I have a red plastic container with a white lid . . . got it from my people in Ouaga. Looks like a single-serving to-go container from a restaurant. I fill it with an inch of water and place it in my freezer for a large ice cube. Freezes in less than two hours. So all last week I popped out dozens of round ice disks, placing ‘em in a ziplock, and refilling the container. Thanksgiving requires lots of ice, right? Never mind that the container was intended to hold a stool sample.

My people talked with these people, and I was gifted a hen. Four hens, actually; but only one came home with me . . . feet tied, live, hanging upside down from the handlebars of the Barbie bike. I came into the courtyard screaming for Elizabeth to please tell me that she knew someone who would kill my hen. She volunteered 11-year-old Martin. Martin, have you ever killed a hen? The horrified look on his face said it all. Evidently my people have people who butcher their poultry.

So on the day itself, the big turkey day in the U.S., all I had was a sad orange hen that had been tied to a water jug in my courtyard for two days. I'm guessing about 3-4 pounds of hen. This man killed the hen, with a sawing-against-bone sound. I made a conscious decision that the serrated knife would work better than the razor-sharp chef’s knife. Error in judgment maybe? Chris looks proud of his achievement, wouldn't you say?

Note that the head didn’t come off completely. I finished that job. No, there was no running around like a chicken with its head cut off . . . Chris held it down with his foot. Here's our hen, still not quite on to her next life. Believe me, there was more blood; and it's true that it takes some time for a chicken to . . . or let's just say it: bleed-out. Next time I feel the need to pluck a chicken, I'll have my people call Chris.

This woman and I eagerly watched the death of a hen. And since it was Thanksgiving, we were sporting our best pagnes. OK, not really; the photo is from August. On Thursday I was sporting my trusty hen-attack shirt. We tossed that dead hen right into hot water and plucked it. Then I, alone, with my trusty serrated knife, eviscerated the ol’ girl . . . the hen, not Ashley. It was more of a fascinating adventure into hen anatomy than a dreaded and grotesque task. I could do it again . . . even the visual of the death throes.

So the long story short (or fairly short) is that Thanksgiving was a fun, well-received fiasco; but the fiasco was probably only apparent to me. Probably. Six of my favorite PCV pals joined me, together with two of the Canadians in town to visit my bureau, and eleven (11 !) host-country nationals. Hard to believe that I know eleven HCNs well enough to ask them for Thanksgiving. Two cases of beer and a case of soft drinks, coq au vin (but with a hen), goat stew and goat fajitas, humus, Texas caviar, and more. What says Thanksgiving more than the hind end of a skinned goat? Yes, it had to be cleavered in-half before I could carve-up the back end for the fête. Need someone to do a little meat-fabrication? Have your people call my people.

And then on the morning after Thanksgiving, a morning when I really needed my darkest shades (catch my meaning?), I sat under a covered terrace for the first-annual Burkinabe apres-Thanksgiving champagne brunch with cinnamon French toast and bacon. Raise your hand if your think I’m joking. We can only speculate.

What’s a hangar in Burkina? It’s large tree branches somehow mounted into the ground that support other branches creating a sturdy frame for a thatch-type roof called secco. Think of it as the West African HGTV pergola. I like to think of these hangars as outdoor dining pavilions . . . just awaiting a well-set table, some tea lights, and a chilled bottle of Voigner. Unfortunately, the hangar belonging to my courtyard is the carport for my host family’s little red car . . . so I don’t have to worry about not having any tea lights . . . or Voigner.

Somewhere in an Old American West film is the scene where the entire town comes together, water-filled buckets passing along a sea of humanity to extinguish the fire in the ol’ barn. Got the image? Well today was Pô’s version. Actually, my courtyard’s version.

Now that the rains have ended, grass dead, and with the harvest complete, the courtyard’s trash pile is glaringly evident. Not pretty. I always deluded myself – believing that my weekly personal trash burning would ultimately prompt others to burn their trash. Be careful what you wish for . . . this morning was the trash fire in the courtyard’s trash pile. Big trash pile, big fire. And when the winds picked up around noon, burning debris floated up, then downwind to the newly secco-thatched hangar. Guess what happened.

There are two ways to get water in my courtyard: my outdoor shower, or the water pump in the center of the courtyard. Guess which one produces more water quickly. Following a loud commotion in the courtyard, I stepped onto the terrace, looked left, and saw flames rising about eight feet above the courtyard walls. Time to grab my three buckets and the official PC water filter. I assigned myself the task of filling buckets . . . standing under the shower, water bucket on my head, which I discovered long ago to be the most efficient way to fill a bucket without wasting a drop . . . and it’s easier to balance a 20-pound bucket on my head than to use arm strength and lift the bucket under the shower head.

Martin and the other kids came to grab the filled buckets and return to the fire. By the time I had filled buckets about thirty times the secco was completely consumed and the wooden hangar timbers were charred. Exciting? Very. Alarming? Absolutely! Fire is a serious threat to the ship, to quote Denzel Washington. But the most interesting part was the number of neighbors who appeared from nowhere with giant calabashes to dip into buckets and toss water on the steaming timbers. These ladies have amazing aim. You’d think they have experienced this before. I suggested to Martin and Yak that the fire in the grass and trash pile was not out, merely smouldering, and should be stirred and extinguished with more water. No, I have no idea what the French word is for extinguish. But the gist of the idea was clearly grasped, and children and vieilles alike stirred and splashed water on the huge area of smouldering trash. I melted a pair of sandals (tappets) walking on the smouldering pile.

When the action had nearly concluded, two men arrived in a nice Mercedes Benz. Before even assessing the situation, they politely greeted me with the five-minute litany of Kassim good day, how are you, how’s the family, and finally, how’s the courtyard? Duh . . . not very well, thank you very much. I believe that had flames been climbing into the sky, greetings still would have been de rigeur. Elizabeth arrived (as in Elizabeth, Leon’s wife, owner of the courtyard) and she, too, greeted me. Ça va, Katerine? Well, Elizabeth, not ça va . . . your carport just burned. Eh, she shrugs, Ça va aller . . . in other words, this too will pass, it will be OK.

Ah, the Burkinabe attitude . . . it’s always OK . . . don’t ever let it get you down. Got malaria? Three hours late to a meeting? Just lost your dog to rabies? Ça va aller. Garage just burned threatening your entire home with all the flammable corn and grain inside the courtyard? Ça va aller.

So there I am, soaked, feet covered in red mud; and there’s Elizabeth and the vieilles in their starched and ironed Sunday complets – how do these women do it? Will there be a barn-raising now that the fire is out? Or a hangar-raising? Who drives a Mercedes here in Pô and knows me by name? I understand Ça va aller . . . but don’t you think this family deserves some peanut brittle and a icy cold beer? We can only speculate.

Once upon a time I rode my bike from Koudougo to Palago, about 7 - 8 km. Not far, an easy ride, but it seemed to take forever to get there. Then one day in Po, I rode what I was told to be 7 km to a farm/field, over hill and dale in the hot, mid-day sun; and then I rode another 2 km through muddy fields thick with tall grasses and cris-crossed with rivers and streams. I had to dismount and walk, even carrying the Barbie bike over gorges with rivers below. Like when Humphrey Bogart had to get out and push the African Queen . . . but without the leeches . . . and the boat. Today I rode way out to the Lycée, twice. I don’t know how far it is, but I know this: every trip seems quicker . . . much less far. I’ll be at Lycée quite often as tomorrow begins the Club de Commerce.

Arriving back in village about 20 minutes after sunset, Po was packed. This, in contrast to yesterday’s empty lanes due to Tabaski. I stopped in the grocer for some Humbolt Fog, then popped into Starbucks for an Eggnog Latte, then off to . . . . Wait! I mean, I went to the corner vendor for a pack of cigarettes. The town was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with hundreds of ladies in their soft silk and chiffon boubous with long beaded and sequined scarves. Stunningly beautiful women. What is going on? I asked Pouabizon. Tabaski, Day 2: The Peul Version.

Don’t quote me on this, but I believe that the Peuls are historically a nomadic people with some Eastern Arabic bloodlines. They drive their cattle, seasonally, from Côte d’Ivoire through BF, Mali, Niger, and who knows where else. But don’t hold me to that. Most Peuls have a distinct appearance with gorgeous skin, elegant features, and almost aquiline noses. Their dress for Tabaski tonight wasn’t in any traditional cotton pagne. Rather, all soft bejeweled fabrics, with the men in extravagantly embroidered boubous. This had to be experienced, so I stayed and watched for about 30 minutes. I gave a friend a couple of cigarettes just to clear the crowd so that I could eventually make my way home. I still can hear the party here on my hilltop. Gotta love this place.

So despite my work on the polio campaign, I feel as if the real Peace Corps experience won’t begin until tomorrow at Lycée. Tomorrow afternoon is the meeting, which follows tomorrow morning’s meeting, which followed two meetings today, which followed last Wednesday’s meeting, which followed the previous Sunday meeting.

This country is so suited for this obsessive compulsive gal, who makes a list, to make a list, to get ready to make a list. Other volunteers may find odd this series of meetings. For me, it’s fine, albeit hilarious. So tomorrow should finally kick-off the Club de Commerce. Of course, it's the first meeting with the students, and it will surely be a meeting only to decide when they want to meet.

When will the meetings ends and the club begin? How long will the Peul party last? What’s it called when you have a Peul at pool party? Election day is Sunday. Do the Peuls have much pull at the polls? We can only speculate.

I was awakened at 6:00 a.m. with the sounds of blaring but fun music. Let Tabaski begin! Great dance music. Inside the courtyard we shucked more corn while standing and dancing in a congo-line, carelessly tossing husks everywhere.

I thought I'd been invited for Tabaski. Eleven-thirty a.m. at chez Yaya. One of my favorite things about Africa, or at least Burkina, is that you can always find someone on the road or inside a courtyard, tell them whose home you seek, and they'll lead you there. Can you imagine this in the States? I'm looking for Sam's place? Well good luck! But here, if they don't know the person directly, they'll know someone who knows, or more likely, someone who's actually related. Thus, I found Yaya's home with minimal effort. Large home, huge courtyard, big freezer. Size does matter, especially with freezers and Tabaski.

So I've been complaining about lack of protein in my diet. Then comes Tabaski. It's not that Tabaski is all about lambs and sheep, it's merely that lambs and sheep trump goats in size, thus they are more suitable for a grand fete like Tabaski. Or so I believe. So a chevre slaughter is fine for the end of Ramadan, but Tabaski calls for something plus grand . . . in addition to poultry and goats. Analogy: one could serve a chicken for Thanksgiving, but for such a grand feast, a turkey is better suited. Size does matter.

When I arrive at Yaya's I meet his wife and children, as well as his little brother, neices, nephews, and so many other family members that I couldn't possibly put together the pieces of the family tree. Sauce pots were already boiling, with sheep lungs, piment, cabbage, and tomato sauce . . . and the ubiquitous palm oil, of course. A rice pot the size of a Mini-Cooper simmered away. Size does matter. Sheep and lambs were already hanging, blood dripping into collection pans. Alaco, chickens, and guinea fowl had already been fried. Fried chicken is good, but fried guinea fowl is fantastic. I was full in about 10 minutes, with the first protein I've had in weeks. And this was merely the first course. Was it as good as I think it was? Yeah . . . definitely.

After chowing-down on poultry, the kids proudly showed me the sheep heads . . . fur, tongue, eyes, horns, all intact. We took the heads out to the road to be placed on fires. Yep, fires, right there in the middle of a road . . . all roads being virtually deserted today. The kids though that pulling on the sheep tongue was funny; and as I, too, pulled on it and said baaaaa, everyone laughed. Hey, it's only a slimy tongue in the mouth of a decapitated sheep. What's the big deal?

So the woman in the courtyard near the road was cleaning a recently deceased rooster and hen. In all candor, I was sorry to have missed the kill. I'll eventually see a chicken kill in this land, and today I was actually ready for the chaotic event. But no such luck. However, the neighbor was anxious to see if the little white girl would sully her hands and rip apart a chicken. You bet I will. And thus, sans knife, I removed the tongue (yes, chickens have tongues . . . did you miss that episode of Iron Chef?), removed and opened the crop (not edible, but she wanted me to look inside), and carefully preserved the testicles of the rooster and the immature eggs of the hen. Ever seen eggs still inside a hen? Fascinating, truly. And the rooster's testicles? Clearly, size does matter.

OK, enough images of animal slaughter. Suffice it to say, I had fun and was still able to enjoy my luncheon. When lunch was served, I ate inside with the men. Being a white woman in West Africa evidently brings some status, and at events such as Tabaski (or birthday or bac fetes), I've always been invited to eat with the men. Women eat later, usually outdoors, children eat last, and dogs get the left-overs. Lunch was surprisingly simple: more fried poultry, rice with the lung sauce (which was quite delicious), and more cold soda pop varieties than I've ever seen. Beer, too. I think that the Muslim consumption of alcohol is tied directly to the importance of the holiday. So for a general dinner, I suspect that most followers of Islam don't imbibe, as per their religon. But for a grand fete all bets are off and beer is consumed in quantity . . . from light lagers to Guiness and Castle Milk Stout from Ghana.

I think that the measure of a good host or hostess in Burkina is a two-prong test: the quantity and chill-factor of the beverages, and the quantity of meat in the sauces and on the plate. Meat and cold drinks. I'll have to remember that for Thanksgiving.

So where was the cooked lamb? Where's the carving of the sheep and the munching on sheep's head? Evidently, the big event is a village-wide affair near the centre-ville this evening. Yaya says to get some rest this afternoon for the party tonight. So what'd you do on this ordinary Tuesday? And who's going to clean-up all those corn husks? We can only speculate.

So much corn arrived in the courtyard over the weekend that it’s spilling over the courtyard walls out into the world of Po. Several times daily, children and elders stand outside the wall urging back the unruly cobs trying to keep them inside the courtyard . . . corraling the cobs in sheets of pagne then pushing the sheets over the top of the wall or tossing rogue cobs into the courtyard. Thunk, whacka – cobs hit my walls and roll down my sloping terrace. I’ve never seen so much corn, in husks, off the stalk. And don't picture moist green, soft-with-corn-silk corn. Picture hard, dried, brown-husk corn, with rock-hard kernels. This corn will become meal, and some will be roasted along the roadsides and sold for snacks. After roasting, it has the taste of popcorn, but the kernels are still rock hard. Not my favorite.

OK, it’s not a contest, but I can shuck corn quicker than the Burkinabe women. Perhaps this is a result of my upbringing with summertime Texas corn. I’m fast. Never mind the worms and bugs sometimes found inside the husks. I half-way expected a corn snake to emerge from the 6-foot-pile of corn on which I was sitting. A pile of corn as high as the house. Seriously. Never mind that something on the husks caused a rash on my arms requiring Benadryl. And never mind the need to redo my once perfectly-filed nails. Soon the shucked corn will be beaten inside bags to remove the kernels. I'd like to see what a Calloway driver could do to remove kernels.

Today was windy – the perfect day to bring out the kite for the kids. It’s not a contest, but clearly 11-year-old Martin best understands the dynamics of kite flight. Some children merely toss the kite, only to see the kite fall and strike the heads of the tiny children. Yes, of course tiny children cry when hit with a kite stick falling from the sky. I really expected someone to lose an eye. Martin, however, understands the concept of the running start.

Tomorrow is Tabaski, the Muslim holiday that is celebrated a month following the feast at the end of Ramadan. So there was the Ramadan fête in October, which wasn’t shabby by any means; but tomorrow’s Tabaski fête should be spectacular. Of course, it’s not a contest. Today there were dozens of animals (from hens to goats) with feet tied together, hanging from handlebars of motos . . . going to their death for the fête of Tabaski. Try to tell those selected animals that it’s not a contest! I’ll be spending Tabaski with Yaya and his family and am honored to be invited.

Last week I spent two days vaccinating for polio children five years of age and under. Two drops, orally, dispenses the polio vaccine. Easy, right? Well try telling 431 mothers, in French and in Kassim, what you want to do to their child and why. The children were fantastic. They tilt back their head and open their mouth like little baby birds. Then comes the difficult part: so that some other health worker doesn’t re-vaccinate, each child gets the little fingernail on his left hand colored with a marker. Believe me, this caused some screaming . . . not because it was painful, but because there are children here who really don’t want a white gal coloring their finger. Anyone would be frightened. But yesterday at the marche, two days after my work was complete, about a hundred children held up their pinkies to show me that I had vaccinated them. I vaccinated a lot of children . . . but, of course, it’s not a contest.

So just when I think I’ll never be a real PCV, not with my new frigo, I’m suddenly shucking corn with the vieilles, vaccinating children, and experiencing Tabaski. Current bike-time to get to my bureau? Over an hour due to the requisite meet-and-greet with all the new folks who now know me by name . . . or at least by Katerine.

Might one of those upside-down hens be le coupable who ate my zucchini? How much corn does it take to make a pile six-feet tall on which one can climb and perch to shuck? If this is what happens to the corn, what will we do with the stacks of sorghum that are presently arriving? Will I be able to adequately reciprocate the Tabaski hospitality with my Thanksgiving fête? Well, it’s not a contest, but we can only speculate.