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.