Some items of interest:

Yes, the strikes will be called tomorrow as planned. They will probably be peaceful, but almost everything will be closed. Certainly gas stations, banks and shops will all be shut.

The US Embassy is not impressing me, yet again. I am supposed to be the "warden" for some of the 'odd and ends' of the US community here. I was distressed to get a message today from the Embassy with the general strikes as a subject matter- written in all caps, no less- but with the message itself missing. I sent an e-mail immediately asking for it to be re-sent.
And I'm still waiting.

Electricity is off. Again. Whatever.

Finally, one of the twins got a letter today from her dear friend in Portland, Oregon. It arrived here looking crumpled and dirty, sporting a postmark of Feb 7. It has obviously spent the last two months touring the world and seeing the sights. There's even proof. Right on the front it's been stamped with a blue ink rectangle framing the astounding words: MISSENT TO MYANMAR. (Man! Is that a cool title for a novel, or what? )
Anyway, this letter that is clearly addressed to my daughter in Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso was sent all the way to freaking Burma.
All I can say is that there are obviously some VERY confused people that have been put in charge of directing the world's mail.
Maybe we should all chip in and buy them a good atlas.

The Ouaga Rumour Mill turned away like mad yesterday, but I didn’t want to post without getting some solid details.
So, here's what I learned this morning from journalist Ramata Soré this morning: Burkina is gearing up for a two-day general strike.

The peaceful demonstration I saw Friday morning near the university was actually a student strike.
At that same moment a big group of the main Burkinabe workers' unions was meeting with the national government, bringing six demands to the table- measures aimed at dealing with the dramatic cost of living increases in Burkina over the last few months .
Out of six demands, only one was met- the one dealing with the minimal prices/quantities of water and electricity for the poorest households. ( if you consume below a certain threshold, you pay at a much lower rate than households that consume a greater amount) All other demands- such as a 25% increase in salaries and pensions for many workers- were not met.
They are meeting again today, but if at least two more of the demands aren’t met, they plan general strikes for Tuesday and Wednesday.

More news: this morning, three of our household workers came to me for salary advances. They said that stocks of corn and millet are running very low in the city and they want to stock up with a few sacks each. I knew that rice was a problem, as there is already a global shortage and prices recently have reached record highs. But extremely low stocks of millet and corn in Burkina in early April is definitely a very bad sign.

I am no expert on the subject, but I’m guessing that many of the farmers are holding on to more of their grain, rather than selling it for cash. Having a granary full of food for your family has to be better than just having money which buys less and less food every day.

Me? I’m going to the grocery store to stock up. Just in case.

Then I’ll be over at Papiers du Sahel. I’ll work on making greeting cards and probably chat with the women about what they think of the latest developments.

In an amazing last-minute development, Alexa's doctor managed to find a not-quite-expired, half empty box of Flecaine last night! As soon as I got the call, I rushed over to the clinic to pick it up, feeling that Whatever Higher Power May Be is much kinder to me than I probably deserve.

I am also very happy (not as happy as I am about the meds showing up , but still pretty darn) to report that my second article has been published! It can be found in an on-line parenting magazine called Hybrid Mom.

Thanks to everyone for all the encouragement and very kind comments on this blog. It was all the great feedback I've gotten here that finally gave me the confidence to start writing and submitting articles. I couldn't have done it without you!

As I tried to go into the center of Ouaga this morning, I came across hundreds of protesters near the University. They seemed peaceful, but had all of the big Blvd Charles de G. (the major East-West axis in our section of the city) blocked. I turned back and went in on a more roundabout route.
Everything seemed calm in the town center and no one seemed to know what was happening over by the University.
I went to the bank and then went to mail a small box at the post office. At the regular window, they wanted over $60 US to send a 3.5 pound package to London!
So, I went around back to where the large parcels are sent out. It seems to be completely separate from the main office and the prices were certainly better. They asked for a little over $20 dollars. (This reminds me: while I have always had good experiences at the post office here, some people don't. I just heard from a friend whose family sent her a birthday card while she lived here in Ouaga. Her parents just got the card returned to them- THREE years later! The address was ONE digit off- instead of PO box 34001, they'd written 34007. ANd that was enough to get it lost for three years and then sent back to the USA. Crazy!)

I went on to Marina Market, the biggest supermarket in all of Burkina. Don't be impressed- it's not all that big. And while the shelves seem a little less empty than over at their competition, The Scimas, there is still little variety. No cream, sour cream, or anything like that.
I also noticed that they'd put out a bunch of canned okra! I'm guessing that's something that has been languishing in the back storeroom for months (if not years) and they finally trotted it out to help fill the thinning shelves. And I bet the person that ordered it in the first place got in big trouble! Maybe we don't have many things here in Burkina, but fresh okra is cheap and plentiful. I'm guessing that the canned version, being very expensive, is going to be a very tough sell.
Shopping done (no canned okra for me, thanks), I headed back home. Near the US Embassy, I had to pull over at let a truckload of CRS agents zoom past me. They were in full riot gear, heading toward the University.
I wisely turned south and took the long way home. I would have liked to know what was going on, but I am under strict instructions from my mom to be careful. Srsly.
I tried to catch some news on the radio- which is possible, but unlikely. However, my radio chose this morning to go haywire.
So, when I got home, I asked my household helpers if they knew anything. They'd been listening to the local radio all morning and they'd heard nothing. Not a word.
But it did seem to be very low key. Maybe there's not much to report. On the other hand, why were the riot police rushing to the scene all hot and bothered?

I'll post again if I find out anything interesting, if I have time. I am sort of in full crisis management mode. For the last three years, Alexa has taken the same two heart medications. I have always bought them at the same pharmacy- one near our house. They have to order them for us, as they aren't that common here. So, every month I buy a box of each and then they order again. It was a good system... until now. When I went in last night to get a new box of Flecaine, they didn't have any. They had forgotten to re-order it! No other place in the whole country has any and it will take 6 days for some to arrive.

Why yes, I am the World's Worst Mother. Thank you for asking.
And yes, I DO feel stupid for not having a reserve box hidden away.

So, I am looking at how to fix this and Al's doctor is also trying to help.
That's my day so far.

I guess being a Published Author hasn't transformed my life into one of ease and glamour.
Rats.

Soon I will be posting The Second Very Long List of What to Bring/Not Bring to Ouagadougou- and I'll expect you all to pay attention because I have authority!! I am a freaking PUBLISHED AUTHOR!!!

It's a small article, not a novel.
It's on an internet site, not in an actual paper-based, IRL reading medium.
But I'm excited anyway!

It's on a cool site called ExpatExchange

Some of it revisits a few of the points I made here on the blog yesterday.
Some of it is all new.
Some of it is pretty funny. Ex: "You do need to be prepared, but you are moving to West Africa, not to the first human colony on Mars."

Other news: I have another article being published soon in a parenting magazine. No news yet on whether it will be only online or if it will also be in the print version.
Yes, BurkinaMom has been BUSY lately!

I think lots of people stumble onto this site while looking for practical information about visiting or moving to Ouagadougou.

Why else would it have over 6000 hits?

But they look around and see posts ranting about the bats in the Shrine of the Elephant Hunt and they back away, slowly. They don’t want to read what goes through the mind of some obviously unstable mom of four as she gives her guinea pig a c-section. They want someone to tell them which vaccines to get and what to pack.

But some of them (the really clever and nice ones) stick around, read through the archives, and make themselves at home. Sometimes they write to me for advice about coming here. I render what aid I can, calling on my almost nine years here in Burkina.
And over time, these queries got me thinking- what do I really see as the most important information about moving here that I wish everyone would have to read before jumping on a plane heading for Ouagadougou? What is the stuff other sites don’t tell you?
I had a look around and there’s not actually very much useful info on the internet about expat life in Burkina. You can find out what shots to get and what the average temperature is, but you don’t get much of a feel for life here.
Of course, it’s hard to give general advice that suits everyone. People come here with such different backgrounds. I’ve seen some expats that settle into a very modest, local-level lifestyle and manage very well with very few imported luxuries.
Others don’t settle very well at all, despite a huge budget that allows them to import even their toilet paper from the USA and take frequent trips to Paris to “rest” from all the stresses of living here.

But here I will venture to list a few ideas about what to bring and what to leave behind when you make the big move and become (at least for a little while) my neighbor here in Ouagadougou. I have based this list on mistakes made by myself and others. I am not making this up.
So pay attention:
1. Don’t bring toilet paper. It will be ok. Really.
2. Do bring diapers, if they are required attire for anyone in your family. They are really expensive here and poor quality.
3. Don’t bring lots of medications/first aid items. These things are very cheap here: antibiotic creams, bandages, compresses, ibuprofen, codeine, valium, antibiotics (cipro, etc). All this stuff is available without a prescription inb the many pharmacies in the city. Really. The meds have different names( ex: Motrin = Brufen) but it’s all the same.
One exception- bring Band-aids. They cost a lot here
4. Do bring your computer, printer, dvd player, vcr , whatever…these electronics are very expensive here. Just watch out for the current problem. Remember, we are 220 volts over here, with the round two-prong (French) outlets. If you are bringing 110 volt items, invest in a step-up transformer to run your stuff. If you have lots of stuff, bring two or three.
5. Don’t bring Pringles potato chips or Laughing Cow cheese. We’ve got those things here. We don’t have much else, but we have those. (Many a Peace Corps volunteer has excitedly opened a care package from home, only to find that someone has loving sent them these two commonly-found-in-Burkina food items. Hint: send them some macaroni and cheese or a nice brownie mix!)
6. Do bring several swimming suits. You’ll swim a lot here and the huge amount of chlorine in the pools wears out suits fast. And there are very few places to buy them here. And they are expensive. The only cheap alternative is the used clothing market. But a used swimsuit won’t last long. It’s better to bring good ones with you.
7. Don’t bring shorts and mini skirts and expect to wear them around town. Not if you want to fit in. This goes for guys, too. Bring shorts for wearing at home, but when you go out in public, don’t show your knees. It’s rude. Really.
8. Do bring a cell phone and an mp3 player. They are very helpful. But guard them carefully! They are prime targets for theft. Be especially careful when travelling on the bus or in a green taxi.
9. Don’t bring any complexes about speaking foreign languages. If you already know French, that’s great! Start learning Mooré when you get here. It will win you lots of friends and bring fun into daily transactions. The Burkinabé get such a kick out of any nassara that can say even a few words in the local language!
10. Bring sunscreen. It’s hard to find here and pricey.
11. Also bring lip balm. Again, it’s hard to find, expensive and very necessary if you have delicate skin.
12. Please also bring excellent personality traits and display them regularly. Great patience, a sense of humour, compassion, flexibility, creativity and general "niceness" are all needed to settle happily into expat life in Ouagadougou. I know these things are good to have no matter where in the world you live, but if you do not have them here in Ouaga, this will happen: You will get depressed, crabby, resentful and then go completely and utterly mad.

Yesterday was yet another long, electricity-free day in our neighborhood. But Alexa and I spent the morning enjoying the air-conditioning over at the big medical clinic in Ouaga 2000. Yes, Al's heart problem is becoming an issue again. It seems to be more pronounced during the hot season.

She was pretty unwell yesterday, so instead of going to school, she had to go in for an EKG and a consult with the doctor. They increased the dose on one of her meds, so we're hoping that will help. The doctor also mentioned that the doctors in Paris might make another attempt to correct the problem surgically, which completely panics Alexa. In fact, she SO does not want to go into surgery again that she's been hiding incidents from me.
(For those of you new to the story, Alexa had heart surgery in Paris three years ago, but it was unsuccessful. Her heart was too small and it was too risky to go through with the planned procedure, so she came back out of surgery un-fixed. Now, we are just in a holding pattern, waiting for her heart to get bigger)

Anyway, it's all very stressful and made me very un-bloggy yesterday. But Al's back at school today, a little tired, but happy. Today was school photo day, so she didn't want to miss it!

As for the rest of the tax story... maybe you forgot about it? If you're interested, here's the end, finally. I wrote it a few days back, during a rare period when we had electricity. It's not that thrilling, but it has the 'closure' thing going for it.

Recap of the previous installments: Our heroine has just spent the entire morning being driven all over Ouaga in a vain search for someone that will let her pay her taxes. After many trials, she finally learns where she really needs to go, but first Valentine has to be rescued from...who knows what?

Mahama knows all the shortcuts. We passed through the “Petit Paris” neighbourhood, then passed by the Moro Naaba’s palace, after cutting across on a very bumpy road paved with rough bricks.

Arriving at the school, I was very relieved to see Valentine standing outside the gates, talking to a friend, not direly ill or injured. Many of her teachers were out on strike, so her day had been cut short.

She agreed to go on with me to what I hoped was the final step of paying our taxes. It wasn’t very far to the latest destination. It turned out to be a small group of low buildings hidden behind a popular restaurant in the center of the city..

We wandered around a while because, of course, there were absolutely no signs indicating where you should go. Completely by chance, we eventually walked into the right office! Amazing! At last! I sat down in front of the tax agent’s desk and got out my documentation, all ready to get started!

Sadly, they weren’t the right documents. And as she explained it all, it became clear that I could never manage to get all the papers I needed.

Our bank in France was demanding proof that we paid taxes somewhere in the world, but it looked like the Burkinabé government wasn’t going to let me be a taxpayer this year.

What did I do? I made friends, of course! Soon, the tax agent and her two colleagues in the office had shown me pictures of their kids and told me what they’d be doing for the Easter holiday. And when I mentioned that I had twin daughters, they proposed that our children marry. One gentleman offered me kola nuts, the traditional gift given to the parents of the bride. It was all in fun of course and when I left everyone was laughing uproariously. And I had been given a few clues about how to remedy my situation.

I went back again a few days later, the twins in tow, wearing adorable matching outfits. One of the tax agents took pictures of them with her cell phone. After some amiable chatting, my file was found, I presented my revised papers and the tax forms were filled out, the kindly tax agent taking everything in hand.

I wrote a check and that was it.

It was VERY unlike dealing with, say the IRS of the United States or even the French tax authorities.

We had electricity yesterday all day long, which was very appreciated What I did not have was even a minute to spend on the computer, blogging or keeping up on emails...
It was my own fault, really. In an attempt to avoid brain-exploding cognitive dissonance, I ended up with a very, very busy day.
You see, I think of myself as a nice person, so it kind of locks me into doing lots of nice things.
If I don't do nice things, that means I'm not nice.
And If I'm not nice, I'm probably bad.
And bad leads to evil.
Oh no!
So, I had to say 'yes' when asked late Friday night if we (Valentine got dragged into this as well. She's also really nice. ) would babysit a friend's four children Saturday morning. Then half an hour later, she called to ask if the four children of one of her friends could come as well.
The parents would all be at a wedding in a nearby neighborhood. They said it would take an hour...which I knew was just completely mad wishful thinking. There's no WAY a Burkinabé wedding could be over in one hour, ever. Just isn't possible. And I just couldn't see consigning 8 young children to sitting outside in the heat on metal chairs with nothing to do for hours. That would be definitely evil.

So, the eight children were brought by on Saturday morning. Plus I have four of my own. Plus my twins had had a sleepover, so their friend L was still at the house. And then their friend A (of Earth Shrine fame) called, sounding sad and bored. So I said she could come over, as well. Heck- when there's 13 kids in the house, one more is not going to make or break you.

The littlest one was K., who Mallory was excited to see ("She's so sweeeeet" Mal says) K is a characater straight out of a Dr. Seuss book- The Grinch Who Stole Christmas.
No, she's not large, geen and hairy, harboring a grudge against a major Christian holiday.
She's "Cindy-Lou Who, who was no more than two".
Valentine had special charge of her, as she wasn't feeling well and the big crowd of kids was a bit overwhelming. So, Val carried her around, played with her, jollied her out of a crying jag and in general was a great babysitter the whole time.

The rest of the group was much older and a lot less demanding. The boys (Two 11 year olds, a 12 year old and an admiring 7 year old) stayed in the livingroom, occupied with board games and then a movie.
As for the girls, there were two 5 year olds, a seven year old, and five 10 year olds. My main task was to watch them in the pool. (We have a very small, shallow pool that can just about hold nine pre-adolescent girls.)

The only real challenge was feeding them lunch. It hadn't been planned on, but as noon rolled by, I figured that food would have to be found. I fed them pasta in plastic bowls and I assure you that it looked like a scene from a low-budget orphanage. Valentine even came up to me with her empty bowl in hand and said "Please, sir, I want some more."
It's lovely to have a teenager that quotes me Dickens rather than, say,Larry the Cable Guy. (He's from Nebraska, srsly)

Actually, I lied (Not about Larry- he really is from my home state) But the fact is that it was not any real hardship at all to have 14 kids at the house for a few hours. They were all really well-behaved and lovely to be around. In fact, they were almost supernaturally good and polite.

So, I kept my reputation as a non-evil person, with very little actual cost to myself. Way to go!

And Valentine was, quite rightly, given some cash by the appreciative parents for her efforts.

Other than that, there were errands to run, homework to help with, and all the usual weekend stuff. Plus, I started my kids on a program of viewing the old "StarTrek" films. Last week, I realised that the phrase "Beam me up, Scotty" meant nothing to them. Horror! So, I hurriedly found a copy of the Wrath of Khan at the video club. They didn't have the first ST film, but that's ok because I seem to remember that it wasn't very good. On the other hand, Wrath rocks and the kids loved it.
Next weekend will definitely find us watching The Search for Spock.
Live long and prosper!

Once again, I blog to you from a cybercafé in (way too) sunny downtown Ouagadougou. The power cut out in our neighborhood at about 7am this morning and who knows when it will be back on... My technique is to spend the maximum amount of time out running errands in cool places like banks and supermarkets. My car (repaired now!) is also a nice place to be, as the air-con works really well. Nothing else does, mind you, but the air-con is fine.
I am just hoping that we're not headed for a long, hot, electricity-less wekend.
Curse you, Sonabel!

My mailbox today contained an invitation from the US Ambassador to attend the groundbreaking for the new compound that they will be building over in the über-chic neighbourhood of Ouaga 2000. It’s on April 1^st. I’ve thought about going, just so that I can have the experience (and blog about it, of course!). But it says that “office attire” should be worn. Office attire??? I guess I could stick post-it notes all over a t-shirt and have my girls make me some nice accessories out of paper clips… And heck, even if I did own such strange things as a skirted suit and heels, I wouldn’t put them on and stand around outside in the 110° F heat.

So, it looks like I won’t be reporting on the groundbreaking ceremony, but I’m sure that some other interesting (if not frankly bizarre) thing will happen to me, providing plenty of blog-fodder. I just hope it’s nothing bad - nothing like the horrible and mysterious guinea-pig plague that swept through our pet population on Wednesday.

That day we lost three one-day old babies (who had seemed quite healthy for several hours) and also the mom pig Patches. The post-mortem c-section that the vet’s assistant and I did revealed three more dead pups, so we lost seven in total.

I have been involved in two c-sections for human friends since I have been in Burkina. I only had to pay for them- I didn’t have to assist the surgeon (How thankful am I for that? Very.) Of course, they cost a lot more- about 100 dollars. I paid about 80 cents US for the one at the vet’s office.

I’m very happy to report that the human cases both had much happier outcomes. Live babies and moms. Not that the average Burkinabe maternity clinic is a walk in the park- it’s not even a short stroll somewhere vaguely pleasant. In general, to give birth, you lay on a cement slab in a stifling room (you’re lucky if there’s a fan) while overworked nurses bark orders at you and even insult you. I’m not saying this always happens, but I’ve talked to lots of women and spent many hours in maternity wards… (Plus, JP’s research team has done research on the topic! Fascinating stuff!)

If you are lucky enough to get out of that alive, (which is quite a trick-1000 mothers in 100,000 die in childbirth. 36 babies in each 1000 dies as a neonate) you get a cracked vinyl mattress in a hot, dirty ward jammed with women and babies. Plus, each woman has a female friend/family member staying with her at all times- even sleeping at night on the floor next to her mattress, on a bit of cloth or a plastic mat. You have to have this help because there is no help at all for you in the ward. You have to be up washing diapers in a bucket, heating bath water over a fire, etc…there’s lots of hard physical work that need to be done. Plus, there is no food at the hospital- at all. There's no food service, no cafeteria, not even an old lady going around with a pot of rice to sell. Nothing. Someone has to cook for you there (over a wood fire) or bring food in. If you are a woman on her own, you have no help and no food.

One of the friends I mentioned is paralysed due to childhood polio and gave birth to twins, so her case was very difficult and she was in the hospital quite a long time. I brought her her breakfast every morning and spent time visiting with her. This gave me lots of time to observe the goings-ons. It was a very eye-opening experience, to say the least.

There is lots of pressure on women here NOT to give birth at home with traditional mid-wives. Everyone is supposed to go to a hospital and be “modern”. But based on what I’ve seen, I certainly understand why many women resist. If I were given a choice between giving birth in a local maternity clinic and doing it in a mud hut- frankly, I’d choose the mud hut.

Today consisted of power outages and blasting heat. Oh- and yet another major breakdown on the part of my Toyota Corolla from Hell.

Furthermore, I came this close to performing a solo emergency c-section on a dead guinea pig on my dining room table. But as I rummaged around frantically, realising that I had no knives sharp enough- not even a razor blade, I came to my senses and rushed off to the vet's office that is not too far from our house. The vet herself was out, as that's the way my luck has been going lately. But the assistant saw that I was very upset at the idea of live babies trapped in a dead mom pig- so said he'd do it -if I could help. I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.
I won't go into details, but it was grim.

So, I really needed the boost that this lovely article gave me. It's yet another great piece by journalist John Leiberhardt. Once again, he has kind words for my blog and that of Valentine.
He refers to Burkina Mom's "warm-hearted honesty", which certainly made my day.
He doesn't mention my skills as a pet surgeon, but that's ok.

The article is also a way to discover other nifty blogs about Burkina, all written in English. Click around and check them out.
Just don't like them better than me, ok?

My life here lately has been sucking technology-wise. You'd think I lived under primitive conditions in darkest Africa or something.
Oh wait. I do.

My specific complaints:
1. On Easter Sunday, I couldn't phone any of my family in the USA. Couldn't get a line out.
2. After being off the internet a tiny bit that day- just long enough to post a short blog entry- I got kicked off and haven't been able to get back on since.
3. Yesterday, the electricity was off in the eastern part of Ouaga for much of the day. This, of course, included my house. And as temperatures yesterday reached over 107°F (42°), my house was not a good place to be, especially considering that it has a
4. metal roof. It's the most common kind of roof here, as it's the cheapest- unless you go for straw, which brings with it it's own issues of leakage, rot and dust, not to mention insects raining down into your food, onto your head, etc. Corrugated metal roofs are cheap and insect-free, but very, very hot. Take it from one who knows.
5. So, here I am at the internet café, trying to get my cyber-life back in order, but my e-mail seems to be blocked. No access...I guess it's issues with Liptinfor. They have many.

Well, that's my litany of complaints/excuses. So, no ending for the tax story as of yet. I am hoping life will be a little more normal soon and I'll be able to get back to writing the big, long, epic blog entries you've all come to know and possibly (hopefully!) like.

Late breaking news: This just gets better and better! I was just just clicking the "Publish Post" post button when the power here at the internet café went out! Luckily, Blogspot is good about saving automatically, so when I finally got back online (it's a looong story) , my post was saved and I didn't have to re-write it all. You guys wouldn't believe what I go through some days to get a post up on this blog! Crazy.

First of all- hope you all had a nice day yesterday. Ours was great- we were at church in the morning, then had a nice meal with friends that night.

Now here it is- Easter Monday. The kids have the day off from school. And, as is typical on the weekends and holidays- my email is down. So, all messages for me today should be left for me on the comments section of the blog.

Now, how about a little more of the story of how I tried to pay our taxes here in Burkina? It was quite a challenge..
(If you just got here and missed it, go back to the March 19 post to begin the epic tale)

So, there I was, wandering around this huge building, without a clue as to what to do next. In my defence, I saw lots of Burkinabe folks in similar straits, looking just as miserable and confused as I did. So, it wasn’t just me being exceptionally clueless. It looked like no outsiders (also known as “taxpayers”) were being allowed any information that might actually help them to pay their taxes.

I randomly knocked on the door of an office. I played my role of the completely baffled foreigner to the hilt - a very sweet and vaguely stupid creature from a foreign land. Loosing your temper avails you nothing. Charm and calm carry the day. As a result, the fellow there took pity on me, left his mountain of dusty papers and actually guided me all the way to another big office and introduced me to the three people there.
I explained what I needed for the NINTH time.
They were very kind.
Of course, everyone until now had been kind- but they’d had no freaking clue how to really help me and had sent me all over town on a morning-long wild guinea fowl chase. (That's a wild goose chase, Burkina-style.)

But this crew seemed pretty convincing. They told me that Mme D- was no longer taking care of expat taxes (rats!) and that that function had been transferred to a building in Passpanga.

Right.

I went back down the stairs, alert for stray aliens carrying advanced weaponry (didn’t want to startle one and get accidentally disintegrated).

Back at the car, Mahama (our driver) had news: he’d gotten a phone call that said Valentine needed to be picked up at school right away. They’d been trying to contact me, but as I’d brilliantly left my cell phone at home, no one could get in touch with me. The message had just been to come and get my daughter. I had no idea if she was ill, injured , or perhaps expelled for excessive niceness, cuteness and brilliance. (She’s too wonderful to get expelled for any bad reason, of course!)

I couldn’t call easily or quickly, as Mahama had no calling credits in his phone.

Now, the strolling phone card vendors here in Ouaga are usually very present and very persistent. At almost every street corner they descend upon you en masse, waving their little wooden boards covered with the brightly-colored cards. Even after you have rejected the first one, and the second and the third, they keep coming- as though after rejecting five different vendors selling the exact same thing, you’d suddenly have some kind of streetside-shopping epiphany. As though the 20^th person to wave his cards in your face in the last two minutes would open your stingy little heart and you’d say: I know I just mercilessly and without hesitation rejected every one of your card-selling buddies, but I like your looks! I’m going to buy one from YOU!

Of course, now that I actually really did desperately need to buy a card, there was only a scattering of vendors in sight - none of them selling the brand I needed. I didn’t waste time hunting around - we took off for the school, back at the city center.

That's all I have time for now. I'll try to wrap this up tomorrow.
It has a happy ending! Really!

Joyeuses Pâques!

May your Easter Basket runneth over with good things.

Don't you just hate it when you are trying to get out of the driveway, but you can't, because there's a camel blocking the gate?


It happens to me with surprising frequency. I think it's because the local guardians like to hang out beside my front gate. (The first thing I did when we moved here was build a shady lean-to there, so it's quite the attraction.)
Well, all these guardians end up chatting with the people that wander through the neighborhood.
And at least a few times each month, we get a Tuareg tribesman coming through. They come down from the north of Burkina, or Mali or from over in Niger. They're here to sell things they've made and to just check out life in the big city. And when they start to run low on money, they can usually pick up coins by going through the residential areas, where parents will pay a few cents for their children to ride a camel for a bit.
This man didn't speak much French or Mooré, but we did understand that he had come down from Gorom Gorom. I gave him a bit of money and then asked if he'd move the camel, so I could go run my errands today. But then I got the idea of taking a picture.
Our guardian, Salfo, is on the right. I printed out copies right away, which delighted them both. Then I went off to the grocery store.
Just another morning in Ouagadougou!

Yesterday I was back in my bedroom and heard screaming. It sounded like my children were being dismembered , or at least being kidnapped by people planning to do so.
I tore out to the living room to find Alexa rushing to find me, sobbing piteously. No axe-muderers or kidnapper in sight.
I was then made to understand that my girls had been through a hideous experience. They'd been in Valentine's room when a crazed gecko jumped off of the top of the mosquito net and onto Valentine's head.
She screamed.
The gecko ran down onto her face.
She screamed louder.
Then she brushed it off (who can blame her?) without paying much attention to where she was aiming. She ended up flinging the little lizard onto Alexa's head- which resulted in even more huge amounts of screaming from everyone, including Mallory, who was the horrified witness to all this.
Ah.. Life in Africa.


I still have no e-mail, so keep the comment/messages coming. I forgot to mention, for those of you that don't know how it works, that I can read the comments and then NOT publish them on the blog. So, messages to me do not become automatic entertainment for the whole blogosphere.


I have to run several errands today, so the tax story will have to wait yet another day.


If you want to read something funny, go over and read Valentine's blog today. She gives a big write up of her impressions of the amateur rock group we went to see the other night.
You should definitely read it if you are over 30 and thinking about fulfilling that life-long dream to create a band with the help of your equally decrepit pals from work. Ouch.

The kids have the day off from school, as it's the day the Muslim community observes Mohammad's birthday. To celebrate, you might want to be extra nice to your cat today.

So, we're having a day at home, playing Kingdom Hearts II on the Playstation and trying to keep cool in the heat. We'll be decorating Easter Eggs later on.
We're sure not going anywhere, because I have yet another flat tire today. I plan to ignore it. It's way easier just to stay home.

One thing I cannot do today is keep up with my e-mails. There is a big-time problem over at Liptinfor (my server and where my mailbox is) There is no access at all to my mail- I haven't been able to send or receive a thing since last night. So if you really need to contact me, either call or ...talk to the blog. I'll check the comments section from time to time today.

Twas the night before Easter, when all through the house, things got pretty disturbing...

see more crazy cat pics

I could say that yesterday morning was « taxing », but that would mean I was making a very cheap pun. I’ll instead tell you that my efforts trying to pay our Burkinabe income tax were frustrating and insanity-provoking.

Taxes usually aren’t my thing. JP has always taken care of this stuff. But this year, he told me that it had to be paid before the end of March and then got on a plane for Switzerland.

“Talk to Mme. D- at the tax office. She’ll help you. See you in two months” he said.

And there I was.

After the bitterness died down (just kidding. haha. sort of) , I decided to go take care of it. That was yesterday.

I got in my car with Mahama, our driver, and headed off to the Tanghin neighbourhood, in the northern part of Ouaga. We hadn’t gone far when I realized that’d I’d forgotten my cell phone, but I didn’t go back for it. Big mistake, but more on that much later.

We continued on and in about 20 minutes had arrived. I recognised the building, as I’d been there once before to drop off some papers in years past. But it looked different now - really different - as in completely abandoned and about to be levelled by bulldozers.

I quickly asked some neighbourhood guys hanging around where the office had moved to. They told me it was all in a big new building in Tampouey, on the Ouahiagouya road.

OK

That’s a neighbourhood in the extreme northwest of Ouaga. It’s certainly not one I hang out in often, so I had no clue where to go. I never would have found it without Mahama, who knows the city really well.

The new tax building was absolutely huge by Ouaga standards- five stories, the exterior entirely covered by white ceramic tiles. It looked like the world’s largest public restroom facility.

It was so big, it was impossible to know where to enter. I randomly chose an entrance. I went up to a window and asked the man behind it where I could find Mme. D- and take care of an expat tax matter. He had no clue, but sent me over to a colleague at another window.

He had no clue either, but sent me across the way to an office. I explained to the man at the desk what my problem was. He had no idea, but was sure that a fellow on the other side of the building would know.

So, I trudged around the maze of offices until I found this fourth fellow. And I explained for the FOURTH time what my problem was.

He seemed to know something. He told me that this was not at all the building I needed to be in. (What a surprise!) In fact, I would need to go to the other new tax office, over in Gounghin. There I would find someone that could take care of my problem.

OK.

I got back in the car and we headed south.

We’d been told that this new place was near a certain truck repair garage. Luckily, my driver knew it because he was a truck driver before coming to work for us. If I’d had to find all these places on my own, it would have taken me two days, not just a single morning!

This new building was only three stories high and much smaller. I thought it would be much easier to find my way. I was completely deluded, of course. Once I got inside, I was sent to three different people on the ground floor. The last one informed me that I actually needed to go outside, around the back of the building and take the stairs there up to the second floor.

Fine.

I went around and up.

It was a brand new building, but built in that Burkinabe way that is very strange, unattractive and uncomfortable. None of the corners are square, lots of wiring is exposed, and the stairs are not designed for the use of humans. I think that aliens from outer space must pay their taxes here in Burkina, because we have their stairs. Each step is a different height, either too high or too low. The handrails are too high and made out of sharp-edged metal. (the aliens apparently have tough protective plates on their appendages.) The windows on the landing are tiny and set at human knee-level. The elements combine into a very weird, difficult to use whole.

Because of the step irregularities, you feel like you’re going to fall, but if you use the handrail, you cut yourself. And the small, low windows mean it’s very dim inside, adding to the creepiness. (note to general public: Appreciate your stairs! You never notice them until they are gone and replaced by constructions from distant planets.)

I lurched up to the second floor, nicking my hand in the process. Up there, I found yet another maze of offices. As in all these places, the doors were either unmarked or were labelled with a piece of paper bearing some mystifying notation like “Sec./Tr. 1- 56RTRX”. Looking back now, I now believe these papers denoted the rank of the alien Pod Leaders within.

As this is getting really long, I'll write and post the rest of the story tomorrow. It goes on and on and on....

I have gotten a couple of emails that read something like this :

Dear Beth.

I read in your blog that you aren’t happy with your car. If I sign a statement agreeing that your car is the Spawn of Satan On Earth, Working Evil Upon You and Your Family, will you PLEASE write about something else? What did you do all weekend anyway? You live in Africa and all you did was sit around and gripe about your car? Nothing more exciting going on? Really?

Sheesh.

Sincerely,

Puzzled Friend

Well, actually the emails were way more polite than that, but I think that’s what they meant. At any rate, since they asked so nicely, I will tell everyone about my weekend.

Friday night, Valentine and I went with a friend (who has a working car!!!) and went to go see a band in a maquis/nightclub. It was a group made up of teachers from Saint Exupery School. There were seven people in it, all in the 30 to 50 year old age range, just out to have fun. Alexa’s teacher was the lead singer, Mallory’s geography teacher was the lead guitarist and her 2^nd grade teacher was the backup vocalist.

I wouldn’t say they were a garage band. They were more of a “garden shed at the back edge of the property, well away from the house” band.

Saturday morning found us at the US Ambassador’s home for the annual American community Easter Egg hunt. Everyone had to bring a dish for the brunch, so I had made a pecan pie with some precious pecans from my freezer and a bit of that rarest of all fluids: corn syrup. ( I don’t think any nation on earth uses the stuff except for Americans. Nobody else knows what to do with it..) I managed to give myself a nasty round burn on my wrist with bubbling hot syrup and sugar.

Somebody at the party remarked “So, burning ourselves with cigarettes again are we?”

“I just wanted the voices in my head to stop!” I answered, a little too loudly, earning me a few inquisitive looks.

If the Ouaga Rumour Mill starts humming with news that I have a major mental disorder, I won’t be too surprised.

The afternoon passed quickly after we got back home. We invited over a few friend to watch the first tape of American Idol.

Yes, we’re just getting started over here!

I have to be very careful when I’m at the gym watching the television, because people often put on an entertainment/celebrity show while I’m there (it’s on right after Dr. Phil). The show often mentions what’s going on on Idol. Once again today I saw the AI logo come up on the screen and had to avert my eyes, plug my ears and drone “la la la la ” until it was over, so I wouldn’t get even a hint of what the news was. This behaviour might also be contributing to any reputation for mental instability that I may be developing here in Ouaga.

That evening, we went to Mass. No chance of missing it, because from 4 pm onwards, Mallory was asking every ten minutes “Is it time to go yet? We need to go early you know. Is it time to get ready yet?” You have never seen a child in such a hurry to go to church. You’d think they were giving away free Barbie dolls.

But no, Mallory wanted to get there early so that she’d be assured a place as one of the four altar servers that would assist the priest during the mass.

Now, the twins have served at the altar several times and enjoy doing it, but this time they both seemed especially adamant that they would get the coveted white albs with red crosses over the heart. I kind of wondered about it.
A sudden religious fervour, perhaps? Future twin nuns?!

In the car on the way over, I was quickly disabused of any notion that an elevated spirituality was behind this sudden overwhelming desire to get to church early and help our kindly Burkinabé priest, the Abbé Anicet.

“Charlene is EVIL” Mallory announced.

“Uh…she seems like a perfectly nice girl.” I ventured.

But no, it seems like the Anti-Christ is alive and well and going to Sunday school with my daughters.

“It’s all an act” Alexa informed me. “She pretends to be all nice around the parents, but she’s really MEAN and HORRIBLE!”

“And she’d do ANYTHING to be an altar server!” Mallory added

“Yes! I bet she’s already there! I bet she got there an hour ago!” Alexa said indignantly.

By this time, the older kids and I were starting to really laugh.

Valentine said “Actually, I heard that Charlene took her tent and CAMPED out in front of the church last night so she’d be sure to be the first!”

I couldn’t resist, either.

“Well” I said. “I heard that ANOTHER little girl had had the same idea and camped there first, but Charlene killed her! Then she burned the body and the tent and buried the ashes so her horrible crime would be hidden. Yup. She’d do ANYTHING to be an altar girl!”

So, we definitely all had a severe case of the giggles by the time we pulled up to the church. (Valentine remarked just the other night as we sat around laughing: “I’d sure hate to be in a normal family”. -which made us all laugh harder, but I think this is the kind of thing she thinks she’d miss by being “normal”)

The twins scrambled out of the car as fast as they could. There were already a few vehicles there. Competition!

We saw no evidence of camping, thank goodness.

The twins quickly claimed two of the coveted positions in a distinctly un-Christian spirit of complete victory and went off to get suited up. Two other kids were chosen (neither of them was the “evil” Charlene)

I sat down with my older kids, near the front -which I came to regret..

As it was our Palm Sunday service, everyone was given a cross made from a palm frond. But in the hands of my son, a palm frond is a dangerous thing.

As the choir sang “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?” I looked over and saw Severin lip-synching, using his cross as a microphone. I wanted to look severe, but it was all I could do not to laugh.

“Dude! If the priest sees you doing Jesus Karaoke you are SO busted!” Valentine whispered to him in mock outrage, which about did me in totally.

I figure it’s all my fault. I let them watch way too many Monty Python dvds.

A few months ago, we replaced our elderly, troublesome Toyota Land Cruiser with a slightly less geriatric, supposedly less misery-provoking Toyota Corolla station wagon.

All I can say now is: I would rather eat a caterpillar sandwich with broken glass garnish than buy another Toyota anything.
Even if Toyota engineers suddenly designed comfortable, flattering pants that instantly made the wearer look 20 lbs thinner, I would shun them, knowing that they would malfunction in some horrible way. They’d probably fall off me in shreds the minute I went out into public and I’d be so traumatised I’d have to undergo very long, very costly therapy sessions for years afterwards, completely impoverishing my family.

That’s what the Toyota name has come to mean to me: total humiliation and a money haemorrhage to follow.

Yes, as a matter of fact, my car DID break down again.

How ever did you guess?

It was very exciting. It got stuck in third gear during Friday afternoon rush hour traffic in the middle of downtown Ouagadougou.

It was so exciting that I cannot describe how exciting it was. The part where we didn’t die was my favourite bit, of course.

I contemplated not getting it repaired – maybe just pouring gasoline over the whole thing and throwing a match on top of it? But I guess that’s pretty dangerous and a poor example for the children. Not to mention that it’s bad for the air quality.

The best solution is probably to just keep the car in the driveway as a very expensive Burkinabe-style status symbol (“Look! We own a car! ). Then I’ll buy a nice little donkey and cart.

But with my luck, I’d no doubt end up buying an unreliable used donkey. One suffering from severe ear mites and terminal cancer.