Bullets Over Bubbly.

Season's Greetings from beautiful Ouagadougou, Hub of the Universe! My most sincere apologies, Dear Readers, for having neglected my Diary for so long. Let me see if I can mollify you a bit by detailing the extent to which Ouaga has gone to celebrate the holidays. The residents of this town certainly know how to throw a New Year's Eve celebration, shooting off firecrackers and zooming around on their backfiring motos. Unfortunately, these sounds are almost identical to that of the firing of an AK-47 assault rifle, which appears to be yet another popular way to ring in the New Year... particularly among the Ouaga police and the military, who happen to be feuding at the moment. Shortly before Christmas, the 2 groups clashed, apparently over the charge of a concert entrance fee, ending with one soldier killed and several more injured. The military, taking this encounter somewhat personally, retaliated by releasing several hundred convicts out of the city's main prison, over 600 of which are still unaccounted for. Since then, on an almost nightly basis, there has been sporadic gunfights throughout the city, and the main routes leading from the city have been subject to a higher-than-usual number of bandit strikes on cars and buses. 'Tis the Season, no? The Peace Corps volunteers who came into town to fete together have, in general, been left unmolested by either faction... with the notable exception of one who had one of the aforementioned AK-47s poked in his face when his bush taxi arrived within city limits, and a couple others who were compelled to abandon their beers when the bar at which they were drinking was forcibly closed by another gunman. In light of the situation, Peace Corps has become (understandably) concerned, and requested all volunteers to keep staff posted on their whereabouts, and our Country Director has prohibited us from leaving the volunteer transit house after night has fallen. I will give our Country Director this, that she has remained admirably calm throughout the last week, and kept us as informed on developments as possible. This is not to say that we are living under siege... we just are exercising a little more caution than usual, and avoiding parts of the city that could be considered "hot" (police/military stations, government districts, etc.). Flinch though I may at the pop of each and every firecracker set off by kids, I am determined to see the New Year in with a glass of sparkling wine held firmly in hand.

On another note, it is difficult to wrap my mind around the fact that it has been nearly 7 months now I have been living in this country. No idea if it has started "changing" me yet, as Peace Corps likes to claim. Hell, I'm having a difficult time starting any projects, and I have serious doubts about my usefulness in the Girls' Education and Empowerment program. Still, I am glad that I came to Africa, and most of the time I don't mind being here (even now). Upon my return to village, I hope to get a little back to my roots by organizing a theater club for village girls, in order to encourage them to address issues that are usually taboo for discussion. Also got an English club for adults in the works, and maybe some math tutoring to help the local kids in school.

Hope the holidays are treating you all well! As for me, looks like I'm getting quite a Ouaga New Year.

Requiem for Gildas.

Gildas is one of my favorites among the village children who hang out around my house and regularly pester me for my deck of playing cards and other presents. He cannot be more than six years of age, has spindly arms and legs, and his belly is only slighly bloated from malnutrition. He stands out from the ragtag crowd of his peers with his gentleness (not once have I seen him hit another child, a rare occurrence) and his embarrassed smile. Gildas is also a little dancing fiend... whether he has won a hand of cards, wants to get my attention, or is just overcome momentarily with glee, he always celebrates with a ridiculously cute hopping session, that looks half-Russian-folk-dance and half-muppet. He has just started his first year of school, and looks shy and excited all at the same time, standing in front of me in his new shirt and carrying a backpack that is much too big for him. I freaking adore this kid.

Gildas died a week ago. He drowned in the lake next to the village. Nothing in my experience is so raw or painful as a Burkinabé mourning: the village women howled and wailed so piercingly, they could be heard throughout the entire area all morning; and the men stood stoically together in small groups, brooding silently as they watched. The funeral took place almost immediately after Gildas's tiny, limp body was retrieved from the shallows where it was found.

I did not know him very well or long, but I was fortunate enough to know Gildas for a brief period, and the very least I could do for him and his family is to share with you the side of him I knew, that through our combined memories a part of him might continue to live on.

Sarcasm will resume in the next posting, but please allow me this one opportunity for some genuine emotion.

My 15 Minutes.

I know it has been a while since my last post, but now that I have commenced volunteer service I am supposed to stay in my village and actually work, if you can believe it. Anyway, just for you (and a little for me) I biked 80 km into the city of Fada N'Gourma to post my latest blog entry... and also to have a nice steak dinner and sleep in a room with an electric fan. The bike-ride took almost 6 hours, because I got stuck in a rainstorm for the first 2, but I made it in alive. And no, I did not fall once. But I digress...

Like any other self-involved product of bubblegum pop culture, I have often indulged in the fantasy of being famous. Of course, having toiled in various areas of the entertainment industry ever since I was tossed my college diploma, my idea of "fame" naturally leans towards images of pampered film actors and self-congratulatory award ceremonies, rather than distinguished Nobel Prize recipients and crusading humanitarians. With my exodus from the Hills of Beverly to the plains of West Africa, I was certain that I had closed the book on my dreams of seeing my face on the cover of The National Enquirer (next to a caption hinting at my latest slide into drug and/or sex addiction), or at least had put said dreams on pause. I should have known better; in the last year, Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt took the celebrity community by storm with the latest fad, proving without a doubt that Aid-Work-in-Africa is the new Adopting-of-Multi-Ethnic-Babies. Hell, I am probably on the verge of my first in-depth interview with People Magazine.

I am learning, however, that B-List celebrity status in Burkina Faso has its price. At last, I can understand the Sean Penns, Ben Afflecks, and Paris Hiltons of the world, and commiserate with their paparazzi-related woes. (Well, maybe not Paris Hilton.) Every day, every single day, I have found that it is impossible to leave my house without attracting the unwavering stares of literally dozens of villagers, each and every one of them burning with the desire to know what the fascinating white person is up to. Even in my home, the privacy that ordinary people enjoy - and I crave - eludes me; I need only to glance at my screen door or a window to be greeted by the inquisitive eyes of 3-to-30 children. In enjoying the privileges of being the Burkinabé equivalent of a movie star - a white American - I have surrendered my claim to a private life. The public, apparently, has a right to know.

Ah, me… fame is such a burden. The attention, the pressure… the need to sob about my problems to Larry King -- or perhaps, if I’m lucky, Oprah. It’s all too overwhelming. I need a pedicure.

Blessed Be the Dabbler.

Blessed (adj;, English): highly favored or fortunate; enjoying the bliss of heaven.

Blessé (adj., French): injured, wounded.

This past month of August has been a somewhat painful one, for both my dignity and my physical wellbeing. I think I have finally succeeded in securing for myself a solid reputation in the Peace Corps, as "He Who Falleth... Often." I had not experienced any difficulties in riding a bike since the age of 6, up until the first week of August. Since then I have been engaged in no less than 7 altercations on (and off) my bicycle. Observe:

Fall 1. Entirely my fault, freely admitted. Doing the "no hands" trick on a rough country dirt road, while listening to my iPod. May have pushed my luck when I turn around in my seat to see if any cars are behind me. Receive a good scrape on my knee and some shallow cuts on an elbow.

Fall 2. Approximately one week later. Also must assume some responsibility here. Pedalling home to village from Ouahigouya WAY too fast at night, because I am late. Again, listening to iPod (starting to believe this may be a bad idea). Hit pothole in road, lose control of bike at full speed, go sprawling, sliding on dirt and gravel for several feet. Both palms sliced to ribbons, as they end up being my principal brakes. Legs unharmed, remarkable as they somehow got tangled up with the bike during the fall. Deep cuts on hands necessitate smothering with gauze for weeks, causing the mocking of peers and fear among Burkinabé (who apparently surmise from my bandages that I have leprosy).

Falls 3, 4, 5 & 6. Roughly 6 days after last fall. Alcohol may or may not have been a major factor. Sleepover at friend's house in Ouahigouya. Imbibe healthy doses of rum and local bissap liqueur (i.e., hooch). Riding back at night from bar, friend and I come upon a large mudpatch in road. Friend swerves abruptly to avoid mudpatch. I swerve abruptly to avoid friend, directly into mudpatch. Bike stalls and keels over. I end up covered in filth and losing a flipflop to the mud. No trace of said footwear ever found again. This initial fall sets off chain reaction of subsequent falls, as mud clogs bike gears and Burkinabé hooch begins to take effect. Make ass of self in front of friend, owe him big time for taking care of me. No iPods were involved in these accidents.

Fall 7. Weeks later. No way in hell is this one my fault. Our last night in Ouahigouya before traveling down to capital to take Peace Corps oath. Excitement levels high, everyone decides to go out to bar to celebrate. Use borrowed bike, as personal bike is already in transit down to capital. Borrowed bike has NO GODDAMN right-hand brake, realized only when desperately trying to stop short to avoid collision. Bike swerves, falls. Again use hands as makeshift brakes, in the process tearing off all of the new skin from previous injuries (had just taken off the gauze earlier that day). Blood gushing from hands, decide there's no way in hell I'm going to the party now, go home to hotel room and re-bandage wounds -- first throwing minor tantrum when assured no one is watching. Drug self liberally with sleeping pills and ibuprofen, call it a night.

Yes, it's official: I hate August. On a positive note, in addition to be very, very blessé for the past few weeks, I can also add that I am truly blessed. Just over one week ago, I took the formal oath to swear in as a volunteer of the United States Peace Corps in front of all my peers, the US Ambassador to Burkina Faso, and several Burkina government officials. I have been living in my new home village for several days, and while the transition has been difficult and nerve-wracking, I am starting to feel like maybe I can do all of this after all. My neighbors are great, and I am throwing myself into learning 3 languages at once so I can better communicate with them. My hands are healing nicely, and I am focused on looking forward.

Final note... To those who are fond of using that familiar cliché, "It's just like riding a bicycle," I respond thusly: "Yes, but what if therein lies the problem?"

Burkinabé Bob: Behind the Laughter.

At last, Dear Readers, I have returned to once again regale you with tales of Africa, and of the sarcastic Hollywood expatriate currently residing there... that would be me, for all you new readers (hi, Mom). For this latest post, what with the end of my training being nigh and all, I have decided to finally admit an unfortunate truth to you: I have been struggling desperately throughout this staging period. I was reluctant to come clean for a couple reasons: a) I did not want to crush anyone's idealism by slamming the Peace Corps; and b) I did not want this blog to get shut down by Peace Corps, as they frown on volunteers and trainees who give them bad PR. However, certain new elements have recently come to light, shifting the responsibility (and blame) for my problems away from Peace Corps, thus allowing me to bitch to my heart's content. And to whose doorstep shall all the blam be laid, you ask? Why, Dear Readers, that would be Burkinabé Bob.

Please note: the individual known henceforth herein as Burkinabé Bob actually goes by quite a different name during his day-to-day life, but I feel it necessary to conceal this man's identity, for petty reasons such as libel and responsibility for defamatory remarks, and blah blah blah. Also, should he ever find out about this blog (and whatever else he may be, he is literate), and the part he is to play in it, I might worry for my physical wellbeing.

Bob was the first person to greet me upon my arrival in the village where I was to reside during my 3 months of training. Being one of the only people in the area who spoke French, he latched onto me and established himself as the point of contact through which all other villagers had to go through to speak with me, thus becoming - as my fellow trainees called him - my "gate-keeper." Initially, I was thankful for his constant presence, but after a few weeks it began to wear thin; it started a couple nights in, with his amusing parable about the 3 Jews who killed each other for a nugget of gold; got worse with his lecturing me for not following the laws of Islam; and I finally was over the honeymoon the night of my birthday, when he made a rather clumsy pass at one of my female trainee friends.

Bob had by now fixed it so he was my constant companion, eating all meals with me and making it incredibly difficult to get any studying done in my precious hours of time away from classes. Oh, and his habit of going through my belongings was particularly exasperating. Simply put, I was miserable. Our Peace Corps training staff kept emphasizing the importance of bonding with the members of our community, to further integrate into Burkinabé culture, but the only way I could get through each day was to avoid my house (and Bob) as much as possible.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, the day came where my family finally decided to share with me the truth about dear old Bob...just a month and a half after I had been left at his mercy. Firstly, I was informed that I should believe nary a word he says, because he is a habitual liar -- although I had kind of figured that one out already, as everytime I asked him a question about Burkinabé culture for an assignment, the answer invariably turned out to be wrong when I later presented it in class. It also turns out that Burkinabé Bob is a thief with a criminal record (he spent time in prison in Côte d'Ivoire, which explains why he once told me he will never return to that country), and other members of the family have been watching him because they suspect he's been casing my house. Finally, I learned that Bob was the sole reason I was living in this house in the first place, as he was the only family member present when Peace Corps arrived to scout locations for trainee housing, and he had assured Peace Corps that this would be a wonderful place for an American to live. This bastard was the bane of my existence before I even knew he existed!

At first, when I received all this news, I couldn't believe it... partly because my host father and his brother were laughing uproariously as they told me all the details. But no, they assured me it was the truth, every word of it, and it began to make sense: the small, inconsequential things disappearing frequently around the house (coffee packets and the like); the pre-mentioned fabricated answers to any and all my questions; and simply Bob's overall creepiness, which every other American here had also picked up on. Once I accepted the truth, the most amazing thing occurred: I felt free - gleeful, even. By all rights, I should have been furious and horrified; instead, I felt as if a massive weight had been lifted from my shoulders. No longer would I have to feel guilty for secretly resenting Bob's presence in my life. No longer would I have to berate myself for paranoia when I discovered that yet another item had disappeared from my home. No longer would I have to curse the Peace Corps staff for having screwed up royally in my housing assignment, for they had been just as duped as I by this scam artist. No, now I knew the score, and the game, too... and now I could play.

And so, life has improved drastically in the last several days. All of my electronic devices and important documents have been slipped out of the house to a secure location. Bob still comes over regularly, but now seems somewhat bewildered by the change in mood, chez moi. Oh, I still answer his questions cheerfully enough, but I no longer seek his company nor his advice, and every instance in which I must leave the room I always have a reason for why he should leave too... whether it be to help me with the dishes or just to come out and look at the gorgeous sunset outside. Being such a good friend of mine, he cannot possibly refuse -- but now and then I can see him seething. Best of all, the other family members know exactly what's up, and our newfound sense of camaraderie has made my host family situation so much more of what it should and could be. I leave the village in less than a week, and a week after that swear in to become an official volunteer of the Peace Corps. Yes, Dear Readers, it may sound overly touchy-feely, but Dabbler is on his way.

Tô: It's What's for Dinner.

Hello, Dear Readers! I am on a sort of vacation at the moment, in Burkina's capital city of Ouagadougou. My fellow trainees and I have been living it up for the past couple nights, as Ouaga has dozens of amazing restaurants: yesterday I had a hamburger, fries, and beer for dinner, and the night before that a group of us dined like royalty at a real Italian restaurant, gnoshing on gourmet pizzas (mine was goat cheese with capers and olives) and ice cream and sorbet. I also received my site assignment for when I finish training this summer... I will be moving out to a small village in the the south-east of the country, where I will then go about my work empowering the women and whatnot. This area is very near country borders with Ghana, Togo, Benin, and Niger - so the eventual vacations should prove interesting - and only several hours of bush taxi rides (don't even ask) from Ouaga for the occasional feast. Still, once I leave this city, I will need to get used to my usual diet here all over again, which for over the past month and a half has been spaghetti, beans... and tô. What is tô, you ask? Well, it's a little hard to explain, but the closest I can come to describing it is a hardened pudding made from millet (or occasionally corn). It's nigh tasteless, but it is The favorite national dish. Seriously, the Burkinabé love it. As for me, and the other Americans here, it's really hard to stomach, but we try to eat what we can of it and smile when it is offered to us -- which is all too often.

About a week ago, I wrote an article about tô for the Peace Corps trainee newsletter, Mana Wana, Nassara? (Mooré for "What's Up, Whitey?"), in the vein of my favorite satirical news source, The Onion. Although I don't think our training staff was that crazy about it, it got a pretty good response from the other trainees, so now I pass it onto you for your reading pleasure. Enjoy!

WEST AFRICAN FOOD CHAIN DESTROYING AMERICAN CULTURE

The popular Burkina Faso restaurant chain McTô has recently expanded its global empire to the United States, opening new locations in several large cities. McTô, a leader in the West African food industries, emphasizes a fast and affordable menu; the most popular item on it being tô, a staple diet of many Burkinabé. In the last few years, the McTô corporation has been plagued with accusations of price gouging and monopolistic practices, but this has not prevented its growth in international markets. Already, McTô's influence can be seen in several American cities, such as New York, where lines of customers stretched for several blocks outside of the ( different restaurant locations, waiting for them to open. Burkinabé cuisine has found an eager consumer in the American youth population... but at what cost? Formal, nutritional foods, such as hamburgers, french fries, and Coca-Cola, are being neglected, in favor of mass-produced foods like tô and bissap*. The new trend appears to be wreaking havoc on the long-honored American family structure, and is not stopping at merely changing dietary habits: traditional, cultural American clothing such as jeans and thongs are being tossed aside, as teenagers instead embrace the pagne and the boubou. Groups of concerned older Americans are clamoring for the government to intervene, but when asked to comment, President Bush merely replied, "Laafi."**


* Bissap is another culinary product of Burkina Faso, and - unlike tô - is quite delicious to Americans. It's a drink made from hibiscus leaves, water, and lots of sugar. Think along the lines of fruit punch.

** Mooré, meaning "There is health," or "It's all good."

The Lassie Method.

Now that I'm getting a little more accustomed to the incessant heat; the necessity of wearing mosquito spray, and the luxury of bucket baths, there is still one thing that never fails to drive me up the wall on a daily basis: language classes. My apologies to the Peace Corps for criticizing its program, but if I don't vent a little here, I'm liable to assault someone. (No volunteers or instructors were injured in the writing of this post.)

Almost every day, I attend Gulimancema class, taught in French. Somehow, when I first arrived in-country, I must have aced my initial French competency exam, because I was subsequently placed in a class where everyone is fluent in French. I am not fluent in French. Not even close. So there's that problem, right off the bat. I would like to preface what I have to say next with the fact that, personally, I like my teacher (or Language Competency Facilitator, or "LCF," because the Peace Corps lurves its acronyms); he's a great guy, very friendly and thoughtful. During Gulimancema class, however, he is The Enemy. He apparently believes that the best way to teach a foreign language is through charades: first, he says a word in Gulimancema, then he makes a gesture. Then, the fun begins! Obviously, at this point, nobody in the class has a clue what he is talking about, so he emphatically repeats the word and the same gesture, then again... and again. Finally, tentatively, one of us will call out a word in French, with the hope that somehow it will be the desired solution to the puzzle. But it isn't, and our LCF shakes his head; and again intones the word; and then everyone starts shouting out words; our guesses becoming more desperate and random. Eventually, one of us will speak the desired word -- the LCF will nod, announce "C'est ça" ("That's it"), and then immediately say another word in Gulimancema, followed by another gesture. And so my personal hell continues. Mind you, the man speaks perfect French, so if he really wanted to he could simply say the word in Gulimancema and then translate it into French. But instead, he subscribes to what I have decided to call "The Lassie Method of Teaching" (at one point, during one of our sessions, I guessed in frustration, "What, Timmy fell down the well?")

Who knows, maybe this obscene version of Pictionary is an intentional exercise in frustration, to help us develop patience. If I do eventually end up becoming fluent in Gulimancema through this maddening method, I will take back everything I have written here and whispered under my breath in class.

Dabbling Diva.

Those of you who have read my old blog knew that I had started dabbling in songwriting. Well, here is another, with original lyrics and music stolen from a very popular karaoke hit. A draft of this song was first composed by a group of us Peace Corps trainees during our orientation back at the beginning of June. About 2 weeks ago, I took the liberty of revising it...


I'M STILL ALIVE (sung to the tune of "I Will Survive")

First I got my shots, and was immunized.
Still uncertain how I'll live without wifi...
Spent my first few nights wondering how I'd get along,
If I'd grow strong,
So I went and wrote this song!

And now I'm here,
In this strange place,
Where the sun is beating down all day upon my face.
I'm learning to speak French:
"Je n' sais pas" and "C'est la vie,"
And now a man I hardly know has just tried holding hands with me!*

And so I do,
And it's okay.
And now the smile that's spreading on my face will never go away.
That is, unless I get the runs,
Which'll put a damper on my fun.
I might not thrive,
But I'm alive.
ça va aller!


* Although homosexuality is frowned on in Burkina Faso (and incredibly dangerous to engage in), it is not uncommon for 2 men or 2 women to be seen walking hand-in-hand in public, as an expression of their familiarity and friendship. Ironic, no?

The Dabbler Lives!

Ne y windiga (that's Mooré for "Good day") from Burkina Faso! I am writing from the city of Ouahigouya - pronounced "WHY-ee-GOO-ya" - in the northern part of the country. Apologies for the extended period of silence, but Blogger does not seem to work too well over here; I tried posting 3 times in the past couple weeks, to no avail. On top of that, all of the keyboards here are in French, which makes typing even the simplest sentences quite a challenge, as all the letters and symbols are in the wrong places. Needless to say I am psyched to finally be able to send out a message from in-country.

At the moment, in addition to participating in classes for cross-cultural orientation, I am brushing up on my French in the most effective way possible (by speaking it non-stop), and I'm learning 2 additional languages, Mooré and Gulimancema. I have also been "adopted" by a host family in Bogoya, a village a few kilometers outside of Ouahigouya, where I sleep and eat most of my meals. Unless it is raining or there is a dust storm, I sleep outside (with a mosquito net, to protect me from malaria infection), because otherwise I literally marinate in my sheets from the heat. Also, since my consitution is not as strong as that of the locals (or, in Peace Corps jargon, "host country nationals"), I have to filter all my water, and then add a couple drops of bleach to every liter, before drinking it. I also have to be extremely careful about what I eat, in case of bacteria or parasites... so absolutely NO salads while I'm here, and all my food has to be thoroughly cooked. Already a couple of my fellow trainees have been laid low by stomach viruses and diarrhea -- here, apparently, it pays to be paranoid. However, let it be known that my hosts are incredibly friendly and attentive, and do whatever they can to make me more comfortable. I've also had many interesting conversations (in my broken French) with Bob - my self-appointed guardian in the village - about why I'm here exactly, the differences between life in Burkina and America, and what kind of music we love (he's a reggae fanatic, while my personal favorite is oldies rock 'n' roll).

The culture here is VERY different from that of the States: collectivism is the rule, as opposed to that famous American individualism. It is imperative to greet (or "saluer") absolutely everyone you pass, and that means more than merely saying hello; in greeting a perfect stranger, you must inquire how they're doing, how their health is, how their family's health is, respond in kind, then wish them well until the next time you both meet. Anything less than this is considered the height of rudeness. Anyone who has ever lived in New York City can imagine what a change THIS little custom is for me.

Now, I will not pretend that the past couple weeks of transition haven't been difficult; until now, I could not remember the last time I was homesick -- but the culture shock hit me hard when I arrived. On my 7th day here, I was honestly asking myself how I was going to last through the summer, much less 2 years. Things are better now, but I'm trying not to think about the big picture for the moment. Right now the goal is to stick it out through the completion of training, at the end of August. If I'm still doing okay then, I'll see how I do until Thanksgiving, and so on. A Volunteer who has been in-country for 10 months told me that's how a lot of people in her group handle it; they love their experiences and their work over here, but it's easier to get a handle on things if they take it step by step.

There you have it, Dear Readers: a rather lengthy post from yours truly, to make up for all the time I've been away from cyberspace. I promise to write again the very next moment possible, and I would of course love to hear from absolutely anyone back home in the States.

Orientation in DC.

Well, Dear Readers, I am taking valuable time away from bonding with my fellow Peace Corps trainees to send you an update from Peace Corps Staging in Washington, DC. It has only been 1 day, yet I already feel like I have gone through so much. It occurred to me yesterday that I must be more nervous than I originally anticipated, when I freaked out around 8:00am, convinced that my bags were too heavy and that I was going to have to leave them behind (the Peace Corps has a policy that you can check no more than 80 lbs. of baggage on your flight). Nothing gets your adrenaline going like re-packing for your entire trip, 15 minutes before you have to catch the bus to the airport. Even so, I don't think the reality of my situation really struck me until I was in a room with 32 other prospective volunteers, going through workshops about the various types of available malaria medications (the most effective of which apparently induces nightmares and psychotic episodes in the user). I then suddenly realized just how thorough a life change this experience will be, and how right now I really have no idea what I'm going to be doing, or whether I have the maturity and instincts to handle this overturning of everything I know about how to eat, speak, interact, and in generally simply exist. Rationally, of course, I had already known all this for months; it didn't really hit me emotionally, however, until I was in that room with everyone else going over to Burkina. So, yes, I did panic for a short period yesterday afternoon.

This morning, after a full night's rest, things are going much better. My sarcasm has thus far only gotten the better of me once or twice... such as when we were asked to name any famous Peace Corps alumni we knew of, and I brought up the author of Confessions of an Economic Hit Man. I have (shockingly) remembered the names and faces of nearly all my fellow 32 trainees, and thus far everyone seems to be getting along... always a positive beginning. The group seems evenly split between teachers and participants in my program (Girls' Education and Empowerment). Tomorrow evening, we will be flying out to West Africa, with a lay-over in Paris, where we will spend the rest of the summer in-country, undergoing intensive training for both linguistics and our respective assignments.

There's a great deal more I would love to share, but I must grab a bite to eat before we're all rounded back up for another several hours of lectures and group discussions. Thanks for all the well-wishes! I will write again as soon as humanly possible... probably after we've landed in Ouagadougou (Burkina Faso's capital city), as there are supposedly internet cafes all over the place there.

A Dabbler's (International) Diary

Salutations! Dabbler here. You may remember me from my previous blog. Then again, you may not. Long story short, I have left the hallowed halls of Hollywood to join the Peace Corps. To be more specific, I will be living in the West African nation of Burkina Faso, working as a volunteer in a program impressively entitled "Girls' Education and Empowerment," the goal being to help improve the female literacy rate in Burkina. At this moment, I am mere hours away from reporting for service in Washington, DC... 2 days after which I will be flying overseas to Africa, to commence my 2-year service. It's going to be (from what I am told) a life-altering experience, and I hereby invite you to come along for the ride!

Most sincerely yours,

A Dabbler