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.