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.

Bullets Over Bubbly.

Season's Greetings from beautiful Ouagadougou, Hub of the Universe! My most sincere apologies, Dear Readers, for having neglected my Diary for so long. Let me see if I can mollify you a bit by detailing the extent to which Ouaga has gone to celebrate the holidays. The residents of this town certainly know how to throw a New Year's Eve celebration, shooting off firecrackers and zooming around on their backfiring motos. Unfortunately, these sounds are almost identical to that of the firing of an AK-47 assault rifle, which appears to be yet another popular way to ring in the New Year... particularly among the Ouaga police and the military, who happen to be feuding at the moment. Shortly before Christmas, the 2 groups clashed, apparently over the charge of a concert entrance fee, ending with one soldier killed and several more injured. The military, taking this encounter somewhat personally, retaliated by releasing several hundred convicts out of the city's main prison, over 600 of which are still unaccounted for. Since then, on an almost nightly basis, there has been sporadic gunfights throughout the city, and the main routes leading from the city have been subject to a higher-than-usual number of bandit strikes on cars and buses. 'Tis the Season, no? The Peace Corps volunteers who came into town to fete together have, in general, been left unmolested by either faction... with the notable exception of one who had one of the aforementioned AK-47s poked in his face when his bush taxi arrived within city limits, and a couple others who were compelled to abandon their beers when the bar at which they were drinking was forcibly closed by another gunman. In light of the situation, Peace Corps has become (understandably) concerned, and requested all volunteers to keep staff posted on their whereabouts, and our Country Director has prohibited us from leaving the volunteer transit house after night has fallen. I will give our Country Director this, that she has remained admirably calm throughout the last week, and kept us as informed on developments as possible. This is not to say that we are living under siege... we just are exercising a little more caution than usual, and avoiding parts of the city that could be considered "hot" (police/military stations, government districts, etc.). Flinch though I may at the pop of each and every firecracker set off by kids, I am determined to see the New Year in with a glass of sparkling wine held firmly in hand.

On another note, it is difficult to wrap my mind around the fact that it has been nearly 7 months now I have been living in this country. No idea if it has started "changing" me yet, as Peace Corps likes to claim. Hell, I'm having a difficult time starting any projects, and I have serious doubts about my usefulness in the Girls' Education and Empowerment program. Still, I am glad that I came to Africa, and most of the time I don't mind being here (even now). Upon my return to village, I hope to get a little back to my roots by organizing a theater club for village girls, in order to encourage them to address issues that are usually taboo for discussion. Also got an English club for adults in the works, and maybe some math tutoring to help the local kids in school.

Hope the holidays are treating you all well! As for me, looks like I'm getting quite a Ouaga New Year.

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.

Blessed Be the Dabbler.

Blessed (adj;, English): highly favored or fortunate; enjoying the bliss of heaven.

Blessé (adj., French): injured, wounded.

This past month of August has been a somewhat painful one, for both my dignity and my physical wellbeing. I think I have finally succeeded in securing for myself a solid reputation in the Peace Corps, as "He Who Falleth... Often." I had not experienced any difficulties in riding a bike since the age of 6, up until the first week of August. Since then I have been engaged in no less than 7 altercations on (and off) my bicycle. Observe:

Fall 1. Entirely my fault, freely admitted. Doing the "no hands" trick on a rough country dirt road, while listening to my iPod. May have pushed my luck when I turn around in my seat to see if any cars are behind me. Receive a good scrape on my knee and some shallow cuts on an elbow.

Fall 2. Approximately one week later. Also must assume some responsibility here. Pedalling home to village from Ouahigouya WAY too fast at night, because I am late. Again, listening to iPod (starting to believe this may be a bad idea). Hit pothole in road, lose control of bike at full speed, go sprawling, sliding on dirt and gravel for several feet. Both palms sliced to ribbons, as they end up being my principal brakes. Legs unharmed, remarkable as they somehow got tangled up with the bike during the fall. Deep cuts on hands necessitate smothering with gauze for weeks, causing the mocking of peers and fear among Burkinabé (who apparently surmise from my bandages that I have leprosy).

Falls 3, 4, 5 & 6. Roughly 6 days after last fall. Alcohol may or may not have been a major factor. Sleepover at friend's house in Ouahigouya. Imbibe healthy doses of rum and local bissap liqueur (i.e., hooch). Riding back at night from bar, friend and I come upon a large mudpatch in road. Friend swerves abruptly to avoid mudpatch. I swerve abruptly to avoid friend, directly into mudpatch. Bike stalls and keels over. I end up covered in filth and losing a flipflop to the mud. No trace of said footwear ever found again. This initial fall sets off chain reaction of subsequent falls, as mud clogs bike gears and Burkinabé hooch begins to take effect. Make ass of self in front of friend, owe him big time for taking care of me. No iPods were involved in these accidents.

Fall 7. Weeks later. No way in hell is this one my fault. Our last night in Ouahigouya before traveling down to capital to take Peace Corps oath. Excitement levels high, everyone decides to go out to bar to celebrate. Use borrowed bike, as personal bike is already in transit down to capital. Borrowed bike has NO GODDAMN right-hand brake, realized only when desperately trying to stop short to avoid collision. Bike swerves, falls. Again use hands as makeshift brakes, in the process tearing off all of the new skin from previous injuries (had just taken off the gauze earlier that day). Blood gushing from hands, decide there's no way in hell I'm going to the party now, go home to hotel room and re-bandage wounds -- first throwing minor tantrum when assured no one is watching. Drug self liberally with sleeping pills and ibuprofen, call it a night.

Yes, it's official: I hate August. On a positive note, in addition to be very, very blessé for the past few weeks, I can also add that I am truly blessed. Just over one week ago, I took the formal oath to swear in as a volunteer of the United States Peace Corps in front of all my peers, the US Ambassador to Burkina Faso, and several Burkina government officials. I have been living in my new home village for several days, and while the transition has been difficult and nerve-wracking, I am starting to feel like maybe I can do all of this after all. My neighbors are great, and I am throwing myself into learning 3 languages at once so I can better communicate with them. My hands are healing nicely, and I am focused on looking forward.

Final note... To those who are fond of using that familiar cliché, "It's just like riding a bicycle," I respond thusly: "Yes, but what if therein lies the problem?"

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.

Tô: It's What's for Dinner.

Hello, Dear Readers! I am on a sort of vacation at the moment, in Burkina's capital city of Ouagadougou. My fellow trainees and I have been living it up for the past couple nights, as Ouaga has dozens of amazing restaurants: yesterday I had a hamburger, fries, and beer for dinner, and the night before that a group of us dined like royalty at a real Italian restaurant, gnoshing on gourmet pizzas (mine was goat cheese with capers and olives) and ice cream and sorbet. I also received my site assignment for when I finish training this summer... I will be moving out to a small village in the the south-east of the country, where I will then go about my work empowering the women and whatnot. This area is very near country borders with Ghana, Togo, Benin, and Niger - so the eventual vacations should prove interesting - and only several hours of bush taxi rides (don't even ask) from Ouaga for the occasional feast. Still, once I leave this city, I will need to get used to my usual diet here all over again, which for over the past month and a half has been spaghetti, beans... and tô. What is tô, you ask? Well, it's a little hard to explain, but the closest I can come to describing it is a hardened pudding made from millet (or occasionally corn). It's nigh tasteless, but it is The favorite national dish. Seriously, the Burkinabé love it. As for me, and the other Americans here, it's really hard to stomach, but we try to eat what we can of it and smile when it is offered to us -- which is all too often.

About a week ago, I wrote an article about tô for the Peace Corps trainee newsletter, Mana Wana, Nassara? (Mooré for "What's Up, Whitey?"), in the vein of my favorite satirical news source, The Onion. Although I don't think our training staff was that crazy about it, it got a pretty good response from the other trainees, so now I pass it onto you for your reading pleasure. Enjoy!

WEST AFRICAN FOOD CHAIN DESTROYING AMERICAN CULTURE

The popular Burkina Faso restaurant chain McTô has recently expanded its global empire to the United States, opening new locations in several large cities. McTô, a leader in the West African food industries, emphasizes a fast and affordable menu; the most popular item on it being tô, a staple diet of many Burkinabé. In the last few years, the McTô corporation has been plagued with accusations of price gouging and monopolistic practices, but this has not prevented its growth in international markets. Already, McTô's influence can be seen in several American cities, such as New York, where lines of customers stretched for several blocks outside of the ( different restaurant locations, waiting for them to open. Burkinabé cuisine has found an eager consumer in the American youth population... but at what cost? Formal, nutritional foods, such as hamburgers, french fries, and Coca-Cola, are being neglected, in favor of mass-produced foods like tô and bissap*. The new trend appears to be wreaking havoc on the long-honored American family structure, and is not stopping at merely changing dietary habits: traditional, cultural American clothing such as jeans and thongs are being tossed aside, as teenagers instead embrace the pagne and the boubou. Groups of concerned older Americans are clamoring for the government to intervene, but when asked to comment, President Bush merely replied, "Laafi."**


* Bissap is another culinary product of Burkina Faso, and - unlike tô - is quite delicious to Americans. It's a drink made from hibiscus leaves, water, and lots of sugar. Think along the lines of fruit punch.

** Mooré, meaning "There is health," or "It's all good."

The Lassie Method.

Now that I'm getting a little more accustomed to the incessant heat; the necessity of wearing mosquito spray, and the luxury of bucket baths, there is still one thing that never fails to drive me up the wall on a daily basis: language classes. My apologies to the Peace Corps for criticizing its program, but if I don't vent a little here, I'm liable to assault someone. (No volunteers or instructors were injured in the writing of this post.)

Almost every day, I attend Gulimancema class, taught in French. Somehow, when I first arrived in-country, I must have aced my initial French competency exam, because I was subsequently placed in a class where everyone is fluent in French. I am not fluent in French. Not even close. So there's that problem, right off the bat. I would like to preface what I have to say next with the fact that, personally, I like my teacher (or Language Competency Facilitator, or "LCF," because the Peace Corps lurves its acronyms); he's a great guy, very friendly and thoughtful. During Gulimancema class, however, he is The Enemy. He apparently believes that the best way to teach a foreign language is through charades: first, he says a word in Gulimancema, then he makes a gesture. Then, the fun begins! Obviously, at this point, nobody in the class has a clue what he is talking about, so he emphatically repeats the word and the same gesture, then again... and again. Finally, tentatively, one of us will call out a word in French, with the hope that somehow it will be the desired solution to the puzzle. But it isn't, and our LCF shakes his head; and again intones the word; and then everyone starts shouting out words; our guesses becoming more desperate and random. Eventually, one of us will speak the desired word -- the LCF will nod, announce "C'est ça" ("That's it"), and then immediately say another word in Gulimancema, followed by another gesture. And so my personal hell continues. Mind you, the man speaks perfect French, so if he really wanted to he could simply say the word in Gulimancema and then translate it into French. But instead, he subscribes to what I have decided to call "The Lassie Method of Teaching" (at one point, during one of our sessions, I guessed in frustration, "What, Timmy fell down the well?")

Who knows, maybe this obscene version of Pictionary is an intentional exercise in frustration, to help us develop patience. If I do eventually end up becoming fluent in Gulimancema through this maddening method, I will take back everything I have written here and whispered under my breath in class.

Dabbling Diva.

Those of you who have read my old blog knew that I had started dabbling in songwriting. Well, here is another, with original lyrics and music stolen from a very popular karaoke hit. A draft of this song was first composed by a group of us Peace Corps trainees during our orientation back at the beginning of June. About 2 weeks ago, I took the liberty of revising it...


I'M STILL ALIVE (sung to the tune of "I Will Survive")

First I got my shots, and was immunized.
Still uncertain how I'll live without wifi...
Spent my first few nights wondering how I'd get along,
If I'd grow strong,
So I went and wrote this song!

And now I'm here,
In this strange place,
Where the sun is beating down all day upon my face.
I'm learning to speak French:
"Je n' sais pas" and "C'est la vie,"
And now a man I hardly know has just tried holding hands with me!*

And so I do,
And it's okay.
And now the smile that's spreading on my face will never go away.
That is, unless I get the runs,
Which'll put a damper on my fun.
I might not thrive,
But I'm alive.
ça va aller!


* Although homosexuality is frowned on in Burkina Faso (and incredibly dangerous to engage in), it is not uncommon for 2 men or 2 women to be seen walking hand-in-hand in public, as an expression of their familiarity and friendship. Ironic, no?

The Dabbler Lives!

Ne y windiga (that's Mooré for "Good day") from Burkina Faso! I am writing from the city of Ouahigouya - pronounced "WHY-ee-GOO-ya" - in the northern part of the country. Apologies for the extended period of silence, but Blogger does not seem to work too well over here; I tried posting 3 times in the past couple weeks, to no avail. On top of that, all of the keyboards here are in French, which makes typing even the simplest sentences quite a challenge, as all the letters and symbols are in the wrong places. Needless to say I am psyched to finally be able to send out a message from in-country.

At the moment, in addition to participating in classes for cross-cultural orientation, I am brushing up on my French in the most effective way possible (by speaking it non-stop), and I'm learning 2 additional languages, Mooré and Gulimancema. I have also been "adopted" by a host family in Bogoya, a village a few kilometers outside of Ouahigouya, where I sleep and eat most of my meals. Unless it is raining or there is a dust storm, I sleep outside (with a mosquito net, to protect me from malaria infection), because otherwise I literally marinate in my sheets from the heat. Also, since my consitution is not as strong as that of the locals (or, in Peace Corps jargon, "host country nationals"), I have to filter all my water, and then add a couple drops of bleach to every liter, before drinking it. I also have to be extremely careful about what I eat, in case of bacteria or parasites... so absolutely NO salads while I'm here, and all my food has to be thoroughly cooked. Already a couple of my fellow trainees have been laid low by stomach viruses and diarrhea -- here, apparently, it pays to be paranoid. However, let it be known that my hosts are incredibly friendly and attentive, and do whatever they can to make me more comfortable. I've also had many interesting conversations (in my broken French) with Bob - my self-appointed guardian in the village - about why I'm here exactly, the differences between life in Burkina and America, and what kind of music we love (he's a reggae fanatic, while my personal favorite is oldies rock 'n' roll).

The culture here is VERY different from that of the States: collectivism is the rule, as opposed to that famous American individualism. It is imperative to greet (or "saluer") absolutely everyone you pass, and that means more than merely saying hello; in greeting a perfect stranger, you must inquire how they're doing, how their health is, how their family's health is, respond in kind, then wish them well until the next time you both meet. Anything less than this is considered the height of rudeness. Anyone who has ever lived in New York City can imagine what a change THIS little custom is for me.

Now, I will not pretend that the past couple weeks of transition haven't been difficult; until now, I could not remember the last time I was homesick -- but the culture shock hit me hard when I arrived. On my 7th day here, I was honestly asking myself how I was going to last through the summer, much less 2 years. Things are better now, but I'm trying not to think about the big picture for the moment. Right now the goal is to stick it out through the completion of training, at the end of August. If I'm still doing okay then, I'll see how I do until Thanksgiving, and so on. A Volunteer who has been in-country for 10 months told me that's how a lot of people in her group handle it; they love their experiences and their work over here, but it's easier to get a handle on things if they take it step by step.

There you have it, Dear Readers: a rather lengthy post from yours truly, to make up for all the time I've been away from cyberspace. I promise to write again the very next moment possible, and I would of course love to hear from absolutely anyone back home in the States.

Orientation in DC.

Well, Dear Readers, I am taking valuable time away from bonding with my fellow Peace Corps trainees to send you an update from Peace Corps Staging in Washington, DC. It has only been 1 day, yet I already feel like I have gone through so much. It occurred to me yesterday that I must be more nervous than I originally anticipated, when I freaked out around 8:00am, convinced that my bags were too heavy and that I was going to have to leave them behind (the Peace Corps has a policy that you can check no more than 80 lbs. of baggage on your flight). Nothing gets your adrenaline going like re-packing for your entire trip, 15 minutes before you have to catch the bus to the airport. Even so, I don't think the reality of my situation really struck me until I was in a room with 32 other prospective volunteers, going through workshops about the various types of available malaria medications (the most effective of which apparently induces nightmares and psychotic episodes in the user). I then suddenly realized just how thorough a life change this experience will be, and how right now I really have no idea what I'm going to be doing, or whether I have the maturity and instincts to handle this overturning of everything I know about how to eat, speak, interact, and in generally simply exist. Rationally, of course, I had already known all this for months; it didn't really hit me emotionally, however, until I was in that room with everyone else going over to Burkina. So, yes, I did panic for a short period yesterday afternoon.

This morning, after a full night's rest, things are going much better. My sarcasm has thus far only gotten the better of me once or twice... such as when we were asked to name any famous Peace Corps alumni we knew of, and I brought up the author of Confessions of an Economic Hit Man. I have (shockingly) remembered the names and faces of nearly all my fellow 32 trainees, and thus far everyone seems to be getting along... always a positive beginning. The group seems evenly split between teachers and participants in my program (Girls' Education and Empowerment). Tomorrow evening, we will be flying out to West Africa, with a lay-over in Paris, where we will spend the rest of the summer in-country, undergoing intensive training for both linguistics and our respective assignments.

There's a great deal more I would love to share, but I must grab a bite to eat before we're all rounded back up for another several hours of lectures and group discussions. Thanks for all the well-wishes! I will write again as soon as humanly possible... probably after we've landed in Ouagadougou (Burkina Faso's capital city), as there are supposedly internet cafes all over the place there.

A Dabbler's (International) Diary

Salutations! Dabbler here. You may remember me from my previous blog. Then again, you may not. Long story short, I have left the hallowed halls of Hollywood to join the Peace Corps. To be more specific, I will be living in the West African nation of Burkina Faso, working as a volunteer in a program impressively entitled "Girls' Education and Empowerment," the goal being to help improve the female literacy rate in Burkina. At this moment, I am mere hours away from reporting for service in Washington, DC... 2 days after which I will be flying overseas to Africa, to commence my 2-year service. It's going to be (from what I am told) a life-altering experience, and I hereby invite you to come along for the ride!

Most sincerely yours,

A Dabbler