Christmas came early in 2011 and brought me a van to deliver me and the Canadians to the closing ceremony of the Fete des Jardins. So I didn't have to bike over 70 km. It was an amazing day, and I believe that the photos speak for themselves . . . though I suppose some narrative is required. Voila! The winner of the 2011 competition. Now it's hot today, but a velvet cap is fine, even in this climate, as long as it's not worn after Easter. So the guy in the lower left corner appears happy, wouldn't you say?

So here are some of the products from the winning gardens. The display was like a little State Fair display, under tents, with each garden having its own number showing the ranking. Everything but the blue ribbon.

Lots of children at the party. Children don't fully comprehend the beauty of the 200mm lens. And I don't know the Kassim words for back-up . . . more . . . a little more. But I did get some nice close-up shots of the beautiful Burkinabe children. Oh sure, they look lovely and well-behaved in front of the camera; but you should experience the stampede brought-on by a box of Tic-Tacs.

Here's our other drummer. Now come on, admit it . . . that expression is priceless. Think this guy enjoys his work? Wouldn't mind finding one of these drums for the current redecorating occurring at chez moi. And as I think of it, actually, I believe that I prefer his hat . . . like the blue band.

Where have these babies been for the past six months!? Still haven't seem them at my marche, but perhaps some of these European eggplant will find their way to my hut before they're all gone to Ouaga for better prices. We do get African eggplant from time to time, but they're just too bitter.

I just love the face on this gentleman. What a warm smile. Of course, I did a lot of meet-and-greet in Kassim. Sought-out every Chef de Village that I could spot. And it didn't take long. One Chef would call out to another: Hey, Nassara is speaking Kassim and she's asked me about my family and my fields . . . come check-out her sad accent. Or at least I believe that's what they all said to each other.
Our drummer, again, looking rather pensive. Gots to get me one of those hats. What do you suppose happened to his nose? Chinatown-Roman-Polanski moment? The back-story on this photo is my risk of life-n-limb climbing atop a rickety board, onto which the kids decided to climb, too, and commence jumping.

When it comes to images of the women, I don't know what impresses me most: their smiles and laughter, which accompany a sometimes riske sense of humor . . . or their colorful attire . . . or the magical way that they can tie those scarves. I've not mastered their head-wrap technique, despite my kokoi lessons in the Kalahari.
I hate tomatoes, but these are gorgeous, non? So much so that I see the handwriting on the wall: I'm going to buy tomatoes (yuk) and attempt to make and freeze tomato sauces . . . maybe a Burkinabe version of Ro-Tel with a smidge of piment and onions. Gotta click on this and see the enlarged version.


OK. Here I truly am speechless, all evidence to the contrary. I think that face says it all.
We're nearing the end of the ton-ton entertainment here . . . but not the end of the  dancing and singing. So, in addition to the hat, that skirt's not bad either, right? Income generating activity [IGA]for a tailor maybe? Making me a hat and skirt? So the fete began with the usual speeches, award, presentations by the VIPs, and concluded with the dancing. We left for lunch soon thereafter, but I suspect that the folks who had come in from the surrounding villages in the Province du Nahouri are probably still dancing. I'll save photos of my pals for another time. Today I was so very proud to be even a small part of GaMoWigna and Po.

Again with the colorful female headgear. I prefer the pagne-look when it's all scrunched up as headwear. Yes, Rusty, Maggie & A.Kaye . . . I know that I need to work on my depth of field. For your amusement and consideration, I should mention one thing -- since I thought that I'd be biking to the fete, I dressed accordingly. Typical American . . . always over-dressed or under-dressed for the wrong occasions. At least I was brightly colored in my fish swimsuit cover up. No, I'm not joking. You know the one.

This little boy didn't get to attend the fete . . . probably didn't even know about it. I met him while the Canadian group was touring the Royal Palace (known to me as the painted houses) at Tiebele. Been there, done that . . . so I sat with kids and handed out bon-bons. OK, OK, I also did some bargaining for a few household items.

Well there's a glimpse into my day. Do I look as happy as I feel? I'm speaking Kassim and French . . . and learning to understand Canadian French, which is totally different that France-French and Burkina-French. What else is in store while the Canadians are visiting? Got a trip to Nazinga planned this week; and I may join them for my second trip up the Pic du Nahouri. Golly, it's nice to have my camera with me here in Burkina Faso. Will I ever be a photographer? What would A. Kaye say? We can only speculate.

One of our cross-culturual classes during stage covered the importance of showing-up. Bac, wedding, funeral, etc. Just show up. True, gifts are important; but nothing is as important as merely showing-up. My mother was right. Event to exorcise a genie's doings? At least make an appearance!

Speaking French on a mobile is totally different from French in person. Imagine: no hand gestures, no eye-movement, no furrowed brow that says, I'm a total idiot and have no idea what you're saying . . . so let's draw a picture in the sand.

Friday Yaya called to invite me to an event. I was so flattered. He told me the event was the next day and told me the time. Fabulous. And since I had Yaya on the phone and needed a few answers about a project, I asked-away. I did understand his responses, but then, I was expecting simple yes or no answers . . . easier to understand, even via mobile, when you're anticipating a specific response.  But as to the invitation to a fete, what did Yaya say?! Fete for a grand bassin? A fete for a lake? Surely not. But this is Pô so anything is possible. Or did he say a fete for the new baby? And what time was it? Six-thirty? No, they use a 24-hour clock here, and no one would have a baby fete at 6:30 a.m. So either it wasn’t a baby fete, or it wasn’t at 6:30 a.m. I was totally befuddled when I ended the conversation. I sat, paralyzed . . . no clear plan to ascertain any answers.


In the midst of my angst, a gentlemen called at my hut door. The interior painter (nay, artiste) referred to me by Leon. He’s going to paint my walls; and he explained that he was the artist who had painted the murals at Ga Mo Wigna, among many other paintings. Ah ha, that artist. And tomorrow, he explained, at 8:30 he was to begin a new mural at Go Mo Wigna. Hmm.

I called back Yaya. What time tomorrow? Surely that would give me an idea of the event? How could I say, Hey, I’m really stupid and still don’t understand your French . . . so is it a fete for a baby or a fete for a lake or a fete for a new mural? So I didn't ask specifics, only the time; and Yaya confirmed 8:30 a.m. At that point I was certain that it must be the mural project with the artist at the bureau. Surely Yaya had said grand designe and not grand bassin. . . . unless he had said bebe and bebe sounded like bassin. Who has a fete for a lake? But on the other hand, who has a fete for a newborn at 8:30 a.m.? Oh wait! I know! A family in a country where the women awaken at 5:00 a.m. and start sweeping gravel. As you can see, I was entirely too embarrassed to confirm the nature of the fete; but you know where this is headed, right?

Saturday, I arrive at Ga Mo Wigna before 8:30 . . . ready to greet Yaya and anyone else who might have been invited to the fete for a new mural. Jean le artiste was present, with his helpers. Waiting for attendees is the norm in Burkina Faso. A two-hour delay isn't unusual. And so, about 10:00 a.m., Jean-Bernard, my Canadian friend, appeared at the bureau. Well, whatever is happening certainly must be happening there. Ah, non. Jean-Bernard explains that the fete did begin at 8:30 at Yaya’s . . . for the baby. Oh #*@%-edy #*@%! But now it’s too late – I’ve got a Kassim class beginning in 10 minutes.

So what did I do? Explain my incompetence in French? Beg for pardon? Comment dit on en francais . . . Je vous demand pardon? Over-compensate with beaucoup des cadeaux . . . in the way only a guilty American can do? We can only speculate.

I believe that I was born with the Inquisition gene. Lack of wonder is not one of my faults. To the contrary. Anyone out there who knows me want to disagree? I can interrogate . . . ad nauseam. But in Burkina Faso I’ve suffered from a deplorable lack of curiosity. Other PCTs and PCVs pose questions that I’ve never thought to ask. Questions about my village of Pô . . . about my bureau . . . about my host family. Questions for which I should have answers.

How is it that this Grand Inquisitor has lost her questioning ability? Well, I chalk it up to language skills. Sometimes I do have a question; but I’ll never understand the answer, so why bother? This seems to be changing; and those of you who know me will no doubt rejoice that my interrogation techniques are returning. You have my Kassim instructor to thank (or curse) for this. His name is Raoul. Raoul?! Is that really a Burkinabé name?

I’ve missed curry, and it’s missed me. This morning Raoul accompanied me to the marche. I told him yesterday that he was in for a treat insofar as I’ve got lots of gals at the marche who love to hear me try to speak Kassim. Today I went in with several new phrases . . . and questions! Raoul laughed and laughed (which I love) as the ladies and I made our transactions. And the mere fact that I was there with tutor in tow, with my desire to learn Kassim in tangible human form, resulted in lots of gifts.

After the marche we were off to see Pouabizan, owner of the general store. Pouabizan has been on a five-month mission to teach me the Kassim word for everything in his store. Tchewn! Sounds like an abbreviated sneeze, but it’s the word for nails. Tchewn, nails, as opposed to tchew meaning tree, which sounds like someone imitating an abbreviated sneeze. Then there’s the tchew in tchew long dinley meaning morning, my friend, which sounds like a loud, throaty sneeze. See the difference? Me neither.

The Barbie bike got new air in its tires thanks to some children whom I paid 100 CFA (20 cents) to take the bike for air. My tutor seemed shocked that I’d send my bike with unknown children; but I know the Gendarmes and I naively believe that my bike is generally safe from theft.

So tonight I zoomed home up the hill with fully-inflated tires, greeting the vieilles with my new Kassim phrases. All sounds carry quickly and far on my hill. I can hear ducks and donkeys that live in the valley as clearly as if they were on my terrace. So, who among ye knows how far my voice can carry? Anyone? Well combine my voice with a windy afternoon atop the highest hill in Pô. I’m doing the meet-and-greet, evening version; and upon hearing their nassara speaking Kassim, the older ladies come out of the woodwork (or the mud-work, I should say).

So thanks to the marche-run, onions, peppers, piment, and cabbage have returned to the hut . . . to this very kitchen. All my traditional curry needs, and more. Po has carrots! And beautiful, long, thin green beans. This is unheard of . . . we never have good veggies like carrots. What accounts for this? Asking questions? Sun spots? Cold day in . . . someplace other than Dallas? So what do you think of my kitchen? We can only speculate.

We just finished IST, and so many of us commented on the PC’s slogan stating, When does the “love!” part begin? Waiting . . . waiting . . . still waiting. It’s hard on its best day. And then, as if someone flipped a switch, it got better. A whole lot better.

So just when I thought that life can not get any better (yesterday was one of the good days), my new Kassim instructor arrived; and I’m actually learning to converse in Kassim. And since the lessons are all in French, I do believe that my French is improving. Today at the Club de Commerce, I discovered just how many students speak Kassim. They laughed at me and with me; they corrected my pronunciation; they taught me new words. And as we sat selling soap, I discovered that I was actually conversing in Kassim. Yes, there we lots of: Ahm booney (meaning I don’t understand). But we also shared some very short stories. Incredible. But enough about me. Take a look at the Club.

This is the face of Burkina Faso. Two of my favorite girls, both motivated and intelligent. Gladis, on the right, could begin her own soap-making business. She understands that much about soap. But I've got better dreams for her, and I believe that she does, too. Look at those gorgeous eyes. What genuine smiles. Their motivation is infectious.

These, too, are the faces of Burkina. Young men and women willing to tolerate my French, teach me Kassim pronounciation, and plan a lovely party when the club year closes in early May. They're going crazy wanting to bake something with chocolate. Everyone loves chocolate, they say in French and then in Kassim.  True enough.

These are but a few of the students in my Club de Commerce. Beautiful, right? And they are as smart as they are kind and beautiful. Yesterday the Club de Jardinage actually taught the students in the Club de Journalisme how to make soap. In other words, I’ve worked myself out of a job, just as the PC wants. These young women can now teach soap-making . . . and not just how to make it, but also why it’s important to wash your hands often, using soap every single time. Two hundred CFA . . . about 40 cents. That’s the price of our smaller bottles. But wait, there’s more. Each bottle contains a prize (thanks, Stacey!). See the toys floating in the bottles? Unsolicited, one non-club-member commented that our soap was cleaner, clearer, and lower priced than the soap at the marche. Well of course it is. It’s made with love.

Now lest you think that these kids can only make soap, take a look at the garden. The Club also sells vegetable and fruit from the garden. Our cabbages are just about ready. As for the variety of lettuce? Well, see some rather bare spots? Really? What do you suppose caused that? Hens? Goats? Even a pig? We can only speculate.