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.