Lots going on in Pô.  We've dug 11 meters toward China and still no water for the well at the farm. We're debating whether to end this journey to the center of the dirt and begin in another spot. Details to follow. In the meantime, finally we have eggs and some very happy hens. No, you know well that this isn't a hen.

Remember the line from the film To Have and Have Not? Eddie says to Steve that he'd like a drink . . . just enough to fill a hen's ear. What's that thing on this cock's head. Is that an ear?!

Tomorrow a very important person comes to visit. My boss from the Ouagadougou bureau arrives. It's Yassine's first trip to Pô and the entire village is excited. We'll visit the egg farm, see my bureau, introduce her to the mayor, meet the formidable ladies of the Maison de la Femme, and visit my shea butter gals at Wematou. In other news:

The trash can project concluded some weeks ago, but it wasn’t until this past Monday that we held the ceremony to donate the new poubelles to the marché. Nice ceremony. T-shirts were distributed. Good photo-op for GaMoWigna and the Peace Corps. It wasn't a large ceremony, so I don’t know what took so long. Might have been that genie-thing.

Hand-washing stations will be placed at each trash can, with several sensibilizations in the upcoming week on the importance of hygiene and hand-washing. Yes, there is a connection. OK, logical to you, but not here in The B.F.

Last Saturday the children made a gingerbread house, generously donated from the States. Thanks, Rusty. Children here understand the concept of cake, and they're ginger experts. We have, literally, tons of ginger. They're also experts in bon-bons, candy. Let me tell you, every single morsel of this gingerbread house was consumed less than two hours after it was complete. I swoon when I think of all that sugary candy. Sunday we had a toothbrushing sensibilization, with paste and toothbrushes generously donated by my dentist.

We're going to have a Youth Development Conference in May in Pô, probably at the Maison de la Femme. Twenty-four students will come to visit Pô's Petites and learn leadership skills. I'm so glad that the world map is finished . Note the slight disparity between the political map painted by the women of Pô and our generally accepted Western version. Let me tell you, if the women of Pô really intended to change our world's frontiers, I'd hate to be the person who got in their way. Now that the conference room is lovely, complete with large chalkboard, it should make a fine place for the week-long youth seminar.

Perhaps the biggest news is that my foodie hero, Alton Brown, has come to Pô. My best Christmas gift is A.B.'s new book, personally signed To Kathy, for all the Good Eats in Africa, A.B. I just know that this means Alton Brown thinks of me, me, me every time he sees anything African on the menu. OK, there's high probability that A.B. frequently encounters items whose origins stem from Africa; but arguably low probability that he will ever think of me. Still, it's my fantasy and it works for me. The new book is proudly displayed, upright like a sofa cushion, on my bench-sofa. The children peer through the door at its exotic, Indiana Jones-ish cover and believe that I'm keeping from them some exciting new film. Or so they believed, until today, when we made hand puppets from socks. Yes, kids, A.B.'s newest book comes with all stickers necessary to make yeast puppets from socks. Children don't care that they're A.B.'s yeast puppets. To the children, they're serpents . . . and they make great hissing sounds.

Simba, the puppy, is gone. He was here until the weekend when, perhaps totally coincidental, I heard a terrible dog fight outside the courtyard. Never heard such fierce grrrrr-ing. And it wasn't puppy grrrrring. Rabies exists as a serious problem here. Such was the ferocity of the fight that I was genuinely afraid even to peep out of the courtyard gate. Hardly likely that little Simba was involved. Still . . . .

I was told by Martin that Simba went to live with tantie.  The only tantie I know lives here in my courtyard, and Simba isn't with her. When Martin pointed to where Simba went, I couldn't tell if he was pointing to a nearby hill or up to the sky. I think this is a tall tale. Like when your parents tell you, Tippy went to "live on a farm." I don't believe that I'll see Simba again . . . but we can only speculate.