winding through fields & houses, dodging puddles & speeding mottos, squinting in the sun that bears down. languages fly back and forth, greetings & question, blessings & more questions.
women & children come and go, baskets of corn on heads or mottos, waiting to be ground into flour for food for the next two weeks. and as much as it is a daily task, it is a social event.
then we sit, and wait.
we find seats on benches and stones, waiting until the things we brought are ground.
questions of what are brought are thrown around with every newcomer: arachide (peanuts), blé (wheat), maïs (corn) or haricots (beans).
the power is only cut once, exasperated voices sigh, laughingly calling out to the power company.
when the camera draws funny looks and laughter, we have to explain:
in america, we don't take our things to the mill to be ground, we buy it pre-ground.
how do you explain an american grocery store to someone who hasn't ever experienced anything close to it? as much effort as it takes to try to explain our life in burkina to others in the states, it takes even more to explain things from american life with our neighbors here.
when our wheat finally reaches the mill, the freshly ground flour fills the air, bringing the closest thing to snow burkina will ever see. the smell of overheated engines, dust & wheat fill the small building.
so, a few hours, laughs and pictures later we head back home. and after all of that, it's still before lunch. there are still languages to be studies, meals to be cooked, people to be talked to and life to be lived. and some days are harder than other, some feel longer than humanely possible, but He gives us the strength so that we can make it through. 
