Mike recently posed an interesting question: where in the world are you if you can say Today I went to the Poste and feel quite proud of the accomplishment? Why, it must be here in The B.F. If you were asked in the States, what did you do today? and if you replied I went to the post office, you'd really seem like a total Loser . . . capital L! But not here in The B.F. Capital T.

Long ago Hilary and I came up with a motto: Just one thing! I even wrote in on the chalkboard that I painted on my kitchen wall: Just one thing. One thing every day. Simple! Seeing my chalkboard, numerous volunteers have commented on the wisdom (or simple-mindedness) behind this motto. In all candor, you'd be surprised how difficult it is to get out of the hut, then leave the courtyard, then go into the village, and then accomplish anything. Anything! So I embraced this challenge . . . optimistically, if not enthusiastically. For instance, two days ago I picked bell peppers from my garden. Mission accomplished. Just one thing: Food Security harvest from Model Garden. I can VRF that . . . and for you non-PCVs, that means it will get reported to Congress. As if Congress doesn't have better things to do.

In reality, I've been quite busy. I learned how to make cheese and tofu. Francoise is a young woman here in Pô. I want to make her rich . . . rich in The B.F. defined as being able to feed and educate one's children. She knows how to make cheese and tofu, and I want to help her start a business. GaMo Wigna is fascinated by the concept of tofu. Especially fascinated that its by-product can be fed to chickens and used in making bars of soap. Giant cauldrons of soy milk, tamarind juice, vinegar. Double double toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble . . .this has giant mess-o-fun written all over it.

Then there's the planning for World AIDS Day. A little project called Paint The Town Red. This involves yet another mural, this time with a painted pledge to indulge in a healthier lifestyle. Everyone in attendance will have the opportunity to dip their hands in red paint and plaster their handprints onto the white wall below a red AIDS ribbon. It's finger-painting at it's best. Got to love that.

And then there's the new mill, or moulin.  This little mill will grind corn, millet, and yes, even soy beans for tofu. But wait! There's more. The mill is sturdy yet tiny. So small that it can be mounted on a bicycle and taken from courtyard to courtyard or from village to village. Not only can it be mounted on a bicycle, it can be powered by a bicycle. Just raise that back tire off the ground and pedal-away on a stationary bike, grinding corn all the while. Nifty, huh? How is it that the simplest of things here in Burkina can make such a tremendous impact? I think it's the Just One Thing philosophy.

A few other smalll things. I'm seeking funding for some trash barrels to be placed in our marche. Stop with the trash, already! In some ways Pô is very progressive. Our mayor recently instituted a trash pick-up program. This involves two men with a donkey cart who will empty a trash container (oh-so rare here) into the cart. It's hilarious. We still have trash everywhere on the streets; but if presented with trash barrels, most of Pô's residents will use them. If you built it, they will come. Or in this case, if you built it, they will toss. And yes, you can bet that the trash barrels will be painted with the PC logo by yours truly. I may not leave Pô until I've painted every paintable surface.

So if I've been so busy, so seemingly productive, why doesn't it feel that way? If I'm so busy, how is it that I've got time to begin a new blog? And since the The in The Netherlands is capitalized, why shouldn't I capitalize the the in The B.F.? Who can name the idiom describing the photo at the top of this post? We can only speculate.

Ebben has a theory. Or perhaps it was originally someone else's theory, and Ebben merely exposed me to said theory. Ready? OK. Donkeys regularly pass gas, and evidently the noise or the wind or the smell frightens them. Then they run and cry. Ebben says cry. I say bray. Donkey’s don’t cry . . . they bray, right? And I’m not positive that they’re donkeys. I say burros.  Burro: is that a Texas-thing? Anyway, there's not much more amusing to me than seeing a burro running and braying at the same time. And we know all too well that burros bray in the night, waking everyone . . . so I wonder whether they run in the dark. I like Ebben's theory. I think it has some validity. In a little burro brain, I suspect they wonder, what the heck was that?! and they turn, look, and run-off braying.

Golly, the things you think you can’t handle until you have to and do. So I’m standing outside on the terrace Wednesday night pouring cups of bisap into flimsy plastic sachets using a funnel, and suddenly I’m surrounded by ants. Millions . . . nay, probably billions of ants. I scream for Martin (who, praise the Lord, is home from vacation) and retreat to the hut. But Martin is either having his dinner, from which absolutely nothing will interrupt him (other than Elizabeth), or he’s left the courtyard. In any event, I find myself inside the hut stomping on ants, very large ants . . . some very, very large ants. But no amount of stomping stops the ants, which are coming in under the closed door and on both sides. The floor is literally crawling . . . moving . . . alive with ants. No amount of squealing seems to be attracting any attention. Eventually a crowd arrives, but no one will dare step onto the moving terrace. Finally, I throw 5000 cfa out the door and scream for a child to take my bike and buy some insecticide. With the arrival of the insecticide (an eternity later), the crisis slowly subsides. Coincidentally, everyone from GaMoWigna decided to drop by throughout the evening. Now these guys are specialists in everything plant-and-animal-related. Experts! But no one can agree as to what caused the ant invasion. The troupe was derranged. Yeah, I'd say so. The rain caused the movement. What rain? The cool temperature puts them on the move. Cool!? OK. And they won't hurt you. Really!?! So why would no one venture forth to my terrace?

Recall that Sada's mother recently lost her life. I say recently, but check the date of my last blog post and you'll realize that it was over a week ago. Evidently the funeral is this Saturday. What?! All those folks in the courtyard last Sunday . . . the ones to whom Leon was pouring Scotch . . . that wasn't the funeral? Talk about wildlife! I've been told that in Burkina there may actually be one or more days of what we would consider a wake or a funeral service and (get this) that the actual burial may not take place for months! In this climate? Think about that.

So if it's not a fight with a mother hen [her chicks got into my well-fenced garden], or the very large lizard that lives behind the map in my kitchen, or ants on the march, it's a bat in the house. Martin will simply trap a bat in his cupped hands and release it to the wind. I like a bat; I really do. And I've had my rabies shots, but still I'm not inclined to touch one.

So here in the B.F., if it's not one thing, it's your mother. And, yes Virginia, they are burros! Hasn't anyone in this country read Brighty Of The Grand Canyon? Have we learned a lesson about always keeping insecticide on hand? Where do you suppose Sada's mother is being kept? We can only speculate.

Coined by the genius that is Hugo, we have a new term for Burkina Faso: The BF. This morning I was wildly busy here in The BF . . . laundry, dusting, cleaning the courtyard after a devastating rainstorm, etc.; and having stepped away for too long, my coffee & Baileys got cold. So I popped it into the microwave while I was waiting for the bathtub to fill. Oh, wait! Dreaming again. No microwave . . . certainly no bathtub. But I do have Baileys.

It’s a very emotional time for, I dare say, about 99% of we PCVs who arrived last summer. Mid-service blues, I believe it’s called. Blues?! Mid-service panic-attacks, depression, paralysis, and anger would be much more accurate descriptions. Most all are suffering from one or more of these maladies; in my case, the former. Refusal to leave the hut, arguably, is the number one symptom.

So I returned from my Mid-Service Conference to discover that Sada’s mother had died in the night, only 12 hours before I arrived back in Pô. Unfortunately I didn’t discover this sad news until I had run-up to Sada, skipping and frisky as a baby goat, delighted to be back in Pô, whereupon I saw the sadness on Sada’s face. Sada, what’s wrong? Upon her announcement, I burst into tears, sat beside her, and hugged her. My behavior was a bit inappropriate for The BF, where everyone is completely stoic upon even the saddest of occasions; but I suppose I achieved Goal 2 of the PC: providing the Burkinabe with an insight into American behavior.

I’ve had loads of visitors during my 11 months here in Pô. Other PCVs seem to enjoy Pô . . . or perhaps they simply can’t resist my charismatic personality. Right. Anyway, after comparing sites with other PCVs, I’ve begun to realize that I live in a dreamy, insulated bubble here in Pô. This isn’t the typical village in The BF. Pô is an oddity among Burkinabe towns. We have an ATM, but no eggs. We have a biomass digester that powers our clinic, but one can’t purchase a simple sleeping cot here. We have champagne, but no yoghurt. Bizarre, right?

Equally bizarre is that I’ve lived here for 11 months and have yet to know of any deaths. So with the loss of Sada’s mother, this will be my first funeral. Culturally, I’m looking forward to the event. Emotionally, I’m dreading it. In The BF, one doesn’t bring food to the family following a death. Well, Goal 2 of the PC again . . . Americans do; so I’m taking Sada’s family my Nassarrachide sauce. This is a blend of the words Nasarra and arrachide (peanut). Silly me: I thought that the ubiquitous peanut sauce in The BF was made from peanut powder, not peanut butter! Wrong. The Burkinabe laugh and laugh at me; but everyone for whom I’ve made this sauce (and that’s dozens of Burkinabe) roll with laughter as they consume copious quantities of the stuff. So clearly, they genuinely love it. Hopefully, Sada’s family will be no exception.

Indeed, some days are tougher than others, even without the Mid-Service issues. Still, there’s always Lady GaGa and Bruno Mars to help me through my day. I’ve been sobbing pretty much non-stop for the past day. Yes, in large part with empathy for Sada. But, in all candor, how many of my tears are related to the fact that my refrigerator is broken? We can only speculate.

Rex, ne bark pas. Et ne manges pas les poussins. Moments ago there was a terrible commotion in the courtyard. Sounded like the worst cat fight you’ve ever heard. The poor orange kitten . . . or so I thought.

Naturally, such a racket could not be ignored, thus I ventured outdoors with the flashlight. Where is everyone?! Oh, wait . . . it’s Friday night. I'm under curfew, safely in the hut; Elizabeth is probably at church; Martin & Louis are on vacation still; and Leon is probably hosting an event for my new neighbor, an older woman from France. So only the vieilles in the courtyard are available to break-up this savage battle. And what is the source of this commotion? Hens! Hens and chicks . . . and Rex!

Evidently hens and chicks have escaped from their coop, and Rex is having a field day . . . or a buffet. This is odd to me because Rex and Dori peacefully coexist with chickens during daylight hours. I suppose that when it comes to canines and chicks, all bets are off after the sun sets. In any event, hens and their chicks are separated from each other, Rex has a feather stuck on his snout, and I can’t tell who’s missing nor which chicks belong with which hen. And although the vieilles seem quite concerned, I don't see anyone trying to protect the poultry.

Have you ever tried to catch a chick? I have . . . and quite frequently of late. Hens, however, are a different story altogether. They have barbed feet. They’re little dinosaurs . . . crafty and dangerous. But someone must intervene and stop this bedlam. Tantie Mamoonia is outdoors with her tiny light . . . great pendulous breasts swinging in time with her searching torch.  Tantie Mamoonia. I have no idea whether that’s her real name, but it's what Martin calls her, nor do I know what language she speaks, ever . . . but this large, aging woman never wears anything above the waist – got the picture? Anyway, Tantie doesn’t seem as fearful of the hens as she does of the dark corner of the courtyard in which lies the chicken coop. She snags a hen and tosses it in the open coop door, only to have the hen pop right back out when the door won’t close completely. Ah, Burkina architecture and design.

With all the clucking and barking, it's quite evident that reinforcements are needed, so Sada comes to help. Sada plays sentry at the coop door while I snag four chicks, two in each hand. Chicks aren’t nearly as fast after dark; and Sada has captured a hen by its tail. Allow me to be candid; there’s not much more fun in this wide world than snatching a hen by her tail feathers, flinging her inside a coop, and slamming the door. Ah, but the chicks must be placed inside, too. Yet each time the door is opened to toss in another couple of chicks, out pops a really, really angry hen.

Ladies of the courtyard, you evidently don’t work with a lot of chicks. Leave this to the Nasarra. I plop to the ground inches from the door, ready to impede any hen's attempted departure . . . and I repeatedly catch and toss back inside the little red hen. Just snag that squawkin' gal by her tail and toss her . . . hard! Red hens are the worst when it comes to speed; but white and black speckled hens are the crankiest. Finally, six chicks and two hens are returned to the coop; Rex is severely scolded and appears duly remorseful, despite the feather that remains on his nose; and cleverly I use pieces of wood and broken concrete to brace closed the raised door. Easy. Quick trip to the shower to wash my hands, and I’m ready to continue watching 30Rock. But wait.

Sitting on this new sofa (it's really just a bench covered with fabric . . . and a donkey brought it today from my site mate's hut) I can’t hear what Lemon & Jack are saying because there’s too much chirping. Either chicks have escaped (not possible -- my evil plan to close the coop was genius), or chicks have yet to be gathered and reunited with their moms. Naturally, it’s the latter, so more chick chasing ensues. Again, they’re slower after dark, so it’s not a difficult task. Still, I’m covered in chick dander and who knows what else from retrieving truant chicks and moms.

Now come on. You knew this tale had to involve at least one hen, right? Wonder who was in charge of closing that coop tonight? Was I really rooting for Rex? Does Rex know how to open doors other than the one to my hut? And who is this new French woman living in the little round hut, sharing my latrine for the next six weeks? We can only speculate.

Three hundred. That's the number of children enrolled in GaMoWigna's rice program, in partnership with Education Sans Frontiers. It's not the number of mosquitoes currently in my hut, carrying malaria, buzzing around my ears, awaiting dinner. That number is probably closer to 400.

I've always heard that only the female mosquito carries malaria, and that only the female mosquito makes the high-pitched buzzing sound. Well if that is indeed the case, I've got a healthy tribe of females waiting for dinner. Luckily I've got mosquito coils, made in China and imported all the way to Burkina for about 50-cents. How do they do that? And the coils are guaranteed to work within 10 minutes of lighting. I'll be the judge of that. Best thing about the coils? Smells just like the delightful scent of returning to one's tent after a hard day on safari. So I like the scent, if not the ashy mess created by the coils.

So who do you suppose isn't waiting for dinner? Three hundred children to whom I gave rice on Thursday. Bags and bags of rice, imported from Thailand. Again, I question: how is importing rice to this land-locked country less expensive than using our own rice . . . and Burkina does produce rice. It's a mystery, but Thai rice is cheaper to import than the cost of purchasing Burkinabe rice. It's a world gone mad.

So, if my French is in any way adequate, it's my understanding that Education Sans Frontiers provides the rice, and children (90% of whom are orphans) enroll in a program whereby they received two large bowls (really large bowls) of raw rice each month. By 9:00 a.m. I'd given out hundreds of bowls of rice to charming and patient children. The line continued until noon. Each child brings a notebook into which is written the date and my signature showing that the child received this month's rice. It felt oh-so Peace Corps-y, despite the fact that I didn't do one thing to initiate this program. Just another example of GaMoWigna's experience and care-giving. Actually, the fact that these children lined-up patiently is the real reflection on GaMoWigna's good influence . . . patiently, in a land where even adults will push and shove to be first in line. Lined-up with whatever they brought to carry home their rice . . . sometimes old rice sacks, often torn black sachets, which I helped repair. Yaya allowed me to run the show, which was reminiscent of bus-pass-day at AIN . . . easy, fast-paced, but also very moving insofar as such a little gift will go such a long way.

I think the most impressive part was the fact that Yaya knows the story behind every orphan. Every single child! He'd tell me of the little boy who's father had died when the boy was not yet two, and then whose mother became paralyzed after an accident. Another story was that of a 10-year-old girl who lost both parents and is now in charge of taking care of her two younger siblings. They live with an aunt and uncle who have difficulty finding funds to feed their own children.

So why rice and not corn meal for the ubiquitous Toe eaten by most Burkinabe? Simple. Cooking Toe is a lengthy process, very lengthy; and Toe isn't particularly nutritious . . . merely filling. But combine the rice with the benga (a bean -- think black-eyed peas) and you've got a perfect protein . . . and something easy enough to make that even children can prepare it.

But there is good news in what, at first blush, appears to be tale after tale of woe: each of the children enrolled in the rice program attend school. Education Sans Frontiers has staff, including the staff at GaMoWigna, who follow the progress of the children in school. The rice isn't merely a hand-out. OK, it is a hand-out, but with a catch: the children must continue in school. This ensures that families don't simply accept the rice and keep the children working at home or in the fields. Neat, huh?

The embarrassing part is that I've been with GaMoWigna for almost a year and had no idea that they gave out rice on the last Thursday of every month. Yes, I've got dozens of excuses as to why I didn't know this . . . consolidation of PCVs during times of political unrest, PC trainings, vacation, trip home, quoi, quoi, quoi. But the reality is that I'm simply not asking enough questions (or the right questions) at my bureau. Must be that French thing.

So we've talked about Toe, right? What is Toe? Imagine totally flavorless white food, the consistency of mashed potatoes mixed with unflavored gelatin. That's Toe. Now you remember it, right? Can you imagine anything more bizarre? Well, perhaps the cut and bruise on my hand from the giant sharp-edged rice bowl. When will that heal? Or perhaps my mosquito invasion. And to think . . . last year I never saw one mosquito in my village. So, the coil is burning and it's 10 minutes later? Are all the mosquitoes gone? We can only speculate.