Children of the Millet.

They materialize suddenly from the maze of millet fields, stumbling after you, eyes glazed, hands outstretched, moaning over and over, “bonbon, bonbon.” They are bonbon zombies, and they are five years old. Welcome to Dogon country, Mali.

Several weeks ago, I went on vacation in this region with a couple other Americans, to hike part of the famous Bandiagara Escarpment, a series of high crags once home to the cliff-dwelling Tellem tribes, who built their structures into the very sides of these looming precipices. Although located in the middle of the arid Sahel Desert—a short camel caravan away from the fabled city of Timbuktu—the valleys hidden among the towering rock formations were surprisingly lush, with flourishing gardens and waterfalls. Even during the West African hot season, when temperatures often rise above 110ºF, there are water pockets here that never go dry—no mean feat, I’ve learned after living a year in Burkina Faso.

As may be guessed from the name, the current primary residents of this region are the Dogon, and it was through their villages my companions and I backpacked, following a guide down mud streets and through familial courtyards literally perched on the jagged cliff edges. In the last few decades, Dogon country has become quite the sightseer hotspot, and while they have certainly benefited from the money now flowing through their land, the people have been irrevocably changed by tourism. Examples of foreign funding by wealthy, well-intentioned visitors abound. Our guide steered us through villages with "That's Italian, that's Japanese," pointing out schools and other buildings, all soundly made, all brand-new. But with few exceptions, these structures stood on the outside of communities, pristine yet alien, neglected by the Dogon in favor of the crumbling mud-brick houses to which they were used.

Once I grudgingly admitted to myself that in this situation I was indeed a tourist (Peace Corps volunteers generally hate being grouped in with travelers-for-pleasure), I grasped the sad relationship I was to have with the Dogon villagers during my stay: for us, they were merely part of an exotic landscape to be observed and photographed, unapproachable, inscrutable but for the insights offered by our guide; and for them, we were outsiders wandering through their streets and homes, possibly bearing gifts (from bonbons or kola nuts to straightforward, hard cash) as toll for our intrusion. To neither group was the other completely human, more like strange ghosts drifting through each other’s lives.

Of course, it would be hypocritical for me to completely bemoan the touristization of Dogon country, because it is exactly this system that allowed me to visit this beautiful, fascinating region. I just wish there were a way to see it without getting stared back at, feeling judged (sometimes envied, even disliked) for being a foreigner... a large part of the reason I joined the Peace Corps in the first place. The lesson learned here: if you want to play the tourist game, you're going to have to wear the neon tourist nametag as well; grit your teeth, get used to the idea... then go take a look at that fascinating little hard-carved, locally-made, genuine, authentically-African trinket that would look absolutely splendid in the living room!

Farewell My Peuhlotte.

She lived among the Peuhl, a tribe apart from all others in Burkina Faso. Known by many names—the Fula, Fulani, Foulbé—they could easily be called the Gypsies of West Africa. A traditionally nomadic people, they were among the first Africans to be exposed to Islam, by traders coming from the north, and today are almost exclusively Muslim; traces of Arabic can be heard throughout their musical language, Fulfulde. Peuhl-worked leather is prized by all, and both women and men frequently dress in colorful robes and scarves, the women plaiting silver discs in their hair and rings in their ears. Their shy and reclusive Peuhlottes are renowned throughout the region as the most beautiful, exotic, and desirable of African women.

Acknowledged by other Burkinabé as the masters of animal husbandry, the Peuhl are still distrusted (and sometimes disliked) for their wandering lifestyle and their refusal to intermix with outsiders or compromise their traditions, and are envied for the wealth derived from owning herds of cattle. Indeed, many of my Gulimancé and Mossi neighbors quietly suspect a Peuhl influence behind every bandit strike on local roads. Perhaps the greatest reason for this friction between the Peuhl and other Burkinabé is their commitment to herding rather than farming, leading to conflict when Peuhl-owned livestock wander onto others’ lands and devour their crops. Perhaps this is why—aside from scattered, isolated villages—the Peuhl have chosen the Sahel desert in the north of Burkina for their homeland, far away from angry and suspicious farmers.

For two years she dwelled in a city in the Sahel, learning the customs and language of the Peuhl, determined to become integrated into their carefully-guarded community. Accustomed to being mistaken for a Mexican or Arab at home, in Burkina Faso she encountered a different kind of casual racial profiling, where her competence with Fulfulde and her skin tone convinced many Africans she was a Peuhlotte in truth, and they treated her accordingly. She shared another trait with the women of the Peuhl: a sharp tongue, which she used mercilessly on anyone who crossed her, be they African or American—quite frequently, me. Her sarcasm was tempered, however, with the sweetness and vulnerability that flashed out when one least expected it. Not a blindly bleeding heart, she still cared intensely for the well-being of her Burkinabé friends, and diligently worked for their benefit when many of us, her fellow volunteers, were thinking about our next break with a much-craved cold beer.

She liked me in spite of herself. She admitted to me on numerous occasions she had tried not to. I represented a distraction from her work, her goals. That, and I was a cynic and a flirt, not to be trusted. Now, several months after our first kiss, I reflect on all I learned from her, about Africa and her own culture, and I marvel at the privilege I gained in being with her, her sharing of herself. She’s gone now, an American having triumphantly spent two years in the African desert, and still she worries whether she had any effect, made any difference, during her time here. Let this be my testament that indeed she has… from the city women with whom she worked to start a savings and credit club, to the artisans she helped organize into a certified association, to the little boy who lived in her courtyard and whom she practically adopted… to me, a lone, lonely Dabbler, pondering his experience here in Africa now that he is once again on his own.

Director Strangelove.

He was to have been my greatest ally. He became my greatest nemesis: the Benedict Arnold to my George Washington; the Judas to my Jesus; the Darth Vader to my Obi-Wan Kenobi, if you will. To date, this man has terminated or sabotaged every single project I started in our shared village since my arrival. Prepare yourselves, Dear Readers, for the long afore-promised lengthy tale, and observe the sad (and painstakingly detailed) list of Herr Direktor’s heinous crimes against his fellow man, i.e., me:

• July 2006, My First Visit to Village. I was still a young trainee, not yet sworn into service as a gallant volunteer of His Majesty’s Peace Corps, alone in Africa for the first time, for a 24-hour visit to the village I was to soon call my home for the next two years, seated at a roadside drinking establishment, temporarily abandoned by the villager who was supposed to be my guide for the duration of my introductory sojourn. My grasp of the French language tenuous at best, and my knowledge of the local language, Gulimancema, nonexistent, I was feeling somewhat vulnerable. A man I had never seen before sat himself at my table, facing me. He took a good look at me and nodded, then a look at my drink and sneered (I had ordered a soda, rather than the beer I was craving, out of courtesy to my hosts, since I was not certain whether this was a predominantly Muslim village) and ordered a beer, after which he lit up a cigarette and proceeded to ignore me. 15 minutes or so passed, at which point my drinking companion turned to me and irritably demanded, “Why aren’t you talking? You should talk more.” I apologized politely and explained in my halting French that since I was new here I thought it was best for me to observe and wait for people to talk to me. This failed to impress him, and we sank back into silence. It wasn’t until a few minutes later, when another bar patron greeted my companion as “Monsieur le Directeur”, that I realized the man sitting across from me was the village’s school director, the equivalent of a grade school principal, and the official I was to work most closely with during my assignment as a Peace Corps volunteer. I then hastily introduced myself, and the great man forgave my tactless failure to immediately deduce his identity with another gracious nod.

• November 2006, Idealist Project #1: Student English Club. I had been a resident of the village for two months and, although I was supposed to spend the first three months there in a strictly observational role, was anxious to start justifying my presence to my neighbors. The goal was simple: once a week I would instruct students from the primary school’s most advanced class in simple English phrases for greetings and presentations. I informed the school director and parents of my intentions several weeks before the club’s first session, and asked permission to use a school classroom after-hours as a meeting place. The school director said he wasn’t certain if he could spare such a space, and, being the important man he was, delayed giving me an answer for weeks, until finally I decided to hold the first meeting under my house’s hangar. The class was a tremendous success, with several of the students quickly mastering the English I taught them and demanding more. Flushed with the righteous triumph of having educated the children, I visited the school director's house that evening to inform him of the results. He listened impassively to my enthusiastic review and plans for future sessions, then smiled broadly and told me I had to cancel the entire venture. His rationale was ingeniously simple: the students were his charges, and it was his responsibility to teach them French; if I taught them another language simultaneously, it would surely upset their French skills! Innocent enough, unless you consider the facts that: a) he knew of this project well over a month before the first session, and could have at any point told me to halt preparations; and b) I chose to work with the most advanced students for the precise reason that their French skills had already progressed to a point that they could hold conversations in that language, and their studies now focused in other areas. The school director still held a trump card, however, in that he was a government-appointed functionary, and I was merely a volunteer consultant. Well played, Herr Direktor. This battle is yours.

• January 2007, Idealist Project #2: Girls Theater Club. I am a thespian by training, and a promoter of female empowerment by assignment. It follows naturally that for my next foray into do-goodery I would create a theater club for young women, in which they could creatively express their concerns and interests. Once again, I informed the school director in advance, and although he offered no support he gave his passive approval, indicating he would only need a list of the names of the club’s participants. A week later, after having delivered the required list to Mein Direktor, we held our first meeting of the club. I was dismayed to see that less than half the girls that had signed up showed for the session, but we went forward with the activities anyway. Half an hour later, the girls were just started to relax and participate in the games, when suddenly the great educator himself roared up on his moto (hint: think pimped-out vespa). The next five minutes were baffling to me: the girls, all of them, immediately split upon his arrival. Several fled behind my house, and two—I discovered later—hid in the darker corners inside the house itself. I didn’t have time to speculate, because I was busy greeting my distinguished visitor—his presence at my house a shock, as he had not taken the trouble to visit for well over three months. He didn’t stay long, once I explained that the girls were no longer present, and it was after his departure that I discovered one of the oldest girls hiding behind a bookshelf in my house. Hysterical, she made me promise not to tell the director she had been at the meeting. She then described how the good director had, behind my back, approached each and every girl on my list, threatening them not to attend. He had intimidated them by warning that their grades had better not slip if they participated in the club, and then for good measure he gave them all extra work in addition to their regular studies. Das schwein! This explained the sudden drop-off in my club’s participants: the girls were all too terrified to attend. So much for club attempt #2.

• February 2007, Brilliant Solution #1: Intervention. It’s true: I tattled. I informed the Peace Corps Country Director of the goings-on in my village. Realizing that a direct confrontation with the school director over his saboteur activities would just escalate the conflict, I turned to the 3rd-party system, in order to see if someone else might politely request of the man exactly WHAT THE HELL WAS HIS DAMAGE. In the following weeks, our Country Director visited the village, and then the GEE (Girls’ Education and Empowerment) Program Director, in order to open bilateral talks with Das Direktor. Ah, but our man was crafty! He expressed bewilderment of a most profound nature in response to their queries, as well as a general confusion as to what exactly I hoped to do in the village (apparently our many discussions of my goals for the past several months had failed to enlighten him). In refusing to recognize that there was any sort of conflict, the school director easily avoided any sort of confrontation. A cautious truce was established, in which it was agreed the school director would choose whatever project I was to work on, rather than my initiating of my own accord. In effect, my colleague became Mein Führer.

• March-May 2007, Idealist Project #3: Student Theater Competition. Cajoled by the diplomatic efforts of my Chamberlainian Peace Corps superiors, the school director decided to call upon me to exercise my theatrical skills once again, this time under his control. It appears there was a primary school theater competition taking place in the area’s provincial capital, and our academic dictator had determined to place his school on the map by winning the event. He prescribed the guidelines under which I was to labor, and I set to work at once, writing a play for his students that emphasized the importance of hygiene and nutrition in daily African life. This I could have dealt with, had Mein Direktor possessed the civility of keeping his requirements constant. Instead, each week some new alteration would come up: the theme of the play would change (requiring a rewrite of the script); the number of students allowed to participate suddenly dropped to 10 (necessitating my immediate firing of 20 enthusiastic little actors); and the date of the competition itself was forever changing. The last of these trials was the most frustrating for me, for without a set deadline I could not arrange a practical rehearsal schedule with the students. There was also the small matter that our school-turned-theater director was supposed to attend the rehearsals, in order to help with language difficulties and approve each scene, but after the first meeting he dropped all pretense at interest, instead departing to the local bar to get drunk with his friends. We continued in this spirit of cooperation for a couple months, me rehearsing with the students, and him not giving a rat’s ass, with periodic intervals during which I would attempt to persuade him to reveal the date of the competition. With the school director a non-entity at rehearsals, it fell upon me to encourage the students, spurring them with promises of visiting the provincial capital (most of them had never left the village before). Finally, in May, on the eve of the weekend the school director had promised me we were going to the capital (while disregarding my frantic questions of how we were going to provide transport and housing for the students), the man told me the competition had again been “delayed”—or, rather, he had again neglected to find out the date and had made one up—and the competition would not take place until mid-June, when I would be in the United States on vacation. He assured me he would attend the final rehearsal to inform the students of this change, and of course reneged on even that small promise… so I had to tell the students that the promises I had personally made, about them leaving this weekend to visit the big city, were broken, and that I did not know if or when we would compete. That night I lost nearly all of whatever credibility I had built among the students; too many broken promises and last-minute changes.

• Present Day: La Résistance. I no longer give any credence to what this man tells me. For some reason still unfathomable to me, he is determined to destroy whatever efforts I make to work with the village’s children. Shortly before I left for the US in June, I managed to arrange a last-minute, but well-received, presentation of our play for the villagers—at my own cost—and organized an award ceremony for all my student participants. This act bought me back a little standing in the village community, along with word of how Herr Direktor has personally mucked up every activity I’ve begun. The villagers are not stupid, and they are well familiar with the director’s arrogance. The situation as it stands now: I await word each week of whether this man will be reassigned to the village for the coming school year; if he returns I have requested from my superiors a village transfer. There is no point spending another year in passive-aggressive battle with someone who should be appreciative of my presence. And if he is replaced by a new director, I will happily stay in my current assigned village, doing my best to work in cooperation with him or her—but as a partner, not a subordinate. I do not avoid school directors, but I do deny them my essence.

Discombobulated Dabblings.

Hello Dear Readers, one and all. It has been quite a long time... indeed, too long. I can, I assure you, offer some explanation for this period of bloggerly silence (tentatively at this time titled “The Saga of the School Director, or How I Stopped Pulling Out My Hair and Learned to Deal with an Arrogant, Passive/Aggressive Jack-Ass”), but that little story must wait for the next post, partly because I would like to drum up some suspense over the reasons for my disappearance. Oh, and I’d rather talk about something else right now.

I will have you all know that I just returned from a much-needed 2-week vacation. Where, you might ask? Well, what better way to commemorate my anniversary of living in Burkina Faso, I thought to myself back in February, than by celebrating it in the United States? Nope, nothing inappropriate about that. Fellow Peace Corps volunteers had cautioned me for months of the probable culture shock I would experience upon my return to America. For example, they warned me, how would I deal with the fact that any greetings going beyond the required disinterested “Hey, ’sup?” would cause most Americans to regard me with concern-bordering-on-alarm? That in venturing into a grocery store not only would I find exactly what I desired, but there would be over 20 nearly-identical brands of it, potentially cause for a nervous breakdown as I stood there wracking my brain over which to purchase? That eating anything other than french fries with my hands is considered barbaric? That a female friend placing her hand on my arm did not indicate she was a prostitute soliciting my business? That I could not arbitrarily decide to drive on whichever side of the road I felt like, and traffic rules were enforced laws, not just optional guidelines? And so on, and so forth.

So, with some trepidation, after 24 hours of flight travel, and crossing God-knows-how-many different time zones, I again stepped onto American soil… and felt nothing. After all that agonizing and preparation, I slipped right back into the ordinary American style of life, with no hitch, as though I had never left. I was again ordering iced vanilla lattés (low fat, sugar free, PETA-approved, with a twist of cinnamon), going out to the movies, and bitching about traffic. The one moment of transition I may have experienced occurred when I determinedly strode into a supermarket, braced against a possible freak-out; I stood in the produce section, relishing the fresh, artificial, air-conditioned breeze, and basking in the knowledge that no matter what season it happened to be I could find practically any kind of fruit or vegetable I wished in this room. That’s it: cultural reintegration consisted of me standing next to the lettuce stand with a stupid grin on my face for about 2 minutes, and then I left the store and reassumed my American identity without another thought. I don’t know whether this makes me an exceptionally adaptable individual, or a failing blow against the hope that people can substantially change.

Now, mark me, Dear Readers: I did end up undergoing culture shock, of an extreme nature. I just didn’t get hit by it until after returned to Burkina Faso. After 1 year of living in Africa, it took me just a few hours to get used to visiting America. After 2 weeks of visiting America, it took me a just few hours to start panicking about being back in Africa. For one thing, I discovered that my comprehension of the French language had inexplicably disappeared, and I now had to rely on other volunteers to help me with the most basic errands. Also, it seemed that in the dozen or so days I had spent out of the country I had missed countless doings and happenings, so I felt absolutely lost when speaking to my fellow volunteers. I had no appetite for the food I could eat in Ouagadougou (glamorous in comparison to what nourishment I can find in my village), and no ideas when I tried to think how I would approach work at the beginning of my 2nd year here. All the Friends episodes (and other various, more manly DVDs) I had managed to smuggle back with me did nothing to assuage my panic. And why was it so damn HOT here?!

Cut to several days later. Things are better. Not perfect, but definitely improved. My French linguistics are slowly returning, I’m getting reused to the food here, and this coming weekend I will be throwing myself back into work by participating in a girls’ empowerment camp with several other volunteers and aid organizations. So, there you have it. I am still very much alive, and revving up for Year 2 of this invigorating, interesting, and oftentimes exasperating international experience. And, as I said before (see above), I promise a detailed explanation of those recent few "lost months" in my next internet opus. So, please, Dear Readers, bear with me, this humble Dabbler, and I swear to bring you to both tears and laughter (though I cannot be held responsible for the ratios of one versus the other). I will do all this for you, and in exchange you will send me beef jerky. Sounds like a fair deal, no? Until the next time, then...

AfriCannes

It is the largest, most important film festival in Africa. Held every two years in Burkina Faso's capital, Ouagadougou, it is a celebration of the arts and African culture, by Africans, ostensibly for Africans, a gathering point for inhabitants of all African nations, as well as western tourists and film industry professionals. It is FESPACO, the Pan-African Film and Television Festival of Ouagadougou.

Much to my surprise, upon my arrival in town, I find that most of Ouaga's taxi drivers have—quite against character—not taken advantage of the situation and hiked fare rates. Perhaps only one out of three refuses to take you for anything less than four times the standard fee (the "white price"). Their services are essential to attend the film festival, for the contending films are divided among five movie houses throughout the city, each a long hike from the others. Another surprising feature to the festival celebrating the achievements of African filmmakers is the number of foreign films in evidence. American, European, and even one Haitian film are selections in this year's catalogue. Tsotsi, last year's Oscars foreign film winner, is representing, as are recent American releases Blood Diamond and The Last King of Scotland. My personal favorite—embarrassing, as I came to see African films—is a British entry entitled Shoot the Messenger, directed by Ngozi Onwurah. It's the film I feel like I've been waiting the past 10 years for Spike Lee to make in the States.

The first movie house I enter, cool, air-conditioned air hits me in the face immediately, and for a moment I hallucinate, thinking I have suddenly been transported far away from third-world West Africa, to some surreal, western cinematic oasis. Plush, padded chairs, white faces all around me (which is kind of weird now), quality electronic technology, and—ooo! There's popcorn! Where am I? I wonder as I settled down in my comfy seat to watch eight back-to-back film shorts. Then, after the first 3 films, there is a 45-minute delay, followed by a terse announcement that the other five films have not yet arrived, and we are turned out back into the heat and the dust, no apologies, and you'd be crazy to ask for a refund on your ticket. Ah, yes, I remember where I am now. The rest of the week continues in similar fashion, a bizarre mix of the luxury I'd near forgotten and the relaxed schedules and indifference to customer irritation to which I've gotten used. In general, all films are in either Arabic or tribal languages with French subtitles, or French with no subtitles of any sort. (Sorry, all you visiting Americans.)

It's also pretty clear that the art here is not made for the sake of mere entertainment; a popular story theme is the frustrated young African man, unable to find work or emigrate, beaten down by poverty and outrage until he at last takes a desperate, ill-thought action and is crushed at the end of the film. Apparently, something seems to be occupying the minds of African filmmakers these days. Ironic, seeing as the majority of my fellow filmgoers here are very, very white Americans and Europeans. On the other hand, if there were more Burkinabé in the audiences, these films would just be preaching to the converted. When a sizeable group of Africans do get into a film screening, they make their presence known to all; here in Burkina, you show your film approval by shouting at the screen and laughing, your disapproval by clicking your tongue and shouting at the screen, and your disinterest by pulling out a cellphone for a chat (and shouting at the screen). Take the film Africa Paradis, by Sylvestre Amoussou, which presents the United States of Africa, 30 years or so in the future, trying to keep their borders closed to those pesky white Europeans who keep trying to sneak in from their impoverished, war-torn homes. Man, how those Africans in the audience howled with laughter as we watched the scene where the smug black civil servant turned away white visa applicants because one tiny detail was out of order, or because they had advanced engineering degrees and refused to take work as janitors or domestic servants.

Anyway, to wrap things up, the French-slash-Nigerian film Ezra won top prize, the Yennenga Stallion (doesn't that sound sexier than "Oscar"? No? Just me?), at the end of the festival. It centers around a child soldier in the civil war in Sierra Leone, something that our American Blood Diamond touched on too. The film's director, Newton Aduaka, walked away with $20,000... something probably more useful here than a pretty li'l statue. Might even help that filmmaker make another film in the future. And me? Did I shmooze like a Hollywood pro, put all my past training to use? Did I close any film deals? Did I get digits? Um. I did get the contact info for one promising filmmaker, but i wrote it down on my film program, which a fellow unscrupulous volunteer stole from me later that same day. Bastard was probably from CAA.

Precedent Bush.

Ah, evening English lessons in village. So simple, so disorganized, so ill-attended. Nevertheless, at the end of such sessions I feel good, because my "students" feel good, and everyone hopes that they're getting something out of this. English teaching is by far the most popular activity I have started in my village, and everyone expresses a strong interest, even if no one ever actually shows up. I would be annoyed if I weren't relieved; one to three people is a much easier group to handle than 10 to 30. With such small numbers, there is a greater chance that they might actually learn something. Just this last class, a few days ago, my most enthusiastic (and usually most hopeless) pupil did quite a good job with pronunciation—always a big issue. And even some of the local teachers swing by now and then for a combination of language instruction and debate on the differences between American and African culture.

Actually, the more I discuss certain American customs with my friends in-village, the more embarrassed I get. How twisted is it that with all our wealth and advancements, our poor people are frequently worse off than their Burkinabé counterparts? Here in Burkina they can rely on the charity and food of their communities, while in the States many have a uncertain existence on the streets. Another example of how, in general, the sense of community is much stronger in Africa is that an American can live in an apartment building with dozens of other people and not know one of them; such a concept is mind-boggling for my villagers, who greet even perfect strangers cordially. I sometimes try to refute the perception that all Americans (i.e., white people) are rich, by agreeing that, yes, we make a lot more money in the States, but everything in our country costs exorbitantly more. Take the example of a beer I can buy in my village for the equivalent of $1, that would certainly cost $5-8 in the US. (Oh yeah, and the bottles here are about double the size of their American cousins.) However, I recently realized that a Burkinabé who went to live in the States and took a minimum wage job would probably still think he was living in the lap of luxury; the fact that he didn't have the latest model flatscreen TV or a hot car with satellite navigation capabilities wouldn't bother him at all - he'd be too busy loving the electricity in his home. True, there is a period of adjustment... after six months of such living conditions, that same Burkinabé might join the throngs of Americans bitching about how little they make and how they can't afford "anything."

For those of you Dear Readers who have been requesting for a "slice of daily life in the bush" post, I wrote the following blurb with you in mind. As I was biking to visit another PCV's site a few days ago, I stopped about a mile out of my village to help a fellow traveler, who was trying to attach a trussed-up and uncooperative pig to the back of his bicycle. Whenever we got close to securing it, however, the pig would freak out and cause either the guy to drop it or the entire bike to tip over. Meanwhile, in its excited state, the pig was also shitting all over the place... so while I was perfectly happy to help anchor the bike there was no way in hell I was going to lay hands on the panic-ridden pig. I could sympathize with its struggling, but that didn't stop me from fantasizing about kicking it in the head after over 20 minutes of grappling with it. The owner must have picked up on my vibe, because a moment later he walked to the side of the dirt road, picked up a rock the size of his fist, and then proceeded, for the next five minutes, to brain the pig. The first dozen wet smacks, the pig protested violently, but by the time I realized that I had blood droplets spattering my flipflops it had ceased moving. I couldn't decide whether it was strangely touching or hysterical that, after he had finished his assault, the owner frustratedly berated the now-comatose pig for bringing him to do this, as he might to some misbehaving child under (hopefully) different circumstances.

On a side note to this story, I got a glimpse of how my perspective is starting to change after nearly nine months of living in Africa. In the middle of our efforts to get this pig on the bike, another man passed us on his bike. The pig's owner called out to this newcomer, asking him to help us. The other man reluctantly stopped a few yards beyond us, then as he saw that my friend was distracted he slowly started to pedal away. I was absolutely outraged as I watched him make his escape... outraged that a man had not stopped to help two perfect strangers—a perfectly normal occurence in the States, but easily something to get incensed over here in Burkina Faso. Here, particularly in the bush, people help each other. It's not expected, it's not repaid, it's just done.

All for now, Dear Readers. Please stay tuned, for this week in Ouagadougou is dominated by FESPACO (that's "Panafrican Film and Television Festival of Ouagadougou"), the largest and most important film festival in Africa, and (according to Wikipedia) "the biggest regular cultural event on the African continent". As Peace Corps' principal (i.e., sole) Hollywood expatriate in Burkina Faso, I am going to be all over this event, like flies on the dead cow in the road I saw earlier today.