I find it ironic that as I sit under a shade tree behind the wall of the Maison de Jeune, I can smoke a cigarette with dirty hands contemplating how to best educate Pô on healthy lifestyles, including the transmission and prevention of HIV, as well as how to treat with respect our Pô citizens who are HIV positive. I'm not really the poster child for a 100%-healthy lifestyle.

But as the saying goes, do as I say, not as I do.

And so the AIDS Wall was completed this week. Naeta, and her flawless French, came all the way from the border of Mali to help. We estimate that about 125 persons, mostly under the age of 25 years (precisely my target demographic) turned out to see what the Peace Corps in Pô had planned for this wall. Indeed, well over a hundred showed-up, but only about 75 participated actively in the condom demonstration, the sensibilization about HIV, the games, and for the hand-print decoration of the wall.

Sometimes there simply aren't enough wooden penises. In our health kit the PC provides one wooden penis and one wooden device that purportedly represents external female genitalia (though, trust me, it doesn't). So what do we have this time of year in Pô that can be used to demonstrate condom use? Our ol' pal, the cucumber. And during the time of cool-season gardening, these are cucumbers of no small size. In fact, they're enormous . . . and inexpensive . . . and uncircumcised. Perfect for a demonstration about how to use a condom in Burkina Faso.

And who doesn't love a condom-application speed-race using a cucumber?  Now I don't know whether it's good news or bad news, but these kids are experts. The goal was to properly dress the cucumber with a condom, beginning with the visual inspection of the condom package (expiry date, right?), forming/identifying the petit chapeau at the tip of the condom, application of the condom . . . and continuing the demo right up to removal and proper disposal of the condom. Trash can disposal here is not an option for a number of reasons. Of course, Pô simply doesn't have enough trash cans . . . it's not as if every household has a trash can. Imagine that! But the bigger problem is that Pô's children are drawn to trash cans as so many American children are drawn to the foot of the Christmas tree . . . treasure lurks therein. Thus, the only place to dispose of a condom is in the hole of a latrine.

I've attended and assisted with a number of sex-ed classes at Pô's Lycée, so I know that the students here already receive accurate knowledge about HIV transmission and prevention. The real question is whether they (or any of us) actually apply the knowledge to day-to-day living. After all, you can lead a horse to water . . . .

After the fun with condoms, each of Pô's petites donned a latex glove that was then slathered with paint. They said aloud the healthy lifestyle promise and placed their hand print on the painted wall with the AIDS ribbon. While I had envisioned a wall with the red AIDS ribbon and a lot of red hands, I was happy that there were  many paint colors from which to choose. Most of Pô preferred green, which they recognize as the color of life. In any event, lots of multi-colored hands made for a much more colorful wall.

The Maison de Jeune is directly across from one of Pô's finest hair salons. Yes, my village has hair salons. These ladies, generally too timid to join in the hand-print fun, definitely wanted condoms. So we took the party across the road to their salon and continued the education with our wooden devices. They look quite happy about the event, don't you think?

Yes, the day was passed discussing a very serious topic. But when it comes to young people, cucumbers, condoms, and colored paint, one can expect a lot of giggles. I encourage this. It's hard to be serious while tightly grasping a cucumber and trying to slip on a pre-lubricated condom. Giggling is entirely appropriate. Additionally, I'm convinced that all the giggling takes away some of the mystique, embarrassment, awkwardness [insert descriptive phrase here] from real-time condom usage, which is a serious issue in Burkina Faso.

The grand finale of the day was the donation of a permanent hand-washing station (a bidon) at the Maison de Jeune. Liquid soap was donated, and now Pô's petites have yet another location in Pô to practice hygiene.

Yes, there was one tiny problem. As is so often the case in little Pô, the AIDS wall project came on a day when Pô was completely without water. Had it not been for our latex gloves, the village would have had their hands in oil-based car paint, with nothing but gasoline to remove that odorous paint. Hardly a desirable practice for safety and health. So when will this bidon actually be filled with water for a true hand-washing station? Hopefully the water will be on again by 15h30, but we can only speculate.

I hate hand sanitizer . . . though Burt’s Bees does make a nicely scented product. My PC Medical Officers would cringe, but I’ve donated to the Burkinabé every bottle of hand sanitizer I’ve ever been given, except for the Burt’s Bees spritz; and that I use solely as a face mist in an effort to kill any bacteria prone to contribute to an unsightly facial blemish.

On the two sides of the hand sanitizer fence there are the opponents who believe that certain amounts of good bacteria are necessary for good health. Proponents for sanitizer use cite the transmission of microbes from hand to mouth, the likelihood of which, here in The B.F., indeed is difficult to dispute. I like to consider myself a believer in the need for friendly microbes . . . a true activist for nature’s own defenses: our old pals, good bacteria. But the reality is that I’m merely in denial.

I, the volunteer who shakes hands with every single child I encounter. Children with foodstuff, dirt, mucus, and who knows what else all over their little paws. I touch anything and everything. I pet donkey ears. Only when my hands actually feel dirty, showing visible dirt, do I pause to wash.

And I wonder why I’m spending a fortune on toilet paper. Ah, the eColi diet. I rinse but very, very rarely do I bleach veggies that are destined for the chef’s pan. I don’t bleach my drinking water, though I do filter it. I do bleach lettuce, when lettuce is available, for salads; but otherwise Pô’s bounty from nature goes directly into my pans. And I wonder why I spent so much time in my W.C.

How many eColi will fit on the head of a pin? My guess is that it’s about ten times as many as required to begin the come to Jesus conversation with my G.I. tract. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I can eat almost anything here knowing that it will sortie long before any significant caloric intake.

On the other hand, why are my new jeans so tight? Is it the sanitary conditions under which beer is bottled? Six hundred years ago, how did they make pins? We can only speculate.

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.

Nine days back in Pô and only two days when the Internet worked, today being one of them. What does one do with no access to the web. One word: movies! 

I love Gone With The Wind. It's so pretty . . . amputation notwithstanding. I especially love how the grand production begins, after the lengthy overture, with the cast of characters. Little things, like the notation that 12 Oaks is The nearby Wilkes plantation. The characters list includes Scarlett's beaux . . . and the ever so slight hint at his significance in our story, separate and apart from all others, Rhett Butler, A visitor from Charleston.

OK, I’ve received eMail regarding who’s who in Pô. So here you go. The players in our story:

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Somewhere out there right now there is an especially fortunate PC Nominee. You’re going through the rigamarole of medical and dental exams, awaiting your invitation. Why are you especially lucky? Because you might be coming to Pô. This time next year, you might be the luckiest volunteer in the world. Pô is small, but progressive. I refer to Pô as the parallel universe of Burkina Faso where nothing happens as I was promised during my PC training . . . it’s all so much easier, smoother, and quicker. I live in the perfect home, in the perfect courtyard, with the perfect neighbors, in the perfect village, with the perfect association and the most perfect homologue. We don’t have corruption; we have efficiency and motivation. We don’t have faux types; we have villagers who look out for one another. Only occasionally is there the sweet whiff of genuine Burkinabé culture. Such is the case this month; and I'm laughing, loving, and completely respecting it.

Children in Burkina Faso have over two weeks off from school during the Christmas and New Year holidays. But this year there's been a noticeable change. For instance, I returned from Ouaga on Tuesday and wondered why so many students were waiting for me at the gare. Wednesday morning at 6:30 a.m. in my quartier, off went the students to school, dressed in their little brown & white gingham-check uniforms. Can you imagine leaving for high-school at 6:30 a.m. in  order to arrive in your seat by 7:00 a.m.? In any event, on Wednesday the children were home again by 7:30 a.m. Holiday? Or perhaps (not at all unusual here), a strike?

Wednesday afternoon I ventured over to Yaya's home to see what Satia was up to. Our plan for 2012 is to sell the yummy juice that remains after the making of tofu. There with Satia were her two teenage daughters. So I had to ask: Why aren't you in school?! After lots of giggles and looks of embarrassment, I was told the tale.

Once upon a time there was a young girl from Pô. She went to her nation’s capital, Ouagadougou, where she sat in the shade of a mango tree, and there she fell fast asleep and slumbered-away a lazy afternoon. When she returned to Pô she was asked to help her family build a new fence. After all, autumn is fence-building season after the rains have ended. During the course of the fence-building work, the young girl fell.

Oh, my, I said, was it a serious fall? No, In fact, no one is certain that she actually fell (or at least I'm not certain based on my limited comprehension of French). When did this happen? I asked. On October 18. What?! October 18!? What could this possibly have to do with no school this week?!

Well, it seems that the girl indeed fell to the ground. Now October is one of our hottest months. Temps easily reach 115. So, as it was explained to me, it is possible that she merely fainted. Now I don't know the French word for faint, but I can certainly pantomime this scene. Fainted . . . fell . . . whatever. In any event she wasn't seriously injured. Nevertheless, her caring family took her to the doctor, who could find nothing wrong. All right. Good news. So explain to me again . . . this affects every school in Pô how?!

All right, kiddies, sit down for the explanation. Way back in late September or early October before the school year began, and while this young lady napped under the deep shade of an old mango tree, genies touched her. Ah ha! Le culpable! Genies. Now the reason that Yaya's daughters were giggling and embarrassed is because they in no way believe in genies. The old women of Pô, however, very much believe. And as word has spread of this young lady's fainting or fall, the older women have urged their daughters, nieces, granddaughters, etc. to keep home their children from school . . . lest the genies touch their sons and daughters.

This is Pô  . . . you have got to be kidding! And I live with Leon, President of the APE (think P.T.A.), so I've got to get this scoop directly from Leon. I bike home to Martin and the kids and ask about this tale. They confirm every word. What will be done?, I ask. Are you happy to be out of school, and how will this end? How long can this continue? I've been told by every student with whom I've spoken that they are not happy. Imagine the amount of homework we're going to have when we return, they all say. As to the solution? A sacrifice, and a lot of praying. Wow! This I've got to see.

Leon arrived home last night so I went to the source. Leon, too, was embarrassed. I told him that there are plenty of believers of ghosts, voodoo, etc., in the United States and that he need not feel embarrassed for little Pô. As to this sacrificial ceremony, Leon instantly made some calls to confirm that I'd be invited and to determine the date, time, and place. Alas, as of last night nothing was determined; and the children were home from school all afternoon today.

So what does it take to remove this genie threat? Evidently a sacrificial cow, at a minimum. And I need not tell you, cows are hard to come by. We all know that genies will turn your children into thieves if one doesn't bathe before 18h00; so just to be cautious, I shower in the afternoon. The genie threat . . . and the fact that these days it's cold after dark.

Where has this fun aspect of  Burkinabé culture been for the past 21 months? Fun, except for the cow! And when and where will we find this sacrificial cow? What will the ceremony look like? Do we have a genie remover expert here, or will this ceremony call for a specialist from outside of Pô? This story reads like a fairy tale. Genie tale, is more accurate. What's the difference between fairies and genies? My oh my . . . who wouldn't absolutely love this country? We can only speculate.