Aslan the Wonder Goat was in the kitchen again early this morning, but not alone. He’d brought along Cougar, our small hen that keeps the twins supplied with breakfast in the form of tiny white eggs. The only explanation is that the goats have been talking, stirring up discontent out in the backyard. Why else would Cougar, normally a mild-mannered, even timid, chicken, suddenly be bold enough to stroll into the kitchen and have a leisurely look around? I suspect that Midnight and Aslan have been expounding daily on the unfairness of the fact that the humans live indoors, where they no doubt enjoy unlimited treats of crackers and dried bread, while the animals stay outside and eat millet with wheat germ. Completely unfair!
In the end, Aslan was content to leave after I scratched his head a bit. Maybe he’s an ideologue, but a he’s also a hedonist. But getting Cougar out was more of a challenge. She’d really settled in and I had to do a lot of broom-waving to persuade her to follow her pal outside. I just hope that the goats haven’t also been distributing subversive literature. I could be in trouble if they get a hold of a copy of “Animal Farm”.

And finally, here you will find the end of the Gourcy trip story. srsly.

Kindly overlooking the fact that I’d just trodden on his grandfather’s grave, Antoine was willing to let me go along and have a look at the village market gardens, of which he was quite proud. Using water from the nearby reservoir, the villagers can grow vegetables and fruits to sell for a good price in the big town a few miles down the road. The locals don’t eat much besides tô, millet-based dumplings with varied, often leaf-based, sauces. Lettuce, for example, is strictly for export to the city, as it never figures on the village menus.
There were several large, well-tended gardens scattered around to the south. Besides lettuce, they grew tomatoes, green beans, onions and cabbages. There were also zucchini, potatoes and lots of papaya trees. We all duly admired the tidy plots and healthy-looking plants as we stood around chatting with one of the gardeners. We all had a few polite questions, but one visitor wanted to get “helpful”.
Why don’t you grow radishes?”
The gardener explained that they don’t sell well in the town.

“Why don’t you grow cauliflower?
The gardener patiently explained that it doesn’t grow well in the region.

“Why don’t you grow broccoli?”
The gardener didn’t know what that was. (NB: Burkinabé people rarely eat broccoli, or even see it. It's a food only grown near Ouaga to be bought and consumed by expats.)

“Why don’t you grow beets? You should really get different seeds” she pronounced helpfully, “and try new things.”
She went on quite a while on the subject...
I think she deserved an answer along the lines of : Gee! Thanks, Smart White Person! I never would have thought of that! We’re all such dolts around here! I’ll just run over to the garden-supply shop right now and choose from the huge array of affordable seeds there! And then I ‘ll invest a whole season growing a crop of plants that may or may not sell! Freaking brilliant! Thanks again White Person!
That’s what I would have said, but Burkinabé people are generally very polite- much more so than I am. The gardener just gave a little “What can you do?” kind of shrug.
(-Just so you all know, it’s very hard to buy garden seeds in Burkina Faso, even in Ouagadougou. There are no garden-supply shops. At all. Just a little thought on the part of our brilliant interlocutor above would have quickly revealed that the local gardeners must get all their seeds from each other and have no easy access to new varieties. And it makes complete sense for the growers not to take risks, as market gardens are hard work. If your radishes don’t sell, there you are, stuck with a pile of food that your family doesn't really want to eat. It’s logical to grow common staples so that the family can easily eat any excess production. It's not like Ouahiagouya is a huge marketplace and transport costs here are skyrocketing, so any vague ideas that trucking stuff to Ouagadougou will make anyone good money are completely stupid.........Ok, end of rant.)

Next, Antoine took us to visit his family. He took us to the house of his “Petite Mama”- one of his father’s many wives. She greeted us kindly and berated Antoine for not giving her more warning of our visit. We looked around a bit. I took a picture of the kitchen, so you can get an idea of a typical village home cooking area. The other picture is JP in front of the home of the Oldest Person in Gourcy. They told us she was 120 - I'm not really sure that's true (um...probably not) but she definitely looked like she was at least 120. Maybe1200. She was tiny, shriveled, blind, all of her fingers had been amputated and she was very angry. I greeted her politely in Mooré and she promptly told me what a complete creep Antoine was for not informing her that company was coming, so she could make some snacks for us. I don't that think she could actually cook because, well, she was blind, had no hands and I think that she couldn't actually walk. But the thought was very, very kind.
After the visit, Pascal drove us all back to the site of last night's party, out behind Antoine’s own garden. The idea was to have a small picnic lunch. Well, I had understood it to be small. But more and more people kept showing up, until finally there was a huge delegation of elders sitting on metal chairs off to one side. They had chosen that day for presenting their “New Year’s Wishes” to Antoine. The Muslims drank Coke and Fanta. The Animists and many Christians had bottled beer- very fancy! JP had dolo (traditional millet beer), so I knew then that I’d be driving us home. A band of griots sang and played while we ate chicken and potatoes from the ubiquitous gardens of Gourcy.

It was time to go home. We packed up and headed south. The drive back was pretty uneventful. I just made a quick stop in one small village along the way- one well known for it’s “wild yams”. They are long, thin black roots that taste very much like potatoes. A girl by the side of the road sold me an armful and we continued on to Ouaga. I was making good time and figured we’d be home before five pm. In fact, we ended up getting home closer to six. We had the misfortune to get stuck in a huge traffic jam on the north western entrance road into the city. Traffic didn’t even crawl, it just sat there and vegetated. Which is very rare. We don’t really get traffic jams in Ouaga, except on major holidays. But this was strange for another reason: it was so completely calm! People seemed almost happily trapped in the heat and pollution. Then, JP remarked that many of the passengers in the crowed vehicles were wearing paper sun visors- the kind sold here at special events. I vainly tried to read the printing on one, but couldn’t. But then I noticed that many of the people were wearing dresses and shirts sporting big prints featuring Saint Mary and other folks popular with the Catholic crowd. It finally fit together. A traffic jam with no honking or even cross looks, paper sun visors and holy-themed clothing could mean only one thing: this was Yagma Pilgrimage Day. How could I have missed it? The last Sunday before Lent is ALWAYS the day when many Catholics go out to the shrine at Yagma for a special, day-long mass. Mystery solved.
We rolled into our driveway to less than thunderous applause. Actually, there was no applause. I don’t think the kids really noticed we were gone. They seemed to be having a great time. Valentine had a bad cold, but other than that, everyone was fine.

I had a big glass of water (yeah!) and went to bed early.

The End

The weekend involved much activity, not much of it associated with blogging. Mostly, I was helping my kids with their homework. Besides their assigned work from school, I try to give them extra help in French, because unlike most other languages, French was actually invented by sadistic insect-like aliens from a distant galaxy. Not many people know that.

We have to spend lots of time doing "dictées", which are like spelling tests, only more hellish. I read out a long text in French and the kids have to write it down, perfectly. Maybe it doesn't sound hard to you non-French speakers out there, but consider this: the verb "aller" (to go) is pronounced 'al-ày'. That's the infinitive. But there is also "allait", "allaient", "allé", "allée" "allés" and "allées" and they are all pronounced exactly the same!!! (See?! This system could only have been invented by extraterrestrial fiends.) You can only tell which spelling to use by looking at the context of the sentence. It's true of many, many French words and it's sick! And even a single, tiny missing accent mark makes the teacher count the whole word as incorrectly spelled.
As we worked, Alexa wished fervently that she went to "English" school, rather than French school, but I assured her that English would be just as hard. You just have to memorize a few things! I told her. But the fact is, I lied! It's evil and difficult. Cool. But evil and difficult.
Anyway, not much blogging went on, so here it is today: yet another installment of the Gourcy saga. It's still not done!

Part V: The Magic Pumpkins of Death
Sunday morning found the seven us crammed into Antoine’s SUV. Pascal was at the wheel, Antoine riding shotgun. Frieda and JP sat with Nicodemus, Antoine’s son. I was in the third row with Yann, fiddling vainly with the rear air-con controls. It was nearing midday and it was getting pretty toasty outside.
Antoine was taking us on a tour of his village, where he grew up until he went away to school at age 12. He was full of nostalgic memories and waxed eloquent about what he clearly remembered as the “good old days”. “Good old days” is definitely case specific, as it involved old ladies threatening small children with immediate, hideous, pumpkin-induced death.
In the village, Antoine explained, the elderly women too old for any other work were charged with keeping the children out of trouble. This mainly involved keeping the kids out of the pumpkin patches. This normally didn’t entail a lot of strenuous effort, as the pumpkins are always grown right up against the huts. Grandma just had to sit under a nearby shady tree and yell occasionally. But the flaw in the system was that the kids love to play outside in the rain and elderly ladies don’t, for the most part, equally enjoy sitting outside in the rain. And the wide green leaves and bright orange balls of the pumpkin patch look even more tempting when all shiny and wet…So, Antoine’s old granny solved the problem by telling the kids that when it rains, each pumpkin opens up to take in water. It’s how they get so big and juicy. BUT, it is INSTANT DEATH to gaze upon the pumpkins while they undergo this mystical process. Yes, witnessing the pumpkin rain magic would mean an immediate, painful demise, even for small, cute children. Not surprisingly, the kids avoided the pumpkin patch like…well…death.
Antoine chuckled. “She sure had us believing! We were all convinced that we would die! Really! It took me years to realise it wasn’t true. Ha, Ha!”
(Cucurbitphobia = fear of pumpkins. I just looked it up online for Antoine, in case he ever needs to seek professional help.)
Antoine’s entertaining tale ended just as we pulled up in front of the village reservoir. He was very proud of it, as it was the first big project ever funded in Gourcy and has provided water to the town for over 20 years. We all duly admired it and Antoine pointed out the many crocodiles sunbathing on the shores. There were four, anyway, which seemed like a lot to me. But we were told that in the evenings at least 50 of the creatures could be found lolling in the mud, snapping up the occasional unwary dog. But not to worry. They don’t attack full-grown cattle or adult humans! Mostly. (You can see the reservoir in the pic I posted. It’s quite big. Plenty of room for hundreds of canine-starved crocs. As you can see, there are no reptiles in the photo- just Frieda, JP, Nicodemus, Antoine and Yann the Accordionist)

By now it was time to visit Antoine’s actual home village/neighbourhood. It looked just like a typical, fairly isolated Mossi village. There were many low, round mud huts thatched with straw. Near the central clearing, a woman pounded millet while a big group of men sat in the shade of some straw mats laid across a framework of sticks. Right in the center was a tiny tree with shreds of filthy cloth hanging off it. Other, more mysterious objects were laid in the branches and underneath it were several broken clay pots. As we got out of the car, Antoine told us this was the “fetish” of his village. It’s a huge deal, as the earth shrine is the ‘heart’ of the village- where sacrifices are done and ceremonies completed. I didn’t quite dare to ask to take a photo. I circled around it at a respectful (so I hoped!) distance and stumbled over a rock. It was a fairly big, red volcanic rock, sticking up in a very inconvenient way. As I looked around, I noticed that there were many, many of these rocks, each about the size of a soccer ball, scattered all over the central clearing of the village. Why the heck didn’t they just move them? Somebody was going to break a leg or a neck!
“Oh- that’s Grandpa” Antoine said to me. He called over his son. “Look, Nico! Your Grandpa is buried right there.” And he pointed right at the rock I was standing on.
I was standing on his Grandpa. First, I spit out his tô and then I go and stomp on the man’s ancestor. And yes, every single rock was the burial site of an important tribal elder...
I began to think it was time to go home….But wait! We hadn't visited the village gardens yet, or Antoine's family. Plus, he wanted to have lunch with him. I was pretty much ready for that one, as I had heard early morning mass chicken death happening in the kitchen at the hotel. (Fancy Burkinabé parties nearly always mean mourning in the chicken coop.) So, this day's adventures would not be ending anytime soon.

Coming soon: Part 6-The End (I think)

The epic tale continues...Who knew that a weekend trip to an obscure African village could be turned into a novel?
Other things are going on right now, of course. Bloggable stuff. There is a food-supply problem in Ouagadougou now, for example. The price of food staples is rocketing. Cooking oil is up by 25%. A sack of rice that used to cost about 25 US dollars is now up to 30 dollars. That means a lot of hardship for the average Burkinabé. And people have to be very careful when buying, as scarcity and high prices tempt merchants to "stretch" their stocks of oil with cheaper, sometimes dangerous, fillers.
Even luxury items are no more. There hasn't been a shipment for weeks of cold goods. Butter, cheese, cream, sour cream, etc are difficult, if not impossible to find. The only reason there is milk is because there are stocks of irradiated boxed milk that doesn't need refrigeration.
This is all linked(so I'm told) to higher transport costs. Practically everything here has to be driven in and the price of fuel has risen sharply over the last months. And certainly chaos in oil-producing nations like Chad doesn't help matters.
But today's photo isn't a sack of rice, though there are similarities. It's a picture that Freida just sent me of our Gourcy adventure. This was taken just before JP made his speech. You see what I mean about the pink outfit. I wasn't kidding.
Which all leads us right back to:
Part 4 in which Burkina Mom needs help from Emily Post. Desperately.
So, it was 10:30 at night and there we were, picking our way cautiously among the cabbages, lettuces, water hoses and other garden-variety hazards. The mystery of Antoine’s fabled garden was solved! And we were going to have dinner in it. Well, just behind it, in a small clearing that had been set up with about 40 chairs and a couple of buffet tables.
Now, the average Burkinabé dinner is eaten in relative darkness, which most people here have no problem with. They mostly only ever eat millet tô with sauce. What’s to see? They make do with a candle or a small kerosene lamp at most. Even at this fancy party featuring actual electricity, there were just a couple of feeble light bulbs hanging off a cord. It was very dark- that far-from-the-city kind of dark where you can not only see Orion’s Belt, you can also make out Orion’s Shoes, Orion’s Watch and Orion’s Nose Piercing. It was dark.
We each took plate and wandered over to the buffet. I was near the front of the line, thanks to the “ladies first” policy. It was hard to tell what was in the big metal pots. Even Celestine, who had prepared the food, was having a hard time. Antoine’s wife had a small flashlight that she used to venture a best guess on the contents of the various containers. The miniscule beam of light revealed fatty mutton, chunks of apparently anorexic chickens, couscous (nothing more than edible sand, IMHO. Hate the stuff), mashed beans (so she said -looked like mud), and salad (unless impeccably clean it’s a major health hazard. The normal rule is NEVER eat salad in the bush). Then, I peered into the last pot and saw smooth, pale blobs. Tô! I love tô- it’s the national food here: a dumpling made of either corn or millet flour. Very nice. .
“You like tô?” Celestine asked, quite surprised.
I so enthusiastically declared my love for the dish that she put a softball-sized chunk on my plate. Then she ladled a bunch of sauce onto it. Can’t eat tô without sauce. Too dry.
I made my way back to my chair, past all the other guests juggling plates in their laps. As I sat down, I reflected that a person could make good money selling silverware with built-in lights for use in the bush. My prototype would be a fork with a small penlight taped to it. With the light shining towards the pronged end, there would be no more surprise bites of hot pepper, bone or gristle! A true innovation! When travellers come to Africa, they often think that they need stuff like khaki vests with hundreds of pockets and a big fancy camera. What they REALLY need is self-illuminating cutlery. Take it from one who knows. If I had had Beth’s Amazing Safe-T-Glo Fork ™ , I never would have taken the first bite. The slime! The chunks! I didn’t spit, but politely swallowed, while quietly scooting closer to a light bulb. I could now make out a pool of greenish, shiny sauce. Here's the thing: I adore oseille leaf sauce and I’m crazy about peanut sauce. But gombo sauce? It’s viscous and goopy, made with heaps of okra. Some people don’t like tapioca because it is somewhat like (avert your eyes if you are sensitive) snot. The trouble with gombo is that it is exactly like snot. I’ve gotten used to lots of local specialties, but that one has defeated me.
And the chunks in it? That was soumbala. It’s a popular seasoning here made of fermented tamarind seeds. It is pungent. Scarily pungent. Actually, it smells a lot like Muenster cheese, which in turn smells like old gym shoes that have trodden in dog poop. Neither substance is for the faint-hearted or weak-stomached. I would have smelled it and avoided it, if not for the fact that my allergies were acting up from all the dust.

So, there I was, sitting with this huge plate of tô and gumbo sauce balanced on my lap. I saw no way to get rid of it without being incredibly obvious. I didn’t want Celestine to think I didn’t like her cooking. I didn’t want to reject a dish that millions of Burkinabé love. In short, I didn’t want to be the Ugly American, I wanted to be the Good Guest. But I just couldn’t do it.
Then, Antoine strolled over and noticed my full plate.
“Having trouble there?” he asked.
I said “No.” And it was true. There was no “trouble” - I just wasn’t going to eat because I am a doofus.
Frieda, sitting next to me, leaned over and said “Actually, she doesn’t like gombo.”
“No problem! It’s my favourite!” Our host cried genially. “Hand it over!” He took the plate off my lap and grabbed my fork.
“But I already …” I started to say.
Antoine quickly took a big bite.
I felt like a really Bad Guest now. I had rejected their food and then allowed my host to eat with my used fork from a plate of tô I’d had a bite out of. Not like I have any contagious illnesses that I know of, but still…
Antoine sat down nearby and dug into the meal with enthusiasm.
I went back to the buffet table and got a small plate of mashed beans and bread. It was very good.

Part V: The Magic Pumpkins of Death

This story is turning out to be somewhat of an epic. The Bad Guest part of the tale will have to be told tomorrow. Today we have:

Part III in which Burkina Mom Totally Rocks Out. Not.
It was time to face the music, in every sense of the word. After shaking hands with several of the local bigwigs, I was ushered to a seat of honor in the front row, which happened to be right next to one of the giant speakers. The mega-loud (goes to 11!), crackling, fuzzy-toned sound system is the staple of any “modern” West African festivity. But very soon they turned off the deafening pop music and got the show started.
First off, there was a traditional Mossi dance troupe with blacksmith musicians drumming on goathide djembés. (Sorry, Aslan) The men wore fluffy cotton, fringed pompom belts. Very cute. It’s to emphasize the all-important hip area, where most of the action takes place. They were good and danced for quite a long time.
As the applause died down, Yann leaned over and took out his accordion from it’s old brown case. It was time for some squeezebox! All I can say is, when Yann went into development work, the world lost a great entertainer. He was amazing! ( I probably should not admit this, but as I already have the fact that I am a geek advertised in the name of the post, I won’t hesitate. I kind of like accordion music. It probably started when I was a little kid, watching The Lawrence Welk Show (Wunnerful, wunnerful!) with my beloved grandparents. I rejected it in adolescence, as befit a “cool” person of my generation. But I eventually realised that “cool” was way over-rated. So I liked it again, especially French accordion music-Gus Viseur, Emile Vacher, etc..)
Yann walked around the stage, really confident, working the crowd. And they LOVED it! This was the first time the villagers had ever seen or heard an accordion. They seemed to appreciate the lively tunes and Yann’s obvious skill, smiling and clapping along energetically. Then one of the young “bouncers” stationed at the edge of the stage came up and did a little accompanying dance, much to everyone’s delight
It was great fun, but all too soon, Yann put away his instrument and I was called up onto stage as well.
Sort of.
“Now” the announcer said “Monsieur will sing with his wife”.
This was ok with me. What a relief. I would stay sitting in my chair behind the speaker and Yann’s wife Frieda would go up and sing! My quick “prayer” in the car had been answered and what quick service! They actually forgot me! Thanks, God!
But no, Frieda stayed seated and Antoine ushered me onto the stage.
I stood there beside Yann , looking at the crowd. There weren’t thousands of people, but there were certainly hundreds. I thought I would feel really, really bad. But I didn’t. I love to sing and the pieces we had were easy ones that I knew well. The crowd was friendly. And as for my appearance, I realised: ”Hey-these people don’t even know what a baby shower is!”
My various insecurities calmed, I was ready to sing. I wouldn’t say it was flawless, but it was pretty darn good. Love’s Old Sweet Song is a schmaltzy ballad, which I , in all modesty, excel at. Avril Lavigne I am not. In fact, I am lacking in pop sensibilities of any kind. But if you want something performed that was composed prior to 1900, I’m your girl.
Anyway, we got lots of applause and everyone was very kind.
I did little introductions for each song, as we didn’t sing any in French and I thought I should explain them. But even French speakers were few in the audience. Most of them only spoke Mooré. So, it was all about the music. They seemed to like “Malaika”, as it is quite lively and expressive. And Yann really nailed the “day-oh”s on the last number. Just as good as the Harry Belafonte version, if not better!
We got lots of thunderous applause at the end and it was over. Time to sit down and enjoy the rest of the show.

The French farmers were then called onto stage. They didn’t have to sing or dance, just make a speech and accept some gifts. There was a big square box for Marie-Gabrielle and an ominous, wide, cone-shaped parcel for Gilles. To us old-timers here in Burkina, getting a cone-shaped gift can mean only one thing: you have just received your 30^th Mossi straw hat. If you are a reasonably kind-hearted expat person living in Burkina, you will receive at minimum one or two of these hats every year as a gift. The first few are a novelty and get hung up around the house. But after 7 or 8 years, the sheer volume gets kind of cumbersome.
The gift for Marie-Gabrielle was a three meters of very fine hand woven cloth strips. The traditional cotton cloth here is made on looms that are only about a foot wide. You buy cloth in strips from the weaver and then take them to a tailor to get it them sewn together. Then the tailor cuts up the cloth to make your clothes. Quite involved. Very lovely.
Next, our Dutch friends got called onto stage. Yann made a short speech commemorating the end of his time here in Burkina. Then he graciously received his hat. He’s only lived here three years, so he probably doesn’t have too many.
Then, to my utter surprised, JP and I were called onto the stage. I had seen that there were two more gifts onstage, but I had assumed there were some other guests of honor at the party and I just hadn’t been paying enough attention to the introductions when we arrived. But no, it was us. I nearly tripped on my way back onto the stage (told you I’m a geek) but made it with no real mishap. JP gave a nice speech. Then Antoine tried to give me the microphone. My mind went blank. But then Antoine suggested that I talk about…Papiers du Sahel! So, I grabbed the mike with some enthusiasm and chattered away about the paper project for a few minutes. It’s always fun to talk about it to people, as it’s kind of an unusual and inspiring story.
Then I received a box of lovely cloth.
I like to complain in my blog about all the crazy stuff that goes wrong in my life here and what bad luck I have, but it really is just for laughs. Here’s the truth: I am very lucky and people are usually much, much kinder to me than I deserve.

The final act of the evening. was another dance troupe with Fulani musicians playing gourd drums and flutes. They also had an excellent singer. And the dancers were 10 adorable, talented young girls of about 12. They looked very sweet in their hand woven white dresses and their dancing was phenomenal.
Finally, the show was over and it was time to eat. We were led through the back door of the compound. It was quite dark, but it was clearly….a garden!

Tomorrow: Burkina Mom is a Bad Guest. srsly.

The Geekiest Expat Mom Ever Goes to Gourcy, Part II
Just as night fell, our host arrived in a gleaming Toyota Land Cruiser, his kindly driver Pascal at the wheel. Antoine jumped out, smiling. But the smiling didn’t last long. He sat down with us and told us that there had been a terrible accident just three hours before. The son of his good friend/next door neighbour had just been killed on the road to Ouahiagouya. He’d taken two friends in his father’s SUV to go for an evening of fun in the big city. The vehicle rolled and he died on the spot. Besides all the incredible heartache of the event, there had been further drama. Mossi custom demands that the body be buried at the site of any accidental death. But the local priest tried to outmanoeuvre the traditional powers and had sent men to pick up the body for burial at on the church grounds. Antoine had been trying to manage this situation and at the same time move the night’s planned festivities to another location. Because of the tragedy right next door, here was no question of having a party with music and dancing at the hotel. None of us would have been surprised if he’d cancelled the whole thing. His good friend had just lost his 24 year old son, after all. But he insisted that it would go on. He had already engaged the performers and had the food prepared. Furthermore, Yann and his wife were not the only people being honoured. In fact, it turned out that the party was also in honor of (probably primarily in honor of) a French couple who were visiting Gourcy for the month. Gilles and Marie-Gabrielle turned out to be a very sweet pair of retired farmers from a small coastal village in France that has been sending money to Gourcy since 1984. Thanks to sponsors, Gourcy has schools, a sanitation systems, a reservoir….none of it paid for by the Burkinabé government. Dynamic people like Antoine had decided early on that waiting for the national government to provide services to the town would be next to hopeless, so they set out to find money. And the village of these kindly French farmers had been a major source over the years. A party was certainly called for, to celebrate their 24 years of friendship with the people of Gourcy. So, the show would certainly have to go on as planned.
Antoine informed us that the party would be held in his “garden”. It still wasn’t clear exactly what that meant.
I asked “So, it’s a garden with plants? A vegetable garden?”
“Yes” was the only answer I got, with no clarification, leaving me with the impression that I would be performing to an audience of about 12 people, all seated on folding chairs scattered across an expanse of dirt dotted with leafy cabbage plants.

By now, it was getting to the cooler part of the evening, so I went back into our room to change for the …garden party. I was a bit afraid of being overdressed, but the outfit I’d brought had long sleeves, which were very welcome against the chill. It’s one I bought at a craft fair here a few years back, but haven’t worn often. It’s from Senegal and it’s pink. It’s very, very pink.
I went into the bathroom to dress, after cautiously inspecting the drain for sinister insect life.
I peered doubtfully into the tiny mirror in the bathroom.
My self-evaluation was as follows: If somebody gave me a bouquet of flowers, I’d look exactly like a table decorated for a baby shower. A not very classy baby shower.
But it was too late to do anything about it. I had to back outside to join the others.
We started out for the Garden. It turned out that we couldn’t drive there in our own cars, as the track leading to the site was deemed far too rough.
So, Antoine’s Toyota was loaded up with food, while a group of us climbed into the cab.
Despite Pascal’s careful driving, the huge eroded crevasses defeated his attempts to keep the ride smooth. We kept hearing ominous sounds from the back cargo area and hoped that our dinner wasn’t being dumped all over the floor. On the other hand, it was almost nine pm and we still had a show to see before dinner would be served. My years of previous experience in Africa told me that it would be hours before we ate. By then, everyone would probably be so hungry that we would be perfectly happy to eat couscous scraped off the floor of a vehicle.

We bumped along for about 15 minutes until we again saw the bright glare of electric lights. Up ahead there was a blindingly-lit, walled compound with a large number of cars, scooters, and bikes parked outside. Through the open gate , we could see a crowd milling.
JP said “That can’t be it”.
But it was.
Pascal drove the Toyota right into the compound and the crowd parted to make way for us. It wasn’t a garden. There was not a vegetable in sight. It looked more like a outdoor nightclub/bar, what we call a maquis here, but a very big one. And the center was dominated by a huge raised stage/platform. A sound system with four giant speakers blared out West African pop. And most of the village of Gourcy seemed to be there to enjoy it.
My first thought was “Thank heavens that I didn’t wear capri pants!” followed quickly by “Please God, make them forget that Yann and I are supposed to sing.”
I had been all prepared to sing in a vegetable garden in front of a dozen people. This would be like singing at the freaking Super Bowl…if the Super Bowl was much smaller and located in rural Burkina Faso.
But they didn’t forget. No such luck.

Tomorrow be ready for Part III, in which Burkina Mom is a Bad Guest.

Here's the truth:If you are a person possessing two X chromasomes and an even minimal sense of modesty, the first rule of travel by car in Burkina is: Don’t Drink Anything. Drinking leads to peeing and the highway rest area "facilities" consist of roadside shrubs. Small, scrawny, practically leafless shrubs that could not even provide Paris Hilton with sufficient cover.
And while the countryside may seem deserted and traffic minimal, I guarantee you that the minute you step out of your car to enjoy a moment alone, a couple of young boys herding cattle will appear as if by magic. Then an old guy on a bike will pedal past with almost painful slowness. Finally, a bus from Mali will trundle by, the roof covered in bikes, bags, chickens, baskets and young men who couldn't get a seat inside, but have a great vantage point for being entertained by the sight of half-dressed travellers lurching around out in the bush.

So, for shorter trips, it’s just less stressful to get into the car thirsty and stay that way. But it does make you extremely anxious to reach your destination and have a glass of water. Luckily JP drives pretty fast. Even more luckily, he has pretty good reflexes, which you certainly need for highway driving here. At various points on the way to Gourcy on Saturday, he had to swerve to avoid goats, sheep, and pigs as well as a small, very adorable donkey.
When we finally got to Gourcy, it was quite a surprise, Our pal Antoine calls it his “village” but it’s actually a good-sized population center. The urban area has electricity and even boasts a nightclub called “Le Titanic”! There are no two-story buildings, though, and most of the people live out in the “neighborhoods” of Gourcy. These neighbourhoods are actually small villages, but they are considered to be part of the town. Anyway, this means that the place is very dispersed. We had to drive around quite a bit to find the party site. I took the first photo while we were searching. You can see that I’m not exaggerating when I say “dispersed”.

Antoine runs the NGO that JP works for. Gourcy is his home village and he was very graciously hosting a goodbye party for our Dutch pal Yann at the hotel/conference center he has built. I was very surprised when we finally found it. I had kept my expectations low, but was delighted to find that he and his wife have built a lovely inn/conference center with 30 rooms. It was very charming, pristinely clean and landscaped with lots of flowers and greenery. The rooms were simple and small, but perfectly nice, in a West African kind of way. (You can see the front of our room in the second picture I posted).
As I was putting my bag on the small table beside the door, JP checked out the bathroom.
“You know,” he said “The way this is set up, I could brush my teeth, pee and shower, all at the same time. What a timesaver!”
I came over to have a look, which was easy because the room was tiny and the bathroom had no door on it. Not even a curtain. And the interior of the 1 meter by 1.5 meter bathroom was set up just like many “modern” ( indoor) bathrooms here in West Africa. The toilet was in the corner, with the sink right beside it. Between the two was a drain. And set in the wall right across from them was the showerhead, with the towel bar right below. So, turning on the shower resulted in the sink, toilet and towels all getting completely drenched. It’s not a very easy way to shower, but it is particularly unpleasant for any person that might want to use the facilities after you are done washing. And as a finishing touch, the drain had no cover, just a gaping portal leading directly to the sewer line. It gave me nightmarish visions of cockroaches boiling out of it in the middle of the night, taking the lack of even a symbolic covering as an open invitation to join us. I was imagining something like that scene in The Mummy when the flesh-eating scarabs attack. (Actually, "scarab" is Ancient Egyption for "roach". Not many people know that.)

But I wasn’t going to let that bother me! I was happy to be there, sitting in the shade, drinking a large glass of water. JP went around asking after our host. He was told that Antoine was in his “garden”. We weren’t quite sure what to make of that. We asked if it was nearby, like maybe he had a little potato patch behind the hotel. But no, the “garden” was “far”, so we settled in to wait.
The guests of honor arrived soon after that. Yann and Freida unpacked their baggage and joined us. They had news from Ouaga. None of the other guests were coming! Most of the people invited are development experts and spend much of their time travelling. Unfortunately, Air Burkina employees decided to strike on the weekend. People who had planned on making it to the party were trapped in various other African cities with no hope of arriving by Saturday night. So, suddenly the party went from modest to minuscule. So we thought……

As we drove to Gourcy on Saturday afternoon, we listened to Radio France Info as long as we could keep the signal. The updates from N'djamena reported an evacuation, then the evacuation was cancelled, then it was back on again. The rebels held the city, but then, no, it was the government claiming victory.
As amazing as Gourcy was, we didn't get any news up there-at least, not of the international variety. It was an amazing visit and merits at least two long posts, which are forthcoming- probably later today.
Anyway, we got home late last night and I couldn't even get on the internet. Server down.
But early this morning, there was plenty of news to be had. Our friends are probably in Gabon, as most of the French and US expats have been evacuated to Libreville. RFI also broadcast an interview from there this morning. One of the French evacuees tells of how the group spent five hours laying on the floor of the airport terminal as the French Army exchanged fire with the rebels.
Hopefully, our friends Anne, Aygline and Daniel are with this group, safe and now getting ready to go to France.
Here's an excerpt from the latest news, published just minutes ago:

Chad rebels 'pushed from capital'

Witnesses reported heavy fighting in the capital on Sunday

Rebels seeking to overthrow Chad's president have been driven out of the capital, the government has said.

The rebels say they have made a strategic withdrawal to the eastern edge of N'Djamena, after entering the city over the weekend.

Aid agencies have reported many dead bodies on the streets and hundreds being treated in hospitals.

The Chadian government said it had quashed the rebellion.

"The whole of N'Djamena is under control and these mercenaries in the pay of Sudan have been scattered," Interior Minister Ahmat Mahamat Bachir told French radio RFI.

"The sun has gone down now, but the pursuit will continue tomorrow."

But rebel leaders said they were giving civilians a chance to flee before launching another offensive.

Chadian rebels seized control of large parts of the capital on Saturday, approaching the palace where President Idriss Deby was holding out.

On Sunday, fierce fighting in the capital continued. Rebels were reported to have stormed the national radio offices before looters ransacked the building.

N'Djamena's main market was also looted and torched after being hit by a missile, witnesses told AFP news agency.

Hundreds of foreigners, many of them French, have been evacuated to Gabon in central Africa.

You can read all of it from the BBC here.

Gourcy is reported to be a nice little village, just a bit beyond Ouahigouya. I would be perfectly happy to rely on such second hand reports as come my way, but fate has declared that I am going to spend this weekend discovering the attractions of Gourcy. Well, it was actually JP that declared it. “We’re going to a good-bye party for Yann” was the first thing he said. A statement I had no problems with. Yann has worked on occasion with JP over the years and (more importantly)he sang bass in our choral society for the last three years. So that was fine. But when he added “It’s in Gourcy”, my heart did sink a little, as I would have preferred a location a bit closer. It’s two hours to drive there. We’ll have to stay the night and then come back on Sunday, as night driving is SO dangerous here.
I’m sure it will turn out to be lots of fun, if I can avoid doing anything crazy like, say, accidentally locking myself in a hut and being trapped for hours. I have a history of travel mishaps and do best in my home territory.

Anyway, I was sitting there, wrapping my mind around how we would organise the kids while we were gone and what the heck I would wear, when JP suggested that I call Yann and propose that he and I sing together at the party. Now, JP never says much about my singing, so I was rather pleased that he actually wants me to sing in front of his colleagues. And Yann is a fabulous singer who loves performing, so I gave him a call. He was really pleased with the idea and it seemed manageable, despite the fact that we only had one week to prepare.
So, the party is tomorrow night. We’ve had two rehearsals and all is going pretty well. We’re getting together again tonight for last-minute polishing.
We’re singing Malaika (in Swahili), Love’s Old Sweet Song and The Banana Boat Song (Yann digs singing “day-oh”).
Of course, with a performance in the mix, the question of “What to wear?” has taken on new urgency!