Hello,

Does anyone still even read this thing? I know I haven't updated since March; I know you were probably getting tired of my shtick in the first place; I know that a whole bunch of Peace Corps Trainees (77, to be exact) just arrived in Burkina, and they're probably enticing you with younger, sexier blogs than this one...

...but you still love me, right? Tell me—to quote perennial musical virtuoso Michael Bolton—how am I supposed to live without you?

Truth be told, I understand if you want to see other people. Not only have I been inexcusably aloof over the past three months, but my Peace Corps service has officially reached its dénouement. As of today, I have exactly 38 days left on Burkinabè soil (sand, rock, landfill...whatever). It is a shockingly brief amount of time. It is less time than Lent. As an ex-Catholic, this is significant to me.

After 2+ years of brutal heat, screaming animals (and children), questionable transportation (remember that maggot-infested bus I took in Mali?), and illness, this experience is nearly over. I intend to write one more entry reflecting on this entire experience when I'm back in America, but I'll just tell you right now that, even with all the hardships, this has been so worth it. The stereotype that Peace Corps is just for pot-smoking, aimless hippies couldn't be more wrong. You have to be driven, balanced, and resolute to make it out here. This experience has made me more grounded, self-sufficient, and confident in my own abilities than ever. It also has made me feel so fortunate to come from such a comparably progressive, democratic, and wealthy nation. I feel like I am a lot less likely to take things for granted now.

If anyone reading this is contemplating Peace Corps service, I'd have to say that the personal growth alone makes it worth your while. I am leaving this magnificent, exhausting, crazy, and beautiful place with countless friends and even more life lessons. I thought I was coming to Burkina to leave a legacy. It turns out that Burkina left an indelible mark on me.

So, reader, we both knew that this blog was a fling. Given my 27-month time frame here, it was never going to last forever. I hope it was as good for you as it was for me. In my writing, I've tried to resist the urge to resort to platitudes, i.e. cultural isolation and the angst that comes packaged with that. I've also attempted to avoid posing self-serving, lofty questions like "What IS international development?" There are plenty of Peace Corps blogs that offer that kind of rigmarole already. I've approached my blog in much the same way I've approached my service: uncompromisingly, honestly, and with my own voice. No matter how much this experience has changed me, I am still your run-of-the-mill American guy. I don't pretend to know more about the world and international relations than the typical townie waitress at the Ypsilanti Applebee's. I just came here to work, play, and live, and I managed to do all three, humbly and earnestly. With this blog, I simply wanted to bring you all along for the ride. Thanks for being there.

PS: for those of you who are more concerned with the nuts-and-bolts logistics of my last month here, I am busily packing up my house and vacating it. Peace Corps is replacing me at my school with a math teacher, but they won't live in my house, as I expressed to Peace Corps that it is too far from, well...everywhere. I've probably biked enough over the past two years to make it clear across Africa.

Other than that, I'm filling out final reports for Peace Corps and preparing for my trip home, which includes stops along the way in Morocco, France, and, strangely enough, Iceland. XOXO

Hello!

Wow, March already, huh? You know, I have insanely little time left here—about four months. Considering how quickly time has flown by during my past 21 months here in Burkina, these remaining 16-or-so weeks are going to pass in the blink of an eye. Especially since I still have exams to give at school. I’ll also be helping my sitemate Rachel over the next few months in presenting seminars to the girls at the Catholic school where she works on HIV/AIDS, condom use, and self-confidence and assertiveness. Oh, and pile onto that the mountain of paperwork I need to fill out for Peace Corps to close out my service. These next four months are about as good as over already.

Keeping this in mind, I’m trying to maximize the amount of time I spend in my community, before it’s too late and I never see my Burkinabè neighbors and friends ever again. This means resisting invitations from other Volunteers to hang out or party or whatever. As much as I love my fellow PCVs, there are far better chances I’ll get to see them post-Peace Corps than I’ll get to see my Burkinabè buddies.

My neighborhood already knows that the end of my service is nigh. One of the ladies who lives across the street from me was just telling me last night that people are going to be crying a lot when I leave. In case I haven’t mentioned it, outward expressions of grief (i.e. crying) are not normal in Burkina. I actually can’t recall the last time I saw a person cry here; it just isn’t done. And if it is done, you cloister yourself in your house to do it—out of sight, out of mind. So to hear from my neighbor that people are going to be openly crying when I leave is humbling and devastating. Also, I ask myself, Does the work I’ve done over the past two years really merit such a farewell from these people? Do I deserve this kind of response? Due to the barriers you face as a Volunteer—culturally and otherwise—you can’t always gauge the status of your relationships with people here. Hearing this from my neighbor puts things into perspective, though, and I know I’m going to be a wreck when I jump in that white Peace Corps SUV and speed out of my neighborhood in a cloud of dust never to return again. Ah, I’m getting verklempt just typing that sentence! Talk amongst yourselves!

Okay, I’m back. So, not only am I coping with the fact that I’m leaving Burkina indefinitely soon, I’m also preparing myself for life in the Western world again. It’s been widely confirmed by numerous Returned Peace Corps Volunteers (RPCVs) that adjusting to life in America is harder than it was to initially adjust to life in your country of service. When I first heard this claim, I was dubious, but now I can totally see how this could be true. First of all, think about how quickly and dramatically America changes. There is ceaseless dynamism—even in the wake of an economic recession. Before I came to Burkina, I was living in NYC—a place that is known for reinventing itself on a regular basis. When I would leave the city on summer breaks from grad school, I would come back in September to find myself in a different New York. There would be new construction, new outgrowths of capitalism (Starbucks are like frigging Gremlins in NYC), new additions and subtractions to the subway service, etc. The thing is, if you stay in New York full time, you can keep up with these changes because they’re a part of your daily routine. But if you leave—even if it’s just for a few months—you always come back at least a little disoriented. It’s like the entire city has leapt forward in progress without you, and you’re left behind struggling breathlessly to catch up.

I can only imagine all the changes I’ll have missed after being gone for 2+ years. I mean, let’s just take a look at it on a superficial, pop cultural level:

When I left America to join the Peace Corps in June 2008…

…nobody had ever heard of Lady Gaga, Octomom, or Snuggies; Jay Leno was still the host of The Tonight Show (oh, wait…); Michael Jackson was still alive and well and crazy as ever; James Cameron still hadn’t released a feature film since Titanic; George W. Bush was still President.

I’m sure there is a lot more I could add that I simply don’t know about. It’s so easy to lose touch with the West out here, and that’s what has me wondering what life is going to be like as I try to readapt when I come back.

Meanwhile, life in Burkina is utterly static by comparison. Everybody has a strict daily routine to which they adhere; men and women have socially-defined roles they must fulfill and rarely deviate from; there is no concept of pop culture as it exists in the States; things run at a snail’s pace, and the lack of capital simply precludes any major changes from happening on a sociopolitical level. Life here is like one long, hot summer day.

So, with time winding down, I’m asking myself a lot of questions and trying to predict the future, while simultaneously grasping for all the opportunities I have left to engage with the people of Burkina.

Dear lovers,

Sorry it’s been almost three months since my last update. It’s like, I don’t really know what else to write about, you know? I’m well into my second year as a Volunteer now, and things are just chugging along for me: the culture is as about as close to second nature as it could possibly get; teaching computer science in French day in and day out is so routine that it’s silly; my secondary projects are progressing swimmingly; I rarely get sick anymore (knock wood); I’m making solid growth in Jula; I bike like a pro (more on that in a second); and I’ve established some incredible friendships—with Burkinabè and fellow Volunteers alike—that I will carry with me throughout the rest of my life.

In short, I am content. Everything is peachy. Problem is, nothing wrecks a good blog like contentment. We’re drawn to dramatic stories of angst, deception, melodrama, and just plain trainwreckery. Or, at least, that’s the case for me. I joined MySpace just so I could read Courtney Love’s daily posts, so there. So, I really have nothing earthshattering to impart about my experiences in Burkina. Everything is good, I am at ease and, you, my lovers, are doomed to perpetual blog-reading boredom as a result. Sorry.

I mean, okay, if I dig really deep I can probably come up with something tragic for you all. For instance, I was in a bike accident last month. I was cruising down one of Bobo’s high-speed paved roads, looking to my right to change lanes, didn’t see this dude who was parked on his moped in the MIDDLE of the road (idiot), and summarily slammed into him from behind. This sent me sailing over the handlebars, my head smacking against the pavement in the process, and ultimately landing on my left side (lots of attractive scrapes and bruises on that half of my body, by the way.) Thankfully, I was wearing my helmet, and thus only had an EXCRUCIATING headache to go along with my cuts and bumps—better a headache than brain dead, am I right or am I right? And yes, this guy really did decide to sit on his moped, completely parked, in the middle of the road. Oftentimes, things in Burkina defy Western logic; this is one such time.

Also, one more bit of news: my COS conference has been scheduled! No, actually, this has nothing to do with cosplay. COS stands for Close Of Service—Peace Corps’ term for the end of a Volunteer’s time in country. That’s right, it’s officially 2010, and that means I can officially declare that I will be leaving Burkina definitively this year. Currently, I am scheduled to COS on August 27, 2010 (exactly two years after the date I swore in as a Volunteer), but I am allowed to depart up to 30 days earlier than that. So, in all likelihood, I’ll be saying goodbye to Burkina forever in July! I have mixed feelings about all of this, but right now it’s kind of exhilarating. I’m in the mundane throes of the school year right now, and I’m aching for a little R ‘n’ R, so America is sounding pretty fabulous. I know that when the time finally does come for me to leave, though, I’ll be a sappy mess, crying all over myself and the Burkinabè friends I may very well never see again after I leave here. What a head trip! But right now I’m just really excited about the fact that in just 7 short months, I’ll be back to my routine of overpaying for Starbucks and complaining about the subway. It’s a Peace Corps miracle!

Okay, so, that’s it for now. I’m sorry that this blog has become Dullsville. I'll try to dredge up more angst in the future.

LUV YA LIKE A SISTA,

M

Haaaayyyyyy!

Hope you don’t mind, but I’m just going to gloss over the fact that I haven’t updated this thang (yes, thang) in two months. Okay, fine, I’ll just rattle off a few excuses for my absence and then carry on with your regularly-scheduled Waggadoogoo. Since August, I’ve wrapped up training the newly-sworn-in group of volunteers, totally revamped my computer lab at school, helped a fellow volunteer with her French learning, attended my quarterly Peace Corps AIDS Task Force meeting, started teaching classes, and formed and all-new—and totally exciting—English club with my students.

I’ve probably done more work in these past few weeks than I did in my first year as a volunteer. And so the reason for the two-year service requirement for Peace Corps makes itself blatantly clear: by the time you hit the 16-month mark or so, you’ve gotten over all your fears and hang-ups, really gotten immersed in the culture, and learned how to navigate personally and professionally in this once-foreign sociopolitical landscape. The first year is all about the swimmer floaties, and the second year is about ripping the training wheels off and blazing your own trail (sorry for the mixed metaphor—it feels so dangerous, and yet so right.)

Or, at least, that’s what my experience has been up to this point.

As much as I hate the term “gung ho” (it just sounds like an irregular bowel condition you might get from eating tainted bean curd to me), I have to say that I really am gung ho about my remaining nine (!) months in Burkina. I keep visualizing all these things I could initiate at my school and thinking up secondary projects I’d like to undertake. Granted, only a small fraction of all of these ideas has any potential to get done before I leave here, but it’s nice to finally feel useful and purposeful—empowering, even.

So, as I mentioned above, I’ve somewhat gotten the ball rolling on my grand schemes with my re-equipped English club at school. I hosted an interest meeting last week, and didn’t have enough room to fit all the students that came! We elected a president and a secretary at the interest meeting, and hit the ground running with out first official meeting the very next day. Even more kids came! (We had relocated to a more spacious classroom, thankfully.) The students are so enthusiastic about the club, and have so many great ideas for what they want to do this school year. One idea was to have a school-wide English Day, during which the entire student body would be encouraged to speak only English. In case I haven’t mentioned it before, we have over 3,000 kids at my school. So, this is a gigantic event to plan. I am confident that the club members are up to the challenge, though. I’ve also urged the club to write a skit about HIV/AIDS awareness that we can hopefully perform at our school’s World AIDS Day event on December 1. Hooray!

My English club in action

In other news—and I hesitate to mention this lest people should think they needn’t send me any more care packages—but I’ve been eating really well lately. I’m getting really into cooking these days. In fact, I’m not just getting into cooking, but into “food culture” in general here. By “food culture,” I’m referring largely to the marché (local market) and all of the social experiences it has to offer. Now, I’ve spent a good amount of time in the Middle East, land of some of the largest souks and other assorted marketplaces in the world. However, it wasn’t until I came to Burkina that I realized the significance of the marché as a social entity. Maybe that’s because Burkinabè in general are incredibly sociable, outgoing people. At any rate, going to the market here is an incredible, hilarious, frenetic, sensory-overloading adventure. It’s loud and hot and crowded, but if you spend enough time there, you start to see the order behind the chaos.

Obviously, it is nothing like going to the supermarket in America—that’s an errand that is simply done out of necessity. Going to the marché is a necessity, too, of course. However, it also offers women the chance to congregate, catch up on gossip, joke around, and just hang out somewhere other than the courtyard of their house (where they spend most of their day). Yes, shopping at the marché, like so many of the daily tasks in Burkina, is a gendered chore—one that is squarely in the domain of the female. As much as I hate the compartmentalization of the sexes here in Burkina, I am thankful that the marché is what it is: a space for the woman. Because, as a fly on the wall, I notice that women seem to loosen up and shrug off their cares there—at least momentarily.

At the marché down the road from my house, I am always the only male—and, of course, the only white person—shopping there. When I first got here last year, people at the marché (which happens to be very far from the main paved road and not near anything remotely interesting for tourists) couldn’t believe their eyes. I was the local freak show for a little while. When I first rode my bike into the marché square, my gleaming white helmet atop my head, people looked at me as if I was riding a hovercraft while dressed in a Buffalo-Bill-style ladysuit and playing the Battle Hymn of the Republic on the theremin. Or something like that.

Eventually, though, people got used to me. The people at the marché went from this: “Who’s that white guy doing his own food shopping? Where is his wife? She should be doing this. What’s that? HE DOESN’T HAVE A WIFE? But, WHY? Oh, he’s going to starve.”

To this: “The nutty white guy’s back for hot peppers and ginger.”

And, finally, to this: “Michael’s here! Get his bag of spinach ready.”

They got used to me, and I subsequently fell into the fold of the food culture in Burkina. Now, when I go to the marché, I know where they sell the firmest tomatoes, the tastiest bananas, etc. I swing by my friends’ respective vegetable and houseware stands for a chat, and I often find myself walking around and taking everything in long after I’ve finished my shopping. Also, I’ve developed a Jula-only policy for myself when I’m there, meaning I abandon French and force myself to use only my choppy Jula when buying things and discussing prices. The French crutch isn’t usually much of a temptation: so many of the marché women don’t speak French anyway—especially the older ones. This has rewarded me an intimate rapport with the people there, while also earning their trust.

I’d say that the enthusiasm I have towards buying food here has spilled over into cooking said food as well. I’ve been experimenting with a lot of different recipes, consulting with my neighbors on what they cook, and generally trying to make the most out of what I have ingredients-wise while trying to avoid the usual lament over cheese and the other delicious things I had to leave behind in America. Not everything is successful, but I have a great time with whatever I try to make. It’s also a really great hobby that makes time fly by.

So, as I wrap up yet another scintillating blog entry, I’ll leave you with what is probably my favorite thing to cook here. I’ve taken a really common West African dish and added some of my own twists to it. I really recommend this recipe. It’s incredibly easy and incredibly delicious. Try it and let me know what you think!

Tigèdigè naan bi nanfenw na ti sogo ra ni couscous/

Sauce arachide végétarienne au couscous/

Vegetarian peanut sauce with couscous

Some sort of peanut sauce dish can be found in pretty much any restaurant in Burkina. It’s cheap, tasty, and ready-to-serve—kind of like West Africa’s answer to Krystal Burger. Typically, the sauce is served over long grain white rice, thus the first deviation from the norm in my recipe: I use couscous. My Burkinabè friends were horrified when I first told them I replaced the rice with couscous (couscous is usually only served with a tomato sauce, and people here aren’t typically receptive to tradition bucking), but after tasting it, they conceded that it was indeed quite good.

Other changes in my recipe: peanut sauce usually contains a hearty amount of meat. Thus, not a whole lot is added in the way of spices, as the meat adds an adequate amount of flavor. As my sauce is vegetarian, I played around with all kinds of herbs and spices to jazz it up. Additionally, traditional peanut sauce uses a heavy helping of vegetable oil—as does pretty much every other Burkinabè dish—whereas I use none (though I am thinking about trying a variation wherein I roast the garlic and onions in a little olive oil first.)

Ingredients:

2 cups fresh peanut butter (no added salt or sugar)

¼ cup tomato paste

4 cloves garlic

2 medium-sized onions

1 medium-sized green pepper

3 medium-sized tomatoes

1 cup shredded fresh spinach leaves

Salt and black pepper to taste

A whole variety of herbs and spices: chili powder, crushed red pepper, cumin, thyme, oregano, garlic powder, rosemary (all added to taste)

2-3 cups couscous

(probably serves 3 or 4 people)

Chop the garlic, onions, green pepper, and tomatoes. In a medium-sized pot, combine the peanut butter, tomato paste and water (enough water to start loosening up the peanut butter—you’ll be progressively adding water as needed as the sauce cooks.) Start cooking on low heat. When the peanut butter, tomato paste, and water appear evenly mixed, add the garlic, onions, and green pepper, and slightly increase the heat. Stir, and continue adding water ¼ cup at a time until the mixture reaches the consistency of a thin marinara sauce. Cook the couscous. When the onions get clear, add the tomatoes and spinach and continue stirring. Add the salt, black pepper, and other herbs/spices as you see fit. Continue stirring every so often for another 3-5 minutes, then turn off the heat and let the sauce sit for about 2 minutes. Serve over the couscous. Delicious!

I do believe it is me you're looking for. I can see it in your eyes. Why, I can even see it in your smile:

Hello, my babies. Well, after a lovely respite in the United States that pretty much consisted of eating, revisiting my old haunts in NYC, eating, going to the New England Aquarium, eating, marveling at plasma-screen TVs, and eating, I'm finally back in Burkina Faso, 4 pounds heavier and ready to take on my second school year. What's that you say? "Nice badunkadunk"? So kind of you to notice!

I've been back for almost a month now, yet I still haven't been to Bobo (my home.) As soon as I flew into spacious and luxurious Ouagadougou International Airport (the Fendi and Gucci outlets there are to die for)*, I shuttled myself up to Ouahigouya to finish training the new group of Secondary Education and Girls' Education and Empowerment Trainees. Seeing the optimism spread across the faces of these would-be Volunteers has encouraged me to ditch my occasionally jaded mindset for the upcoming second year of my service.

I now fully understand why the standard Peace Corps service lasts for 24 months. The first year is all about discovery, integration, and getting comfortable in and familiar with your surroundings. Once you're at ease in this once-alien place, it's time to seize the second year as an opportunity to really put yourself out there as a Volunteer, working on doing the best job possible in your primary duty (mine would be teaching computer science), and also giving yourself some time to do some secondary projects (such as leading awareness seminars on HIV/AIDS, nutrition, or fruitful business practices).

I already have some goals set in place for the upcoming year:

Get my computer lab in tip-top physical shape. This includes reformatting nasty, virus-ridden machines, rearranging the desks and workspaces so that actual human beings can circumambulate, and cleaning, cleaning, cleaning. I also want to clear out the graveyard of dead and discarded monitors, CPUs, and peripherals clogging up what precious little free space I have in there. I should probably consult a wise man -- a shaman, if you will -- before doing so, however. I don't want to be haunted by the malicious ghosts of broken French keyboards for desecrating their tomb. éçèçéçèçéçèçéçè !See what I can do about getting an internet connection installed in my lab. This may either involve negotiations with my school administration, or applying for a Peace Corps Partnership grant that would help pay for the initial set-up costs. Stay tuned for more on this and how you (yes, you!) might be able to help!Reenergize my English club at school. This year, I've decided to turn the club into a dictatorship in which I choose (and depose) the president at will. The club sort of fell apart last year because the president (who was not chosen by me, mind you) basically dropped off the face of the planet, so we never were sure when meetings were happening, what we were supposed to talk about on any given week, etc. Now, I don't want to be the president myself because a) I'm not a student and b) I want no other obligations to or responsibilities for this club other than simply needing to show up and talk. I will not be putting together an agenda. I will not be recruiting members. My schedule is busy enough as it is. Thus, I am going to find the best student for the job myself, and let them do all the organizing and planning. So there!Work on some sweet secondary projects. As luck would have it, I'm getting a sitemate this year, which means that one of the Trainees is going to be placed in Bobo after she swears in! We've already discussed the possibility of doing a girls' computer camp, which would be all sorts of lovely. I'd also like to be able to do some more HIV/AIDS seminars, and maybe some projects with the Small Enterprise Development sector of Peace Corps Burkina.So, yeah, it's a whole new day! I'm ready to take on the 12 remaining months of my service with a spring in my step and love in my heart. America was lots and lots of fun, but I'm really content with my life out here, and am looking forward to finishing up my service strong.

Can you believe I've been here for almost 15 MONTHS already? Lordy! In related news, I recently went to Ouagadougou for my Mid-Service Conference, where we reviewed Peace Corps' Burkina's Secondary Education Project Plan, made goals for the upcoming school year (done and done), and gave feedback to the Peace Corps Bureau. Oh, and we also had to go through lots of fun (read: not fun) medical and dental exams ... you know, pooping in cups and stuff like that. Also, going to the dentist in Burkina is a TRIP! You know that sharp hook-like tool the dentist uses to clean your teeth? Well, in Burkina they're ELECTRIC, meaning that this thing vibrates like crazy. Beware if you have sensitive teeth -- it feels like the enamel is being stripped right off! Oy vey.

So that's what I've been up to since I've been back. I've missed you, faithful blog readers and commenters, and hope you've missed me as well. Toodles!

*Note: there are no luxury clothing stores at Ouagadougou International. There are two gates, a dirty conveyor belt, and a place where you can get a piece of cheese on a slice of bread for three dollars, though. Ah, the alluring glamor of air travel!

Okay, so here's a stream-of-consciousness blog post written at breakneck speed. I only have 13 minutes. You should see the looks on the faces of my fellow patrons at the cyber café -- they're completely in awe of my virtuoso typing skills. My hands are caressing the keys like some Web 2.0 Liberace, only I think I'm slightly more fabulous.

Just slightly.

How are you? I've spent the past month running back-and-forth between Ouagadougou, Ouahigouya, and my hometown of Bobo. Been working like crazy with the Peace Corps Bureau prepping for the new Peace Corps Trainees who arrive in Burkina TONIGHT! Ahhhh ... it will be so interesting to see how they soak it all in for the first time and reflect on my own experience a year ago when I was just a wee Peace Corps lad.

Anyhoo, this is probably the last you'll hear from me on this blog before my TRIP OF MAGIC AND WONDERMENT to a little place I like to call the United States of America. Cape Cod and New York City (potentially) better be ready for my manic and triumphant return. And if you'll be in these areas during my trip and have some events or activities planned CALL ME UP. I am up for everything. I just want to soak in the Americanness of America. I want Stuffed Crust. I want plasma screens. I want clothes that practically wash themselves (chiropractors will make millions over my Burkinabé "laundry back" -- picture me hunkered over two big buckets for an hour-and-a-half, scrubbing my hands into oblivion. THIS IS MY LIFE.)

Yeah, so I'm kind of punchy right now. Been planning out training for the new people for the past month practically, and now I'm just ready for them to get here already! It's going to be exciting!

Okay, I am going out to enjoy some beverages now. In case you didn't know, this is the one-year-anniversary of my arrival in Burkina! Thanks for all your support and good vibes up to this point! LUV YA LIKE A SISTA. XOXO

Hello darlingfaces,

Next month (June 11th, to be exact) marks the one-year anniversary of my arrival here in Burkina Faso. And, perhaps more substantially, in a few short days I'll actually be able to say that I've successfully completed an entire school year's worth of teaching. I know: where's Alice Cooper when you need him, right? I can't wait for summer vacation! It is going to be such a welcome respite from my daily grind of lesson planning, lecturing, and computer repairing my face off. I'm particularly excited about the 3.5-week trip to the United States I'll be taking at the end of June. It already holds the title of Best Vacation I've Ever Had, and it hasn't even happened yet! My mind is constantly concocting delirious fantasies about the United States, which just get more and more exacerbated the longer I spend in hot, dusty, insect-rich, resource-poor Burkina. I feel as though I look upon the US with the same awestruck fascination as my Burkinabé friends now. I mean, come on: air conditioning? Clean, fast, and reliable transportation ALL THE TIME? Robotic tables with lasers that scan some alien code on your food in order to tell you the price? Wait a minute, products over there have a SET PRICE? You mean you don't haggle for twenty minutes over an avocado? You just pay what this little stub of sticky paper with printed numbers on it tells you to pay?! Okay, now, let me get this straight: you Americans give this Tyra Banks lady millions of dollars to walk around in fat suits and scream and roll around on the floor on camera and in front of an audience?

It's demented how excited I am about going to the US. Most of my plans involve eating—devouring, really—many and varied types of awful, terrible, but great-tasting food that I couldn't ever dream of finding here in Burkina. Like, I've actually asked myself if a root beer float topped with Sno-Caps and monterey jack cheese and wrapped in a P'zone would taste delicious or not. I don't even really know what a P'zone is, but I plan to shove several in my mouth during my time in the States. If I don't come back to Burkina with at least fifteen extra pounds on me, the trip will be deemed a severe failure.

Anyhoo, I'm not going to be chillaxing the ENTIRE break, of course. In fact, my summer is shaping up to be just as busy as the school year. I've been asked by Peace Corps to serve as a PCVFP (Peace Corps Volunteer Facilitator-Programmer) for the upcoming PST (Pre-Service Training) in June, July, and August. You see, a whole new group of PCTs (Peace Corps Trainees) is coming to Burkina at the beginning of June to go through a three-month training process that will prepare them for their service. Remember my situation last year, with the staging event in Philadelphia followed by living with a host family in Burkina and the daily diarrhea woes and the culture shock I endured over everyone screaming the Mooré-equivalent of, "Hey, Whitey!" at me wherever I went? Yeah, well, this group is going to be going through the exact same thing, and a few of my fellow PCVs and I will be there to help them along the long and storied journey that is PST.

In the weeks leading up to my big Peace Corps departure last year, I scoured just about every blog kept by a PCV I could find, including those who had served as far back as 2002. I was determined to get as much insight as I could into this strange, mystifying, and daunting experience I was about to hurl myself into. The blogs helped immensely, giving me an intimate perspective on the PC experience with a personal twist.

So, in the event that a would-be Burkina PCV is reading this here blog, I'd like to take a few moments to offer some bits of information I wish I had up in the old cabesa before I headed off to Burkina last year, for my sanity and patience's sakes. Keep in mind, of course, that everyone's Peace Corps experience is different and entirely what they themselves make of it, and no blog is going to help you mould your existence here. These are just a few small things that I, personally, wish I was more prepared for. (I know, I ended with a preposition—it's hot and past my bedtime and I'm not Thomas Hardy.)

1. Burkinabé do NOT know how to form lines. The dynamics and politics of lines do not exist in or are not recognized by their society. Time and again on this blog, I have waxed rhapsodic about my interactions with Burkinabé. I simply do adore the people here, and often get a warm and fuzzy feeling over the friendships I have made in country. That being said, I utterly loathe Burkinabé in any situation that calls for a line to be formed, whether that be boarding a bus or queueing up to pay a bill at the electric company. I don't know what goes on in the social upbringing of the average Burkinabé, but the section on respecting the construct of the line—which Americans tend to follow stringently—appears to be wholly absent. As a result, an unaccustomed foreigner in Burkina will likely be shocked and appalled when they find themselves in unnecessary human clusterfucks that could easily be remedied if everybody just agreed to form a line and wait their turn. How do you like these apples: whenever I travel between Bobo and Ouagadougou, I go with a very nice, clean, and reputable bus company that gives its each of its passengers a printed ticket, complete with an assigned seat number. Totally legit, totally reliable. And yet, what happens when they call everyone aboard? A stampede that reaches such absurd heights of absolute pandemonium that it rivals Pamplona. People—dudes, chicks, old folks, and children alike—are elbowing each other in the ribs, pushing and shoving, and yelling at each other to back the eff off! UM, HELLO? Everyone has an ASSIGNED SEAT. WHERE, EXACTLY, IS THE FIRE? It is an absolutely jaw-dropping sight to behold, especially if you take how nice and civil Burkinabé are in every other social situation into account. If you're not used to this, it is infuriating at first—I mean, I've been here almost a year and it still irks me. My advice in dealing with this phenomenon is to be active and aggressive rather than passive and permissive—beat 'em at their own game, I say! I started off very hippie-ish and love thy neighbor about the whole thing in the beginning, but I eventually got so pissed off that I just started joining in the carnage—mob mentality, I guess. Nowadays, I jump right into that mass of humanity, elbows out and with the reflexes of a linebacker. THUNDERDOME. I expend so much energy ramming myself through the crowd that I don't have much left to waste on getting angry about the Burkinabé's utterly preposterous manners in this realm of human interaction, so it's a win-win.

2. A reliable algorithm for calculating the actual length of meetings in Burkina Faso: multiply how many minutes/hours the people in charge claim the meeting will go for by ten, and add two hours. Example: If the principal of your school calls for a 30-minute meeting to discuss the cleaning schedule of the computer lab, expect to actually be there for seven hours -> ((30*10)/60)+2=7. Okay, a little exaggeration here, but, fo' real doe: meetings in Burkina take FOR-EV-ER. One of the reasons for this is that Burkinabé don't follow the superficial and capitalistic dictum that "Time is money," which reigns supreme in America. This is a collectivist society, and, as such, there is a genuine concern for the comfort and well-being of others and their relatives. So, a good chunk of the "meeting" is actually spent on rigorously discussing the welfare of all the parties involved, as well as the welfare of their immediate and extended family and their material possessions (goats, cows, pigs, etc.)

Another, more justifiably irritating reason behind the excessive meeting lengths is that Burkinabé love to belabor even the finest and minutest point—especially the men. I think it has something to do with the machismo element of society here, because it appears as though each man is always trying to make the last, resounding point in a meeting, only to be a foiled by another dude who chimes in to regurgitate something that isn't even a subtle variation on what the guy who was just speaking sputtered out mere seconds ago. It simply never ends.

My advice: once you've got the gist of a meeting and said all that you've needed/wanted to say, feel free to tune out, unless you enjoy tumbling into an unfathomably redundant, ego-infused death spiral.

3. Children of a certain age will be resolutely terrified of you if you are white and/or wear a bike helmet. The age range for such children seems to be between 3 and 5 years old. Kids who are younger are simply too young to know what's going on (i.e., to sense that you, as a person of a paler persuasion, are something "different"), while older kids have had enough life experiences and scraped knees to toughen them up. The fear in these children usually manifests itself in the form of piercing shrieks, running, hiding behind things/people, and many tears. Wearing a bike helmet seems to bump up the Richter scale of horror considerably. At first, this can be disheartening: you just wanted to say, "Hi" to the little tyke! My advice, though, is to not take it personally and, in fact, to have fun with this and take advantage of it. You can only take so many kids taunting you with shouts of, "Tubabu!" or "Le blanc!" before you start getting a little resentful. Payback time! I'm not saying you should run around with animal blood smeared across your face deliberately scaring children, but if you're biking down your street and see a little kid start to cry upon catching your eye, smile widely, get off your bike, and walk over to them to shake their hand. This will undeniably send them into hysterics of fear, fleeing for the nearest tree or rock or grandmother to hide behind. Chances are, if their friends and family are around (which they usually are), they will all get a huge kick out of this. It seems that the more a kid cries here, the more his parents laugh. Burkinabé are interesting that way. (I've seen Burkinabé crack up over television news footage of rioters beating the shit out of each other, if that gives any insight into their sense of humor). Incidentally, this is also a good technique for deterring kids from banging on your door after sunset for no apparent reason other than to keep you from getting some reading done or preparing dinner.

So, yeah, these are just a few miscellaneous things that struck me as stuff I never would have thought about nor was I prepared for before arriving in Burkina. If any of this made you uneasy, that was not my intention. Despite the minor hitches out here, there are mountains of goodness and wonder. Burkina is a fantastic place that boasts some seriously glorious people. I'm still loving it all after a year.

And if anyone reading this is indeed in the upcoming SE/GEE PST group, let me wish you an early welcome to Burkina and Peace Corps. See you soon!

I haven’t had a haircut in over ten months.

Shortly before I left for my Peace Corps staging event in Philadelphia last June, I buzzed my long, curly locks completely off. I was kind of attached to my hair (figuratively as well as literally—har dee har, jerkface), so it was upsetting to take a mean old set of clippers to it and obliterate every last hank in one fell swoop. There were two specific reasons for me doing so, though: one, Africa tends to get a little warm, in case you didn’t know; and two, in one of the pre-staging documents that Peace Corps sent me, they noted that, for the sake of social acceptability in Burkina, men should keep their hair short. Well, as an embryonic aspiring PCV, I took this as gospel, and summarily dusted off my haircutting kit and made with the snip snip.

To an extent, Peace Corps did know what it was talking about in terms of hair length and how it pertains to social norms here. Every Burkinabé man has his hair closely cropped and gets it trimmed on a pretty regular basis. If you do see a guy with long hair, chances are he’s either a Rasta (and thus has a stigmatized reputation for smoking pot) or a fou (quite literally, a crazy homeless person who wanders the streets in various stages of undress). Thus, there is a very clear-cut—and clean-cut—idea of what a Burkinabé man should look like. And with that idea comes a whole host of other gender norms that Burkinabé men and women tend to follow rigorously.

In most Burkinabé social spheres—except, perhaps, those of the fabulously wealthy Burkinabé élite who live in a posh development in Ouagadougou known as Ouaga 2000 (President Blaise Compaoré has a residence there)—men are the breadwinners, and women and girls take care of everything at home. This includes fastidiously cleaning the house, doing the laundry, washing the dishes, sweeping the courtyard, going to the marché, cooking the meals, and bathing the kids (some families can have upwards of ten children). Women really are the backbone of this society. There are the nurturer-caregivers, the rock of the family, and the guiding force of the household. Their seemingly unwavering stamina despite all the work the societal mould in which they live shovels onto them is amazing to me.

Now, to avoid making this sound like a man-bashing entry, I should say that men here do their fair share of work to earn money for their families—and it isn’t usually through a cushy office job. True, there are many wealthy men who seem to do nothing all day but ride around on their new motos, fuss with their immaculate, lavish clothing, and play around with their flashy cell phones. However, the countless men in the poorer classes work as carpenters, locksmiths, welders, water-haulers (if there is a more appropriate title for this line of work, let me know), etc.

My point is that these social and professional roles are rigidly defined: men work/have careers, and the women stay home. Period. This distinction between the sexes is made pretty early on in life—during secondary school, for example. In case I haven’t mentioned it here before, you have to pay to send your kids to school here—even public school. Tuition for a year can run anywhere from $50-$100. Not a huge sum for an American, but for some Burkinabé families that money represents food on the table. So, a big family might start out by sending all of their kids to school, but as the years go on and the money runs tight and more work needs to be done in the household, the parents stop enrolling the girls in classes and just let the boys continue their studies. After all, social norms dictate that girls and women belong in the house, anyway, so what do they need to learn history, geography, science, and math for? Knowing the Pythagorean theorem ain’t gonna get the floor swept.

Maintaining a certain manner of dress and general appearance is one way through which these social paradigms are upheld. I already mentioned that Burkinabé men, outside of a few pariahs, don’t let their hair grow long. So what are people supposed to make of me, then? I’m a teacher—a very good and esteemed profession in Burkina, particularly in the bigger cities—yet I come to work every day in simple (yet appropriate) clothing and with my hair all over the place. To put it in perspective, this would be like me being a lawyer in America and coming to a hearing in plaid golf pants.

A few months ago, when my hair was on the cusp of becoming noticeably long enough to warrant a trim, I asked myself whether I cared or not if I just let it grow, weighing all the social and cultural knowledge I’ve gained since arriving here. I eventually decided that I would take a chance and not cut it, and spend the next few months testing the waters.

Well, here I am today with my hair long enough to be put in a ponytail, and what have I learned? First of all, Burkinabé don’t get angry or offended if you’re a man and you have long hair. They will be all sorts of nonplussed, though. I’ve been through a whole range of personal interactions all because of my hair here. Men have asked me if it’s a wig; women seek my advice on what they can put in their own hair to make it blonde and curly like mine; sometimes little kids just want to touch it.

What I’m hoping is, because Burkinabé don’t seem to be bothered by my hair, it’ll encourage them to think about the gender restrictions that rule their society and their tendency to sustain them. I’m not expecting my locks to start a revolution, but I’d least like to leave people here with the sense that things don’t have to be so black-and-white. I loathe male chauvinism and machismo, which I come in contact with regularly here. It’s a sobering experience when you hear Burkinabé—some of the most impoverished people on the planet—use pejoratives like “faggot” (pédé in French), but eventually you realize that this sort of behavior is borne out of a stark acquiescence to social constructs. I hope I’m not being naïve when I say that I hope these constructs can at least be challenged—if not changed.

Ah, spring break … in America, it’s a magical time of stifling one’s beer gas, schmaltzy co-ed confessions at tacky, vaguely Mexican eateries (Señor Frog’s, anyone?), and drunken frat boy histrionics. In Burkina, if you’re a Peace Corps Volunteer, it’s a time to risk one’s life by impinging on the habitats of gigantic mammals for the sake of a photo op. It’s like comparing the debauched decadence of Nero with the modus operandi of the Crocodile Hunter. Whatever.

So, last week, upon the start of spring break (henceforth known as ELEPHANT FREAK FEST 2009, or EFF 2009—you’ll see why in a minute), I traveled with several friends to the glorious city of Fada N’Gourma in Eastern Burkina. It was the first time I’d traveled east of Ouagadougou, which means I’ve now seen Burkina in virtually every direction, from the cruel heat and red sands of the Sahel to the cool green and mango-tree-laden Cascades (waterfalls) Region.

Once in Fada, we chilled, ate fries and salad, and generally got crunk, as is customary for Americans on spring break (see above). The next day, queasy from Burkina’s finest local brews and stymied by Fada’s oppressive heat (soooo much hotter there than in Bobo), we schlepped via bush taxi (essentially a ratty van packed to the brim with people, goats, chickens, bicycles, whatever works …) to a city way down in the southeast, very close to the Benin-Burkina border, where a fellow PCV, the lovely Joanna, lives. Joanna and her equally lovely Gulmanché (that’s an ethnic group) host family allowed all of us crazy kids—about fifteen of us—to camp out in their courtyard for the evening.

As much as I loved Joanna’s beautiful city, that was easily one of the worst nights I’ve ever spent in Burkina, purely because of the heat. My friend Danielle, whom I shared a tent with, deserves some sort of gold-plated award for putting up with my vulgar and Yiddish-tinged (some people call me an honorary Jew) ranting and raving over the sweltering conditions all night. I’m sorry, but it was extraordinarily hot. I was laying down, perfectly still—afraid to blink my eyes, even!—and yet I could still feel the sweat pouring out of me in rivulets.

By morning, I was soaked from head to toe. I was pretty sure my perspiration even saturated Danielle a little bit. Gross, right? It was like The Blob—an unstoppable and malevolent force. Now everyone’s convinced that I have some sort of gland problem, and I can’t say I disagree with them.

What was that about elephants? Oh, yeah, so from Joanna’s city, we traveled even further south (basically to the border), where we went on the safari of a lifetime (almost literally, as you’ll soon find out). This part of Burkina is known for its large animal reserves. We spent the day at the Arly reserve—one of the best known—riding around in a roofless and windshield-less old Land Rover driven by one of the safari company dudes, who was assisted by two other dudes hanging off the back. There were plentiful stretches of time where we didn’t see a single animal, which made us weary. Some of us were really jonesing to see some birds and gazelles, but, wtf? This is a SAFARI. I want to see giraffes and giant turtles and monkeys flinging poop and pterodactyls and stuff like that. A friggin’ bird? Come on.

So, all morning I was silently pining for some nutty, action-packed animal encounters. I really wanted to see a mastodon get masto-DOWN, know what I’m saying? Eventually, we saw a ton of hippos bathing in a small barrage. They were cool enough, and made cute noises when they shot water out of their nostrils, but they were completely docile (so much for being the number-one deadliest animal in Africa. *scoff*) and left me craving more.

Well, I’m an asshole, because we got more. A whoooole lot more. Shortly after we left the hippo barrage, we came across a massive herd of elephants (there were at least fifty of them). Initially, the herd was completely oblivious of us. However, our driver saw the delight on our faces, and I think he wanted to give us a good show. He therefore slammed his foot on the gas pedal and went surging towards the herd. Now, I’m a rather pampered, city-dwelling sybarite who doesn’t have much wilderness experience, but even I knew that, as puny humans in a crappy SUV, charging this assload of elephants wasn’t exactly the most brilliant idea ever conceived. Lo and behold, once we got within about twenty feet of them, two of the bigger beasts turned a complete 180 and began to hurtle towards us! I’m not even joking when I say that, almost instantly, it became apparent that we were all going to certainly die if we didn’t do something soon. It was dire. Our driver didn’t keep his cool at all, as he clumsily tried to load his shotgun and turn the steering wheel at the same time, when clearly he should have given the gun to one of his buddies and focused solely on the driving. I remember thinking amidst the sheer horror and panic how very Dukes of Hazzard it all was. As a result, we sort of crashed into a tree—we didn’t actually collide with it, but we got sort of stuck there, with two giant elephants coming straight towards us from the rear.

I’m not a religious man, but there had to have been some sort of miracle that allowed our driver to lodge the Land Rover out of our obstructed position against the tree. Once we were somewhat in the clear, the driver passed the shotgun to one of his assistants (finally!) and booked it the hell out of there. There was a second wave of extreme terror after that, because it kind of looked like all the other elephants were taking notice of us and were beginning to charge as well. Uh, single scariest and most adrenaline-filled moment of my life! Thankfully, though, they all seemed to lose interest in us after a few seconds (maybe they thought it was too easy) and returned to the ranks of their herd.

Understandably, we spent the rest of the afternoon on the safari recovering from minor heart attacks and discussing how we all thought we were going to meet our demise. I’m just glad I got such an excellent story out of it. And, bonus! Lucky for you, my video camera was rolling the whole time, so I got some really gritty, Blair Witch-esque footage of the entire fiasco:

And thus, spring break 2009 will forever be known as EFF 2009.

No worries, though. I’m back in Bobo now, safe and sound. The latter half of the break has, not surprisingly, proven to be quite boring by comparison. Nothing going on here except for pizza eating, vodka drinking, and America’s Next Top Model watching. Sort of ironic that it took moving to one of the poorest countries in the world for me to finally appreciate this show.

There’s a phrase we use here in Peace Corps Burkina—bien intégré(e) (“well-integrated”)—to describe a Volunteer who is fully immersed and comfortable at their site and in Burkina in general. Some people within Peace Corps love the term and use it freely; others have nothing but the deepest disdain for it (“Well, I never! You cad! How can you, a rich American, have any accurate perception of Burkinabé mores?!” *takes to fainting couch*).

As far as I’m concerned, I don’t really feel one way or the other about bien intégré(e), except that I love using it as an acronym (“Dude, brah, you eat caterpillar and you’re off toilet paper?! You are so B.I.!”) But, whatever your opinion of the term is, integration is something that is constantly on the mind of the average Volunteer. It’s not an autonomous phenomenon; it’s something Volunteers have to work on and be cognizant of on a daily basis. Just because you’re here for a long period of time doesn’t mean you’re going to automatically gain trust, respect, and friendship from the people in your community, no matter how welcoming the culture is. And, believe me, Burkinabé are plenty hospitable: they make Mother Theresa look like Björk in that video where she mauls the reporter in the airport.

Is it too soon for Mother Theresa jokes?

Anyway, some Volunteers succeed at integrating with flying colors, while others, well … they spend a lot of time locked up in their houses. And, since I feel like I still need to do penance for my wholesale censure of my experience at site upon my initial arrival in Bobo back in September 2008, I think it could enrich your blog reading if I reflect on the positive strides towards my quest for integration I’ve made since then.

First of all, on the surface, a lot has changed since I got here. Back then, I lamented about how the hundreds of kids in my neighborhood would accost me with shouts of, “tubabu!” or “le blanc!” (essentially, “whitey!”). I was particularly upset about this because my neighborhood is gigantic (just as Bobo itself is a gigantic city by Burkinabé standards), and I concluded that there would be no logical way I could stop and chat with each and every one of these mercurial tykes in order to explain to them that I come from the United States, a wonderland of political correctness—like it or not—and, as such, do not appreciate being singled out due to my race.

Well, what a difference a few months, a sense of humor, and a lot of patience makes! I’ve gotten into the habit of stopping my bike whenever I hear a tubabu and introducing myself to the kid(s) who uttered the term. Sometimes I’ll just talk to them about their favorite subject in school— provided they’re lucky enough to afford school—and sometimes I’ll get off my bike and play with them for a bit. (Tip: if you want to entertain a group of Burkinabé children to the point of hysterics, all you have to do is chase after them for a couple of blocks; the adults seem to get a kick out of this as well). Then, we usually part ways with a tampon (a fist bump; don’t get any crazy ideas) and, the next time I see them, they and their friends are shouting, “Michael!” at me. Problem solved.

If there’s one universal truth about every Burkinabé child I’ve ever met that I can impart, it’s that they’re tons of fun—unlike the brash and selfish little monsters you see tugging on mom’s sleeve at Baby Gap in the States. They’re playful, but not overbearing, and inquisitive, but meekly so. They’re also heart-meltingly respectful to elders and strangers (something that carries on into adulthood here, apparently). Kids here are just amazing, and I can say without an ounce of embarrassment that some of my closest friends here are all under the age of 10.

On a somewhat related note, recently I’ve been encountering strangers who refer to me as tubab muso or la blanche (essentially, “white lady”)—do you think I might need a haircut?

So, taking care of this children problem has bolstered my confidence tremendously here, leading me to branch out and form several substantial—and, indeed, very rewarding—relationships with some people here. The most significant example of this that comes to mind is my friend Jean-Claude. He’s 22 years old and works at the local maquis (bar) in my neighborhood, while moonlighting as a filling station proprietor. I first met Jean-Claude back in October, when I stopped at the maquis for a beer. We became fast friends, talking about pretty much everything ranging from life in America to informal lessons in the Mooré language (one of dozens here in Burkina) to Jean’s various travails with his girlfriends. We have a routine of meeting up every night at the bar, where we while away the hours over shared bags of peanuts and the occasional card game. I guess Jean’s the Ted Danson to my George Wendt. Anyway, he’s probably my best friend here, and hanging out with him has opened up lots of social opportunities/routes to integration for me here.

And, as far as gaining people’s trust is concerned, I feel like I’ve done pretty well for myself. One case in point: there is this woman who works as a secretary at my school who, when we first met, was adequately friendly, but noticeably reserved and shy. Whenever I greeted her in the mornings, she would respond, and then sort of cover up the burgeoning smile on her face with her hand in the gesture of shyness that seems to be the trademark of Burkinabé women. I remained persistent in getting some more meaningful interaction out of her, though, and would occasionally pepper my greetings with questions about her family and other things about her life. Slowly but surely, she has opened up to me. Nowadays, she’s the one asking the questions, as she’s very interested in what life is like in America.

Recently, the woman asked me a question that furnished a huge piece of the puzzle that could explain her shyness. She turned to me and asked somewhat reticently, “Do men in America hit their wives?” She went on to particularize the question by explaining, “Here in Burkina, men use hitting to control their women. They are the ones who have control over the family. Wives have no control in their homes.” This was a fact that I was already aware of, but it had never touched me with such poignancy as it did at this moment. I immediately took this chance to denounce violence in any form—particularly against women, who are essentially the backbone of society here. I talked about the lives of women in America, about how American women can do whatever they want—start a family on their own terms, get a master’s degree, pursue a career, etc.—without retribution, and how this is indeed a fundamental building block of our idea of free will. The huge smile that broke across her face in reaction to my response broke my heart, and I had a feeling in that instant that any worries of trust on her part were quickly dissolving.

So, without boasting too much, I think I’ve made lots of progress towards becoming integrated and fostering meaningful relationships with the glorious people of Burkina Faso. The only downside is that, now that I’m really enjoying myself, the time seems to be going faster and faster. We’re coming up on ten months now; pretty soon I’ll be celebrating the one-year anniversary of my arrival in Burkina. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought up several harebrained schemes to fly them all back to America with me.

So, Burkina has three seasons: the rainy season from June to September; the “cold” season from November* to February; and the hot season from March to May. The lines dividing these seasons are as rigid as a prison warden, i.e. it doesn’t rain during the hot season—ever—and the second the cold season is over, you can rest assured that it ain’t coming back for another year.

The hot season arrived here overnight late last week—quite literally, I might add. That is to say, I went to bed shivering in the 55ºF chill, wishing I had packed my footie PJs (complete with zipper up the back, of course) when I left America, and woke up on the surface of ten thousand suns. Mean suns, too. Like that asshole sun in Super Mario Bros. 3 who swoops down at you in the pyramid levels. Man, I hate that guy.

I don’t think I’d ever realized what a profound effect weather has on my mood—and, subsequently, the way I act—before now. This is one of the most poverty-stricken corners in all of Africa; it’s not like I can lounge around some air-conditioned enclave all day long reading Us Weekly and shuddering at Nicole Richie’s hammertoes. Instead, I force myself to suck it up and bear the heat, which includes not getting all stank about having to bike across 20km of scalding pavement on a daily basis. Eventually, though, everybody cracks, right? Like, the other day, I almost lost it when I couldn’t get that ridiculous paperclip with eyes in Microsoft Word to disappear. I mean, we’re talking banging on keys here. Saying horrible things about Bill Gates’ momma. The works. Hmm, maybe I’m prejudiced against inanimate objects with human facial features. The Mario sun, that dumbass paperclip? I’m sensing a theme here. Whatever, that “Office Assistant” is totally wack and anything BUT helpful in any climate, so I think my behavior was justified in the end.

I used to be so proud of myself for living in New York City for two successful years (while attending grad school, no less). I mean, if I could make it there … well, you know what Frank says. Now that I’ve been in Burkina for a while, though, I’m realizing what a cakewalk New York is: Starbucks as far as the eye can see; reliable transportation (after riding West African bush taxis, I will never complain about the L train or the MTA in general ever again); culinary splendor … sure, the rent’s a little high, but so what? Does that compare to the three-day water outage my neighborhood endured a couple of months ago? It’s not like we can walk downstairs to the bodega or Duane Reade and pick up a bottle of Dasani, you know. So, as far as juxtaposing NYC and BF goes, we’re not even talking about the same ballpark. It’s not that I’m trying to begrudge someone’s flagrant loathing of New York society, but, shit, dude, it doesn’t hurt to think beyond Gotham from time to time.

It seems like every season has its own habitus: the rainy season finds us optimistic and well-fed, but also working tirelessly, thanks to all the harvesting; the cold season is subdued and introspective, with Burkinabé concealing themselves in fur-lined parkas (really), and mostly quiet, except for the jubilant November/December holidays (Christian and Muslim); and the hot season, as far as I can tell, is when the harsh realities of Africa truly become compounded. Seriously, it’s amazing how much this jump in temperature has made me reevaluate (for the thousandth time) my experience here. Without the comfort and luxury of A/C and swimming pools, you experience heat for the force of nature that it really is, and with a change in habitus comes a requisite change in perspective.

So, I’m really hoping the hot season flies by. I mean, this whole Peace Corps experience has had wings up to this point (has it really been eight whole months?), so maybe it’ll be June before I know it. I can’t imagine how I’ll react when that first rainstorm of the season bursts down from the heavens, but I’m sure I’ll be hearing the Hallelujah Chorus in my head. Okay, I have to go stand under my showerhead on full blast with all my clothes on for the eleventh time today.

*What happened to October? Well, that’s kind of its own mini hot season. A hot pocket, if you will. Mmmm … three cheese and broccoli …

Hmmm ... hello, I suppose. I don't know why I've been avoiding my blog so much lately, especially considering the stakes at hand: maintaining the ever-distinguished title of The Best Peace Corps Blog in All of Burkina Faso. I don't what to say, really! I've now been here for over seven months, a point of denouement by which whatever was exotic and strange before has now become commonplace and people at home start to forget about you. Well not forget about you per se; I just feel that the magnitude of this whole thing sort of wears off once your American friends don't see you around and their memory of you wanes as they move on with their lives. It seems perfectly natural to me and I'm not bent out of shape about it in the least. It's just something I've noticed at this point.

So, where do we go from here on the blog? I feel as though we're at a crossroads (can't get Bone Thugz out of my head now). I mean, really, I can't talk about how bizarre it is to hang out with my friends over a beer as they prepare goathead soup (eyes and all), or how weird it is that my New Year's Eve consisted of watching fireworks whilst rubbing elbows with Bobo's fabled prostitutes. Because it's not bizarre and it's not weird anymore. For me, it's utterly normal at this point -- almost banal, in fact. I feel completely immersed, safe, and at home here. I look back on the first blog entry I posted after my affectation in Bobo last September, and it seems like an entirely different person wrote that. Back then, I was sick, insecure, cranky, and just over this experience in general. Thank goodness I toughed it out for a few more weeks and gave myself the time to see the light at the end of the tunnel, because that has made all the difference, to crib Frost. Check it: I was hanging out with some of the girls in my courtyard last night, laughing together and carrying on in French and Jula, when it dawned on me how little time I have left here in the grand scheme of things. If you want to draw a parallel to what I'm going through, imagine being told you have less than two years to spend in your beloved home town, where you are treated like a rock star and are privy to the kindest and most genuine people on the face of the earth. I mean, it is going to be devastating to leave this place behind. Wow, what was familiar (America) is now cold and alien, and what was unfamiliar (Burkina) now fits me like a tailored suede glove. Who knew I would eventually feel this way just a few short months ago? Shit is deep, my friends.

Yeah, I don't really know what's going to happen on this blog. I feel that I might become so enamored with my strange (to you) life here that I could alienate my readers. I'm having such an identity crisis right now! But the most wonderful identity crisis a person could ever experience, if that makes any sense. No, it doesn't make any sense. See? I'm doing it already! I'm completely insane. Just know, however, that I will continue with the blog in some way, shape, or form. Just don't expect it to take the same path it was on before. I guess this is the chrysalis phase, but aren't I already gorgeous?

PS: I still feverishly update my Twitter and Flickr pages, so check those out regularly.

Hello babies,

It’s been forever. Trust me, I KNOW. What can I say? Teachers live busy lives. In fact, the only reason I’ve been able to crank out this here entry is because school has been cancelled this week due to protests. Every year, around the second week of December, students throughout Burkina Faso—and especially in larger cities like Bobo and Ouagadougou—go on strike. There are a few reasons behind the strike, but the main one is to protest the 1998 murder of Burkinabé journalist Norbert Zongo. However, if you talk to just about any teacher at my school, they’ll tell you that the students merely “go on strike” because they’re lazy and restless for the holiday break to start. So, make whatever you want out of that. I, per Peace Corps policy, am not supposed to publicly declare my sentiments regarding the political climate of my host country, so I’m not going to give any sort of insider opinion on the protests in this forum.

I can, however, talk about the strike itself, which was absolutely off the crazy chain! So, you have to picture this: I teach at the second-largest lycée (high school) in Bobo, which has a student body of about 2,300. Directly across the is the largest lycée, which has about 5,000 students. So, in one relatively tiny quarter-kilometer space you essentially have a village of students. The strikes started happening last Friday, and were initiated by the students at the neighboring lycée. I was in the middle of teaching my 8am class when one of the school secretaries knocked on the door and told me, “Il faut sortir. Ils vont grever.” (“You have to leave. They are going to strike.”)

I kind of stood there puzzled for a moment. Her message seemed urgent enough, but she said it so cavalierly that I wondered if “They are going to strike.” was simply referring to the upcoming batting line-up on the Milwaukee Brewers—*rimshot*—thank you! I’ll be here all night!

Despite the secretary’s nonchalant tone, I promptly took all the necessary precautions and proceeded to dismiss my class and shut down the lab. Soon enough, I began to hear a lot of commotion somewhere off in the distance. It was different than the usual schoolyard jabbering I’ve grown accustomed to. It sounded more pointed and exigent. I started to hear whistles and mumbled shouts of some sort of proclamation of dissent. Then, into the wide courtyard of my school flowed the source of the noise: a steady and dense stream of protesting students, some of whom held whistles in their mouths, while others clutched rocks in their hands.

You’d think I would have been alarmed at such a sight—and, for a few seconds, I was—but then I noticed the other teachers and administrators sitting casually on the sidelines watching the action, all the while greeting each other with bright smiles and the usual Burkinabé pleasantries (“How are you? Did you sleep well? How’s your health? How’s the weather? How’s the family? How’s the neighborhood? How’s the house? How’s the sheep?”)

Weird, right? So, basically, I just took a seat next to my homologue and watched the protest unfold. It was a little like being a spectator in an ancient Roman amphitheatre, only the action that took place before us was far louder and less violent. Sure, lots of kids had rocks, but they basically just threw them at the walls of the building, injuring no one and causing hardly any damage, mostly because there’s nothing to damage. My computer lab is the only part of the school that has glass windows, since it’s air-conditioned, but they didn’t go anywhere near that.

So, all-in-all, it was a surreal experience: sitting in a semi-circle with my colleagues, blithely chatting about the insignificancies of the day while taking place just a few feet away was the most un-violent violent protest I’ve ever seen. I guess, given the annual regularity of the student strikes, they’ve become kind of routine for all those concerned.

At any rate, school has been closed down this week, and there are no more protests. The schoolyard is pretty much a ghost town, and I have the computer lab to myself. This gives me time to check over some of the hardware and do tedious, menial jobs like scrubbing the mouse balls with alcohol and cotton swabs (no optical mice here!).

Things are really going great, though. Honestly. I feel so attached to Burkina right now that I already know it’s going to be really hard to leave here when my service ends. I’ll try to write again soon, but who knows? It could take me another month to post something. I still have a couple of more busy weeks of classes ahead of me. Plus, I’m heading north to Mali right after Christmas for a little vacation with some Peace Corps buddies. And right after that, I have In-Service Training at the Peace Corps Bureau in Ouagadougou for a few days. So, winter is shaping up to be a busy season. I promise to keep in touch, though, however spotty the communication may be. At any rate, I’m so glad all of you are still reading this schlock of a blog! Your support is endlessly appreciated!

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxooooooo

PS: I took a short video of the protest as it was beginning to gather some steam. It’s not well-shot at all (I kind of had to be covert), but it gives you a vague idea of what it was like:

Well, hello there! I feel like I've sort of been neglecting you all.  I've been such a compulsive blogger up until this point.  It's been over a week since my last update.  Considering I have daily internet access—a luxury not bestowed upon most of my fellow Volunteers—there is simply no excuse for this dearth of posts!  But don't blame me, blame Jocelyn Wildenstein:God, I love Jocelyn Wildenstein.  Cute as a button! Anyhoo, my absence can really be explained by the fact that the first month of school has already gone by, sweeping me completely off my feet in the process.  I teach 18 hours a week, and have a total of 500 or so students.  18 hours probably doesn't seem like a lot of work.  However, because most of my students, regardless of their age (I teach a wide range, from 13-year-olds all the way up to the grown-up teachers at my school), started out at pretty much the same level of proficiency—a level I like to call "Not Proficient At All, Meaning They Can't Even Hold a Mouse Properly or Locate the On/Off Button on the CPU"—every class gets the same lesson.  Therefore, I am giving the same lecture SEVENTEEN TIMES A WEEK (I teach the teachers for two hours each session, which explains the one-hour discrepancy).  The.  Same.  Lecture.  No exaggeration.  Now, I'm a patient person with a substantial level of intestinal fortitude, but can you imagine having to describe what an operating system is and does to roomful after roomful of wide-eyed Burkinabé seventeen times in one solitary week?  Oy vey!

I do what I can to try to liven up my lessons—not to make them more engaging for my students, but more bearable for me.  This week, we're honing their typing skills, so I've put material over their hands so that they can't see the keyboard and have to find the keys by touch and memory.  To enforce the no-peeking rule, I've taken to standing on top of my desk and playing the "Keyboard Police."  Basically this means that I emit a crazy sound of faux abject horror and wildly point my finger at anyone who lifts the material off their keyboard, which usually causes the class to erupt in raucous laughter.  In fact, just the sight of me standing guard three feet in the air on top of my desk is enough to make them laugh.  Kids here—especially girls—tend to be meek, solemnly polite, and highly reserved.  So, when they see some jacked-up white guy acting a fool all over the premises, they react with exhilarating glee, maybe even loosening up a little.  At least this allows me to have a little fun amidst all the monotony of the lesson itself. I’ve also started spending part of my week advising the English club at my school.  Although the students here are incredibly dedicated to and passionate about learning English, their speaking abilities are generally minimal.  Unfortunately, they don’t have the textbooks, audiotapes, and movies that language students in the States do.  Instead, they depend wholly on the notes they take in their classes, which are taught by Burkinabé teachers who, while having a good grasp of English, aren’t fully fluent in the language.  The English club, therefore, is less of an extracurricular activity than it is a vital resource for students who are really committed to their studies. One of my computer science students, Faïçal, is the president of the English club.  At the beginning of the school year, Faïçal told me that there was a risk of the club being cancelled because, per the administration, they needed a faculty adviser and none of the other teachers were available.  I told him that in no way should they cancel the club and to just tell me when and where and I would be there as the adviser.  Well, you’d think I’d just given him a limited edition boxed set of Murder, She Wrote, because his eyes lit up and a huge grin spread across his face.  Then he said, in thickly-accented English, “Thank you very much for saving our English club.”  It was such an Oprah moment! We had our first meeting this past weekend, where I helped them answer tricky grammar questions, work on pronunciation, and understand some of the differences between American English and British English.  They even expressed an interest in the American political system, which led to me explaining how the electoral college works.  Sidebar: Booyeah, Obama.  It’s so nice to have Burkinabé yell, “Barack Obama!” rather than “Tubabu!” at me, and—even better—I don’t have to lie and tell people I’m Canadian anymore!  Anyway, the meeting went well, and all the students/members are really motivated and enthused.  Apparently, I am the first native speaker they’ve had as an adviser, so they’re pretty jazzed about that.  As they stood up one by one to introduce themselves, they each said something to the effect of, “I am excited that Mr. Michael will be teaching us English.”  Another Oprah moment!  It was so precious.  So, the first month of school has been grueling, enjoyable, hectic, and fulfilling.  School is certainly making the time go by fast.  And, now that I’m in the swing of things, I finally feel like I can make it out here for the duration of my two years of service.  That’s gotta count for something. PS: EVERYBODY GETS A CAAAARRRRRRRR!!!!!!

Well, kids, this entry wraps up my little Halloween Diversions series. Thank you for indulging me. After Halloween, Waggadoogoo will return to its regularly-scheduled programming of diarrhea, unbelievably hot weather, and insect infestation (honestly, my house is like an entomologist's wet dream right now). I'm closing this sucker up with a discussion of some of my favorite women in horror films, particularly within the slasher subgenre. Yes, my friends, I'm talking about the Final Girl, a term used to define the last girl standing who goes head-to-head with the psycho killer in slasher films. Film professor Carol J. Clover defined the trope in an essay and (later on) a book entitled Men, Women, and Chainsaws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film—an excellent read, if at times a little overshot. So, I invite you to forge ahead and take a gander at my list of

THE TOP TEN FINAL GIRLS OF ALL TIME

10. Jessica Harper, Suspiria (Dir. Dario Argento, 1977)

An ideal princess for Dario Argento’s psychedelic fairytale of hell, Suspiria, Jessica Harper shines in the role of tormented dance student Suzy Banyon. By turns sweet and unaffected, there’s just something magical about her, which suits the film’s fantastical overtures quite nicely.

9. Kelli Maroney, Chopping Mall (Dir. Jim Wynorski, 1986)

Chopping Mall, Jim Wynorski’s way-out-and-wacky schlockfest about killer robots in a galleria, embodies the ridiculous heights the slasher film reached by the mid-‘80s and, as such, is one of my all-time favorite cult films. Kelly Maroney, our leading lady, also happens to be one of my all-time favorite cult film stars (check her out in Night of the Comet). She suits Chopping Mall perfectly, mixing airy network television wholesomeness with enough action film bravado to give the film’s climax some actual weight—think the cast of The Facts of Life meets Linda Hamilton in Terminator 2: Judgment Day. And, I’m sorry, but whenever I see that poofy mane of cotton-candy-like hair of hers, I just want to eat it!

8. Kathryn McNeil, The House on Sorority Row (Dir. Mark Rosman, 1983)

Kathryn McNeil manifests all of the qualities of the Final Girl trope: she’s sweet, good-natured, and down-to-earth, but also honest, pragmatic, and thoughtful. She’s the only girl in her sorority who sees the potential harm in the gag she and her sisters are planning to pull on their caustic and taciturn housemother. McNeil doesn’t really bring anything new to the table here, but she’s compelling and charming enough that we appreciate her stock character’s familiar and time-tested traits all over again.

7. Vicky Dawson, The Prowler (Dir. Joseph Zito, 1981)

Fans of Amy Steel (further down on this list) do not want to miss the fantastic Vicky Dawson in The Prowler. From the acerbic wit to the tomboyish, go get ‘em vibe to the naturalistic delivery of her lines, Dawson is a solid pinch-hitter for Steel in every way, including looks. The Prowler is a rather meandering mess of a slasher film, but is rescued by Tom Savini’s outrageous gore effects and ingénue Dawson.

6. Daria Nicolodi, Tenebre (Dir. Dario Argento, 1982)

Tenebre, maestro Dario Argento’s return to the standard giallo film after his two back-to-back supernaturally-charged thrillers Suspiria and Inferno, is a frenzied stir-fry of the slasher subgenre gone Italiano. Daria Nicolodi (Argento’s one-time lover) has a genuine screen presence that shines through all the layers of dubbing and is fantastic as usual here. She’s especially good in the screeching, psychotic finale, which closes with an unforgettable shot of her wailing maniacally in the rain, obviously stymied by the grotesque carnage she has just witnessed.

5. Marilyn Burns, The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (Dir. Tobe Hooper, 1973)

Oh my. Marilyn Burns’ portrayal of Sally Hardesty in the latter half of subgenre classic The Texas Chain Saw Massacre is an undiluted embodiment of sheer terror. Out of all the Final Girls on this list, Sally undergoes the greatest physical and mental torment, and her determination to persevere through it is incredible. Jumping out windows and running away from a chainsaw-wielding maniac through all kinds of underbrush, Sally’s Final Girl sequence is just as exhausting and agonizing for us as it is for her, made possible by Burns’ fraught and utterly believable performance. Brutal, visceral, and haunting.

4. Olivia Hussey, Black Christmas (Dir. Bob Clark, 1974)

The exotic and enchanting Olivia Hussey is terrific as troubled and trapped sorority girl Jess Bradford in the late Bob Clark’s suspenseful work of genius, Black Christmas. Jess is so honest and gentle that we genuinely fear for her in her struggle against the film’s faceless and psychotic killer. A more likable Final Girl there has never been.

3. Sigourney Weaver, Alien (Dir. Ridley Scott, 1979)

Despite its ample production values and high-brow science fiction atmosphere, Alien is a gritty slasher film at heart. But, with its elite cinematography and art direction comes a Final Girl with considerably more sociopolitical weight. Gorgeous, strong-jawed Sigourney Weaver is a revelation as Lieutenant Ripley—an enduring, proactive, and bold cinematic template of the modern feminine. Ripley is a resolute space Amazon—a woman with tremendous will, intellect, and sexual power who defies the traditional action film practice of purveying masculinity as spectacle. Indeed, Ripley’s unflinching self-reliance allows her to excel at her duties as a commanding flight officer and fosters within the audience a growing acceptance of nontraditional female roles. Cross-gender identification has never been so seamless. And, even though the character was originally written as a man, Ripley stands as an indelible postfeminist hero whose authenticity and unchallenged resolve has allowed women to take charge and own the center stage in subsequent decades of action and horror films—Cynthia Rothrock owes her career to this woman.

2. Amy Steel, Friday the 13th Part 2 (Dir. Stephen Miner, 1981)

If any of the ladies on this list can be summed up as a “fan favorite,” it’s Amy Steel. Leading the cast of the spectacular second installment in the long-running Friday the 13th series, Steel is renowned by horror fans for her hoydenish portrayal of camp counselor Ginny. Steel’s work here is remarkably textured and effortlessly natural for a slasher film—and particularly for a Friday sequel. Her terror in the extended finale is instantly believable. What really sets the bar high, however, is her resourcefulness. Ginny isn’t some flighty damsel waiting for the cops to take Jason down. She’s assertive in her struggle against him, and uses her brain to survive, yielding one of the few examples in all of slasherdom wherein the Final Girl directly and succinctly hones in on the psychosexual fury that propels the killer (“Jason, mother is talking to you!”). Anyone who dismisses the Friday series as nothing but a shallow showcase of blood and boobs should revisit Steel’s performance—there’s some honest depth and craft there.

1. Jamie Lee Curtis, Halloween (Dir. John Carpenter, 1978)

Honestly, who else did you expect to be at number one? Jamie Lee Curtis is the pioneer and archetype of the modern scream queen. It’s impossible to discuss her career without bringing up slasher films, because her early résumé is so saturated with them, and for good reason: as Laurie Strode, Curtis created the now-commonplace template of the intelligent, introspective, and sexually reluctant Final Girl. Not only did she do it first, she did it best. Like Curtis’ other slasher performances (in Prom Night, Terror Train, etc.), Laurie is complexly rendered—she is at once awkward but adroit, hesitant but intrepid, plain but pretty. To top it off, she’s one of horror’s all-time best screamers—who can forget her primal shrieking as she tumbles over the banister? Director John Carpenter also crafted an interesting symmetry between Laurie and killer Michael Myers—one of sexual repression and confusion—thereby codifying the masculinized victim-hero and feminized killer dynamic that defined the latter day slasher heyday. With Laurie, all that pent-up energy bursts out of her during that unforgettable battle with Michael from inside the closet—a scene that paved the way for all the redemptive Final Girl-versus-psycho-killer showdowns for decades to come.

Happy Halloween!

Actually, my ideal president would be Cynthia McKinney. She is one of the few truly genuine politicians out there, and fights honestly and ardently for the silenced and marginalized (aka, us). But, because Green Party candidates are unfairly eschewed from the mainstream media and the national discourse alike, she doesn't stand a chance. That being said, this election is too important for my vote to be squandered, so I've already shipped my absentee ballot for Barack Obama and Joe Biden back to the United States. Please vote for Barack Obama on November 4 -- it's the only way we can avoid the complete and utter collapse of the United States as we know it.

PS: Californians, please vote a resounding "HELL TO THE NO" on Proposition 8.

Please note that this is my own personal presidential endorsement and in no way reflects the opinions or positions of the Peace Corps or the U.S. Department of State.

First of all, some news from the Burkina front: I've finally started school (which is going well so far), and I shaved my beard. It's so freaking hot here that I just couldn't take it anymore. But now my face is slick and smooth. What a feeling!

Okay, now on to the good stuff. I have another list for you all, as part of my Halloween Diversions series. Get your Netflix ready, because I'm about to spout off

THE TOP TEN HORROR FILMS THAT AREN'T HALLOWEEN, FRIDAY THE 13TH, THE TEXAS CHAIN SAW MASSACRE, A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET, AND THE EXORCIST THAT YOU SHOULD WATCH THIS HALLOWEEN!

Like every year, you're likely to find lots of horror fare on TV this Halloween season. Unfortunately, the films that get airtime rarely veer outside of the mainstream, meaning we get the original Halloween on repeat, Friday the 13th marathons, and Night of the Living Dead right after Trading Spaces. Don't get me wrong: I absolutely LOVE all of these major horror hits. However, it's always nice to diversify and expand your palette. Below are some unconventional horror favorites of mine that I recommend watching as we head towards October 31.

10. Peeping Tom (Dir. Michael Powell, 1960)

Michael Powell's masterful analysis of objectification and psychological frenzy is truly a deluxe thriller. Perhaps the most unsettling thing about Peeping Tom is that central character Mark actually isn't a bad guy. He isn't inherently evil—he is simply a man that has become so consumed by his predilections and cerebral trauma that there's no turning back. Karlheinz Böhm (credited as Carl Boehm) gives a chilling and understated performance in this role. The actor portrays Mark as a stammering, nervous, awkward, and insecure fellow in the vein of Anthony Perkins' Norman Bates. He doesn't trust himself any more than we trust him. Because Mark is a fully-developed human being rather than a knife-wielding caricature, we become sympathetic towards him, to the extent that we are almost complicit in his murderous affairs—certainly a disturbing experience with which audiences in 1960 likely didn't know how to cope. Böhm is supported by a game cast, including the winsome Anna Massey as the doe-eyed heroine and Maxine Audley as her mother (in a particularly eerie and poignant turn). The action is livened up by sumptuous cinematography and lighting design, which impart portentous feelings of dread and mystique. Sadly, Peeping Tom is also known for destroying the career of director Powell, who simply made the right movie at the wrong time. Imagine the penury that Alfred Hitchcock would have faced if Psycho were filmed in color!

9. Hell Night (Dir. Tom DeSimone, 1981)

Linda Blair, in all her schlocky ‘80s glory (complete with a period costume), trapped in a scary old mansion overnight with a deformed, insane killer; in other words, what are you waiting for? Hell Night is essential slasher viewing, straight out of the banner year of 1981. It’s cheap, brazen, and quick, but it also boasts tremendous atmosphere and mounting suspense and is, therefore, quite a fun ride. Hell Night also features one of the most convincing, yet surprisingly neat, decapitation effects I’ve ever seen—it’s all in the economy of the editing.

8. The House on Sorority Row (Dir. Mark Rosman, 1983)

The sorority prank gone awry is by far my favorite slasher film plot device (see Hell Night), and it’s handled here with tremendous gumption and an eye for subtle filmmaking—a rarity in 1983 slasher cinema, when the subgenre started to go full-tilt with boobs and cheddary gore galore. It’s not as firm and crisp as it could be, but it’s cleanly presented, and the story is effervescently told. There are excellent performances throughout the fresh young female cast—particularly from congenial lead Kathryn MacNeil and Eileen Davidson as mega-bitch Vicki (possibly the single greatest ideation of this slasher film trope).

7. Let’s Scare Jessica To Death (Dir. John D. Hancock, 1971)

Let's Scare Jessica to Death is a leading exemplar of understated, low-budget 1970s horror. Gritty, brooding, atmospheric, and cerebral, the film's true assets are its earnest performances, isolated farmhouse location, and unsettling, eclectic score composed by Orville Stoeber. It’s a triumph of its era. The film succeeds for the same reason Stanley Kubrick's The Shining succeeds: it uproots the viewer's sense of a conventional narrative. By forcing us to see things through the eyes of the disturbed Jessica (played fantastically by sweet-faced Zohra Lampert with just the right amount of poignancy and tragic mental instability), we aren't given an objective viewpoint. Thus, security is thrown out the window and a general uneasiness runs rampant throughout. The rug is all but completely pulled out from under us by the time the credits roll. Are the things we see through Jessica's perspective even happening at all? Let's Scare Jessica to Death is likely too ponderous and subtle for today's horror audiences. It substitutes action and gore with style and mood. However, the film is a must-see for anyone with an interest in '70s film, and indeed with an interest in '70s history in general. Like the original Texas Chain Saw Massacre, the principle characters in Let's Scare Jessica to Death are disillusioned hippies overcome by the horrors of rural America—the decline of the "love generation."

6. The Exorcist III (Dir. William Peter Blatty, 1990)

Though it plays more like a crime thriller with a supernatural pretext, The Exorcist III still packs in some hardcore horror heraldry to elevate it to the same league as the terrifying and spellbinding 1973 original. Decapitated statues of Christ, old ladies crawling across ceilings, and a yellow-eyed Jason Miller are just some of the terrifying imagery found in this haunted house of a battle between faith and reason. There are terrific, if at times overexerted, performances abound, notably from the venerable George C. Scott, who takes over the role of Lieutenant Kinderman (played by Lee J. Cobb in the original film), and does a fine job exuding brooding frustration, cosmic awe, and even a bit of humor. And, no, you don’t need to see the incoherent Exorcist II: The Heretic (which is psychotronically terrible in the best possible way) to appreciate this third entry.

5. Dressed to Kill (Dir. Brian De Palma, 1980)

Masterful and resplendently stylish terror from Brian De Palma. Dressed to Kill is one of the best-shot films I've ever seen; rarely do you see such impeccable cinematography outside of a Hitchcock film. The fastidiously-planned scenes sustain the horror and suspense brilliantly. Along with De Palma's flawless direction, you'll find terrific performances from the cast, especially Angie Dickinson as the insatiable Kate Miller, Nancy Allen as a feisty and quirky prostitute, and Keith Gordon as Dickinson's resourceful son (Michael Caine is great, as always). As a seasoned horror fan, this type of film rarely shocks me outright. However, there are several moments in Dressed to Kill (such as the virtuousically-filmed art museum and subway sequences) that made my jaw drop. Indeed, surprises are integral to this film, and you'll likely find your mouth agape several times as you view it. Trust me: you'll be hard-pressed to find a thriller more gripping and tense than this. And, with its deliriously nail-biting conclusion, Dressed to Kill is De Palma's zenith as a horror auteur.

4. Carnival of Souls (Dir. Herk Harvey, 1962)

Skip M. Night Shyamalan’s self-indulgent, overstylized, and overrated The Sixth Sense and head straight to the source material with Carnival of Souls. The film is a hallucinatory romp through the afterlife that, much like the original Night of the Living Dead, owes a lot of its spooky factor to its low-budget, bald-faced camerawork. Buoyed tremendously by a vibrant but frigid organ score by Gene Moore and a distant, ethereal, and quirkily nuanced performance by lead Candace Hilligoss—you don’t see acting like this in films these days unless it’s bogged down by a postmodern, self-referential conceit. Easy viewing tip: Carnival of Souls is in the public domain, which means you can download it for free (and legally) all over the internet.

3. Deep Red (Dir. Dario Argento, 1975)

Easily Dario Argento’s greatest giallo in terms of depth, style, and sophistication, and undoubtedly one of the best entries in the entire subgenre. Meticulously constructed in every aspect, Deep Red is an essential study in cinematography, with flair by the boatload. While I find the killer's identity to be somewhat unsatisfying, this minor complaint is superseded by the film's many iconic images of horror, unforgettable murder sequences, and strong performances from leads David Hemmings and Daria Nicolodi. Forget about the shabby dubbing.

2. Black Christmas (Dir. Bob Clark, 1974)

Is it un-chic to watch a Christmas movie outside of the Christmas season? Not when it’s a dark, well-acted, and superbly crafted shocker like Black Christmas. Bolstered by taut and atmospheric direction from the late Bob Clark (better known for his other Yuletide classic, A Christmas Story) and terrific performances from lead Olivia Hussey (who was good enough for the titular female role in Franco Zeffirelli’s masterful 1968 take on Romeo and Juliet) and a supporting cast of feisty character actors—most notably 1970s favorite Margot Kidder as foul-mouthed, drunken sorority sister Barb. WARNING: Never confuse the original 1974 version with the aggressively awful 2006 remake.

1. Alice, Sweet Alice (Dir. Alfred Sole, 1976)

One of my favorite films of all time. Alice, Sweet Alice is a well-acted, first-rate mystery thriller with gobs of atmosphere, creepy shots, and a superb cast. Paula Sheppard turns in a particularly good performance as the unbalanced Alice who is implicated in the brutal murder of her sister (played by a young Brooke Shields). The stunning Linda Miller is also fantastic as Alice's desperate mother, pulling off the scenes where she is required to be frantic with tremendous aplomb. These two strong female leads are supported by some wonderfully eccentric character actors, including Alphonso DeNoble as the morbidly obese, opera-listening, and paedophilic Mr. Alfonso and Jane Lowry as Alice's batty and domineering aunt Annie. Filming took place in Paterson, New Jersey, whose working-class atmosphere serves the story well. The ratty old abandoned warehouses, the gritty brick walls, and the deceivingly benign appearance of the down-home Neo-Gothic church are perfect. The script is intelligent and pensive enough to actually keep you guessing as to who the killer is. And the proceedings are buoyed by several tense sequences and such nice stylistic touches as the killer's yellow-rain-slicker-and-translucent-mask get-up. The film has an underlying theme of lost innocence, which it addresses both poignantly and eerily throughout. There is also, of course, the theme of Catholic morality and justice, which rears its ugly head before all is said and done.

Honorable Mention: Just Before Dawn (Dir. Jeff Lieberman, 1981)

Yes, it’s a standard killer-in-the-woods slasherfest, hot on the heels of the success of Friday the 13th, but Just Before Dawn is easily one of the better imitations. Assured pacing, arresting visuals, and some chilling sound design (that periodic whistling in the distance!) make this a cut above the rest. Director Jeff Lieberman pushes his location—the gorgeous Oregon wilderness—to its fullest potential, giving a truly backwoods, isolated feel. Things are spiced up periodically by a gloomy, unimposing electronic score by Brad Fiedel, who would go on to do the soundtracks for the first two Terminator films. Also, as I can recall, this is one of the few slasher films wherein the killer uses a serrated blade. Ouchies!

Hey, y'all.

Well, Halloween's coming up. It's one of my favorite times of the year and -- wouldn't you know it? -- they don't celebrate it here in Burkina Faso (duh). So, I'm doing what I can to enjoy the Halloween season my own way. One of my favorite things about Halloween is that it gives me the opportunity to spout off about my ardent love for horror films without people looking at me like I'm deranged and sadistic. And, seeing as how school still hasn't started yet for me (I know, right?), I have a lot of time to spout off! So, with that being said, I'm using this post to kick off a month of blogging diversions here at Waggadoogoo, wherein I will pontificate and educate on the essentials of horror cinema. Today, I present to you my own personal list of ...

THE TOP 15 HORROR FILM SOUNDTRACKS OF ALL TIME!

15. Pino Donaggio, Dressed to Kill (1980)

Lush, romantic, and devastatingly gorgeous, Pino Donaggio’s main title theme from Dressed to Kill immediately sets the tone for an admirably complex and multilayered horror shocker that is arguably the best imitation of Alfred Hitchcock ever committed to celluloid (thanks to enterprising director Brian DePalma). Donaggio’s work here is an ornate showcase for full-bodied string instruments of all sorts, with some solid woodwinds thrown in for punctuation. The dreamy ensemble creates slinky, swooping motifs that underscore the elegant-but-grotesque New York City atmosphere portrayed on the screen, while hinting at the dark and prurient secret at the heart of the film’s story. Best tracks: “The Shower (Theme from ‘Dressed to Kill’)” and “The Forgotten Ring/The Murder.”

14. John Harrison, Day of the Dead (1985)

Definitely a product of the mid-‘80s, John Harrison’s score for the underrated third entry in George Romero’s Dead Trilogy is rife with urgent synth beats. The compositions are vaguely gloomy, with heart-pounding throbs and lamenting keyboards set in a minor key. At the same time, however, the music is full-bodied and sinewy, and some slow and vibrant synthesizer strings give us a glimmer of hope in the apocalyptic pastiche, as if a higher power is reassuring us that we’ll make it out alive if we’re fast and resourceful enough. There’s also a delicious, subtle Caribbean flavor to the overall texture of the music, perhaps employed to match some of the locations used in the film. Now I know what a digital steel drum sounds like.

13. Riz Ortolani, Don’t Torture a Duckling (1972)

Piercing string jabs set on reverb define this eerie and uncomfortable soundtrack composed by horror and cult vet Riz Ortolani for Lucio Fulci’s astounding giallo Don’t Torture a Duckling. Ortolani, who also made some jazzy Christmas music in his day, rounds out his compositions with some cool, quiet, and ominous saxophone moans, which at times sound perverse and resonate brilliantly with the crisis of divine morality that serves as the subtext of the film. Audacious, revolting, and inappropriately romantic and sentimental … if that’s wrong, then I don’t want to be right.

12. Richard H. Band, The House on Sorority Row (1983)

If you didn’t know any better, you’d be convinced that this was a Pino Donaggio score. With its robust string and woodwind compositions textured with deceptively playful music box jingles, Richard H. Band’s score for The House on Sorority Row is reminiscent of Donaggio’s work on Tourist Trap, another early-‘80s slasher gem. However, this shouldn’t shortchange Band’s work. He creates a wonderfully haunting, childlike theme that crops up in various manifestations throughout the energetic and efficient soundtrack.

11. Tim Krog, The Boogey Man (1980)

In his soundtrack for the schlocky supernatural-slasher effort The Boogey Man, Tim Krog proffers a murky, cacophonous electronic thunderstorm. It’s foreboding and solemn, but also strangely rhythmic enough that you might catch yourself tapping your foot to it. In the end, it sounds like Krog initially wanted to create an electropop album, which he then simmered in the extracts of his greatest nightmares, adding just a dash of delectable sleaze to fit the early-‘80s template. Fans of the soundtrack for Halloween III: Season of the Witch (which is featured further down) should definitely pick this one up. Best tracks: “The Boogey Man (Version 2)” and “Gloom.”

10. Lalo Schifrin, The Amityville Horror (1979)

So effective that it was used in the trailers for the shoddy 2005 remake, Lalo Schifrin’s Oscar-nominated score for The Amityville Horror is a mortifying look at demonic possession’s clash with the Christian faith and nuclear family values. Indeed, this is a discarded score that was originally intended for the The Exorcist, a film that, with the exception of “Tubular Bells” and a few other selections, ended up being score-less. As much as I love Schifrin’s score, it’s the chilling, stiff silences in The Exorcist that make that film so scary to me—I think a formal soundtrack would have felt obtrusive against the proceedings that are shown on film. The music works brilliantly in Amityville, though, spurring ample hyperactive demon-o-mania for a film about one of the most sensationalized news stories of the modern era. Best tracks: “Main Title” and “The Ax.”

9. Goblin, Suspiria (1977)

Welcome to Hell. It really is a shame that Italian horror auteur Dario Argento had a falling out with the equally Italian and equally brilliant Ennio Morricone after Morricone scored Argento’s The Bird with the Crystal Plumage. However, this presents a conundrum for me: if Argento and Morricone hadn’t parted ways, chances are the director never would have crossed paths with Goblin, a gifted, innovative, and possibly psychotic Eurogroup who created harrowing scores for much of Argento’s later work—the most famous of which being the one they recorded for Suspiria, a jewel in Argento’s repertoire. In short, Goblin’s Suspiria score is just as harrowing, disorienting, and frenetic as the film itself, feverishly weaving together bombastic synth organ blasts, feral guitar warbles, out-of-control percussion, and a chorus of demons—I swear they mined the pits of Hades to assemble these singers. Best tracks: “Suspiria” and “Sighs.”

8. Ennio Morricone, Exorcist II: The Heretic (1977)

Quintessential Morricone—yet, at the same time, not. Ennio Morricone’s score for the box office bombtacular Exorcist II: The Heretic has most of the aural elements one can find in a great deal of the composer’s work: the female singers/moaners, the melodic Spanish guitar, and even some cracking whips that sound like they were leftover from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly soundtrack. However, there’s something astonishingly different about this. It’s so much more ethereal than a lot of Morricone’s other scores—particularly the ones he composed for Westerns, which tended to be bold celebrations of machismo mixed with old-school romance. The Exorcist II score is unusually ghostly and organic, at times sounding like something that standard audio equipment would be incapable of recording. What ultimately makes it a fantastic musical work, though, is its distortion of implacable ethnic chants and motifs into convincing horror movie strains. It’s as if Morricone did his research at a haunted madrasa. Best tracks: “Seduction and Magic” and “Night Flight.”

7. John Carpenter, Halloween (1978)

Ah, yes. The obvious, but deservedly classic, entry. What can really be said about Halloween and director John Carpenter’s stunningly spare and sinister soundtrack that hasn’t been said a thousand times before? Not much, other than that both the film and the score are virtuosic feats of strength, both reverent of the past while breaking new ground, and still managing to enrapture and swoop audiences off their bearings thirty years later. I read some silly statistic a little while ago that noted Carpenter’s Halloween theme as the most-downloaded cell phone ringtone of all time, beating out the 50 Cents and the Rihannas of the world. If that’s not achieving cultural resonance, I don’t know what is.

6. Bernard Herrmann, Vertigo (1958)

A sophisticated and sumptuous meditation on desperate love, obsession, and deception, Bernard Hermann’s score for Alfred Hitchcock’s masterpiece, Vertigo, was decades before its time, providing a serious and uncompromising musical template that would be echoed in complex adult thrillers for decades to come, from The Silence of the Lambs to Basic Instinct. Despite this prescience, Hermann’s score also features some wonderfully exuberant romantic swells that are utterly germane to Old Hollywood, which compel you to observe that, “They don’t make ‘em like this anymore.”

5. John Carpenter and Alan Howarth, Halloween III: Season of the Witch (1982)

John Carpenter and Alan Howarth’s score for the undervalued and highly enjoyable B-movie cheddarfest that is Halloween III: Season of the Witch is an exemplary work of electronic wizardry—or should I say “witchery”? Truly a score that stands on its own without any visual accompaniment, this is a tech noir triumph that could easily have been independently released as a concept album, summoning its own feelings of anxiety in the decadent, future-obsessed, and globally industrializing 1980s. The remarkable and supple synth work on display here is at once magnificent and loathsome; the computerized blips sneer at you with their preprogrammed perfection, which is astutely in line with the megalomaniacal, dystopian vein of the film and, indeed, also with James Cameron’s disillusioned visions of technology, which he portrayed with chilling immediacy two years after the release of Halloween III in the original Terminator film. Best tracks: “Main Title,” “Chariots of Pumpkins,” and “Drive to Santa Mira.”

4. Jerry Goldsmith, Alien (1979)

Droning strings off in the distance, echoing the vast, empty expanse of space: brilliant. Soft dabs of coordinated flute bursts, mimicking the complex beeps and chatterings of omnipresent electronic interfaces: masterful. Slowly rumbling timpani accompanying the foreboding flyby of a state-of-the-art, yet brutishly utilitarian, starship: extraordinary. Cold, strange, and isolating, Jerry Goldsmith’s score for Alien is perfectly suited for the film, in which the audience encounters a futuristic vision that supplants the wonderment of the ray guns and lamé suits of Buck Rogers with a sober, workaday look at a cargo liner’s space crew and its dreadful discovery of something so horrifyingly … alien. Goldsmith’s music isn’t ceremonious or operatic. It asserts grandeur, to be sure, but is ultimately tempered by pessimistic, reticent anxieties, reinforcing the futility of the crew’s efforts to eliminate the evil, slimy presence. A gothic masterpiece.

3. Bernard Herrmann, Psycho (1960)

Assaulting and harrowing with frenzied in-your-face precipitation. Bernard Hermann’s authoritative superscore for Alfred Hitchcock’s endlessly revered slasher-shocker is at the top of the heap of my many favorite film soundtracks. Psycho was as much of a departure for Hermann as it was for Hitchcock: gone are the amorous, hazy swells of the Vertigo soundtrack (number 6 on this list), replaced here by aggressive and unbelievably percussive strings and a jolting dissonance that you can cut with a knife—no pun intended.

2. John Williams, Jaws 2 (1978)

If John Williams created the most memorable and influential soundtrack theme in modern cinematic history for the original Jaws, he further refined his all-too-familiar shark-stalking motif for the 1978 sequel, immersing it in a symphonic palette of pleasant new melodies whose adventure-filled sum is even greater than its exquisitely varied parts. Along with providing pitch-perfect accompaniment that adapts to the film’s oscillations between brooding melodrama and slasher film histrionics, Williams’ score brings unquestionable elegance to the otherwise drive-in-worthy Jaws 2. Also, given its triumphant crescendos and conventional string and brass ensemble (including some mellifluous harps), this is one of the first works in Williams’ oeuvre where the composer went “mainstream,” setting the stage for the grandiose, hummable, and audience-friendly scores he created for Star Wars, Indiana Jones, et cetera. Williams’ all-American latter days, which saw their beginnings in Jaws 2, are worlds away from the eclectic and downright odd music he created for Robert Altman’s Images. Best tracks: “Finding the ‘Orca’ (Main Title),” “The Menu,” and “Ballet for Divers.”

1. Harry Manfredini, Friday the 13th (1980)

Okay, I’ll be honest: Harry Manfredini’s work on the Friday the 13th films isn’t the most original material in music history. He pays distinct homage to Bernard Herrmann, and maybe Krzysztof Penderecki, in his compositions, and I swear he even rips off the Jaws theme at one point in Friday the 13th Part 2. I hardly care about any allegations of pilfering, though, because Manfredini’s music throughout the early half of the Friday the 13th series is just so damn appropriate and effective. Raw, rough, and vicious strings coalesce into a homegrown work of horrific genius that firmly implants you among the imposing trees and darkened cabins of that deadly campground. Just like the films, Manfredini’s music is visceral, not cerebral; its primary duty is to provoke a cheap reaction rather than stimulate the intellect—sorry, Penderecki aesthetes—and it does so with remarkable succinctness. Ki ki ki, ma ma ma …

Oh, and an honorable mention for Jay Chattaway’s oppressive synth score for Maniac.

Here is a couple of scintillating new videos I just made. The first is of my neighbor showing off her new baby, and the second is a tour of the outside of my house!

Thanks for all the comments on my last post, everyone. I'm still here in Burkina, trying to work through all the madness. Things are getting better, but there are still mounting frustrations and tensions that I'm dealing with. I feel horribly unproductive -- I haven't even been to my school since I got to site because the administrators have been too busy to meet with me (understandable, since my school has over 2,000 students, which is positively gigantic by Burkinabé standards). So I have no idea what grade levels I'll be teaching, the days I'll be teaching, or the current state of my computer lab, even though school is scheduled to start in about a week. I'm finally meeting with the censeur and proviseur of the school on Monday, though, so hopefully things will be on track after that. But, in the meantime, it seems like a lot of my fellow new Volunteers are already pretty well set up at their sites, home-wise and job-wise, and I'm feeling so inadequate! Maybe I can get on Oprah for this.

I just want to post a little addendum to my previous post: I think I need to make it clear to my readers that I have not resolved to completely shut myself off from Burkinabé society. Indeed, that's impossible, because you're culturally integrating here in every single thing that you do, whether that be taking a taxi, haggling over garlic at the marché, or squatting over your latrine. You're meeting and interacting with people here constantly. These interactions are, by and large, wonderful and fulfilling. However, there come times for EVERY Peace Corps Volunteer when they need a release from all the integration and keep to themselves for awhile and let the stress level mellow out. That's what I've been doing for the past week or so since I posted my last entry. The cultural exchanges are still going on constantly, but I'm making sure to take extra opportunities to be by myself (or with other PCVs), watch some quality American films like Chopping Mall, and eat au gratin potatoes (thanks, Mom and Dad).

So thanks again for your concern, everyone. I'm in Ouagadougou right now, where I'm fulfilling my duties as one of Peace Corps' AIDS Task Force representatives. Later today, we'll be meeting with members of a fantastic British organization called Coaching for Hope to discuss potential collaborative projects.

Oh, and my beard's still around:

That's all the news I have for now. Catch you on the flipside!

If there’s one aphorism that sums up the Peace Corps experience more than anything else, it’s that it’s full of ups and downs. Sadly, I could classify these first few weeks of living on my own in Bobo as a great big Down with a capital D. I’m in a real funk lately, and, frankly, it’s making me question my stamina as a Volunteer—can I really eke out an existence here for two whole years?

There isn’t anything in particular that’s getting me down—the despondency has most likely been caused by a summation of minor problems that is further exacerbated by my own fragile emotional and physical state. Truth be told, I think you have to be a little bit mentally skewed in the first place in order to leave a life of comparative luxury and shuttle yourself off to a strange and impoverished land where you work for free. Be that as it may, things are really starting to get to me.

I think I can best get my feelings across by describing what daily life is like for me. For those of you who don’t remember, I am working as a high school computer science teacher here. However, school doesn’t start until the beginning of October, so it’s been entirely my duty to fill my time however I can during these past few weeks. Given that, I typically have one of two days: my easy-but-dreadfully-boring-stay-at-home days and my productive-but-hectic-and-exhausting market days. The first type of day is relatively self-explanatory: I sit at home and try not to bore myself to death. I wake up at around 7am and attempt to fill my time by reading, playing video games (I once played and beat all four episodes of Duke Nukem 3D in a single day), and trying not to cook food that’s too disgusting. I do a lot of sitting around. By 7pm, I usually feel a slight bout of cabin fever coming on, in which case I lay down and go to bed, falling asleep at around 8 or 8:30.

My second type of day is a little bit more elaborate, given the cultural and environmental trappings that come with it. For one thing, I have a really long bike ride to get to la centre ville (essentially, downtown Bobo, where all of the city's amenities are located). It’s nearly 10km one way, so, basically, if I need to go shopping, I have to prepare myself for 20km of biking there and back. It’s hard enough just biking out of my neighborhood to get to the main road, considering the fact that it’s all dirt roads with enough potholes to make the surface of the moon seem glossy out here. On top of practically sweating and panting to death while biking, hundreds of little kids are all around me, following me and screaming, “Tubabu!” at me. When I got all this attention from kids upon my initial arrival in Burkina three months ago, I found it cute and endearing. Now, though, it’s enough to put me into a blinding, savage fury. All it takes is a single “Tubabu!” to put me on edge these days. My typical response to getting tubabued is a gritting of my teeth, followed by a dirty look. Sometimes, if I’m really put off, I’ll yell back, “Yes, I know I’m foreign and I’m white! THANK YOU, CAPTAIN OBVIOUS!” in English. I’m aware they have no idea what I’m saying, and I don’t care. Hopefully, I’ll soon get to a point where this kind of stuff doesn’t even bother me anymore. For now, though, it’s driving me up a wall.

10km later, I’m at the marché, where hundreds of more eyes watch me. If I haven’t made this clear by now, I’ll say it one more time: being white makes you a tad bit conspicuous here. When I lived in NYC, I had this paranoid fear of being watched all the time on the subway, at Whole Foods, in Rockefeller Center, whatever. This fear stemmed specifically from the high level of activity and sizeable population of the place. Nobody was ever really watching me, though. Like I said, it was paranoia. Here, however, people ARE watching me. EVERYBODY is watching me. In fact, I find it strange and a little off-putting if somebody DOESN'T get all wide-eyed and look at me as if I have eleven-and-a-half heads when they see me. Needless to say, all this attention takes loads of getting used to. And I'm still not used to it. In fact, most of the time I simply can't stand it. And I just get swarmed at the marché. To my left, I'm being accosted by some lady who wants me to buy her overpriced fabric, and meanwhile some idiot to my right is screaming, "SHUUUKE NOOORRRISSSS!" ("Chuck Norris" in a Burkinabé accent) at me. I can only take so much!

I hate doubting myself—especially when it comes to something with as great a magnitude as Peace Corps service. But that’s what’s happening now. Thankfully, I only have two more weeks before school starts, and I think things will get considerably more bearable once I start doing my job. Until then, however, I hope I don't get judged for just being a hermit for a little while. I can only handle this much attention in very small doses.

At the same time, I’m beating myself up for what a whiny, ungrateful idiot I’m being. I’ve been given a wonderful opportunity to help others, help myself, and expand my horizons. The Burkinabé are terrific, friendly people who couldn’t be more welcoming or accommodating despite having nothing. So, what grounds do I really have to complain? Right now, I should really just be focusing on my commitment to my service. And that's what I'm striving to do with every fibre of my being.

Well, then! I'm sure that was a gloriously fun entry for you to read. Aren't I just a bundle of cheer? Incidentally, please try to send me some mail so I can get out of the doldrums of settling in. I would love some letters and postcards from home! They are really cheap to send, and cost way less than a package (duh)!

Until (hopefully) next time, XOXO

Yes, another old vlog that really isn't relevant anymore, but I'm a completist so here you go:

Also, believe it or not, I'm still sick. No more fever, thankfully, but I still have a phlegmy cough that's powerful enough to emit a veritable sonic boom. Illness just lingers here. Blah.

Well, crap. I created a lovely little video blog for you all, and then I up and forgot to bring my USB key with me this morning. Call me Ditzy Darlene.

Anyhoo, I arrived safely in Bobo a few days ago and have spent this past week moving into my house, buying vegetables, and being stared at as if I'm a Martian by the people in my neighborhood. I'm really sick right now (I have a fever that peaked at 103.2 last night), so I haven't really felt like doing much recently. So, this is just a short entry to let you all know that I have a NEW mailing address, which is as follows:

Michael Falletti, PCV

S/c Corps de la Paix Américain

B.P. 1065

Bobo-Dioulasso, Burkina Faso

West Africa

Please use this address instead of my old address from now on. And, if you recently sent stuff to my old address, don't worry: I can still receive mail there. I just won't be able to pick it up for a few weeks.

That's it for now. My fever's making me take to my fainting couch. Toodles!

Aaron and Amy think they're all that with their exposé of Miss Joanna on their blog, but they don't have a video of Joanna testifying to the fabulousness of my blog! And, yes, this is what down time during PST is like.

This video also features Whitney, David, and the aforementioned Amy. Please note: I have no idea if this video uploaded properly, as the computer I am on doesn't have Flash installed (hey, it's Africa). If it didn't upload, I will fix it later.

After countless tech sessions and language classes, as well as many agonizing moments of gastrointestinal misery, Stage (aka PST) is nearly over. Next week, I will officially swear in as a Peace Corps Volunteer and actually start working rather than training.

That's good news for me, but great news for you! Do you know why? Because once I've sworn in and situated myself at my site, I can start receiving visitors! It gets pretty lonely out here at times, so a visit from one or more of you lovely people would send me through the roof.

Think about it:

When else in your life will you have an opportunity to visit this forgotten corner of the earth?When else in your life will you have an opportunity to visit Africa period?If you come, you will have free lodging (my spacious house) and a free tour guide/translator (me).If you come, you will not be roughing it by any stretch. As you may know, I live in Bobo-Dioulasso, which is a very large city with lots of amenities (i.e., a supermarket with Western food, a swimming pool, and pizza). Sure, you might have to ride a bike and evacuate your bowels over a hole in the ground, but, hey, this is Africa.I am lonely. Visit me.You will get an amazing tan or, at the very least, an amazing farmer's tan.You will be able to learn some/brush up on your French.I will personally pick you up from the airport in Ouagadougou and accompany you to my home in Bobo.You will eat some of the freshest fruits and vegetables you've ever seen.You'll get to have an exciting experience haggling over prices at the marché with me.I AM LONELY. ERGO, VISIT ME.So why don't you mull all that over for a little bit? I'd have a Whitney-Houston-style freak-out if any of you decided to make the trip over here. Think of how delightful it would be!At any rate, holler at me at my email address if you want to discuss the details of a possible visit: hypostylin [at] gmail [dot] comWord!

I have no reason to post right now other than to tell you all that a total of FIVE Burkinabé have told me I resemble one Chuck Norris, better known as Walker, Texas Ranger and the designer of the renowned Action Jeans that bear his namesake.

I even have one guy convinced that I am Mr. Norris' little brother -- the fact that he hounds me for his address in Hollywood every time I see him is just a small price to pay.

Now, I'm the last person who would jump onto a "popular" internet meme like Ye Olde Chuck Norris Jokes -- especially after Mr. Norris endorsed former Republican presidential candidate and world-class boob Mike Huckabee. However, I now feel compelled to keep a running tally of how many times I've been "Norrised" here in Burkina. So, if you take a look at the sidebar to your left, you will see such a tally.

Personally, I think it's my beard that does it.

There are a few things about Burkina Faso that, after a few weeks of acclimation, you get used to. You get used to the diarrhea-inducing, oil-doused food; you get used to herds of goats invading your front lawn; you get used to old women walking around with their breasts hanging out for all the world to see.

As a Peace Corps Volunteer/American/white person, however, one thing that is nigh impossible to get used to is the amount of attention you get. I’m talking about “attention” in the simplest, most basic sense of the word. In case you haven’t read the little blurb about Burkina on the sidebar to your left, this is one of the poorest countries on the face of the earth. As such, there isn’t much of a tourism infrastructure here, so the only non-African visitors you see are the few who work for foreign aid/service organizations (such as yours truly). Occasionally, you might catch a glimpse of some chain-smoking, parachute-pants-wearing* French vacationers who have briefly stopped in Burkina on their way down to Ghana. Otherwise, you are the only freckled white dude you know.

In short, the paucity of other Westerners here makes you instantly exotic to the Burkinabé. Everywhere you go, you turn more heads than you can count. Everyone screams your name, wants to talk to you, tries to shake your hand, tries to latch onto your clothing, etc. It must be somewhat akin to what it’s like to be Diana Ross.

I, along with a few of my fellow Peace Corps kids, have developed a term called “The Nassara Gaze.” Nassara is the Mooré word for “stranger” or “foreigner,” and is the word every Westerner will hear more than anything else in northern Burkina (in Bobo, you hear “tubabu,” which is the Jula word for “stranger/foreigner”). When I’m out and about on my bike, all I hear is “Nassara!” exclaimed a thousand times in every direction, as if the locals are collectively putting out an APB on me. The "Nassara!" is usually accompanied by a facial expression that consists of a wide-open, droopy mouth and bulging eyes, as if the person bearing the expression has just seen an apparition of the Virgin Mary in a Pizza Hut ad or something -- hence The Nassara Gaze.

All this attention can lead to some safety and security issues if you’re not careful, but, for the most part, this is just a solid representation of the hospitable culture here. People just want to welcome you and greet you. I'll be honest, though: it's obnoxious to have hordes of people all up in your grill when you're trying to fix a flat tire on your bike in the 100° heat -- when this happens, my intenal monologue is just like, "WHAT THE %$/?# IS SO &(%$ING FASCINATING ABOUT ME THAT POSSESSES YOU CREEPS TO STAND LITERALLY -- AND NO NOT LITERALLY IN AN EXAGGERATING WAY -- 2 INCHES AWAY FROM MY FACE?! #%$&!!!!!!!" However, I ultimately understand that this is merely an extension of the innate Burkinabé curiosity and take it as an invitation to step out of my shell.

Plus, it's just kind of fun to pretend to be Diana Ross in my head.

*Seriously, what is the deal with French people and parachute pants, and who told them it was okay to wear them constantly?

Lovers,

How goes it? My good buddy Billie, bless her heart, sent me an email a few weeks ago (!) to inquire about the specifics of the Peace Corps process. It would appear that her BF (boyfriend, not Burkina Faso), bless his heart, has half a mind to join the Corps of Peace, and would like a rundown of the ins and outs of this simultaneously fulfilling and absurd journey. Well, Billie, you're in luck, because I'm about to lay down a recap of everything I've gone through so far -- just for you!!!

Okay so, obviously, the first thing is the application. It's a lot like a college/grad school application (in fact, Peace Corps uses the same electronic system that many universities use for their online applications -- I think it's called Apply Yourself! or something blithely motivational like that). For your application, you have to send in transcripts, recommendations, and some essays. One of the essays is a motivation statement that is much like a motivation statement you'd write for a college app, and the other is a cross-cultural essay that serves an account of your experiences living/working within environments that are outside your typical culturally-defined barriers.

Once your application is submitted, and if Peace Corps likes what they see, they set you up with an interview with a PC representative. This is usually an in-person interview, but it can be done over the phone if you live too far away from a regional office (I applied when I was living in NYC, so I obviously had a face-to-face interview). In the interview -- which lasts at least an hour -- you go over a lot of stuff, ranging from leadership experiences you've had to probing some of your major frustrations (my biggest frustration? Peanut butter and jelly in the same jar.)

If all systems are go after your interview, you get nominated for a position. Basically, getting nominated means they tell you what region you will be going to (NOT the country), the sector you will be working in, and the time period you'll be departing. So, after my interview for example, I was nominated for French-speaking Sub-Saharan Africa in the Education sector, departing Summer 2008. You won't find out exactly where you're going and what you're doing for months, and here's why: after being nominated, you receive a mountain of paperwork (i.e. tons of stuff to do) that must be completed before you enter the next stage in your application process. The tasks include a). getting FBI clearance; b). getting medical clearance; c). getting dental clearance; and d). a few other things that I can't remember right now.

Once all the stuff from your nomination packet checks out (and it takes awhile just for Peace Corps to process everything, much less the time it takes you to fill it out), you become "invited" to serve. The invitation packet is the light at the end of the tunnel because it includes, among another mountain of paperwork, information on the host country you'll be serving in, the work you'll be doing, and your dates of departure! You can expect to receive this packet anywhere between 4 and 12 weeks of your departure. I received my invitation packet in mid-April and left for Burkina in the second week of June. Oh, and for those of you keeping score, I submitted my initial application in mid-December and was nominated by the end of January.

For 3-4 days prior to your departure, you go to a "staging site" somewhere in the States. As you might recall, my staging was in Philly. During staging, you go through basic policies and procedures, cross-cultural scenarios, and safety stuff, and Peace Corps puts you up in a swank hotel and gives you a $200 debit card. Scha-wing!

You fly to your host country from the staging site with your fellow trainees. Together, you are 30-40 loud, gawky Americans, hopped up on free wine and bonding over terrible in-flight movies (seriously, Matthew McConaughey and Kate Hudson? Are you kidding me with this?) You pass out together during your layover in some European city.

The next 72 hours are some of the most hectic hours you will ever experience in your entire life. You arrive at some raggedy airport (Ouagadougou International is smaller than the Macy's wing at your average American shopping mall), and are coralled into Peace Corps vehicles and whisked away to the training experience. The first week is absolutely insane. It's crammed with policy and procedure stuff (again), an introduction to the culture of your country from host country nationals, your first language classes (trying to speak a local African language while jetlagged is GREAT), and thousands of immunizations.

After the first few initial days of staging, you get sent to the training site, where you'll remain for 3 months for PST (Pre-Service Training). Once you get to the training site, you're paired up with a host family, whom you live with for the entire duration of PST. During this time, your group is divided up based on the sectors people are working in. Since my Stage was comprised of Secondary Education (SE) and Girls Education and Empowerment (GEE) Volunteers, we were split up into those two groups. The SE Volunteers stayed with families in Ouahigouya, a major city, while the GEE Volunteers were sent to live and train in tiny villages to the north. Occasionally, the SEs and GEEs will have certain training sessions together, but for the most part the two groups only see each other about once a week. I miss my GEE kids!

The host family experience, while intimidating at first, is actually pretty amazing. You end up forming a real family-like bond with these people, and it's exhilarating how integrated you feel in the culture once you're immersed in your community. On many fronts, this is the best, most productive aspect of training.

PST is long, long, looooongggg. I mean, I'm still in the middle of it and look at all I've done so far! I don't quite know how to express how long and epic PST is. Check it: it's basically the length of a college trimester, and by the end of that time period you're expected to a). reach a level of French that is sufficient enough for you to teach hundreds of school children; b). reach a level of a local language that is sufficient enough for you to communicate with the people here who don't speak French -- for me, that language is Jula; c). become familiar enough with the ins and outs of Burkinabé culture and society to be able to function when you're living all by yourself at your site; d). acquire a steady, working knowledge of the entire Burkinabé secondary education system; e). know the fundamentals of HIV/AIDS risks and treatments and formulate a plan for implementing HIV/AIDS education into your daily lesson plans; f). know how to write lesson plans to begin with; g). not die; h). know how to field dress lacerations and other wounds incurred in a bush taxi accident or another calamity of a similar degree of severity; and i). know how to burp the Burkinabé National Anthem.

PST is punctuated by several major events, including site visit (read my previous entry to find out more about that), model school, and the swear-in ceremony. Right now, we're in the middle of model school, which is basically a bunch of summer school courses that we're teaching to middle- and high-school-aged kids. Right now, I'm in charge of an IT class of about 40 kids at the sixième level (basically the equivalent of fifth grade). Model school is just about as hands-on as PST can get. No theoretical sessions -- this is undiluted, white-knuckle lesson-planning, test-grading, classroom-managing madness, and I couldn't be happier about it.

When all of this is over with, and provided we all meet the Peace Corps' standards, we'll officially swear in as real live Volunteers. This includes a meeting with the Ambassador and a glitzy soirée (what better way to kick off a two-year tour of duty intended to help those in need, right?)

Immediately after swear-in, almost in a flash, you're dropped off at your site, and your last taste of an official Peace Corps presence in your life is the white PC Range Rover that just dropped you off speeding off into the distance, eventually disappearing into a solemn miasma of dust. In other words: shit just got real.

So, Billie, I'd say that's the gist of the standard first six months of Peace Corps-hood, from application process through PST. There is a couple of other things you should know, however:

1). You can back out of this at any time. It's called ET (Early Termination). You just tell PC that you'd like to leave, and you're on a plane back to the States within 72 hours. There's no stigma attached to it. You can't really know what this whole shmagila is like until you're in the thick of it, and it certainly isn't for everyone. We've already had three people (two from GEE, one from SE) go home. And anyone who tells you that the thought of ET-ing has never crossed their mind at least once is most likely not telling the truth. Let me tell you: when I was really sick in Bobo last weekend, the last thing I wanted to do was spend another hour, much less another day, in Burkina Faso. Thank heavens for antibiotics.

2). ET-ing woes aside, I wouldn't trade this experience for a million pounds of Oreos. And I frigging love Oreos. Think about it: the United States government puts you on a plane headed to some forgotten corner of the earth, gives you top-notch training, a place to live, enough dough to live comfortably, the opportunity to make loads of new friends, unlimited travel possibilities, and tons of benefits when you get back! How do you feel about that, Little Richard?!

My thoughts exactly.

So, thanks to those of you who had the patience to read through this laborious entry, and hopefully it adequately proffered the insights you were looking for. Now don't be a stranger -- leave me some comments or else I'll go on a blogging strike. XOXO!

Hey, my little Swedish fish!

It’s been awhile since I’ve updated, and by gum (don’t ask) do I have a lot of hot poop to spill—literally and figuratively. I’ll start with the good stuff and come to a flourishing conclusion with the bad stuff, because I’m a pessimist like that.

Last week was probably the most activity-filled week of Stage (training) yet. It started with the “Counterpart Workshop,” which mainly consisted of us (the Stagiaires) meeting and getting to know our Counterparts/Homologues—the people charged with the daunting task of helping us integrate in our jobs and communities for the duration of our 2+ years of service. My Counterpart is a very nice man named Salifou, who is the censeur (the equivalent of a vice principal) and a math teacher at my lycée. Salifou has this quirky little habit of presenting me as “Michael—LIKE MICHAEL JACKSON!!” to everyone he introduces me to.

Once the Countershop Workshop concluded, Salifou and I made the 7-hour trip to Bobo-Dioulasso (aka my site aka my new home in Sub-Saharan Africa aka wow!) Ask me how much I love Bobo. How much do I love Bobo, you ask? THIS MUCH. Man oh man, is Bobo great, for so many reasons:

1). It’s a quintillion times cooler than Ouahigouya, temperature-wise!

2). It has an art museum!

3). It has a brewery (Burkina’s national brewery, in fact)!

4). It has a really rad marché (outdoor market), where you can buy everything from mattresses to fried caterpillars!

5). Peace Corps has a regional office in Bobo, which is filled with all sorts of CDs, DVDs, and trashy (and not-so-trashy, for the intellectual types) novels that Volunteers are free to borrow!

And there’s so much more to love! For instance, it rains a lot in Bobo, so it’s quite a bit greener than Ouahigouya, which is ensconced in red dirt. There’s a lot of diversity in that greenness, too: you have everything from mango trees to baobabs to lots and lots of palm trees, which I am really excited about because they remind me of my undergrad days in good ole’ Savannah, GA.

Bobo has approximately 500,000 inhabitants, which is on par with the population of Boston. That’s pretty bombastic for Burkina Faso, because this country is sparsely populated. Being in such a large urban area, my challenges will include everything from traffic conditions to crime to carving a niche for myself in such a large population. Thankfully, I lived in NYC for over two years before I left for Burkina. And if I can make it there, then—well, you know how the song goes…

So, it sounds like I had a beyond splendid time last week, right? Well, kind of. It would have been better had I not fallen insanely ill during my first night in Bobo. Just a disclaimer: if you don’t like to read about bodily functions, grow the eff up and bear with me here. Anyhoo, shortly after checking in at my hotel, I suddenly came down with a skyrocketing fever, which I decided to nurse myself with ibuprofen—until I started having diarrhea, that is. You see, a fever plus diarrhea is a red flag for something that could potentially be quite serious, so we’re instructed to call the PCMO (Peace Corps Medical Officer) if and when this happens.

To make a long story short, my health problems turned into a malaria scare (we’re all required to take anti-malaria drugs, but they don’t have a 100% rate of success, of course), which was a little mortifying. It was particularly mortifying because I started to have frequent and unstoppable urges to urinate, and just a few weeks ago we were lectured about a Volunteer here in Burkina who got malaria and had to be put on dialysis because he lost control of his kidneys and bladder. I ended up going on Cipro (an antibiotic), which I am still taking now. The fever and crazy urinating have gone, but the diarrhea remains, albeit not in intervals of every one or two hours like it used to be. My guess is that it was just some random bacterial infection rather than malaria, but I won’t make any final judgments until I’m in the clear.

No worries, though! I’m feeling good now, and diarrhea is simply a fact of life here—a rite of passage for Peace Corps Volunteers, if you will—so it’s really not a big deal anymore. Plus, you wanna know why THIS week rules? Because I know some of the loveliest people on the face of the earth, that’s why! And by “loveliest people on the face of the earth,” I mean people who’ve sent me PACKAGES! I’ve received three packages already this week, and it’s only Wednesday! So, Nikki, thank you for the issue of The New Yorker you sent me along with the stickers (I will give them to Papi and he will love them) and your sweet letter—congrats on your new job!!! Thank you to Michael for the school supplies, honey roasted cashews (!) and hot sauce from DelTaco, which I used last night to spice up my rice! And, finally, thank you to Dave, who sent me Volume 3 of the 42nd Street Forever series on DVD (!) along with issues of The New Yorker, The Economist, and the Canadian horror magazine Rue Morgue (one of the Rue Morgue issues had a little article on The Car, one of my favorite films to careen out of the psychotronic ‘70s—it’s a hybrid of Duel, Jaws, and The Exorcist that features a saccharine-y James Brolin as the hero). Incidentally, you should all check out Dave’s blog and Flickr page post haste.

Okay, one last huge thank you to the people mentioned above. You are all my idols, and I will petition to have bridges and civic centers named after you in your honor. And if anyone else would like to follow the stellar examples set by these three gods among men, please write to me at the address located on the sidebar to the left. I love receiving mail! It’s manna from heaven.

All right, this entry has taken forever to type, and it’s really hot, so I’m going to skeedaddle. I’ll leave you with this video I took during a massive rainstorm that hit Bobo at around 3am last Saturday morning. You can’t see anything, but you can get an idea of just how loud it was:

I've been here for over a month now, which is a little hard to believe. Time just seems kind of suspended here. Whether it's for cultural reasons or otherwise, I don't know. God, I am really articulate right now.

Anyway, I'm happy because I received a lovely little greeting card from my friend Bates in the mail the other day! Thank you, Bates! You have put a spring in my step and a tingly feeling in my little black heart! For others who have already sent me letters and/or packages, I haven't received them yet. When I do receive them, I will give you a shout out, name a holiday after you complete with a ticker-tape parade to celebrate it, and perhaps erect a cute little statue in your honor. In the meantime, though, THANK YOU in advance. You are just the swingingest bunch of folks this side of the Red Volta. It's a river in Burkina. Nevermind.

Oh, and if you're wondering why I haven't received your package yet, I think I have an answer for you: as you may or may not be able to tell by my mailing address in Burkina, all the mail you send me gets shipped to Peace Corps Headquarters in Ouagadougou. Since I am in Ouahigouya (two hours north of Ouagadougou) for training at the moment, I receive my mail by official Peace Corps vehicles, which only pass through here a couple of times a week at the most. So, your stuff may have already arrived here in Burkina, but it could just be chilling at Le Bureau in Ouaga. I will get it in due time, so don't fret, my pets!

And while we're on the subject of packages, I am going through severe film withdrawal! The following is a list of films that I own and carelessly forgot to bring with me to Burkina but would very much like to watch please and thank you. If any of you would like to send me one or some of these films (either via DVD or, hmm, otherwise), I will send you a commemorative coin (not really, but you will certainly move up in the ranks on my favorite people list): George Romero's Dead seriesPink Flamingoes and Female Trouble (thankfully, I remembered to bring Polyester)Pieces (how I forgot this is beyond me and, quite frankly, a travesty)Jaws 2Halloween (the original)The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (the original)Last House on the LeftDario Argento stuff. I brought Deep Red but forgot Suspiria and The Bird With the Crystal Plumage.A Nightmare on Elm StreetHerschell Gordon Lewis' greatest hits: Blood Feast, The Gore Gore Girls, The Wizard of Gore, etc.CoffyBlade RunnerHell Night (and anything else Linda Blair did in the '80s, i.e. Savage Streets)What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?Friday the 13th Parts VI and VIIThe BurningRoman HolidayInfra-ManAnd, finally, TV shows: Curb Your Enthusiasm, Seinfeld, Match Game, and Reno 911So yeah, if some of you can make this happen, I will be trés stoked.Thanks, kids. I've got a packed week ahead of me, what with my visit to Bobo and all, so you might not hear from me for a bit. Toodles!

Bobo-Dioulasso! My prediction was correct, and as of September 1, I am a Bobolais! I am stupendously excited about this turn of events. I requested in my site interview to be placed in a large city, and lo and behold, I have the biggest site out of all the Stagiaires! Furthermore, Bobo is an awesome city with tons of amenities. Okay, I know I'm gloating a little bit, but every Stagiaire has an open invitation to crash at my future pad if they want a taste of cosmopolitan Burkina.

Here's the little blurb I was given by the Peace Corps about Bobo for more information -- my notes are in brackets:

Welcome to Bobo, the 2nd Capital of Burkina! [Ouagadougou is the governmental capital, while Bobo is the economic capital] You are lucky to be in the southern part of the country where it rains abundantly and is very lush and green. Bobo is a Jula region [Jula is one of the many local languages here] that has plenty of great food, fruits and vegetables, electricity, running water [!!!], post offices, many internet cafes, banks, NGOs, etc. The 2nd Peace Corps regional office is found in Bobo and you'll be teaching IT at the Lycée [français for "high school"] Municipal de Bobo. There's a room full of 15 computers.

All right! So there we go. I am pumped for this. Next week, I'll be visiting Bobo to check out my school and living quarters. Excited isn't even the word!

I am just saying. If you want to whip out your digital camera in Africa, prepare for some pandemonium. Especially if there are kids around. And, being that this is Africa, there are always kids around. Everywhere you look. At all hours of the day and night. Kids outnumber the adults at a ballpark ratio of seventeen trillion to one. It's like Village of the Damned, except instead of mobs of diabolical glowy-eyed children, you have mobs of highly excitable -- but highly sweet -- ones.

Also, the Stagiaires had a Fourth of July party:

I must admit, after almost a month of living in Burkina, it is a little strange to see people of the non-African persuasion (who aren't with the Peace Corps) wandering around Ouahigouya. Now I understand why all the kids here squeal when they see me pedaling clumsily by on my bike. Gringos really stick out here. An older European couple just wandered into the internet café, and I'm a little fascinated by them, for no particular reason other than the fact that they just look different. I'm taking this as a sign that I've become ever so slightly more immersed in the Burkinabé culture.

Another sign that I'm acclimating more to Burkina: I finally have an appetite again (diarrhea had me down for the count for a good week), and it's a voracious one. And -- well, aside from pizza -- I'm craving Burkinabé food! Sometimes I'll catch myself daydreaming about galettes and sauce arachide. Madness!

Oh, and today was just so hot. How hot was it?!?! (Throwback to Match Game) It was so hot, even my Burkinabé language instructor is complaining about the heat. Yeah, stick that up your Charles Nelson Reilly pipe and smoke it. Okay, I know, enough with the Match Game references.

PS: new photography on my Flickr page. Check it.

PPS: thanks for all the comments! I'll respond soon!

Hey kids,

Two updates in two days. I update way more than the other people in my Stage (training group). I don't know if that's a good thing or just kind of pathetic.

No matter, though! This is my blog, and to the naysayers I say (in a tone of voice an out-of-control teen on Jenny Jones would use), "I DO WHAT I WANT!"

Inside joke interlude: I don't know if my girl Seema-Lou is reading this, but if she is, she will likely recall our favorite episode of Jenny Jones, wherein some very distraught mothers confronted their teenage daughters for being too messy/slouchy. In the weeks that ensued after viewing this very special episode, Seema and I could not contain our ardent love for this brilliant existential proclamation uttered by one of the gnarly teens: "YOU JUST JEALOUS 'COS WE COMFORTABLE!"

If anyone out there has this episode on tape, I will pay top dollar for it.

End of inside joke interlude.

In other news, we had our site interviews with our APCDs (Associate Peace Corps Directors) today. In these one-on-one meetings, we get to make a few requests regarding the sites we're sent to live and work in upon swearing in as real live Peace Corps Volunteers in August. If my requests are fulfilled, I should be living in a house by myself with electricity (!) in a big city. Right now, I'm predicting that I'll be placed in Bobo-Dioulasso, Burkina's second-largest city (behind Ouagadougou). I'll be way psyched if I'm placed in Bobo, which is a bustling metropolis compared to the rest of Burkina. To give you some perspective, there are some people in my group that are going to be sent to incredibly tiny villages where only local languages are spoken, electricity doesn't exist, and the only amenity is a solitary water pump that may or may not work. Sorry, but I'm just too dainty to deal with all that drama.

Also, my friend Matt sent me a Facebook message asking for a little insight on the Peace Corps application/host country placement process. I thought it might be useful to share my response to him with you all, so here it is in its entirety:

the application process involves many steps (all of which are spelled out at peacecorps.gov), and it can take anywhere between 9 and 12 months to get through everything. quite honestly, you don't have a huge amount of input on what country you're sent to. peace corps pairs you with a host country based on your educational background and practical skills. they also take your language skills into consideration. for example, i have a lot of experience with french, so they sent me to a french-speaking african country.

in your initial peace corps interview, you DO have the opportunity to specify which region you'd like to be sent to (e.g. central asia, sub-saharan africa), and that is taken into consideration. however, your educational/practical skills are paramount. i wanted to be sent to africa to begin with, and i kind of knew i'd eventually make it here because a background in french is a highly valuable asset for the peace corps. peace corps also targeted me for my IT experience, and burkina just opened an IT program this year. so there you go!

One last thing: I finally uploaded a video blog I made upon my arrival here in Burkina a few weeks ago. Here it is for those who are interested:

Smell ya later!

First things first:

If you loved my last entry about Papi -- and if you didn't, who are you? Do you not appreciate adorable things? Do you not have eyes or something? -- you'll want to head over to my Flickr page, where I've just added a slew of videos starring Papi and some of the other kids in my neighborhood.

And, secondly, I'd like to take this opportunity to once again express my adoration for Hard to Die, one of my all-time favorite cult films from one of my all-time favorite cult directors, Jim Wynorski. It's a slasher flick/semi-spoof of Die Hard set in a high-rise lingerie store, and it really is some of the most glorious cinematic cheese you'll ever find. I loaded Hard to Die onto my iPod before I left for Burkina, and it's become sort of a comfort blanket for me. All I need is some babes with machine guns to whittle away the homesickness.

I mean, how can you look at this image and not instantly fall in love with Hard to Die?

Oh yes, my babies. The cuteness has done been brought. This is one of my host brothers, Papi, and me. I adore this kid. Papi's at that age where kids love you unconditionally and look at everything with gleeful bewilderment. Therefore I, being the only gawky white guy in his neighborhood, am quite the sight for him. Whenever I ride up to my house on my mountain bike at the end of the day, I see him in the distance waiting for me at the front gate, as if he's been there all day. Once I'm settled in, we just play for hours and hours. He cracks up at everything, so he's a great audience for people who think they're so hilarious but really aren't (you know the type -- loud, obnoxious, wears a stupid faux vintage t-shirt). In sum, Papi is the raddest kid this side of the Nile. He makes me want to pull a Madonna-style, let's-flout-an-entire-African-nation's-judicial-system adoption.