So much corn arrived in the courtyard over the weekend that it’s spilling over the courtyard walls out into the world of Po. Several times daily, children and elders stand outside the wall urging back the unruly cobs trying to keep them inside the courtyard . . . corraling the cobs in sheets of pagne then pushing the sheets over the top of the wall or tossing rogue cobs into the courtyard. Thunk, whacka – cobs hit my walls and roll down my sloping terrace. I’ve never seen so much corn, in husks, off the stalk. And don't picture moist green, soft-with-corn-silk corn. Picture hard, dried, brown-husk corn, with rock-hard kernels. This corn will become meal, and some will be roasted along the roadsides and sold for snacks. After roasting, it has the taste of popcorn, but the kernels are still rock hard. Not my favorite.

OK, it’s not a contest, but I can shuck corn quicker than the Burkinabe women. Perhaps this is a result of my upbringing with summertime Texas corn. I’m fast. Never mind the worms and bugs sometimes found inside the husks. I half-way expected a corn snake to emerge from the 6-foot-pile of corn on which I was sitting. A pile of corn as high as the house. Seriously. Never mind that something on the husks caused a rash on my arms requiring Benadryl. And never mind the need to redo my once perfectly-filed nails. Soon the shucked corn will be beaten inside bags to remove the kernels. I'd like to see what a Calloway driver could do to remove kernels.

Today was windy – the perfect day to bring out the kite for the kids. It’s not a contest, but clearly 11-year-old Martin best understands the dynamics of kite flight. Some children merely toss the kite, only to see the kite fall and strike the heads of the tiny children. Yes, of course tiny children cry when hit with a kite stick falling from the sky. I really expected someone to lose an eye. Martin, however, understands the concept of the running start.

Tomorrow is Tabaski, the Muslim holiday that is celebrated a month following the feast at the end of Ramadan. So there was the Ramadan fête in October, which wasn’t shabby by any means; but tomorrow’s Tabaski fête should be spectacular. Of course, it’s not a contest. Today there were dozens of animals (from hens to goats) with feet tied together, hanging from handlebars of motos . . . going to their death for the fête of Tabaski. Try to tell those selected animals that it’s not a contest! I’ll be spending Tabaski with Yaya and his family and am honored to be invited.

Last week I spent two days vaccinating for polio children five years of age and under. Two drops, orally, dispenses the polio vaccine. Easy, right? Well try telling 431 mothers, in French and in Kassim, what you want to do to their child and why. The children were fantastic. They tilt back their head and open their mouth like little baby birds. Then comes the difficult part: so that some other health worker doesn’t re-vaccinate, each child gets the little fingernail on his left hand colored with a marker. Believe me, this caused some screaming . . . not because it was painful, but because there are children here who really don’t want a white gal coloring their finger. Anyone would be frightened. But yesterday at the marche, two days after my work was complete, about a hundred children held up their pinkies to show me that I had vaccinated them. I vaccinated a lot of children . . . but, of course, it’s not a contest.

So just when I think I’ll never be a real PCV, not with my new frigo, I’m suddenly shucking corn with the vieilles, vaccinating children, and experiencing Tabaski. Current bike-time to get to my bureau? Over an hour due to the requisite meet-and-greet with all the new folks who now know me by name . . . or at least by Katerine.

Might one of those upside-down hens be le coupable who ate my zucchini? How much corn does it take to make a pile six-feet tall on which one can climb and perch to shuck? If this is what happens to the corn, what will we do with the stacks of sorghum that are presently arriving? Will I be able to adequately reciprocate the Tabaski hospitality with my Thanksgiving fête? Well, it’s not a contest, but we can only speculate.