In Burkina Faso, Running Afoul of Mr. X

His ID card identified him as from the government department in charge of the street sweepers program. And he wasn't going to allow any unauthorized journalizing on his patch.

He squinted at us through faux designer glasses. We tried to make nice, but Mr. X was in no mood for frivolity with .

Worse, he had made Lingani stop working and sit on the curb. She desperately needed her sweeping money to feed her family, and we could see she was scared that this was going to cost her the job.

We asked Mr. X to let her get back to work. Nothing doing.

We had been warned that "Ouaga" was a place that takes its bureaucracy seriously. Mr. X clearly regarded his regulations the way a Scotsman regards his kilt -- you may be tempted to giggle, but it's never a good idea.

So to be safe, we had gotten a permission letter from the city's deputy mayor. In flowing French, the letter announced that Michael and I, by name, were authorized to take photos and report anywhere in the city of more than 1 million people. It also mentioned Lingani, by name, and said we were allowed to report on her. We could not possibly have been more respectful of local rules.

Joseph showed Mr. X the letter from the mayor's office, and even read it aloud. Mr. X just shook his head as he and Joseph argued in French. We understood just enough to get Mr. X's main point: Mayor Schmayor.

"Not on this street," he said, dismissing our letter like an old tissue.

Then things got uglier. Mr. X told us that if we did not cease and desist, he would call the police and they would confiscate our notes and cameras.

Michael was mainly worried about the memory cards that held hundreds of pictures he had taken. He hustled over to the car, dropped his cameras and hid the cards under the carpet in the backseat, tucked inside a granola bar wrapper.

Joseph pulled out his phone and called our contact at the mayor's office, who spoke to Mr. X, who kept shaking his head "no" like a Mr. X bobblehead doll. He wouldn't budge until he heard from his boss. Joseph finally found the boss on the cell phone and read him our letter from the mayor. Then the boss and Mr. X had a little chat, and Mr. X's demeanor thawed, grudgingly. He let Lingani go back to work -- no harm, no foul.

He explained to us that it would now be okay for us to work, but first we needed to go to his department's headquarters to get a letter of authorization from his boss.

Photographers live for good light, and Michael's soft dawn glow was all gone. I had been watching Lingani for hours, and would see her later anyway. And we could see that Lingani wasn't in any trouble because of us.

So we politely declined to drive across town for more paperwork. After more than a half-hour of drama, we said goodbye to Mr. X. He looked a little sad. The squirrel had gotten away.

As we walked to our car, Mr. X hopped on his orange motorbike. He pulled up next to Lingani.

He took one last drag on his cigarette, then tossed the butt on the ground, right where she had been sweeping for hours.