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.

Now I know why my friends in Chad haven't answered my e-mail. They have probably been evacuated to the French-run high school that is (thankfully) near their home.
I just figured this out as I checked today's news before packing my bag for the Gourcy excursion. After complaining recently that it's hard to get news about Chad, I was today confronted with two big headlines when I opened up my iGoogle news page.
The BBC said "Chad Rebels Fight Inside Capital".

USA Today said:
Chad rebels enter capital

Updated 1h 6m ago |

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NAIROBI, Kenya (AP) — Hundreds of rebels penetrated the capital of Chad on Saturday, clashing with government troops and moving on the presidential palace after a three-day advance through the central African nation, officials and witnesses said.
Col. Thierry Burkhard, a French military spokesman, said groups of rebels gathered outside the capital, N'Djamena, overnight before 1,000-1,500 fighters entered early Saturday and spread through the city.

A leader of Chad's main opposition alliance, which is unarmed and not associated with the rebels, said shooting erupted after rebels entered the city around 8 a.m. but appeared to die down about two hours later. Ibni Oumar Mahamat Saleh said about 12:45 p.m. that there were no soldiers in his neighborhood and state radio had gone off the air.

"At the moment we are not hearing any firing ... The rebels are in the city. Civilians are in the streets. They are watching what is happening," said Saleh.

The French and American governments had told their citizens to assemble in secure locations as witnesses reported looting, gunfire and explosions near government buildings
France's embassy in Chad sent messages over Radio France Internationale to tell citizens to head to the Lycee Francais high school and two other locations in N'Djamena a French diplomatic official said on condition of anonymity because government policy barred him from providing his name
The U.S. Embassy said in a bulletin on its website that any American citizens seeking evacuation should immediately move to the embassy. State Department spokesman Karl Duckworth said the embassy had authorized the departure of non-essential personnel and family members.

Read the rest of the story 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!

Yesterday I finally received a Christmas card from some friends living in N'Djamena. (Chad isn't all that far away from Burkina, but it took about a month to get here!) And yesterday's e-mails included one from a pal living in Canada- someone who lived in Chad with her family before moving to Burkina and then finally back to Alberta. So, Chad was definitely on my mind this morning when JP came into my office and told me that he had just heard on RFI (Radio France Info) that things in D'jamena are quite bad. Schools are shut and the city is locked down. He heard that UFDD rebels are again in the capital ( just like last April when the government forces had to fight them off)
Most people know at least a bit about the situation in Sudan, but many(in the US, anyway) don't realise that there are serious problems in their neighbor to the west. Chad's unpopular dictator/president is under pressure from rebel groups- groups that the government claims are created by and are tools of Sudan. Right. It's impossible that his own people could just be unhappy with his tyrannical, single-party rule.
A joint statement released Tuesday by some human rights associations and the largest trade-union group in the country recently denounced « the return to dictatorship in Chad. » The manager of FM Liberté radio was arrested recently for refusing to let the police to monitor all news read on the radio station and for " allowing the leader of the Liberal Party of Chad to denounce the anti-Sudanese demonstrations in N’djamena. The ruling party organised the demonstrations, accusing the Sudanese authorities of supporting the rebels hostile to President Idriss Deby Itno." You can read about it here.
Anyway, all this is going on and not a word about it could I find on my iGoogle headlines this morning. I have it set to show me: Reuters, CNN, BBC, MSNBC, Fox, New York Times, NPR, USA Today....Nothing obscure or specialised. I use it to give me an idea of what the "rest of the world" is hearing about. And nobody seems to be getting much info about Chad. At least Kenya's plight is getting good media coverage.
I am just hoping that Anne and her family are safe. I have sent her an e-mail, but I have no idea if she'll be able to access it.
Blogger is threatening a "scheduled outage". Don't know when I'll be back.

I'm spending this afternoon printing out a hard copy of my blog. What if the Blogspot servers were consumed in a tragic fire? Engulfed by a tsunami? Attacked by blog-hostile aliens getting crazy with the EMPs? Living in Africa really drives home the absolute knowledge that Something is Going To Go Wrong. Disaster isn't just around the corner. Disaster is already at your house, sitting in the best TV watching chair, eating all the cashews out of the mixed nuts.
So, being very closely acquainted with all that can go wrong in life, I have decided that I really need a tree-based, plastic-encased version of Burkinamom's Life in Africa. That way I can reread it when I get back to France. I'll be sitting on a blanket in the green grass, admiring our view of the Alps and Burkina will seem very, very far away.
I've got 100 posts printed. Only about 85 more to go!
I couldn't print anything at all this morning, as there was no electricity. It goes off most mornings, as does the water.

When I go to the gym over at the Rec Center, I watch TV. In fact, the TV is what has kept me going there over the past few years. While my rear has not gotten discernably slimmer, I have gained a low resting heart rate and a great appreciation for Dr. Phil. He's on at 9am (local time) on channel 2 of the AFN. That's the Armed Forces Network and it's a trip. For those of you not familiar with it (and I bet that's most of you) it's the satelite network that supplies TV shows from the US of A to all of our soldiers all over the world. Lost, American Idol, House, and other delights are all on offer 24/7. We get it at the Rec, because the club is affiliated with the US Embassy here.
Actually, what's really striking about the programming is the commercials aimed at the military audience. They are not actually ads, per se, but public service announcements. Apparently, the members of the US military need to hear A LOT about the evils of: gambling addiction, suicide, domestic violence, credit card debt, dehydration, shaken babies, crash diets, rape and depression. (and who wouldn't be depressed after all that. Sheesh). What you get during the breaks between shows is a couple of these cheery PSAs, along with one exhorting you to become a demolitions expert or a Navy SEAL. Very strange.

Today 's Dr.Phil was about the pros and cons of the "baggy pants" worn by many" fashionable ghetto-rific persons and ghetto-rific-wanabes in the USA. By "baggy", they don't mean "large", they mean: hanging down so low your underpants are on prominent display. This strikes me as very silly, but not worthy of concern, but I guess several US cities have banned the style and impose fines. It was all very goofy and easily got me through a one hour aerobic work-out. Adding to my entertainment was the short "Guess this state capital" featurette that was on right afterwards. "My state capital features a replica of the Greek Parthenon!" the nice lady informed me, as they showed a tape of a big building that looked just like, well, the Parthenon that is in Greece. But this one looked lots newer. Now even a cursory glance at Wikipedia informs me that the Parthenon in still "one of the world's greatest cultural monuments". I had kind of been wondering if that had changed. Like maybe it had been decided that the Parthenon just wasn't "all that" and people were no longer being told that it's the most important surviving building of Classical Greece? Like maybe if they didn't specify that it was a copy of the Greek Parthenon, we might all think it was a replica of the Chicago Parthenon (which is a nice little restaurant on South Halsted, but pretty unprepossessing, architecturally speaking. Why the heck would somebody copy it?)
BTW- AFN is showing American Idol on Thursday night and the ad said they would be showing the auditions from Omaha, Nebraska!! Go Big Red!

Call me biased, (heck, I’ll do it myself "BurkinaBIASEDMom, that's my name. Don't wear it out!” ) but an article written by JP was published in yesterday’s issue of L’Evenement and it was pretty brilliant.
Here’s a little background for you. I won’t go into great detail, as it’s pretty complicated, but this is the outline: There is a small community in eastern Burkina called Kounkounfouano. It’s probably not on your map. It’s been a good place to grow crops and raise cattle but not anything to get excited about. It’s so small that it doesn’t have it’s own chief. They have been under the jurisdiction of the chief of Natiboani (a nearby village). And things worked out pretty well, until gold was discovered in Koukounfouano. All of a sudden, the chief of Boudanggou/Gonaba was claiming that the hamlet owed him allegiance (including, not surprisingly, a share of the gold). Well, the King of the Gulmou got wind of all this and called both chiefs to his palace in Fada so he could resolve the conflict. Both chiefs are under him and have to admit that the King is the “Boss of Them” (as my younger kids might put it.). So, the King had a listen and pretty quickly decided in favour of the traditional authority of the Chief of Natiaboani. And he told them to go home and play nice.
And it looked like things were going to be ok, until the government started mixing into matters they didn’t understand. It was small things at first. When it was time to vaccinate the kids in Kounkounfouano against measles, they tried to send health workers from Boudango/Gonaba , rather than from Natiaboani. The villagers thought it was another political manoeuvre to undercut their recognised chief and refused. Next, the government sent census agents from the wrong village. And the people of Burkina don’t much like census agents in the first place……After some other events, things escalated. Men from Gonaba attacked Kounkounfouano. The government sent in the CRS (riot police!!) on December 19. Two men were killed and many homes destroyed.

So, what does my dh have to say about the problem? First of all, he remarks on the title of the newspaper article that described all the events that I just outlined above. It was called something like “Rural Land Rights- A Deadly Powder Keg”. He points out that this is very unfair, as the rural areas of Burkina are remarkable for the very small amount of conflict there is over land. And certainly there is very little real violence. Problems are usually well-regulated by traditional authorities.
His next point is that the government needs to realise that the services provided to rural populations by the local authorities are seen by the people as a means of creating their identity and of either reinforcing or undercutting their political allegiances. It matters very much to these people where their police/vaccines/census takers come from, as they see it as a way of saying where they do or don’t “belong”, who they do or don't have to listen to. And in this case, they don't want to obey (and give crops and gold) to the Chief of Gonaba and want no confusion about the matter.
His main point, to sum up the rest, is that the government administration here needs to be better organised and to respect the local populations more. No arguing with that.
When the article, which is quite long, ends up on their online version of the paper, I’ll link to it asap.

Instead of blogging yesterday, I made the colourful, possibly blinding, cake at left. Why is it that many things intended for young children are very, very bright? They are not all sight-impaired, just small and incontinent.
Anyway, the confection features “Dora the Explorer”. For those of you that aren’t in touch with the trends in little kid entertainment over the last decade, Dora is a cartoon child that wanders around a cartoon forest promoting bilingual education. Her parents, if they exist, are extremely neglectful. She is alone all day long in the woods, with only a perverted money for company. Boots (the monkey in question) hangs around wearing ONLY a pair of boots. That’s it. Kind of creepy. They need to decide: either he’s a normal money and has no need of any clothes or he’s a completely anthropomorphic primate and should be given a pair of pants. Just boots is kind of kinky, IMHO.

Well, it’s not my call. I just make the cakes.

Morning is the best part of the day in Ouaga. The sun is always up around 6:30 am all year long. (It's that equatorial thing. No long, dark winters for us!) The birds make a pleasant racket outside in our treetops. The guardians make a somewhat less pleasant racket with their transister radios as they listen to the news in Mooré.
This morning was pretty typical. JP was up, per usual , around 5:30am. He's an early bird, though I cannot say that he is particularly interested by worms. He usually likes to read in the early morning. The rest of us were up by 6. I got the breakfast ready. Not like it’s an intricate task - we tend to eat cereal, though I do try to make something nice at least once a week. This morning there were whole wheat pancakes- healthy pancakes, if there is such a creature. By 6:33 the sun was up and Mal was out in the backyard pampering her beloved goats. JP was still getting ready in the bedroom : exercise, shaving, shower, etc. Now, I consider the pre-bedtime shower indispensable to any hope of an organised morning. So, while JP goads me about my forgetfulness (or not-so-early-onset senility), I tease him about his drawn-out morning rituals. It takes him forever to get ready to go anywhere! But at least he doesn’t fit the stereotype of the hygiene-impaired French person, which, btw is not an entirely unfounded one , as we shall see.
As usual, Aslan found his way into the kitchen. He had to be coaxed out by Mal waving saltine crackers and brandishing her trusty herding stick.
Al needed a hairdressing services, as I had put curlers in her hair last night. Her hair is so long that they took ages to put in and even longer to take out. It turned out very impressive, though, trés Sleeping-Beauty. The envy of the 4^th grade class
As 7 am rolled around, I was afraid the twins would be late for school. Their carpool ride was behind schedule, not for the first time. Al remarked to me: “This morning it’s X’s dad- he’s always late. He takes a long time to get ready in the morning -kind of like Papa. But I don’t know why. He doesn’t smell very good.” Ouch. She said it in a nice way, just remarking casually. But still…ouch. I tried not to laugh and suggested that she not mention it to him, as it would hurt his feelings and probably have no effect on his aroma. She assured me, rather offended, that she wouldn’t dream of it and then added “It’s just bad now because it’s cold in the morning and he keeps the windows up. It will be better when there’s more air.” Ever the pragmatist, that child. I didn’t have the heart to point out that the hot season will arrive in March, which will doubtlessly mean more sweat from the Euro-Dad , plus closed windows with the air-con on!

Happy Belated MLK JR Day. Sorry I missed it, but this cartoon is a brilliant tribute. It combines repect for Martin Luther King Junior's accomplishments and a hatred of dopey, made-up names for innocent babies. I am not alone in my aversion. There is even an entire, very funny, website for people that think naming your baby something like "Mackaylan Neveah" is not, perhaps, giving her the best start in life. They check out the various baby-naming forums, unearthing all the latest atrocities. "Trinnitey" is one I spotted today. As if 'Trinity' correctly spelled wasn't bad enough. You have to see it to believe it. And all the snarky comments are very entertaining.

Two updates:
1. Things are going relatively well for Aisha and her family. She explained to me that her father "put a blessing" on his children before he died. And what he did NOT do was give Aisha's half-brother living out in the village the power to marry off the girls. So, while Aisha won't be getting any help from the extended family (due to a longstanding feud between her father and his brothers) she doesn't have to face getting married to an elderly stranger, which happens to many young girls here. On the other hand, she has a severely mentally-ill mother and three primary-school aged siblings to support. They will also soon have a housing problem, as the people that own the two rooms where the five of them live want them to leave asap.
Besides some direct financial help to get them through this hard time, I also managed to get Aisha a contract to sew costumes for the school musical at the nearby International School. So, she's really pleased to have some well-paying work. As for the long term, I'd really like to be able to help her buy some inexpensive property to live on and open a small sewing business. I have already had a couple of wonderful people in the USA say they could chip in money to help her out. And I have some money set aside to contribute, too. Right now, Aisha is looking at places, trying to find someplace cheap, but not too far out of the city.

2. As for the Niger situation, here is a comment just posted by a good friend:
Thanks, Beth, for being one of the few people writing in English about the Niger situation. But hey, it's all fixed, no? The two French journalists who were detained--completely horribly--have been let out on bail. And that's all that matters, right? Of course, their local chauffeur remains in jail on serious charges; and Moussa Kaka, the radio journalist in Niamey, remains in jail; and Diallo, the writer for the Air magazine, is still jailed in Agadez; all on the same b.s. charges of helping the rebellion by just doing their job.

Let's hope that the same pressure that freed the French reporters is brought to bear to show the unjust treatment of their local counterparts. I'd love to believe we've moved beyond colonialism far enough to get there. Yeah, right...
--MLW

Thanks for the guest appearance, MLW. You said it all.

Everything has been going well at the paper project. The college students have done lots to help and don’t seem that offended that I can’t really remember their names. As there is no real news on that front, I think I’ll finally write and tell you the end of the story about the wedding that I really didn’t want to go to. Part I is here.
And now: A Wedding in Bogodogo, Part II.
We drove south, following the long line of cars and scooters belonging to the wedding party and guests. That’s the tradition: you drive very slowly, horn blaring all the way to the reception site. The parade turned west, then north. And then we turned east and drove a bit more. We’re having some fun now! The cars slowed…we had arrived at the reception, finally! But the neighbourhood looked quite familiar. We had been driving for half and hour and ended up at a restaurant/bar about ONE BLOCK away from where the wedding had been held! It had the look of many local nightspots in Ouaga and seemed rather unwelcoming. A wedding planner had NOT selected this venue, that’s for sure. It was surrounded by a high cement wall that had “Defense d’uriner. (Don’t pee here) written on it in huge red letters. And they don’t write that because the dogs here can read.
I knew what it would be like inside. A bunch of sharp-edged metal chairs sitting outside in the gravel. Sticky plastic table coverings. Dim light bulbs dangling. Questionable kitchen hygiene. Latrines scary enough to send you scurrying back out the gate to pee in front of the Forbidden Wall and risk dire punishment.
I just couldn’t face it.

But JP REALLY wanted to go in. Just for a minute. Then we can leave. He promised. And I hadn’t had anything to drink for a few hours now, so I figured it would be ok. By the time I needed a proper bathroom, we’d be back home.
We can just slip out, I told myself. We can just drop our present onto the gift table, look around a bit and head on home. Right. The minute we walked in the gate, we were taken to the “Protocol”. He’s the man that makes your Burkinabé wedding reception happen. He decides where people sit, makes the schedule, recites the speeches. The Protocol always wears a very sharp suit and always takes himself very seriously. His job is to make sure it all goes well and looks good.

I looked around. All the tables in the open, gravelled area were gone. There was just row after row of grey metal chairs, all facing a raised area that had two long tables and 20 or so chairs. It was all decorated wth tableclothes and flowers and was obviously intended for the bride, groom, and guests of honor.
The other guests were taking their places like an audience getting ready to enjoy a good show. It looked like it was set up for a medieval feast. But the Protocol led us right past these rows of chairs. I looked longingly at two empty ones near the back, close to the gate. But no, we were being brought up to the front. Feelings of dread started to build. It's not possible, I thought to myself. I don't even know these people.
But it was true- we were being taken up to the head table. Jp and I were going to be part of the show that everyone was getting ready to enjoy.
I was shown to my place – Not only were we at the head table, I was given a seat one chair away from the bride and groom!!!! So much for slipping out discretely. JP and I were the only white people at the party, so we were already kind of not blending in. And now we were center stage, literally. This was going to be a long night.

We had eight US university students helping out at the Papiers project today. They were as cute as a boxful of baby bunnies. But more articulate and with more sophisticated social skills. Would have been even nicer if they spoke some French, but you can’t have everything (unless you are talking hotdog garnishes). That meant that my day had to be spent babysitting, as they needed my translation skills to communicate with the project women. They were quite useful though, helping get lots of cards and bookmarks decorated. The women have been so busy with special orders lately, they haven’t had much time to restock the shelves.
Tomorrow, we will be sent eight more students, to replace today’s group. Which I am really not happy about. Not because of the fact that we have to start again from zero, explaining what the project is and what their jobs will be for the day, but because I’ll have to learn eight new names. Oh the humanity.
I am, you see, name-impaired. JP will vouch for this, he claims he has never seen someone forget names and faces as fast as I can. And it’s not like I don’t make an effort! I do. One technique I use is mnemonic devices. But that often doesn’t work, or even worse, it backfires. For example, I met a woman named Sally and thought “Ok, It’s Sally - like in the Peanuts cartoons. I’ll just imagine her eating peanuts with Snoopy and that will help me remember her name. “ Classic mnemonic trick, when carried out by a normal human. I, on the other hand, ran into her two days later and proudly said “Hi Lucy! How are you?” Typical of how it turns out for me. Today, I managed to call Mark “Mike” and Kirstin became “Caroline”. I probably shouldn’t be allowed out in public.

But actually, it’s not my fault. I have this theory. My brain has a faulty sorting mechanism. It throws out useful stuff, like people’s names, and keeps junk. I envision it as a tiny, insane old lady rampaging around among my neurons, muttering to herself. She is very irritable and unreasonable. The Crazy Lady throws out perfectly good items, like common Spanish vocabulary words, and yet she seems to think there is plenty of space for the lyrics of every ABBA song ever recorded.
I promise this is true: I was in a restaurant in Spain once and wanted a spoon. I could not for the life of me remember the Spanish word for spoon. All I could think of was the word for “poison”, which does not even bear a passing resemblance to the word for “spoon” and is far less useful in daily life. So, there I was. I was capable of asking for a nice big glass of cold poison (Deseo algo veneno frio, por favor!) , but the Crazy Lady had obviously thrown out every Spanish word related to eating implements.
She also dumped all info pertaining to JP’s pants (mentioned in yesterday’s post).
So, that’s my excuse: I am being sabotaged by a tiny insane person living in my brain.
It’s a crazy world.
(That’s a line from an ABBA song, BTW)

I am kind of forgetful lately. JP is asking me if it’s early-onset senility. But he’s just crabby because he has had to wear the same pants for about a week. I dropped off his other two pairs at the tailor and kept forgetting to pick them up. But I feel like I do have excuses for my forgetfulness. Yesterday, for example, besides writing a huge blog entry, I was also much occupied by Sev. He was pretty ill. Malaria, again. He woke up complaining of nausea, but as it was well-known in our household that Sev had a big geography test that day, his claims were met with a certain amount of scepticism. His siblings were merciless. I, being the mom, was kind but firm. I took his temperature (normal) and told him that without a fever and/or vomiting, there was no way he was staying home. He listlessly ate a bowl of cereal and then promptly threw up all over the bathroom. It was extremely convincing. So, he and I spent a pretty rough day. But thanks to the proper medications and a good night’s sleep he was perfectly well this morning.

Ouaga was calm this weekend. The Lebanese shops usually open on Sunday were all closed and I think that rather short-circuited any plans for “retaliation”. Also, it was announced last night that Damin was finally in police custody. He arrived back in Ouaga this morning at 4am and he’s in prison here now, awaiting trial.

Actually, Burkina is a relatively safe, calm country. It’s a bit more perilous than living in, say, Michigan, but a good deal safer than Kenya. I have been keeping up on the situation there through a very interesting blog by a fellow expat mom. I discovered it by chance browsing through a directory and was charmed by the earnest, literate style and the exotic details of life in Kenya. Then, when the election troubles started, it turned out to be a fascinating source of news about the latest developments. Don’t like her better than me, ok?

Even Burkina’s nearest neighbours are far more troubled than we are. Niger is a major source of bad news these days. I previously mentioned the case of Moussa Kaka, the director of Radio Saraouniya and a correspondent for Radio France International and Reporters without Borders. He has been tirelessly committed to fair reporting in his country. His efforts to tell the story of elements unhappy with the current government, the Tuareg rebels ( AKA the Nigerien People’s Movement for Justice or MNJ ) landed him in trouble . His contact with them by telephone has led the government to accuse him of “complicity in a plot against the authority of the State”. This charge carries the death penalty. He was thrown in to prison on Sept 20 and is still there. On October 9, 2007, Ibrahim Diallo, director of Radio Aïr and the newspaper Aîr Info, was thrown into jail up in Agadez, Niger. He is still there and has had no trial yet. He is accused of “criminal association. He, too, dared cover the story of the MNJ rebellion. Ready for yet more exciting news about Niger? On December 17, 2007, two French journalists were arrested for ignoring the ban on travelling to northern Niger, the main rebel stronghold. They are accused of spying, which carries the death penalty. They are still in prison. All in all, there is incredible pressure on journalists not to report on the rebellion at all. They are brutally imprisoned and also frequently threatened, according to this article.
Another radio journalist was killed on January 8, 2008, when he drove his car over an anti-tank mine placed in a neighbourhood on the outskirts of Niamey. Abdou Mahamane was the head of Radio R&M and the government is blaming his death on the rebels. But is it true? Here’s part of an article on a Tuareg-oriented news site:

“The government blamed Tuareg rebels who launched an uprising last February to demand greater autonomy for their homelands in the barren, uranium-rich north. The insurgents have mainly targeted army patrols and remote garrisons in the Sahara.
"This attack can only be the work of armed bandits in the north who are trying to establish a campaign of urban terrorism because they are incapable of fighting a conventional war in the region where they launched it," Communication Minister Mohamed Ben Omar said in a communique broadcast on state radio.
The rebel Niger Movement for Justice (MNJ), which has killed at least 49 soldiers since launching its revolt last year, vehemently denied responsibility for laying the mines, instead accusing the authorities of trying to tarnish its image.
"This regime which has lost any sense of direction is laying mines everywhere it needs to in order to accuse the fighters for justice, who condemn the use of mines particularly against citizens," the MNJ said on its Web site.”

Despite the problems of Burkina, we don’t have anyone laying landmines around Ouaga and we don’t have any journalists in prison facing the death penalty. Yay for us!
If you want to send a message of support to Kaka ( even in English!), here’s the address: moussa@rsf.org. The messages in this mailbox are being used to show that there is international demand that he be released.

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!