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.