T A B L E_T A L K Are Americans ugly? Discuss why the world loves to hate U.S. tourists in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk ___________________ Learn more about Burkina Faso at barnesandnoble.com ___________________   R E C E N T L Y The men who moil for gold By J. Kingston Pierce A century after the race for the Klondike gold fields, a hiker traces the argonauts' northward course (01/06/99) Vive la roller blade! By Susan Hack In Paris, Friday night has an all-new rite (01/05/99) Death in Antigua By Steve Kettmann A host family's tragedy tweaks the conscience of a traveler in Guatemala (01/04/99) Hot spots of the millennium Where will people be traveling in 2000? Travel experts predict the destinations of choice in the new millennium (12/24/98) Not finding God in Rome By Zachary Karabell At Christmas in the Eternal City, a seeker of truth discovers that sometimes the answer you don't get is the one you need (12/23/98)   Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives     Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner		MOTHER LOAD | PAGE 1, 2, 3 - - - - - - - - - - I never met Brigitte's husband, who arrived home that night after we went to bed, and left early the next morning on a business trip. When I asked her about him, she simply shrugged her shoulders. "He's not mean," she said. That day Brigitte and I wandered together through le Grande Marché, an enormous market housed in a blocky cement building. "It used to be outside, the African way," Brigitte said with disdain. Brigitte wouldn't let me pay for anything, insisting on playing the perfect hostess. She bargained fiercely to get the price of a woven bracelet I wanted down from 65 cents to 40. When she began buying vegetables for lunch, I stopped her. "Why don't we go to a restaurant?" I said. "I'll treat." "Restaurant?" She looked hesitant. "Come on," I said. "We passed one yesterday when we got off the bus." Still skeptical, she followed me to La Grotte, a restaurant in the international section of town, close to the chichi Hôtel de l'Indépendance. Its white plastic tables were set up in a leafy garden, shaded by large umbrellas. Rotating fans provided a light breeze. The clientele was mostly white. From the moment we entered, Brigitte grew quiet, looking around her with widened eyes. She sat with her hands in her lap, not picking up the menu the waiter placed in front of her. "Don't you want to order?" I asked her. She shook her head. "I'm not hungry," she said, her eyes flicking back and forth. "Are you sure?" She nodded. "At least have a drink, OK?" She nodded again. "You can share my food," I added. I ordered a chicken dish with tô, the staple of the area, a firm porridge made of cornmeal and water. When the waiter asked Brigitte her order, she mouthed, "Coca-Cola." "Excuse me?" She cleared her throat, "Coca-Cola." "Why do you order this dish?" she asked me, when the waiter had gone. "What do you mean?" "This isn't your food." "I'm in Africa. I want to eat African food." She shook her head with incredulity. "This food is too plain. I wouldn't serve you this food." She continued to shake her head as I paid the $5 bill. "A bit of a splurge," I said. She was silent all the way home. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - But sitting in the yard the next morning, Brigitte was full of plans. "You will find me a job in your country," she said. "I can do anything. I can cook, I can clean. All kinds of African dishes. I worked for a German family; they were very content with my work." She paused, then continued. "You'll find me a family. They can send the plane ticket, then when I work, they don't pay me until it's paid for. They can get a visa for me." "What about your children?" I asked. "They'll stay with my mother," she said. "It's only two, three years. I'll make a lot of money, then I come back. I'll open a restaurant, my own, like the one yesterday. Cook African food; white people will come." "And your husband?" "He doesn't mind." She flipped her hand. "He's not mean. You will find me a job?" "I don't think ..." "I know it's not sure." "It's really not ..." "You will try?" I shrugged helplessly. "I'll try." - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - "How did she get the name Rod?" I asked that evening over a dinner of savory chicken soup. Rod had pulled her chair as close to me as possible, so that our knees touched as we ate. Lidia sat at a small table by herself, her face covered with food. Constantin had eaten quickly and dashed off to play with his friends. "A white man," said Rod, in perfect French. I looked at her in surprise. Brigitte started to giggle. "What white man?" I asked the little girl. "Mama's boyfriend," she said, and went back to eating her soup. "An American, named Rod," said Brigitte. "Peace Corps. He wanted to marry me, but my mother said no. I was only 17, and I was scared. If it was now, I would go with him. I would go like that." "So you gave her his name? Your husband doesn't mind?" She shrugged again, a bored expression crossing her face. "I told you ..." My voice joined hers, "He's not mean." N E X T+P A G E | "I don't love my husband"