"Dateline: Ouaga"

A young Arkansan is getting done with her shopping at Marina Market, the most Western-like market, probably, in Burkina Faso. She gets a green taxi, asks the driver to take her over by the Croix Rouge, close to the soon-to-be-closed transit house. As the driver is placing her bike, she is accosted by an overzealous (as they usually are) street salesman.

"Hey, Américaine, you like?"

"Non, merci."

"C'est bon marché! I give you good price!"

"Non, merci."

"Look, look! De la bonne qualité!"

"I don't want it!"

"Look, c'est pas cher. I give you best price!"

"Laissez-moi!"

The man drops his arms to his sides, a look of disgust on his defeat-stricken face.

"You are bad! You are bad! You are terrorist! Motherfucker!"

"Ah hahahaha. Hahahah. The young woman exhorts in her always endearable laughter.

Just one of the many things you gotta put up with in Ouagadougou. And, of course, certain parts of this capital city are not Africa-like at all.