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.