My dog Jill is livestock. Lately I dream of her often. In my dreams she’s not livestock . . . she's a baby lamb. And she’s often missing and I’m searching for her. OK, you figure that out.

The hard reality is that Jill-the-Pill is livestock, just like the sheep that was hoisted atop the bus today. Gently hoisted, but hoisted nonetheless. It's nature's way. The owner purchased its ticket, tied it to a tree stump at the station, and walked away. The luggage attendants gently [really!] guided it on its leash and then hoisted it by its legs up to the roof.

Burkina is full of livestock.  Goats, cows, sheep, donkeys . . . and don't get me started on the chickens. With the exception of chickens, they're taken to bus stations with a loose rope around their neck, tied to something, and often abandoned by their owners who have arranged and paid for their shipping, via bus, to some other part of the country. True, sometimes owners accompany them, but equally often they do not. Sometimes the animals ride inside the bus. That's always fun. The movement of livestock within Burkina Faso is merely an ordinary day's business. It's nature's way. Think of it as UPS for animals . . . without the careful packing and handling . . . and that fun brown machine to sign.

Dori is full of puppies. This photo is about two weeks old. I tell her, “tu es plein de puppies.” OK, so puppies is hardly a French word, but I believe that Dori understands me . . . livestock though she may be. Dori has always been frighteningly thin. Dori, the anorexic canine. I'm not sure this is nature's way. She simply will not eat. I entice her, secretly, with $1.50 cans of tuna or corned beef. . . by the spoonful. But no. Leon tries, too, though only with leftovers. OK, Dori, I don't blame you for not eating slimy gumbo sauce; but you've got a family in your belly now.

It’s a sign of prosperity in Burkina Faso when a family can own two dogs. Owning two dogs say I can feed my family and two inedible pieces of livestock. In the U.S. it would be the flashy equivalent of wearing your diamond tiara to KMart. Anyway, Dori won’t eat. Nothing. She’s a skeleton covered in a dog pelt with big ears. So thin you can see her hip bones, but with a tummy full-o-puppies. I felt them move today while Rex expressed his extreme displeasure that Dori received so much attention. I felt them move! So we can only be a few weeks from delivery. It's nature's way.

So now that Dori is knocked-up, Elizabeth has taken over Dori's feeding regimen. Why was I so worried? Elizabeth is going to see Dori through her pregnancy. I cannot possibly overstate how bizarre this is in Burkina. In a country where animals such as sheep are often treated better than are dogs, why wouldn’t I worry about Dori? Well, because Dori lives with Leon and Elizabeth. Leon, who is want to sit outside his home and scratch each dog behind the ears for a full 15 minutes after work in the evening . . . even before he enters his home. Parallel universe. I told Martin that it takes 63 days to make puppies, regardless of breed or size. Martin doesn't believe me and we've got a little bet going.

Jill won't have puppies. She's the sports model, not the family sedan. I've never seen puppies born. Never even seen day-old puppies. I long for the day when Dori delivers. I have a very old fitted bed sheet that was used when I was in stage just to tote around my belongings from all those sites from which we were evacuated. It has my name written on it with a Sharpie. I ask you . . . who'd want to use that on their bed? Anyone in this country, that's who! But I've got it earmarked for Dori's maternity ward.

Yes, you read that correctly. We do have luggage attendants in Burkina Faso and it is absolutely luxurious . . . like diamonds at breakfast, or two dogs (especially Lakeland Terriers). Goats, cows, 100-kilo bags of rice, a backpack with my computer and camera . . . all stowed beautifully inside or on top of buses by luggage and animal handlers, with no tip expected. We're definitely not in Kansas anymore. So, will Dori use that bed sheet as a nesting area when I finally reveal it? Or will she slink off and hide to give birth? Exactly how sinful here is it to offer tuna to a dog?! We can only speculate.

I remember way back when . . . during the time of my Peace Corps nomination but still months prior to my receipt of the actual invitation . . . I was advised by all the PC publications that concluding one’s service was equally or perhaps more difficult than adjusting to the cultural differences of arriving in-country. Little did I believe it. After all, I am extraordinary. Or . . . maybe not so much.

These days I carry tissue (Lotus) in my bag not so much for emergency toilet use as to wipe away the tears from my eyes. Leaving Burkina Faso. It’s getting way too real. One day I’ll be leaving little Pô and little Victorine. In a 24-hour period I can go from supreme delight in every minute of village life . . . not wanting to waste one minute of time in my hut (and for those of you who know me best, you know how odd this is) . . . to utter depression with refusal to leave the hut. This is the roller coaster ride, with no apparent explanation . . . because the time to leave Pô is still months away.

Once upon a time I worked at an HIV foundation . . . I thought I’d see what I could offer those good folks. What I discovered was that I offered them virtually nothing. Nada. Zip. However, what they gave to me was immeasurable. Working in Burkina Faso is much the same. I came here in an attempt to do just a tiny bit of development work. Just a smidge would have been rewarding. In fact, I’m finally realizing that I’ve done some amazing work. With that said, what has been given to me by the good folks in Pô, and indeed by the entire country, is also immeasurable. I’ve been helped far more than I've helped. I've embraced the ça va aller attitude so much that I wonder whether I’ll ever be able to plan anything in advance. Learning to live in the moment has been very much a learning experience, and very rewarding. And yet some measure of planning is required by our American culture. Nay, it’s demanded!

My head spins. My brain is boggled. I’m here . . . the time is nigh . . . the time when I must decide and plan simple things. My flight home. Travel between here at Dallas after I leave Pô. And I’m riding the roller coaster between total paralysis and near-constant obsession over what I should do about simply getting home. This doesn’t even address future career plans once I arrive back in The States.

The Burkinabé have a marvelous fatalistic approach to life. Que sera sera. What happens happens. I now get this. Yes, this once-OCD planner who stressed over totally insignificant things such as where the cheese platter would be placed on the table for the Bastille Day party, has let go. I want my OCD back. I never want it back. I need it back . . . it was my security blanket. I never want back that lunatic woman!

This planning gene that I seemed to have inherited is especially boggling here in Pô. Pô, the parallel universe where things change in the blink of an eye. That takes planning, right? Or does it?

A few days ago Leon decided that our courtyard needed a new outdoor living area. HGTV arrived in Pô, via Leon’s design skills; and voila, we have a new concrete terrace . . . complete with raised retaining walls (or what could be described as curbs, at the very least), and complete with drainage slots to keep our banana trees watered. But wait, there’s more . . . because rainy season is on the way, and that means mosquitoes, and that means malaria, and that means illness, and that means . . . . See! I'm already weeks down the road and not living in the moment. But I'm not toally alone. 

The very nature of placing a large concrete terrace over what was once sandy earth means that water will accumulate. Water . . . the breeding playground for malaria-carrying mosquitoes. The answer? Leon planned a lost well. Planned! These may look like ordinary rocks, but they’re far from anything so simple. This is a well-planned and well-executed lost well. Pardon the pun(s). A lost well may be created in any naturally-occurring depression in the ground. Stones are places over a layer of small rocks placed over a layer of small pebbles. So there’s no water accumulation. No mosquito nursery. And Leon did this without three months of excruciating planning. Just woke-up one morning to get 'er done.

So how am I suppose to leave this place? How am I to readjust to America's demand for planners? Will I return for Victorine’s fifth birthday party? Is it too early to start planning for that? We can only speculalte.

Hey boys and girls, what time is it? It’s BAMM 2012 . . . or Blog About Malaria Month.  And today's post addresses little known facts. For instance, did you know that:

• I hold my breath every time Yaya's one-year old daughter, little Kenza, has the slightest temperature. And she's one of the lucky babies in Africa because she and her family always sleep with mosquito netting. Nevertheless, I'm totally freaked-out by anything remotely resembling illness in little Kenza. 
• Malaria is the number one killer in Africa. No, it’s not hippos. It’s malaria and our old enemy, the female anopheles mosquito, who bites only from dusk 'til dawn. 
• Sadly, malaria disproportionately affects pregnant women and children under the age of five; and yet the disease is completely curable with timely treatment. 
• Malaria is entirely preventable.
• About 55% of children in Burkina Faso die before their fifth birthday. Should I repeat that?! FIFTY-FIVE PERCENT! No, it's not entirely due to malaria. We also battle malnutrition. But putting an end to malaria is a huge step toward reducing this mind-boggling child mortality rate.

Scene II of our one act play introduces a new player . . . the mosquito net, shown here draped over the outdoor bed. Remember, it's hot season now and most folks sleep outdoors. But malaria-carrying mosquitoes work the night shift year round. So without a net, no one is safe. No, of course this net isn't properly installed. But remember, it's a play! My goal was to get as many children as possible on the bed and under the net to stress the importance of protection while sleeping . . . though these petites are hardly asleep. Look who isn't protected. It's Dori the dog. Happily, dogs aren't at high risk.


Would you deny this child, our own charming Victorine, a fifth birthday party? Of course not. I am part of Stomping Out Malaria in Africa, a continent-wide campaign to increase malaria prevention across Peace Corps countries in SubSaharan Africa. You, too, can help. Forward this blog post to your friends and family. Update your own blog about malaria, post something on Facebook, Tweet . . . use your imagination and let's make education about this parasitic disease viral on the web.

How many years before we put a stop to malaria? We can only speculate. But education is the first step. And yes, for those of you who have inquired, Dori is pregnant with puppies!

The PC has lot of rules . . . loads of dos and don’ts. But most aren’t difficult to follow. For instance, we can't ride on any two-wheeled motorized vehicle. Now for most of you, what naturally comes to mind is a motorcycle. And it makes perfect sense that PCVs have no business on a motorcycle in world where many Burkinabé are still learning to drive . . . meaning that one may have begun driving about 15 years ago. In The B.F., motorized bicycles aren’t uncommon. You know what I’m talking about . . . a bike that requires one to pedal rapidly while the bike stand remains in place in order to rev-up its little engine. To me, motorized bikes appear completely innocuous, but we can’t ride 'em.

Did you know that goats squat to pee, almost like a female canine? I think sheep do it, too; but don’t quote me on that.

Something new has come to Burkina Faso. The moto-taxi. Picture a motorcycle with a small, two-wheeled flat-bed trailer mounted to its rear. I first spied my new best friend, the moto-taxi, in a larger city here in Burkina, but now we even have one in little Pô. One. Still, they’re handy for hauling large items . . . such as bundles of luggage, a bicycle, and a PCV.

I went to Koudougou to teach tofu-making at IST. And how did I travel from the gare to the training center (which is a nunnery, no kidding)? Moto-taxi. I went to Ouahigouya to make neem creme. And how did I arrive at the PCV’s home? Moto-taxi. I probably won’t ever use the moto-taxi in Pô since I doubt it could climb the steep hill to my home. But let’s not rule it out. Anyway, I don’t know whether these are officially off-limits to PCVs, and I ain’t askin’. I see at least three wheels on moto-taxis, so I’m operating under the notion that I’m OK riding on them.

Yesterday I saw a single large male goat riding in a moto-taxi. The goat didn’t quite have its sea legs so he decided to sit down, just like a dog. Or did he? No, in fact I believe the goat was peeing in the back of a moto-taxi. Do I even need to mention that pressure-wash car washes are unheard of here?

So last week I took a moto-taxi back from the nunnery to the bus station in Koudougou. Evidently the driver saw thrill me written all over my face and decided to take the worst dirt path in Burkina. I could feel the rocks rattling in my head. The rocks that developed when I first got the notion to join the PC. Anyway, then I sat on a sack full of rice and waited in 110-degree heat for two-and-a-half hours. Finally, I took the filled-beyond-capacity bus to Ouaga. Upon arrival I was doubled-over in pain. By 9:00 p.m. I had blood in my urine. Long story short: a sonogram the following day revealed kidney stones. Blood work and other samples revealed a UTI, a kidney infection, a roving rash secondary to a viral infection, and bacterial enteritis. It seems that in Burkina kidney stones are caused primarily by the hot season. They’re even common among the Burkinabé. During hot season our bodies simply don’t function well . . . regardless of the endless consumption of water, sodas, beer, GatorAid, or water mixed with oral rehydration salts (ORS). So it wasn’t the bumpy moto-taxi ride after all. Of course, there's always a silver lining, and mine was that this malady bought me two nights in the air-conditioned med unit.

Should I think twice before seating myself in a moto-taxi . . . because, after all, how does one get goat urine out of the corrugated flatbed of a moto-taxi? Are the kidney stones really gone? Sortie-d? Where does a goat get the money for a moto-taxi? We can only speculate.

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.