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.