I finally have pictures of the goat wedding! But the bad news is that Blogger is being difficult about letting me load pics today. So, I leave you with a single photo of the the lovely bride, Midnight:
For the rest of the pics (and they are well-worth seeing) check out the photo album at right. Click the link and then choose the "Goat Wedding" sub-album. Enjoy.

I've been really sick. I would have sworn it was Ebola, but as I didn't hemorrhage out of every bodily orifice and die, I guess it wasn't that. It was more of a sinus infection - bronchitis- fever thing. I had completely lost the will to live by Monday and Tuesday, but rallied on Wednesday, as I regained the ability to read. My headache had been so bad that I couldn't pick a book for days, which is horrible for me. But yesterday I got all the way through "The African Queen". Like most people, I've seen the old Hepburn movie, but I had no idea that it was orinially a novel. It's a funny old relic, well-worth a read. It's very different from the film- much better, as is usually the case.
But enough of that. How about some pictures? Everybody likes pictures? Right?
Last Friday, just before I got ill, we had some friends visiting from Chad. They were on vacation in Ouaga, to relax and do some shopping, which tells you just how bad N'Djamena must be. Anyplace that makes Ouaga in the hot season look good has to be pretty scary. In fact, they had been evacuated to France just before Christmas, as rebel forces approached the city. They're back now, but not exactly at ease. So, they came back to Burkina for a break to see their old friends. One thing on their to-do list was shopping. So, I took them to the local mall.

Hey, you can't get great shopping like THIS back in Chad! Anne was looking for buckets made out of old tin cans. The twins helped her hunt around.

Nearby the recycled metal goods was a huge area of the market devoted to "traditional medicine". The practioners are people who get called "witch doctors" in old novels like "The African Queen". The stands are piled with stringy bones, ashy powders, dried animal parts and skins, and all kinds of indescribable stuff. I managed to take one picture in one of the more quiet corners of the market. It's not one of the more impressive stands, but it gives an idea.

The thought now occurs to me that I was seen taking that picture and the owner of the stand put some kind of wack on me as punishment.

I just stumbled onto this out there on the internet. It's an unauthorized version of me, pasted together out of bits and pieces of myself that I've left scattered around the web. I found it a tad creepy at first. It was definitely unexpected. But then I thought "Hey! This person likes me enough to spend time tracking me down, cutting and pasting. I have a ........fan! And as I live in an obscure African nation, there is only a very slim chance that this person will fly here, break into my home and rearrange my underclothing drawer. So, there is no downside, as far as I can see. Cool !"
So, go have a look around the site. There's only one page of Burkinamom, the rest is collected bits and pieces from elsewhere in the world. Some of it is quite interesting.

Daytime temperatures here are consistantly 104°F or above, but the early mornings are still somewhat cool. It would seem to be a nice time to go out on the terrace and enjoy a coffee before the day starts. Unfortunately, it's hard to find a good place to sit. Goaty seems to have decided that the table is a cosy spot to spend his mornings. Great minds think alike, I guess.
As I don't relish having my breakfast in such close proximity to Mallory's pet, I move further down the terrace to another seat, only to find:
Nowhere is safe.

And then there's these guys:
They are often napping in the middle of the living room, so you have to be alert and nimble to avoid a tragic accident. There's actually seven of them total: Crystal, Lucky, Bronwen, Darwin, and three others that have not yet displayed enough personality to earn a name.
Lucky got his name by being found drowned in his mum's water dish. Mallory rescued and, amazingly, recussitated him. Thankfully, it did not involve mouth to mouth. She rubbed him with a towel and he began to breathe again. It took him a while to recover, but he seems quite well now.

And now for something completely different: I have some friends here that have an amazing non-profit org devoted to opening libraries in villages. These libraries mean the world to the people in these villages, who often have no access to books at all. This is a great project!
Read the blog here!

Now (finally!) a change from mildly amusing anecdotes about my strange home life. Unfortunately, this is all about death. Here's another excerpt from my favorite local newspaper.

Meningitis Epidemic : Getting rich off the misery of the Burkinabé people.

By Ramata Soré from “L’Evenement” April 10, 2007

“What’s happening with meningitis? There seems to be a general feeling of powerlessness that condemns us to die in silence, because we can do almost nothing. The vaccines are very expensive and almost impossible to find. Even if we had the money, there aren’t enough laboratories making the vaccines quickly enough to help us. We here are more vulnerable to meningitis than to HIV/AIDS. Why? Because in the latter pandemic, even though it’s not curable, we know how to avoid it and how to live as long as possible with the illness. There is none of this for meningitis. Every year, without fail, meningitis kills thousands of us. We cannot prevent and often cannot even treat it. There are questions of money and knowledge involved….But there are also criminal elements in this story that we must find the courage to confront. We have discovered a hideous illegal business built upon vaccines. It is completely unacceptable, but tragically very common.”

The article goes on to cite several major problems:
1) The proper storage of vaccines: The article claims that vaccines are often stored at incorrect temperatures. Specifically- the “chain of cold” is being broken, often multiple times. So, the potency of the vaccines used is questionable. Why isn’t it kept cold? In part ignorance and in part due to item number two:

2) The Bidding Mafia: The need for refrigerators, appropriate vaccine transport containers, etc has led to a big business, not much of it aboveboard. The contracts don’t go to the lowest bidder. The representative of one company that bid and lost claims: “We offered the exact same items for 50 million cfa (100, 000 dollars US) less than the winning bid. It’s not right.”
And once the contract is granted, lots of the material paid for and much needed never shows up. In one case, 15 electric generators were sent, instead of 25. These are desperately needed in the rural areas that have no way to power fridges for vaccines.

3) Underestimating the problem: “One source, close to an internatonal health organisation, believes that the official figures for meningitis in Burkina are seriously off-target. Our source says that in the 11^th week of the epidemic, there were already 200, 000 cases, rather than the 10, 796 claimed by the government. With a mortality rate of 20%, that means about 4000 deaths attributable to meningitis, rather than the official figure of 801.”

4) Lack of medical training: “The government claims that all health structures in country have personnel that are qualified to diagnose and treat meningitis. Nevertheless, the reality is that there are serious problems. Many healthcare personnel can’t recognise meningitis. It’s often the case that sick people have to return several times to the clinic, insisting that they have a serious problem. Sadly, many people here die because the symptoms of malaria and meningitis are often confused. This has been documented by us at several clinics in Ouagadougou” The situation in rural areas can only be worse.

5) Improper use of vaccines: Vaccination campaigns have been going on since March, but no records are being kept. This means that some people are getting vaccinated every year. The meningitis vaccines are meant to be administered only every three years. It’s both dangerous to health and wasteful not to keep immunization records. Considering that the vaccines are in such short supply, it is particularly terrible to waste them.

6) Stolen Vaccines: “In 2003, 1000 doses of vaccine “disappeared from a Health Ministry cold room in Ouaga. A manager in charge of vaccines (Etienne Kyendrégeogo) was found to be at the origin of the theft. He and his accomplices still work at the Ministry. Some of them boast that they have even been promoted, despite their wrongdoing.

The fact that these people have gone unpunished has prompted others to imitate them. Double books are kept and the “surplus” vaccines are sold for a profit. In one district, the manager took 26, 000 doses and sold them for a profit of 3,900, 000 cfa (about 8,000 $ US). This is not uncommon. The PEV (which manages vaccines in Burkina) has no internal monitoring and misconduct is not punished.

Right now, someone who is responsible for stealing
millions from the vaccination effort is a top employee at an International health organisation.”

And I just received this in my inbox a minute ago:

U.S. Embassy, Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso Warden Message

April 19, 2006
The U.S. Embassy is issuing this Warden Message to alert you to the meningitis in
Burkina Faso.  As you may already know, this year's cyclical meningitis outbreak
has been particularly severe.  According to the Ministry of Health of the
Government of Burkina Faso, as of April 4, there already have been 19,549
cases of meningitis, 1,337 of which have resulted in death.  These totals
significantly exceed those of the last major outbreak in 1996.  The World Heath
Organization estimates that an average of 4,000 new cases of meningitis and 200
related deaths will occur weekly until the end of the forecast epidemic in late May.   
American Citizens should confirm that their meningitis A, C, Y, and W135
inoculations are up to date.  Further information on meningitis can be found on
the World Health Organization site:
http://www.who.int/mediacentre/factsheets/2003/fs141/en/

I have a friend here that has no children, but she claims that she loves to hear about mine “Your kids are a riot!” she says. “There’s always some crazy thing going on over at your house!” And I am proud to say that it’s true.
They are a pretty creative, funny bunch. And their tendencies have only been enhanced by living in Africa and not being very exposed to modern media. We do have a TV, but it’s only for dvds and videos. And their viewing is limited to the weekends and then just for a couple of hours. As a result, my children don’t depend much on outside entertainment. But on the other hand, it can leave certain gaps in their knowledge. Severin, for example, has seen “Spy Kids”, but hasn’t seen James Bond, or anything of that type. So, he ran into trouble recently while playing some elaborate game with his two good American pals.

The boys ran across the living room, Severin shouting “ The enemy has been…..fertilized!”
His friends just looked at him, nonplussed.

Valentine helpfully whispered from the corner where she was reading, “Neutralized, Severin. It's Neutralized”.

I felt kind of bad. Maybe I should let him watch Rambo, or something….

At last! The picture of the historic meeting between Goaty and my long-suffering kitty.
And here is a portrait of the little stinker. He does have a cute little face.....

Anyway, as you can see, I finally got JP's camera figured out. Mine is, sadly, officially dead. But at least I can use his until I can get to the US this summer and get another one.
BTW- pics of the goat wedding should be available soon - whenever my pal G. gets a chance to burn a disk for me.

The wedding on Sunday was everything a person could ask for in terms of a goat wedding. The girls had rigged up a veil for Midnight out of some white fabric, a pink plastic flower and a pipe cleaner. There were two holes for her horns.
Goaty sported a ribbon around his neck and had been recently bathed. Not that it helped in the aroma department. But he looked pretty sharp, for a goat.
Alexa, dressed in her nicest gown, walked down the garden path, scattering bougainvilia petals. Mallory was Goaty’s “best man”. Their friend S. was the presiding religious official. S’s sister was in charge of the bride, who was intent on eating the cushions on the garden lounge chairs and showed little interest in marching down the aisle. We tried coaxing her with dried peanut leaves, to no avail. I finally grabbed her . My friend Gina, the photographer for the event, said something about forced marriages in West Africa. “Ha ha!” I said, wrestling the goat up to the altar.
Our Goaty was very thrilled by his intended bride. You know how at some weddings you get 'tears of joy'? Well, we got the 'urine of happiness', which did somewhat take away from the decorum of the event. It resulted in four nine year old girls running around saying “EWW! GR--OSS!” for several minutes while a bucket of water was fetched and all was made clean again.
The witnesses all signed the register and then we went inside to enjoy the wedding cake. Yes, I made a goat wedding cake. It had pink icing, sprinkles and two small plastic goats graced the top of it. I quite fancy myself the Martha Stewart of Burkina Faso, minus the financial shenanigans and stint in prison, of course.
After the goats enjoyed their snack of grass in the garden, the girls put them on leashes and took them for a walk around the neighbourhood. Mallory later reported that during the outing, Goaty had seemed to like Midnight and was showing a certain enthusiasm for his conjugal duties. But Midnight was not interested at all.
I figure she wants to concentrate on her career before starting a family.

But soon after the honeymoon, Midnight was whisked away in the back of a car. Goaty is once more alone, with just the chickens, cats, turtles, guinea pigs and rabbits to bear him company. Not to mention Mallory, who almost constantly reeks of billygoat these days In church on Easter Sunday, she looked like an angel, but smelled more like her beloved pet. I asked her if anyone at her school has remarked on her new eau de parfum à la chevre. She claims that nobody has said a word.

Just now Mallory came in and asked me, “Mom? Have you ever heard of a house goat? Like, living inside? With people?”

“Umm…no. Why?”

“No reason. Just asking.”

Hmmmm…..

At 7am this Easter morning, I woke to the sound of Mallory’s urgent whisper : « Severin ! Severin! What’s a ….’Peep’???”
I heard his sleepy, patient reply: “It’s a small marshmallow candy, typically in the shape of a chick or bunny. Can I sleep now?”
The Easter Bunny passed by this morning, with help from my parents in the US, so there were a few exotic candies unknown to my younger kids. Mallory wasn't sure if Peeps were a food or brightly colored plastic toys. The candies were just left out on the dining room table, as we did all of our egg hunting yesterday at a US Embassy sponsored event. I had thought about opting out, as last year’s egg hunt had been decidedly miserable. The candies melted in the scorching heat, there was no coffee and the drinking water ran out early on. Imagine 40 young kids that have been eating jelly beans in 44°C heat with no water and tremble, my friends. I finally decided to risk going again this year, but wisely brought my own water supply, plus I had a coffee before I left home. And I was completely justified in my distrust. The only thing that saved them running out of water again this time was the cooler temperature. And there was no coffee. Because of the US Congress. It goes like this: The Congress slashes the State Department budget. The State Department takes it out of the Embassy operating budgets. The Embassy then gets a budget cut of 30% and has to figure out where to cut corners. The first things to get hit are the salaries of the local Burkinabé employees and the amenities of the little community events the Embassy hosts. Hence, no coffee and little water. Thanks Congress.

The good news? The mango rain came on Thursday, none too soon. For the week leading up to it, Ouaga had been suffering the most terrible dust storms ever. A yellow fog of grit covered the city, reducing visibility to just a couple of blocks, sometimes even less. It was very unpleasant. Even Goaty got sick. He was coughing. Have you ever heard a goat cough? Very disturbing. Also, he had a runny nose, which the twins lovingly kept clean with the better part of a box of Kleenex. That was also pretty strange. He’s better now, though. Which is good, as Goaty is getting married today. Yes, the twins found him a bride: Miss Midnight. She is dainty, with a glossy coat and she smells like a veritable rose. My girls were having such a good time with Goaty, that their friends’ mom was inspired to get her girls a goat as well, but she had the wisdom to opt for a female. So, as soon as Alexa has finished her homework, I have to drive over to pick up the stench-free Midnight and her lucky, lucky owners. The girls have been planning the wedding for a week. Once again, I am very, very sorry that my camera doesn’t work.

Last night, I drove to church with the car packed full. Ten people, plus hotdish casseroles for the supper afterwards. Severin’s two best friends were with us. I heard Daniel ask Valentine how old she is. “13, going on 14” she said.
Severin burst into song:
“You are thirteen going on fourteen
Baby, it's time to think
Better beware, be canny and careful
Baby, you're on the brink”, he sang in a very nice tenor.
He even knew the second verse!
”You are thirteen going on fourteen
Fellows will fall in line
Eager young lads and rogues and cads
Will offer you food and wine”
His friends just looked at him tolerantly. I was just grateful that they are both sweet MK’s (missionary kids, for those of you who don’t know the expat lingo). More typical 11 year old boys would no doubt be harsh on a pal that bursts into show tunes at the slightest provocation.

On the bright side, maybe we can get him to sing "One Hand, One Heart" from 'West Side Story' for the upcoming goat wedding.

I just got home from my second trip over to the school already today. I had dropped off the kids just before 7:30, but then had to rush home and grab Severin’s school bag, which languished, forgotten, under the coffee table.
When I got out of the car after my frantic to-ing and fro-ing,, there was Goaty to greet me. Now, he and I haven’t really spent any quality time together. The reasons are as follows: A). He reeks like a giant, terrifying, slightly rancid goat cheese, and B) I don’t want anybody getting the mistaken impression that this goat is my responsibility. Feeding him peanut plant leaves, washing him with lemon-scented soap and telling him he’s adorable are all strictly Mallory’s burden to bear. So, as he followed me up on to the terrace, I didn’t really pay him too much attention…..until he came over and started rubbing his little head against my knee and raising up a tiny, supplicating hoof. He was really just like a dog wanting to be petted. So, I sat down, patted him and, ahem, told him how adorable he is. He gets lonely, poor thing, without Mallory around. The chickens he shares his cage with are pretty good company, it seems, but not soul-mates.
Now , all this was observed by my cat, tail switching and little kitty brow furrowed. She wasn’t pleased. And she was even less pleased when Goaty came over to see her. “I’m cute! Pet me!” he seemed to be saying, sticking his face right down into hers. She hissed and snarled something that sounded remarkably like “ The hell I will, goat-boy.” Goaty retreated to the back of the house and I went inside to get JP’s camera. I thought he had taken it on his trip, but I discovered yesterday that he’d left it here at home. So, I figured I’d try to use it to get a picture of our newest pet. I went to the back yard and sweet-talked the goat, trying to coax him to look at me for a photo. The cat came to investigate, looking very pissed off that I was speaking to the reeking, ill-mannered pest in the same tone of voice I use to talk to her. Poor Goaty, clueless as he is, caught none of the nuances and ambled over, sure that the cat had changed her mind about petting him. She hadn’t.
The thing is, I got a picture of their second encounter. Which is amazing, as I invariably miss “the moment” when I am trying to take pics. But, sadly, I cannot find any cables that can hook up my computer to his camera, or any other way of downloading the pics. I’ll be able to get them eventually…in about two more weeks.

I'm going to go on a walk in a few minutes. I try to get in some excercise each day, often at the gym. But today it is breezy and seems cooler than usual, relatively speaking. I just looked up the Ouaga weather update on Google. They report: "105°F, feels like 98° F". Well! No wonder I feel so frisky. 98°! What a treat!

A. got sent home from school yet again yesterday. She was so pale that it frightened me. But she felt better in the evening and looks/feels pretty good today. I've just been trying to hold out until her heart specialist appt on Monday evening. But NOW I've learned that the Maouloud holiday has been changed yet again and is now scheduled for tomorrow. And by law in Burkina, when a holiday falls on Sunday, the Monday after is a legal holiday. ("Our country is really screwed up, so let's have LOTS of paid holidays!" seems to be the government's philosophy) The actual day of Islamic holidays here are fixed by the appearance of the moon, as determined by the marabouts (muslim religious leaders). So, up until the last minute, rumors fly. "The Prophet's Birthday will be celebrated on Saturday." "No! I hear it is Sunday." "No! Friday!" But now it's been announced on the radio that it's on Sunday and Monday is "ferié", as we say around here. That means no appointment for A. And she'll have to wait another week, as the doctor only consults on Monday evenings. What that is all about, I don't know. We do have a golf course just south of Ouaga. Maybe the MD keeps busy on the brown, crispy "greens" out there.

I will do my best to somehow get a picture of Goaty and the chickens. (Note to self: form rock band and call it "Goaty and The Chickens") My camera is broken, but maybe I can borrow one from a friend....

My daughter Mal wants a horse of her own. Passionately. With all her heart.
I said "no" to a horse. But I did not deny her a goat.
Now, the goat thing really was all her idea. When Mallory saw that no horse was forthcoming, not even an elderly shetland pony, she started thinking outside the box. (a little pun for all the horse-lovers out there) I had already said "no" to a dog, so what was left? Well, how about a goat? Teach it to go on a leash and you've got a pretty good pet, she reasoned. I heard her out, and as I felt bad that neither a horse or dog would be do-able, I consented. But she wanted to get started training it immediately. So, she went off in the truck with Fanta and Arouna to go to the animal market. I had a meeting I had to get to, but when I got home, there was Mallory, garden hose and soap bottle in hand. The little goat was bleating for all it was worth. I don't imagine the poor thing had ever been bathed before. It certainly didn't smell like it, anyway. Somehow, Mal had ended up choosing a male goat and his aroma, even at his tender age, already leaves to be desired. And I know very well how bad he smells, because I found him in the middle of the kitchen at 6:30 am this morning. He reeks, despite Mal's best efforts. She'd brought him in beacuse "he gets lonely out there with just the chickens".
He lives in a pen in back of the house with our two chickens: Snowflake and Jaguar. Mal has said that she is going to call her new pet Aslan, but keeps forgetting and just calls him Goaty. I think the latter certainly fits him better.
Lots of people in our neighborhood keep goats. They're not at all an uncommon sight in the street. But as you may have guessed, they are destined for the dinner pot, not a life of luxury.

Alexa is much better, thank you. She went to school this morning and stayed until we picked her up at lunch.

Yesterday, the school called yet again for me to come fetch my unwell daughter. She came home and slept 6 hours. I woke her up so she could eat something. Then she went back to bed and slept until this morning. The bloodwork we had done on the weekend doesn't show any problem. But the labs here are notoriously unreliable. They have trouble with their equipment and the proper storage of the substances used in testing... Anyway, she's home today resting. I have stayed home withe her. I managed to do an exercise video. Then I sat down to read the newspaper again. Big mistake. Ignorance may not be bliss, but it is certainly more comfortable.

Below is another article from L'Evenement. First, just a little backgroud to help you understand it better: Burkina is undergoing major land-reform right now. The idea of land ownership is quite new to this country. Out in the villages, families work in feilds that their families have worked for generations and it is never sold or traded. It is not considered an object of ownership like a bicycle or a goat. And certainly there are no written records, titles or deeds.
But all that is changing. Government agents are slowly sweeping through the country, drawing lines on the ground and writing up titles. But there's a catch. You have to pay for it. Yup. You have to pay to "own" the land that has been in your family for generations. And that plot where your home is located ? You better be able to pay for that land when the agents come through or your ancestral home will be bulldozed. And your millet crop? You better be able to pay, or your food staple for the year is gone.
Now, often the land prices are not expensive, by developed world standards. I have one friend that was going to lose her home and it was a matter of 70$ to pay for the land and get a title. But that was a huge sum for her. Far more money than she sees three or four months! And many poor people here are in this situation, scrambling desperately to hang on to their families' homes. And guess who snaps up all this cheap land when the poor can't pay? Could it be.....wealthy elites that like to dabble in land speculation?

So, I present, once again, a very fast and rough translation of a one-page article in a respectable local newspaper:

The Forgotten of Balkuy (an article by Idrissa Barry and Claire Pinsard)

The SOCOGIB company just received a government permit to “improve” the area behind the President’s new palace in Ouaga 2000. This improvement project consists of building a luxurious housing development. Only, there’s a problem: all of the land designated for this project has been occupied for generations by the peasants of the village of Balkuy for their fields and the Peul herders for their animals.
Since October 2005, the peasants of the village of Balkuy are at an impasse. They don’t know what the future holds. Their source of livelihood may well be taken away from them by SOCOGIB, a company owned by the ultra-rich Alizeta Ouedraogo. To better understand their peril, it’s good to look at how the situation developed over the last year.
During the rainy season of 2005, earth moving equipment arrived out in the peasants’ fields. They suppressed some small paths and created others, dozens of meters wide. They set out markers in the center of each field.
Upset, the farmers went to their village chief, Issa Tabsoba. He knew no more than his villagers did about the matter. He decided to contact the director of SOCOGIB. He obtained a meeting for October 31, 2005.
The SOCOGIB official informed him that luxury houses were going to be built on the site. He said the fields, being located just behind the President’s residence, shouldn’t be “naked”- wasted on millet crops and cattle of villagers But the official promised that an inquery would be made into their claims. To date, no one has shown up, except for one agent that counted the number of Peul herders using the land.
Seeing that the situation was going nowhere, the villagers formed a group “The Crisis Committee of the Peasants of Balkuy”. The head of the group is Alexis Ouedraogo (no relation to Alizeta O. It’s just a super-common last name here).
He decided to get things moving and sent a letter in September to the Mediateur (Ombudsman?), the Mayor’s office and to the SOCOGIB. In November he sent another letter. All in vain. His desperate calls for help elicted no response whatsoever, except for the acknowledgement of receipt from the Mediateur. The Mayor’s office of Bogodogo, which is responsible for the village, showed no interest in the problem of the peasants.
But peasants are not the only people concerned by this. There is a charitable orgaization called “Vision for Burkina Faso” that owns two hectares in the area affected. This association has planted tree to “contribute to the fight against the desertification of Burkina Faso”. Also, there is a 56 meter deep well that is intended as part of an information and training center they wish to build. How can all of these investments just be ignored? That’s why the organisation is asking that they be paid 10 million cfa ($20,000) in reparations so they can buy another parcel of land elsewhere. Until now, they have received no response to their request.

Behind all of this scandal lurks a woman of undeniable power: Alizeta Ouedraogo, the director of the AZIMO real-estate company and mother in law of Francois Compaoré, younger brother of Burkina’s President. One of the threatened peasants put it this way : “If this woman is allowed to do such things, it’s because she is protected by Francois Compaoré and the President himself!” Sadly, the peasants are so desperate and hopeless that many of them are thinking this way. But the fact is that the core of the problem is really that these simple farmers and herders have no titles to the land in question. And in cases where there is no title, the land belongs to the government….So, if the housing developers have reached an agreement with the government, they are technically within their rights to construct there, destroying all the fields that provide a living for hundreds of people.
But there is a problem in all this that the developers have forgotten: we are in Africa and our traditions are oral, not written. Titles to land are a very recent thing. And how can you demand these kinds of papers from a population that is mostly illiterate? It’s a cruel joke.
The peasants of Balkuy work these fields because their fathers before them did so, just as their grandfathers did and long generations of their ancestors.
The problem might be simplified if there were not such enormous communication problems. Nobody in the land development company will even dialogue with the peasants or their representatives. The SOCOGIB says they have “announced” that work will begin when the time is right (?!!?) and that people will be compensated for any losses. The peasants will also be “prioritized” in the allotment of house plots for sale in Balkuy proper. But none of these propositions were made directly to any of the people concerned. In any case, the villagers are not impressed. The problem isn’t housing or money. The concern is about having fields to grow food in.
“What next?” is the question everyone in Balkuy is asking. They don’t know where to turn, as all doors seemed closed against them. The situation needs to be resolved. Burkinabé citizens shouldn’t have to live with such incertitude about their future. It’s not about the houses that are going to be torn down. For the farmers and herders, it’s all about the land, without which they cannot live. Land is heavy with symbolism. You cannot alienate it without alienating African Culture. Even today, many Africans still believe in the power of the Ancestors and the Land.
It is scandalous that these people should be left like this. A financial solution seems the most realistic way out. Furnishing alternative arable land seems too complicated….unless maybe there is some land not too far away that would be acceptable (ie; not in the President’s backyard). But there is no way to know about any of this, as those in power refuse any kind of contact with the villagers (or even the media).
The villagers of Balkuy aren’t against modern progress, but they would like things to made clear and fair. We can only hope that our President, who doesn’t want “naked” land behind his residence, doesn’t keep neglecting the fact that he needs to pay attention to the people, who have been living and working on the land since long before he came.

I didn’t update as promised because too much has been going on. The mask festival will have to wait. Today’s news is as follows:
Though A. went to school on Friday, I got a call from the school at about 10am to come get her. She was very unwell, short of breath and having chest pains. Luckily, I was not far from the school and got there quickly. I drove her to the medical clinic where we spent about three hours. She soon felt better, but the MD has no clue why her meds are suddenly not working. We’ll get the results of her blood work today at 1pm. Hopefully, they will provide an answer, or at least a clue.
She has been feeling pretty well today, just one short, non-painful incident of tachycardia this morning.

Just over a week ago, I was teaching KT (French Catholic sunday school) and one of the other teachers warned us all to avoid going home through the center of town. There were demonstrations at the police commissariat. The rumor was that someone had been beheaded?????!!!! Needless to say, we took the long way home. I later got the real story from JP and the details have been coming out in the media over the course of this last week. Today, I bought one of the best local newspapers “L’Evenement”.
To keep you up on the latest news, here’s a rough translation of part of one of the articles:

“Maybe it is time to face reality. From September 2006 to March 16, 2007, three big events happened that should open our eyes. First of all was the ‘Helmet Rebellion’ of September. It was a determined, yet spontaneous reaction of a certain class of Ouagadougou society against requiring motor scooter riders to wear helmets. The people went up against the police with rocks and bitterness. This reaction was so unexpected and so strong that the authorities had to back up. The law was not repealed, but it’s application is not in effect.
Next, there was the military mutiny of last December. For two days, young soldiers ruled over all of Ouaga. They violently reacted against anything even symbolizing the police force. They broke prisoners out of prison, They disobeyed direct orders and forced the President of Burkina to cancel two major international summit meetings that would have crowned him the de facto president of then CEDEAO and the UEMOA (NB: That’s the West African Monetary Union. A big deal )
Here again, the reaction was not in proportion to the triggering incident. The young soldiers reacted to get revenge for an offence, real or imagined, of some members of the CRS (Riot Police)
The final event is, of course, the horrible events of the 16 and 17 of March. There was a violent and determined popular reaction that arose suddenly at the discovery of two mutilated and dismembered corpses. This event unleashed a violent reaction from our citizen, an expression of their unwillingness to to put up with current conditions. People have absolutely no confidence in institutions here, which is why the demonstrators attacked the central police station, demanding that the accused murderers be turned over to the crowd for justice to be served to their satisfaction.
One aspect of all this that struck those who have seen images of the demonstration is the hatred with which people attacked and destroyed the Kundé Bars in Ouaga. All the branches of the popular Ouaga nightspot were levelled because of rumors that one of the accused killers was part-owner of the successful business.

This violence certainly has causes and tells us three important things about the political climate here.
There is a deep desperation in a large proportion of our population. For these people, who no longer believe in this system or in their country, the desire is to do to everything what was done to the Kundé Bars. They want to destroy everything and perhaps oblige the elites to rebuild Burkina in a better, more fair way. When people no longer expect even one good thing from the status quo, things get dangerous.
There is a total lack of confidence in the justice system. The military mutiny and the events of this month highlight the lack of trust in justice by the extremity of the acts committed.
And finally, we see that the people reject everything that the Kundé Bars represent. Sudden wealth that comes from very unclear sources. In the ‘Helmet Rebellion’ we already saw bthe people refuse to contribute to the enrichment of already wealth people that stood to make a lot of money from enforced helmet sales. The young soldiers were also rejecting the elites- those with money and power that have lost touch with the harsh realities and hardships of life in the barracks in the Burkinbe military.
Before any social explosion, there are signs that are often not noticed or are minimalized. But these events show everybody that eats at least two good meals a day that they are in danger. They are now confronted with millions of their citizens that no longer have any hope for the future.”

Again, this article was in one of the top Burkina papers, not their version of “The National Enquirer”. This is real.
More details on the murders: Two men were taken by one Mr. Modibo Maiga to go see a used truck for sale. They got into his car and were never seen alive again. Their dismembered bodies were discovered, piece by piece the 15 of March. They had been hit by a truck, shot and dismembered. Very, um, thourough. The heads were found a day later, near one of the reservoirs not far from our house. Blood was found on Maiga’s truck. Then witnesses came forward saying they had seen him do it, with the help of two accomplices. All three men are now in jail awaiting trial.
Now, the police very quickly released the various body parts for burial, but were slow to release the heads. In fact, one of the major demands of the rioters that attacked the police station was that the heads be given to the families ASAP. “ The murdered men were both of the Bissa ethnic group and their tradition demands that they be buried with their heads.” was what the paper had to say on the matter.

And what was really behind the nightclubs being destroyed? Well, many people here believe that prosperity can be bought with “wack”: black magic, often involving human sacrifice. The perception was that this Maiga was one of the owners of this very prosperous business and the success of it was due to human sacrifices. “Coupure de tête” (Cutting off the head) is a hallmark of these “ceremonies”. Even the Burkinabé president’s name has been linked to a killing- the murder of an albino man. ……….
Most of the time, Burkina seems so calm. So normal. Then, all of the sudden, things go very, very wrong. I wonder if the people really are preparing a revolution. … They certainly need one. The corruption of the elites is so blatant. And economic opportunities for the poor are rare to non-existent.
BTW, yesterday I noticed a worker filling in the last few bullet holes in the Police Headquarters downtown. In December, the soldiers had shot hundreds of rounds into the building. It was completely pockmarked on all sides. They only just now have got all the windows replaced and holes filled in. Luckily, the average Ouagalais doesn't have access to firearms. Otherwise I don't think the place would still be standing.

When JP had asked when we planned to get to the mask festival, I’d said « Oh…around 11 or so ». “No, no!” he told me “Show up at 10:30. I’ll be there and if everybody shows up on time, it will start earlier.” Luckily, I ignored him -not that I recommend this as a technique for building healthy marriages, but it does cut down on aggravation.
As you can guess, it didn't start anywhere near on time. We got to Oullo at 11am and JP’s field team wasn’t even there. The dance site was inhabited only by a few bored village kids, a couple of sad chickens pecking at dirt and a short American guy with a big camera. An academic interested by “Performance Art”. I was a little afraid for him. He looked like he needed a Starbuck’s Grande Latte Big 'ole Superchino, or whatever the heck they sell, plus maybe a copy of The New York Review of Books. Poor thing.

Our kids had quite a time, as news of their arrival in the village spread. Soon the Land Cruiser was surrounded by children. The girls retreated to the roof rack to escape the crush and get an overview. Until the masks showed up, we were the best entertainment in town.
When JP and his team finally arrived, it was nearly noon. The dance area was being sprinkled with water to help cut the dust. A couple of guys arrived pulling a big handcart piled high with benches from the school.
As all this went on, the mask dancers were to the west, in the forest getting sewn into their costumes. Once you are in it, you are stuck for the day. You can’t eat or drink until it comes off.
They arrived in procession at about 12:30, the griot musicians playing their drums and whistles. They paraded around the dance floor a few times. The masks were organized into groups: buffalo, antelope, beauty (designated by a woman), “The woman has no house” (which doesn’t look like a woman at all), Kalé (the clown mask that gets to mock all the others) and the tall “mosque” masks. There are many other types of masks, but they had performed the other two days of the event and weren’t there Saturday.
The dancers found spots in the shade to sit down and the griots tapped out another complicated rhythm. The antelope recognized their signal and two of them stood up. It became evident that one was a very experienced dancer and the other a neophyte. Often, one of the mask “handlers” would grab the younger mask by the shoulder, make him stop dancing and get him to watch more carefully what the older dancer was doing.
There was dust. Lots of dust. Which is good, kind of. That’s one of the functions of masks- to cleanse the earth of impurity. But at a festival, they don’t need to emphasize that function. Hence the water. But that water that had been poured on the ground before the event had evaporated in about five minutes. I thought of the other American woman that had planned to come along, but had backed out at the last minut because her asthma was acting up. How right she was. Due to the dust, I spent the whole time sucking on my inhaler so hard that it's amazing it didn't lodge in my throat. " US Citizen Dies in Freak Ventoline Mishap at Mask Festival" the headline would read.

That’s it for today. Alexa is home with her old heart ailment. It had looked like her medications were completely controlling it, but it has been recurring lately. She had trouble with it at school yesterday and ended up sleeping all morning.
And as she was so unwell yesterday, I checked her blood sugar, just to see if that old problem really was not a factor. She was somewhat high….
So, fun as this is, I have other, more pressing duties.

I’ll update tomorrow, for sure.

How about a few more pics?Here are JP and I enjoying our status as VIPs. We have chairs!!

Here are the twins and Zoe exploring around the village. The small round huts are for grain storage.
When these dancers arrived on the dance floor Mallory said "Look! Here come the cheerleaders!" She particularly admired the white tassels.
Actually, they are from a lineage that is not allowed to own masks. The story is that ages ago, the founder of the lineage was trying to return home from his fields, but a mask kept blocking his way. He finally got frustrated and shot some arrows at the mask. since then, the bush fairies don't allow the family to own any masks.

A cute little friend that the twins found in Oullo

I can't seem to write today. So, here's some pictures from our mask festival adventure.
Worth a thousand words, right?Here is the scene as we drove into Oullo. People running last-minute errands before the ceremony begins.
A few friends we made. They were very interested to meet the twins.
A couple of mask dancers resting in the shade.
This is NOT a bunny rabbit. It is a viper (python) mask

I think I have already established my «AdventureGal» credentials beyond a doubt. I live in a place that most people can’t pronounce and have fought off malaria in the hospital no less than twice. I got through the riots and car-burnings when we first arrived here and have been to no less than seven Winyé mask festivals. Did I really need to see another? What did I have to prove?
Well, what I did prove was that huge amounts of dust do make asthma worse (I’ve got to remember that one) and if your car is a piece of crap, you should maybe not drive it through the less inhabited expanses of West Africa
After last year’s fiasco, I had no great desire to go back. I even started getting sick with a bad cold on Tuesday. It seemed like a message from the mischievious bush fairies. "Stay away or you're in for a replay of last year, you miserable loser" was their exact wording.
But a nice Fulbright prof staying here for a few months wanted to experience a mask festival with her two daughters. These are the American twins that are in school with my twins….So, I thought it would be “fun” to go together. Even my pal Tony from next door decided to come along and bring his three year old.
So, we set off on Saturday morning at about 7am. My car took the lead and Tony was right behind us. His truck needs a repair to the steering and tends to shake distressingly when forced over 100km per hour. (Why not repair it? Good question. The part has been ordered for months and just never shows up) And my Toyota? Well, I have a deep and not completely unfounded fear that the left front wheel might just fall off at any given moment. It happened once already, on a trip back from the north of Burkina. The thing is supposedly repaired now, but that is a term used very loosely here. It wasn’t exactly the blind leading the blind, more like the badly injured leading the grotesquely maimed. But we figured that the odds were low that both cars would break down. We took it slow and the trip up went quite well. The four twins sat on the back bench seats in the Land Cruiser and had a great time. They like to play lots of role-playing games (not like their big brother’s D&D) more along the lines of: “Let’s all be orphans? Like really, really poor? And we have no home, just an old blanket?” If the tentatively proposed scenario is accepted, they all rush to assign themselves good parts. Mallory invariably complicates things, as she almost always insists on being some kind of animal. In this case, the others maintained that the tragic orphans were much too impoverished to care for a pony or even a smallish cat. Mallory finally gave in, thought a moment, then announced: “My name is Amber. I’m nine months old. And I bite!”. She sounded disturbing- just like a child in a 12-step program for demonic offspring. Next up would be the little boy from “The Omen” saying: “Well, I’m Damien. I’m 10. And I’m the Antichrist”

G. and I chatted, the girls played. We stopped once near some shrubs that had more than the average amount of leaves for this time of year. Little Zoe needed the cover, as did G. Then we went on another hour towards Boromo. This part of the trip Zoe spent in a complete, frantic panic. Tony later told me that he had quite a time trying to drive and decipher what his over-excited three year old was trying to tell him. He finally worked out that she had seen G. get out of our car, but hadn’t seen her get back in. She didn’t know Gina well, not even her name, but was quite beside herself that we had just taken off and left some poor lady stranded out in the bush. Maybe Zoe thought it was the start of some sinister trend. Who knows who would be left behind next? Makes a person think about drinking a lot less water, that’s for sure.

We got to the small hotel in the center of town at about 10am. This year I had reserved early, so we weren’t forced to stay in the nightmarish place that we did last year. To our surprise, we found that the old Relais Touristique had made (gasp!) improvements! The rooms all have air-con now!!!! And (get this) the rooms all have a TV! Granted, it only gets two channels. And the channels mostly seem to play cheesey music videos. But still!
Now, I’ll admit that the bathrooms still close with just stained curtains, rather than doors, and the rooms are still only about 9’ x 9’, and the water is still cut most of the day. But at least they provide a bucket now, so you can keep a reserve on hand. So, it’s actually quite improved. It’s now achieved the level of a very scary, extremely primitive Motel 6. But for the middle of Burkina, it’s pretty great. So, we happily and quickly unloaded our suitcases and got ready to head over to the small village of Oullo, which would be the site of the day’s ceremonies.

More to come……..

I just got a comment on one of my very early blog entries- one about learning to speak French. It was from a concerned reader that thought “the french (sic) might get mad”.

It just so happens that I have met the cheese-eating, snobby beret-wearing enemy… and she is me. I have been a French/US double national for over 10 years now. And I feel like it provides a lot of opportunities for a confirmed old grouch like myself. I feel free to rant and complain about both nations and their respective citizens, as I know both places so well…..
But I have to admit that it gets harder and harder to keep up with US culture, the longer I am away. For example, I finally saw “American Idol” on Tuesday night. I had heard lots about the show, but never, ever had seen an episode. I love singing and a friend of mine just got satellite TV, so why not? Why not, indeed.
I thought it was supposed to be all about discovering talent. But I soon noticed that the good singers were cut off very quickly and told “Yes, you’re in”. The vast majority never got to finish their song. But most of the profoundly bad ones were allowed to slog on until the horrifying end. And we watched it all, kind of the way people slow down to take in a car wreck. Simon was rude, bien sûr. I live in Africa and had never seen the show before and I knew that Simon was going to be rude. His rep has spread to the most remote corners of the planet. Paula was nice and actually would writhe in embarrassment at Simons’ antics. I probably could go on about it until the cows come home. But as the exact date and time of bovine arrival are not scheduled yet, I’m not sure how long I’ve got. So, I’ll spare you the long version. I’ll just say that I found the whole thing disturbing. It was mean-spirited and left me with a bad feeling afterwards. Yes, the 400lb guy singing Bohemian Rhapsody in a strangled falsetto was very funny, but is laughing at humiliation that much fun?. Why is this show SO popular? It seems pretty nasty to me.
And it’s interesting that while the show is imitated in the UK, Australia and Canada, there is no French Idol. They have a show called “Star Academy” where very attractive young hopefuls live in a mansion together and vie for stardom. But there are no excruciating audition sequences that go on for days, showing obviously disturbed people humiliating themselves in an attempt to get on the program.
I’m afraid there’s no defending the American public. I have also seen “Jackass”, god help me. The USA is doomed.

Well, sounds like the cows are home…No! Wait. It’s just three 11 year old boys arriving at our house for a sleep-over. That’s why I’ve spent “International Womens’ Day” at home making brownies, pizzas and other goodies. All is ready.

BTW- our rabbit just had five baby bunnies last night!!!

We were in the car when I asked my children « What’s your first memory ? » It’s always a wise idea to chat, sing and generally keep busy in the car. With four kids in the back (often even more!), the risk of bickering and/or bloodshed is very high unless you keep a grip on things.
Alexa was the first to answer :” I remember when we saw Grammy and Grampy!”
“That was just in 2005!” exclaimed Valentine. “She means, like, from when you were really little.”
“I can’t remember stuff from then!" protested Alexa. " I wasn’t even there yet!”

Two nights ago, Mallory went out onto the front veranda to get her guinea pig out of his cage. She wanted Bubbles to come in and watch a movie with her (Open Season. Pretty funny, btw.) As she went out, both our cats came inside. But Mallory rushed back in two seconds later, sans guinea pig. “Mom! You have to come out with me. I just saw a big black mouse. It…looked at me!” As we went out, she told me: “It was bigger than my guinea pig! That’s a big mouse! ” Ick. Obviously, one of the giant rats that prowl the neighbourhood had taken advantage of the absence of our cats to cross the yard. When they had surprised each other, it had stopped and turned to stare at Mallory, quite close-only about four feet away. Close enough. She said it seemed “smart, but creepy.”

It’s the last day of FESPACO today. About time. I have already admitted in this blog that I am a hermit. Did I mention that I’m grouchy, too? And nothing brings on a bout of crabbiness quicker than the FESPACO film festival, the supposed Jewel of African Cinema. Bah humbug..
As I checked on Google for a link for this post, I came up with results from other blogs that had phrases like ”…of course, I have always dreamed of going to Ouagadougou for FESPACO!!!” I, on the other hand, have lived here for almost eight years and have never gone to a single film. Not one. The first few years, I was tempted, but I was much too busy. Papiers du Sahel always had a sales stand in the artisans’ market set up especially for FESPACO. I spent eight or more hours each day at the main festival site and afterward just wanted to go home and rest! But while I worked the stand, I’d chat with the customers- people who had come from all over the world to participate in this event. There were people that showed up for a four film session, but only two were shown. The other films never arrived. And there were people that waited hours to see a film, being told every half hour “It’s coming! Don’t give up!”. Of course, it never came. I heard lots of stories…..
Add to that the fact that even after running this festival for 20 years, there are never enough schedules. Ever. They have come up with brilliant solutions, though, like handwriting it on a big sheet of paper and posting it on the street corner near La Surface supermarket, miles away form any FESPACO film site. By the time the event began this year, they did get a schedule up on their website. But of course, not many of the tourists know about it or have internet access. So you see them (and there are a LOT of them) haplessly wandering, their noses buried in their huge “Guide to West Africa” travel books. Their khaki shorts and huge sunhats are also a dead giveaway. None of us “local” foreigners would be caught dead in a sunhat. Yes, they are practical, but you look like a geek. The Burkinabé sure as hell never wear them.

Of course, the poor tourists are also invariably followed by a huge entourage of local vendors trying to force them buy djembés and toy bicycles made out of old bug spray cans. “Maybe this foreigner doesn’t want a toy bicycle right now…. But if I wave one in his face every three minutes, he might discover a hidden, burning desire to own one. Or possibly two!!!” And their success at bullying the tourists just makes them harder for the rest of us to deal with. During the rest of the year, vendors can be discouraged with just a friendly comment along the lines of “Not today. Maybe another time. Good luck.” But FESPACO time means long explanations and a firm tone of voice. “I’m not a tourist. I’ve lived here for eight years. I have everything: sardine can thumb pianos, bogolan tablecloths, djembes… We have 4 djembes at home! Really!”
And there’s this: most of the time, there’s not all that much to do in Ouaga. Yes, I know. I make this place sound like the Fun Capitol of West Africa in my blog. But really, it’s a little dull. But then when there finally is something to see, it floods with tourists and you can’t even get tickets to many of the good events. So, I have decided to stay away and let the tourists enjoy their films and buy their knick knacks.
Not that I would probably enjoy the films anyway. Frankly, most Burkinabé films are very depressing. Take Indian cinema: in general it’s very escapist, entertaining, colourful and very, very popular. My pal, K. who lived for years in India, has told me how practically everyone there loves to go to the cinema. It is their main form of escape from the drudgery of daily life. Kind of like the USA during the Depression.
Then there’s Ouaga: the movie theatres here are CLOSING! That’s right. In the showcase city of African cinema, people aren’t going to the movies and theatres are going out of business. It was hard to find enough places to show the festival films this year. Many of them are being shown outdoors, on the lawns of local hotels and parks.
Why don’t the Burkinabé go to films here? Well, the films made by Burkinabé directors tend to be gritty, realistic stories of village life. Very authentic. Very depressing. Many of them are almost like a documentary, such as the one that shows the hard life of a goldminer here. But these kinds of films do not interest the average Burkinabé filmgoer. At all. So, why make them? Here’s my theory: They make them to suck up to the European cinema world, that’s why. Their goal is not to make films to appeal to the Burkinabé public. Their films are carefully aimed at the (predominantly white) people that give out prizes and make it possible to get the hell out of Burkina Faso. And what do these white folks want to see? The real Africa of masks, excision, poverty, dust, villages……and, to be fair, Burkina is all those things. The problem is that because the Burkinabé actually live all that, they’d like to see something a little different. And not kung fu movies or the latest Hollywood car-crash crap. They like humour, music and magic, not earnest, dreary depressing films about being poor.
So, that’s really my main problem with the film festival. I feel that it’s actually poisoned the development of cinema here. There are local tv shows that are funny and clever and have large local audiences. But the world of film is crippled by “Fespaco-itis”: the strong tendency to pander to the expectations and tastes of the European audience.