutting it into large slabs, about an inch thick . . . maybe a little thicker. From there, you want to continue cutting until you have hundreds of cubes, about one-inch in size. Here, uniformity is the name of the game. OK, nassara, you can cut a cube.

Now make a delicious tomato/onion/garlic marinade and toss those cubes in it. No, you can’t stir-in the marinade or you’ll destroy the cubes, which are a bit delicate until they're fried in oil. Rather, the basin must be tossed to coat the cubes. Picture Bobby Flay in the Iron Chef kitchen. Move over, nassara, because we've got to toss ‘em high to coat well. This image of Satia drizzling marinade shows only about 1/8 of the total product. Then, in several batches, into hot oil for about five minutes. Now stab the fried, extremely hot cubes on skewers with onions, tomatoes, peppers, or whatever you like . . . just like making kebabs. This stuff is amazing! It’s tastier than a chicken-breast kebab; and no, it’s not merely that I’ve not had any decent food in months. This stuff is amazing.

What else can you do with these wonder beans? Well, if you keep cooking the milk for another hour or so, you can put it in the frigo for a day or two and you’ll have yoghurt. Again, before selling, add some sugar and flavor. You can also ferment the beans into a yummy drink. Mmmm. No kidding. The fermented beans can also be used whole, like soumbala here in Burkina, which, I realize, means nothing to you in the States.


So let’s talk numbers. Five kilos of dried soy beans costs about 1800 cfa, or about $4.00 U.S. So for less than $2 U.S., you’ll make over 100 kebabs, which are sold for 50 cfa each. That’s 5000 cfa, just from the kebabs . . . and that doesn’t include the sales of soy juice, yoghurt, and soy milk. And this is an every-day business. That’s a profit of no less than $7.00 U.S. per day . . . and that’s after you’ve paid for the mill and purchased the veggies and wooden kebab sticks. One month of sales will pay for eight (8) young women to attend school for a year. Another month of sales will pay for their healthcare. Imagine the possibilities. Move over, Starbucks.

How can something that is so easy (once learned) be so cost effective and such an excellent income generating activity for the Burkinabe? And that dry, pasty by-product? Chicken feed for the maisonette? Wanna guess what size that giant marmite pot is? Here’s a hint – move over, Burkinabe, because I think I could take a bath that . . . but we can only speculate.

This is Leo, a town about six times the size of little Pô, about 9 hours away by bus(es) but only about 124 km, as the crow flies. OK, this isn't really Leo. This is the Hotel Sissilis, about two kilometers from the center of Leo. It's always been my home when I visit Leo. Now Leo's fabulous . . . home of my great pal, Hugo; but I like to think of Leo like this . . . a Cozumel-style hotel and great pool. Frankly, this is all I ever needed to know about Leo. Whoops.

Hilary and I had a cocktail party yesterday . . . separate, but together, via mobile. I can’t speak for Hil, but at midnight last night, I was still hosting the party chez moi. This crisis-induced fête came about when Yaya called about 08h30. I saw the name and immediately hit Silence on the mobile . . . oh-so quickly, as if I had to touch a hot flame. I sprang from the chair where I was happily savoring the end of the John & Susan Sutter saga. Felt like I’d been hit with a bullet. Total panic. Why? Long boring tale, so just close this browser window now.

I believe that this week will completely define my PC service. This morning began the test, when I escorted (read: chaperoned) Yaya’s wife, their 8-month-old daughter, and a couple of girls from Pô's Petites to Leo, via Ouaga. Transport in the country is never easy. Prior to arriving in The B.F. I read some good advice from a Returned PCV (RPCV), who said, kids, take those ear-buds out, turn off that iPod, and embrace the culture around you. That sounded so wise . . . such a practical bit of advice. But after almost 15 months in country, I’ve got some advice for the gentleman who wrote that. Anyone want to venture what I’d like to tell him? We may all be on a bus together, but I'm going to separate with my iPod. And in a land where the Burkinabe can and do sit for hours saying nothing to each other, who's really going to care if this nassara is off in iPod-land? Such was my plan.

I never leave for transport without a fully-charged iPod. But today? And for the next who-knows-how-many days? I’m stuck . . . 24/7 of having to speak with a woman who speaks Kassim and two young girls whose French is probably about like mine. This doesn’t bode well. In Kassim, I can hold a very decent conversation if I limit the discussion to where are you going, how much does/did that cost, can I eat that, and listing names of animals. Chee-bee-airy: chicks. After that, it’s time to say koko-may . . . see you later. But not this week. Togetherness. I've found a translator here in Leo who understands my French very well. He translates it to the local language here, Nooni. Then a Nooni speaker translates my thoughts into Kassim for my . . . . what are these gals? My wards, my charges, my . . . what?

How did this happen, you ask? Well, only in Pô, where things happen at the speed of light. Yaya and I had discussed taking a groupment of women to Leo to learn the closely-guarded secret of making tofu; but never in a million years did I think that Yaya could pull this together in three days,. Especiallly when the Leo contact (Jean Louis) was mine; when we had only a two-week window to accomplish the tofu formation prior to the Bike Tour arrival in Pô, followed immediately by the 50th Anniversary PC Fair in Ouaga, followed immediately by my continued work to prepare for the new PC arrivals in October . . . blah, blah, blah. YetYaya did it. That was the phone call. But wait! Yaya, weren't we going to go together? You mean I'm going . . . alone? But let's get real . . . come on now . . . who's going to say no to this man? This is us after completing a counter-part workshop. Look at Dan, laughing his ass off at my sad French. OK, maybe that's not what Dan's doing.

Only Yaya. Only Yaya could pull this off. The second time the phone rang yesterday, again I hit Silence and walked outside to talk to Sada. Now we know that anytime I willingly leave the hut to speak Kassim before 09h00, I’m somehow desperate to escape something. Finally it occurred to me that Yaya could be calling to say that going to Leo was not possible . . . so sorry. So I downed my rum-punch breakfast and returned the call. I nearly fainted at the news. This morning I departed for Leo at 07h00. This has disaster written all over it . . . or maybe not. How bad could it be?

Well, I could be emotionally damaged for life. To me, Leo means an over-priced hotel with a lovely pool. Air conditioned rooms with color TV and music videos. Cocktails by the pool and a fine steak. And Hugo! Not this time! Not with the charming Satia (and she is fabulous) and her absolutely adorable baby . . . and not with two brilliant and highly motivated teenage girls (all of whom have disappeared as I type this). Together, but separate. Do you suppose that's what they were thinking, too? I know where Satia's gone . . . to find baby food. But where are those girls? If I return with two knocked-up girls, someone's going to answer for this together, but separate theory; and I fear it will be moi-meme!

This is what life is generally like in Leo. Hotel Sissilis, four or five PCVs on a bed with cocktails, cigarettes, and wet swimsuits. But tonight . . . . well I'm in an auberge that's really quite fine by Burkinabe standards. Certianly not by your standards; and it's certianly not Hotel Sissilis. Tomorrow may bring about a change. The classes begin at 10h00, which means I can sleep late, until the resto on the other side of my paper-thin wall begins banging pots at 06h00. Tomorrow night I imagine myself sleeping in the height of malaria season on a plastic mat, outdoors in a gravel courtyard . . . stumbling in the dark at night to a loo that will probably be . . . well, I can’t even imagine what the latrine facilities will be like. On the other hand, I can look at this as a great spa week, sans the lovely spa. I brought a carton of cigarettes, two dozen apples, a pound of peanuts, and 10 bananas . . . because I don't expect to eat anything in this village. This should tell you that I brought virtually no clothing. I also brought enough facial and mani/pedi products for all the women, so perhaps we'll do a spa evening. Maybe I'll drop 10 pounds and return to site with glowing skin. Miracles do happen . . . look what Yaya did.

How do I get myself into jams like this? I’ve got important things to do in Pô. I need to have Seydou repair or replace my frigo. I need to pick-up my laundry. I’ve got a pair of pants at the tailor’s. I was going to organize my sock drawer. OK, I don't have any drawers.

There was a time in my life when I was genuinely incapable of spontaneous travel. Ah, what the PC will do to a . . . well, I was going to say to a normal woman . . . but we all know that’s a big fat lie. If I was normal, would I be here in The B.F? Do they have crows in Burkina? Am I ready to stop bitching now and to suck it up and deal? We can only speculate.

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.