I've left Burkina and am back in Dallas, in case you haven't guessed. So it's time to begin the wrap on this blog. To begin a final series of postings, I thought I'd begin at the beginning. Yes, we'll get to the accomplishments, sad goodbyes, and all of that; and I'll strive to see that future postings won't be such a departure from West Africa. That said, how did I end-up in West Africa with a blog entitled We Can Only Speculate? One word: Penguins!

I like penguins. No, I love penguins. I remember the days of Jacques Cousteau on PBS and I well recall his penguin specials. I’ve been asked by many dear friends (including those of you who endured my ten months of meltdowns back in 2009), “from whence did this Peace Corps idea spring?” I realize was a surprise to some of you. You’ve asked, “How on earth did this happen?” Here’s the long-winded and relatively boring (albeit bizarre and oh-so-Kathy) tale.

Once upon a time not very so long ago I used to sit at my desk during lunch time and watch the Monterrey Bay Aquarium’s live, noon-time feeding of their penguins. Remember, I’m a penguin-holic. The addiction reached its height back in the days after Hurricane Katrina when the New Orleans penguins (including the grand dame of penguins, Patience) were housed at Monterrey Bay. So I’d sit and smile watching the penguin feeding while listening to the live Internet commentary. One day I realized what fun it would be to see penguins in their natural habitat. True, the Antarctic might be a bit too far. Then again, maybe not . . . one day. So where could I go to see penguins like they have at Monterrey Bay? Where could I go to see the South African Blackfoot penguin? ‘Tis with shame that I confess: the answer took days to discover. Where could I go to see South African penguins? Seems rather obvious, doesn’t it? South Africa, of course, Kathy. And thus I instigated my plan to travel to Boulder’s Beach, just south of Cape Town in South Africa.

One day a dear co-worker, originally from South Africa, said to me, “Kathy, you can’t go all the way to Southern Africa without going on safari.” Safari!? What? Hmm. Well, I suppose it might be possible, right? And thus began an entire new twist on the penguin-viewing trip . . . and another of those life-altering experiences.

From the moment I stepped off the plane in Cape Town I was in love with Africa. By the time I arrived in Maun, Botswana, I was head-over-heels in love with Africa - the culture, the people, the land, itself.

Next step. I arrived back in Texas in the summer of 2007 in love with Africa and already making plans to return. In fact, I did return less than a year later . . . the 2008 trip back with Rusty to Botswana and South Africa. This time I returned to Texas resolved to move permanently to Botswana . . . one day. Then the U.S. job market fell apart and I was suddenly unemployed for the first time in my life.

After months of job hunting in 2009 I decided that I should look into volunteering. Maybe SANCOOB needed volunteers to wash penguins. Maybe HOORC needed help in Botswana. I finally contacted Cross-Cultural Solutions about a position in Bagamoyo, Tanzania (one of those “you pay, you get to go” volunteer programs). On June 30, 2009, I received a telephone call from the director of CCS. After a lengthy conversation she said to me, “Kathy, why aren’t you talking to the Peace Corps?” Well, the obvious reason – I don’t have an MD, RN, Ph.D., or MBA behind my name. Why would the Peace Corps want me?

A quick Internet search seemed to indicate that the Peace Corps might indeed be interested in me. Wouldn’t hurt to try . . . and perhaps they’d even consider a post in Africa. And thus the saga began. So when it came time to create this blog, with myriad questions of whether or not I’d ever even receive an invitation to serve (LOL), where would I go, and how would I last 820 days without a flat iron, the choice for the name of this blog was, naturally, We Can Only Speculate. These days I like to believe that I'm mentoring a few current Peace Corps nominees. I'd like to share a few tips and tricks of my service in Burkina Faso and my love of the people and culture. Am I really helping current nominees? Maybe. My current very-real question: How long before I return to visit Yaya and his family, Martin, Leon & Elizabeth, and little Victorine and her family? We can only speculate . . . but I'm hoping next spring.

Peace Corps elves . . . always out there, always magically efficient. OK, so I spent a lovely week in Dakar, Senegal for a few medical tests. Life in Pô, however,went on without me, as it always has and always will. So let's look at some of our recent projects in the village of Pô.

I take little credit for most of my projects. In Pô, I have the motivated Burkinabé to thank for their resourcefulness and dedication to community development. Though, I must say, even the most driven residents of Pô can not take credit for one big accomplishment: Dori is a mommy!

I've been away from Pô for a week now, and Dori's five pups probably have their eyes open. Dori is an excellent mom. Martin and the children know not to touch the puppies lest Dori become over zealous in her protection of the little brood. Being the full sister of Rex-the-brindled-tigery-dog, I'm hopeful that some of Dori's pups will have Rex's magnificent (and unusual-for-Burkina) brindle coat. White is also a treat to see on a Burkinabé dog; and as you see, Dori's pups have inherited her lovely white markings, including some special white-collar colorings. Good work, Dori. And yes, she declined the bed sheet that I donated for her maternity ward. Elizabeth tucked her nicely into what used to be the chicken coop.

We finished the Our World mural at GaMoWigna. The mural not only reflects the wide range of educational activities performed by GaMoWigna throughout the Nahouri Province, it also provides an ongoing reminder to Pô's residents of the importance of health, environmental protection, and education. Here you see Pô's residents practicing good agro-forestry techniques, including use of composting methods instead of chemical fertilizers. At the last minute I found my remaining chalk board paint and we updated a section of the mural depicting educational sessions so that the image may change depending on what's on the menu for the week at GaMoWigna. A little colored chalk and the image can be revised daily . . . or even hourly.

This image shows GaMoWigna getting ready for its tree tour formation in early June. How handy it will be to use a chalk board to illustrate, step-by-step, how to plant a tree? Planting a tree may seem like a no-brainer; but in a world filled with evil tree-eating goats, it is anything but! Wonder whether Pat Muller has any tips on training goats?

So in case you need a bit more clarification, the central image is on chalk board paint and can be changed for any occasion . . . from discussions on maternal and child health issues to tofu-making. See how utterly fascinated the participants are?! That will never change, regardless of the topic illustrated on the chalk board.

And speaking of tofu-making, our second tofu-making session was held in Ténado a couple of weeks ago. Seven women attended from the areas west of Ouagadougou. It was quite a trek for me, Yaya, his wife Sadia, and baby Kenza. I got to sleep on the ground for a week and felt like a real-live Peace Corps volunteer. Why, I even pooped in a hole. TMI?

Anyway, the women were enthused, but the real test of any educational process in Burkina is sustainability. Reports from PCVs in that area indicate that the women are making tofu and selling-out each day. I'd say it was a success, despite a few hiccups along the way.

We have another tofu formation planned in Pô in the upcoming weeks. All is arranged and I must admit that Sadia can do this without me. I love that! I hate that!

Sadia is the queen of tofu. I've worked myself right out of a job, just as the Peace Corps intended. One day soon the time will come for me to leave Burkina and my village; yet whether or not I'm present, the little world of Pô will not stand still. Why, even in this image Sadia seems to have worked herself out of a job. Elibye is tossing cubes of tofu in their marinade while Awa watches and Sadia supervises. Looks as if very little supervision is needed at this point. And now seven more villages in Burkina Faso have access to very low cost protein in their diets. Mission accomplished.

I should be back in Pô early next week. Although most of the work on the egg farm is complete, we still want to begin fish farming before rainy season begins in earnest.

Thanks to some very generous donors, we have a new well in the northern section of Pô; and that will be key to a successful fish-farming endeavor.

I've also got funding for a boutique for the young women of Pô; and I'm very hopeful that I'll finish that project sometime in the next two weeks. The plan is for the Maison de la Femme to offer low-cost maternal and child health products at their boutique, at below market cost, and make up for those loss-leader products with sales of their beautifully woven and dyed cloth, neem creme, liquid soap, and other fun home-crafted products. Yaya is on stand-by for my arrival in Pô to begin and finish the boutique project, which should take less than a week. Will it happen as planned? If there's a village in Burkina Faso where the impossible can and does happen, it's little Pô . . . but we can only speculate.

A few weeks ago I took the bus to Ouaga. Sat next to a young woman and her daughter. Cute kid . . . probably about three or four years old. No, this isnt' the kid. This, as well you know, is little Victorine . . . and I don't need an excuse to post her photo. Anyway . . . the bus had been delayed due to a petit problem. Regardless of what’s wrong with a bus in Burkina Faso, the bus company will always describe it as merely a petit problem. Engine on fire? Not to worry . . . it’s only a petit problem.

I’m always amazed that the Burkinabé can crawl under a bus with a large wrench and repair just about anything. Not a set of wrenches. Not an adjustable wrench. A single large wrench. I always think of Rusty when I see this phenomenon . . . though Rusty would probably add a roll of duct tape and somehow repair the A/C on the bus . . . or add wings. Anyway, the point is that the Burkinabé are very clever. But the young woman next to me seemed less than confident. Obviously Catholic, she repeatedly crossed herself and said a quick prayer as the bus engine engaged. Her daughter tried to mimic her genuflect but only succeeded in touching her forehead several times. I'm not Catholic. I don't know how to actually genuflect. But I do remember: spectacles, testicles, watch, wallet. I took the daughter's hand and tried to help her. She giggled, and the mom just smiled  patiently. . . though mom did seem distracted from her fear.

Speaking of fear. Before the bus departed I was sitting on the bench under the shade of the giant neem tree at the bus station. A gare attendant asked me to move, though in Pô's local Kassem language, I didn't quite catch the reason why. Ah ha! The flushing of the bats. I needed to move so that the bats would leave their nesting area and find other accommodations for the day . . . so that bus clients wouldn't get pooped on. There's no nice way to say that. Sorry. So how does one flush hundreds of bats? Well I'm so glad you asked.

Take a giant empty tin of tomato paste. Punch a hole in the bottom. Push through a wire or string. Find another, smaller empty tin. Punch a hole in its bottom and nest it inside the larger tin. Then tie the wire to a long string, send a child high up into the tree, and dangle the tins over a branch. When it's time to flush the bats, simply pull repeatedly on the string. Voila! Lots of noise, and lots of moving bats. Very exciting. Very effective.

What was said before spectacles were invented? Can I VRF that? Formation on desensitization to fear of public transport? We can only speculate.

Please stow your tray tables and return your seats to their full upright and locked position. At this time, please discontinue the use of all cellular and electronic devices. 

That's what it feels like to enter the American Embassy in Ouagadougou. Mobiles must be removed from your bag and turned off. iPods, too. A simple bottle of water must be examined.  Bags are removed from your person and stowed in cubbies. You are then issued a claim check for your belongings and a very official-appearing visitor badge. It’s all very exciting. I told myself that I should feel at home. Not only because it’s like checking your coat in First Class on American Airlines, but also because the strongly-gated U.S. Embassy is an official little slice of America right there in Burkina Faso. But it didn’t feel that way. The Embassy may be new and ultra-modern inside, but it's still surrounded by desert, goats, and garbage. And then there is that little bit with the U.S. Marine guard, which one rarely encounters on American Airlines.

I love when I weigh less than 60 kilos. I feel absolutely tiny. I’m far from tiny. Never have been; never will be. But at less than 60 kilos, I feel positively . . . well . . . unimpeded by gravity. And what caused this blithe attitude? We may never know. And at this juncture, there's not a doctor on this continent (nor, evidently, in D.C.) who knows what is happening inside of me.

I came in to Ouaga from Pô with a history of low-grade fever and nausea. After repeated, nay, daily blood-lettings, my WBC has risen from 15,000 to its current level of over 24,000. Normal is the 8000-10,000 range. My WBC rose over 8000 in a single day. Over 8000! I should be comatose. But, in fact, I don't feel particularly ill.

Today's cavalier attitude is due, in no small part, to my Business Class trip from Ouagadougou to Dakar, Sénegal late last night. Yes, I've been medevac'd to the PC's regional medical center. Business class . . . with a little rosette of salmon garnished with a tapennade shaped into little leaves, a lime-pepper chicken, a raspberry mousse, and cheeses! Blues and Camembert! Then I stepped off the plane to the light, heady aroma of fresh oysters. It's only the ocean . . . it's not as if someone greeted me with a plate of les fruits de la mere. Nevertheless. I smell ocean. Sitting on the curb outside the PC's office in Dakar, one can feel the salt hitting bare skin from the ocean breeze. All this, and the temperature is cool. Chilly, in fact. I've been medevac'd to PC heaven.

Today was a 30-minute trip down the coast to the hospital for testing. Just a CT scan with contrast. Ever had one of those? The contrast liquid goes in by I.V. and fills you from head to tip-o'-toe with hot liquid. It is utterly freaky, though not painful. And so we wait for results. And we wait. And wait. I should remind myself, it's Dakar, not Bogart's Casablanca. So what is the etiology of the curious case of the sky-high WBC? Anyone out there even know what I mean when I use the term WBC? How about significant differential left shift? We can only speculate.

My dog Jill is livestock. Lately I dream of her often. In my dreams she’s not livestock . . . she's a baby lamb. And she’s often missing and I’m searching for her. OK, you figure that out.

The hard reality is that Jill-the-Pill is livestock, just like the sheep that was hoisted atop the bus today. Gently hoisted, but hoisted nonetheless. It's nature's way. The owner purchased its ticket, tied it to a tree stump at the station, and walked away. The luggage attendants gently [really!] guided it on its leash and then hoisted it by its legs up to the roof.

Burkina is full of livestock.  Goats, cows, sheep, donkeys . . . and don't get me started on the chickens. With the exception of chickens, they're taken to bus stations with a loose rope around their neck, tied to something, and often abandoned by their owners who have arranged and paid for their shipping, via bus, to some other part of the country. True, sometimes owners accompany them, but equally often they do not. Sometimes the animals ride inside the bus. That's always fun. The movement of livestock within Burkina Faso is merely an ordinary day's business. It's nature's way. Think of it as UPS for animals . . . without the careful packing and handling . . . and that fun brown machine to sign.

Dori is full of puppies. This photo is about two weeks old. I tell her, “tu es plein de puppies.” OK, so puppies is hardly a French word, but I believe that Dori understands me . . . livestock though she may be. Dori has always been frighteningly thin. Dori, the anorexic canine. I'm not sure this is nature's way. She simply will not eat. I entice her, secretly, with $1.50 cans of tuna or corned beef. . . by the spoonful. But no. Leon tries, too, though only with leftovers. OK, Dori, I don't blame you for not eating slimy gumbo sauce; but you've got a family in your belly now.

It’s a sign of prosperity in Burkina Faso when a family can own two dogs. Owning two dogs say I can feed my family and two inedible pieces of livestock. In the U.S. it would be the flashy equivalent of wearing your diamond tiara to KMart. Anyway, Dori won’t eat. Nothing. She’s a skeleton covered in a dog pelt with big ears. So thin you can see her hip bones, but with a tummy full-o-puppies. I felt them move today while Rex expressed his extreme displeasure that Dori received so much attention. I felt them move! So we can only be a few weeks from delivery. It's nature's way.

So now that Dori is knocked-up, Elizabeth has taken over Dori's feeding regimen. Why was I so worried? Elizabeth is going to see Dori through her pregnancy. I cannot possibly overstate how bizarre this is in Burkina. In a country where animals such as sheep are often treated better than are dogs, why wouldn’t I worry about Dori? Well, because Dori lives with Leon and Elizabeth. Leon, who is want to sit outside his home and scratch each dog behind the ears for a full 15 minutes after work in the evening . . . even before he enters his home. Parallel universe. I told Martin that it takes 63 days to make puppies, regardless of breed or size. Martin doesn't believe me and we've got a little bet going.

Jill won't have puppies. She's the sports model, not the family sedan. I've never seen puppies born. Never even seen day-old puppies. I long for the day when Dori delivers. I have a very old fitted bed sheet that was used when I was in stage just to tote around my belongings from all those sites from which we were evacuated. It has my name written on it with a Sharpie. I ask you . . . who'd want to use that on their bed? Anyone in this country, that's who! But I've got it earmarked for Dori's maternity ward.

Yes, you read that correctly. We do have luggage attendants in Burkina Faso and it is absolutely luxurious . . . like diamonds at breakfast, or two dogs (especially Lakeland Terriers). Goats, cows, 100-kilo bags of rice, a backpack with my computer and camera . . . all stowed beautifully inside or on top of buses by luggage and animal handlers, with no tip expected. We're definitely not in Kansas anymore. So, will Dori use that bed sheet as a nesting area when I finally reveal it? Or will she slink off and hide to give birth? Exactly how sinful here is it to offer tuna to a dog?! We can only speculate.