Last night, the nation television station here read a government communiqué regarding the murder that I wrote about yesterday. I didn’t see it myself, but today I received an article by email from Ramata Soré at L’Evenement, Burkina’s best newspaper. Yesterday’s rumours mostly had it right, but the money changer was the Burkinabé man and not the Lebanese.

“The Ministry of Security has just announced that police in the Bogodogo neighbourhood in Ouagadougou have discovered the body of a young Burkinabé named Idrissa Ouedraogo, called Daouda.
According to the Ministry, he was murdered by a Lebanese man called Abas Damin, present in Burkina for the last 8 months. The killing took place the night of the 9-10 January 2008 at the home of the Lebanese. According to the announcement made on television, the Lebanese had called Ouedraogo, a money-changer, to his home under the pretext of wishing to exchange CFA francs for American dollars.
Once the crime was committed, Damin left Burkina. He was located in Abidjan by Interpol, but has not yet been apprehended. According to the announcement, the Lebanese community is also active in seeking the killer. The government asks the population to remain calm and practice restraint, promising that the crime will not go unpunished”.

The article then goes on to reprise the Kundé bar murders of last March. I’m not exactly sure why, as it has nothing to do with this case, as far as I can tell.
After the end of the piece, there are a few comments, one from someone signed “a Concerned Citizen”. Among other things, he complains that:
'This murder is the result of the real chaos that reigns in all the sub-Saharan nations and the demand that all foreigners be treated like kings. So, it is by no means surprising that the latter, Européens or Arabs, turn out to be the worst cases. This culture of impunity towards foreign rich people, constantly supported by the corrupt police force, is very well known in Ivory Coast where many young men from Ivory Coast have been assassinated or wounded by weapons fired by foreigners. And even in Burkina, there are examples ,such as in Bobo where a young man was shot by... a rich Lebanese, because of a money problem between them.
I will avoid citing the Lebanese particularly, even though it is them in general who carry out these kinds of acts with the support of politicians and police officers greedy for briefcases full of cash. I will not to call for a popular uprising against this community, of which some members are now real Burkinabès and take an active part in the construction of our Nation. But we must recognise that a considerable number of foreigners think that this is still the Africa of the ' dirty negro slaves’ where everything is permitted to them .”

The next commenter remarked that “A Concerned Citizen” really needs to start a blog, as his remarks are so spot-on. It all gives an example of the negative general tone of the relationship between the Burkinabés and the large Lebanese population here.

So far there has been no public action. The Ouaga rumour network seems to say that there will protests at the funeral of Ouedraogo. Who knows?

The Ouaga rumour mill is grinding away at full force this evening. The info is often unreliable and garbled, but the radio and tv stations here are under pressure from the government NOT to cover "sensational breaking news" (as we'd call it in the USA). The powers that be have determined that letting radio stations give out news about events( like last December's clashes between the police and military) serves no purpose but to frighten people ( And perhaps to tell other discontents where the action is.)
So, the rumour mill turns...
I was in a shop near the Lycée late this afternoon. When I came back out to the car, I noticed many children leaving school early, being picked up by parents and drivers. My own driver was full of the very latest Ouaga news. He had been gathering all the details from the other drivers, vendors and folks out in the street. Mahama reported that the story making the rounds is that a Burkinabé man had gone to get fcfa for Euros at the home of a Lebanese money changer. Upon seeing that it was a huge amount of money, the Lebanese man killed the Burkinabé, took the cash, locked up the house and left the country.
As he told me all this, I saw that some of the shops were closing, even though it was only 5pm.
They were all reacting to the rumour that this death was going to be "avenged" by Burkinabé mobs, who would come and attack Lebanese businesses, which are numerous here.
I don't know how much of this is true...It certainly all seems highly unlikely. But listening to the radio yields nothing. All of downtown could be on fire and you wouldn't hear a word of it in the media here.
There is certainly lots of tension between the Burkinabé and the Lebanese community in daily life. Many of the latter have been here for generations, but retain a very separate identity. As a general rule, the Lebanese are resented for their prosperity. They are also seen by the Burkinabé as harsh employers.
I am hoping that it all comes to nothing. But I'm glad that I did my grocery shopping already and won't have to venture out tomorrow. People are saying that the weekend is going to "chauffe" (get hot!).

We watched a lot of films over the holidays. Some were old holiday favourites, like “Christmas in Connecticut” and “White Christmas”. I love old films: snappy dialogue, elegant clothes and lots of great music. In newer films, obscenities seem to take the place of witty banter. Fred and Ginger are replaced by pole dancers. I know there are good new films out there, but there is so much trash!
And I have another complaint: One night we watched Next, a sci-fi/action film with Nick Cage. The cardboard cut-out bad guy terrorists Hating Our American Freedom and hell bent on blowing up California were a bunch of … French people! The next night was Spiderman 3. When Peter Parker went to a fancy restaurant to impress his sweetie, who was there to greet him? The ever-popular Snotty French Waiter with a Silly Accent. The next night, we watched The Matrix Reloaded. Who’s the bad guy? The Frenchman- yet another arrogant greasy-haired snot with a ridiculous accent and an oversexed girlfriend.

It was getting to be kind of a theme. The next day, I wrote to my fave email pal, Babzee:

“My kids found it all pretty strange. "What's up with that?" they asked. I joked that many Americans must have an inferiority complex vis à vis the French and Hollywood tries to prop up their sad little egos by making French people in films ALWAYS be the 1. snotty waiters and/or 2. evil bad-guys.
Severin said "So, one half of me secretly hates the other half?" and he pretended to choke himself, falling to the ground.”

Babzee quickly wrote back with a more thought-out answer to the question. Her answer is much better than the silly one I gave the kids:
“I haven't seen Next but I remember the ads for it. Not crazy about Nick Cage (but ConAir is a fave). I think there's even more to your psychoanalysis of the American (trash) filmmaker: the French represent the most "foreign" a movie enemy can get without involving race and (real) politics. We used to use the Germans but the stereotype is virtually exhausted now (particularly after the Die Hard series) and the World Wars were a long time ago. "Arabs" (describing everyone from Pakistan to Morocco) are too tough a target right now, unless an undefined zealotry and no dialogue are part of the story), Asians get their own genre. That leaves (as far as Yanks are concerned) Italy (mobbed-up), Russians (we have no idea if there are still Russians, weren't they all retired in 1991?), Balkans (Jack Bauer did it on 24), and Spain, which we really can't tell apart from Mexico. The rest of Europe is France, right?

I saw a movie on TV in which they explained Jean-Claude van Damme's Belgian accent by saying he was from Canada. I love Severin.”

Thanks to Ms. B! She said all I wanted to say and did it better, in the bargain.

I am so excited! I wish it was breakfast time! But it's seven pm, so I had better not give into the temptation to break out some of the fabulous COFFEE that my parents just sent me! Chocolate truffle flavour coffee! CINNABON coffee!!! How decadent! How blissful!
I am in heaven just sniffing the packages!
When we first got to Africa, I schooled myself to enjoy whatever breakfast drink was available. Most often there was the inevitable instant Nescafé with sugar/without sugar/with or without condensed milk - all those endless permutations that make West Africa wake up in the morning. Sometimes there was dangerously strong, gritty Lebanese coffee. Sometimes there was Liptin tea. And it was all ok. I learned not to expect much, take what I could get and be pretty happy with it. If you're just going to eat, drink and do all the same stuff you do back in your home country, why leave?
But I have recently realised (only took about 9 years!) how REALLY joyous good coffee makes me ( my definition of "good" being arabica with some crazy flavoring added in) . I even discovered the joys of grinding up whole beans with a sleek black machine (borrowed from an Embassy pal).
This summer I brought back some good coffee from the USA. I underestimated quantites, but now my parents have come to the rescue. Tomorrow morning I'll be drinking Cinnabon coffee! Bet I'll be the only one in all of Burkina- maybe in all West Africa!

« My daughter doesn’t have a dog.” I told the woman at the park entrance. The Burkinabé tend to be patient and to enjoy a good story, so segued into my request gradually -gave her some back story. “She would have liked a dog, but we got her this goat instead. It’s a nice goat and she has it all trained. It even takes walks on a leash. I wonder if it would be possible for her to bring her goat? Here to the park? To walk? Like a dog?” My weird question got a laugh out of her and she said “Sure! Bring him!” I think she would have said the same even if I had proposed bringing in a pet grizzly bear. She just wanted to see what would happen. ( I later told JP: “I like to think that the entertainment our outlandish antics provide for the locals is our way of ‘giving back’”)
That was Saturday. And Sunday afternoon found me again at the park, with the goat in the back of the station wagon. Aslan travels pretty well, though he’s never quite sure how things are going to end up. Usually, a car trip ends in a play date with his little goat friends, but occasionally it ends in a session at the veterinarian. And as the last time he went to the vet, there was a painful incident involving his privates and a pair of pliers, a person wouldn’t blame him for being a tad skittish. But when we pulled up I front of the park, I think he realized that fun was in store, because he scrambled out quite willingly and trotted along right behind Mal.

Now, JP had promised the twins that they could visit the small menagerie at the park. So, we went up to the woman that had helped us yesterday. She was still in the same spot, a small table set up in the dirt in a shaded corner. She’s in charge of selling the park entrance tickets: 100 cfa for adults and half that for kids. (100cfa is about 20 cents US). It’s a bit more to see the animals. The guide in charge of the menagerie told us not to bring the goat on our visit, as it might excite the jackals and hyenas in a “Yay! Lunch is early!” kind of way. So, Mal tied up Aslan in a shady spot with lots of dried leaves to munch on. But when she tried to leave, he started to cry. And by the time she was out of sight beyond the gate, he was screaming his head off. We kind of figured that he would eventually get distracted by the tasty food and calm down. But here’s my theory: Aslan is so well fed and pampered, that his mind is elevated to a higher plane that that of his brethren, who are concerned about where their next meal is coming from. As a result, our goat has an unusually rich emotional life. Dried leaves are as nothing to him compared to his beloved Mal, light of his goat life.
In the end, I had to go back for him. When he saw me, the intensity of his cries died down a bit, but didn’t stop. I untied him and then he quieted right down. He was a now a Goat with a Mission: Find Mal! He took off trotting towards the gate. He didn’t exactly drag on the leash, but made his wishes known. We quickly found JP and the girls, who were checking out a monkey and her funny little baby. Mom Monkey didn’t mind us humans looking at her little one, but Aslan kind of creeped her out. So, we cut our visit short and went on our walk through the park. It’s a small wilderness area that is the only untouched green space in Ouagadougou. (If you are interested in more description, check out this blog entry about the place.) It is a very popular site on the weekends, lots of people showing up to exercise pets, kids and/or themselves.
Before we arrived, JP had been sceptical, suspecting that the goat would idle, lollygag and just generally be a goat-type slacker. Instead, he cast all those other, more banal pets in the shade! He walked tirelessly right alongside Mal, completely undistracted by leaves , grasses and any other items of potential interest to goats. He was happy just to be out in the fresh air, having a nice walk with the Goddess of his little goat existence. Most people we passed mistook him for a dog and the few that did realise did double takes. He'll definitely get to go on lots more outings to the park!

Title of today's blog entry: The Wisdom of the Papaya Master
Being a twin in Burkina is special. Sometimes in a good way, sometimes bad. Among the Winyé, for example, the birth of twins can be interpreted as either 1. a reward: What a good mom you are! or 2. A punishment: Doom in the form of two small infants. But once you have got past those early days (which could potentially end up in infanticide), being a twin is good stuff. You weren’t killed, so you must be some of those “Good Luck” twins! At the least, you get “Hey! Twins! How wonderful!”. Even better, as a twin, you often get offered small amounts of money and gifts when you are out together in public, all of which are impossible to refuse, as the giving confers good luck upon the benefactors.
Today I had my twins with me as I ran errands in town. I stopped at the marché to buy strawberries (Yes! It’s finally strawberry season!) and the girls were welcomed with open arms and two fat papayas. Now, this is sad, but my girls HATE papayas with a passion usually reserved for tyrannical despots that abuse kittens in their spare time. It’s really a shame, as we live in Papaya Central, but there you go. The girls thanked the fruit market ladies politely and climbed back into the car, discussing who could be the lucky beneficiary of this fruity windfall. I could hear them discussing it in the backseat as we drove home, deciding finally to give the fruit to some of the “tomato can boys” that line the Blvd Ch. de G. These young kids are sent out by their Islamic teachers to beg for coins. They are supposed to give everything to the teacher, who in turn is supposed to care for them and teach them. These Koranic “schools” are often to only “education” poor families can afford, as the marabouts usually ask for no money from the parents. On the other hand, these boys are often very young and spend their days out on the street in dangerous traffic. And some of the teachers don’t seem very good about using the money to buy food for the children or to look after their welfare. (Please read this for further info on the subject.) I certainly don’t like to encourage this dubious system that at best results in these kids memorizing bits of the Koran in Arabic. Not really a useful tool for their future. And oh yeah- they learn to beg. Great. Anyway, I DO like to give these boys food, which they can enjoy and are not obliged to bring back to their marabouts.
Well, the twins gave the fruit to the Koran school boys. But before they did so, there was much discussion in the backseat. I couldn’t make out much, but I heard Alexa mention “…the Wisdom of the Papaya Master”. I’m not sure what that is, but it sounds terribly interesting. It’s good to know that even though papayas are not tasty (I find them disturbingly squishy and overly sweet), they actually possess some amazing, unsuspected qualities. They bestow wisdom! Who knew?

Here is a picture of JP and I at a Christmas party. Maybe it isn't that great, but it is such a rare item, that I felt I had to post it. My husband and I are seldom in pictures together. It seems like it's always me holding the camera, taking endless shots of the kids. Which is only right, as I feel that my children are getting more beautiful with age. I am sorry to report that the same cannot be said of me. But this pic is nice a souvenir of a really lovely night at H's house.
BTW-Valentine has posted again. Go have a look!

We went out for New Years Eve, the girls in tow. Severin was out in the bush on a camping trip, so that left just the five of us. We had arranged to meet some friends at a Chinese restaurant downtown. Yes, there is Chinese food in Ouagadougou. I can't say that it's really good. It's kind of difficult to get the ingredients they need, except maybe for dog, but I really don't want to go there...
We got dressed up and headed into town. But the minute we sat down, Mallory ran over to me and whispered "My chickens! We forgot to shut up my chickens!" This was indeed a matter for concern, as her flock has recently been ravaged by some predator- probably feral cats. Two nights ago, JP and I heard a rukus out in the animal pen, so we grabbed some flashlights and went to investigate. We only found three of Mallory's four chicks (well, they are more like teenager-chickens at this point). No feathers or blood, just gone. Even worse, in the morning, there were only two. It was then decided that all the chickens had to be shut in at night - but somehow in all the excitement of a trip to the Restaurant du Chine, we forgot. So, that was a concern, but I had more pressing problems. We had come late to the gathering and the others (an all-American missionary crowd) had decided to segregate the seating. There were all the women at one end and the men all at the opposite end of the table. The center was occupied by a hoard of small children. After one look at the table, JP shot me a look of the acutest misery. He's an anthropologist and knows that foreign cultures have their own customs, but he finds this particular one very painful. He sat down among the men and they tried to draw him into the conversation with such gems as "What's your favorite winter sport? and "Where are the next Olypmics being held?" Now, my husband loves to chat about politics, philosophy, current events...anything EXCEPT sports. I could see that action had to be taken. I somehow managed to convince the other women that the kids would be happier at a table of their own and the xx and xy camps could be combined.
Dinner was nice. We didn't have the elaborate, tasty-looking buffet though, which at 35$ per person was not getting many takers. We were at the restaurant from 7:30 to 10pm and in all that time saw only ONE group of people partake of the fancy buffet offerings. It was a wealthy Burkinabé family. Their two little boys were wearing suits!
At 10 we went right home to close up the chickens. They were all fine and Mal was much relieved. It had been weighing on her. That done, we continued on to K's house, to play Pictionary and eat chocolate chip cookies. Around midnight we all went out to light fireworks. K's dog took advantage of our distraction and pushed her way into the house. She wolfed down all the rest of the cookies and then washed them down with a whole container of grape Kool-aid. I'm afraid that poor Minuit spent the first few hours of 2008 with a bit of a belly ache from a junk-food overload.
This morning we had a visit from a group of griots- traditional musicians/praise singers. They go from house to house during the holidays, performing wherever asked. They sing a few songs, inserting the names of theirs hosts into them. Sanou and his fellow griots turned out to be from a village that JP worked in years ago. They were nice fellows and very fine musicians. Wish I had an mp3 to share with you. It was so good!
Happy New Year 2008, everyone!

Sev is sick. We had the doctor come have a look at him last night. It looks like a throat infection and malaria, with bit of typhoid fever thrown in for good measure. I'll admit, it all sounds dreadful. But that's life in Burkina for you. The common cold is a rare bird. We go in for the exotic around here: meningitis, cholera and the like. But at least the cures are readily available, for the wealthy, at least. So, Sev is on antibiotics and Malarone. He's sleeping right now and hoping to be miraculously cured by tomorrow at noon, when he is scheduled to take off on an overnight New Year's Eve camping trip with a group of friends. The church youth group has been planning this since September, so he really doesn't want to miss it.
In the spirit of optimism, I did start gathing his camping gear today. (As it's a church activity, I figure that God might at least make a little effort in the miracle department) I got out the tents and asked Sev which he wanted. I was quickly informed that there was NO WAY he was taking something as geeky as a TENT on a CAMPING trip. Geez. What was I thinking? Only very uncool people sleep in tents. Cool people sleep under the stars.
And I predict that they will be very cool people, indeed, as the night temperatures here now drop down to below 60°F. That may sound warm to you folks living in temperate climates, but to those of used to tropical climes, that's freezing cold!

I woke up this morning to three goats in the kitchen. When Midnight saw me coming, she shot Aslan a look of pure panic "See!?! I TOLD you this was a BAD idea!! She's HERE!". Then Midnight and Dawn (her similarly skittish kid) scrambled on out of there like they were being pursued by the minions of Satan. But it was just me. And Aslan, at least, knows that I'm not a goat-eating demon. (although I have been known to occassionally chase livestock out of the kitchen with a broom, so he WAS being pretty brave)
Well, he settled right in and had a look around, scouting the area for tasty snacks. He checked out the fridge door for a while, but had to eventually admit that you can't open a refrigerator with hooves. He then moved on to the trash bin as a more likely spot. At this point I had to intervene. "Mallory! Come fetch your goat!" I yelled and she came right along, with her little goat-herding stick in one hand and a bucket of millet in the other. Aslan followed her out, just as sweet as you please.
If anyone out there is filming a remake of that classic tale of the Alpine goat-herding lifestyle "Heidi", I have three likely young goats to propose as cast members and one adorable little blonde girl that would be perfect in the title role!

What did I get for Christmas ? Two bars of scented soap and a calendar. I feel that I am already both prompt and reasonably clean, but maybe I’ve just been kidding myself….Anyway, I’ve had lots of time to puzzle over the question today, as I couldn’t go to work or run any errands. The car (yes, the “new” car) broke down in the middle of Avenue Charles de G. right in the middle of the morning rush hour. The pathetic creature had to be towed to the Garage Seid, where my previous vehicle spent so much of its leisure time. So, my little station wagon and Mr. Seid are spending some quality time together today. How nice for them. For me, not so nice, as I had other plans, including the Bank of Africa, the medical laboratory, video shop, and gym, not to mention a stop at Papiers du Sahel to see how the project is doing over the holiday. Instead, I’m at home, dealing with the kitchen sink- still leaking after two “repair” jobs- and trying to “work” online. Dial-up is just hopeless, isn’t it? I may as well incise my messages on clay tablets and ship them by sea. It would be less frustrating. But perhaps messier. Anyway, I’ve spent hours today trying to catch up on emails and trying to “upgrade” my blog. And I think I broke it. Yes. I broke my blog. My counter is gone , my little flags, etc. They say the original template is saved somewhere, but I can’t, for the life of me, find it. And none of the features work like they promised they would. Which is all par for the course when someone says they are going to “improve” something and make it “easier to use”. It’s never true, is it?

In a way, though, I’m glad I was home this morning. Our young friends Aisha and Mariam came by for a visit, which was very unusual. They know I am typically not around during the day. But, as it happened, I was. The girls told me that their father died this morning. It was quite sudden an unexpected, though he was quite old. They asked if they could leave the two younger children with me today, as their courtyard would be full of visitors. And they thought spending the day around their father’s dead body might be a bit much for the little ones, as well. So, Alima (age 6) and Moussa (8) are here. Mallory just took them out for a walk with Aslan and his little goat cart. Now they’re back, playing on the terrace. Like most young kids, they have hardly realised what has happened. It’s harder right now on Aisha (19) and Mariam (13). Their mother is severely mentally ill and I know that the girls are scared that the landlord is not going to let them keep their little home without a man heading the household. I think Aisha could hold the family together, but this society is still so sexist at base, it might not work out. The elder brother has come in from the village, though, so it’s to be hoped that he’ll be able to figure something out. Though if he comes up with something horrible like : "Aisha should marry some creepy old man", I'll definitely have to do whatever I can to keep her from that fate!

My (only slightly late) Christmas gift to you, to be sung to the tune of “Winter Wonderland”:

In the lane, trash is smokin’
In the house, French is spoken.
A maquis’s a bar.
Can you guess where you are?
You’re walking in a Ouaga Wonderland.

Donkeys bray, are you listenin’?
On your plate, tô is glist’nin’
It’s hot - don’t need coats.
Don’t need reindeer - got goats
Walking in a Ouaga Wonderland

In the street outside the trash is burning
The smoke’s so thick, can Santa find his way?
If he’s lost, we’ll find it quite disturbing
Because we’ll all get zip on Christmas Day.

You can wear tapettes and boubou
To Chrismas shop in Ouagadougou -
There’s just market stalls,
‘Cause we ain’t got malls
Walking in a Ouaga Wonderland.

I recently sent off an email in which I wrote that someone needed another something “ like she needs a hole in the head”- which just goes to show us yet again the dangers of stooping to writing in clichés. The moment I hit “send”, I started thinking “Well, your mouth is a hole in your head, as are your ears and nostrils. Who decided that a ‘hole in the head’ is the benchmark for the ultimate in the unwanted? That doesn’t actually make sense."Thinking about it further, I determined that the expression must really be: “like another hole in the head”, which makes way more sense. Maybe I have mis-heard the expression all these years. I figured that must be it. But a quick glance at Answers.com yielded the following:

Have neither a need nor a desire for something, as in I needed that extra work like I need a hole in the head. This expression has such ancestors as "As much need of it as he has of the pip [a disease] or of a cough," from John Ray's English Proverbs (1678), and "As much need of it as a toad of a side pocket," from Francis Grose's Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue (1785). [Slang; c. 1940]

So, that's it. It's an expression that is commonly used in English, yet makes no sense. I contemplated switching over to saying "like a toad has need of a side pocket". It's very colourful, but seems to be assuming a lot. Maybe toads would actually enjoy having pockets. They could carry around extra dead flies and such. Could be handy.

But today is a day to celebrate, not to obsess of obscure linguistic problems! It is Severin’s 12^th birthday! He’ll have a party on Saturday with a few friends. But today we’ll celebrate with just the family. I asked him this morning what he’d like for his birthday lunch.
“Rabbit!” he said, with a wicked grin.
Valentine got right into the spirit of the thing: “Mallory’s are just the right size now! Individual servings! Tasty and tender tiny bunnies! Yum!”
Just then, Mallory walked in the door with her favorite baby bunny in her hands. Snow White is one of the litter of six that was born about two weeks ago. Very adorable, with tiny, fuzzy white ears.
“Hey Mal!” I called out. “Why don’t you pick out a few of the bunnies that you aren’t so fond of and put them in a box? Just leave them in the kitchen. Severin wants rabbit for his birthday lunch.”
She just rolled her eyes at me and walked back out.
JP started expounding on the joys of rabbits as a food source rather than pets and lamenting the fact that it is never served in our home. He then waxed nostalgic over his mom’s homemade terrine de lapin (smooshed-up rabbit meat spread, for all you non-francophones)
Just so you know, there will be none of that in my home. Bunnies are for cuddles, not casseroles.

As for Sev, for lunch he’s getting fries and dead cow, in the form of grilled kebabs.

Valentine just updated her blog yesterday. Check it out if you want her take on the Christmas show last week. She also mentions Friday's party at the US Ambassador's home.
The party was indeed very pleasant. Carols were sung and cookies consumed. I was looking fairly nice, as I had just been to the hair salon that afternoon, erradicating the grey streaks that, while perhaps earned as maternal badges of honor, don't exactly thrill me on the aethetic level. I even had Gaël "style" it, which involves flattening it mercilessly with a spiky brush and hot blowdryer. It is an effect I don't have the patience to get at home, but this guy does a nice job. It turns out all smooth and shiny and stays that way until the next wash, so it was still looking good when I went to church the next day. Now, when I say "it was looking good", you do understand, I am speaking the in relative, rather than the absolute sense. I mean : 'it looked good, compared to how it usually looks'. Imagine my surprise when two of my French friends that were there came up to me and started effusing over my exceptionally non-curly hair. It culminated in Christine saying "You look wonderful! You look like........oh! What's her name?...." I waited for what she would say. I guess I have a blank-slate kind of face, because over the years many various people have claimed that I looked just like a hoard of completely different people: Kim Wilde, Laura on General Hospital, Sharon Stone (got that a lot) and Cher (???), just to name a few.
She continued "You look like.... Paris Hilton!"
'Maybe I look like I ate Paris Hilton' was my immediate thought, which I found hilarious.
But my friends are nice people, unlike me, and would have felt compelled to give me further unreasonable compliments if I had said that out loud, but I thought it was pretty darn funny

Umm... I just made an appointment to get my hair straightened again on Friday. Not that I in any way buy into the idea that it makes me look like I am incredibly wealthy, famous for no good reason and weigh 118 pounds. But still...

The UNDP human development report is out for 2007-08. And that ever-dependable Burkinabé paper L’Evenement gave it front page space, above the fold, with the headline “Human development: Things haven’t improved in our country”. It was a very short article, very to the point. Burkina has moved down in the classifications and is now second from last place.

Here’s a rough translation of some of the article, which is too good to miss: “The reality is that we are LAST place. We have to say “last”, because the only nation we are ahead of is Sierra Leone, a country that has just suffered through a war. Why has Burkina for so many years continued to wear the dunce’s cap? The answer is to be found in the naval-gazing of our leaders, which makes them incapable of seeing any farther than the ends of their noses. The worst of it is that they don’t even accept this bad performance as a reproach to their governance. According to them, the fault all lies with the PNUD evaluation itself, which gives ‘too much weight to factors that are not representative’. Poor Burkina!”

Once again, the folks over at L’Evenement don’t hestitate to speak out against the absurd, incompetent regime here. Life expectancy, infant mortality, literacy, etc are all not keeping pace with increases everywhere else in the world. Burkina’s people are losing ground daily and the government thinks to distract them with the occasional pathetic parade or speech. Bread and circuses anyone? Hey-the average citizen here would LOVE some food and a good show. But the entertainment on offer is frankly sub-par. The parade on the 11^th in honor the National Republic Day was mainly an opportunity for the elites to pat themselves on the back. Certainly none of the modest folks that I work with daily knew anything about the supposedly delightful distraction proposed by their loving government. As for those people working downtown, all it did was prevent them from getting to work on time for several days (there were rehearsals for the parade that shut down the center of town for hours a day). And as for the “bread” part of the equation, that would be much appreciated, as hunger and malnutrition are rife here. But there’s no free lunch. Or even a small free snack.

I'd rather write about my scissors being held hostage and other non-controversial drivel, but sometimes I can't restrain myself.

Sunday night’s entertainment began with a couple of musical interludes and then segued right into a dramatic re-enactment of the ever-popular Rudolph saga. My twins sported small, festive foam reindeer antlers and pranced around in what they apparently thought was a very reindeer-like fashion. I guess those reindeer really know how to move. Who knew? Anyway, they, along with a couple of supplementary animals (not quite 8, but enough to give a good effect) danced around , while a much smaller boy had been recruited for the title role. Severin took on the part of Santa, complete with a pretty good costume. We had stuffed a pillow under the coat at rehearsal, but it had given a distressingly square form to Santa’s traditional jolly paunch. So, I got out the Xmas pageant costume box and found the oval chunk of foam that annually has served as Saint Mary’s expectant contours. Sev complained, of course. Not only did he have to be in a “humiliating” show with smaller children and perform it in front of all his friends, but now he was a… pregnant Santa! Oh, the shame of it. We all hastened to assure him that on him the foam block was very masculine, muy macho and as testosterone-laden as all-getout. And it was true. Nobody looks at a Santa in full regalia and thinks “Wow. A miracle of reproductive science. How many months along?” We somehow convinced him and , good sport that he is, he threw himself into the role. As the strains of Harry Connick jr played, he smiled genially, encouraging the small freakish deer's self-esteem with kindly gestures and gentle pats on the back. JP filmed it all, but I am unsure how it turned out, as technology is not his friend.
Soon after, Valentine and I sang “Lo, How a Rose Ere Blooming”, a lovely old carol. I had asked a friend to come sing the alto part for us, but she came down with a bad cold this week, leaving us with two treble voices. But we dressed it up with a couple of solo bits and got through in good form.
Afterwards there were snacks and “”fellowship. I was worried about this last, as putting JP in a room with a bunch of protestant missionaries is never predictable, as he has no diplomatic skills to speak of. When someone is being an intolerant psychopath, I can just back away gradually and hide behind a shrub until they go away. JP is more likely to drive right in: “So. Intolerant psychopath, are you? How stupid.” He is the least hypocritical person I know, but you have to watch him closely in public. Can be awkward. Luckily, a Swiss friend was there. She’s a missionary, but very open-minded, as the best of them are, and was happy to debate with JP for a while.

The kids had yesterday off school. Most of the country was closed down, in fact, as it was the national holiday of the republic of Burkina Faso. The kids invited some pals over, so there were seven of them to keep busy. I mixed up a mega-batch of salt dough and had them make Christmas ornaments and whathaveyou. Mallory got ambitious and made her own crèche figures. She went heavy on the farm animals. In fact, she made so many that we had trouble stuffing Mary and Joseph into the stable with them.

The rest of the wedding story should appear soon, with any luck. I won't have much time to write today, though. I have to figure out what snacks to serve a group of 30 Christmas carolers due at my house at 6pm tonight. This is not the simple task it would be else where in the world. For example, if I want chocolate chip cookies for the event, I have to go downtown to a special shop, buy chocolate bars, take them home and chop them up. And on the way I'll have to remember to stop at the pharmacy to buy baking soda. They don't sell it in food shops. How's that for strange?

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I thought we could slip out unnoticed. That was my plan. We’d stay for the ceremony and then quietly get into our car and drive off. My plan went the usual way of all plans in Burkina: straight to hell. WAWA, as we say around here. West Africa Wins Again.
The invitation arrived weeks ago, tri-fold cardboard covered with gold script and drawings of rings, doves , bells, flowers, ribbons, and monogrammed flying saucers (as near as I could tell). There were also creepy disembodied hands and a very un-African looking couple in wedding finery occupying the central spot.
The marriage of Djakaridja and Banvin would take place at the City Hall at Bogodogo on December 8 at 4pm. This grand fête was to be presented by the Gnamou, Yao, Ganou, Tome, Lougue, Siripe, Sougue, Gnisse, Mien and Bitie, Damoue, Ivo, Ybia and Boudo families. Each was carefully listed, along with their respective villages of origin and residence. It made for about 20 lines of text. Reading a wedding invitation here requires serious time and commitment.
Frankly, I had other plans for Saturday. I didn’t even know these people. We got invited because JP knows Banvin through his work among the Winyé. But in the interest of marital harmony, I agreed to buy the gift, get dressed up and go to the wedding. I carefully avoided committing to the “lunch” that was being offered afterwards.
Getting ready to go was an epic saga. I had spent my day from 8am to 3pm at a jumble sale, melting in the heat, trying to unload outgrown clothes and toys so as to make room for incoming Xmas gifts. The second I got back home, I was set upon by various people needing money, medical help, or just stopping by to say “Bonjour”. The phone also rang for me constantly. All in all, it was pretty hard to get presentable in the short time allotted. At one point, I thought I was good to go, but JP sent me back, pronouncing my hair to be completely out of control: “en bataille” as they say in French. I finally got it subdued to his satisfaction and we jumped into the car, rushing to make it in time for the ceremony. A few minutes before four o’clock, we pulled up in front of the City Hall of …..Baskuy. Bogodogo is the other one, on the other side of town. Right. We turned around and headed east. We got there about 15 minutes late- far too late to get even a place to stand inside the tiny, crowded room where civil marriages are done. It’s a sad little room, hidden at the back of the building. Meant to hold about 50 persons seated, it invariably is stuffed with over 100, and the overflow crowds around outside the doors to peer inside. Marriages are, by definition, a big affair in Burkina Faso. Not to invite your entire village of origin is unthinkable. Of course, not everyone has the means to travel to Ouaga for a wedding, but it still makes for crowds far in excess of a few dozen people.
Anyway, we were late, too late to even get a good spot outside the door, so we sat in the shade out in the dirt parking lot, attending the wedding at some abstract level.

After the wedding were the photos. Many, many, many photos. A small garden area on the grounds provided the backdrop for every conceivable permutation of wedding picture. I even ended up in one. Next to me is my friend Delphine. She is a small, elegant person with a severe hat fetish. I have known her for about 15 years and over this period her headwear has steadily increased in size. If a strong wind caught one of them, it would snap her neck like a twig. Luckily, it was a calm day and the the picture session went well.
But the fun was only beginning. There was no escaping the “lunch”. JP had his heart set on joining the festivities, which were to be held at a nearby outdoor restaurant. But as we had no idea exactly where it was, we were obliged to be a part of the wedding cortege, a line of cars driving slowly along, lights flashing and horns blaring. We drove and drove and drove, blocking traffic for miles. We putted around for about 20 minutes, finally ending up at the restaurant – which turned out to be about two blocks away from where the marriage had been held.

The reception meal was astonishing and merits its own blog entry, which I hope to find time to write soon. Right now, I’m busy preparing for tonight’s Christmas program in church. Valentine and I are singing a duet and the other three kids are part of a dramatic re-enactment of the Rudolph saga. The twins are reindeer and Sev gets to be Santa. ( He does not, just so you know, have shifty eyes. I made that up.)

A not uncommon sight in our home is me, stalking about the place muttering "Where are my scissors? Somebody has kidnapped my scissors!" They are supposed to repose in jar on top of my desk, but somehow never seem to find there way back there after they have been used to create some marvel of "bricolage" by one of the children. Hence, I spend a lot of my time wandering around like a demented old lady looking for her lost cat. "Where could they BE?" I demand querulously....
Then yesterday, all became clear. Well , as clear as it could be , given that some of the spelling was kind of creative. I found this RANSOM note laying on my desk.
It informed me that my scissors are in "captiviti"and if I wanted them back safe and sound, I would need to come up with 100,000 euros by midnight...
I suspect Severin is the culprit. He has shifty eyes. Also, there are bits of cut-up newpaper all over his bedroom floor. Take THAT Sherlock Holmes!

Early yesterday morning was a time of much rejoicing. Unto us a pig was born! (Hey-it IS almost December. Just getting into the holiday spirit.) Mallory’s beloved guinea pig (Bubbles) had given birth in the night to a fuzzy little baby. He was already stumbling around the cage, squeaking mildly. It might have been tiny cries of distress, as he had undoubtedly overheard the twins discussing his name. Candidates under consideration were: Gingerbread, TwinkleStar and Sugar Cookie. God bless 9 year old girls.
In the end, they went with just “Cookie”.

"Corruption in Burkina Faso: Business Climate Really Improves!" was the headline of an article in one of today's newspapers in Burkina Faso. Here's a translation of how it began:

"Without a bribe, you may have to wait years for your merchandise. There's nothing you can do..." says a Burkinabe small-business owner. The report "Doing Business 2008" that outlines the business environment of variuous nations was published on September 26 by the World Bank and the International Finance Corporation. It ranked Burkina as 37th in Africa and the 161st in the world rankings, out of 178 countries. This is relatively better than previous years and the progress is much touted in the local newspapers, as well as TV and radio. Burkina was 165th in 2007......

The press releases from the World Bank , Burkinabé government, and etc. are relentlessly upbeat. L'Evenement isn't buying the offical line, though. I love how the bold black type claiming that the business climate is "Really Improved" is immediately followed by a quote illustrating how bad it still is. I also enjoy the subtle dig at the local tv, radio stations and many rival newspapers that never seem to research anything. They just publish the government press releases and keep their heads down...which is probably wise. A top journalist in Niger was just thrown into prison last September for annoying the powers that be. He is still being detained and faces life in prison. Being a journalist is hazardous stuff when done correctly, especially in West Africa.

We had an excellent Thanksgiving Day and I hope to soon have a short movie on YouTube to prove it. Not like it was easy, mind you. When I called the supermarket that morning to inquire about my fat French turkeys, I was informed that they hadn’t arrived. Due to the strikes in France, the cargo flight on Wednesday night never left the ground. OK. On to Plan B….except there WAS no freaking Plan B. So, I quickly moved on to Plan C, which involved throwing myself upon the mercy of the shop owner, begging him to find me enough turkey to feed 20 hungry people. He (a nice Lebanese gentleman) said he’d call around to some of his “connections” and get back to me. My cell phone rang 15 minutes later. I felt vaguely like I was involved in an illegal drug transaction. I was told that I could pick up my “package” in one hour.That was good, as it gave me time to pass by yet another (5^th!) pharmacy in search of the medications I needed, and mail off a Christmas parcel to some American friends in France (Hi Gina, Gaetano and offspring! Merry Noël!). At the supermarket (which is about the size of a medium-sized 7-11 in the USA) I picked up a few last minute items, then went to the butcher's counter, only to be told the order hadn’t arrived. I hung around for half an hour, making impulse purchases (I came home with a bottle of whole cloves and discovered that I already had a nearly full bottle sitting on the shelf. I guess we can make some of those spiffy old-fashioned pomanders out of apples and ribbons…..BTW-What are you supposed to DO with them.? Does anybody still use them? Do you WANT your clothes to smell like mummified fruit? I just don’t know.)The birds finally arrived, their corpses still warm and legs sticking straight up in the throes of rigor mortis. ( Yum!) The meat-counter guys stuffed them into a plastic sack, but it was too small and the stiff yellow feet poked up out of the top of the bag like a flower arrangement for the Addams family. I put this attractive bundle into my cart and rushed to the front of the shop. I had to get home and get them cooking or they’d never be ready by 6pm. And all the delay had put me behind schedule for school pick-ups…..Anyway, I finally got home and got to work. I had two boxes, as the check-out guys at the shop had separated the birds and sealed them in cartons with tape. I cut the tape and looked inside. The things looked big. Really big. Like, SO big that they would never, ever both fit into my oven, which admittedly does bear some resemblance to the Easy Bake Oven of my childhood -though it does work with a gas bottle and not a lightbulb, which is good. But I digress. I mixed up the stuffing, frantically trying to figure out who could lend me their oven for four hours. Most of the people invited to the event already had their ovens occupied by bread, green bean casseroles, pies. And my Burkinabé friends that live nearby don’t have ovens. Finally, luckily, I remembered that pal H. might have some oven space, so I ended up rushing one of the foil-wrapped monsters over to her house. When I got back, I found our Cecile (our cook) , Celine and Fanta (the maid/nannies) almost in tears over the burnt-orange tablecloths I’d had sewn up the day before. They had dried on the line wrinkled and the heavy fabric was impossible to smooth with our feeble Chinese iron. Next, they had borrowed the neighbour’s nicer one from Germany, which also couldn’t cope. It’s lucky I came home in time to prevent a melt-down. They get upset about this kind of stuff. As nearly as I can make out, they find it distressing that people would think that I have useless home helpers- the kind that don’t even know how to provide starchy-crispy table linens. After some effort, I got Cecile and Celine to leave the linens to their wrinkly fate go on home.
Then Fanta (no relation to the soft drink mentioned is my last post) noticed that the turkey was no longer cooking. Really. So, we made the world’s quickest trip to buy a gas bottle. Then there was me accidentally breaking off the pull-ring of the protective plastic tab that covers the nozzle. Time was passing and the stupid turkey was just sitting there in the rapidly-cooling oven.

Then the home haircut lady, Marte, came to cut Severin’s hair. I got a neighbour to come over and help us with the gas bottle. The flower guy showed up with the floral arrangements. I set the tables and started making the gravy. Then H. called and said their car was not starting and could I please pick them up? I grabbed my keys and headed out to the car, passing by Marte, waiting to be paid for the haircut. I took care of that and was back in 15 minutes with the H. family. I walked in the door and caught sight of Severin. Marte had given him what is best described as a Dorothy Hamill wedge. He looked adorable- just like an 11 year old girl. But hey- no time for fashion recriminations! The party was starting!
The décor was much admired. Nobody cried out in horror at the tablecloths (or at Severin's hair. Alothough Tony snickered to himself. I saw that!) The flowers and candles looked great and the food was excellent. But I had to leave for a while right in the middle, as I had to pick up two little girls arriving from Mali (friends of the twins, here for a track meet). So in the end, there were 23 people at my little party!
After the meal, T. (a former Seattle barista turned missionary) made coffee and we played Apples To Apples until late in the night.
No Friday off for us. No Black Friday retail madness. Just business as usual today.

Yesterday was a busy morning, as I scurried about, getting ready for the big Thanksgiving feast scheduled to occur at my house today at 6 pm sharpish.
There was the usual stuff to buy….well, not so much. There's no cranberry sauce in the shops or canned pumpkin. But I did buy bread at the bakery, so that I could make the stuffing. I also hunted around town, trying to track down some decent soft drinks for my guests. For years, all you could get in Burkina were Coke and Orange Fanta. Over the past few years, the local bottling company franchise added Fanta Citron (lemon), Fanta Cocktail (citrus+mango) and, finally last year, the piece de resistance: Fanta Fiesta (strawberry!!). As I think Orange Fanta is a tool of Satan ("Welcome to Hell!" says Old Nick "Have a drink of this Orange Fanta, then we'll get you right to work raking live coals with your bare hands"), I was much heartened. But it was not to last. They quit making Fiesta a couple of months ago, and the Cocktail and Citron are nearly impossible to find. But after visiting several distributors yesterday, I happened upon a cache of Cocktail. Victory was mine!!!
As turkeys are rare birds (ha!) around here, I had to order ours a while back. In the interests of our holiday protein intake, I went by the butcher’s yesterday to verify that the promised birds would show up as scheduled this morning. I had to order two, as I was told they’d only weigh between 6 and 9 pounds each – a far cry from the 25 lb Godzilla-turkeys that roam the freezer sections of American supermarkets. Later, I was tempted by some inexpensive harvesty-colored fabric at the marketplace, so I suddenly decided to have new tablecloths sewn up for the event. As if I needed more to do. That involved a trip to the tailor, then they had to be picked up later, washed and ironed.
I also had a doctor’s appointment, had to get my head examined (X-rayed, specifically) and then there were many (4!) drives to various pharmacies searching for all the needed meds. My allergy woes and stomach ailments are too numerous and boring to go into. Suffice it to say that the amoebas will be gone soon and my cranium, while having a nice symmetrical configuration, has less than lovely sinus cavities.
While I was in the waiting room at the doctor’s office, I was re-reading Eat, Pray, Love. (thanks Babzee!) I came to the line where The author writes that her sister has described her sartorial style as “Stevie Nicks goes to yoga class in her pyjamas”. I once again had a good laugh at this, but glancing down at my worn tapettes, old pagne, grimy fingernails and frizzy, demented hair, I thought “Geez- My style must be: Stevie Nicks’ poverty-stricken sister goes to yoga class in her pyjamas during the sack of Rome.”

As if I needed any further distractions, I recently found THIS very entertaining and useful site. You define a series of words and earn 10 grains of rice per correct answer. It shows you a little picture of a wooden bowl that gradually fills, but it's not just virtual. The rice really is donated to the United Nations World Food Program and goes to feed hungry people.
If you have a spare minute, it is worth the time!
The difficulty of the words increases as you answer correctly. The words are divided into levels from 1 to 50 and the site info says that people rarely go beyond level 48. Vocab maven that I am, I reached the mid 40s within minutes, but can't seem to stay at 50 for long. Guess I don't know every word in the dictionary. .....
Still more interesting news: If you check the links at right, you'll see a new one for my recycled paper projet here in Ouaga. The site is up and running at www.papiersdusahel.org.
More news, but maybe not so interesting: Aslan has been under the weather. We had to take him to the vet, where I got to demonstrate yet again how good my command of the local lingo is. "My goat has sores on his butt", I said clearly and confidently in well-accented French. How many times in your life do you get to say something like that and really mean it?
The chickens all had to visit the vet's office, as well. They have....... Chicken Pox. Really. I'm not kidding. It's called that for a reason, you know.

He nearly sliced the thief with his trusty machete! Our elderly guardian may look frail, but Salfo apparently does not lack courage. It was 2am on Wednesday morning when Salfo spotted a young man climbing over the garden wall that separates our yard from that of our neighbors on the right. He had been on the lookout, as we have had two thefts within the last few months. In July, two pairs of JP's shoes were stolen off our terrace. Then, while I was in the hospital with malaria, the thief struck again, carrying off no less than three pairs of expensive shoes. This left my older kids with no tennis shoes to wear to school. Which is a problem, as they are required for gym class. For reasons I will explain below, it is VERY hard to replace shoes here, so it really is a problem. For the moment, Valentine and Severin are sharing an old pair of JP's tennis shoes. They alternate wearing them. It's kind of like "Little House on the Prarie" where Laura and Mary have just the one pair of lace-up boots to wear to school and have to share.
Anyway, when the thief showed up a third time, we were all ready. The shoes were all under lock and key in a cupboard and the guardians on full alert. Salfo heard a sound up by the terrace, grabbed his machete and came to investigate. A young guy wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt was climbing over the south wall. Salfo ran up and took a few swings at him. Completely paniced, the thief fell backwards over the wall and back down into Tony's yard. He scrambled to his feet and sprinted towards the back wall, which faces an abandoned lot. He quickly vaulted it and ran off into the night.
All the racket woke up Tony and Kirstin. As their bedroom is on the south side of their house, they were right next to all the action. Our bedrooms, however, are on the opposite side of the house, so we slept through it all, despite our open windows.
We only learned about all the excitement when we woke up the next morning. Salfo was very pleased with himself. He was very brave, but I'm still glad he didn't actually chop anyone's limbs off.
We are hoping the robber won't be back. But who knows? In the meantime, I have to figure out the shoe situation. It's complicated. Here's a short tutorial on Shoes in Burkina:
"Tapettes". In the USA we call them flip-flops, beach sandals or thongs, the latter term NOT to be confused with a "thong", which is very uncomfortable type of underpants. Tapettes are the most typical kind of footwear found in Burkina. They are cheap- the going rate is 600 cfa a pair (just over $1), so they are affordable and available, arriving by the container-load from China. You can easily buy them in any marketplace and no haggling over the price is required. Any other type of shoe, though, is a completely different matter. For any style other than a simple tapette, you need to go to one of the special shoe markets. There you find open-air stands full of a myriad of styles- shoes that also come from China and tend to be very cheap imitations of popular brands. So, you browse, checking out the shoddy "Nikes", "Air Jordans", etc. Then you start to talk price and things get bad. If you are a non-local, especially a white-colored non-local, the vendors take you for a complete idiot and start quoting very high prices. Prices far beyond what I would even pay in the USA. It's completely ridiculous and frustrating. You see Burkinabe kids wearing these shos and you know their parents did not pay 60 dollars a pair or even 30 dollars. It drives me mad and I refuse to pay even $30 for a bad pair of shoes that I could get at a Walmart for $9, all because I'm the wrong color.
So, here we are, one month later and I have still not solved this problem.
BTW, In another shoe-related incident, my tapettes disappeared on Friday night, then mysteriously reappeared on Saturday morning. I had been to a party at a friend's house that night and left my shoes on the terrace, as is good manners here in Burkina. But when I went to leave, my black tappettes were gone and in their place was a brown pair. We figured that one of the other guests must have slipped mine on my accident. But who? It was a mystery. Saturday morning, I ran some errands. When I got home at 10am, the brown tapettes I'd left on my terrace by our door had been replaced with my own black ones. I later thanked my friend for finding my shoes, but she had no clue what I was talking about. Very odd.

Pulling a cart did not figure high on Aslan's list of "Fun Activities for Goats". I doubt it was even in the top 50. But Mallory's love and patience has paid off. Now he pulls the cart all around the neighborhood. He doesn't even have to be bribed with tasty snacks.
Today, he even gave a little neighbor girl a ride all the way around the block. I wanted to get some good pictures, but the battery in the camera ran out before I could. But here are a couple of Aslan and Mal that I managed to get before the camera shut down on us.

Good news: the Papiers du Sahel website will rise again. Eventually. We lost our old domain name and the site is down, but it will be all be replaced under the name www.papiersdusahel.org, or something similar. I am not sure when, but it will happen!
More good news: JP (my oh-so-clever DH) just got another book published this fall. You only want to try to read it if you a.) speak French and b.)are very smart. On the other hand, there are several pictures. Which is good for me. Anyway, if you are a brainy, French-reading person interested by land tenure issues among the Winyé of Burkina Faso, this is the book for you.
Yet MORE good news: Valentine has been blogging a bit more regularly. Check on her blog from time to time. She's a funny girl.
And finally: those wishing for a closer look at the winning Halloween costumes of the Jacob family have only to click on the photo album link at right. From there, click on the Oct 07 album. Many, many pics.

Here's a cake I made on the weekend for the birthday of little Zoe next door. This is just to show you that I keep busy while not blogging.
Also: I have had a few people write and say that the Papiers du Sahel website seems to be down. When you try the link, you get a sanitation project site. Now, I am all for sanitation, but I think it's pretty mean they grabbed our site name. I have written to my helper in Canada and asked "What's up with that?". I will doubtless soon have some info for you all.
More news: I finally managed to sell my demonic Land Cruiser. It is no longer mine and there is a song in my heart! I am now driving a Toyota Corolla station wagon that does not seem to break down on a near-daily basis. Which is nice.

The week leading up to Halloween was spent in a frenzy of sewing, cutting, gluing, measuring and the application of lots of shiny black paint. The result was some pretty great costumes and prizes all around!
The kids went trick or treating through the US Embassy grounds. We used to do a house to house thing, but the security officer for the Embassy now says it's a "security risk". So now the kids go round from office to office and get their sweets.
Then there was a great party over at the Rec Center. There were lots of games and a costume contest. Mallory carried off first place with her pirate costume. Severin came in second as Darth Vader. Alexa came in fourth as a goth girl/vampire, but friends assure me that it must have been a political decision, as letting the Jacob family take all three top places might have been looked upon dimly by some.
The other big news around here is that the goat cart has arrived!! Aslan finds it rather alarming, but I'm sure Mallory's patience will win him over. Right now when he's hitched up to it, he can only be coaxed into taking a few steps when bribed by massive amounts of saltine crackers. Expect pictures soon!