Fifteen years ago, I was a Peace Corps volunteer living in a village of mud huts on the dry Sahel landscape of northern Ivory Coast. The nearest market town, Ferkessédougou, was 20 miles away, and every Thursday morning I would mount my Trek 820 and pedal out past the last huts, announcing in limited Senufo-Palaka my intention to ride to Ferké and return by sundown.
In town, I would collect groundnut paste and cucumbers, down a cold Coke and buy a local newspaper. Once, below the front-page fold, I saw a picture of a man playing tennis. The man was bending low for a backhand, and his form evoked something of yesteryear.