Relent.

I'll admit to not understanding Lent very well. I never noticed the word until I was in Jr. High. "What are you giving up for Lent?" Good question, I thought. What is Lent? I was pretty good at pretending to not have not known things. I was a stupid kid after all. Not a STUPID kid, a stupidkid. The way all kids are stupid... the normal ones anyway. I just had more... shame? Pride maybe. Or the same amount. I guess it's not a fair assessment to think I was good at pretending. I was probably terrible at it. I tried though.

So what is Lent anyway? Where does it come from? I grew up knowing about Jesus and his fast and his temptation, but never seemed to run across Lent. I just looked it up on Wikipedia. It says Lent comes from a Germanic word meaning spring, which comes from the root long. A time when the days are getting longer (thank goodness).

It's a fast. I think I'm getting it a little. A Christian Ramadan of sorts... as Melville might say.

Well I'm a little late. Anna and I decided we need to cut back on a couple things. We're going to take a look at our media consumption. We don't even have a TV but we manage to watch it anyway. Go figure. We decided to cut back. Less surfing, less watching, less facebooking. What a verb. So we'll use the internet with purpose, have an agenda and get it done. And get out. We'll get our brain used to reading. It needs to calm down. It needs to wake up.

I took a media theory class where we had to do an experiment. We would study our media consumption for a week and write our thoughts. Then we would go on a media fast and write about our experience. Part of me didn't like the idea. Part of me knew it was right. The latter part wrote the paper. The former was happy when the paper was done, with it's unhappy experiment. What do you guess I wrote? It's an easy paper to write if you try. Who would want to though?

My discovery--aside from the obvious--was that I use media to turn off my brain. Thinking is hard. Have you ever tried to learn a new language? It's exhausting. Imagine if you could quiet your brain all the time. Ah, the energy you'd save. Plug in.

So for spring I'm unplugging a little more. Not altogether mind you. I'll still turn some stones to bread. But fewer. Gotta watch those carbs.

A Life of Joy and Giving

Cristina, we miss you.

You spent your life giving, giving, giving and never taking for yourself. Yet you were happy and brought us joy and cheer (even in the heat somehow). You loved without regard for race or creed. You loved Daniel without regret or restraint. You loved us, even those who never earned it. Thank you. Thank you. Now it's our turn to honor your memory. We promise to give more because of you. We promise to bring more cheer to others because of you. We promise to extend our love because of you. You have made a real difference in the lives of countless. And now we, because of you, will make a difference in the lives of those we meet. It's all we can do while we live the rest of our lives missing you.

The Well Project

Things aren't AS far along as one might hope (given the impending rains) but some wells are done and others in process. Here are some recent photos:

Sidiki and the boys digging.

The boy who fell in the well. Ok he didn't fall. His job was the dirtiest, and perhaps the hardest, but at least it was the shadiest.

Kickstart: the foot powered pump. Pumping can be fun. "BROWN WATER FIGHT!"

One of the completed wells.

Photos I Took

With a friend's camera.

I make mud bricks.

I make mud houses.

I make woven baskets.

I ride bikes (chekoroba).

We like to have our photo taken.

Where to Start?

Do you ever feel like this? This happens to me a lot when I'm meant to clean a room, a table, a small animal. Where to start? So here's what I do: I choose a place to start; a wall, a side, a leg. Then I draw a line and start making my way from that point. Anything the line touches has to be taken care of. It's like a rugby game, you gotta just hold the line. It is also like war I suppose. Hold the line, don't get flanked, we don't need another Battle of the Bulge situation. OK, you've waited a long time for a post right? I'll level with you. You want to know how I really think about this? In my mind, I imagine a Baryon Sweep. OK! That's all you're getting. If you want to think less of me then google that! But seriously?, I recommend NOT googling it.

My POINT is when you are overwhelmed with so much to do, you just have to start somewhere and then work at it. Take into account priorities of course (Need to sleep sometime soon? Clear off the bed. Does part of your small animal stink more than others [you know where I'm talking about here]? Maybe start there), but in the end, you just gotta work at it dooni, dooni. Beats doing nothing right (assuming you would be happier getting the task done over just leaving it)?

What a mess I've gotten myself into, eh? NEVER, since the beginning of my blogging days, have I missed two consecutive months of blogging. Well, there it is. Here I am. I am what I've done. How do I ever start blogging again (oh, the shame!)? I just gotta start with something little and stupid. Let's get this Baryon Sweep going.

Good Cop, Bad Cop

Or

"Hold me back, I'm gonna punch him. Hold me. You're not holding me. Dude, I said hold me. Hold me back!"

There is an aspect of Malian culture that I have almost wholly failed at embracing and participating in. This is not because I disapprove, or have been unaware of it, but it is just such a foreign concept that even as I see it happening it is too hard to jump into action. When it happens I feel unable to leave my American-ness behind and participate in the little play that goes down.

Let me give you an example. This actually happened to me.

I am at a family's house. When I say house I mean courtyard (concession). There are two main indoor housing areas connected to the courtyard, one for each wife. I rarely go into the actual houses. In Mali (like many warmer-climate developing nations) most of life takes place outside. Women cook outside. People sit in chairs outside. Visitors are received outside. Few things actually happen inside (unless it is currently raining... hard).

One of the teenage daughters comes home. Her mother starts grumbling at her. This is a common occurrence at this home. I am talking to the other co-wife at the time, so I don't pay much attention to what she is mad about. I assume she came home late or didn't do a chore or something. The grumbling continues and escalates into yelling. I still don't really pay attention. This isn't really as awkward as it may be elsewhere in the world. They are coming in and out of the house and the daughter is sweeping the floor, then not sweeping, then yelling, then sweeping. Very soon you hear the daughter scream. Her mother is yelling at her and her daughter is yelping. Now I am disturbed but unsure as to what is going on. I look to the other co-wife for some guidance as to how I should react. She just sits there so I'm unsure what to do.

She reluctantly gets up and says "that's enough." Soon neighbors are showing up. An old man arrives and enters the house and tells them to stop, that's enough. The fight is over and the daughter is crying while the mother fumes. The co-wife I was talking to comes back to me and asks "why didn't you go defend the daughter?" or something to that effect.

As a member of the community within earshot, I was expected to intercede.

In fact, disciplinary action is based on this assumption.

Basically--from what I can tell--a parent or other disciplining party has no responsibility for controlling their anger. It is left up to others to intercede. In order for a mother to convince a child they are in real trouble, they let themselves lose control. But the mother relies on others to keep them from hurting their child more than they would ACTUALLY want to.

I guess this is more of an extreme case. I mean, there is a precedent in the States for intervening when there is abuse going on. But this method is used all the time in really, everyday cases. An adult breaks a branch to use as a switch and any adult around will block the child from being hit/spanked. If an adult is yelling at a child other adults will let it go for a minute then tell them it is enough.

Could you imagine though? You are at a friend's house and they start to discipline their child for not cleaning the room. After the point seems across you feel free to jump in. "OK Steve, that's enough. Let it go." Ok so maybe even that might happen. Um, you are angry and yelling at a family member and a neighbor comes over to get you to stop. Not because you are making noise but because they seem to be questioning how you are disciplining your child.

I seem to be doing a really terrible job of describing this huh? I'll try again later.

It works the other way too, though. Random adults can discipline other people's children. This one I like. Could you imagine in the states if you were at the grocery store and a stranger told your child to stop whining? If only.

Incredible India

That's their slogan.

Seriously.

Me and my future wife After a friend's Wedding.

Posing pensive at the Ashram.

Me and Ganesh.

Hanging out outside the office where my sister worked (at the Ashram). I like Ganesh for some reason. Did you know how he got an Elephant head? His father (Shiva) chopped off his head when he wouldn't let him in to see his mother. In fairness to Shiva he had been away at war and didn't recognize his son (nor Ganesh, him) and he felt really bad afterward. Bad enough to find another head for him. Elephant head? I say upgrade.

Nyogome

OK let’s try this again.

Remember when we had to “save” our documents in case the power went out or the computer locked up? I guess we still have to do that in Africa.

So, I wish I had something clever or profound to share. But I’ve been drawing blanks of late. If I were more creative I’d be able to amuse you with what parts of my life might amuse an accidental reader (assuming there are not other kinds). But, alas, I am not. So. I’ll bore you with the little odds and bods (and occasional little sod) that have been amusing ME.

First of all, the Nyogome. Nyogome is the Bambara word for Camel. And I am in love with camels. At this point I’m a little afraid that I am revealing how few things I think about. Have I blogged about this before? Oh well, who cares? You should know my affinity for Camels, so long as you care to know anything about me. I seek out the company of camels. I’m always sort of asking around for camels. I’m talking about the animal, right? Not the cancer catalyst. I live in a part of Africa where camels walk by, but don’t necessarily hang out. The nomadic families have one (along with children with hilarious hair shaving patters riding on donkeys [ballpark amusing]) or two at the end of their train. They stop by but they’re hard to track down sometimes. I guess camels can walk.

Any further north and I’d be in camel lovers’ (not like that) paradise. But here it’s just an infrequent thrill. Tuesday is my market day. I love the Sofara market. I haven’t found a better balance of culture and goods and flavor than what’s found at my own town’s market. On Tuesday I was at market running an errand or two and my little buddy Adama said “Isa, Nyogome file” (Issa, check out the camel). Like a baby on task, interrupted by a passing balloon, so too was I by that camel. Hey, was that an epic simile? Eat your heart out Homer. Sorry, OK so I just start following this Camel. Where do you suppose guy is going with his camel? I don’t know. I don’t care. I’m on it like spice on a rack (which is a thing now). I’ve got stars in my eyes and a smile on my face.

I’m not sure what it is. Here’s part of it: They make me feel like I’m on another planet. You know that awesome pickup line, “Is this a space station, because you are out of this world?” That’s like what I say to camels. They are way underrated. The camel owner guy was kind of a hay seed and I don’t think he could imagine why I was in such awe about his beast of burden. So, I’ll be on the lookout.

I think maybe if I wasn’t sure they wanted to kill you, elephants would be cool. But I’m pretty sure they do. Camels are like domesticated awesome.

Sorry, I was meaning to be done talking about that.

What else?

So my house is made out of mud bricks right? They are pretty thick, like 12 inches or something. So that’s how thick my walls are. And my windows are that deep. So on the near side there is a screen. On the far side there is a grate that can be opened and closed. In each of my windows there is a lizard and a gecko. They are like my first line of defense against bugs. I guess I just thought it was funny that in America we have terrariums to keeps lizards and here we have windows. That’s not very interesting.

Still, anything that eats bugs, I’m ok with.

The corners of my house have spiders hanging out in them. I’m cool with it. I encourage it. They eat bugs that eat me. You know that old saying, my enemy’s enemy? Same thing. In fact, two nights ago I heard a squeek squit squilt!!! And flashed my flash… light… my electric torch! Up to see a bat flying through my house. In America, isn’t that like grounds for freaking out? I was ok with it. I went to sleep. Honestly I’m impressed that he could get in and find his way out.

Speaking of torches. I went to a friend’s house in Sevare to spend the night and walked into the room where I was to sleep and instinctively clicked on my head(nerd)lamp. I’m no longer used to houses that have light switches. And… you know… electricity. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for it. I also like showers and water that comes out of pipe on command. Novel.

I’m good btw. Oh you might be amused by this. (and by you I mean I).

After I had malaria and shisto and amoebas I came back to Sofara and everyone was like “you have gotten skinny” and “Allah give you rest” and whatnot. All sorts of people were consistently telling me I was skinny (this is not a good thing btw). Lately I’ve been getting a pretty consistent “you’ve gained weight!” and “you’re fat!” (kind words). So take courage in that mom.

AND

I’m taking vacation in less than a month!! I can hardly wait. I’m going to India and Korea and WILL be fat when I get back. I’ve been looking at this travel book on India and salivating over the yummy that’s to be had. And Korea? Kim chee? Korean bbq? Pi bim bop? Forget about it.

I’m going to get my fill of travel for a spell. Check out this flight itinerary:

Bamako, Mali -> Adis, Ethiopia -> Bombay, India -> Bangalore, India -> Bombay, India -> Hong Kong, China -> Seoul, South Korea -> Hong Kong, China -> Bombay, India -> Adis, Ethiopia -> Bamako, Mali

Fwewf.

Someone check my spelling. I have to go back to Africa.

Ala k’a ba ni fa to.

The spectrum of emotion and experiences in one man’s life seems but a trifle for the poet. I mean, there in one line we find our summers, our winters, our sorrows and our joyful triumphs enumerated and foretold. Then life takes us by the hand and guides us towards our own experiences and emotions, all in due time and with the wisdom only life can foresee.

In what ways are we prepared for heartache, or forced to appreciate a little sunshine (or shade as your desperation requires)? Are we allowed to learn or remember a lesson we never faced ourselves? However that whole thing works out, I’m glad for the lessons and reminders I face. At times they seem to juxtapose themselves in my life for the very purpose of teaching me what is true and what is not so sure, lest I build my foundation on a faulty foundation of future expectations.

Have you ever been in love? Try to remember what an exciting and happy time that is. Unabashed optimism never seemed so rational. All is right in the world and you have to force yourself to anticipate how anything could ever go wrong again.

Thusly enamored and dreaming of a happy future with your love, you receive a phone call. You hope it’s who you hope it is… but the voice of an unfamiliar man is at the other end:

Hello?

Allo? I’m calling in behalf of Abdoulaye.

(at this point you suspect it’s a wrong phone number…

… but then he calls you by name)

Abdoulaye would like you to call him back.

Who?

Call your father Abdoulaye at this number…

You call the number back…

Hello?

Allo,

(now a familiar voice calls you by name)

How are you? Are you well?… We are all healthy, but last month Adam got sick.

(you begin to fear why you might be called to be told such news)

He was sick, we took him to the hospital but no cure could be found.

(your heart sinks but you can’t make him say it. It breaks your heart to make him say it)

What has happened? Has he passed away?

Yes. It aches my heart to tell you.

I’m so sorry. God rest his little soul.

I thought I should call and tell you.

(you struggle to find words. What should you do?)

I’m so sorry. I’ll come visit next chance I get.

Thank you. God bless you.

Abo, I’m so sorry.

(What could possibly be said? What can you do?)

We’ll see you soon.

OK Goodbye.

Goodbye.

It’s a shock more than anything. You are sad, but mostly wish you could do something. You feel helpless. These people who have taken you into their home and made you their family, have lost their baby, their boy Adama, born in your presence and nicknamed after your own father, and now these people you love are hurting. You’re not confident it has sunk in, not sure even if it can.

But I wonder… Are you still in love? What of your happy plans for your own future and love, family and life? How do they look in the light of tragedy? What are you feeling and what are you meant to feel? You still have love in your heart but the reality of life has made itself known.

Later you confess what has happened and your feelings to this person you love. As you confess, you realize how sad you really are and can’t hold back tears. Why hadn’t you cried before? What do you feel, love or sadness? Does one make the other easier, or more true or more well informed?

I do have a lot of questions, but I still hope to learn and anticipate how best to navigate the summers, winters, sorrows and joyful triumphs we might face.

Again (and far too often), in sweet memory of the child Adama Samaké

August 2006 – January 2008

Ala k’a dayoro suma.

A Return to Hope

OK So I cleaned up the dirty language in my last post and I’m feeling pretty optimistic. You know, Job may not have ever denied his faith, but he DID curse the day he was born… and like, his mother’s womb. So I think I’m doing pretty good. I didn’t even make it that far. So I’m healthy and trying to stay that way. The doctor said I have to force-feed myself if necessary. Guess how much weight I’ve lost since arriving in Africa. Here’s a hint:

I know I look terrible. This is the day before I went to Bamako to be treated. I had a fever that day and was pretty exhausted. But the point of this post is that I’m BETTER now.

Thank you all again for your concern and thoughts and prayers and everything. I was sort of surprised to hear of the random people who were worried for me or praying for me. It’s a little overwhelming.

So what can I tell you? I’m told our cows are ready to sell and I’m hoping to write up and close our little project and the women are excited to start their individual projects.

My SPA funded project was just approved and we should get the money in a week or two. The garden associations are excited and it will be great to have wells again (now that the waters have receded). We have to wait a little before we can dig the new wells but it’s great to know the money is there.

It’s been fun working with Sidiki. He’s a very kind Dogon man and friends with lots of people. He found it in his heart to invite me to church again (after my little rude incident on Christmas) so I intend to go check it out. One great thing about working with a Dogon is that Bambara is HIS second language too, so it’s actually easier to communicate with him.

Learning Bambara has been a really good setup for me, even though I end up working with people from other cultural/language groups. It’s a lingua franca so they speak it as a second (market) language. We muddle through together. It reminds me of one of my favorite cross-cultural moments:

When I was in Germany singing in a choir, we were able to interact with a number of groups from different countries. One evening we were hosted by a German accordion band. I shoot you not. Maybe it was polka. ANYWAY, there was also a group from Japan there. As I sat on the front row waiting for some amazing accordion action, the director of the band and the leader of the Japanese youth had to discuss how the joint program would go. The only problem was that the German man didn’t speak Japanese and the Japanese man didn’t speak German. To my delight (and amusement) they discovered they both spoke some English. So there I was, an English native speaker enjoying watching the two wrestle out a conversation in a language foreign to them both. It was a fascinating moment. Did you know that more people on earth speak English as a second language than as a first? Sorry, I’m getting distracted.

I can’t imagine what native Bambara speakers think when they hear Sidiki and I converse, or Kadia and I try to find common meaning. Still, I NEVER tire of the surprise on people’s faces when they realize I’m not just another Toubab trumpeting French at them, that I actually speak their language. I often catch them hissing out comments under their breath that I am able to respond to. It is a lot of fun actually. I get to make fun of the Toubabs along with them.

It reminds me of a story my Spanish/Chinese teacher told us that I thought was pretty funny. He said he walked into a store in China one day and the clerk said slyly to her work mate, “Here comes Da Bi-zi (big nose)” Which is what they call whitey out there (c’mon, we deserve it). Being the good natured man he is he smiled and said “Da Bi-zi would like to purchase [such and such]” or something like that. Both sides of this conversation in Chinese of course. The clerk was a little shocked I think.

I love to play on that shock. I’m never insulted really. I know their little comments are meant for someone I’m not, for the post-colonial tourist or whatever who doesn’t know what they’re saying anyway. It’s sort of fun to be in on the joke.

Which reminds me of another story. I was playing with some of James’ little Korean cousins and one of the little girls asked me quite frankly, “Why is your nose so big?” Good question. I guess I should blame my mom? That’s a tough one.

I was at my one market in Sofara a couple weeks ago buying oranges and mandarins and potatoes and plantains (not for me… blegcht) and there was quite a few Toubab’s hanging around. It’s usually hard for me to interact with Toubabs here because I don’t speak French. As it turned out these tourists were from America (weird huh?). The Sofara market is actually pretty good, and since it’s right between Djenne and Dogon country, guides bring tourists through every so often. ANYWAY, the point is it was nice to be able to tell them that “yes, I live here” and to be able to bargain in an African language as they looked on. It takes a lot (I’d say sacrifice) to get to that point, so it’s rewarding to actually enjoy it, especially in contrast to the “outsiders.”

I’m the only white person IN Sofara. I think I told you this but it is still amusing. Did you know that Sofara is also called Kaka? I live in Kaka. And the commune of villages around is called Fakala. How many awesome names can my town have? I thought of a slogan for my town: Sofara so good.

I thought of a new slogan for Peace Corps. I think the slogan now is “The hardest job you’ll ever love.” And the old one is “How far are you willing to go…” Or maybe I swapped that. ANYWAY (again), with recent experiences in mind I was thinking it could be: “Peace Corps; The ass-kicking of a lifetime.” What do you think? I think I’ll submit it to Washington.

Lastly, can you believe how long I’ve been here? More to the point, that there is some light at the end of the tunnel. Some time in the next seven to nine months (from tomorrow) I will be coming home. I’m a little trunkie, I’ll admit. And you know what else? I still have all my vacation time saved up. I’m thinking (right now) India and then Ghana later. Well I’m definitely going to India, we’ll see what else happens. I have like 48 days of vacation to blow. I’m pretty much out of here. PEACE!

No, OK. I’m not pretty much out of here. But I’ll be home to vote and holiday it up. I’ll make a more formal list, but have the pumpkin pie on standby. And the funeral potatoes. And roast beast and Yorkshire pudding. Dang it, I’m making myself hungry.

I heart ATT. I mean... I'm not politically affiliated with any party or politician. This is me and Dan, a great friend of mine and fellow PCV. We're wearing Dogon hats. SYLISH!

Merry Christmas

You’re Going to Hell.

Well. It’s been an interesting month. Highlights include…. It being over. I’ve been treated for Malaria, Amoebas and Shistosomiasis. Imagine the hellish symptoms leading up to that! Still, they would come and go so I had some terrible nights and some doable days. Like Christmas.

So try to imagine my morning. I was up on and off the previous night with a death-fever and my back was killing me for some reason. Finally the morning is here and my fever has broken and I’m trying to not feel. Just laying there not ready to start the morning.

Someone comes into my concession. “NNSOMA!... NISOM!... AASOM!!” Over and over he shouts I ni sogoma, but in a (what I feel is) rude short, inarticulate shouting, curt,… ok so it’s maybe starting to become apparent why I’m going to hell right?

FINALLY! After like five minutes of him shouting, and me determined not to get up (no chance in my little hell), he goes away. Jeeze.

So I’m laying there. Wishing I wasn’t awake, but what can you do right? A couple minutes later the guy comes back in with renewed determination to shout his little mantra NSOG!!!! NSOG!!!!! NNNNSOG!!!!!!!!!!

(I’m sorry mom. I don’t use foul language very often, but I may or may not have used some here. Though I’ll admit, what I think I actually said on christmas morning was something I don't say most years, let alone the day we celebrate Jesus' birth.)

Finally I realizing this one doesn’t go away but with fast and prayer. I get up with some very unchristmasy language and storm through my house and slam open (somehow) my door and march up to this well-dressed young man and stop a couple feet short. The image is obviously a little startling for the poor teenager and he, startled, takes a few steps back.

He’s too scared now to say anything and I’m too angry to have pity. I drop my head as if to say “WHAAT!?” and the poor lad delivers his message:

“Sidiki told me to tell you that Christmas services are at 10:30 not 9am.”

Sigh.

“OK. Tell Sidiki I’m sick and may or may not make it depending on how I’m feeling. Thank you.”

OK so you’re going to hell. Big deal. You’re in too much pain to care.

I try to find a position on the mat that assuages my pains but nothin doin.

Having only just survived (in quite pathetic fashion I’m sure) into the 10am hour, I decide to just take a fist full of Advil and see where that takes me. They kick in handsomely around 11am and I feel like maybe I can do something with the day.

Just in time because Kadia shows up saying they need money for cattle feed. Why are these cows not sold yet? When will they be and WHERE were you planning on magically finding this money?

Yes, yes, I realize I’m white, but I don’t keep that kind of money around my house. I don’t even have that kind of money to spend on your cows. WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO THE MONEY FOR THE PROJECT, THE PLAN, THE BUDGET, EVERYTHING WE SAID WAS GOING TO HAPPEN???

OK so I call over guy who’s been helping on the project because I’m not getting anywhere (good anyway). He comes over (thank goodness), and they begin to have like an hour long argument in a language I don’t understand.

I’m praying to know what to do to help this project not fall apart. I don’t want to enable irresponsible actions but I want to help. I want to do the best thing.

In the end the question is “OK well, how much money DO you have.”

I take this opportunity to remind him that it’s my holiday. It’s Christmas. (THAT’s right… Happy fette. May allah bring us another year of such.) Thank you.

I continue, I’m in africa by myself trying to help these women. What’s his motive? He says he wants to help and doesn’t expect money. OK let’s continue.

So I spend the day at market helping them by feed and using all my energy in doing so.

Here’s another funny thing about this day. I wanted lunch. Guess what. The cattle feed place that I was spending my time was RIGHT NEXT to a place who sold market day food to our lowly pilgrims. They even had Zame. So I find out the woman’s name, do the standard joke/greeting and say I want a plate of zame.

Ten minutes later.

Yeah I know I’m white but I seriously want some food.

Heh, of course you do. WINK.

Ten minutes later.

I’m waiting for a guy to come back from haggling over the price of feed. Make me a plate.

Right away sir WINK AGAIN.

Uh, are you out of zame now? What the freak? Forget it, I have to work again.

After all is said and done I pass through market and pick up something to eat. I can’t remember what now. I go home and call it a day.

It’s still the afternoon but I’m tired. And going to hell. Merry Christmas anyway.

Happy Tabaski to all

And to all a good night.

It's like Christmas but way more throats get slit. Kids love it ;) Throw that liver on the grill.

Found some rams in the thicket. So anyway, all is well. My malaria is gone and I'm being treated for amoebas or however you spell them. Should be 100% lickity-splits and head back up to my region. As much as I love Bamako.

Horse Sense

I got nothing. So how the crap are you supposed to ride a horse? I’ve ridden them several times at camp or with cousins, in Mexico etc. and it has never been this painful. The truth is I don’t know much about how to do it. I think I have some suspicions though. I think my stirrups are too short. Wait, is stirrups the word? The leg thingies. Here were my choices last time. Murder one of the following: my balls, my tail, my legs, my shins, my knees, my back. I decided to split the difference. But I tried to do that “trot” thing I think I’ve seen in the movies where your ass hits the horse every other stride and you sort of hop up and down. But it was like doing constant squats but no full extension. It was hard and I was really sore after. So my leg thingies need to be longer right? I mean, bareback, my choices are limited but with this terrible, African saddle there’s got to be a way I can get used to where I don’t have to recover for a week afterwards right? Right? Laura, I’m kinda looking to you on this. I nether even WENT to Texas.

Grandma’s Teet

I know this might be a little crass but hey, no children commented on my recent beast-post so I think I’m in the clear. I saw something on market day that… was…

OK so no one adjective could possibly fill that vacancy, but it was many things. I’ll just describe it. An old woman. An old Peuhl woman. She is looking after—what I can only assume is—her grandson. He’s a toddler, maybe he can say a few words, but still plainly young and innocent. So it’s been a long day at market I’m assuming. Grandma is sitting on a stool and waiting. Grandson pulls her shirt down. He’s hungry, who can blame him? Like I said, it’s been a long day. She kind of pulls her shirt up half-heartedly. The boy insists. She is kind of not paying attention. Uh. Is this thing on? It doesn’t seem to be working. Grandma seems to have all the equipment, but something is amiss.

Now have you ever seen a little boy try to suck a thick malt shake out of a straw? You know, a little boy or like me, in college? Baby be goin’ to TOWN on Grandma. And to no avail. Every so often grandma sort of tries to push him but boy be all determined and she’s not really embarrassed. So the boy starts really digging in. Now it’s like a guy trying to push, heft and heave a heavy vehicle out of deep mud. He is pushing as hard as he can, ramming grandma and his feet are futiley (which is a word now) losing traction in the dirt. He pushes and pushes and sucks and sucks and grandma just has a resigned look on her toothless face.

I wanted to take a picture but I knew what a great honor it was to just watch this hilarious, if sad, situation. I also knew I’d never be able to capture it. Then I started to think about that situation and it kind of reminded me of Africa in a way. How hard was that boy toiling to get what should have been his? Grandma (Africa) was not unwilling or withholding, she just didn’t have the resources to provide the boy with a fair reward for his efforts. He spun he wheels and huffed and puffed but in the end there was no use. You should see the effort people put into growing an onion, or a stalk of millet, and the marketable value it has in the end. Companies in the developed world may claim that their greatest asset is the people, but here, people’s work is nothing. It’s almost free. If someone can work all day to get something that they wouldn’t have had otherwise, they do. Holy crap I feel for that boy. Such effort would have been amply rewarded if the little boy’s caretaker had just been a little more fruitful. Know what I’m sayin?

Don’t get me wrong though. It was hilarious.

And a photo that has nothing to do with any of that.

I was taking a bucket bath and then I thought about my laundry and then I wrote a poem:

brown dirt

red man

yellow sweat

black hands

blue die

white shirt

This is Moktar, a friend of mine. We joke around together and study the Qur'an and go fishing and he lets me ride his horse. One day we were taking and this little girl comes up and was giggling with her friends. He asked her if she liked me and she said "No. He's red." I guess that's only fair, I mean, Black people aren't REALLY black now are they?

I eat rice cereal in my pjs. Why can't I hang out in a rice field in them?

A little of the…

Polychronic

I just noticed how used to this I am. Have you ever heard of this theory? I studied this crap in college so I’m full of coined phrases for the way culture and communication work. It’s a way of talking about how we manage our time and interactions with others. Generally, Americans tend to be Monochronic, ie, one thing at a time. We write down in a planner what we will be doing at 7am, seven-thirty, eight, 8:30 and so forth (that sentence [and frankly, most sentences I write], was designed to bug any grammar sticklers out there). We make an appointment with the man and he brings us in his office when it’s time and he closes the door and we sit and have a meeting. Priorities are established (or not) and we go through things—like I said—one thing at a time. If you’re in a conversation with someone and someone else you know walks buy, you don’t stop talking to that person and start something new with the new person (in most cases). Just like if you are walking down a hall and two friends are deep in conversation (or even shallow), you don’t say “hey, how are you doing today?” you just give a nod or smile and leave them to it.

NOT SO (and I know it’s belaboring the point to explain it but, hey, you’re not a captive audience, you can skip this crap) with Polychronic organization! As you might have guessed, someone who sees the world in this way and interacts with people as such, defines priorities a little different. I sat down with the Mayor of Sofara the other day and was talking about the different projects I’m working on and other possibilities for Sofara and someone came to the (always open) door. I just instinctively stopped in the middle of my meeting and looked up so he could greet us (greetings are very important in Africa). He then described some problem or issue. The mayor told him what to do and he left. I picked up right where I was and continued. The man returned with someone else, more instructions. This happened a few times. I’ve gotten good at pagemarking my own conversations so they can be continued later.

It was during this conversation that I took note of how naturally this seemed to flow (despite how unnatural it should have appeared to an American having a “business meeting” with someone important). So I started to watch how this worked during the next few days and realized it was happening all the time.

One thing that is a big step for me (and I know you’ll be proud of me for this Ellie) has been the greetings. As you walk down a path, it is generally expected that you will greet people (esp. anyone you know to any degree) along the way. Even if two people are talking intensely or arguing or kissing (ok they don’t do that here, but you get the idea) you would still be expected to greet them and they will interrupt their goings-on to reply (to at least some degree). This took some real getting used to, and I still feel weird interrupting people. But it’s not rude here, it’s expected. To not do so would be rude.

You want to know how I learned to do this? Too bad (unless you skip this too, shoot). I was trained. The person approaching or walking by is expected to initiate greetings. If you don’t, once you pass, people will tell you “HEY! You don’t greet me? What’s the deal?” It happened to me all the time. Now I just blaze down the street interrupting left and right:

“Hello!”

“Yes”

“Are you healthy?”

“Peace.”

“Family?”

“And children?”

“Peace?”

“Family.”

“No problems.”

“Good work.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“Peace.”

OK so it doesn’t make a lot of sense but it shows you care somehow. Let me share a little secret with you (and we’ve obviously deviated from talking about poly and monochromic organization to greetings, WHICH is a rad example of mixing it up as such). When we first got here we had language training for two months. The first thing we learned was the greetings. We learn the correct question and the correct response:

“Hello.”

“Yes.”

“Did you have peace in the night?”

“Peace only.”

“Are you healthy?”

“I have no problems.”

“How is your family?”

“They have no problems.”

“And your spouse?”

“They have no worries.”

“And your children?”

“They have no problems.”

“Good work.”

“Thank you.”

“May Allah bless your path.”

“Amen.”

The reality though (and secret) is that this never happens in an actual Malian village. We spend so much time (in the beginning) trying to get the responses right and we are so frustrated to find THEY never answer OUR inquiries correctly. HOW RUDE!

But that’s not how they show they care. They show they care by keeping the rhythm going. It’s like saying “I like you enough to keep inquiring and responding (irregardless of what your inquiries and responses are).” It is actually more ruder ;) to sit there concentrating to get the right answers down because it cuts off the greeting or doesn’t perpetuate it.

“How’s your health?”

(oh yeah?) “How’s your family?”

(nice try) “What about those people in your extended family?”

(take this!) “Did you have peace in the night?”

(trying to throw me for a loop, I see) “They’ve got no problems!”

“PEACE!”

“FAMILY?”

“HEALTH!?”

“YES!”

“YES!”

“OK?”

“ALRIGHT!”

“May God bring peace to your day!”

“Amen!”

“May god bless your dwelling!”

“AMEN!!”

“May God show us tomorrow!”

“AMEEEEEEEEEEEN!”

(jeeze).

(You’ve won this round Coulibaly).

It’s like a rivalry of respect. Don’t say what you mean, mean how you say it. On a couple of side notes: Your last words on your sickly deathbed could be “I’m healthy.” In reply to a “Do you have health?” inquiry. No one ever says they are sick. Only lesser degrees to which they are full of health and peace (or “better,” whatever that means… although I suspect they use it as “better than dead”). Likewise you will never say that something is gross or not delicious, only a little delicious or you like it a little bit.

So back to that Polychronic thing (before I was so rudely interrupted). Stuff will get done but you just can’t be in too much of a hurry or want it done on a really specific time-table. I mean, you can want that (and may get it sometimes) but you will find yourself regularly frustrated and will confuse and frustrate the people you expect that out of. I like to take time to go visit people I want to (already) be working with and give them the heads up on what would help us go forward and keep at it do-dooni (little by little).

Oh man, I’m about to drop some more knowledge. You know how I was explaining about this way of prioritizing? It applies to jobs too. My host family’s father is a tailor. I’ve found there is a way to get your clothes made and there is a way to be neglected. Ready:

Goofus the neglected:

Goofus gives his fabric to the tailor and asks when it will be done. He arrives (on time) at the specified date and is frustrated to find it is not done. While there is no evidence of the work the tailor assures him it is “almost done” (ie almost started). He asks when it will be done and leaves (frustrated) and returns on the given date. Goofus sort of gets what he sort of suspects and the work is not done again. Who knows how long this could go on.

Gallant the integrated:

Gallant visits his tailor and delivers his fabric and describes what he wants. He notices the other people hanging around the shop, seemingly just chatting it up and watching the work. He waits a “reasonable” amount of time and then returns knowing the tailor will have been busy with other projects (slash drinking tea). If there is not too many people there he will sit down and start asking about his project and ask if he can see the progress. The tailor will describe the circumstances that explain why it is still folded, just as he left it days ago (perfectly reasonable I’m sure) and the explanation will be accepted (and expected). He will then sit there (making himself a priority to the tailor) and watch as the tailor actually starts the project. He will return periodically and if he REALLY needs it done by a certain time, he will come in early and say he needs it and sit there and watch it get sewn.

I know it sounds unreasonable, and it may be way less productive for a society to have to have one person watching the other work, but that’s how it works here. Actually, if you don’t mind when it gets done you can just keep stopping by till they believe you are serious and they will do it eventually. There are different ways to do this but Gallant chose the most common.

All this useless knowledge (in some circles anyway), brings me to my next point. It’s part of why:

I’m kind of sad…

…thaaaaaaaaat… what?

I’m a year in or so and I walk around Sofara with constant greetings of “ISA” (my name here in case you forgot) and hellos from friends and jokes and conversations. I’m at that point where I enjoy playing with words and joking around. It’s fun to realize that I’m sort of part of the community and instead of being the new Toubab, I’m now Isa.

Why should that make me sad anyway? Well, I can see the end (which, honestly, I can fully accept, or at least I’m not sad about that yet) and I sort of realize that no one from my former life[s] will come and see me in this town in Africa joking with women about buying their kids and accusing friends in jest of “cutting girlfriends” (uh, dating), or greeting and loving people. It’s not something I need or anything but it would be so fun to show someone around and prove the fruition of so many months of work and frustration. Maybe they wouldn’t be impressed (not knowing how sorry and helpless I was in the beginning) but I still sort of wish I could share it with someone.

Not that sad though. I’m still happy and enjoying my time and glad I’ve got things to do.

Happy and Things to do?? You want to hear more about his? Too bad (still):

Mein Kampf

Some of you know about my latest struggles which I won’t go into much detail here (riiiiiiiiight). It all started with a little spot on the top of my head. It was a little sore and acted like acne (which I thought it was). After a few days without coming to a head another one started to form on the back of my head. The first one formed into what I assumed was a big boil on the top of my head. It was actually pretty painful (not sharp but a dull constant pain) and grew in size and painfulness until after a week and a half or so it seemed like it was about ready to burst. Then it did.

I’m trying not to go into much detail here (as us Peace Corps Volunteers are famous for) but let’s just say it was gross. It made me pretty woozy to see so much puss and blood (OK I’M FINISHED!). The open sore worried me (as did the… gross… sorry… I took a picture of the first one if you really want to know [and have a strong stomach]) so I called the med office to get some advice. I was told not to worry and to take some antibiotics from my med-kit.

Long story short, that first one was only a hint of what was coming next. The antibiotic failed and I soon had an irritating spot on my waist (which made wearing normal pants difficult). Then my butt had a sore (oh man). Still, I was handling it when new, painful bumps started growing on my head. It was becoming difficult to find a position to sit or lay but I was still trying to treat things from village when one day, exhausted, I took a nap and woke up sweaty and in pain and overwhelmed by how many sores I was trying treat and how many new boils were forming. From the first (now) four I new the hellish process from first indication to eruption to healing and it was more than I could bear. I called the med office again and they decided they wanted to treat me in Bamako so now I had a 10 hour trip to face on a bus with a nasty, painful boil (two actually) on my bum.

Long story long I guess (oh, but not as long as it could be) it was a real spiritual, emotional and physical trial for me. I made it to Bamako (with my now dozens of boils) and received treatment and got better.

Why am I sharing this? Hmmm… I’d like to say something about how “tough” I am but… it was actually pretty humbling. I got through it though. Oh here! Here’s a lesson (of the many lessons I took out of the experience) that I feel comfortable sharing via blog: I got through it. Looking back I can’t imagine going into it knowing what it would be, but I got through it. It made other problems seem easier and put things on a new spectrum.

(Do you think those scars are permanent? Let's take a survey.)For example: after a 10 hour bus ride in such a state, now these rides seem like a total cakewalk. They are much easier now. While I was in Bamako I also did mid-service medical exams and had blood taken. I don’t like needles but compared to a few days earlier where the doctor was digging open my extremely painful sores with a giant needle (and me giving it all I had to keep from crying) a needle in the arm was small kine.

I’m sure this contributes (but only partially) to why I’m so happy and content right now. I feel blessed to be able to compare my blessings to other possible situations. That said I have to thank my family and friends for all of their thoughts, well-wishes, fasting and prayer. The part of the story I left out is how my Heavenly Father helped me through it all, which I’d love to tell you if you would like to hear it some time.

As for…

Things to do:

I’m happy to have some projects to work on. Ah! There is so much I want to tell you but I know I won’t do it justice. Let me just mention a couple of things:

First, our early rainy season brought a lot of rain all at once. As a result some areas of Sofara (and other parts of the region and country) flooded. One of the places that flooded is where several women’s associations have their gardens. Unfortunately, the Dutch-brick construction and the soft dirt were a bad combination and five out of six wells collapsed (the surviving well being in another garden, far from the others). So I’ve been working with the garden association president to write a project to fund the purchase of cement for new wells. I’m glad I get to work with him because he is really motivated and knowledgeable (and has worked with Peace Corps before). This garden association is great for the women it serves (there is a Dogon, Samogow, Maninke and Fulfulde garden) and I’m happy I can help them in this difficult situation.

(I couldn't photograph the worst of the wells that collapsed, but this one (not actually flooded at the head) is an example of how the bricks react to the moist dirt.BTW the new wells will use a design less susceptible to flooding. Here are two examples of wells he built that did NOT collapse despite flooding. (this is how we will build the five we are making).

(Issa, a Dogon man in the neighborhood shows me his well that flooded but didn't collapse.)(They were able to fill this sinkhole in and save the well)I have also been working with my French colleague to see if we can build a much-needed dike to prevent future flooding in this area.

Second, I am working with a women’s association to create a cereal bank. YOU will be able to help with this one by donating online (100% of proceeds go to the women via me [who your tax dollars support by funding Peace Corps, a gov program]). So keep that in mind as something that is coming up later. I will write more soon and keep you posted on the project’s status.

In the mean time, the project you have already helped me with is moving right along (this Peace Corps Partners Project must be completed and closed before the next one can be submitted). The millet harvest has been cut so we are now buying feed for the cows and should be selling them at market soon. I’ll let you know.

Well. Congratulations to anyone who actually read that. I know it was a lot of really specific detail (to my specific situation). I can’t write my blog do-dooni. I have take the time to travel to our office and then sit down and write it and then go to the cybercafe and then post. I spend most of the time in a town with no electricity (let alone computers) so thanks for forgiving my long delays and then beasts like this.

Just as a side note, I really don’t know who is reading this thing. I mean, I know a few of you (probably the all the ones who would read this whole post to the end, and then some), but randomly I hear about other people who read it that I didn’t know about. Anyone with the time is welcome but try to remember that I don’t really know who my audience is. Hopefully my stories or language isn’t too inappropriate. Any chance of getting a comment “shout out” from anyone who is listening? Click on “Comments” below. Whatevs.

More Photos From a Broken Camera

HEY! PUN!

My counter part and his brother hard at work reading the pony ticket. Their family name is Camara. Pretty clever huh?

Pretty standard.

Papa (or papa frito as I call him), my host little bro. He's sweet.

Just assume this is a photo taken with an artistic eye, framed for maximum aesthetics and profound meaning. Not a "picture of chickens" with the worst framing ever.

A Few Picks From a Hike

I love you all and will explain later. BACK TO AFRICA for now!

A Change of Heart

For all its challenges and confusion, life can be a beautiful place. For all our best intentions there is no such thing as a charmed life, and if there is, I’m not convinced I would want one. Some of my most profound and cherished moments come quietly, once I’ve gotten used to some sad reality. It’s then that something ineffable happens; a change of heart.

Sometimes I still feel more qualified to be friends with children than with adults. I don’t know, they’re funny to me and usually a spot more sincere and kind and fun than their adult counterparts. I find it hard not to greet the children in the families I’m closest to here and probably end up learning more from them anyway.

I’ll give you a wa fila if you can figure out where I’m going with this.

Some kids are really reluctant to warm up to me. I’m this big, goofy, white, beast that for all they know (and possibly for all their parents tell them in jest), is some sort of white devil (i quensu orcha). I’m a wandering aberration of humanity to them and some kids just don’t like me. It’s funny to me most of the time and I just learn to accept it.

Recently, on my way back from market I spotted amongst the masses three little girls that I knew. They are nieces of my work associate and I see them quite often on visits to his home. They are all funny and fond of saying “ISA! SuguMo!” on market day, which basically means “bring me back a treat from market,” which I find hilarious and hard to pass up since I used to do the same thing. Remember mom? All it took was the rattling of the keys to prompt a “Mom. Where are you going? (out.) When will you be back? (soon.) Will you bring me a treat? (we’ll see.)” But I digress. Here were three little girls saying “Isa!” and holding out their hands to shake mine. Something was different though. Their youngest sister was holding out her hand too. This is the little girl who runs to her mother when I come around. She cries when I come near. She avoids me like some kind of i quensu orcha. But there she was. Suddenly she knew who I was. In that crowd of people I was her friend somehow, when for a year I had only been a plague.

I know the friendship of a toddler is not meant to be important to an adult but it was one of those magic moments. I had sort of accepted things as they were. She, hates, me. C’est la vie. But then something entirely intangible happened and she was my friend. This wasn’t just a market day special either. I’m part of her family now and I haven’t done but what I’ve been doing all along.

When does this change of heart happen? Is it while someone dreams or on a whim? because I sure didn’t introduce anything novel.

Tamba was two years old when I came to Missalabougou for training (last year). We were the first group of volunteers to be in that village and I suspect many of the children had never seen a white person, especially a two-year-old Tamba. Understandably he kept a cautious distance. He wasn’t scared or mean, he just knew his family and I was something else entirely. Then one day, after a few weeks living in the same home, I was standing near Tamba, talking to someone and he leaned up against me. Just like that. Suddenly I was part of the furniture. Suddenly I was one of the family that could be leaned on as he saw fit. He knew I wouldn’t knock the poor sod over. We were friends. We were family.

What happened Tamba?

There’s only one other thing I can compare it to.

You know I was a missionary in Nicaragua? The people there were so open and willing to talk and fight and laugh and love. We brought a message to the willing. Anyone who wanted some hope, something true, something more. Some were compelled but—let’s face it—some of what we brought was hard to digest after a lifetime thinking something else was true. They had to dissect it and understand it and as long as they were interested, we did that with them.

But I remember the first time it happened. For weeks it had been visits with fun and learning but also doubts and confusion and questions. It seemed like a match at times. VS! The great struggle. They were honest and they felt enough truth to not abandon the bits that were still hard to understand, but the bits were not going to be ignored. Then, one day we came over, and the ref rang the bell but somehow it wasn’t vs. anymore. We were two friends on a walk in the forest, admiring all the same things. I couldn’t believe it. Suddenly everything had changed and trust had replaced doubt. Hope had replaced fear. They knew if they leaned on what they had learned it wouldn’t knock them over.

I like the hope and the trust. These moments make all the others worth the struggle. There’s something intangible there that the heart seems to be fond of.

Thank You

The project funding micro-finance for a women's association has been fully funded and is in full swing. Due to privacy law issues my project was funded during a window of time where they are not allowed to tell me WHO funded the project. Our many thanks to any who contributed. I'll keep you posted on the progress and impact.

These are the boys that are looking after the cows we bought and are fattening up to sell at market.

In Loving MemoryI left at 4am and biked under the moonlight out to the village to shoot the cows (with my camera) before they left for the bush. See those stones we're sitting on? I dropped my camera on that. It is broken. Enjoy some of the last photos my camera ever took. Don't ask me what I'm going to do about it.

A Shot In the Dark

That said, my camera actually still takes photos. I just have no idea what I'm shooting (there is no manual viewfinder) and I have no idea what I've shot till I travel to a computer and look. I took these photos post-camera shatter.

The 4th of July

Why do Malians celebrate their 4th of July on September 22? That doesn't make any sense.

NPR

I may or may not have accidentally called in to Talk of the Nations on NPR. They were having this show on Polygamy in the US so I called in as a Mormon living in a culture that practices Polygamy. Can you tell I was kind of nervous? I get stage fright. Still, because I love you (my cherished core of blog readers--you know who you are, I don't want to waste the half-line of text it would take to list your full names [middle names included:P]) and think you might find it funny to hear me on the radio, I'll share this gift:

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=14350293

If you can't listen to the whole show I come in at about 31:40.

Buen proveche.

Soccer

Hi Americans.

Have you ever seen that Simpsons where Springfield goes to a soccer game that ends in a tie? The spectators are so enraged with such an outcome that they start a riot and tear the stadium apart. Makes a lot of sense huh? I never really got soccer. Do you? How could a game that seems so boring and action-free to most Americans be so appealing to the entire rest of the world? I can explain it.

Seriously.

I figured it out.

Get ready to have your mind blown America. Cause I can explain the appeal of soccer (notice me not calling it football).

My house is directly behind one of the goals of our town’s soccer field. Lots of balls hit my walls, windows and fly onto my roof and into my yard. On many afternoons I have had occasion to watch the young men of Sofara play (they play every evening once the sun has lost its bite, before it’s dark) from my roof. I have a pretty good seat. As you watch the game you realize how rare and valuable a goal is. This makes each attempt so crucial.

One day as I watching, one of the players broke away from the defenders and was charging at the goal with just the goalie between him and the precious goal. The player seeking the goal (I don’t know what any of the positions are called) was playing skins and this muscular, black, charging bull reminded me of a black stallion charging into battle before a lowly pawn. It was kind of scary. Then I realized, that is what soccer is. It’s a battle. A real battlefield isn’t boring because it only takes one fell stab to kill a man. Soccer is like two men fighting to the death. Each goal attempt is like a swing of the sword. If the men are well trained they will understand how to defend against attack and cuts will be rare. That doesn’t make the swing any less menacing. But when the blade finds flesh? Suddenly the fight has transformed, the stakes for the wounded man, the losing team have become more desperate. They must strike back or become weakened and die.

Points in other sports start to look like cheap knockoffs of a true struggle. What is another basket in basketball? I can hardly stand to watch the first three quarters of most games. Football, baseball, remember those amazing come from behinds or nail biting finishes? What if the whole game was like that. What if every score attempt was THAT valuable?

Not all games are this exciting. Some are boring, like watching two crappy, unskilled fighters or a merciless slaughter (not so sporting). What do you think?

I still like an amazing baseball playoff game though. Remember Papi’s home runs against the Yankees? Priceless. I don’t despise soccer so much anymore though.

Kids aren’t funny

OK that quote was taken a little out of context. What I actually said was “I hope my kids aren’t funny.” Cause man, if they are, I know they’re gonna be cracking me up. And it’s hard to discipline someone when they’re making you laugh. I went to watch the Independence day soccer game and I was standing with the setting sun in my eyes so I shielded them with my hand at my brow. Then this family of four siblings shows up and start talking to me and decide it would be funny to imitate everything I did. This, of course, struck me as funny as well. So I have these well dressed kids (people get new clothes for holidays. It’s like the first day of school.) following me around and imitating my every move. As long as I thought it was funny there was no putting an end to it in their minds. I was impressed with how long the kept it up too.

Sasquatch

“That’s just saaaasquatch. That’s what that is.” Think it’ll catch on? I’m gonna see if I can get people to start saying it. Sasquatch as an adjective, I like it. I got distracted by that awesome word. Oh, now I remember. So when I visited my friend’s village back when we tried to fix the pump I had a funny little experience. Stop me if I blogged this already. I was sitting on this beautiful hillside enjoying the setting sun and just taking in the amazing valley view. As I sat there I could hear some little herder boys singing as they came up the hill with their cattle. I waited there watching them come into view, sitting perfectly still so as not to disturb the scene. BUT such is the life of a Toubab, that would prove impossible. As the boy got a little nearer (oh I don’t know, like 150 yards—still pretty far) he noticed something different about the familiar hillside. He froze and staaaaaaaaaared. What is that? I probably shouldn’t have but I could NOT resist. As he stared at me trying to figure out what I was, I didn’t move an inch until I new he was really concentrating. Then, in my best sasquatch impersonation I suddenly, beastlikefully stood up and stared right back. The reaction was hilarious, even at such a distance—maybe because of the great distance. In true cartoon style, he turned tail and ran as fast as he could to his herder friend. It was like an Abbot and Costello move. He pointed and they both stared and deliberated on what I was. They were clearly scared. Then I started to lumber around and hide behind trees then come out again and then stare. When I started towards them they retreated. Soon the novelty ran out and I wanted to see what would happen if I started to stalk them. So I start going from rock to tree, closer and closer. They retreated closer to their neighboring village. Then they found a third boy and sent him up a large tree to get a better view of what was coming at them. When I was getting close enough to where they should have figured out what I was, I started to run. Then I stopped. I watched them. Then, finally—as if testing a theory—the boy in the tree shouted a tentative “Ça va?” So I rewarded their courage and intelligence with a clearly human double-hand raise salute. Crisis averted. It wasn’t sasquatch at all! It was just a Toubab. Rare to these parts.

So I walked over to the boys and talked to them and asked their names and which village they were from etc. Then I took their picture as a reward for being part of my little rouse. Fun was had by all… well… me anyway. Here is a picture of the two boys. Notice the third boy in the tree.

This picture is entitled: “Is this turning anybody on?” The photo clearly answers the title question.

Me, Hassana, Umu.

For the love of the North. Mopti-Gao love.

Fresh Blood

Some might say “fresh meat,” but not me. I’ve sworn off Peace Corps relationships. Hah, Peace Corps Volunteer Swear-in was in September and Peace Corps Volunteer Swear-off was last April. Still going strong on both accounts. I don’t know how easy it will be for the non-PCV to understand the volunteer community but let me try to expound. You spend weeks (months even) at a time as the one cultural and linguistic outsider in little village, trying to integrate and make a difference in the African’s lives. Then, every so often you get together with other Americans, other PCV’s. Ah, it’s like a relief just to speak your language and talk about things that people will easily understand and commiserate. The loneliness can make you kind of desperate for familial contact and this leads to PCV’s “hooking up” to various degrees. But this is how it goes down: you like someone and you have like 3 or 4 days where you can be together constantly and it’s great and comforting, etc. Then, you go back to village for some amount of time and weeks or months can pass before you see the PCV again and then you have to see if your feelings match up when you see them again. Sometimes there could be an expectation to sort of pick up where you left off. This was something I realized I was no good at fulfilling. Hence my swearing off of the whole fiasco. There are lots of other reasons like the wisdom of avoiding “pissing in your own pool” as it were. The PCV community is your family and they’re what you’ve got for the next year or two.

So that said (TMI? Try living here.), after a year of being the newbie group, it is nice to have some fresh blood to get us excited and to help us see Mali through innocent (or disturbed) eyes again. I heard a couple of stories from our new volunteers that I thought were funny and reminded me of being fresh (you know, like without the trauma of having suffered one hot season, knowing you are destined to suffer another).

Dorome Dorome

One of our new trainees said “when I found out about how they count money, I was ready to E.T. (early termination – go home) right then and there. I felt his pain. In Bambara (other languages have their own equivalent systems) money is counted differently than in French. Money is counted in a unit called the Dorome. The Dorome is not 1CFA but actually 5CFA. So when someone says something costs 10 Dorome, the price is 50CFA. WHAT the origins of this are, I have not yet discovered, but it makes a day at the market quite interesting. So I’ve gotten a lot better at multiplying things by five in my head, but I still screw it up sometimes. Enjoy the sample scenarios:

“How much for the bananas?”

“3, 10. 4, 20”

Translation: Some cost 50CFA for 3, others 100CFA for 4.

“One hundred and forty.”

500 + 200

700 CFA

OK try to keep up.

“One thousand, six hundred, seventy and five.”

5,000 + 3,000 + 350 + 25

8,375 CFA

“How much money did you end up with for your project?”

“Eighty-one thousand, two hundred and fifty”

405,000 + 1,000 + 250

406,250 CFA

Then you compound that by the way the French count. Did you know this? It goes:

10

20

30

40

50

60

60 10 (70)

4 20 (80)

4 20 10 (90)

Why can’t we just say seventy, eighty and ninety like in Spanish? Would that be so hard? So to say 95 you have to say “Four-Twenty-Ten and Five.” Am I the only one who finds this irritating? And don’t get me started on the French keyboard. The semicolon is one of the primary keys but you have to hit SHIFT+semicolon to get the period. Are they just trying to be difficult? WHO IN FRANCE IS USING THE SEMICOLON MORE THAN THE PERIOD? OK I’ve had my rant. I was just never that good at arithmetic or typing in the first place.

Finish your plate…

…there are people starving in Africa.

Ever heard this one growing up? Feel free to substitute Africa with China. Actually, I told some of my Chinese friends in Hawaii that this was an American saying and I don’t think they were as amused as I was. Anyway, I thought this other story was quite amusing.

So there is a trainee whose home stay family gives her bread every morning for breakfast. By all accounts they give her far more bread than should be expected to be eaten so she puts the rest in her bag for later consumption or whatever. So one morning after breakfast she’s on her way to class and she sees a typical (you know, malnourished) Malian dog. She takes pity and gets out her piece of leftover bread and tosses it to the pathetic thing. Wouldn’t you know it, but who should round the corner to witness this merciful act: a poor African child. His reaction was, what could only be described as a “what… the hell?” look of utter disbelief.

Oh, Africa. She’ll put your sympathies to the test, or at least put them into new perspectives.

The Other Hard Way

That last post was meant to have two stories but I lost the drive late in the game and quit. Now I think I'm ready. I've told some of you about my latest flash of inspiration: horsie. It is harder for me to make an impact in my town than could be made in the many villages in my commune. My idea is to get a horse and start riding to villages and getting to know their needs and how I can help and what village(s) might need a volunteer of their own (since I'm the last volunteer in Sofara). So I bought a saddle and found a guy with horses and he was happy to have me start riding his to get the basics. Oh, did I mention I don't really have any experience with horses? I'd say I've ridden a horse maybe 5 or 6 times before this.

Anyway!

I started riding his horse but just to start he left the rope tied from his right, front leg to the right, back leg so he could only walk (not run). I was lead along by the horse boy... actually that sounds like a freak mutant... he was a stable boy... there you go. OK so I got the hang of it. Early one morning I told him I was ready to ride the horse sans restraints but with a saddle (oh man bareback hurts, heylot).

Now there are two things I had to learn the hard way, I'll let you guess what they are, then I'll tell you at the end.

I get on this horse who, honestly, is taller than I am and huge and powerful to boot. The horse owner (and guy I study the Koran with) was nervous and baulked saying, "no, let's get the rope." I said NO, I could do it and jumped on the horse. So, I give him a little nudge and we start walking. Slowly, the horse realizes it's not tied up and goes a little faster and a little faster. I was fine with the trot. Kr-plunk, kr-plunk, kr-plunk. Then: kr-plunkity-dunk, kr-plunkity-dunk, kr-plunkity-dunk. And finally: Kerdledunkkerdledunkkerdledunk!! As we go from trot to faster I pull back on the reigns but he only goes a little faster. Then I pull back harder, FASTER. OK, don't panic, we don't want to flip this thing.

Now a bigger problem, I'm going way faster than I'm comfortable going and frankly, this saddle is not holding in place too well (duh, maybe that has something to do with the fact that it's basically tied on with one leather shoe lace). But now, the horse wants to leave the wide road and go down a little path it's used to taking to go graze. This is in an alley between mud houses and we're sure to destroy some poor little child in the process. So I start cranking on the reigns to go right and he desperately wants to go left. So instead of going on either path, we start going right in between them on a non-path heading for a shelter of wooden staves with millet stocks on them. These staves are just my height. You know, the height to stab me. Still, I knew the horse wasn't going to run into this wall and would stop short. What I was also aware of is how quickly horses can stop and I was NOT going to be catapulted at them.

So we are galloping full speed at this shelter (inhabited by kids selling peanuts) and I'm getting ready for the abrupt stop by holding on to the saddle with all my strength. Kerdledunkkerdledunkkerdledunk!! BAM!!! The horses feet kick the metal peanut tray with a bang and they go flying. I young boy runs from the shelter with an infant in tow (by the arm). The horse stops on a dime and the saddle flies forward and then to then back and off to the side where I land on my feet. I grab the horse by the bit and lead him, defeated, back to the house only a few blocks away. Malians fill the streets and laugh once the ordeal is over.

Now for the info that would have been nice knowing before my near death. A) That horse has been tied up for who knows how long. Days? weeks? It is a powerful horse with a lot of energy and it WANTED to go, to let off steam as it was sick of being held back. B) A horse can bite on the bit so it doesn't pinch and the horse doesn't have to stop. When this happens, one is meant to give the horse some slack till it relaxes it's jaw then pull back quickly, forcing the horse to slow or stop. Info I could have used like 5 minutes earlier.

When I got back I started yelling at the horse owner, "You don't tie up a horse for weeks so he has all this pent up energy!, then place a Toubab on top of him!, untie the horse and let it go free!! You need to run your horse every once in a while! Jeeze!" It was a playful scolding and we were both sort of laughing. He told me after that he was so scared when we took off. "My heart was going b-dta, B-Dta, B-DTA!" He was afraid he had killed a toubab, which couldn't have been good for him. Honestly, I wasn't scared causes I knew it would be OK but I did learn a couple things.

I always understood the saying "If you fall off a horse..." But somehow it has come to life even more vividly. I'll let you know how my next ride goes.