This post isn't about dachshunds, so if you're disappointed, just stop here. It's about terriers. Kidding!

Martin saved some baby birds. Yesterday he found five tiny baby birds who had fallen from their nest in a heavy harmattan wind. Since that eyedropper could be easily misinterpreted as a turkey-baster, I added a Coke cap for scale. So when I said tiny, I meant tiny! The children made a nest of leaves and grass in one of my buckets. I expected to awake to five little birds, dead from hypothermia. But no! This morning two little birds peeked out from under the cover I’d made and fluttered off. They’re some variety of a sun bird, so that explains how such tiny birds can be ready to make it in the wide world. The first two out of their nid perched, singing in a nearby tree but ultimately returned to their bucket nest. As of this writing, the last three are still huddled in the bucket. Truthfully, I have little hope for two . . . they’re just too tiny and don’t even have all their feathers yet.

I’ve got this white bed sheet, 1000-thread count, Egyptian cotton. What was I thinking?! Here’s a hint for your PC Nominees . . . don’t pack a thousand thread count sheet. Especially not queen size. It’s too heavy for me to wash. I can’t even begin to think about how I’d wash and wring-out such a heavy monster. And white? In harmattan season? A few days on the bed and it’s pink. However, it does have one handy use: a blanket.

I’m not good at converting Celsius to Fahrenheit. Neal says to multiply by 2 and add 30. Neal’s a rocket scientist, so I believe him; but I don’t think that simple equation will always nail it when it comes to a precise temperature. Still, close enough for government or PC work. This morning it’s 16 degrees. My guess is that it’s about 60 Fahrenheit, or thereabout. What this means is that at 05h00 it’s entirely too cold to leave the hut for the latrine . . . or at least too cold without that 1000-count sheet folded in quarters and wrapped around me like a blanket. I must look like an idiot. Then, naturally, there’s the issue of not allowing a blanket corner to drag the ground of the latrine. My oh my, the struggles to merely respond to nature’s call in this land. But with the arrival of cold mornings, it's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas. Nevermind that by noon it's 100 degrees.

Nothing says Christmas like the painting of trash cans. I had to rise extra early today to finish the trash cans and to dispense medicine. My PCMO would flip; but those of you who know me know that I'm an excellent diagnostician. So, before the fun with poubelles I held a little clinic at the Maison de la Femme at 07h00. Here are a few of the trash cans.

Note closely the GaMoWigna logo. It's sky, earth, and sea (though the sea is a puzzle to me in this land-locked country). There's a bird in the sky, goats on the earth, and a fish in the sea. Hassan did the logos above. Here is my version. Note how my fish looks like a nurse shark. Hassan does a better fish, but I prefer my bird.

Sadly, the nice folks of Pô believe that I'm an artist. After the world map and now with trash can fun, I'm their nasarra-artist-in-residence. What a joke. Look closely at the photos and I bet you can I.D. my handwriting versus the Burkinabe handwriting. Painting concluded, I began preparations for tonight's Christmas party. Gifts include little scraps of pagne fabric, a rubber-stamp set, a little girl's diary, a miniature kite, and flower seeds. These items would, arguably, not even make the cut as stocking stuffers in the U.S. But here . . . ?

I live in an area of The B.F. populated primarily by a very ancient people known as Gourounsi. I think that somewhere, Gourounsi is actually a language. It's the base language for Kassim. And I'm one of only 60,000 people in the world who speak Kassim.  Think about a town you know with a population of only 60,000. I bet you're hard-pressed to do so. Now imagine that the entire population of that tiny town are the only speakers in the world with their own language . . . and I'm one of the 60,000 few. What's so special about the Gourounsi, or rather, the Kassina people? They're a 50/50 mix of Muslim and Christian, as are most Burkinabe. They inter-marry and celebrate each other's holidays, including Christmas. Any excuse for a party . . . and lights. Gotta love that.

I don't know if Sada and her family are Muslim or Christian. They live right here in my courtyard, and after 16 months in Pô I'm still unsure. Regardless, Sada's family understands Christmas. In Burkina Faso, even the most poor household will construct a little crèche outside the courtyard in anticipation of Christmas. The crèche will be made of mud bricks, which will disintegrate within months. Still, it's a lovely thought and sight. Tonight was my Christmas party, as I'm leaving tomorrow for Ouaga and won't be in Pô for Christmas. What was in these gifts, wrapped in construction paper with nylon twine? Mostly items that friends and family in the States have sent, along with a few found or hand-made items.

When was the last time you got excited about receiving a rubber stamp set? A cheap $2 necklace? A bar of soap? Well, the residents of my courtyard were delighted . . . though Martin & Louis are still holding out for wrist watches. Sada was the recipient of a cheap necklace and earrings. About 30 minutes after presenting her gift Sada appeared at my door with a lovely embroidered bezzin robe (think long tunic). Bezzin is wildly expensive here, as is embroidery, which our tailors make into art. The tunic, somewhat stained, may be the best gift I get this holiday season because it came from Sada's precious wardrobe, which consists of only about three dresses and a couple of pagne skirts. What could be more touching than a gift that clearly meant a lot to Sada? Nada, so thanks ever so, Sada.

What would this world be like if everyone took the time to save a few baby birds? If everyone was happy with a Christmas gift that was nothing more than a 20-cent bar of hand-made soap? Would we all get along if Muslim, Christian, Jewish, Buddhist, or other, took just a bit of extra time to celebrate the cultural traditions of our neighbors? We can only speculate.

OK, Rusty, three words: Prelim, Primary, Tertiary. Now imagine another one or two phases . . . or more.

I live for the days on which I don’t feel as if I must set my alarm. I don’t know why I bother with an alarm. It’s impossible to sleep as late as dawn in this country. And by dawn I mean Start of Morning Civil Twilight (SMCT). The sweeping of the gravel begins long before sunrise, as does the braying and barking. I don’t need an alarm, but I live in fear of oversleeping and waking-up with only an hour to get ready. In the States, I didn’t need an hour to get ready. Here, I need two hours. Two words: latrine visits.

Today was no exception, but I didn't have to be at Ga Mo Wigna until 9:00. Today was the painting of the trash cans. Who gets excited about painting trash cans? Well, these days, I! Hassan wanted to help. They'll be finished tomorrow and look much better than this. We were to place four new trash cans at the marché, but Yaya found a great deal so we'll have a total of seven (7) trash cans. And two hand-washing stations. After the painting ended, I spent the afternoon at the farm. The egg farm.

Once upon a time I was a SED PC volunteer. SED was the acronym for Small Enterprise Development. Those days are gone. I’m now a DABA volunteer. I’m not positive, but I believe that this pitiful acronym stands for Development of Agriculture and Environmental and Business Activities . . . or something like that. Why would the PC BF do that?! There's no E in daba! I should probably devote more attention to these little changes. In any event, the acronym was changed to specifically include the word Agriculture. But why DABA? What’s a daba? I’ll explain.

In many parts of the world, tractors are used to cultivate fields. Not here. Burkina has one of the lowest tractor:hectare:farmer ratios in the world. In Burkina, farmers use a tool called a daba. Imagine a tool with a handle roughly the size of a small axe handle, whose ground-breaking metal business-end looks like a cross between a typical hoe and a pick. Now imagine cultivating your fields, or digging a well, by hand, with such a small tool . . . in 100-degree heat – and that’s during cool season. I've got a camera with a good close-up lens . . . so imagine how far down in the well this man really is. The well we're digging is now nearly seven meters. At what stage of my life did I begin to get so excited about a well?

Other changes have come to the farm. Yaya went wild and bought some French hens, which is so perfect for this holiday season. These French hens are actually better egg-layers than the rare white Burkina hen . . . and they were available at the same price. One hen has been named  Eula Mae. She wears a lavender yarn on her foot. She can't been seen in this photo. I wasn't allowed in the coop today. The newer gals just got their second vaccinations yesterday. Yaya has devised an elevated feeding trough. It's suspended from the roof by a rope on each end. I don't exactly understand what this accomplishes, though sweeping out the coop is easier. The hens love it and hop right up on their swing. So perhaps Yaya did it for hen amusement, though I very greatly doubt it. Is this something peculiar to French hens? Do French hens like to swing? What's up with that and when did I become so preoccupied with hen entertainment?

Yaya's French hen buy inspired me to go ahead and purchase a donkey for the farm. Here she is. She looks thin, and in fact she's a bit thin . . . but under our care she'll soon fatten-up on corn and soy. Burro shopping is fun! Check teeth, meet the parents (or at least the mom), see whether she'll allow her feet to be examined (she will). In my previous life, about a million years ago, I'd have wished for a pony for Christmas. Now, a burro is quite thrilling enough. Not quite like buying a pony, but close. This gal's young still . . . just a two-year-old, so she'll need the winter to grow strong before she can pull a cart. Cute, isn't she?

We also got a mother goat. She's very protective of these young twins. Yaya says they're about 10-days old, but they still have their umbilical cords. I've learned not to question Yaya, so I'll accept the 10-day claim.
Not much cuter in this world than a baby goat. They're so square (length from withers to tail is the same length from withers to ground), and thus they remind me of Jill The Pill. As for these youngsters, I'd estimate about 10-inches from withers to hoof. I had to chase them all over the farm to get a photo. Tiny goats are fast, and cute to boot. Evidently being a baby goat is itchy business. I see mommy goat and I think: cheese! We'll see what happens.


I finally got a copy of the newspaper, Sidwaya, with Yaya's wife. Here she is, Satia, second from the left. In the Society section, no less!

Yes, I use the royal we in discussing the digging of the well. I don't do all that much daba diggin'. In fact, think I'll ever be allowed down in that hole? Is it possible that I'll stop singing Three French Hens, Two Turtle Doves . . . . anytime soon? Anyone got any ideas for a good female burro name? What is a turtle dove? We can only speculate.

It’s 20:37 as I type this, and I’m tipsy. No, that’s not correct. I’m intoxicated. Sounds better than drunk, doesn’t it? So, who is this young man? Oh, come on, gals . . . does it really matter?! Yes, I live with this every day! Today is Burkina Faso’s Independence Day. Party on, dude!

Leon, in whose courtyard I reside, was awarded the Order of Merit by his government. This is a big deal. A really big deal. Independence Day is celebrated here with as much enthusiasm as in the U.S.; but when your home is also the home of a newly appointed VIP, imagine the festivities. A bottle of Johnny Walker Blue was produced. Given the amount that Leon repeatedly poured into my little yellow cup, I imagine there was actually more than one bottle. It was fun to see the older women wondering what their nasarra was drinking and wanting a taste, too. Some Burkinabe hubbies are gonna get lucky tonight, or so I suspect. Chris estimates the Blue at $30 per shot. Pricey by my standards, let alone by Burkinabe standards.

But consider this . . . if you’re the new equivalent of an OBE, Knight of the Realm, or recipient of the Presidential Medal of Freedom, well . . . . Actually, I'm presently not equipped to finish that thought. In any event, I suppose you're entitled to some JW Blue. Maybe it was a gift from Elizabeth . . . or Blaise. I do know that military guards have been posted outside my courtyard all day. Military, in full dress-blues are all over the courtyard. I got this photo of Leon, with medal, with Martin; but I'm not asking whether I might take photos of the military, though I'd love of photo of me in the lap of the Haut Commissaire of the local battalion.

I’m in love with my host family. It gets better every day. I think it began in earnest the first time that Leon took us all across the border for Ghana beer and bratwurst (you read that correctly, bratwurst!). In the big Audi. Yes, it's really Burkina Faso . . . even with the Audi. That day, oh so long ago, I had enough beer that not only did my speaking French improve, my French comprehension vastly improved . . . or so I believed . . . at least among the members of my bureau and my host family.

Twelve-year-old Martin doesn’t come to Ghana, but I’ve been in love with Martin for a long time. He’s my best friend . . . the only HCN that I actively seek-out just to talk with about silly things like dancing. Does that mean I have the maturity of a 12-year-old Burkinabe, or is Martin simply exceptional? Probably something in-between. Today Martin was sporting his first grown-up traditional cultural togs. I was so proud of him. I'm truly in love with this kid. He, too, was proud, and asked if he could use my camera for the day. A $1000 Nikon and 300mm lens in the hands of a 12-year old. Oh, why not. Anyone mature enough to wear the traditional Kassim party gear is ready for camera lessons.
In fact, Martin is a born artiste. He'll never be a surgeon, not this kid who cannot kill a chicken; but he's got the making of a talented artist or diplomat. I can't wait to see what Martin does with his life. Leon and Elizabeth have complimented me for taking such an interest in both Martin and his cousin-in-residence, Louis. Nay, Martin will not be a butcher; though he makes a mean gateau and may be a baker.

Speaking of chickens and animals in general, we have a new puppy, Simba, who is fat as a potato. Looks like someone wrapped a puppy-suit around a fat spud. Meanwhile, one-year-olds, Rex and Dora can come and go at will from my door. They know how to push it open, and know how to nuzzle it open to exit . . . except when the door is locked because I’ve been taken to Ghana in a big Audi. On one occasion Dora snuck inside unbeknownst to me and was, therefore, locked inside in the heat for six hours. Imagine the damage that a 35-pound canine can do to a plywood screen door. Shredded timber was everywhere. Poor Dori. Pauvre petite.

Rex was in a horrible fight today. Some canine interloper dared crash the party, and Rex took him down. Had him by the throat on the ground. I, not fearing dog fights, ran to pull-off Rex armed with a plastic dust pan. I don't know that there's anyplace in the world where a plastic dust pan will effectively intimidate a 50-pound all-boy canine. Nevertheless, in I went. Next thing I knew Leon had me by the scruff of the neck and removed me from the scene. Rex ultimately relented and the interloper parted. I'm told that the interloper is a known dog who is vaccinated, thus Rabies will not threaten Rex. Hallelujah. Odd thing? I remember Leon saying, in the familiar, Kathy, s'il te plait! Meaning: Kathy, get yourself out of this before you're eaten alive. This is notable because Leon and I rarely speak in the familiar. Still, a little unexpected excitement never hurts a party, right?

As afternoon crept away and evening fell, new hens were killed. Enough Scotch and I couldn't wait to get my hands on them. I plucked, I cleaned, and remarked that these hens had eaten whole, shell-on peanuts and bits of blue plastic. The ladies couldn't stop laughing because I was so fascinated by what hens eat. Now how does one know what a hen ate? Two guesses, and the first one doesn't count. Yes, I have my unofficial degree in meat fabrication . . . or perhaps I should call it field dressing. And yes, our hens are small. These are the local hens, not our good egg-layers.

So, is it a sin to drink JW Blue from a little yellow cup with a plastic handle? No sign of this party ending anytime soon, and I believe I hear my name being called to dance to Disturbia. When will new party arrivals cease? Will this continue until dawn, a la mode de Burkinabe? We can only speculate.

Big changes abound in little Pô. On Friday the world map was completed. Actually, it was finished the previous week, but were the gals finished with me? Not by a long shot.

These ladies, greedy to learn and participate in any activity, wanted more, more, more drawing. Some were so enthused that I donated professional drawing paper, pastels, and colored pencils so that they might continue with their artistic endeavor. Their enthusiasm for art was really impressive . . . understandable when you realize that many had never had an opportunity to get their hands on crayons and paper, much less enamel paint and a 24-foot wall.

After the first week of map-painting and liquid soap making, and the final week of this two-week formation was devoted to the making of hard soap. The ladies made 113 balls of hard soap . . . and that's not counting the bars of soap. I was exhausted. I can't carry 15 liters of water without sloshing. And believe me, I tried. The process of toting 15-18 liters of liquid grows more complicated when the buckets are filled with soude coustique.  This stuff burns if even a drop hits your skin. But the Burkinabe women? They can pick-up a flaming-hot lid of a pot on a wood fire. So a little lye was of little consequence to them. Me? Two days later I'm still soaking mes mains in cool water.

Bars are difficult to make without a good mold. Lots of soap was lost in the process, but it was fun and certainly a learning experienced for me. Anyone out there got an extra soap mold to donate? Probably not. And . . . yes, some of you will be getting bars of soap for holiday gifts, so you can pass on that latest Ulta offer.

You know what makes me crazy? When photos and prose don't layout well on this blog. Notwithstanding my OCD, I'll share what I believe is an charming photo of the gals . In anticipation of Independence Day in The B.F., the ladies are pointing to their beloved country. OK, I admit it . . . it's my beloved country, too. Note how they painted Burkina Faso to mimic its flag. And never mind that Benin has moved its border north to Mali, cutting off Niger's access to Burkina.

But the biggest change appears to have begun yesterday. Hundreds (100s, no kidding) of people arrived in my courtyard. Cooking fires were begun in every open spot, and where there was room between the cooking fires black plastic was spread for the cutting of masses of potatoes and carrots. They're probably not real potatoes . . . maybe yams or even manioc. Who can say. Anyway, then the chickens began screaming as they ran for their lives, literally. Plucking ensued. What is the cause of this commotion? Today is Independence Day for Burkina Faso; but I suspect the party in our courtyard may involve more than simply a celebration for Independence Day. I think Martin said that Leon is to receive some sort of award. Here? In our own courtyard? 

In anticipation of the event I donated paste and construction paper and the children created Burkina Faso flags and paper-chains with the flag colors spanning dozens of feet. Party lights were also donated, with the explanation that a voltage converter was required. 

Wonder whether this woman will be in attendance to perform her traditional dance. Who remembers how to make paper-ring chains? Anyone want to lay money on whether those lights still work tonight? We can only speculate.

Pô, Burkina Faso, 2 December 2011. Not since the Treat of Versailles have the political lines of European countries experienced such a sudden arbitrary and material change. At this time foreign heads of state calmly speculate that Germany’s loss of the Rhineland and the annexation of Belgium, Luxembourg, and The Netherlands by France are not expected to result in any escalation of military maneuvers. The loss may be most acutely felt by lovers of Belgian endive and chocolate, as well as connoisseurs of the Rhine Valley's spätlese.

This crisis that began in Europe quickly spread eastward reaching as far as the Caucasus, Korea, and Thailand. The creation of new territories in Eastern Europe and, indeed, through out Asia resulted in speculation that Russia and China may require an updated census of their populations. And what led to this vast and immediate change of frontiers? Experts in the region of Southern Burkina Faso believe that the change was brought about by 45 charming women of Pô’s Maison de la Femme. Experts suggest that a poorly led lesson in sixth-grade art techniques may have contributed to the problem. Others suggest that a strong narcotic cough medicine also may be the source of some confusion. The PC denies all responsibility.

In other breaking news, Africa gains several new nations in a sweeping reform of borders not seen in over 50 years. The unilateral re-drawing of borders leads many to suggest that cartography is not to be taken on lightly or unadvisedly. Further, the failure to recognize Southern Sudan comes on the heels of an already tense situation in eastern regions of the continent. Meanwhile, leaders in Uganda and neighboring Rwanda are expected to remain in close contact while the African Union addresses the concerns of many of its members.

While the crisis comes on the eve of negotiations regarding an important luncheon of Nassarachide sauce, talks are expected to continue with no changes in the luncheon menu or location. An unnamed source indicates that official names for the new countries remain under close scrutiny and discussion and are confidential at this time. However, some speculate that the designations of Bibattastan, Pôland, and Katerinistan will follow in the not so distant future.

Reasons for the current confusion remain unclear, though many speculate that this week’s frenzied bottling of 60 liters of liquid soap may have contributed to the misunderstanding. Finally, in what can only be called an irrefutable sign of global climate change, the Mediterranean Sea was completely lost, resulting in speculation that near east powers may seize the opportunity for expansion of their territories.

With the upcoming week bringing a formation on the making of hard soap, skeptics question whether this tenuous situation will be resolved anytime in the near future. With the intoxicating aroma of shea butter in the air, political experts pose the question: Will clearer heads prevail in the rollback of old borderlines? We can only speculate.