A hen snuck into the bureau and was busted whilst pecking at a zucchini by yours truly. My precious zucchini. The hen was urged to leave. I then broke-off and ate a few bites of baby zucchini. Mmm. Yes, I ate after a hen. An automatic device has been installed to keep closed the bureau gate – a long rubber-band-type device known here, phonetically, as cow-shoes. I’d like to see that word spelled in whatever native language it might be. Folks use these long, black, stretchy-rubber strips to tie things to their bike . . . or as an automatic gate-closure device. Cow shoes. Go figure. Me? I use bungee cords. They have that singular Nazarra look.

They won’t take me to see the dead elephant. In order to see the dead elephant, one must travel to a village about 17 km away, and then go off-road (in a land with very few roads) to another tiny village about 10 km down the way. So, yo, what’s the problem? I was certainly willing to entertain the idea. The final non from my bureau came as they explained that after getting to the tiny village, which borders the parc, it’s another 7 km walk through the brosse, through grasses and plants that are over my head, if I understood correctly . . . I don’t understand French. So no dead elephant’s society for me. This is a shame because I understand that the elephant is the largest that anyone can remember. Now I realize that the average life-span here isn’t long, but there are plenty of vieilles in village; and no one alive can remember hearing of such a large elephant. It’s probably an urban myth . . . an elephant as large as a 747. Don’t be fooled, kids.

So I left the bureau, heart-broken. Well, not really, but the prospect of a gigantic dead elephant was quite exciting. Hens have probably attacked the body, leaving little to see. I left the bureau to buy envelopes. Took me forever to explain what I needed. Know what the French word is for envelope? Enveloppe . . . with a Burkinabe-French accent. Ruth, pronounced Root, at the photocopy shop looked at me, and I believe I heard her say Duh! in French. Then a hen walked into the shop, so I left for the marche.

I made six new friends at the marche. I don’t think I can tell them apart; but with two Miriams and a Meary, in the future I can probably just make a Me-sound and begin my litany of Kassim greetings. These women sell something that they called a yam, but I think it was manioc. Regardless, I had no use for it. Still, we sat and chatted in Kassim. Six women to sell a small quantity of yams. Something tells me that it's more about socialization than sales. Oh, yeah . . . it’s my SED APCD who tells me that! While we chatted a young boy arrived with a sling-shot, made from (what else?) cow-shoes. I always picture a happy cartoon Guernsey wearing red sneakers. Anyway, I learned a new word: lance-pierre . . . sling-shot. Then hens came to attack the trash pile in front of the yam stall, so I went vegetable shopping.

Watermelons have arrived. This may be the most exciting thing I’ve seen during my four months in country. I bought two (they’re small). And feeling so elated by something new in my diet, I celebrated with the purchase of eight sachets of bisap and other colorful-but-basically-sugar-water drinks and took them back to my six new friends. 200 CFA, or about 40 cents. The hens had moved on down the hen road. Wonder if the cow-shoes lance-pierre motivated them to leave.

Still no eggs. There are, however, new chicks in my courtyard. Tiny baby chicks. The idea of new chicks seems so adorable, and chicks are indeed cute. However, try to capture a chick and prepare for the ire of the hen. Check-out the barbs on the back of a chicken foot, and hen wrath has new meaning. Makes the chicks lose some of their charm . . . don’t be fooled, kids. Now a baby goat? There’s not much cuter in this world than a baby goat.

So I went to Google Earth and looked for Po. Well there’s Po listed way west of Koudougou . . . so it’s way wrong! Who gets to cite such nonsense on Google Earth? Po is due south of Ouagadougou, just north of the frontier of Ghana. Don’t be fooled, kids. My exact coordinates? Turn that globe to 11.09.43.44̊ north, 1.08.39.53̊ east, and you’ll be looking at the big tree that shades my terrace. Look closely and you’ll see a hen. OK, I’m kidding. You won’t see a hen, nor will you see greenery anywhere in sight on the satellite shot. So clearly Po has a long, dry, brown season. I can look forward to brown season . . . and to hens eating watermelon seedlings from the seeds that I’ve tossed into the courtyard.

Jill is absolutely right. As Jill always says, worldwide, birds are the enemy. Specifically, hens! And I thought that cotton was the enemy (do your history homework, and don’t be fooled, kids – cotton is the enemy).

Is the rumor true that there are real brooms here, and if so, why don’t the Burkinabe use them . . . versus their little tied-up straw bundles? I’m going on a broom hunt . . . apropos pre-Halloween, don’t you think? Would a real broom be an effective weapon against the Po hens? What about a lance-pierre? Had someone gathered some eggs from ‘neath these hens . . . performed some chickus-interruptus . . . then Po might have eggs, mightn’t we? We can only speculate.