Column:

Friesen on the dark continent

By Dan Friesen

Published Jan. 30, 2007

OUAGADOUGOU — Here I am, reporting from West Africa; Burkina Faso to be precise.

I know what you're thinking: what the hell are you doing in Burkina Faso? The easy answer is that I was inspired by the globetrotting columnists who came before me, like Ryan Gladstone, and decided to spend a semester abroad.

The difficult answer is that things in town were getting decidedly complicated. I can't delve into too many details, but suffice it to say snooping detectives asking loaded questions about my neighbor's cat and a purloined dildo make living in town significantly less cozy. On the plus side, I now understand Lil' Wayne's "The Block is Hot."

I needed a change of scenery. However, as any one of my friends will tell you, Dan Friesen is not the kind of man who can just go and do exactly what so many have done before (i.e. go to Paris or London). Thus, West Africa.

I miss Columbia. I miss that guy who stands out on the Speaker's Circle every Wednesday yelling angrily about Add Sheets. I miss partying at the J-Slums with my smug, hipster journalism friends.

The locals here are friendly. They're always quick to approach with smiles, bows and outstretched arms. Some go so far as to lovingly tug on your clothes or inspect your pockets for deadly Sub-Saharan scorpions. Such giving people.

So the other day, a couple of us from school went down to see a concert at the Musée de Manéga, a music themed museum just outside of town. The drive was nice — if you like dirt. If you come to Ouagadougou, you'd better like dirt because it is all over the goddamn place. You'd think these people don't know of the modern marvel that is cement. I swear, the over-under on the year that Burkina Faso gets a space program is 6742 AD and I'm taking the over.

Anyway, we went to this concert and honestly, the band was forgettable. What was not forgettable, though, was this shifty old man with a glass eye who kept staring at us throughout the show. After the band was done, I noticed he was still glaring, so I decided to walk up and say hi because everyone here is so welcoming and warm. As it turned out, he wasn't staring, but in fact had two glass eyes, one more convincing than the other.

We had a wonderful conversation about the "good old days" (October 1973), before Tidiani Coulibaly's instruments broke and was thus forced to quit making music. I repeat, arguably the most popular artist in the country retired from being a musician because he was unable to replace his n'goni. We'd better push the big launch back to 9520.

I actually lied earlier when I said I was in Ouagadougou. You see, this old man was rather drunk on some nsafufuo his Ghanaian cousin bought him. He offered me some, and who am I to refuse his generosity? Anyway, what happened next is the stuff of legends, the basis of oral traditions in the future. In 9639, mothers on AstroOuagadougou will tell their children terrifying stories about the drunk American who tried to convert all the local children to Santeria. I don't remember much, but apparently, Paramonga ("old glass eyes") and I beheaded some chickens in front of the Naba Koom statue.

Long story short, a couple of the kids we enlightened have come up missing and too many questions are being asked. Paramonga (God bless him) knew we were in the soup, so he got his Ghanaian cousin to get us across the border in his bauxite transport truck — he's in the bauxite business.

Well, I'd better get some sleep before we hit the border; I need to be alert and poised. See you next week, from God-knows-where.