Recently Elizabeth has begun to dress for her day outdoors. She’ll emerge from her home in a pagne-wrap skirt and a lacy white brassiere. Now we all know that in Burkina Faso once a woman has children, her breasts are nothing more than a feeding station and, therefore, open for display without shame or shock. And we know that our courtyard is the same as our private home. In other words, if you’ll do it in your home, you can do it in your courtyard. And thus I’ve begun wearing my new shorts (thanks, Rusty) outside in the courtyard . . . knees right out in the open. True, I may be pushing the limit by sitting cross-legged on the ground as I attempt to ignite a fire with my little charcoal stove. Nevertheless.

So one night out came the stove with the few remaining morsels of unburned charcoal still in it. I returned to the hut to grab a new sachet of charcoal. Thirty seconds. Could not have been inside more than thirty seconds. And when I returned to the terrace the stove was gone. Vanished . . . with all my accouterments still in place . . . tiny pieces of paper to begin a fire, tiny twigs for kindling, battery-operated fan to stoke the flames (thanks, Becky). Everything still in place, except for the stove. Well, immediately I knew exactly what had happened. Someone, probably Sada, had taken pity on me, snagged the stove, and would soon return it with charcoal ready to go. I returned to the hut, all too cavalierly. Thirty seconds later I’m back outside, standing in front of the lighted charcoal in my little stove. Sada sits across the courtyard, totally nonchalant, preparing her stewed leaves . . . or something. I thank her profusely, in Kassim . . . and then in French, just in case my gratitude wasn’t fully expressed in Kassim. Sada just smiles. She must be thinking, God love that sad little nassara . . . she’s clueless but tries so hard. I used to think that Peace Corps elves made magic. Wrong. The Burkinbe women make magic!

So why do I never show images of Pô . . . of my country, Burkina Faso? I’ve been sorely remiss in offering images of this magical land. So here you go -- a trip from Pô to the capital of Ouagadougou:

This is the entrance to the market here in Pô, just around the corner from the bus station. Here you see the area where are sold odd household items, primarily for men. Generators can sometimes be found, car batteries, metal parts for roof repair, and an odd selection of lanterns. So I call this the men's marche. Once you head deeper into the true market, the area consists primarily of women, both vendors and shoppers. The men's marche is also a big area for cigarette sales. In Burkina, one may purchase a single cigarette from an open pack. Odd, huh? One generally sees children with one or two cigarettes, having been sent for the purchase by some adult, generally a relative. In my mind, unthinkable!

This is how business is conducted on the road from Pô.  Bus windows are forced open and goods and money passed back-and-forth. The green fruit is Karite (pronounced car-ee-tay), known to the Western world as shea, from which shea-butter is made. Folks eat the green fruit, though there's very little fruit, and it has a barely-sweet flavor, tasting quite a bit like your grandmother's soap. Not my favorite. But inside that little fruit is a large seed . . . the Karite seed, from which comes both shea-oil and shea-butter. Fascinating process . . . watching the women make shea butter. One of my secondary projects involves helping young women market their shea butter . . . a shea butter so pure that it's almost snowy-white. Burt's Bees needs this stuff.

Yes, those are grapes. But lest you think they taste anything like any grape you've ever eaten, think again. Only the skin of the grape tastes grape-y. The rest should simply be tossed aside. Similar to the Karite/shea fruit, there's really very little fruit surrounding an enormous seed. I've heard that pressing grape-seed oil is an expensive process. And I'll grant you that these may be totally inappropriate grapes, if one can call them that, for a bon qualite grape-seed oil. Still, I'd be interested in discovering more info. Do I even need to mention my surprise that grapes grow in Burkina Faso? Grapes? Well, at least some fruit that is a distant cousin of a nice pinot. You can see the little shaded stalls under which the women sit while awaiting a bus or a bush-taxi. Believe me, they've got a long wait between vehicles; so you know there's not much money in their venture.


Back  on the road between Pô and Ouaga. True . . . looks rather dry, especially considering that it's rainy season. But these fields have been recently tilled (by hand) and are probably planted with gumbo (known to you as okra) that will reach 14-feet in height within the next two months. Still, you get a good idea of what Burkina looks like in dry season, which lasts about seven to eight months a year. Note the buildings. This isn't a particulary small village . . . just a village of average size. The walls are what comprise a courtyard (about which you've heard so much); and there could be easily a dozen people living inside each courtyard.

This is classic Burkina village architecture. Mud brick structures, probably constructed just a few weeks prior to this photo and still lacking their secco roofing. In all likelihood, the mud bricks will deteriorate during the current rainy season, only to be rebuilt next year. Yes, it appears and indeed is dry, I know. Sub-saharan . . . the Sahel. It's amazing how quickly these mud-brick buildings are constructed. Think days, not weeks. Et voila! Your new home for the rainy season.

Finally we approach the capital of Burkina Faso, Ouagadougou. On the road just inside the city limits are still more vendors, this time offering yummy, crispy baquettes, possibly still warm. Needless to say, we don't have these in Pô. In addition to bread, there's a plethora of items for sale. From jewelry to inflatable kiddy-pools. The kiddy-pool, tempting thought it may be in this hot climate, costs about $12 U.S. Not a great deal, but far more than you'll pay at Walgreens; and for me, about half-a-week's salary. Maybe next year.

Now we're in Ouaga, proper . . . at my bus station -- Rakieta. Just an average morning at Rakieta. You can tell that the bus is almost full because of the very few people standing around the bus. A completely empty bus, whether arriving or departing, will have dozens of people crowding and pushing to get on or to locate their luggage. I don't travel to Ouaga that often, but I'm well known at this bus station, or gare. Azize loads bicycles and luggage and he's my bus station pal. Azize knows how to carefully stow my boxes from Marina so as not to break a bottle of Vodka. God love Azize.

We'll end our little tour of the route from Pô to Ouaga with the view just down the street from Gare Rakieta. This is a lovely mosque in the centre ville of Ouaga. Quite large, as you can see. And it's not even the grand mosque, which is just down the road. Just behind the new mosque is one of my favorite restaurants, Chez Simon, with the best hummus and pita in the country . . . possibly on the continent, or even the western hemisphere.

I hope you enjoyed this little outing. So, did that bus station look particularly clean, or have my standards fallen that far? And where was Azize in that photo? Loading some Jameson's? Where does one find a white lacy brassiere in Burkina? We can only speculate.

So let's talk movies, again. In the film, You've Got Mail, Joe (Tom Hanks) explains to Kathleen (Meg Ryan) that "The Godfather is the I Ching. The Godfather is the sum of all wisdom. The Godfather is the answer to any question. What should I pack for my summer vacation? 'Leave the gun, take the cannoli.' . . ."

But I wonder. Maybe The Godfather isn't the I Ching. Maybe it is, in fact, the film It's A Wonderful Life. Surely your remember the line . . . Mr. Bailey explains to George (Jimmy Stewart), You know, George, I feel that in a small way we are doing something important.

So Pô is getting a chicken coop . . . a maisonette. This is presently my favorite project. A chicken coop. For eggs. Because Pô is sadly lacking in sources of protein. And despite all my complaints about hens, Pô has no eggs. Chickens are too valuable as producers of little chickens. So no one raises chickens merely for their eggs. No one, except Yaya and l'Association GaMoWigna.

But the maisonette isn't merely a little building for hens. No. In fact, it's a number of buildings and covered shady areas in a large fenced field . . . because hens and chicks don't want to be too hot, nor too wet. Here's how it looked earlier in the spring. Presently, construction is almost complete, but we're lacking chickens. Yaya has donated some of his own chickens, who are busy producing little chicks. This is fine, but our local variety of chickens don't produce many eggs. This is beyond my comprehension, but I'll accept it. Evidently, the best egg producers, the nice white hens, are only available in the capital. They cost about $7.00 U.S. each. That's a pretty pricey hen by Burkina standards. Actually, that's a pretty pricey hen by U.S. standards . . . pricier than that fryer in the grocer.

Anyway, chicks are being produced by our local hens . . . Yaya's hens, who are temporarily living in the maisonette until funds can be located for better egg-layers. The tiny, wet bundle on the far right is the newest chick. Hatched before my eyes. And yet, our local hens don't produce particularly well. Did you know that a good egg-layer can produce 3-5 eggs a day, every day, for about 10 consecutive days? I had no idea. That's 50 eggs at 100 cfa per egg, or 5000 cfa . . . the equivalent of about $10 U.S.

So currently, while awaiting funding, we're simply raising chicks and providing education on running an egg-producing business. For example, did you know that chickens have about a 30% mortality rate among young chicks? And the pintard mortality rate is even higher. Disease, injury by other chickens, genetics . . . all sorts of stuff. And chickens are dirty. I know because I clean their rooms . . . with a rake to remove the wood shavings on which they nest, then with a broom, and finally with chicken disinfectant and a large cloth. Even their drinking pans must be cleaned. Exhausting but fun work. Chicken disinfectant! Who knew there was such a thing. And these days? Why, at 20 paces I can identify the poop from an unhealthy hen or chick.

So in case this doesn't sound particularly thrilling or rewarding, consider the fun of lying on the ground with dozens and dozens of chicks. Imagine watching a chick hatch. Not sold on the idea? Fair enough; but I love it. These chicks are less than a week old. Probably about four or five days. Dozens of 'em, though not all healthy enough to stay with the tribe. Some will inevitably be lost . . . it's nature's way. The young chicks will live in the largest of the buildings with two hens who act as surrogate moms. These hens will teach, by example, so that the young chicks learn to peck and scratch in their bowls of meal. One would think that this would come naturally to a chick. Evidently not.

Once they reach a certain age, about 3 weeks, chicks want more than meal. They want insects, and they love termites . . . something of which Africa has no shortage. So we walk around the property with big machetes, to locate, chop down, open-up, and return with mounds of termite mounds. These chicks know just what to do with this harvested termite mound. No, you're absolutely correct . . .  they're not as charming at three weeks. Once they sprout their first feathers, the gild is off the lily. The bloom is off the rose. And I have no desire to run my fingers through them. At this point, they're merely livestock.

Sadly, not all chicks survive. On Wednesday morning two were discovered dead, and two more were dying. They're not the smartest of animals. Sometimes they get too wet in their little water pan and get chilled. I'd never seen a shivering chick. But that's what they do. Chicks shiver. Again, who knew? On many occasions I've sat for half an hour holding three or four in my hands in the sunlight trying to warm chicks. In this heat? Inconceivable! Perhaps it's the time of day during which they get too wet. The maisonette (all buildings) were cleverly constructed so as not to get too warm . . . or too much sun. In fact, prior to construction, we'd sit for hours and observe where the chickens wandered on the property . . . just to determine where they were happiest, to determine where the buildings should be constructed. Seemed like a great deal of trouble just to keep chickens content. But now they're happy and right where they want to be. Nevertheless, should a chick get drenched in the late afternoon, there's no sunlight to warm her. She'll shiver and possibly die.

But don't fret . . . there are dozens and dozens of chicks, with more hatching each week . . . even if they're not the good egg-producers. In fact, many chicks can be saved. Some chicks merely need extra coddling . . . like being fed water from a spoon. OK, tell me this man isn't patient (remember his patience with my sad French). He's also kind, and caring. Who takes the time to spoon-feed water to a chick? My homologue, Yaya! As Yaya says, un peu, un peu . . . little by little.

So there you are. The maisonette. And you know, friends, I feel that in a small way we are doing something important. Growing each week, little by little. Teaching students to raise chicks. Explaining the importance of protein in our diet. And one day, bringing eggs to my village. Now all we need are the good egg-layers. But from whence cometh additional financing for the chicken coop? Are Embassy funds available? We can only speculate.

I think children know best. They know that the sun shouldn't reach for the moon. It's wrong . . . upsets the order of the universe. Wednesday night's total eclipse of the moon was visible here in Pô and was historic in that it was one of the darkest eclipses in about a hundred years. And though lunar eclipses aren't rare, it will be another 47 years before anyone sees anything quite like this. Although the moon was full and had risen just above the horizon, it was difficult to see because it was so dark and dim. Truly. The children had to point out the moon to me. So don't imagine a bright full moon with the earth's shadow crossing. Imagine a dark, dull, blood red sliver. Most bizarre thing I've ever seen in the heavens.

Thirty children were outside the courtyard beating drums, banging on pieces of tin, plates, just about anything, chanting: Laisser la lune . . . or in Kassem, we ahmay djohnny tchahna. Release the moon! It was enchanting and also spectacular. I'm no astronomer, but I Google a lot. Evidently the exceptionally long-lasting eclipse and the blood red color of the moon was caused by just the right circumstances, something the children of Pô didn't care about one bit. They simply enjoyed the excuse to play outdoors, down in the valley, running in huge circles through the quartier, and banging their drums. During such a long, bizarre eclipse, there was lots of banging to do . . . because it took hours for that moon to be released by the sun. Hours! Leon came outside about 22h30 and asked if I was enjoying the show. He explained the tradition of children banging so that the sun would stop reaching for the moon. Release the moon! Fascinating, in so many ways.

The morning after the late-night eclipse, I arose early to catch the first bus into the capital. Had some supply shopping to do. Off we went on the little Rakieta bus, on a deliciously cool morning with overcast skies. Now as PC volunteers, for reasons of safety, we're urged to sit near the back of public transportation (in the event of a head-on collision) and not near the windows (in case of shootings). Right. Like I'm going to give-up a prime spot near an open window. Anyway, about 15 klicks north of Pô something wet began hitting the windshield. Rain? No. Radiator fluid. The bus pulled over and stopped. Everyone poured off the bus . . . the women to sit in the brush beside the road, or under trees . . . the men to stand by the radiator and discuss the problem. An hour later, everyone was still sitting and/or pondering what to do.

I don't believe that I'd ever considered how few vehicles pass-by on the road from Pô to Ouagadougou. Not that many. And those vehicles that passed yesterday were hailed to determine their willingness to takes a few passengers to Ouaga. Silly me. I simply kept thinking that eventually Rakieta would send a repairman, or a new bus, or a vehicle to take us back to Pô. Uh-uh. Finally, with only about 8 passengers remaining by the roadside, a bush taxi came by and we all climbed aboard.

This was my first experience with a bush taxi. I've heard horror stories. In fact, it was fine, and somewhat fun. I begged to sit on top, with the bikes, the goats, the luggage. Uh-uh. Can't have little nasarra-lady blowing away. This I didn't understand, though I'm certain that my safety & security officer would applaud their refusal.

So a bush taxi is essentially a mini-van. A very old, beat-up mini-van that was intended to hold about 13-15 passengers. Ours had 32, including children. And it arrived in Ouaga at some location previously unknown to me. I called Seydou, my driver. Told him I was in Ouaga but had no idea where I was. Had to pass the mobile to someone to tell Seydou where I was. Great fun. Truly.

So what should have been less than a three-hour ride turned into almost five hours. The delay caused a serious impediment to my shopping time in Ouaga. Good news for my bank account. On the return last night, the bus was gone. Who do you suppose repaired the radiator? Will I ever get a refund for the money paid to Rakieta or should I stop reaching for the moon? And for what was I shopping in the capital? We can only speculate.

Raise your hand if you remember the South Park episode called The Quest for Ratings. The episode where Craig’s TV show, called Animals Close-Up With A Wide Angle Lens (complete with totally goofy music), threatens to cancel Stan, Kyle & Cartman’s show of South Park Elementary Super School News. Anyone? No? Well here’s my own version: Rex with a close-up lens. I’ve grown to love Rex. He's a bon chien, and when I tell him so his tail wags wildly.

Rusty made a keen observation on my behavior of late: I’ve totally let go of my OCD need for planning. I strive to live in the moment, a totally foreign concept to me. I understand why the Burkinabe buy tiny packets of soap powder, versus a large size that would eliminate daily runs to the marche. After all, a meteor could hit Pô and we’d have wasted money on unused soap powder. I’m beginning to wake-up daily with a surprise-me attitude. No more long lists in order to make a list so that I can make a list to begin to prepare my list and then make a list.

And speaking of lists and compulsive behavior, raise your hand if you recall how much I love/hate preparing for very large parties. Yesterday was the grand fête for the Club de Commerce year end. On Wednesday I spent the day at the marche and various alimentations to locate a few things needed for the party. A few? Right. The kids were determined to cook and invite every VIP in town, which was, in fact, a grand idea. I was awake until 02h00 Thursday baking four chocolate cakes and making bisap that had to be placed in plastic sachets, tied in the classic Burkinabe fashion, which was kindly demonstrated to me by Leon. We nasarras don’t even know how to tie a plastic bag, and that is, indeed, a fact.

So, 50 sachets of bisap and four gateaux au chocolat later, I dropped into bed, only to be awakened by Rex at 05h00. And as long as I was up, why not begin cooking the 15 packs of spaghetti for the fête, while at the same time waiting for students to bring the ingredients for their fish sauce. Somehow I pictured the tiny, dried minnows available at the marche. But no. Gladis arrives with a kilo of whole, sizable fishes. Ready to be cleaned, sliced à la mode de a loaf of bread, and fried. Hmm. Not in my kitchen. Outside, please.

Now dried fish in a sauce was relatively unappetizing to me. I had it many times last summer. Guess what? . . . it’s fishy. If you’re lucky in Burkinabe culture (certainly not in my world), you’ll lift the lid on your plate and find an entire catfish head staring up at you. I suppose it’s like finding the lucky charm in some European cakes. But a charm is hardly a fish head. Don’t need no fish-head surprise to bring me luck. And yesterday? Whole fish parts, heads, eggs, organs . . . uh-uh. Not gonna happen. So I decided to prepare an impromptu sauce arachide, with lots of piled (pronounced peel-aid and meaning pounded) peanuts. The girls laughed and laughed at me. Nasarra making sauce arachide completely unlike the Burkinabe. Hey, at least it’s not going to be fishy. And my vegetarian site-mate will surely thank me. However, these gentlemen, all profs at the school, appear pretty happy, so perhaps one of them got the fish head. Actually, they're happy because they loved my sauce arachide, even though they laughed at the way I prepared it.

Now, raise your hand if you recall how much I hate the drop-in. No drop-ins, ever, is my mantra. No one needs to see this new mural on the wall of my salon . . . Martin, here, and his family being the sole exception. In fact, no one would dare visit me without calling first . . . except in Burkina. People show-up on my doorstep constantly. Rex and Dora, one or both, have taken to sleeping inside my home most every night. In truth, I love having a dog in the house again; though I’ve tried to explain to Rex that there will be no barking before 6:00 a.m. Right. I’ve tried to explain the same rule to Jill, always without success. Ne bark pas is my newest phrase in Franglais. I say it with authority, albeit without success.

Anyway, whether inside or outside, regardless of the time of day, Rex and Dora can be relied upon to bark if anyone comes into the courtyard. This is a great doorbell/security system, and there was a time when I never thought about who might be arriving. After all, visitors weren’t here to see me . . . I didn’t know anyone in Pô. But these days, every time Rex barks, my heart skips a beat and I wonder who is coming to visit, unannounced! I’m always thrilled when it’s only the children, wanting their photos taken. Here's la petite Victorine and her big brother. They live in the courtyard with their mom, Sada, who works at the pump down the hill.

What’s worse about the drop-in is: other than my closest acquaintances and the children, I rarely recognize these adult drop-ins. Without a location in town, I have no idea in what context I’ve met these people, most frequently young men. Why, just earlier today someone dropped by. It wasn’t even 09h00, and had I not chosen to take off a day to recover from fête-prep, I wouldn’t even be here. I ask you, who drops by before 08h30?! Raise your hand if you know you’ve been guilty.

So, did I just agree to allow this gentleman caller to stop by again tomorrow at 09h00? Were the professors and guests at last night’s party as pleased with my sauce arachide as they seemed? So, raise your hand if you think that I tasted fried fish eggs. And the fish sauce? Who was that man at my door this morning? We can only speculate.

My dog is fighting the waves in her pool. I'm fighting waves of nausea . . . or not, which seems rather abnormal. I'm constantly amazed at how my perception of normal has changed. As my friend Helen once told me, Normal is a setting on the dryer. Still, I'm stunned at what I'll put in my mouth, willingly or unwillingly.

Today I genuinely believe that I almost swallowed a slug. No joke. And since it's rainy season, I see this as a distinct possibility. Whatever it was, it was almost dissolved . . . just sort of gummy and thick. I'd left a water bottle outdoors by mistake. Water bottles are sacred here because they're reused to bottle liquid soap.

So I discovered the bottle near the latrine and filled it the other day adding some instant tea. Never really bothered to check the inside of the bottle . . . certainly didn't rinse it -- that would be too normal. But more amazing than the fact that a gummy creature was on my tongue was my calm reaction. Just a quick swipe of a finger across my tongue, examine the leech-appearing creature, and then a quick flick of the object into the dirt. Life goes on. Yet I still find myself questioning what it really was.

And moments ago I battled a gigantic grasshopper. OK, being from Texas, I'm familiar with very large grasshoppers. But this guy was about the length of my hand. Now I won't kill a cricket, ever. Cricket on the hearth = good luck. Isn't that the saying? I can calmly capture in my hand a cricket of any normal size and release it to the wild. But this grasshopper was too large to even consider capturing, even with both hands. It was bat-size! Truly. I repeatedly swatted it with a notebook, and it scoffed at me. I tell you, the beast scoffed. This is the problem with hot nights. Open doors are a necessity, and in come creatures of the night. Not quite as alarming as the bat that Martin had to remove, but plenty troubling, nevertheless. And it's still here with me . . . somewhere . . . waiting for me to fall asleep . . . at which time I'll grab it and fling it off me . . . the way I do with all large insects that crawl on me in the night. Normal, or normal for life in Burkina.

So school ended today, and my students in the Club de Commerce are planning their end of the year party. I'm in charge of making the bisap. They guys said that Gladis would help me with the sauce that they've chosen to serve. I found that suggestion rather sexist, particularly in light of the fact that Gladis wasn't present to accept their offer of her services. So the boys are getting a lesson in how to make spaghetti sauce. Once problem: they've ordered a kilo of dried fish to add to the sauce. Now don't tell me about puttanesca . . .we're talking tiny dried minnow-size fish . . . bones and all. Is that normal? On the other hand, after a slug, what's a bit of fishy-sauce? Is it any wonder that this meatasauras loves her vegetarian lifestyle here in Burkina? Help prepare the sauce for the party, yes. But eat it? We can only speculate.