Rex, ne bark pas. Et ne manges pas les poussins. Moments ago there was a terrible commotion in the courtyard. Sounded like the worst cat fight you’ve ever heard. The poor orange kitten . . . or so I thought.

Naturally, such a racket could not be ignored, thus I ventured outdoors with the flashlight. Where is everyone?! Oh, wait . . . it’s Friday night. I'm under curfew, safely in the hut; Elizabeth is probably at church; Martin & Louis are on vacation still; and Leon is probably hosting an event for my new neighbor, an older woman from France. So only the vieilles in the courtyard are available to break-up this savage battle. And what is the source of this commotion? Hens! Hens and chicks . . . and Rex!

Evidently hens and chicks have escaped from their coop, and Rex is having a field day . . . or a buffet. This is odd to me because Rex and Dori peacefully coexist with chickens during daylight hours. I suppose that when it comes to canines and chicks, all bets are off after the sun sets. In any event, hens and their chicks are separated from each other, Rex has a feather stuck on his snout, and I can’t tell who’s missing nor which chicks belong with which hen. And although the vieilles seem quite concerned, I don't see anyone trying to protect the poultry.

Have you ever tried to catch a chick? I have . . . and quite frequently of late. Hens, however, are a different story altogether. They have barbed feet. They’re little dinosaurs . . . crafty and dangerous. But someone must intervene and stop this bedlam. Tantie Mamoonia is outdoors with her tiny light . . . great pendulous breasts swinging in time with her searching torch.  Tantie Mamoonia. I have no idea whether that’s her real name, but it's what Martin calls her, nor do I know what language she speaks, ever . . . but this large, aging woman never wears anything above the waist – got the picture? Anyway, Tantie doesn’t seem as fearful of the hens as she does of the dark corner of the courtyard in which lies the chicken coop. She snags a hen and tosses it in the open coop door, only to have the hen pop right back out when the door won’t close completely. Ah, Burkina architecture and design.

With all the clucking and barking, it's quite evident that reinforcements are needed, so Sada comes to help. Sada plays sentry at the coop door while I snag four chicks, two in each hand. Chicks aren’t nearly as fast after dark; and Sada has captured a hen by its tail. Allow me to be candid; there’s not much more fun in this wide world than snatching a hen by her tail feathers, flinging her inside a coop, and slamming the door. Ah, but the chicks must be placed inside, too. Yet each time the door is opened to toss in another couple of chicks, out pops a really, really angry hen.

Ladies of the courtyard, you evidently don’t work with a lot of chicks. Leave this to the Nasarra. I plop to the ground inches from the door, ready to impede any hen's attempted departure . . . and I repeatedly catch and toss back inside the little red hen. Just snag that squawkin' gal by her tail and toss her . . . hard! Red hens are the worst when it comes to speed; but white and black speckled hens are the crankiest. Finally, six chicks and two hens are returned to the coop; Rex is severely scolded and appears duly remorseful, despite the feather that remains on his nose; and cleverly I use pieces of wood and broken concrete to brace closed the raised door. Easy. Quick trip to the shower to wash my hands, and I’m ready to continue watching 30Rock. But wait.

Sitting on this new sofa (it's really just a bench covered with fabric . . . and a donkey brought it today from my site mate's hut) I can’t hear what Lemon & Jack are saying because there’s too much chirping. Either chicks have escaped (not possible -- my evil plan to close the coop was genius), or chicks have yet to be gathered and reunited with their moms. Naturally, it’s the latter, so more chick chasing ensues. Again, they’re slower after dark, so it’s not a difficult task. Still, I’m covered in chick dander and who knows what else from retrieving truant chicks and moms.

Now come on. You knew this tale had to involve at least one hen, right? Wonder who was in charge of closing that coop tonight? Was I really rooting for Rex? Does Rex know how to open doors other than the one to my hut? And who is this new French woman living in the little round hut, sharing my latrine for the next six weeks? We can only speculate.

Three hundred. That's the number of children enrolled in GaMoWigna's rice program, in partnership with Education Sans Frontiers. It's not the number of mosquitoes currently in my hut, carrying malaria, buzzing around my ears, awaiting dinner. That number is probably closer to 400.

I've always heard that only the female mosquito carries malaria, and that only the female mosquito makes the high-pitched buzzing sound. Well if that is indeed the case, I've got a healthy tribe of females waiting for dinner. Luckily I've got mosquito coils, made in China and imported all the way to Burkina for about 50-cents. How do they do that? And the coils are guaranteed to work within 10 minutes of lighting. I'll be the judge of that. Best thing about the coils? Smells just like the delightful scent of returning to one's tent after a hard day on safari. So I like the scent, if not the ashy mess created by the coils.

So who do you suppose isn't waiting for dinner? Three hundred children to whom I gave rice on Thursday. Bags and bags of rice, imported from Thailand. Again, I question: how is importing rice to this land-locked country less expensive than using our own rice . . . and Burkina does produce rice. It's a mystery, but Thai rice is cheaper to import than the cost of purchasing Burkinabe rice. It's a world gone mad.

So, if my French is in any way adequate, it's my understanding that Education Sans Frontiers provides the rice, and children (90% of whom are orphans) enroll in a program whereby they received two large bowls (really large bowls) of raw rice each month. By 9:00 a.m. I'd given out hundreds of bowls of rice to charming and patient children. The line continued until noon. Each child brings a notebook into which is written the date and my signature showing that the child received this month's rice. It felt oh-so Peace Corps-y, despite the fact that I didn't do one thing to initiate this program. Just another example of GaMoWigna's experience and care-giving. Actually, the fact that these children lined-up patiently is the real reflection on GaMoWigna's good influence . . . patiently, in a land where even adults will push and shove to be first in line. Lined-up with whatever they brought to carry home their rice . . . sometimes old rice sacks, often torn black sachets, which I helped repair. Yaya allowed me to run the show, which was reminiscent of bus-pass-day at AIN . . . easy, fast-paced, but also very moving insofar as such a little gift will go such a long way.

I think the most impressive part was the fact that Yaya knows the story behind every orphan. Every single child! He'd tell me of the little boy who's father had died when the boy was not yet two, and then whose mother became paralyzed after an accident. Another story was that of a 10-year-old girl who lost both parents and is now in charge of taking care of her two younger siblings. They live with an aunt and uncle who have difficulty finding funds to feed their own children.

So why rice and not corn meal for the ubiquitous Toe eaten by most Burkinabe? Simple. Cooking Toe is a lengthy process, very lengthy; and Toe isn't particularly nutritious . . . merely filling. But combine the rice with the benga (a bean -- think black-eyed peas) and you've got a perfect protein . . . and something easy enough to make that even children can prepare it.

But there is good news in what, at first blush, appears to be tale after tale of woe: each of the children enrolled in the rice program attend school. Education Sans Frontiers has staff, including the staff at GaMoWigna, who follow the progress of the children in school. The rice isn't merely a hand-out. OK, it is a hand-out, but with a catch: the children must continue in school. This ensures that families don't simply accept the rice and keep the children working at home or in the fields. Neat, huh?

The embarrassing part is that I've been with GaMoWigna for almost a year and had no idea that they gave out rice on the last Thursday of every month. Yes, I've got dozens of excuses as to why I didn't know this . . . consolidation of PCVs during times of political unrest, PC trainings, vacation, trip home, quoi, quoi, quoi. But the reality is that I'm simply not asking enough questions (or the right questions) at my bureau. Must be that French thing.

So we've talked about Toe, right? What is Toe? Imagine totally flavorless white food, the consistency of mashed potatoes mixed with unflavored gelatin. That's Toe. Now you remember it, right? Can you imagine anything more bizarre? Well, perhaps the cut and bruise on my hand from the giant sharp-edged rice bowl. When will that heal? Or perhaps my mosquito invasion. And to think . . . last year I never saw one mosquito in my village. So, the coil is burning and it's 10 minutes later? Are all the mosquitoes gone? We can only speculate.