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.