When was the last time we took a look at a map of this great continent and this very great nation? Here we are . . . in the West African nation known as the Land of the Upright People, Burkina Faso. Let's take a little foodie tour of Burkina. Ah ha, you say . . . what's that new country to the east of Benin? The one that will now take you directly to Mali? I have no idea . . . nor do the gals at the Maison de la Femme. I was going to secretly correct it for them, but I've grown to love it. Our map will never have names of the countries for two reasons: 1) I don't know how to spell them in French; and; 2) the gals added too many new countries. Charming, nevertheless.

Look closely. Look closelier. Why, here's our nation's capital, and there's my village of Pô, on the border of Ghana, almost due south of Ouaga. I'm getting out of little Pô on Wednesday of this week. Headed to Koudougou, a little over an hour due west of our capital of Ouagadougou. I'll be teaching tofu-kebab-making to the newest volunteers in-country, to their homologues, and to three restaurants in Koudougou. No, of course they're not restaurants in any ordinary sense of the word. One of the restaurants is called Maxi-Jus, and their specialty is fresh juice. This stuff is great. Really. It's hardly a restaurant, or at least it wasn't when I provided them with the recipe for granite during our 2010 stage. Nevertheless, they're now offering frozen goodies in addition to their juice, and would like to add tofu brochettes to their menu.

Anyway, all this talk about traveling inspires me to show you some photos of this great land . . . and its food. But before we head off, let's see what's new in the quartier. Why look! The piglets are growing. Soon we'll have porc au four! Mmmmy, truly! And precisely where does a hot, growing piglet find water this time of year . . . especially with all my complaints about water outages? Well, when the water finally returns and Sada begins filling the barriques, bidons, and charrettes d'eau at the pump, you'll naturally have some spillage, resulting in some very happy piglets . . . for about 20 minutes. Then the small puddle is lost to the heat. Today's high? About 106. And what has this little piggy gotten her snout into?

It's a tami (think sieve). We use 'em for everything from straining things like neem leaves and bissap flowers to filtering bugs out of flour. I keep several in the hut at all times. Great for trapping large insects, for urging lizards on their way, and potentially even for trapping a bat (think butterfly net).

Me? I've never sifted my flour, and I've never seen a bug. But admittedly, I need reading glasses. Denial . . . it's not just a river in Africa. Bugs in the flour . . . isn't that a lovely thought? I was taught by the PC that quality control in West Africa means no rocks in the cake. I'd revise that sentiment . . . no bugs in the brownies. Happily, brownies are dark, and you'd be hard pressed to find a bug in my brownies. Anyway, let's head out. Off to Ouaga. What will we see in terms of food on the road?

Along the road, especially in dry season, you'll see little mud villages that, during wet season, become hidden behind 14-foot-tall stalks of gumbo (that's okra to you Yankees). In fact, right in my own quartier during dry season new homes appear . . . mud brick structures that were melted-away by the rains and rebuilt before the grain crops are cut. During rainy season, the bike and moto paths are fraught with danger around every turn . . . 14-foot tall fields make it hard to see around corners on tiny pathways.

We'll also see where the past autumn's sad crop of corn is housed. That darned drought! We're all going to be up the proverbial creek in about four to six weeks. There's very little corn, and what there is will be terribly expensive. After the harvest (and last year's was very, very poor), all grains, including corn, are stored in little round huts raised above the ground. The huts are raised for a number of reasons, including the prevention of mold and mildew during rainy season, and (so I'm told) due to rodents. Now I've seen bush rats scale the vertical mud walls of my latrine; and I promise you, a few logs on the ground will not hinder a determined rodent from entering that little window. Now who's in denial, my dear Burkinabe?

But fear not. Should rodents eat your corn or sorghum, you can always eat tô . . . that ubiquitous starchy staple made from millet (or corn, if one can afford it). I've described it previously as a totally flavorless starch, the consistency of mashed potatoes mixed with unflavored gelatin. A white, totally flavorless, gelatinous mass. Sound yummy? Well, the Burkinabe love it. Tô is eaten with a variety of sauces, all rather foul-tasting to the American palate. You can take your pick of leaf sauces. Baobab leaves or gumbo leaves (you've never seen anything slimier, I promise). Take your pick . . . we have all sorts of leaves for sauces. Tô may also be served with peanut sauce; but if you can afford the peanuts for sauce, you can probably also afford rice. So peanut, or arrachide sauce, is generally eaten over rice. If you're really rich, you'll get couscous. Even I can rarely afford couscous in this country, though I've been known to make the occasional tabouli.

Now if you've fallen down and smacked your little head, you might want to try a sauce with soumbala. To this day, I'm not certain how it's made. Seeds are taken from a tree (the Nere, I believe) and then fermented, or something equally bizarre. Fermented in what, is my question. The result? A tiny black ball of seeds that are so tightly stuck together I have no idea how they're used. And the smell? Death. Rotten, what-died-in-my-house, hand-me-a-barf-bag smelly. And they love it everywhere in The B.F.

Not in the mood for the tempting taste of death in your sauce? Then how about a nice plate of fried sheep brains? No, they're not fried yet in this image. When fried, you'd have no idea you were eating the inside of a little lamb's head. That said, when meat, any type, presents itself on any plate in this country, my first question is from what part of the animal did this come? No liver, no hearts, no kidneys, please . . . you get the idea. On the other hand, with my sad French comprehension, there's no telling what I've put in my mouth. I've gotten good at denial . . . and I was always its poster-child.

We have a great many cattle in this country. In fact, Fada (check your map, kids) has arguably the largest cattle market in all of West Africa. Said cattle are largely owned and herded by the Peuhls, a nomadic people who roam seasonally from Ivory Coast, through Mali and Burkina Faso, and into Niger (and who knows where else). I find them to be a beautiful people. They own the cows, so they own the milk. If you want cheese (and who doesn't want cheese), you'd better get to know some Peuhls.

We have goats at the egg farm, and Yaya has promised me some milk to make cheese. I smile just thinking about it. Before we end our foodie tour, let's remember that lesson about quality control. If quality control in West Africa means no rocks in the cake, I'd like to know where one might find this cake! And if Peuhls own so many cows, where's the steak?! We can only speculate.

When we were but naïve little trainees, long before we arrived in our PC villages, we Small Enterprise Development (SED) volunteers were taught how to begin and manage a savings and credit club (SCC). Somebody shake me . . . I'm falling asleep from boredom (sorry, Rooney). I couldn't imagine anything more tedious than gathering a group (usually women) to toss into the weekly or monthly kitty 100 CFA each (about the equivalent of 18-cents U.S.). What's worse, we were told that the best SCCs were those with about eight to twelve members. I envisioned years before one could borrow any significant amount of money from such a club. Plus, I'm neither a math whiz, nor do I have the inclination to devote hours to teaching bookkeeping. So maybe I should have re-thought my placement with SED. Or maybe not.

My boys! Martin, Louis, Nestor, Sylvain . . . and all the rest. Several weeks ago I paid each boy 100 CFA for every five buckets of compost that they'd locate and bring to me in the courtyard. And young Martin, genius that he is, asked if I'd guard the money (a grand total of 500 CFA, or about $1 U.S.). Seems the boys wanted a new soccer ball and they knew that if given the money, they'd spend it and never save for their new ball. Voila! My first (and only, I hope) savings and credit club. In fact, not long ago the boys found a sad old soccer ball that needed its inside rubber repaired and leather cover re-stitched. They asked for 300 CFA of their savings for this repair. Good thinking, guys!

In addition to bringing me odds and ends (like compost for my garden), my boys can also be counted on to remove any old bottles from my home. Gin, vodka, rum, L'Eau de Vie . . . and that case of empty beer bottles that's been here since Thanksgiving 2010. To quote a favorite line from Grey Gardens . . . Well things just tend to accumulate after Labor Day, what can I tell you? So the boys take these bottles to the ladies that sell gasoline. Gasoline here is sold by the liter (just as it is in Europe), but it's not pumped. It's placed in old alcohol bottles. I believe that we PCVs do our part to ensure an ongoing supply of these essential bottles. Anyway, the going price for an empty bottle is about 25 CFA. Beer bottles bring a bit more since they are returned to the bottling companies throughout West Africa. So in addition to doing odd jobs, selling bottles is another way for the boys to earn money.

And look what they've bought with their savings. Not only do they have their ball, they have new team jerseys. OK, we're still a few short, nor do we have one for Akaba, the coach. This photo shows Nestor holding the ball, directly above Nestor is Louis, and almost directly above Louis (a bit to the right and looking left) is my best friend, Martin.

This is definitely not what the Peace Corps had in mind when I was taught about SCCs. But Martin gets it! Of course, his mother, Elizabeth, runs a local bank called the Caisse Populaire, so he comes from a family that well understands savings and bookkeeping. I think that probably gets me off the hook. And, with their brand new jerseys, they actually won the match yesterday . . . one of the few wins in the past month. Could it be that new soccer jerseys equal a win? We can only speculate.

Somebody send me some Rit Dye! Please . . . and no, I'm not joking!

Pô's electrical situation remains a mystery to me. Just when I've grown accustomed to lengthy power outages, the kind that last for long hours or even days, electricity returns for a whoppin' two full days. And it seems that we're out of the woods, just in time for full-blown hot season. Ah, but no.

For the past several days, we've lost electricity multiple times daily; and I find myself holding my breath each time the current snaps off . . . believing that I'm about to be without a computer, and more importantly, without a fan to sleep. Happily, it's returned each time in a matter of minutes. OK, sometimes it's out only for 20 minutes, and certainly that beats 20 hours! But why does this happen? What am I missing? And why have I been told, repeatedly, that the loss of water occurs when we lose electricity? There's virtually no connection, or at least none apparent to me.

Friday night, in the dark, I decided to prepare a chart of when the current comes and goes. Obviously, I need to get a life. But remember, this is the gal who's spent the better part of half a century wondering why cows stand facing the same direction. Our government devotes billions of dollars to the study of some mighty bizarre things. Who, I ask you, has studied why cows always stand in the same direction? You know that someone knows. Is it some secret form of communication not previously thought attributable to domestic cattle? Is it the wind? No, I can tell you, it has nothing to do with the wind. So what am I missing?

Now it does make sense to me that if Pô has water running through pipes (just as you have in The States), then if our electricity is out there's no way to pump the water through the pipes. OK, this doesn't actually make sense since water moves via pressure; but I've come to accept it as a Pô truth. So I've learned to keep buckets filled with water at all times. Lots of buckets . . . especially in hot season when the only way to cool-down is to get wet. I've been told that after an electrical outage, it takes three hours to get enough water pumped back into the pipes to have running water (or into the water tower, which is definitely not a water tower as you know it). Ah, but this isn't so. Three hours?! Pwah-yo-yo! Otherwise, why would we sometimes have running water for the entire three-day period when we're without electricity? What am I missing here?

So let's talk about customer service. Customer service is always the name of the game, even in The B.F. . . . especially with this volunteer. Not happy with the way you've dyed your pagne? Well bring it on down to my house on Saturday and we'll add some colors. If the customer isn't happy (in this case, the host country nationals [HCN]), then this volunteer isn't happy. So Friday night, in anticipation of God-knows-what-outage, I filled every bucket and basin I had in anticipation of dying fabric on Saturday. Saturday morning, I'm heating water on the stove when . . . the tank of propane gas is empty. Well, if it's not one utility, it's another. Pwah-yo-yo! But other than not being able to cook anything all weekend, not even popcorn, this isn't a catastrophe. I've got Burkinabe women who can build a fire in the blink of an eye; so we can heat water over a wood and black-sachet fire. Let the tintage formation begin.

I've joked, somewhat, about my chemical burns from caustic soda. After the weekend, it's not all that funny. We dyed pagnes and my old t-shirts a gorgeous eggplant. Rich. Beautiful. We rinsed 'em well in all those buckets of water that I'd collected. The water ran clear. But when hung in the air to dry, the shirts turned a neon chartreuse. Not the pagne, only the t-shirts. What the ? Moreover, when worn, evidently residual grains of soude caustique decided to adhere to my every pore, and now I'm burned with fairly severe open sores. Fight Club, I tell you. So what went wrong on Saturday that had previously worked without a hitch? And why do Yassine and Bibatta argue about every little thing? What am I missing here?

But one good thing did come from Saturday's fabric-dying fiasco. First, I should note that Elizabeth was at home doing dishes in the courtyard with water that she'd also been wise enough to collect on Friday. Why does Elizabeth do her own dishes when she has a house girl? What am I missing? Anyway, the beautiful eggplant bezzin pagne was for Elizabeth; and when Biba and Yassine really got into some words, Elizabeth stepped in . . . in Kassim. I didn't understand everything, but I did understand Elizabeth putting young Yassine in her place. Now I'm very fond of young Yassine; but I've also had to remove her from Biba's presence by brute force. Pwah-yo-yo! 

But the best news is . . . I learned a new phrase in Kassim. We'd been speaking in French about how bizarre the dye's color change was . . . and also how ugly. I asked for the Kassim word for bizarre. Evidently, there's no equivalent. However, the phrase to describe such a situation is pwah-yo-yo, which means, in essence, that is totally f---ked up! Elizabeth and her song-like laughter could not be contained upon hearing me repeat this phrase. I was warned that, while this is not exactly a cursing phrase in Kassim (though close), I should not repeat it around men in the village. Good plan.

So this afternoon I'm awaiting the delivery of a new propane tank. Will it arrive at 14h30, as I asked? And with no way to even boil water this weekend, what did I eat? Brownies! Cooked (actually, a tad overcooked) in my dutch oven over a wood fire. What?! You didn't expect me to bike the two-minutes down the hill to buy some peanuts or Pringles? On a weekend? Not gonna happen. My stage is presently getting ready for our Close Of Service (COS) conference and party, which occurs months before we actually conclude our service. Anyway, they're searching for superlatives to describe our stage members. Me? I should be pretty easy -- Mostly likely not to leave the hut for 11 days!

As to my burns and open wounds? Pwah-yo-yo! This morning every woman in Pô had to see their nasarra's red-nee-white skin; and I was dragged into several back rooms so that my tummy could be observed away from the eyes of any men. Won't someone just bring me a giant marmite to use as a tub? Couldn't I just sit in it and soak-out all of that pwah-yo-yo chemical? And how is it that we have a version of Pringles in Burkina Faso but they're called Kracks?! Why Kracks? What am I missing here? We can only speculate.

This week is the grand formation to teach the young women of Pô how to dye fabric using traditional powders from plants and animals. I don't even want to think about the piece of an animal, any animal, that can be used to dye fabric. Anyway, the formation should have begun last week, but for those of you without a calendar, last Thursday was March 8. Huit Mars, in French (pronounced wheat mars here in Pô), or International Women's Day. It's a national holiday here and in most countries on the planet. As it should be!

Then, this past Monday morning, the harmattan was blowing and the sky was red with dust. Probably not the best day to work with water and expensive white fabric. The harmattan blows south from the Sahara, through the Sahel, and into little Pô. It happens quite often, but not with this severity. Visibility was probably less than 100 meters. Personally, I love it. It's like having a snow day in Dallas. Pô shuts down and there's nothing to do but close the shutters (literally) and watch movies. Nothing else happens. No one works or leaves home.

But the harmattan finally went on its way, and it was back to work for me. So what's smokin' in Pô this week (other than the usual cigarettes)? Well, it's a wood fire made from scrounged wood with a kettle (we say marmite, pronounced mar-meet) full of hot water. I can pick up its lid with my bare hands . . . sering hot. I've got the scars to prove it. It always worries the women when I reach for the marmite cover. They know well that there isn't a woman anywhere in the U.S. who is as tough as they are. And they are correct, and indeed I've been known to go too far and attempt things that I'm clearly not tough enough to perform.

The nice folks in the country have a funny habit of verbalizing their warning after something bad has occurred. Example: Katerine, faire attention, as I've stumbled and already lie bruised on the rocks. Faire attention, after I've picked-up a handful of caustic soda that was not where I left it nor where it should have been. Again, I've got the scars to prove it. Why don't they warn each other (and me) before someone does something stupid. It's not that they merely want to laugh at me, though indeed they do. No, rather, they do the same thing with each other. Bibatta, faire attention . . . that donkey cart just ran-over your foot.

OK, so I bought these traditional powdered dyes in Ouaga many months ago. Finally, I obtained the hydroxe (what do you suppose that really is?) and the soude caustique (think dry, powdered, caustic lye . . . tres dangereuse and literally explosive in water), all of which is needed to teach fabric dying with plants and animal-piece powders. There are many ways to color fabric. Tie dye is one of my favorites . . . known well to any former Girl Scout. But my new favorite? Salade. Yep, they call it salade (pronounced sahlahd). And in fact, if/when we use green dyes, it does look like a green salad . . . some spots darker, some lighter, some almost white. Here's one of my buckets full of blue dye. I ask you, what animal or plant produces blue dye?! But equally of interest . . . note the clothing Biba and Yassine are wearing with the red check. That's the 2012 Huit Mars pagne. There's a different design each year. This year's didn't meet my high standards for pagne designs, so I had nothing made for last week's party.

But on with our story. Dying fabric with traditional powdered dyes involves mixing the color, the mysterious powder known here as hydroxe, and the soude caustique in bucket with about a liter or two of hot water. Stand back, Macbeth! Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and cauldron bubble. This stuff is truly dangerous. It's the same soude caustique used when we make hard soap. Anyone seen Fight Club? Yes, I have similar scars. Makes you want to run-don't-walk and sign up for the Peace Corps right away, doesn't it?

Anyway, the technique involves boiling your fabric (bezzin) to remove the wax that produced its white-on-white pattern (think Damask). Then wring the scalding fabric (I can do this bare-handed) and spread it on plastic. I didn't have the time nor the inclination to hunt-down a large piece of plastic, so I chose to donate one of my plastic mats. After the fabric is spread onto the plastic, start scrunching. I believe that's the technical term: scrunching. This can be done in myriad ways. The make-a-paper-fan folding method, the peak-and-valley-scrunch, or my favorite, the twist-and-scrunch in-circles method.

Then one takes a broom and flicks very strong color onto the wet, scrunched-up fabric. I believe that flick is also the proper technical term, though it doesn't translate; and yes, that's a whisk broom that I brought with me from the States. The dye isn't as caustic at this point, but getting it on your skin isn't what I'd call pleasant. Only after the dye is set and the fabric taken through its first rinse does the caustic potential end. The results, obviously, are areas of darker and lighter colors, and even areas that remain white.

You can probably picture it here. When this scrunched-up fabric is stretched out, we'll see dark and light blues and even some whites. Here, Yassine has decided to make one side blue and the other side violet. She'll then flick streaks of ocher yellow on both sides. The results will be stunning, I promise.

And then there's the traditional tie-dye, using rubber bands. The best product of the day was from good ol' tie-dye with a single color of very strong violet. It was so pretty that I'm returning with some of my old pagnes tomorrow to re-dye them. My girls at the Maison de la Femme! My oh my! Their imaginations are amazing. Proving once again that there's little I can teach here that can't be improved in the blink of an eye.

So why are we doing all this dying? It's not merely so the gals will have new clothes. Nay. It's to sell in the new boutique that we're hoping to open at the Maison de la Femme. Tomorrow we'll finish the tissue transformation formation and make some neem cream. What's neem cream? Why, I'm so glad you asked.

Pick some smelly leaves from the neem tree, boil them, drain and save the smelly water, and add to that water a bar of hard soap that's been shaved with a knife so finely that you'd never guess it was ever a bar of soap. Then add some shea butter and mix well. If you're lucky, you've found a bar of soap with a nice scent that will mask the smell of neem leaves. If you're very lucky, which we are, it will actually smell like a perfumed body cream. Remember, I've got $65 bars of soap from the Mother Ship (aka Neiman's), which I clearly can't use-up in the next several months at site. Sustainable? Not by a long shot. But one can find a decently-scented soap here. Anyway, after this is mixed, you'll have a lovely cream that really feels marvelous on your skin (it's the shea butter). But its big selling point? Mosquitoes absolutely hate it. Voila! Cheap insecticide . . . except for that $65 bar of N-M soap that I'm donating.

So the gals at the Maison de la Femme are stocking up on products to sell at their new boutique. It's great fun to watch our inventory grow, even at the expense of my diminishing over-priced soap inventory. Giving up the last of the N-M soaps makes me wonder whether I'm really ready to return to the States. And lately I've been learning the words to La Marseillaise. Probably watched Casablanca one too many times on harmattan-day. Or maybe my French is really coming along and I'm planning to move back to little Pô one day to live a simple life, off the grid, and make smelly neem cream and dye bezzin. Can anyone tell that my service in this marvelous land ends in the autumn and already I'm finding it hard to say goodbye? Maybe I should go on-line to the Mother Ship and dream of over-priced toiletries. Why isn't March 8 a national holiday in the U.S.? Anyone know of a blue plant or animal? We can only speculate.

Join me, please, on a typical day in Pô. Now that it's hot season, our day begins even earlier (about 5:30 a.m.) since most of the courtyard residents are sleeping outdoors, some just underneath the bedroom window. So as they begin to stir, we'll be awakened. First thing on the agenda, the very first thing . . . we'll check eMail. So be nice and give us something to read . . . such as a comment about this blog. Next, face-washing time. The good thing about hot season? When we do have water, the outdoor shower is very warm. And even when the water is off, our indoor water-filter water is warm. Nay, it's hot. After all, the average 6:00 a.m. temperature in the kitchen is 98 degrees. So we'll enjoy using the ol’ Clarisonic with hot water. Praise be to hot season.

Every single day, yea, I say unto thee, every single day, as much as I adore Pô, it takes me a minimum of two hours to mentally prepare to leave the hut. So sit back and enjoy this leisure time. Is it the language barrier? No. I have no logical explanation. But once we're out, having petted Rex the dog and stepped across the threshold of the gated courtyard, we'll be in heaven. This is our sight from the gate of the courtyard. A lovely view down into the valley. Imagine this in green-rainy season.

These days our first stop isn't necessarily my bureau of GaMo Wigna. They know that I've got dozens of secondary projects here in Pô. Wherever I'm headed in Pô, our first stop must be the meet-and-greet of my neighbors . . . like these little guys. These new pigs were just born earlier this week. How can we tell? Because they're still pink, or pinkish . . . not yet dirty from living here. In fact, when this photo was taken they were probably less than 48 hours old. Babe, Pig In Pô . . . live.

Let's bike down the hill toward Sada and our pump, which isn't really a pump. In other words, when we lose water here in Pô, there's no hand-driven pump to get water. Here we are at the bottom of the hill. From this point, we'll be greeted by Sada. Dinley! N'zong kogara! Dim paga! Songo tina yurani? Kozura! Dimma dani. Ah tee-toonga yeetay? Kogara! Dima dee-dahni. Et bon jour petite Victorine. Kokomay!
Greetings out of the way, let's go see what Sada is up to.

Well, it's obvious from all of the bidons surrounding Sada that our water is off. Let's go snag little Victorine and listen to her giggle as we spin her around in the air. But faire attention! Once we've snagged Victorine, she is want to follow us into town . . . though she'll never be able to run fast enough to keep up with the bike. Sada doesn't mind when Victorine follows. Victorine has been seen as far away as laundry alley, well out of sight of mama. Pô, the parallel universe where parents needn't worry about child abduction . . . where Rex can locate me anywhere in the village. GO HOME, Rex, I say in English. Rex is always reticent to return to the courtyard. I think he has a number of girlfriends down in the village.
 
So with the water off, Sada is sorting leaves. Sorting leaves? Really? Leaves? Yep. Sada is going to prepare a bon sauce for her family . . . from leaves. This should really drive-home the point of the very real and serious issue of food security here. Got it? And it's only going to get worse after last year's drought. The good villagers in Pô eat sauce from leaves. Tonight we'll be enjoying chilled Israeli salad because we can afford cucumbers, while Sada's family eats leaf sauce served over tô. Fear not, our American guilt will result in giving Sada a basket of veggies after we return from the marché. So let's move on down the path toward the center of Pô. Who will we meet on the way? Most of the neighborhood children will be in school, but surely we'll encounter someone we know. Let's see.

Voila! Here's young Medina, with the children for whom she cares. This young girl, probably about 12 or 13, was one of the first neighbors I met in Pô. Sadly, she's far from the brightest Crayon in the box, but she's sweet as can be. No joke, Medina isn't quite right, and it's heart-breaking because she's so sweet, though sometime smelly. Sadly, she would never make it in school; and Burkina Faso isn't known for its short bus program. So the next time you read some journalist's sensational nonsense about children laboring in cotton fields for Victoria's Secret panties, remember that there are very few options for children who can't achieve even low-average grades in school. Sweet Medina helps her mother sell gateaux and watches other children who are too young for school.

But before we fret too much over our dear Medina, let's explore more of little Pô. Here's Yaya's wife, Satia. Look, she's holding the little frame I made in which rests our nation's newspaper article about her tofu demonstration during stage last November.

The article describes the U.S. Embassy's visit to see America's newest group of Peace Corps volunteers. It also mentions Satia (with her photograph next to the U.S. Ambassador) and her tofu-making skills. Such a simple thing: a frame made from scrapbooking materials and a simple ribbon . . . but Satia will no doubt treasure it forever. You see that smile. Is it any wonder that we love Satia and her family?

But enough visiting, let's move on to centre ville and see the sights. This is one of Pô's lovely auberges, or small hotels. About a dozen little rooms, some with toilets, some without. But it's this outdoor café area that we've come to visit. Here, in the mornings before a visit to the bureau, we can take tea or coffee and smoke cigarettes. Yes, the smoking of cigarettes, openly, right in the middle of town. I'm totally out of control and out of the closet, albeit only in some areas of Pô . . . such as this coffee and smoker's heaven. OK, off to GaMoWigna.

Whoops. We have a problem with the Barbie bike. Happily, we'll pass the tire sales/repair store on the way to the bureau. I entered this country vowing never to have a flat tire. What was I thinking?! I visit these nice guys about twice a month. Pô is built on one big rock . . . very hard on the tires of the Barbie bike. And the fee for putting air in our tires or patching a hole? I have no idea. The staff is so nice that they've never charged me . . . though I do usually donate a bon-bon or piece of gum.

The tire store is fascinating. Our big buses traveling from Pô to Ouaga often don't make it out of the village without a flat. Hey, better here in the village than somewhere on the 146 km road to Ouagadougou. As we see, it's not really a store. Merely an outdoor area with lots of tires for every type of vehicle, and a few motorized air tanks and hand-operated pumps. What does this tank say? Looks as if it says: In case this tank explodes, call this number. Anyone want to explain the logic there?

Finally, we've arrived at the marché. These trash cans are the reason we've come. Despite several prior trips to see where GaMo Wigna's new trash cans were placed, I had never seen them. Luckily, Yaya has escorted us today and has pointed-out their location. Wow! And to think that just over a month ago they were bright with shiny paint. Oh well, at least they're being used.

We do have trash pick-up . . . in the form of a donkey cart. Looks as if the trash collectors have dropped a few morsels . . . or perhaps Pô's residents need another sensibilization on hygiene and the importance of using trash cans. Check out the area behind the trash cans.


Oh how I love the marché. You didn't imagine any type of buildings, did you? You didn't imagine any type of stalls or shelving, right? No shopping baskets or carts. Of course not. This is a typical stand at the marché. Merely a table with lots of stuff for sale. Note the tiny sachets. They might contain anything from ground pepper to soap powder. Who would buy such a tiny quantity? Thimble size! Someone with very little money, that's who! Are we getting the economic picture now?
As we move further into the marché we'll see the women vendors. You'll find no men selling anything here, with the few exceptions of the tailors who have their businesses at the marché. And, contrary to the above statements, the tailors do have stalls.

Now lest you think that these women must use their hands to carry items atop their head, think again. We've captured this image just as this woman was putting in place her basin of cabbages, topped with a plate of what is probably fish heads, or soumbala. Yuk, on both counts. She'll tote this basin to her spot on the ground at the marché and set-up shop for the day. Perhaps in the shade, if she's lucky; but equally likely to be on the dirt in the hot sun.

Here's Alimata, my favorite rice seller. She also sells dried, crumbled manioc and other tiny dried morsels of stuff whose names remain a mystery. Alimata loves to speak Kassim with me. Every time I visit she teaches me a new phrase or word. Lately we've been working on numbers. Finlee: 200 CFA. Feenah: 100 CFA. There's not much at the marché that costs more than 200 CFA, or about 40 cents. So let's think about it:  how much rice do you have to sell to feed your family for a day? And how many other women are selling the exact same variety of rice, manioc, or other powdered oddity?

Now you figure out the profit margins and decide whether it's even worth your time. Hasn't Alimata donned some beautifully colored pagnes?

Don't be frightened. Hold on to me. We're moving even deeper into the marché . . . to the area of fish. Dried fish . . . and you can have your choice of either the head or the tail-end. Which do you prefer? Me? I've never purchased even a small morsel of this dried fish. However, I'd like to point out the size of these fish pieces, so note those fish heads in relation to the size of those cucumbers. These aren't tiny minnow-type fish, though we do have minnows. Once I was tricked into eating a dried minnow. Not wanting to look like an idiot (and wanting to appear fearless), I ate the whole thing. I succeeded very well in appearing like a complete idiot . . . I was told that we use our fingernails to lift off the dried fish meat and toss away the tiny bones. Really?

OK. I know. You're getting tired. And hot. So we'll head back to the hut. But first, let's chase-down this man selling village bread just outside the marché. Village bread isn't like a baguette. It's so much better. Think thin sour-dough loaves.

This bread is almost unheard of in Pô, so you've selected an excellent day for your tour. In fact, in my 18 months in  Pô, I've only seen pain villageois three times. It's that rare. Why? Because once a village reaches a certain size, in all candor, they feel that they're too good to eat the common bread made in tiny villages. Don't try to understand. It's a Burkina oddity. Making your tour day even more special is the sight of a man selling bread on his head. Only in Pô, the parallel universe of Burkina Faso.

We'll leave the marché  now and make our way home. But wait. Exiting the busy marché isn't that easy . . . especially on a crowded dirt path with a bicycle loaded with vegetables. OK, the reality is that our market area is indeed a marché, but it's also a big party spot. Every single day. And thus we love a trip to the marché. Truth be told, women will refuse to sell you the last of any item because that would mean that their day was done and it would be time to go home. Unbelievable, perhaps, but true!

So we've seen a bit of Pô, its hotels, shops, people, and marché. Just one more stop on the way home. The Maison de la Femme, where we'll always find friends . . . often my women and their children.

Is it any wonder I'm in love with this place? Cute, huh? Go ahead, admit it. You enjoyed your tour and you're glad you left the hut. And lest you think that Pô is an ordinary village in Burkina Faso, think again. Pô is uniquely special. My latest theory is that it's the Gourounsi people that make Pô so special. Speaking of theories, my site mate and I love talking String Theory. Is it possible that Pô really is a parallel universe? We can only speculate.