Hey my beauties! I am coming home! My brother, Shum, is getting married in Pittsburg! Congratamalations! So, I will be in Pittsburg the weekend of August 26th. But I intend to come home before that to visit either Nebraska, or Portland, or (if I have enough time), BOTH! Does anyone have any plans I should know about before I plan my trip? I want to maximize friend/family-exposure, so if anyone is planning on going awol, or having a huge party, let me know! I'll factor it in...

What is my latrine, you ask? Well, like most essay questions such as “What Does Free Speech Mean to Me” or “How Many American Presidents have Slang for Genitalia as their First or Last Names,” this question has several valid responses. Essentially, my latrine is the place where I relieve myself. But functionally, strangely enough, it is also the place for bathing, too. Socially, my latrine serves an acceptable place to be greeted by neighbors and passers-by, and to return said greetings. Morally-and-environmentally-questionably, my latrine is a receptacle for hazardous waste. And, lastly-but-not-leastly, my latrine is where I keep all my cockroaches. Let’s explore these roles in greater depth…

So, you say that your toilet is a porcelain throne? Oh YEAH? Well, mine is a…concrete…surface…with a hole in it, I’ll have you know! The hole is about 7 inches in diameter and is situated on a little stage, of sorts, slightly raised from the surrounding concrete so that the rain doesn’t rush straight in, during our quite torrential rainy season, filling it up and wasting space that could be used more efficiently (disgustingly?). There is also a pipe-drain in the latrine wall for those times when the men building my neighbor’s mudbrick house wander over to pee not into the hole but on the floor, but nearby the hole.

So, speaking of that drain-pipe, the real reason it is there is to allow me to shower in the same space as I deficate. I’ve heard “don’t shit where you eat,” but I’ve never heard “don’t bathe where you shit,” so this must be okay, right? Here’s how showering here works: I put 2 pitchers full of water in my purple bucket (3 pitchers-full if I am washing my hair—but since my malaria medication makes my hair fall out, I think I can eventually get it down to 2.5 pitchers). The first step is to take off my clothes and stick my head in the bucket. It is more water-efficient to wet my hair in this way. It must also provide a very comical scene for the vultures circling over-head. I squat in the latrine—the walls are just short enough that people would be able to see my (gasp) naked (gasp) shoulders (gasp), which would be quite forbidden in this Muslim country. I have a small plastic cup from which I pour water on myself. A splash, a soaping, a rinse and I am done! I wrap myself in the broad piece of fabric that serves as a towel and we got ourselves one squeaky-clean little volunteer!

The funny thing about the latrine is that to SEE me in there is a scandal, but the villagers don't hesitate to TALK to me if they notice any evidence of my presence there. My villagers figure it is a good time to call out a good-morning, good-noontime, good-afternoon, good-evening, or good-night to me! Greeting is a very important part of social interaction here and, unhindered, it infiltrates every part of the day, even those parts that we Americans consider the most private. Namely: shitting and showering. I don’t particularly LIKE talking to strangers while I am naked, so I try to keep myself and my shower accoutrements out of sight.

One time, I was in my own world, in my latrine, feeling quite alone, removed and protected from the outside bustle, when I saw some movement in the corner of my eye. I turned and, to my great surprise, saw a teenage boy sitting cross-legged, hovering through the air past my latrine, as though he was perched on a magic carpet. It took me a moment to figure out what the heck was going on. As it turns out, the boy was sitting on top of a donkey cart filled latrine-wall high with hay. We two found ourselves bound together in this situation, from which neither he nor I could flee. So we both simply gazed at each other until his cart had passed, him staring at me with his mouth forming a perfect “O” shape. It was quite surreal, actually. I bet he (and surely all his friends) will remember this story for the rest of their lives. Most people in my village have never SEEN a white person before, let alone an exceedingly pale, distinctly female, and decidedly NAKED white person.

So, I burn most of my trash. I remember that one of the very silly questions I posed when I first got to this country was “when do the garbage men come?” Well, Burkina does not have enough money for paved roads, public education, two-storied buildings, so garbage men are out, too. The streets are mad dirty. So, I burn most of my trash. For lack of any other toy, kids here really like to play with cans and bottles, so I render my receptacles into their eager little hands. However, what does one do with used up batteries, aerosol cans, insect repellent containers, razors, and other hazardous items? I can’t give THOSE to children, right? I have no idea what to do with them. So, I stick them in the latrine. I know, I know, it makes me feel really awful every time I do it, thinking about the environment and the water supply, and all that valuable stuff. But what else should I do? Comments?

There are thousands of huge, gross cockroaches in my latrine. It’s gross. I am not scared of bugs, generally, but cockroaches are really awful. They are, like, three inches long and have long spikes all over their legs. They all come out at night and sometimes they run over my bare feet as I am peeing. This is hard to handle because it makes me want to run away or, at the very least, to squirm. But aiming takes precedence. I learn this from past experiences of wet feet or underwear due to a cockroach-induced bodily jolt. So, I have learned to live with them. My only fear now is that perhaps the cockroaches are going to mutate, due to all the hazardous waste I have tossed and forgotten about. Teaching is not easy, my village can be lonesome, and the food here leaves much to be desired. If I am confronted with armies of glowing, mutant cockroaches with straight razors for antennae, I’m coming home.

Well, although I greet you so enthusiastically, believe me that the greeting is accompanied by the guilty shuffling of feet (guilty feet have got no rythym?) and clearing of throat, after these long months of blog-neglect.

I'll attempt to self-justify. I've had a rough time of it out here! I left you all in the dark at the debut of my African teaching career, and boy-oh0boy is there a corallation between the two events. My job here is hard. Hard!! I knew it would be a challenge, but my goodness. This is a bit much. For a long time, I simply didn't have anything good to report, so I didn't report. Now, so that I don't worry anyone into thinking that my next internet hiatus signifies the depths of despair for yours truly, I'll tell you that the other reason for my long silence is some weird form of stage fright. Weird, I know.

So, school has been some form of miserable. I have a shocking number of kids in my classes, many of whom were allowed to slip through the cracks without having a workable handle on 1. The French Language, or 2. The Mathematical Concepts Necessary to Succeed in Junior High. I found out a recent test that many of my 7th graders don't know the difference between a subtraction and a division. YIKES. I'll need some sort of super power to teach these kids about variables.

So, on top of the number and the unpreparedness of my little angels, which would have been managable challenges, I also face major discipline problems. Apparently, my school is known for villages around for having brats for students. Although, given the age of some of my students, they could be more accurately described as "jerks" than "brats." They treat me like an enemy to be vanquished--that is to say, like a substitute teacher!

Teaching has been difficult and sort of thankless. But, on top of that, I went through a break-up at the same time, and my support system got all vague and mysterious for a while. My sister said that for many men and women, there is (at least) one relationship that serves as "relationship school," and there are many that simply fail out. I remark that there are cases in which enrollment in "break-up school" may be in order.

Anyway, that mess intensified the already poignant sense of isolation one can experience over here. So it was a double whammy.

But you know what? I am feeling pretty good now. The semester ended, my sister Anne came to visit, and we took a much-needed vacation to the gorgeous, tropical coast of Ghana! It was fan-freakin'-tastic and if you want to see pictures, go here:

So I came back to my village, Yalgo, revigorated and heart-healed and filled with plans to make my assignment bearable. I divided my huge, unruly, disrespectful, disinterested, and under-educated class of 120 teenagers into two parts. THis means that I have added hours to my schedule, but also that I can at least SEE the lovely, blank face of each child! The other day, I finally figured out what their expressions remind me of: someone watching TV for lack of other entertainment....they watch as I pace, gesticulate, phrase and rephrase, and they laugh if I am funny, but also feel free to turn and chat with the person behind them if the show doesn't suit their interests. In many cases (I won't say all because I have some students who ARE involved, and I have to stop myself from very inappropriately hugging and kissing them) they react to me as one reacts to a TV. That is, one doesn't feel any expectaion or obligation to respond to or, god forbit, PARTICIPATE with the TV. That would be pretty weird, actually. But, I now know, TVs must be very frustrated and lonely.

But generally, it is not the students' fault. As I said, they've been poorly taught and hurried along into my classroom before they were ready. The higher the rate of enrollment, the more grants the government receives. What this means to ME, selfishly, is that my students don't understand French, they come without the necessary knowledge, and (did I mention?) there are a ga-ZILLION of them!

Okay, so in trying to justify my absencse, I have spent this post complaining. But, things really are okay, now! I don't love to teach here, by any means. But I can handle it. And, having explained my crappy first semester, my next blog will be cheerier! And to encourage 1. me to write and 2. you to read, let's hold a little vote. Please respond and chose which topic you'd like to hear about:

1) A treatise on My Latrine,

2) Biking in Burkina v. Biking in the States,

2) Funny stories about language mistakes, and classroom embarassment.

I miss you all and I would love to hear from you! Those who have been writing letters and sending packages, you are angels. I will update the Patrice Wish-List. But, as I told my sister, if it tastes good, you can't find it or afford it here!

Love love love,

Patrice

Ok, so I just copied this over from an email, and the line breaks seem to have been lost. I think it's still sort of readable, though. I went for 2 weeks and just got back on Monday night. It seemed like forever, but it's now almost a week since I went. Weird. Also, in my family we call Patrice "Tc". Anyway, enjoy.

When I first arrived, it took FOREVER to get thru customs andsecurity--like 2 hours. And there was no line--just people mobbing thelittle booth and sticking their passports out for the guy to grab. Thiswas my first impression of BF, sadly. Anyway, I finally got thru, pickedup my bag, and there was Tc waiting! I was very glad to see her--she andthe 7 PCVs who had come to the airport with her and I piled into a taxiand headed back to the PCV hostel. The hostel was very comfortable--lotsof bunkbeds adn old couches to hang out on. We packed for Ghana, andfinally went to sleep around 2--and then got up at 6 the next a.m. tocatch our bus for Ghana, along with 7 of her PCV friends. We were inGhana for about a week--taking 2 days of "luxury" buses and tro-tros/bushtaxis (basically a 21-passenger van filled to the brim with people--eachseat was about 10 inches wide) to get there and another 2 days to getback. The "luxury" bus--means incredibly overly airconditioned and loudbad movies play. Also, no people standing in the aisles. On our 14-hourtrip down to Kumasi, the second biggest city in Ghana, after the capital,Accra, we probably stopped about 12 times, often for no apparent reason. Each time we stopped, we were yelled at to get out of the bus by the angrybus people. We didn't like this. We were also all freezing, b/c the airwas on too high and they didn't know how to turn it off--nor could theycontrol the volume of the movies--so it was a very uncomfortable ridedown. But we finally arrived and stayed at a presbyterian hostel inKumasi. I slept incredibly well that night, not having slept, really, for2 days. The next day we traipsed around Kumasi a little bit, then took atro-tro to another town, where everybody else got off, and then webargained with the driver to take us on to our lodge, the Green Turtle,another hour and a half down the road. By this point, my opinions ofafrican transportation were very low--but I was still very happy to bethere. I loved watching the women (mostly) walk with enormous loads ontheir heads, and often babies on their backs. The desertyness of BFfollowed by the jungleyness of Ghana were both beautiful. I was prettyleery of the food, and wasn't thrilled about drinking beverages out oflittle plastic bags, which is how they're sold--but I was still interestedin everything.

We spent about 3 days at the Green Turtle Lodge--the main building ofwhich was located about 100 yards from the ocean--it's run by a Briton,and very comfortable--little huts with beds in them, shared outdoorshowers and toilets, limited menu from which to pick breakfast, lunch, anddinner, and otherwise much lounging beachside. Sometimes we got to watchdinner being fished for in the ocean. The Green Turtle, while notparticularly african (it wasn't in a village or anything), was heavenly. We could also sleep outside in tents, which I did for 2 nights, and thatwas beautiful. (It was too hot for me in the huts (not air conditioned,of course), although the peace corps volunteers found them perfectlycomfortable.) The surf there was amazing--huge waves and a noticeableundertow--so violent it felt quite dangerous to go in alone, or to bodysurf, really. We had a great time in the water anyway. Also, it was afull moon there the first night we arrived, and it was so bright therewere definite shadows--a little like standing in the middle of a well litcar dealership at night. About a half mile down the beach there _was_ avillage, and Tc and a friend of hers and I walked there one afternoon,were given an informal tour of the local castle overgrown with trees andjungle, which included a small boy climbing a palm tree, cutting downcoconuts, and our guide insisting that we each eat at least 4 coconuts. The coconuts were interesting (and, for me, edible) b/c they weren't yetripe--our guide hacked a hole in one, and inside it was filled with water,which we drank until we couldn't drink anymore, and then he hacked it inhalf with his machete and we scooped out a thin layer of wet coconut--ithad a yogurty consistency and was very good. Anyway, after he force-fedus coconuts and showed us the castle and its "beautiful bomb" (a rustedout cannon) and offered to catch every lizard we happened to notice, heasked us for money, which I thought maybe he deserved, but Tc andStephanie, the other PCV, thought not--mostly b/c he had insisted thewhole time that we wouldn't have to pay. Apparently people like this havea name--"faux types", false types, and they're not to be accommodated. Also, on the way to the village, I happened to save a sheep from drowning,to the great amusement of Tc and Stephanie.

Anyway, then we walked thru the village, where all the children followedus and tried to talk to us and took our hands and insisted we take theirpictures. Very cute. African children, at least in that region, are verydifferent from american children. They are not coddled at all--when wewere in BF, some babies would cry when we came near b/c they had neverseen white people before--and the mothers, instead of comforting thebabies, would shove them at us. This is perhaps representative of thegeneral attitude toward raising children. Tc's theory about this was thatlife there was so hard (there's so much poverty, and babies and people ingeneral die all the time, etc. etc.) and you have to be able to take it,so they do not keep hardship from their children. While I was there, Isaw _one_ child with a toy (a white baby doll, as it happened). All theother children just played with what they found (in one case, a bunch ofkids were playing "marbles" with bottlecaps and a flipflop for the bigmarble).

Anyway. We left the Green Turtle reluctantly, and only out of a sense ofduty to see some of the rest of teh country. My entire 3-day stay at theGreen Turtle, including housing (PCV rate), every meal, and drinks,amounted to about $40--but it's about a 8000 cedi (ghanaian money) to $1ratio, so that was about 320,000 in cedi. (We changed money at hte borderand for $200, I got a big pack of money about 6 inches thick, more than amillion cedi--people there carry money around in black plastic sacks.) Sofrom there we proceeded to Busua, an actual town, where we spent Xmas day. Tc had had her tailor make Xmas stockings (and 1 Hannukah stocking) forall of us, and Santa did indeed manage to find us down there, very kindlyincluding some delicious Nebraska chocolates. Ghana was pretty hot (prob.in the 90s) and very humid, although while we were next to the ocean itwas very comfortable. Busua was fine--nothing particularly spectacular,although the waves were much calmer and I could ride them over and overand over. At that point we started eating in restaurants, which wasusually frustrating. Menus tended to be more like wishlists for whatthey'd like to have on the menu, and often they wouldn't tell you thatthey didn't have something that was on the menu until an hour after you'dordered. In our worst restaurant experience, some people had not yetgotten their food 4 hours after they'd ordered--we ended up walking out. Apparently any seafood you order, for instance, has to be caught--so it'sgood to order it in the morning, when you want it for lunch. Anyway, wenevertheless had some very good food there. Good pancakes. I went tomass with one of the other PCVs on Xmas day, to see what it was like. Ittook place in a schoolroom; we sat at desks. It was almost entirely inthe local language, and lasted about 2 hours, so I was pretty ready to gowhen it ended. The sermon was probably 40 min. at least, and thecongregation was quite active in it--it seemed like the priest was askingindividuals personal questions. The singing was really the bestpart--they had drums and clapping and harmonies and it was quitebeautiful. They sang only one song I knew--Gloria in Excelsis Deo--but itwas nice to listen and clap along with the others. Originally, aside fromthe other PCV and I, there were about 5 women in the congregation, but asthe mass went on, many more women and children came in and out and inagain.

After Busua, we took a tro-tro to Cape Coast, which was known for manythings, none of which did I get to do b/c at that point I got wickeddiarrhea. Tc, though, went to see a castle that was used for holding andshipping slaves. It sounded brutal, but she should tell you about it. Weleft Cape Coast earlier than we thought, mostly b/c we were concernedabout being able to get bus tickets back to Ouagadougou (BF capital),because every single bus person we talked to gave us different times anddifferent days for when the bus actually left. So we took a tro-tro backto Kumasi (Ghana), tried to go shopping in the market there (but I was toosick, so I took a nap on a bench in the middle of the market instead,while Tc shopped), and then left at around 5pm for Ouaga.

This time, the bus took about 18 hours b/c they close the border betw. BFand Ghana at night, so we just sat at the border and waited for it toopen. On the bus back, it wasn't nearly so cold as the bus down, but wewere still treated to very terrible african movies, The Good Samaritan andthe Good Samaritan II (which we watched twice). The quality of thesemovies is so bad that the volume varied incredibly--although sadly itseemed to more often be extremely loud than extremely quiet, which wewould have preferred. The excessive volume bothered no one but usAmericanos--the africans seemed to have no trouble at all sleeping throughit. But finally the movies were over and we all slept. We got to OUagaaround 2pm the next day, and just went back to the hostel and relaxed,watching movies and reading, till the next day at 2 pm, when Tc and Isplit up with the rest of teh PCVs and went to catch a bus to her village.

This bus was _not_ luxury, which meant that they sold more seats than theyhad, so many people were standing in the aisles, very crowded, no a/c. Happily, one of the bus dudes helped us get seats, so we didn't have tostand for the whole 5+-hour bus ride. However, the bus left very late(like 2 hours late), and so it was especially crowded. this also meansthat we did most of the driving in the dark, as the sun sets there ratherpromptly around 6pm. This was more problematic than it would be in the USb/c 1, there are no streelights, and 2, only a part of the road was paved. Another part of it was in the process of being paved, so buses weren'tallowed to drive on it, and it wasn't like there was any detouroptions--which meant that we off-roaded, in a bus, in the pitch dark. This was terrifying. there were many times when I was convinced that htebus was going to tip over. Also, sometimes the driver would slow downfrom his previous speed of 10mph to consider his options--which Tc pointedout probably meant he was trying to discern the least dangerous route. Very fun. We finally got to her village around 11, I think, very happy toarrive. It was so dark there (no electricity), that we needed flashlightsto get to Tc's house. Everyone was very happy to see her, and one dudehelped us carry stuff to her house, and gave me a nickname in theprocess--Aminatta, which I thought was very pretty. (Tc's nickname isWend Puiri (no spelling guarantees), which means, in the local language,Shared by God.)

Her house is made of cement, has I think 5 or 6 windows, and 2 rooms, herbedroom and the kitchen/living room. She has a very private patiosurrounded by shades made out of twigs and brush, so no one can see in(unless they walk in, which they do all the time). She has a campstove,bookshelves, wicker-like chairs for which she has made cushions, a littletable, a big table where she prepares food, a big bed, and lots of hooksto hang things on. Also, a PCV friend of hers who lives nearby hashooked up electricity for her from a generator, I think. So she getselectricity from 6-10 at night, which makes a huge difference, i think. Otherwise, she uses flashlights and kerosene lamps. Unfortunately, inattempting to charge my Ipod, I detached one of the wires, so her friendwill have to come fix it. She has speakers, which she hooks up to a cdplayer, so she has music too. Her water is brought to her from a well bya little girl, who claims to be 14 but who looks about 9, just a littleolder than Emily (our niece). This little girl, Zara, brings water on her head fromgod-knows-where in a container that Tc and I can barely lift. She puts itin a gigantic trashcan, essentially, from which Tc takes pitchers-full andputs it through her water filter (which gets particulates out), along witha little bleach (which kills the bacteria). From this she gets all thewater that she drinks, cooks with, or washes her hands and food. Herbathroom is a little walled-off area with a cement floor with a hole init, under which is a very deep hole in the dirt. You pee in the hole, andthen you "clean up" where you missed the hole with a little bleachedwater--this keeps cockroaches down, apparently. In this same area is the"shower"--basically you get a bucket of water and take a bucket bath. Tchas gotten herself down to 3 little pitcherfuls (about 3 cups per) ofwater (washing hair included)! I had to use many more than that.

So--we arrived late at night, and pretty much went directly to sleep. Thenext morning we took very leisurely--I sat outside and read, while Tcswept and otherwise cleaned the house (it's so dusty there that the dustgets in every day, even when you're gone and teh doors and windows areclosed). That afternoon we went to the market, which occurs every threedays. It's a particularly good market, according to Tc, b/c it's arrangedin a grid and has everything you could possibly want. We bought somefruits and vegetables, and then I went a little crazy buying pagnes. Apagne is a measure, like a yard--you buy cloth in those measures, and thecloth has taken on the name of the measurement. Tc has a very beautifulpagne that she bought when she first got there, and she uses it for atowel, or to keep dust from her mouth, or to keep warm on cold buses, orwhatever happens to be useful. It's now threadbare. anyway, the designsof the fabric vary incredibly, and can be quite beautiful. They can alsohave quite silly-seeming objects on them--like sewing machines or thepicture of the dude who's been president tehre for the last 30 years, Blaise Campaore. Anyway, I bought a bunch of them, and the next morningwe took some of them to her local tailor to have made into clothes for sheand I and others. That was a very hectic visit--we had, I think, 8 piecesof clothing we wanted him to make, and many different instructions. Someof them did not, in the end, turn out as well as we'd hoped, but some ofthem were beautiful. So now, for instance, I have a new dress, which costabout 3 dollars to buy the material and 4 dollars to have made. Soanyway, after the market we went back to her house and made dinner, andate it. That night was New Year's--a quiet one for us. We went to thevillage party, which was at an outdoor bar, with lots of very drunk menand dancing (mostly just the men) and loud music. We stayed long enoughto be polite and then were in bed by 11:30. The next day was ratherhectic. It was my last day in Yalgo, her village, and we wanted to geteverything done that we hadn't yet done--in the end, some things had todrop by the wayside. But we did manage to get our feet henna'd, verybeautifully by a local woman, go to the tailors, take an aborted walk (Ilost one of my camera batteries, so we had to look for that instead), andthen walk out to her school. The walk was very lovely--all deserty andfilled with dried up white shrubs--according to Tc, when the hot seasoncomes (her thermometer tops out at 140 degrees and it maxes out every day)in March, all the dried up plants will blow away and it will be just reddirt everywhere. anyway, we walked out to her school, but by that time itwas getting dark, so I didn't get as clear a view of it as I might haveotherwise. One of the wives of one of the other professors then put myhair in braids--using fake hair too--but alas it was not really what I hadasked for and was pretty uncomfortable--so then next day when we got backto Ouaga we spent a couple of hours taking them out. But it was fun tohave done, and I know that if I get it done again that I need to be moreclear when I ask. The ladies doing it found my painful screeches veryfunny. That night we were quite exhausted, and so were sorry to miss theanniversary party going on next door for the couple that lived there--Ithink it was 50 years? Anyway, it sounded like a much more fun party toattend--there was drumming and singing and ululations that lasted untilthe morning. We were worried that it would keep us awake, but I, anyway,had no trouble.

So that was what we did--I should also mention the people I met there. Tchas lots of friends. Most of them are middle-aged men--the women tend tobe less educated and too demure to have much conversation with. One ofher friends was Esuf (sp?), who owns a store near her house and who isvery sweet. He likes to give candy presents. His wife, Marietta, is alsoquite sweet, although more aloof, and has a very cute little baby namedAbdourasmani (I think). At one point she let me wear Abdou on my backlike the ladies there--this is fun, but also dangerous--Abdou and mostother babies don't wear diapers. I guess when they pee or whatever, themama just shifts the pagne holding the baby on to a drier spot. There isalso Valentin, the telecentre man--he's very kind and seems veryhelpful--the sort of person who will know the best way to get somethingdone and is very willing to help Tc out with things. I met many otherpeople, mostly men, but since I was only there for a few days, it was veryhard to keep anyone straight. Greeting people is very important--thereare blessings to exchange and proper responses to the blessings, and youhave to ask how the person is and then their family and then half a dozenother things. This all happens in Moore (pron. MORay), the locallanguage, which Tc has an impressive handle on (in addition to the French,of course). Tc and I couldn't walk down the street without _everyone_shouting to ask how we were. After hearing so much about locals' requestsfor gifts, I expected it to happen a lot more than it did. It definitelyhappened, but not all the time, every moment, especially in comparison tothe hello-how-are-yous that we received everywhere. Thehello-how-are-yous, though, were exhausting enough in themselves--it washard to go anywhere in a hurry w/o appearing rude for not stopping tochat.

So after 2 full days there, we left the next morning on the bus back toOuaga. This was in the daylight and so I could see that even though thebus was off-roading, it was following a path of some sort. This tripwould have been uneventful, but instead it wasn't--instead, a wheel felloff and there was a terrible grinding noise and teh bus came to a stop,all tilted to one side. This was quite alarming to most of the people,but I had just assumed that it was yet-another-bus-weirdness, so I wasn'tparticularly alarmed at all. Tc knew it wasn't normal, though, and so shewas very scared. Anyway, the bus didn't flip over, and we all filed off,and then Tc and I caught a ride with a beer truck for the remaining 1.5hours to Ouaga. When we got back, we took out my braids, relaxed a bit,did some gift shopping from a man named Omar who brought his wares to thehostel, and then went out to a delicious dinner of pizza andtomato/mozzarella salad. Then we went back to the hostel, packed up mybelongings, and went to the airport. I had hoped to check my bags andthen join Tc and her friends at the airport bar, but alas the checking inand checking my bags took so long that I then had to board. We saidgoodbye and I stood in line for the next 1.5 hours to get thru security(it took that long for approx. 50 people to get thru--my passport waschecked 6 times before I went on the plane). The plane left an hour late,I flew to Paris, then to Zurich, and finally back in New York. The end.

Tc seems quite well--she knows how to get things done in her village andcan talk to anybody about anything she needs to, and has made acomfortable place for herself there. It IS hard, though, b/c she has noreal peers there--the women have little independence and are generallyvery demure and sort of aloof--and the men are, well, men, and not friendsin the same way she has friends in the US. So I think it's pretty lonelyin her village. Her school situation, while difficult, is, it soundslike, getting better. She doesn't sound thrilled to be there--none of tehPCVs were ecstatic about BF--but she does sound determined, and that wasgood to see. The other PCVs that I met are all really great people--wehad a terrific time in Ghana and she's close to them. I really like beingable to know who she's talking about and visualize where she is etc.

P.s. I forgot some stuff. Here it is.

The Baptism

Tc and I were on a walk when we ran into some dude that Tc knew, whotold us that his babies were being baptised that morning and we should goin and see them. Baptisms there, at least among the muslims, occur at 10days after birth, and the imam gets to choose the baby's name, without, sofar as I know, any input from the parents. Also, this means that the babyhas no name for the first 10 days. We knew another baby there whose namewas Abdurasmani, which is such a long and important-sounding name for ababy that Tc couldn't stand it, so she nicknamed him Cafe au Lait. Anyway, afterthe ceremony (which we didn't see), the ladies sit in a hut and peoplecome by to greet the baby, drink a special drink, and give the baby apresent, usually soap or money (not toys). The men sit outside and shoot the shit. Basically a divided party.

Anyway, in this particular case, Tc just assumed the dude was reallytalking about one baby, or that someone else's baby was being baptisedalso, and that's what we assumed when we went into this little hut, wherea bunch of women were sitting, and two of them were holding babies, whichthey immediately gave to us to hold. They were SO tiny! the tiniest babyI have ever held! All of a sudden we realized that they were twins--whichmade us feel better about them being so small--babies die all the timethere and having such small ones made them seem so vulnerable. Anyway,the ladies offered us the drink, and we pretended to sip it (I was, forthe most part, VERY careful about drinking nontreated stuff, and Tc usually is as well). It's kind of hard to convincingly pretend to sipsomething. I'm not sure I succeeded. But they liked us anyway, and wegave them a coin for the baby. The ladies seemed very glad we came, andas we left they blessed themselves with the wish that God would send themlots more white people.

Kerosene Salad

Also, I forgot to mention that Tc and I nearly poisoned ourselves withkerosene. We had made this delicious tuna salad dinner, and put it asidein a bowl while we prepared other parts of the dinner. Unfortunately, thebowl was sitting directly under some lanterns that Tc had filled withkerosene, and which, though we didn't know it at the time, were leaking.All of a sudden Tc noticed some stuff on top of the lid of the bowl oftuna salad--and took it off--at that point either the kerosene drippedinto the salad from the lanterns or it rolled off the lid into the salad.She realized what it was, and immediately replaced the lid, but we didn'tknow if kerosene had gone in it or not. Of course, the entire room wasfilled with a kerosene smell, which up until that point we had assumed wasjust b/c she had recently filled it. So we took our food outside, so asnot to have to eat in the smelliness, and decided that since our salad wasso good-looking, and since we didn't have anything else prepared, we'djust go ahead and eat it. Of course, the more we ate, the more nervous wegot about whether or not we were eating kerosene, and the smell seemedincreasingly strong. Eventually, we decided that perhaps it was best notto finish it. This was not before, however, we had eaten a great deal.Very nervously, not knowing to expect seizures, or instant death, or what,we said a very solemn goodbye to one another and sat down to wait and seewhat happened. I had horrible visions of Tc collapsing and me runningfrantically out to try to get people to help without being able to talk tothem at all. Then Tc remembered that she had a Peace Corps medicine book,and she looked up kerosene--and it is, indeed, a poison. If ingested, ittold us, we should drink a lot of water (which, I'm happy to report, wasmy first instinct). So we did, and burped up kerosene for the rest of theevening. Which we thought was probably a good thing, although notsomething I'd ever suggest for its own sake. Eventually we went to bedand were happy to wake up and find ourselves still alive the next morning. The End. Again.

Hey, this is Anne, Patrice's sister. I just got back from visiting her in BF. I just wanted to let everyone know that although she said she was going to switch to mass emails, she hasn't actually sent any, so you haven't been stricken from the list. If anybody's still reading this, I'll be happy to post my account of my trip there, but if not, then I won't.

anne

Hi, fellows and fellas.

I do believe that I'll switch to mass emails. First of all, is this mode of communication is not less impersonal than a mass email. Plus, even if i only have a teensy bit of time to be on the internet, i always check my email, at least, and the blog sometimes becomes a secondary concern. Believeit ornot, to even get to thispage on which i can write the blog can take up to half an hour, and then the keyboards suck (pardon the U-C-K-Word, mom) so i must slowly peck out the text, using only my index fingers. Whiney whiney whine whine. Anyway, i believe i will force my self upon y'all, instead of giving you the choice to view my crazy ol' life here. Thar way you won't have tokeep on checking this blog, to no avail, those of you who are still there. If there are any pictures that I am able to post or any permanent infor mation, i'll postit here and let y'all know via email.

THAT SAID! I am alright. I started teaching this week! After 7 months, my servide has actually begun, and that feels good. I was very scared, mostly because I know that most teenagers are jerks, who feel that everyone over 25 is a boring, obsolete, doofus who doesn't understand 'the way that things really are.' i know this from personal experience...shhh...not many people know this...I USED TO BE ONE! I also had some discipline problems during my practice-school, due to the fact that I am rather small (therre are many boys in my 7th gradeclass who are taller than me) and that I am a woman (all my colleagues are men, along with a vast majority of the educated class here...people just don't invest in girls, here...a long tirade, in itself...I'll skip it for now). But, due to the fact that I pretend to be a major bitch (which is really HARD for me, you can imagine...I get exhausted from the effort of role-playing) the kiddos have, at least for the first week, toed the line. And I expect to be able to ease up after a bit, after i get across the "I-am-wearing-the-pants-here,-even though-I-usually-wear-a-skirt,-but-you-kids-get-the-drift,-so-who's-that-talking-over-there,-I'll-take-away-points-from-your-grade,-so-help-me-God" message. And really, it went fine, my first week. And now the kids know something they didn't know before. Plus, I did a little skit about the difference between numbers and digits, which you can bet you ass they've never seen a Burkinabè teacher do before, as they unwaveringly teach by-the-book. So I rule. Right? It's been a fun, although tiring, first week of teaching.

In other news, it has proven to be rough to try to sustain a relationship here. And, in the middle of it all, the boy in question has (through a diligent process of self-discovery) has found stones in his kidney. They are sending him to South Africa tomorrow, to see a specialist, and see if surgery is necessary, which is too dangerous a prospect here, in West Africa. And if they do have to do surgery, they will most likely send him home, to the US, for good, because our Guberment doesn't want to have to pay for that again. So, I may be about to lose my closest friend to the luxury of our homeland. So, we got that going for us. Which is nice.

Anyway, y'all should know that I have got a full plate, but I am healthy and very engaged in my life here. It is a challenge. Which is what I wanted. And I am glad to be here.

Gotta run, internet café closing,ps, thanks michael and maryei!will be in Ouaga in two weeks, and will try my damndest to write again, probably via email. I love you all!

p.s. thank you so luch, michael and mary-ei! packages received and charished and bragged about and, eventually, consumed with relish! will write soon with real thanks. MUCH LOVE.

We look regularly for TC posts! Mark got his letter and was very excited. He and his tutor is making a reply. He likes to blow his tutor's mind with our globe trotting family. Look for a letter soon. I think he is almost done.

Big bro #2 and company.

I keep checking and I sent you a package too! It's a nicey, and I'll be excited to hear a., when it gets there, and b., how you like all the wee treats.

I got some shots! I have a nice round lump where I got the polio one, and a bruise for the hep A hep B, and nothing for the yellow fever (which, in retrospect, seems like a rip-off). Next month I get meningitis, more hep A hep B, and some typhoid pills.

ok! looking forward to hearing your newest news.

hearts,

anne

Hi Patrice!

We keep checkin' this blog of yours.

Sent you another package the other day...same day as we received your letter.

The kids loved it by the way!

Give yourself a hug from us!

XOXOX

Mary-Ei

Dear You Guys,

Hi! I am almost done with my three months of supposed solitude, in my village. In reality, I haven’t gone more than 10 days without seeing another English-speaker. I see my two neighbors (who I affectionately refer to as my bodyguards, considering their constant proximity and placement on either side of me). But I feel like 10 days is a long time.

I have been making major strides in learning my local language. I can’t philosophize, strategize, pontificate, or supplicate, but I can say where I am, where I’ve been, what I’m up to, what I need, and say “Help me, I’ve got a chicken in my pants!!” so I think I’m doing pretty good! Learning this language has been the most inspirational part of my stay here, so far. First of all, since I have not begun to teach yet, I can keep myself motivated and stimulated with my studies. But also, there is something so rewarding in the local peoples’ reaction to my attempts to communicate with them. They are used to having us rich whities come in here, patronize them and tell them what to do, but only using the colonially-installed language of French, thereby surpassing the local, un-formally-educated people. Learning this language is a sign of good faith, a sign that I am here to live with them, not above them, that communication with the average villager is essential to my work here. And they LOVE it. I say to a stranger, “Good morning, how’s the family?” and their jaw drops. They say “You speak our language? You speak so well! The family’s just fine.” They are always so encouraging and understanding of my mistakes, always insisting that I will soon learn ALL their words, which of course, I won’t be able to do in two years. But the instant gratification of these interactions makes me feel SO good. Plus, I love language. I feel like you can learn a lot about the culture by witnessing the way mentality manifests itself through language forms. Cool.

Other than that, I have been reading, translating, and making outlines from the math text books from which I will soon be teaching. Oh, and I sew a lot—crosstitching and making potholders as gifts for the other members of my training group. Mom, aren’t you proud? I will see the remaining 11 (of the original 14) other volunteers from my training group, next week, in Ouagadougou. We have our IST (in-service training), a workshop that takes place after 3 months of Peace Corps service. I haven’t seen most of them for three months, and because of the small size of our group, we are pretty good friends. I will be so glad to see them! Such cool kids. Can’t wait to see how they spent their 2208 hours of free time, share funny stories and frustrations, both of which will abound, I’m sure!

I have some crazy stories myself. I’ll try to compile some and publish them next week. I will have internet access all next week, starting Thursday, so if you have any pressing outpouring of emotion, telling me how you just can’t live without me a minute longer, next week is your time to let me know, and maybe I’ll come scurrying home, just for you!

Oh, there are some new pictures up on my my bodyguard, Adam’s blogger, www.adaminafrica.blogspot.com, and I’m on there a lot! If you’ve always wanted to see me riding a camel, here’s your big chance! They’re pretty good, so off you go, check them out. Soon, I hope to put some pictures on this blogger, but no one ever accused me of being computer savvy, so be patient!

Lastly, I am not sure how many people actually read this thing! I know there are major pauses between entries, and as I mentioned, I’m sure people understandably forget to check it. I am considering sending out ever-popular mass-emails. People would HAVE to pay attention to me, that way, plus you cute little shy little wallflowers out there might be more inclined to respond if the whole online community didn’t have access to your response, as it stands on the blog. So, if you are reading this, let me know you’re out there, leave a comment saying what you think re: blog vs. email. I’ll still do the blog, regardless, especially because there is some permanent info (my address, etc.) and soon I will publish pictures here.

So, I am healthy, and happy, and love you all very much. Can’t indulge myself too much, thinking about you guys, and home. If I start a day like that, I do it all day and make myself melancholy. But I do really miss you, and thanks for your mail. I am usually so excited to receive letters that I subject anyone around to hearing the highlights of your lives! Keep it up, y’all. I am going to start doing shout-outs to those of you who send mail, just so you know that I got it and that I love the heck out of you!

I do!

What do they say when you leave? akkaw, akkaw akkaw?

Sounds like you have landed on you feet as usual. Jen insists that she can't call you chum "C.O." and wishes to know his true appelation, or as she says "...at least find out the dudes name."

Life in KC moves apace. Mark competed in the local swim team competition this summer. He was unaware that there was another stroke other than dog-paddle at the beginning of the summer. By the end of the summer he has taken 8th place in the back and the breast stroke and placed not to shabby in the butterfly!. (a stroke i never could master). This in a field of 400 or so 6 to 8 year olds. He is learning that reading is not really suppose to be a parental form of torture. And is looking forward to spending his last week of summer with Ma and Pa at the cabin.

We continue to wait... patiently... for more concrete news about adopting a child or two. 4 or 5 near misses but no bullseye yet. The cape was a blast. Really missed you. We (including Mark) rode a wave for you. Don't be sad, the Atlantic is not going anywhere soon and we will do it again. We spent the last 2 nights in a cabin on the bay, not a bad way to spend a vacation, compared to a tent with tropical storm Cindy pouring 2-4 inches of rain on your head. (Ma and Pa of course floated it out). The eastern seaboard was noticably lighter when we returned to KC as Mark packed 4 to 5 tons of sea shells and rocks back to the midwest. This collection is now soaking in a tub in the back yard as it stunk to high heaven when unpacked. Of course it was packed right next to the sleeping bags and they suffer a similer oeau de skunk! Jen drew a proverbial line in the sand about the turtle skull with flesh still attached. However Ma and Pa sent it along as such a treasure could not of been left behind on purpose...don't you know! All's well that ends well... the dogs loved it!

That's all the news that's fit to print from KC.

Keep smiling, keep your humor close and the toilet paper closer.

Love you, you will do fine.

Brendan

Hey and Hello!

Well, I have been in my village for over a month, now. It is hard to know where to start explaining! I guess I can say that I have never spent so much time by myself before in MY WHOLE LIFE. Although learning how to spend time by myself was one of my goals in joining the Peace Corps, there was always a part of me that secretly didn’t think it was feasible. I mean…you guys know me…when do I CHOOSE to be alone? Hm? Jeez, almost never, right? Well, technically, there are folks around in my village, should I choose to spend time with them, and I often do. The language barrier is still a little discouraging, though. My French is actually pretty good, and I can say basically everything I wish to express, albeit sometimes in a roundabout way. But it is mentally exhausting and, on the worse days, my remaining linguistic deficiencies can be a little depressing. It is hard to feel like I am expressing my personality through my words, because, as my vocabulary provides only one or two words for each concept, it leaves me with little choice regarding the manner in which I express myself. I can say “I am happy,” when I mean to suggest that I am filled with pride and confidence. I can say “I am thinking,” when I really hope to indicate that I am filled with a nostalgia that isn’t quite homesickness but registers higher on the scale of emotional intensity than mere sentimentality. I can say “I am enthusiastic to travel” when I really mean that I am itching and almost jumping out of my seat to get the heck out of my village and visit my boyfriend (the artist formerly known as the Crappy One). Those sounds like the symptoms of an embarrassing gynecological condition, but you know what I mean. So, I do have to choice to hang with the Burkinabes, and I have some good Burkinabe friends with whom I really like spending time. All I’m saying is that, at this point, speaking French can be exhausting and sometimes not very fulfilling. Oh, and a lot of times they are speaking the local language, Moore, so I can’t understand a lick of it. Well, maybe a lick, maybe even TWO licks, as I am in the process of teaching myself the language. But definitely not enough licks to get to the center of a tootsie pop or to feel like a valuable member of conversation. It is more like sitting, listening and exclaiming to myself, proudly, “HEY!! He just said the word BEANS! I CAUGHT that!! I am a linguistic GENIUS!!” Anyway, in order to remain positive and stable and all that good stuff, I have to retreat into my own world for a good part of the day, puttering around the house, doing godknowswhat. Well, I guess Patriceknowswhat, too.

It is possible that I may abandon this blogger in preference of mass emails. Since it has proven to be such a challenge to get to the internet, I clearly cannot update this blog as frequently as I would like. And I know, if I were one of you sweet and loving friends, I would never even remember to check Patrice’s blog anymore, having checked it so many times, to no avail. I have this paranoia that no one will check this blasted thing anymore, and I will get eaten by lions here and no one will even know about it, all because I have bored everyone by my lack of blog postings. So, if I send out mass emails, I will be able to shove myself and my doings RIGHT IN YOUR FACE, so you can’t forget about me. Anyway, I am going to refer to my technological consultant, my sister Anne, about the best line of action. Stay posted, or perhaps I’ll stay ya posted myself!

(Along the same selfish and hypocritical lines, I will ask that while you patiently receive MY mass emails, would you please take ME off any email lists that YOU have, through which you distribute lists of factoids, jokes, or political banter. Although these things are quite interesting, and I like to know what y’all are thinking about, I can’t possible read them here, because of internet time restrictions, blah blah blah. Thanks for your understanding.)

I got a nice letter from Amy. She is the bestest little thing this ol’ world has ever seen and she deserves mad props for being the first non-family member to send me mail. I read it a million times and laughed out loud and squirmed around with happiness, upon its receipt. If anyone else has ever been inclined to make me squirm around, now you know how to do it! And you can thank Amy.

OH, I finally remembered to say: my buddy Adam, who lives in the next village over and who was in my training group with me, has a blog too, www.adaminafrica.blogspot.com, and he has some picture up of me. Some of them are really funny, I think, so go see me eating a chicken’s head. I’m simply adorable! He is also very entertaining to read and because we all share similar experiences, his blog is telltale of my life, too.

Oh, and again, props to Anne for maintaining this blog, but especially for putting my pictures up on the web! What a doll! What a lot of work! I suggest checking it out (although I haven’t had a chance to yet) because if Anne put up all my picture descriptions, I think that might be the best way to get a feel for my experience here! I am wordy, so the explanations are pretty thorough.

So, my sweetie has occasional internet service in his village, and hopefully I can get another transmission off sometime soon. You probably have learned by now not to get your hopes up, but please don’t think I am not writing because I don’t want to. Josh just said, as he reads over my shoulder, “if only they could see how much you stress out about this!” I think about each and every one of you (unless you are some stranger who has found his way onto the blog. In that case, I have never thought of you and won’t) all the frickin’ time and sort of achingly. I guess I will close with that.

Hello! I guess Tc must be having computer trouble. In the meantime, you can look at some pictures that she sent us, along with commentary.

Click on this link: http://annescanon.rhymm.com/patriceinafrica

Then click on the albums, represented by the pictures. This will get you to the individual pictures & commentary. If you have any questions for how to negotiate the site, please email me at anne@rhymm.com.

cheers,

anne

somebody wants packages and it's not me. see list and address to the right.

anne

So, I have moved successfully to my new village, Yalgo! I rock, don't you think? So, getting there was something else. First of all, I am one of the four volunteers from our training group who is going to a brand new site, not to replace any returning volunteers. This means that my house is EMPTY, well, empty except from the heavy dust that one can see through a sunbeam created by a tiny hole in my tin roof. So, while i was in Ouagadougou, I had to run around like a crazy person to get all the things that a house should have, like a cot, a garbage can to hold water, a kerosene lantern, a propane stove, and Pringles. Oh, and by run around Ouaga, I mean take totally busted up, insanely driven by insane driver, taxis. If anyone has ever heard the gasps emitted by Patrice while in a less-than-safe passenger experince, one can imagine the squeaks she squeals in these taxis, surrounded by unwarentedly brazen conductors of scooters and huge HUGE trucks whose masters lack respect for all human life. So, after the swear-in party, I spent the weekend seeking things, haggling, packing, and breaking up with some stupid boy. That is another story altogether, but altogether, these things were quite stressful.

We left Ouaga on public transport, and getting on there was quite a hassle, in itself. The bus we expected to get on was mysteriously not existant that day, so we waited at the bus station, sitting on large sacks of grain and warding off the sixyearold venders of phone cards and toothpicks, for many hours. When our bus did arrive, they did not want to transport our bikes for us, which is a very common service. After much conversation; haggling, pleading, and threatening, we finally gave some dude a small, um, encouragement to help us out, and help he did! Safely on my way, in a very crowded bus, stuffed between two fellow PCVs, the-very-large-over-6-foot type of PCVs, I nestled back in my seat to intermittently snooze and have an over-extended end-of-relationship talk.

After several hours, we dropped off one dude (lets just affectionately call him 'the crappy one,' for now...he's actually still a friend, but the name reflects the way I felt at the time) at his new site and continued happily on our way until a thick, menacing cloud of gaseous black death started pouring into the bus, and we pulled over. All the Musmims present must have taken this as a delightful coincidence, as the sun was setting and it was, therefore, time to pray. Out came the mats and the easterly orientation and the piety, while Malcolm Whitehead and I tried to assess our situation. We contemplated taking our bikes out of the baggage unit and pedalling like crazy back to the village where we left the C.O. a half hour before. Luckily, another bus came the other way, and the crowded contents of our bus frantically combined themselves to the crowded contents of the other bus, and we puffed merrily away, in the wrong direction, with our bikes still in the baggage unit.

Upon arrival, we learned that our bus was not to be fixd that evening, so we sent a messenger to find the C.O., who was VERY happy to see us, having set foot in his new home and feeling more lonely than he ever had in his life. HA! Just kidding. Sort of. Anyway, we stayed there, with him, in his creepy, creepy house. Before him, the house was occupied by some Christian missionary, who had, judging by the evidence, completely lost it. He had covered the whitewashed walls with his scrawled, frantic handwriting, some bible verses, some of his own deranged thoughts, and some artistic renditions of Christ, the Angel of Death, and the Grim Reaper. YIKES!! So, the C.O., Malcolm Whitehead, and yours truly spend the night shooting the shit a safe distance away from the creepy, creepy, and also empty house, and fell asleep on the ground, under a mosquito net. Felt like camping.

The next day, without delay, we bid adieu to the C.O. and tried our luck on public transport again. I am, as luck would maniacally have it, the C.O.'s closest neighbor, so I was "home" in an hour. I am actually glad that the trip there was so hectic, and here's why: when we left Ouaga, I was internally, but quite frantically, frightened. I was scared about the ensuing loneliness, about being more alone than ever before in my life, and we all know that Patrice has never been the 'alonest' person you know. BUT, as the trip was so problematic (and also because I was having gastrointestinal issues) I was very happy to be in a place I can call home, or at least, given my all-encompassing ignorance of my new environs, call a destination.

My destination, itself, is another story. And I would love to tell it, as soon as I can. After spending three days in Yalgo, I am now visiting (one of) my regional capitol(s), Dori, where the internet is available. We are not supposed to travel outside of our region for the next three months, in order to be 'bien-integré,' but we are allowed to go to our regional capitol (this means a slightly larger village with a greater likelihood to sell stuff that you need) in order to get the necessities. For me, this means things like, um, food. Luckily, I am nestled between TWO regional capitols and so can travel legally, if I want to. I am going to go explore the other regional captiol, Kaya, next week. The saga will continue!

I love you all, and now look forward to being able to blog with greater frequency. Even though the internet existed in my village before, and is now hours away, it will be easier for me to write because I have a new asset: time! Let's hope I don't go crazy and start scrawling things on the walls of my home. Keep me sane, people!! Let the blogging and sending me stuff begin!

XOXOXOXO, and another X, but not an XXX

Patrice

SO!! I am now in Ouagadougou, waiting for my bus to take me down the bumpy, bumpy road to my new home! I am filled with nervous anticipation; and so it is unclear if my diarrhea is a result of e. coli, or unquiet nerves. Let me start from the beginning of the week:

After being confined for four weeks in the villages of Yako, Bassi, and Arbolé, living with our host families and teaching in our practice school, we all lumbered on down to Ouaga for our final week of training. We stayed in a hotel with FANS, quite a luxury, and BUTTER for the bread, ooh la la! We spend a whirlwind week attending last-minute seminars about how to survive village life, logistical info, and evaluations. I passed my last language test with flying colors, and have reached the language level required to become a volunteer. So, after many classes and lots of partying it up in the big town, we attended our swear-in ceremony, on Friday morning. 13 of the original 15 trainees made it through training, and we are all quite close, due to the unusually small size of our group and to the extremely likeable personalities within it. According to Peace Corp Burkina tradition, we all bought beautiful african material and had traditional Burkinabè outfits made for the ceremony. The director of the Ministry of Education, the Director of Peace Corp Burkina Faso, and the American Ambassador all made speeches that were difficult for me to pay attention to. My fellow trainees made speeches in the local languages of Jula, Mooré, Gamulchamé, and Fulfuldé. We stood up, raised our right hand, and swore the oath that all those in the service of our government take upon taking office. I have sworn to defend our constitution both in peace and in wartime, although I am not a volunteer for the Peace and War Corps. We had a delightful wine and appetizer party at the Embassy afterward (quite a change from eating rice and grits for the last month), followed by a pool party at their rec center. That evening, there was a dance party on the roof of the Peace Corps office, and that was a LOT of fun. All the other volunteers showed up to shake their booties! Me and two of my buddies performed a choreographed version of 'N' Sync's "Bye Bye Bye," that we had perfected in village. We had a lot of time on our hands, okay? Anyway, it was very well received and I think we made a name for ourseles in our new community of volunteers.

Now, my bus is about to leave, so I will describe my new village when I get a chance to travel to the internet, hopefully in a couple of weeks. Much more to say, as usual!

I miss you all, I am going to be just fine, although I am a bit scared to go out on my own. I love you all, and can't wait to hear from more of you!!

patrice

...my village did not have internet access for the whole month! and now i am moving to my new village, my own village, where one does not have internet access during ANY months! my friend who lives 40 kilometers away will have internet access at his school, so i hope to be using that every couple of weeks. it seems that the purpose of this blog is moot if i can't get to a computer, right? i even wrote out many blogs on my practice school's computer, hoping to just plug them on in, as soon as the internet kicked in. but then, i moved from my host family village, and could find no disk, so all was lost. i'm gonna wing it!

there is so much to tell that i balk at the prospect. first, let me address all the questions and comments. but, unfortunately, i can't remember what they are! okay; i am going to go back and make comments for all the specific posts. so much for winging it.

by the way? go ahead and make comments, instead of posting a whole new post. that way they all show up on the same page, even if i cant't get to the internet in a while.

Happy Birthday to you,

Happy Birthday to you,

Happy Birthday Dear TC,

Happy Birthday to you.

Somehow it doesn't come off the same when you write it out. But you should know that I was typing with great vigor and vitality. On your birthday I wish for you a bountiful harvest, the quickness of the cheetah, and the heart of the impala, (These being more useful in Africa than the mink stole that I had picked out).

I gather from your sister's posting that you are leaving your host family and going off on your own now. Congratulations, I can only imagine that you are looking forward to having a mud hut of your own. Does this mean you are going to another village or do you stay where you are? How is your French coming along? Are you fluent yet? Oh, right I forgot this isn't a email, but I am interested to know.

Things have been plodding along for me, sort of one foot in front of the other. I've been working an unbearable schedule and have finally decided to not work weekends and nights anymore. This decision was sort of made for me when I finished the side job I've been working on, but either way I'm done with that crap. Hopefully now with my evenings freed up I can start to enjoy the summer a little and work off those bags under my eyes.

I heard from Brett recently. He was looking for something to do and I suggested we go toss the baseball around in the dark. He said he wouldn't, not after what happened last time. He's riding in a humungus bike race this weekend. The Mt. Hood classic or something like that. It's some national race so it's a pretty big deal. There are three days of racing. It hurts just thinking about what he's about to do to his body. Anyway I hope he wins.

I'll be going now, but I wish you luck in your new place away from you host family. I hope they sang the happy birthday song to you in Burkina Fasoian before you left them.

Much love,

Nathan

Hi TC!

I was at the cabin yesterday (ahem, your birthday) with Mom, Dad, Emily & Kieran.

We sang Happy Birthday To You at the breakfast table, and hoped you were having a nice last day with your host family.

love,

anne

Hi there,

Here is Patrice's mailing address.

It seems her mail call has been a little low, so even post cards would be welcome!

Mary-Ei

Patrice McShane, PCT

c/o Corps De La Paix

01 BP 6031

Ougadougou 01

Burkina Faso

short and sweet... my last post was lengthy but didn't post. the gist of it, however, is that i need patrice's address to send something. can anyone help?

well, more of a really full, large envelope. anyhow, i do not have a mailing address to which i should send my envelope of goodies for patrice. anyone know where to send it? i bet patrice's mom knows. so patrice, darling, look forward to another package soon (tee-hee) ... all is moving right along here, one month left to go until i head to minneapolis for 2 months of montessori training- top-speed style. i'll have one entire week off between that ending and school starting... trying to take a vacation, something involving my friend's friend's houseboat somewhere near where my friend lives in chico, california. lots of swimming and whatnot. i can't remember the last time i had more than an overnight camping vacation, jeez. and nothing in sight, either. ah, the life of a grad student with a full-time job that pays squat. jealous, aren't you?? speaking of jealous, our friend anne is feeling rather hurt that she was never invited to be a part of this blog dealie, and i told her i could log her on on my account that i finally got after a million tries, but she said no, she wasn't invited, so it wouldn't be right. oh, anne. she's well, though, all happy and spring-timey and whatnot.

justin's birthday is on thursday... i ordered some fancy orchids for him online (and my, what a bargain) because he's all into his greenhouse and wants to play with orchids and figure out how to propagate them and whatnot. i think he secretly has dreams of becoming a black market orchid trader/dealer, in which case i'm about to become his enabler...

we're supposed to have sushi with the herd on his b-day then camping on the weekend, though i have no idea where or how many people or if the monsoon/hurricane style weather we've been having will continue, in which case camping sounds less attractive.

(NATHAN- IF YOU'RE READING THIS- SORRY I DIDN'T CALL ABOUT THE BARBEQUE LAST NIGHT, I FELL ASLEEP AT 5 AND DIDN'T WAKE UP TIL 10- THE NIGHT WAS SHOT... BUT COME CELEBRATE JUSTIN'S BIRTHDAY AND YOURS BELATEDLY, EH?)

okay. i think thats it. if i write any more i'll ruin the fun of sending the package (tee-hee).

so.... all i need is an address. can anyone help me out? i would be very appreciative.

thanks and adios.

amy

Patrice,

I sent you a package, like ages ago now. Seems like enough time for you to receive it (they said 4-10 days)...so have you? It's a solid 5 pounds of goodies...helpfully not solidified though.

Take care of yourself!

Love,

Mary-Ei

TC,

You sure know how to make a guy feel special on his birthday, calling from Africa and all. I was distraught that I didn't actually get to talk to you, but my phone was in my car in observance of my bosses new "no calls except on breaks" rule. So, alas, I was no a there. My birthday went off reasonably well. We had a formal dress cocktail party at sarah's and it was a joint party with her roommate who shares my special day. I wore a black tie and got wasted, a new twist on an old theme. Brett made it and Anne was going to come but didn't show, Justin and Amy were at the coast. They've all asked about you and I told them that you stopped shaving your armits and are eating raw meat. That was on the 23rd actually. Then on the day itself we went out and had crappy pizza and more drinks, sans tie. All in all, not a bad time. I can now rent a car though and that's really all that matters.

I ended up buying a really sweet truck. It was the one I was going to look at when you were leaving. It's white. The wheels are black and big. It has a moon roof. To pay for this new toy (tool) I have been working like a dog. For the past month I've been working during the day and then moonlighting until midnight or so four nights a week plus full days on saturday and sunday. The Lord is not pleased with that. It's cool though because I'm enjoying it but for the massive fatigue and I'm kind of building my own business a bit.

The leaves are out here and so are the smells. Spring has certainly sprung and I for one am not complaining. I rode my bike last night for the first time in forever. I took the night off and got stoned and rode around the city for about four hours. I felt like I was taking a tour of a perfume factory. It was phenomenal. I think I will be riding alot more now that the weather is nice.

You should know that I think of you often and although you haven't received any portland mercury's as of yet I think of that deal we made often too. Me being a shmucky correspondent is nothing new, but I still feel bad, but good because now I'm actually writing you. I gather that you're making a pretty good showing so far over there in Africa. It sounds hot. Not like naturally hot though either, like UNnaturally hot. And that is hot. If I could send you a Cold One I would but by the time it got there it would probably be a Warm One, if not a Hot One, and as we all know a One that is not cold is hardly a One at all. But then again, I have heard that in other countries they do drink Warm One's and even Hot Ones, so maybe I will.

Much love,

Nathan

is how one says "come here" in Moore, the language spoken in my new village!

I dig it.

SO! Sorry for leaving everyone hanging on that last story. I am now in our nation's capitol (Ouagadougou), I have a free afternoon (wow), and the internet is faster here, so I should have a good chunk of time for writing.

So, the end of that story is that we (myself and the other 4 who live in my training village) convinced the other 10 trainees that the hotel was planning a big Welcome Home dinner for us, got everyone all excited, and then the hotel staff brought out a beautifully arranged platter of pig testicles, chicken heads stuffed with chicken feet, etc., tastefully garnished with sprigs of leaves. General disgust followed. We then brought out the real meal, over which we had been secretly slaving in the hottest kitchen in the world: pizza, salad, and beer. You should have seen the looks on their faces! THe food here sucks so bad, and since we do not have access to our own kitchen at the host family houses, we never never get fresh fruits or vegetables. We then sat back and basked in the warmth of their effluvient grattitude, quite pleased with ourselves!

SO. Having finished my story, I wanted to give you a typical day in my Burkinabè life. I am usually so frazzled by the time I get to the internet, I cannot recall all the witty and charming tales I planned on telling, and so I just revert to complaining about the heat!

I wake up in my tent, on a cement slab, in front of my building, in our courtyard, in my host family's compound. The word courtyard is slightly misleading, as it brings to mind stepping stones and trellices and lily ponds. these courtyards are dry, lifeless plots of reddish dirt, surrounded my several mud buildings, and a mudbrick wall. I wake up before 7 oclock every day, on my own accord because, as with camping, it is way too damn hot to stay in the tent. Plus, I have to get ready for class. As most of you know, I am an accomplished sleeper-in-er, and I actually take a lot of pride in this fact. Most of my friends, as we reach our mid-twenties (and beyond), lose their ability to sleep in, like most people lose baby fat and the desire to throw food. Not me, though, man. My late stirrings represented the last bastion of youthfulness for me. No more. I am worried that this schedule will fuse itself to my internal clock and I'll never see the noon hour through sleepy eyes again. sigh...

onward. So, I walk throught the courtyard to the latrine (a hole in a cement slab, covering a large pit o' shit, and surrounded by a low, mudbrick wall). Although my family is very friendly, and although saluation upon greeting is VERY important in this culture, they all look away from me on my trek to the potty. This is because in this culture, one is not supposed to greet others in the morning until first washing his face. This is okay with me because, as any of my former roommates can attest, I suffer from morning lock-jaw, anyway. So, I pee into the hole, and head back to my building for a bucket bath. My shower room is amusingly called a Douche, and I bring all my bathing supplies there with a douche-bag. Hee hee! Anyway, I strip down, and stick my entire head in the bucket (this is a very compromising position) because I have so much damn hair, I cant get it all wet by pouring cupful after cupfull of water on my head. After the shower, I dry off zith my pagne (piece of colorful african fabric) and dress as quickly as I can so I can get out of the building before the sweating begins.

By this time, my sister Martine has my breakfast sitting outside for me. Breakfast is always an interesting experience because I never know what is coming my way! Usually it is instant coffee and a small loaf of bread, or brouille (one could call it porridge but actually, it is sludge), but I get weird things too. Once, I got a plate of pork and the non-alcoholic version of millet beer. The best was when I got donkey soup for breakfast! They do not eat breakfast over here, so they are at a loss as to what to feed the honky.

So, I eat breakfast while applying sun screen and mosquito repellant (we go through great lengths in avoidance of malaria). My buddy and neighbor, Malcolm, rolls up on his Peace Corps bike and hangs out with me while I get ready for class. Malcolm is from DC. He is freaking HUGE and the Burkinabè LOVE him for this reason. They are a slight race. My family freaks out with utter glee when he comes over, and he comes over at least once a day. My sister has already told him plainly that he is her boyfriend. The whole village of Yako knows his name, but not the rest of our names. We walk down the street and people call out "Malcolm, Malcolm, how's it going!" and vie for his attention. TO the rest of us, they just shout "White person! White person! White person! Give me 50 cents or a piece of candy!!" This can be funny, or annoying, depending on your mood. Also, Malcolm is a biracial African American, which both puzzles and delights everybody. Someone asked if he is an albino!

So, Malcolm and I ride off to class, weaving through the unpaved streets, avoiding sheep, goats, pigs, chickens, insane drivers on scooters, and the everpresent heaps of trash that the children shit in. We stop at every stopsign, at every intersection actually, because you never know where there USED to be a stopsign, and the police will take your bike away for neglecting to stop at the place where the stopsign once was.

Well, shoot, I am out of time again! I guess I will do this in installments. More on a day in the life of yours truly as soon as I can get back to a computer.