Finally upon us, it was time for the last night in Daoudabougou get-together Mamadou and I had planned. I set up shop outside Mamadou's concession while both Bocar and he went off to collect Adiaratou and Ba Oumou from Torokorobougou. Moussa fitini arrived shortly thereafter and was able to pick up Maman from closeby market. The list of guests was lengthy, and featured a group of people that otherwise would've never hung out together: Ivo, Foret, Adaman, Alfa Vieux, Drisa (with his wife and son), Vieux Camara, Siaka, Adiaratou & Ba Oumou from Torokorobougou, Maman from ACI 2000, Sidy from Yirimadio, Sekou from Faladie, Mamadou, Baba, Bocar, Kara from Sabalibougou, Sanata, Moussa (and a soccer teammate), Daouda, and Soumaila from Sokorodji.

Adiaratou and Ba Oumou came with letters they'd written for me, and Maman pulled me aside briefly to show a bag full of beaded bracelets and other jewelry she'd sent Adiaratou to the artisana market to gift my sister and mom. Otherwise, I spent most of the evening enjoying the company of Adiaratou while my friends played cards, brewed tea, and took photos.

Mamadou convinced Maman to spend the night, and we stayed up until ~4am chatting. The next morning I chat together with Siaka, Mamadou, Maman, Soumaila, and Batoma. Later, once Maman had left (both she and Adiaratou were attending their grandfather's funeral this afternoon), Kadia came for a short visit as well.

During this time, Moussa took me on a trip to the artisana to purchase my sister's drum, as well as another pair of dress slip-on loafers. Riding on a moto through the busy Friday crowds of market was a bit exhilarating and I was certainly sunburned afterward, but it was a fun experience nonetheless.

As the evening began, Mamadou took me over to the stage house so I could pack my things in time for my ride to the airport. Maman called but was so emotional it took three tries to finally say she was doubtful a trip to the airport would be possible. Adiaratou stopped by on her way to theater practice, and we both almost didn't make it through our last greeting exchange without tears. The man giving her a ride on his moto suggested she meet me at the airport after rehearsal, and she agreed but only if it meant she'd be boarding the place with me. I told her I only had room in my pocket.

Besides the awesome seeing-off party Mamadou organized for me at the airport (Baba, Bocar, La Vieux, Sanata, Siaka, Vieux, Daouda, Drisa, Moussa, Soumaila), with the assistance of Drisa and his taxi van, several good-bye's (or lack thereof) left me very much convinced that this cannot be this last time I leave Mali. Although Niang called me to say au revoir, Dicko was m.i.a. along with the 10.000f cfa he still owed me. Daouda and Soumaila called to say they couldn't make it, a stunning move that left Siaka speechless and ashamed. Maman and Adiaratou called to say they were on their way, but proved too tardy and check-in for my flight had begun before they ever showed up. I took Mamadou aside to give him the rest of my Malian money to split between the Comagara girls, and told him to keep them in his thoughts for me, occasionally call and visit them, give them my news, etc. Judging from the group of folks that made the trip to the airport to see me off one last time, I told him I perceived him to be my true counterpart and thanked him immensely. On my way to the terminal, Bocar lightened everyone's mood with jokes, but the last interaction, a hug from Mamadou, was the true moment of the evening.

As I sit in the Paris CDG airport gates this hours later, I can still barely write about this. Each line of text is broken with lumps in the throat and a quick look around to distract my mind before continuing onto the next.

First on the agenda today was a trip to the Algi Lab in Niarela for blood and urine testing. This gave me an unforeseen opportunity to eat one last time at Adonis, a Lebanese place in the same neighborhood our old bureau used to be, before heading back to ACI 2000. I had my final interview with my supervisor, Yacouba, who's technically on vacation but was more than willing to talk with me for a moment. He made sure I'd sent him my DOS (description of service) and site report information before thanking me for my service. Turns out he'll be in DC during late October, so we might just meet up there as I'm planning on doing some visiting of folks and job searching around that same time.

The strangest thing happened after all this. On my way to the volunteer house a guard who sits across the road asked as I passed if I was Mohamed. I told him yes, and he proceeded to tell me someone had come asking for me at the house last night. He said it was a Malian woman, she'd been on a moto, and left him a note to give to our house guard. Completely confused, I went to ask Daouda, the guard at the house, if he'd received this note. I confirmed the story just told to me by the other guard, and Daouda handed me the note on which was scribbled in barely legible handwriting a name, phone number, and in awful French to call, ending with simply je t'aime. Besides the bizarre nature of receiving such a message, it was more than disconcerting I hadn't the slightest idea who the hell this person was, but they knew my Malian name and where I slept. Daouda and the house landscaper man shared theories about this mysterious turn of events, usually ending in us shaking our heads and laughing at the extraordinary possibility of this type of thing even happening.

Later, once I'd arrived at Adiaratou's place in Torokorobougou, Adiaratou called the number from my phone, which this unknown woman didn't even realize, and asked where she lived in Bamako and how she knew Mohamed. The woman said she lived in ACI 2000 near a monument of an elephant I've only driven by a handful of times (none recently) and referred to me as her "older brother". Adiaratou and I laughed at my having learned I had a new sibling/girlfriend, and the rest of my visit was filled with jokes about this new discovery of Aminata, the name written on the note.

After learning Dicko had been on an IV all day with a malarial spell (he was really upset our rendezvous at Amandine fell through again), I spent the rest of the day with Adiaratou, Bam, and several of Adiaratou's relatives. In the evening, a couple friends of Adiaratou's uncle arrived to watch tonight's Champion's League match (Man U vs. Valencia CF), during which I brewed tea and entertained them with my Bambara conversation, both impressed with each of these skills I possessed. One of these friends agreed to let me spend the night at his house in Sabalibougou, an incredibly generous offer I felt awkward not agreeing to. This morning, after I told him about my Bambara language exam later today, he said I'd be fine because he'd yet to hear me make an error. We both laughed when he remarked I hadn't prayed yet this morning. As I caught a cab on the road near his house, it was time for another left-handshake and exchange of greetings and blessings.

17 September 2010

Perhaps even more uplifting and rewarding than renewing my friendship with Maman was doing a similar make-up with her younger sister, Adiaratou. Speaking of younger sisters, Adiaratou reminds me of my younger sister in many ways; they're both incredibly smart, good with languages, interested in the arts, and have quite strong personalities that can simultaneously frustrate but continuously intrigue you. In short, I love them both for these traits.

It had been an even longer amount of time between my last visit with Adiaratou than the absence between that with Maman, perhaps spanning back to last August (2009). Finally able to carry on a phone conversation without her either upsetting me to the point I could no longer talk or she herself hanging up, we set up a time to hang out yesterday afternoon at the place she currently is staying in Torokorobougou, a different concession from the last time I'd visited her in that same quartier of Bamako. She met me at the market there, where I'd caught a ride from Daoudabougou from my shop owner friend Alfa Vieux, and together we walked to her place, awkwardly chatting before I broke the ice with past memories of the crazy man in Kafara who referred to me in her presence as "Jacques", a name she has once again begun referring to me exclusively by.

We spent the afternoon and early evening watching Max Vacances on tv, followed by a piano special with many songs I can play ("Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring", "Moonlight Sonata", "Turkish March"), which led to Adiaratou claiming she could play any of the ones I couldn't. At the art school she attends, Adiaratou told me there is a piano, something I've still yet to see in Mali, save for the roll out keyboard Dad sent me. Saturday night at her school, there is a comedy night, and she wanted to go with me and laugh until our "battery dies". I brewed what may be my last round of "American tea" for her and her fellow mates (there were three other women with her in the concession, I'm assuming to be relatives), who enjoyed my ability to chat and exchange playful teasing in Bambara, especially with Adiaratou. She even let me pick a photo of herself to keep from her album, as long as I agreed to develop one of myself for her as well. I also was able to pick up from her 50th anniversary fabric Maman had purchased for me to bring home.

Our goodbye was quick, and coincided with yet another humorous exchange of banter between the taximan, Adiaratou, and myself, but she called later to make sure it wouldn't be our last, even if she had to come visit me either in Daoudabougou or Kafara.

This damn fungal infection (jock itch) acted up again last night, worrying Mamadou to the point he made me agree to call the doctor today and finagle a weekend stay at the stage house in ACI 2000. Fortunately, that is now where I'll be headed.

Moussa fitini arrived this morning to take Mamadou in town to develop photos for Soumaïla, Muriama, Maman, and Adiaratou. Before they were on their way, Moussa surprised me with a recount of Kevin Durant's dominance of the World Basketball Championships several days ago.

20 September 2010

Lots of interesting turns of fate today.

For the second time, my visit to Maman coincided with Mali's 50th year parade preparation, happening on the nearby strip of road that used to be Bamako's airstrip. Hundreds of military companies lined several blocks nearby the obelisk (bougie ba) monument, making the last part of my walk a bit nerve wracking. Certainly more terrifying, at least for Maman, were the flyovers by the fighter jets.

Standing outside BNDA, a random guy ordered a coffee from the same woman who's always out there selling drinks. He turned to me and asked if I'd like a coffee, cause it was good (in French). I said I was alright, but he insisted on buying me a shot of Nescafe.

Alhamdullilah, the latest in bizarre ailments I've caught in these final months (jock itch) has improved dramatically over the weekend. I didn't need that adding to the stress of this upcoming final week in Kafara.

The supervisor of the volunteer house in Bamako provided my biggest stroke of luck today, in the form of a free ride from the house to Daoudabougou. Although it took two hours just to cross the river because of traffic and detours, it was far better to spend that extra time en route in Daou's car listening to his music rather than the uncomfortable taxi I would've otherwise taken, adding injury to insult (because I would've had to pay!).

Awa may never understand how clutch the simple rice and peanut sauce she just happened to cook this afternoon. Having not yet eaten today, I couldn't have suggested a better option. It's my favorite!

Not soon after finishing my meal, Dad called, asked what was cooking (rice w/ peanut sauce), and caught up with me on what this last week will be like, relaxing me with assurances that buying gifts for folks back home shouldn't be a priority, because seeing me will be a gift in and of itself. For those whom this won't be enough (I'm offended, haha), he suggested a photo of me with my namesake, which he claims to be my highest achievement as a PCV.

22 September 2010 Le Cinquantenaire du Mali

Yesterday afternoon, while waiting for perhaps my last ride on Air Digan, planes could be seen flying over Bamako spraying dust trails of red, gold, and green.

I arrived from the capital with several important gifts, namely photos of little Lucas and I in our matching clothes for Soumaïla and Muriama along with soap for Fatou, a typical gift for any mother that's recently given birth.

Last night was perhaps a preview of delicious dinners to come in Kafara, courtesy of Emily's gas burner and plethora of culinary imagination. We had beans with Laughing Cow cheese and mayo which we spread on bread, topped off with banana peppers for a spicy bite. I sliced up some cucumbers too.

Maman and Adiaratou were in ACI 2000 for part of last night's Independence Day events, and I called each of them to prepare for a midnight countdown. But by the time midnight rolled around we were all ready to crash, back in our respective rooms talking on the phone from the comfort of our beds.

As always, Kafara appears different even after a short break in Bamako. Crops are twice as tall as I remember them, and the concession has sprouted two peppènaires loaded with veggies.

Visits to folks in town were dominated by villager's surprise at my approaching departure date, and discussion about what's in the works for my last night in Kafara. I was happy to see Ma fitini in my host family's concession, making for the possibility to say goodbye to her in person which otherwise wouldn't have been feasible unless I went myself to Djonkalan.

This morning Emily went with Muriama and Vieux to Ouélessébougou by bicycle for 50tenaire festivities that many villagers left for as early as yesterday afternoon. I chose instead to stay put in village and relax, spending the day instead with Dicko and Niang at the Med Clinic. Later I made a brief visit to Mamadou's parents to notify them I will be leaving soon but Sunday night people can come by and enjoy my last night in village together. Marietou, Mamadou's younger sister, and her baby daughter were visiting, and most of my visit was spent enjoying little Coumba's curious stares at the Toubab.

In what's becoming a nightly tradition, Emily and I were back at it again, cooking up all sorts of deliciousness. This has not only been fun for us, but it's becoming clear our hosts find it amusing as well. One by one, host family members stop by to see what's on tap, clearly enjoying the resourcefulness on display. My staple cucumber/tomato salad was spiced up with basil while Emily was busy creating potato pancakes we eventually enjoyed with ketchup. There was also a side of curried brown rice to round out another photo-filled cooking experience.

Spending the day in Kafara proved to be a good chance to have several special interactions with my Malian counterparts. I got to show Soumaïla and Muriama the 50tenaire fabric Maman gifted me, play with Sory and Coumba, and visit Fatou's newborn baby daughter.

On one of several bike rides to the shop in town, I passed the imam, giving me an opportunity to ask for Kadiatou's number in order to request her presence this weekend. Eventually, I made it to Dicko's place only to find him in his underwear ready for bed, but my arrival led to an enjoyable chat and suggestions on his part of a night together in Bamako at l'Amandine before I leave for America.

23 September 2010

Last night during our phone conversation, Adiaratou boasted that Mali's fiftieth anniversary clearly must've been better than America's because there were planes and cars involved. Besides, she was but only 10 back in 1826, so she remembers it all. This is just an example of the amusing quarrels Adiaratou typically picks with me.

This morning she called to prepare me for her arrival this weekend for my last day in Kafara, a most welcome development. No one has any confidence in this plan, but I've got a feeling Adiaratou is going to prove the doubters wrong this time, inshallah.

Emily and I spent the late morning sitting under the shade of the mango tree outside our concession brewing tea and playing her guitar. I'm thankful for the change of pace having my replacement around for my last several days in village. I knew it would be a good decision to stay for a brief overlap between their arrival and my departure.

My hopes of saying goodbye to Ma fitini in person were abruptly extinguished when I came back from a visit to Dicko's place to learn she'd returned home to Djonkalan. All of her trips take this impromptu disappearance act, and I felt sorry to have missed her farewell greetings.

Brief intermittent thunder and lighting passed over this afternoon, but it came without rain, good news for my obligatory trip to Ouélessébougou tomorrow to close my bank account.

The lack of rain made it possible for me to have my clothes washed for the last time in Kafara. Despite making these "last" observations more and more, it really hasn't sunk in yet that I'm leaving village in just a couple of days.

Easily the most relieving aspect of my leaving Kafara will be courtesy of Programme Sorgho, who've agreed to give me a ride to the Bureau. Alhamdullilah, I no longer have to worry myself with miserable thoughts of how I would've possibly managed to travel to Bamako with my bicycle, water filter, trunk, and bags on public transport.

I had Emily take a photo of me during dinner of hashbrowns with eggs, as I was enjoying my meal whilst wearing a forokiya. Later, Soumaïla arrived in a similar garb, yielding yet another perfect photo opportunity.

24 September 2010 "Last Ouélessébougou Trip...inshallah"

I caught transport in Dongorona almost as soon as I arrived at the highway, and the familiar crew told me to sit up front. Although I was able to get to the bank fairly early, there were more than 30 people ahead of me in line, so I went back outside and had a round of tea with the bank guard, who tried to charge my phone for me but the power outlet was malfunctioning. Finally, my number was called and I closed my account. The director was hesitant at first, but I reassured him I was only doing this because I leave for America a week from today.

Having wasted a couple precious hours waiting at the bank, I dropped my bag off at Ousmane's shop before quickly running to the post office to mail several letters for Emily before the chef de poste made his trip to Bamako.

From there I walked into market to sit and eat lunch with Lamine, where I purchased a gift for my sister. I inadvertently broke it a bit too soon in our conversation that I'd be leaving in a week, and the remainder of our last meeting was fairly melancholy.

Back outside Ousmane's shop, his Fula friends greeted me in their native tongue and were pleased with my proper responses.

The last place I went was under the shade of a tree nearby the post office where the crew of Air Digan spend the day in between trips. I told each of them to expect Adiaratou and her cousin Bam on transport Sunday since I'd be paying their fare.

If I'd stayed any longer, I might've missed the ride back to Dongorona, because I barely caught a spot aboard. Once we rolled up to the spot where fruit vendors set up shop along the highway, I went to Issa's briefly to invite him Sunday night in Kafara for my last night in village.

On my bike ride home, I met along the road three men who'd been on transport with me from Ouélessébougou. They were on their way to Dienfing, and we exchanged pleasantries before I continued past them.

I arrived at home in Kafara to see Soumaïla and Nanko enjoying Emily's guitar playing. I brewed tea and played a little myself while Emily received a call from home. Drisa came and sat for a bit too.

Soumaïla had me kill a chicken to have with another spectacular dinner, because Emily had hummus mix. We spread that on bread and then added the cucumber/tomato/onion salad I made on top. Heaven!

Later we enjoyed the company of Djèneba and Kadiatou, who I'm sure equally enjoyed the Tazo hibiscus tea on tap. I let them wear long-sleeves I had on hand for the walk home, but not before I snapped a photo of them wearing big person clothes on their little bodies.

25 September 2010

As I began the less than satisfactory task of organizing and packing my bags, the women of BENKADI were busy outside the concession making shea butter, eager to invite Emily to try her hand at it too. They sang and brewed tea all the while.

I made periodic trips throughout the day to Dicko's place, who checked-in with me each time on my packing process, mostly for opportunities to poke fun at me. He made a good recommendation for tomorrow night's food to be prepared for guests to my last night in Kafara get-together, that is to set aside the goat to be donated by Soumaïla for the invitees while cooking up a whole bunch of pasta for the rest of the folks who show up.

Daouda, Soumaïla's elder brother, arrived from Bamako today with Adaman, who's healthy once again, alhamdullilah. A friend of Soumaïla's made a brief afternoon visit from Djonkalan, and as we exchanged final goodbyes, he extended his left hand. That first left-handshake gave me the chills.

I biked to the shop to buy candles only to discover Air Digan stopped on the road, unloading passengers that included Mamadou. We walked back home together and caught up with each other's news.

He came over for another excellent dinner, which began with beans with chili powder and mayonaise before continuing onto pasta with tomato/onion sauce seasoned with basil and oregano, topped with Parmesan cheese. Emily also prepared sweet potatoes with cinnamon for a quasi-dessert.

Daouda may be scheming to pull similar tricks with Emily and Mamadou as occurred during my mother's visit to Mali. Siaka took Mamadou aside for a moment tonight to warn him of this, and recommend he keep low on my host family's radar for a bit. Unfortunately, I'm fairly certain Daouda and Soumaïla disagree on this controlling behavior, but given Daouda's status as older brother, Soumaïla can't do much about it. I suppose it's best Daouda isn't really around that much anyway. I was especially creeped out by his testament that he'd be in Kafara for everything that happened on my final days here. Did he think something was going to go wrong, or what? It was fairly unsettling to hear those words, but I decided not to let him ruin my mood, and made sure Mamadou wasn't intimidated by them.

26 September 2010

In true Daouda fashion (this man truly loves more than nothing else to be in charge, it's kind of charming, but otherwise laughable), he had me sit down together with Soumaïla to discuss when to kill the chicken they're giving me as excuse for the whole Kadia thing, discuss who will be going on the Programme Sorgho ride to Bamako tomorrow, and goals to achieve today.

Fortunately, it was just Soumaïla who accompanied me on a walkabout town to receive final greetings, blessings, and handshakes from elders in village. He received as many felicitations as me, something I found appropriate and appreciated. I asked each group of men to excuse me, before returning their blessings and thanking them for hosting me. Each of them made sure I would give them news occasionally, and several even suggested I make a return trip once I'd married, because they'd like to meet her! The 90 degree heat beating down on me during this walkabout left me exhausted, sweaty, and sunburnt, but I battled on through because this was an especially important cultural observance.

All the while, BENKADI women were busy shea butter making outside the concession again, and Mamadou played guitar with Emily as they waited for my return.

Mamadou and Siaka walked with me later this afternoon to await Adiaratou and Bam's arrival so I could pass off their fare to the Air Digan crew. The girls went to their host's place, and I sent Adiaratou off with a couple more of the bandannas my mom had left with me in addition to the photo of me I'd developed for her as promised.

Daouda had me snap photos as he and several other men killed the goat for tonight's invitees. While Emily and I prepared our portion (with tomato paste and mustard), Siaka fired up the radio and children began dancing before the sun had even begun to set. Little by little, crowds of folks started to form outside the concession. All ages were present; men playing cards, children dancing, and tea brewing taking place in several spots.

Adiaratou and Bam arrived right as our food was ready, and not soon thereafter, Niang and Mamadou joined us. Djèneba and Kadiatou were next to show up, followed by Bassirou, who provided us all with the best joke of the night. Emily facitiously referred to him as bobaraba rather than Ba koroba, and we all adopted this new name for our friend, much to his dismay. (Bobaraba means "butt"!) Unfortunately, Bassirou couldn't stay too long, because tomorrow morning he goes with his father to market in Diago. I must remember to call him before Friday.

Eventually, between rounds of tea Adiaratou insisted I brew, as I've quite the reputation with her folks in that regard, I found time to greet all those who'd come and thank them for their participation. Mamadou, Bam, and Adiaratou insisted I dance at least once, so I imitated Siaka's dancing to the sheer delight and amusement of all present. Dicko stopped briefly to sit in the concession next to Niang, but didn't stay long. We'll be seeing each other in Bamako this week.

Around midnight, Adiaratou and Bam went home to sleep for an hour or so, after which they came back to see most people left back for home. The three of us sat in my concession looking over photos on my laptop before the mosquitoes became too much of a nuisance, plus we were all ready to crash. It was 4am!

27 September 2010

Mamadou and I went together this morning to the Med Clinic as I'd told Kadia last night I couldn't leave without saying goodbye to her little son. As we hung out briefly with Niang, my phone rang – it was Soumaïla with a message that the Programme Sorgho car was on its way already!

We rushed home to quickly pack up my bags, I text Adiaratou a message saying the car was on its way, and I enjoyed a final meal of chicken with yams. Adiaratou, Bam, Kadiatou, Djèneba, Emily, Siaka, and Mamadou sat under the gwa as we anxiously awaited the car's arrival. Nerves were replaced with amusement at watching Mamadou on Emily's guitar, and several photos were taken with host siblings and the group of friends gathered there.

Eventually, however, it was time to walk my guests home for the last time. First, Kadiatou and Djèneba, and then Adiaratou and Bam (who I'll be seeing this week in Bamako inshallah).

Soon thereafter, the Toyota Hilux arrived with Sidibe and Seydou. Thus began the weirdest aspect of my leaving, that of loading the car with my things and saying final goodbyes to host family members and neighbors who'd gathered at my place to see me off to Bamako. That was perhaps the only time I could sense something in my throat threatening an outburst of emotion, seeing that mob of people around the car, but luckily Daouda and Muriama were going too, so it wasn't just for me right?

The ride to Bamako was quick, comfortable, and so appreciated. Daouda and Muriama were dropped off at the Tour d'Afrique monument before I continued on to ACI 2000. I thanked both Seydou and Sidibe profusely before they were on their way; I don't know if they understood how grateful I was for their generosity.

It didn't even matter that I had to pay for my first night at the stage house, I was so pleased to have arrived in Bamako with my things so stress free.

Adiaratou, Bam, and Mamadou arrived a couple hours later, spent the afternoon in Daoudabougou, and I found her about to board Baba's moto for a ride home in Torokorobougou in the evening. She told me my father greeted me, as Baba continued his joking cousin interaction with me, the Samaké, as he's a Coulibaly.

28 September 2010

And so the close of service process begins. Started in Alyssa's office to ask about prioritizing all the things volunteers have to do to finish up their service, before moving to Bocar's office to return my Bambara handbooks. I called him to schedule my language exam, which I'll be taking on Thursday morning with my LCF (language teacher) Abdoulaye. Next was checking in my bicycle, water filter, and med kit. I scheduled my physical exam with Dr. Dawn later today as well.

Before that exam, I went to the Restaurant Djoliba for a delicious lunch of mac & cheese, plantains, and a brochette. While I waited for my food, I called Dad to wish him a happy birthday, as well as describe how the last days in Kafara were, and plans for these last days in Bamako. He was excited of the prospect of acquiring the snake skin of that huge python, which is now in Dicko's possession. I'll have to ask Dicko about that tonight when we meet at l'Amandine.

12 September 2010

Relieved I'd even made it to Dialakoroba (the road between Dafara and Kafara is still a very long stretch to refer to as road), my mood quickly turned sour upon realizing the sim card in my phone wasn't mine; I'd forgotten to switch it out with my Malitel this morning. It sucks to find this out after recharging that account, believe me. Alhamdullilah, my Orange sim was available on my person, and I was able to call Maman and rendezvous just down the road, where she sat in a concession her father used to frequent. There we wait for her uncle to arrive, upon which he ran several errands in market, and we took the chance to buy tomorrow's dinner (cucumbers). Maman made sure I'd come with water, and I pointed to the bottle of water I'd just bought. She'd come with something like 5 bottles from her workplace in Bamako, something I felt to be exceptionally thoughtful but also funny in a cute way.

Upon arriving in Nièngue-Coro, Maman brought me around to greet her father's extended family, all of whom remembered me from past visits. I sat amongst innumerous younger cousins and siblings along with Maman's mother and aunts, our chats broken with interruptions of scurrying children to avoid konowolo, a customary dance that was taking place for end of Ramadan entertainment. Two villagers, dressed in costumes complete with head scarfs and masks covered in puka shells, ran about village with two tree branches which they use to punish anyone they might catch. I never saw this occur, but Maman insists she has scars from her younger days and past encounters with this tradition.

The konowolo performed a dance to djèmbe yesterday evening, and Vieux Ba (Maman's cousin) took photos. His wish to take a shot of me with the dancers made for an awkward exchange, because they don't speak. Those who spoke for them said I had to pay, something that rubbed the Malians with me the wrong way but they insisted today I'd get a chance to try again.

Each time Maman has traveled to Nièngue-Coro since her father's passing, her uncles have tried to marry her, to the point she wonders how long they'd been planning on such before her father had died. Last night, this happened again. We arrived at an uncle's house, sat down, a couple of his friends arrived, then he told me to sit and wait while Maman and he went into another room for several minutes. It was bizarre. One of the men was a hunchback, and the other fidgeted with a radio that played nothing but static before giving up and falling asleep in his seat. Maman and her uncle arrived, but only for a moment before Maman said for me to get up and leave for home. On our way back, she began to tell me about all this. Up until now, she's been able to reject these unwelcome suggestions of marriage, but if she's eventually forced into such an arrangement, she would 'disappear' (run away). We both sat in silence after this comment.

We took a walk a short ways across town in order to find reception to call both Soumaïla and Mamadou to let them know we'd arrived all right. The night sky was even more star-filled than those in Kafara, and it was pleasant to enjoy the silence of the reception spot for a moment before returning home.

For dinner, we were treated to fish fresh from a nearby river that Maman broiled in a veggie-filled broth in which we dipped bread. I'm privileged to be in Maman's culinary company.

30 August 2010

Siaka shared with me disturbing host family news that happened during my time in Bamako most recently. Apparently, Fousseyni beat his younger brother Adaman to the point he had to be hospitalized. Had Adaman not recovered, Fousseyni's father Daouda would've alerted the authorities of his son's actions.

Continuing an intriguing series of host family developments, this morning Soumaïla had me sit down with Daouda in order to formally apologize for his mishandling properly informing me of Kadia's marriage and newborn's baptism. Daouda added that since they perceived me as part of their extended family, I should've been told earlier than I had been and they asked for me to excuse them. The last part was admittedly lost in translation for me a bit, but I think it had something to do with them offering me something for all of this, maybe a chicken? I'm not sure yet...

Rather than join Soumaïla in Marako for a meeting with Programme Sorgho representatives, he told me to stay at home and rest off the remainder of the time I'm to spend finsihing my medication.

As Kadia (the matron) oversaw a consultation with Bari, the neighborhood Fula cattle herder, and another daughter that's recently arrived from his hometown, Niono. She was wearing a traditional Fula necklace from that region, and I asked Bari if it there were any others at his place I could gift my sister back home. My interest in their customary dress sparked both Kadia and Bari's curiousity (Kadia's Fula as well).

During my afternoon nap, I had two very paranoid dreams, only to realize I'd forgotten to take my malaria meds yesterday, which normally are to blame. The first dream had me on a mad search for my sandals outside a mosque in some unknown location. I eventually was asked by two patrons what was the issue, and proceeded to ask them in Bambara! They looked at each other completely confused by whatever I'd just said and asked one another in English about what my business was there in the first place. My other dream was especially vivid as well, as I swore I could hear my host siblings outside my hut playing the fold-out piano my father sent me recently. I awoke from this dream to immediately search for the keyboard in my backpack, only to realize it hadn't gone anywhere. Indeed, this all did well to jog my memory to take that Mefloquin I forgot yesterday!

A brief visit with Mamadou's parents revealed depressing news that they've run out of food supply. Mamadou's arrival from Bamako recently was to give them some money to buy millet from the shop in town, but those funds are dwindling already.

Per Maman's recommendation, tonight I went to visit with her friends Kadiatou and Djèneba, as she believed this would do well to curb my loneliness in village.

31 August 2010

A reunion at Kafara's schoolhouse this morning was the site of incredibly political speech (lies or bending of the truth) regarding the timeline and future plans of the Spanish NGO MZC's projects in village. Slowly, villagers are becoming more and more aware of the false nature of the village representative's intentions. Women's association members haven't a clue what the dues they pay monthly are going towards, and the Spaniard representative's latest visit left them discouraged at the various project's progress (especially the most recent results of the literacy classes, to the point those which were scheduled to begin tomorrow have been postponed until that Spanish representative comes here next Monday). Before they come, the cow corral and women's garden are in desperate need of attention and preparation. The village representative is worried about this for the wrong reasons, unfortunately, as I'm gathering perhaps some of the funding isn't making it past his pockets instead of assisting the development of Kafara as intended.

Vieux Camara made an especially poignant constructive criticism about the absence of younger villagers at the meeting, which was supposed to be aimed at addressing the future of Kafara. But other viewpoints from the likes of Dramand, equivocating women to children and not to be trusted, kept me cynical and discouraged. In addition, misleading comments by the village representative about what he referred to as infighting between Kafara's doctors completely falsified what actually took place.

For once, though, I had a pleasant interaction with Dramand later this evening as his brothers and he shared iftar. They offered me ginger juice, fried bean cakes, and peanuts. Dramand asked if I knew what fasting meant and my response that I'd myself fasted a week this year and seventeen days last year surprised him (in a good way).

Since I'm not fasting anymore now due to this latest amoebic parasite, I've decided instead to observe another Muslim cultural practice for the remainder of Ramadan: grow a beard! This could get un-presentable quickly...

A huge rainstorm tonight kept me at Siaka's place for a bit, and once the worst was over, as we walked the short distance to my house, a wood structure collapsed onto nearby mud walls, splashing pools of rain water everywhere and flooding the path ahead.

1 September 2010

Another weird dream came last night, this one converging past lives into one plot line, typical of the past two year's dreams. It involved a PCV friend and my high school tutor, was set in a retail workplace I had worked before leaving home, and the subject matter of conversation was all PC related. There was a bizarre argument about whether I'd wanted to join PC from all the way back during a grade school soccer camp, and plans were discussed for my last night in Kafara.

During a morning drop-in from Sanaba, the singer from Mana who was entertainment during my mom's visit, Siaka took the liberty to say my replacement would be coming soon, my time left in Mali was short, what day I leave Mali, etc. Just another typical sharing of other people's information to others while that person is present, making him seem like a know-it-all, which ironically he doesn't know is extremely obnoxious and not a good trait.

Walking back from a visit with Djèneba and Kadiatou last night, a cow lying in the road proved for an entertaining arrival home. It swatted Kadiatou with its tail as she passed, twitching its head back, sending a spooked Djèneba back into me, almost tipping us over into a puddle. The ensuing laughter was uproarious.

After informing Soumaïla of a change in schedule for my visit to Nièngue-Coro with Maman, I sat and chat with him and his friend Nanko Camara for a little bit. As talk of my last day in Kafara creeped into the conversation, despite the poor lighting, I noticed that a single tear streak could be seen on Nanko's face. I quickly changed the subject to the beautiful star-filled night sky.

3 September 2010

The new stage of PCVs swear-in today at the US Embassy in Bamako. Ensuing rains could make this ceremony interesting. My trip to Ouélessébougou was postponed due to the weather, so I asked Kadia to come back with a Malitel sim card for me. I finally decided to hell with it, even if I'm only here for less than a month, it'll be nice to spend those final moments with reliable cell phone reception in village. Plus, the sim is only 500f cfa.

Dicko's revelation that he'd recently begun treatment for typhoid fever made me careful not to be too fatalistic about my amoebic infection anymore. It could be worse...

Last night, together with Dicko and Niang, we listened to Cuban music on my laptop and Dicko told stories of his time in Cuba, including a hilarious account of trapping fireflies in socks for lighting during power outages. Along with the sweet potato fries, Niang surprised me with ketchup!

Today Dicko began referring to his place as a hotel, finally settling upon the name hôtel de rêve (hotel of dreams). He was upset to learn of Alou's misplacing my USB drive, and promised to make him replace it for me, as he didn't believe it to be truly "lost" as Alou still claims.

I ate cow liver for the first time today, something Dicko prepared while Niang and I waited for lunch to finish cooking. A huge rainstorm passed over tonight, and before it began I literally ran to Dicko's place with the Starbuck's Sumatra blend I'd promised to bring. Dicko brewed some as we put on "Salt", a film I enjoyed very much.

4 September 2010

Word must have reached Alou quickly, because today he told me between now and when I leave Kafara, he'd repay me the 8000f cfa I paid for the USB drive he still insists he misplaced. Upon telling this to Dicko later, he said to accept no money from Alou, only a replacement USB.

Niang added a little spice to today's cow liver in the form of fried plantains. I like! Last night, Niang said soon he'd reach the three month mark of his stay in Kafara. This comment had Dicko and I in tears from laughter, having ourselves reached two years!

I'm now reachable toujours in Kafara with this new Malitel sim card, with reception found everywhere.

Close to two inches of heavy rain fell on us today, with water pooling up to my ankles in some parts and making the walk home across village more of a wade.

6 September 2010

Ah, the rains just keep coming. To borrow a Czech phrase, it's raining tractors, y'all. Two inches last night, two more this morning, ruining yet another attempt to take a trip to Ouélessébougou. The road between Kafara and Dafara proved impassable, with a trailer truck sunk in the road, and bush taxis getting stuck in the ditch trying to get by. Three were pulled lose, but one is in need of some towing. It was an unbelievable scene. I need to get to Bamako to pick up fête clothes this week, but these rains may keep me stranded, as I'm discouraged to even walk across town let alone think of leaving for another town!

Maman's friend Mam, the younger sister of Kadiatou, was joking with me all day about her plans to go visit Maman. I saw her later at market in Digan, upon which I realized I'd been pulled a fast one, but kept it going by fecitiously asking if she hadn't left yet.

Maman had been calling me all day from her Malitel number I didn't know, and without presenting herself and assuming a unrecognizable voice, pretended to be upset with my not returning any of those calls. Eventually, once I was able to buy credit, and after the last prank call finally realizing the caller's identity, I played along with the joke like I'd done with Mam, to the enjoyment of all.

Sidy arrived a couple nights ago, and we had a good chat about Maman yesterday evening. That same night, Lamine came by Siaka's to show his siblings the fête clothes Muriama got him, to the approval of all present.

During a rain storm that lasted five hours, Dicko, Niang and I took advantage of the opportunity to nap. Niang woke up with really bad feverish symptoms, violently shivering and eventually got hooked up to an IV around 17hr00.

Dicko cooked up some mixed veggies with fried potatoes, followed up by a round of Starbucks coffee brewed by moi.

Tonight, the twenty-seventh night of Ramadan, marks the most important round of observances at the mosque, where clerics will read Quranic verses for several hours.

7 September 2010

I could've sworn I woke up to the sound of Bakary's voice this morning, but I must've been dreaming again, because he's not here!

Dicko and Niang had already left for Bamako by the time I arrived at the Med Clinic this morning. Apparently, the MZC representatives wouldn't be coming today. They'll be in Bamako until next week. I'd gone primarily to collect my backpack of stuff that had been in Dicko's room mostly out of convenience, as we'd been watching films on my laptop as well as Niang's. When the battery was low, it could be charged there on site. My other chargeable items I kept the plug-ins to in that bag as well. Since I knew they'd be leaving today at some point, although I didn't expect it to be so early, and as well as I'm planning on my own trip to Bamako tomorrow (inshallah), it was time for the bag to return home.

It's that time of year again, when IER (the NGO who oversees sorghum projects) comes to Soumaïla to purchase cows for the end of Ramadan. So it goes for the past ten or so years. After a drawn out bargaining process typical of any Malian business transaction, the cow was loaded into the cab of their truck and they were on their way. They'll be back tomorrow for a second cow, and the plan is I'll be catching a ride with them to Bamako. The word is that the trailer truck and bush taxi stuck in the road between Dafara and Kafara have finally been tugged out of their respective holes, allowing a route for cars to pass once again, alhamdullilah!

Over a quick three rounds of tea with Soumaïla, I learnt the Bambara and Arabic names for last night's observances at the mosque. The 27th night of every Ramadan is considered the most important day of this significant month of the Muslim year, because it's historically believed to be the night the prophet Muhammad received the Qu'ran from Allah.

I gathered my notepad, camera, and phone for an afternoon trip to Kaba. The bike ride was muddy, with rain puddles sometimes covering entire patches of road along the way. Before I went after my phone business, I snapped several photos of the granite formation and surrounding greenery. It'd been a while since I checked my Orange sim card for messages, due to lack of reliable reception, and sure enough I had several. My replacement's postponed arrival in Kafara is apparently due to a dental check-up, and as she's at the Bureau for now, wanted to know if I would like her to bring a package she noticed had arrived for me. After writing down her phone number, I replaced the Orange sim card with the Malitel, saved her number and then returned my dad's call to let him know I'd be reachable in Bamako tomorrow.

It seems birthday wishes for my grandparents and uncle will have to be shared via email tomorrow. I tried my grandmother's house but got no answer, and a quick try of my mom's cell resulted in similar lack of contact, so I left a message to wish her parents a happy birthday.

Soon this rainy season will eclipse 1000mm of accumulated rainfall, and we're on track to have a better one than last year's. Since the first of September, it's already rained more than 150mm, with rains coming every day. This is all good news for farmers and their crops, but some of the downpours have led to structural damage of people's homes. It also creates headaches for anyone trying to make plans (see myself) of visiting Nièngue-Coro, how to get to and from Bamako, even the get-together in the works for my last night in Kafara.

8 September 2010

I made a trip into Bamako today. While waiting in the bank, I got a call from Yacouba, my supervisor, to inform me that my replacement and he were in Ouélessébougou, and would later drop her off in Kafara. On my way from Hamdallaye ACI 2000 to Daoudabougou, oncoming traffic was backed up from a monument to halfway across the new bridge! I was able to see Baba, Mamadou and my mutual Daoudabougou friend, briefly during his short stay in Bamako on break from construction work on the border of Ivory Coast.

Our ride home on Air Digan was insufferable, with people packed in like animals. Our arrival in Kafara came past dusk, and Mamadou and other passengers broke their fast before we'd even reached Dafara.

Mamadou, Soumaïla, and I chat with Emily until she went to bed, then Mamadou and I moved to Siaka's place, lying on a mat under the gwa until spitting rain began around 23hr00. During a call Mamadou made to Bassirou, filled with an exchange of playful insults, Bassirou insisted we weren't actually at Siaka's. Arriving covertly later, he surprised both Mamadou and I from behind, leading to a wrestling tussle filled with laughter from all present.

No one knows if Ramadan ends tomorrow or Friday, due to a disagreement about whether the new moon has been seen yet or not. Whenever that day happens, though, I've acquired my fête clothes and they're brilliant. Now we just have to find Soumaïla's sheep from Dad between now and then, probably tomorrow sometime.

The trip to Nièngue-Coro has been re-scheduled again (second time), because Maman's boss is on vacation and she doesn't want to be gone when a relative of his comes back in his place. So, inshallah, we'll be gone from 11-13 September.

9 September 2010

Around 3hr00 last night, Malian religious and political leaders met in Bamako and finally agreed to observe the end of Ramadan today. I was surprised by Soumaïla's fête greetings this morning, expecting them tomorrow. I'm fairly certain no other Muslim country observed this holiday today, making it seem a bit fake. How can Mali observe it before Mecca?

But the show goes on, and photos were taken with Mamadou's in matching outfits, prayer in the mosque, and cow sacrificing. No significant rain fell today, alhamdullilah, making afternoon greetings in town manageable. Sidy, Mamadou, Emily and I went to the village chief, imam, and a couple host family relatives homes before dusk fell, and we returned home to enjoy a chicken from Mamadou and cucumber salad from outside my hut.

10 September 2010

Three and half inches of rain later, my concession wall became the latest victim to this month's weather-inflicted damage that can be seen across village. This leaves me worried about whether I'll make it to Nièngue-Coro tomorrow due to impassable roads both near here and there. Market in Dialakoroba, where we're meeting her uncle, is keeping my hopes up for good luck on the road, because those who wish to sell goods at market will be coming from thereabouts.

Together with Mamadou, we went into town to finish the sheep transaction with Solo for Soumaïla's sheep from Dad. Rain soaked us on our way home. Later, we went back that direction for photos of a python that had eaten two lambs before villagers were able to capture it. Then it was off to Solo's house to eat before returning home, shortly thereafter followed by children with the sheep, and photos could be taken before Mamadou took my bike to Marako as rain started again. I told him once he'd arrived in Bamako to buy an Ivorio juice to combat what we'd expect to be a wet trip.

The women of BENKADI came to greet Emily before rain pushed us back inside. The wall to my concession is now covered with a makeshift screen of thatched grass, which is suitable for now because to try and reconstruct the mud wall again would prove futile with such consistent rainfall.

Emily's first attempt at cooking in village began with a struggle to connect the gas to the burner, but eventually we enjoyed a delicious spaghetti with tomato and onion sauce along with a chicken from Soumaïla.

A couple calls came in the evening, the first from Dad, who heard his sheep in the background. Mamadou called to tease me about his luck of finding a taxi to Bamako along the road to Dafara. I made sure he still bought that Ivorio drink despite his dry arrival. Continuing our playful exchange, he said he'd only do so if we'd set aside his portion of chicken and pasta.

I'm thankful Kafara didn't have the amount of rain that fell near Bougouni. If close to ten inches of rain spilt upon us in one foul swoop, we'd be awash!

26 August 2010

After five days on medical hold at the stage house, I'd finally figured out what had been behind this latest spell of poor health. After several negative samples, a lab result I'd been expecting came through, revealing another visit from my amoebic friends. This go-round, I have both active and inactive forms of the parasite, which means two medications that will fill the next ten days.

Although it's not been under the best of circumstances, this time in Bamako has allowed me time not only to relax but also to contemplate future plans. One of my friends back home is compiling a network of RPCVs and Carleton alumni in DC for me to meet during my eventual visit there, and I even applied for a job position posted on idealist.org as an African recruiter/scout for an organization called One Acre Fund. Heck, I also happened upon an organic deli (Papa Gee's) in Portland my vegan friend agreed to take me to see, adding they'd be happy to have a guest from Africa.

For now, I'm spending a couple days with Mamadou in Daoudabougou before continuing on to Kafara this weekend. Last night, we got our measurements taken for our end of Ramadan fête outfits, and later tentatively planned out final errands I'd like to see through during these last four weeks in Mali (trip to Nièngue-Coro with Maman ~14 Sept, Malian Independence Day with Mamadou 22 Sept, trip to Tamala with Mamadou 23 Sept, packing in Kafara with Mamadou 24-26 Sept, final visit to the artisana market ~28 Sept, farewell at airport 1 Oct).

28 August 2010

It seems everywhere you look in ACI 2000, preparation of some kind for Mali's upcoming 50th anniversary seems to be taking place. Workers painting medians and sidewalk curbsides red and white, construction projects abound paving roads and installing street lights, police demonstrations, even parachute-rs practicing above! All this must be fine-tuned for the ever-approaching 22 September presidential parade planned nearby the Bureau and volunteer house.

After eating a big lunch at l'Amandine in order to watch my first Premier League soccer match of the new season, I was hungry again by 17hr00, another reminder of the lingering amoebas in my gastrointestinal tract.

While awaiting the return of Mamadou from an errand in town, I got a random urge to send our mutual Daoudabougou friend Baba a text message. Very soon after it was sent, he called me back for a brief chat, even passing the phone to a friend I assume is also working in a village nearby the Malian border with the Ivory Coast. Before Baba said so long for now, he told me to greet friends in Daoudabougou and hopefully meet up with him during a brief visit he's making to Bamako for the end of Ramadan fête.

29 August 2010

Last night, Mamadou's friend and cellphone repair work station supervisor Moussa arrived having accomplished the mission I sent him on to find me a pair of muké loafers for my fête outfit. They're a light blue leather that will match the brown shade of bazin I'm having made for Mamadou and my namesake to wear along with me. The reason I had Moussa go search for these was two-fold: he knows the big market in downtown Bamako inside-out and since he's Malian, the sellers wouldn't rip him off like they might try to with a Toubab like myself.

Continuing last night's fête outfit theme, Mamadou and I went together to pick up his father's outfit from the tailor. It's a handsome bazin complet of a similar shade to what the Mamadou x3 will be wearing, inshallah.

Now, Mamadou's off developing photos in town, some for himself, some for Solo Camara (our friend Samba's dad) in Kafara, and two photos of my namesake for Muriama, per her request.

17 August 2010

Another less than inspired sukuri (another energy bar and that same rice with sauce I don't prefer) left me fairly worried for today's fast. Hopefully, it won't be hot like yesterday, which could save me at least for the thirst part, which has always been for me the hardest aspect of fasting.

(Later...) One of these days in village, I have to record the breaking of fast prayer call that plays over the radio. As time approached the breaking of fast, a storm passed over, pushing me inside my hut. Adama arrived with a cucumber salad and a ginger flavored drink, and together we sat listening to the radio for that signal to begin eating. When I asked him whether he wanted to take part, he told me I should eat first because I'd been fasting today. I taught him the Arabic name for the meal, iftar.

Ma fitini arrived yesterday from Djonkalan, and kept me company today together with several younger siblings and Umu, the fulfulde girl from my host's concession.

I just remembered yet another interesting tidbit I learnt about mirrors, slowly becoming an ever curious example of Malian culture. During one of my nights spent in Daoudabougou, I made sure to remember to tell Mamadou about what Siaka had said about using a mirror at night. Mamadou’s explanation was to infer the belief it would scare away good spirits upon seeing their reflection. He added that if you must check your reflection once it’s dark to make sure both your ears are visible. I went on a small tangent and asked why Malian hunters wear a mirror around their neck. He said this was to either attract the prey’s attention with reflecting the sun’s light, or to calm it upon seeing its reflection so it doesn’t run away.

19 August 2010

After another day spent entirely in bed with body aches and feverish chills, without the consultation of any medical personnel I decided last night to start another round of Coartem, an antimalarial agent. The night before last saw temperatures fall to 68 degrees, and from that point on my body was clearly having issues regulating itself. I’m disappointed this may interrupt my fasting, only a week into the month of Ramadan, as I’d hoped to observe the whole thing. These past couple days have really been discouraging in that regard, because up until that point in Bamako, I’d been having no issues whatsoever with the fasting regiment. But as soon as I arrived in Kafara, it became very apparent that even in good health, fasting in a village where availability of food is already an issue just isn’t realistic.

Ma fitini left for Djonkalan this morning, and no sooner had I fallen back asleep when I was woken up by the voice of Mamadou, who’d just arrived from Bamako. He’d come by to surprise his family with some meat to break that day’s fast, along with I’m expecting a bit of money for his parents. After only a couple hours working alongside his family members in their field, he arrived at my house showing off blisters. Rather candidly, I told him the challenges that fasting in Kafara had presented me, only now compounded by the fact I was now quite sick. Empathetically, he agreed it was best to get back to Bamako so I could get proper medical attention, and underscored my premise that fasting in Kafara was a fool’s errand. We tentatively planned on my traveling to Bamako for Sunday, once I’d finished my Coartem.

Later in the afternoon, I went with my phone to the med clinic to charge the battery so I could call the doctor about my latest symptoms. Dicko immediately inquired as to my ill disposition, and told me to call with his Malitel phone, which I could do from that very spot due to that service’s superior reception in village currently. Although my doctor seemed upset that I’d started another dosage of Coartem within two weeks of finishing a previous round, I did my best to defend this course of action because I didn’t know what else to do given the circumstances, i.e. I’m where there’s no doctor. Plus, and I’m no doctor, but I’d been having what I’d been told to be malarial symptoms and malaria terrifies me. After explaining all this to a professional, I was told to get myself to Bamako as soon as possible to get proper tests taken in order to continue treatment. So much for that Sunday idea.

Dicko invited me to share in a wholesome meal thereafter, and made sure I was no longer fasting. This led to what began as playful teasing from Niang quickly turn to sour insults from Kadia’s husband belittling my fasting as meaningless because I am neither Muslim or praying. Quietly to myself, after my own private and equivocally disrespectful rebuttal, I found amusement that this same man was proud to invite me to join the men in village for funeral observances at a mosque. Looking back, I suppose I’m glad he doesn’t know that despite my technically going to the mosque, I sat outside. Also, I would've been happy to let Kadia's husband know that last year when the imam himself found out I'd been fasting for Ramadan, he personally told me how much this impressed him.

11 August 2010

Air Digan was, for once, on schedule today, and sat honking for me as I made it to the stop just in time. I’d be spending the rest of my replacement’s time in village (through Saturday) with Mamadou in Daoudabougou, where I hadn’t been for a month.

For whatever reason, some Malians decided to fast today even though Ramadan wasn’t officially beginning until tomorrow. Even the BNDA I went to in ACI-2000 wasn’t observing it’s Ramadan work hours yet. I proposed to Mamadou we have a nice dinner before the month of subdued observance, where there’s no marriages or parties of any kind. So we invited his girlfriend Sanata for a meal at Amandine, where we incapacitated ourselves with a delicious selection of dishes, from steak to Spanish omelets. There were several memorable moments, as expected and hoped for whenever I treat my Malian friends to such an experience. I’m fairly certain it was Sanata’s first time eating out, and since she couldn’t read the menu, Mamadou and I helped her decide what she wanted, but not without some teasing about her indecisive manner. When she said anything we would like she would as well, Mamadou immediately suggested the frog’s legs.

Mamadou and I watched music videos on my laptop outside his concession before calling it a night. Maman called with news that she’d passed her exams, leaving us with pleasant dispositions on this last day before Ramadan.

12 August 2010

Mamadou woke me up around 4hr15 for sukuri, the last meal before the fajiri prayer call signaling an end to all food and drink until fitiri, which right now is around 19hr00. Just thinking about fasting until that time is torture enough, let alone doing so! Mamadou found my phone ringing and it was Maman making sure I was awake. Then it was back to sleep until quarter-to-eleven, when we woke up to a light rain falling outside.

We made an afternoon trip to the cyber café so Mamadou could update my mom on the latest news about his studies, which have begun once again under specific terms agreed upon between the Malian government and the university professors for the next couple months. He added that Ramadan began today, and I was fasting with him.

Just as Mamadou finished his bucket bath, the concession’s radio signaled the end of today’s fast at 18hr53. Mamadou told me to begin my iftar with tamarind, a particularly common food I’ve noticed in Malian Muslim cultural observances. After filling my cup with Ceylon tea, I moved onto takula, another food specific to breaking fast during Ramadan. I enjoyed the furu furu dipped in meat broth, but finally settled on drinking the rest of my tea, as I was very thirsty. There were also potatoes, melon, bananas, and hibiscus drink.

While Mamadou finished the long safo prayer (17 repetitions!) typical of Ramadan, I called Soumaïla to see how Kafiné (Emily) was doing. He assured me everything was going very well, and she even paid a visit to the fields today.

Due to chilly temperatures, Mamadou and I spent the first part of the evening inside, but later moved out briefly to sit outside the concession with Bocar and Hamidou. Bocar dialed up Baba, who’s moved from the border of Burkina to the border with Cote d’Ivoire with his construction work. We had a chance to greet each other for the first time in a couple of months, but before long, Bocar had to cut the conversation short because rain was threatening to push us inside. After waiting it out for at least half an hour, the storm showed no signs of stopping, so Bocar borrowed my windbreaker and Mamadou’s rain hat before putting his phone in one plastic bag and his wallet in another. Then he was off into the wet night towards home, where his moto was still sitting outside getting soaked.

13 August 2010

During sukuri in the early morning, the sounds from my laptop of Big Boi’s new album Sir Lucious Left Foot The Son of Chico Dusty accompanied Mamadou and my shelling of hard-boiled eggs, the whining of Lord knows how many mosquitoes, finally concluded with the fajiri prayer call signaling the beginning of today’s fast.

A couple hours of sleep later, I woke up to the realization that today was Friday the 13th, only to shortly thereafter receive a text message from Orange informing me I’d won 5000f of bonus credit via Tombola, some kind of lottery awarded to those who frequently purchase credit. Apparently, I could’ve won anything from credit to money to a moto.

Despite another afternoon soaking of rain leaving the dirt roads of Daoudabougou nearly impassable, Mamadou and I took the opportunity for an evening spontaneous trip to visit with Samba, Lasine, and Moussa at the original Daoudabougou spot where I used to stay early last year.

Seven weeks from today, I’ll be leaving Mali!

14 August 2010

Mamadou expected to be spending most of today in town for class, leaving me to entertain/distract myself from today’s fasting alone. While sitting with Alfa Vieux outside his shop, Mamadou called to say he’d be coming around midday. This coincided perfectly with Maman’s arrival from ACI-2000, and they met nearby Mamadou’s workplace, riding in the cab together the rest of the way to Mamadou’s concession. The three of us had an enjoyable visit until ~15hr00, when I walked with Maman in a light drizzle to catch a ride back to ACI-2000. A friend of Mamadou’s older brother Vieux helped arrange my trip across the river with Maman.

I got out a little bit before where Maman would be dropped off, and walked the rest of the way to the stage house, where I met up with Emily. The rest of her week in Kafara seemed to have gone well, and she had stories of planting trees, as well as attending juma’a seli with N’Dia and Tia.

Arriving back in Daoudabougou for iftar, Mamadou had yet to arrive from his afternoon class session. As I sat down next to Vieux and took my first tastes of tamarind and sips of Ceylon tea, Mamadou could be heard and then seen entering the concession atop Samba’s new moto.

Mamadou and I sat outside the concession with Lasine, Moussa, Samba, Hamidou, and Sanata chatting, brewing tea, snapping photos, and watching music videos until past midnight. Sanata helped Mamadou and I with Bazin logistics for our End of Ramadan fête uniform idea. Bazin is a style of clothing that Mali has an international reputation for, and Mamadou and I would like to get matching shirts made out of the fabric, using the leftovers for a complet to gift little Mamadou Lucas. When Mamadou and I picked Bordeaux for our color of choice, Sanata immediately vetoed and instead suggested a type of brown for which I forget the French word. This is the third time I’ve wanted to buy Bazin and I hope this time it ends in my actually acquiring what I’d hoped for, because the other two times it either ended up costing too much or never getting made.

15 August 2010

Today I finally made good on my intentions to visit Dicko in Bamako. He lives nearby where I stay in Daoudabougou in the quartier of Niamacoro, and met Mamadou and I along a major road before walking us to where he lives with his parents and sister. The décor of salon was impressive, certainly carrying an African theme, and typical of other nice Malian homes I’ve been to, there were plenty of places to sit. I checked my email on Dicko’s laptop while he finished up early planning for a tour he’s guiding for six Spanish folks across Mali this December.

Tonight was my friend Megan’s last in Mali, so I went to meet her in Niarela, upon which she immediately bought me ice cream. After that we went to Le Campagnard, perhaps due to subconscious nostalgia, and were treated by the bartender for all we had there (beer & pizza). Megan is the last of my PCV friends to leave for America, and for now, it’s just me until Peter comes back next month.

16 August 2010

Despite waking up around 9hr00, Dicko wasn’t answering his phone, and Mamadou and I arrived at his house no more than half an hour later to find out he’d left long before, without bothering to let us know. For whatever reason(s), this led to an especially dark thought-filled morning, as all the negative experiences I’ve had in Mali seemed to boil over. Going to Kafara was the last thing I wanted to do at that point.

I went anyway, and decided to stop whining or making excuses. After a week or so, I can finish Ramadan in Bamako like I'd originally planned, if nothing else for my phsyical and mental well-being.

My worries about availability of food in village with which to break fast came true, and an underwhleming iftar (an energy bar, porridge, and rice with a sauce I don't prefer and even after not eating most of the day couldn't force myself to consume) was a discouraging preview for the next several days.

Soumaïla was very happy with the copy of a Bambara teaching method booklet Mamadou helped me make for him while in Bamako, but perhaps the most impressive thing I accomplished during my trip to the capital according to my host parents was the purchase of new sandals for Fatim, who I'd noticed wearing an old, beaten-up pair.

7 August 2010

Ever since I showed up to Niang’s house last night around 20hr00 until midday today, rains have been coming and going. I shared with him the new Big Boi album, as well as my highest rated songs on my iTunes, along with the old photos from Dad and several on my laptop during my time in Mali. When he’d been packing up for his previous trip to Bamako, I had made note of his cologne. Niang asked if I had a specific brand I preferred, and I told him back home I exclusively wore any scent of Axe spray. After his bucket bath last night, he emerged from his room holding a can of Axe, leading to celebratory remarks in French from me before applying a bit for the evening.

8 August 2010

During my visit with Maman, she’d remarked about the particular requests of food to prepare from her Mauritanian hosts. Every night, for example, they eat spaghetti noodles, to the point the odor of such food makes Maman queasy now. When I called her last night, she jokingly asked if I wanted to come eat some spaghetti. In turn, I told her no, I’d prefer bananas, a food I know she doesn’t like even more than spaghetti at this point.

As if I’m not nervous enough for the arrival of my replacement this afternoon, my neighboring hut almost doubled that anxiety last night. While putting away my bike, the flashlight beam from my cell phone alerted me to walls covered with cockroaches and a floor soaked with rain spots. Already my heart is pumping and then I see a hug crack above the window that goes all the way down to the floor, the same beginning of the end that befell (literally) the hut in my host family’s concession.

Now as I’m writing this in the morning, it’s begun to rain. These next couple of days could make for an interesting psychological experiment, folks.

Sitting in my dark hut typing up this entry, little Ami arrived to collect my drawing pad and colored pencils. Shortly thereafter, Sori arrived to sharpen a pencil for his older brother Adaman, who’d just come by to pick up the notebooks he’d been drawing with during a past rainstorm. Adaman came to check up on what was delaying Sori’s return, and found me using my cell phone’s flashlight to search for the pencil sharpener, as Sori was distracted by the sounds of Big Boi on my laptop, clearly enjoying himself. Facetiously, Adaman asked whether flashlights should be used during the day, inquiring as to where I was that allowed for such necessity. I replied in kind, saying I was in the dark. It seems I’m becoming more and more strange to my host siblings, confusing what should be done during the day and night (remember Siaka’s comment about looking at a mirror in the dark?).

Sometime between 10-11hr00, several village children appeared under my gwa carrying large backpacks, cuing me as to the arrival of my replacement, who I saw immediately upon sticking my head out the doorway. Almost as surprising as this early arrival was the sight of Bakary among the crowd. It was still pouring, so we sat in the neighboring hut with Soumaïla and Muriama, ate peanuts, and I brewed tea and Tazo Passion. Emily, or Kafiné (a name exclusively for an elder girl twin, as is the case for Emily’s homestay namesake), speaks Bambara better than I remember I could during my site visit, and this may perhaps be due to the fact she’s not shy about speaking it. Once the rains subsided, and we’d each had a short nap, we went to greet N’Dia and Tia, the elder women of the host family concession, before eventually making our way to the village chief, as is proper protocol when a new visitor plans on spending the night.

As we arrived back home, Soumaïla presented Emily with her first chicken. We sat nearby the big mango tree, where we greeted host siblings upon their return from working all day in the fields. After a brief evening chat with Soumaïla, Mariam, Muriama, and Kadiatou, who made a quick impression on Emily, that was cut short due to spitting rain and cool temperatures (~70 degrees), I walked Kadiatou home and sat for a bit with her dad (the imam), a friend of his from Ouélessébougou, and Kadiatou before I became a bit embarrassed by how frequently I’d begun yawning, and head home for bed although it still was barely 23hr00.

9 August 2010

Today was the beginning of the introduction tour of Kafara with the new Toubab, who people in town would either assume was a relative or love interest of mine, never thinking it could possibly be another PCV. Soumaïla and I began by bringing Emily to the Med Clinic, where she had a chance to meet Dr. Niang, Kadia the matron, and Ba Kumba the pharmacist. Kadia’s little boy, Maga, was terrified of the new (white) face, but we all did our best to reassure Emily that soon he’d come around, as now whenever I stop by that place he runs to greet me.

The next place we went was the home of Moussa Doumbia, who is the vice president for the three groups of which Ba Samaké is president in village (the cotton co-op, the health committee, and something to do with the schoolhouse). After that, we walked to greet Fasogo Samaké, one of several advisors to the village chief, before making our way to the imam’s concession, where we found his younger brother, someone people come to for advice named Fatomo Samaké, farming a small section of corn. We found the imam himself across the way farming in his rice field.

During our midday break, Soumaïla wrote a list of the 30 members of his concession for Emily to learn the names. Dicko dropped by to greet and wish Emily good luck, as well as make her feel welcome to stop by the Med Clinic whenever she felt like it.

Later in the afternoon, we walked through several concessions on the southern end of village. A teenage girl from one of those we stopped by, Ba Coura Coulibaly, came by tonight to chat briefly with Emily and me.

Today was the two-year anniversary of my arrival in Kafara, for the site visit anyway.

10 August 2010

Since there was some sort of conference between parents of schoolchildren this morning, Soumaïla had Bakary walk with Emily and me to meet the important women’s association leaders, Bènè Mariko (garden), Kadia Traoré (cow corral), and Kunseko Traoré (who oversees all women’s activities). Unfortunately, none of them were home, but we did have the chance to greet their family members. The last concession we passed through, where Fatou’s parents live, were especially impressed and excited about Emily’s arrival. Walking around town in this manner led to it finally beginning to sink in that I’m leaving soon, but it was nice for villagers to know that someone else will be here after I’m gone.

While we sat waiting for the arrival of PC staff, Samba taught Emily the Fulfulde morning greeting exchange. Soon, Jajé Diarra and Seydou Keita from the Bureau came to bring us on a ride to the village chief’s concession. Once there, a very formal protocol took place to ask permission of the dugutigi to host Emily. Jajé proposed the idea to the chief, before the message was re-told to each of the villagers that had come, with either blessings or proverbs added along the way. Daouda Camara, Daouda Samaké, Soumaïla, and Samba Camara were all present for this ceremony. I was told to interpret and describe to Emily what had just taken place so she understood what I’m fairly certain, like I remember two years ago, had no clue what’d gone down.

This afternoon, back in the concession, Samba’s wife Umu invited Emily to help pound rice. Later, Emily could be seen pulling water with younger girls at the well. A couple of Soumaïla’s friends, Daouda Bagayoko and Yacouba Coulibaly, came by to welcome her as well.

During an evening visit to the butigi with Bakary, I noticed several men arguing about whether or not the moon had been visible, but apparently nowhere in Mali had it come out, meaning Ramadan won’t begin until 12 August.

4 August 2010

My Mali Visa expired 10 July, and during my last trip to the Bureau I wanted to have it renewed, but had the wrong passport with me to do so. This time, I came with my government issued passport that had been in Kafara and upon entering the Bureau grounds the admin guy I needed met me at the door. I also made sure he had deferred a student loan and I’d be given a ticket to fly home rather than cash-en-lieu. Sure enough, it proved to be a productive Bureau trip, and I even had two packages waiting there as well.

It’d been almost three months since I’d seen Maman, or even really talked with her. In a somewhat cowardly fashion, I initiated and continued this lack of communication without giving her a proper explanation beforehand. I simply needed some time to myself, to reevaluate how to approach the next phase of our friendship, as I will soon be leaving Mali. Finally, I called her out of my own accord last night, doing my best to maneuver past her understandable frustration and barrage of questions in order to explain myself.

She’d told me she was now in ACI-2000 and gave me basic landmark orientation as to how to get to where she was, as it turns out to be not too far from our Bureau, near Hotel Les Colonnes. Around the corner from the stage house, there’s a well-stocked butigi where I bought Maman some juice, yogurt and Snickers bars. I used the opportunity to ask the shop owner if he knew how to get to the area Maman had described, and as fate intended, he asked an elder man sitting outside who upon learning I understood Bambara offered to drive me to the hotel in his car, the first Mercedes with an automatic transmission I’ve seen in Mali.

Maman’s spent most of her days alone, with just a guard and a barren estate with just one tenant currently staying there. A Mauritanian family lives there, and listening to Maman’s account of her asking them permission for me to visit her there, it became very clear that these people live by a strict adherence to their particular sharia. Upon learning I was a man, they initially told her this wouldn’t be okay, because men don’t go see women as far as they’re concerned, they go see other men. After she fabricated some reason for my visit’s importance, and began to cry, they eventually allowed a one-time exception. This interaction left Maman skeptical as to whether Mauritania was a place she’d ever like to travel to, and she asked me whether or not it was. As this was my only exposure to Mauritanian culture, I could only agree that it was possible we wouldn’t enjoy a visit to the country, but regardless of our opinion of their lifestyle, it was important to despite our interpretation of it to be unfair to be respectful.

Wearing a pagna with a peacock design I recognized as the one I gave her at some point last year, Maman played an excellent contrast to the frigid feel of the locale with a preparation of an omelet and fries with bread, served along with a small orange soda. The Mauritanian man arrived for his midday break, and went immediately upstairs to wait for Maman to bring up his lunch. She had me come with her so I could be properly introduced, and needless to say it was fairly awkward. I don’t speak French well, this man doesn’t speak English or Bambara, and I can sense the ground beneath me as akin to needles.

The reasons why Maman has decided to find herself in such a pitiful position are similar to the story of a tragic hero. Because of her father’s death, there’s no longer a support figure for the family. As the eldest offspring, Maman is assuming this responsibility, because it’s become clear her father’s brothers won’t be. She started working for the first time in her life so her younger siblings will be able to continue their studies next year, and maybe have new outfits for this year’s upcoming fête observances. How honorable and selfless a decision she’s made!

She felt ashamed by the circumstances and rigid guidelines surrounding my visit, and tried to apologize before I left. Together we walked almost half the distance between her place and the stage house before she finally believed what I’d said about it being not actually that close, but still a walk able distance. I did get to point out the area where the US Embassy is, as well as Qaddafi’s mosque across the street from there, before saying goodbye.

Despite my admiration for Maman’s courage, I was overwhelmed by depressing thoughts after seeing her current situation first-hand. I sat in the stage house for a little while just reflecting and listening to melancholy music.

A big rainstorm kept me from going across town to Daoudabougou, and Peter was nice enough to let me stay with him at the Embassy worker’s house he’s looking after. It was the perfect atmosphere I needed, with comfortable amenities, cable tv, and wireless. We even ate paninis!

5 August 2010

After a quick visit to the Med Clinic to have a record of my recent bout with malaria written into my charts, I caught a cab across the river with a pleasant fellow who appreciated the ability to speak Bambara with a white American. I had another similarly appreciated opportunity to interact in such a manner with someone I see frequently next door to Mamadou’s workplace. Bocar’s intense round of questions left me bashful about PC’s successes and intentions in the eyes of Malians, but I initially tried my best to provide my answers in an ambassador-like manner, though that quickly proved too difficult because I actually was about as cynical as this guy turned out to be, unfortunately.

Not long after Mamadou told me it’d been some time since the last he’d seen Coumba Tigua, he pointed my attention to the ever recognizable Wahab woman coming our way. This time, I split my order into half peanut, half sesame, and the woman added one of my favorite, coconut, as a token of appreciation.

The contents of packages from my parents were emptied into a large blue plastic bag, not only to keep them safe from an unexpected downpour but also to share various items with Mamadou and his friend Lasine, who’d just arrived. Mamadou can now add a pair of American jeans to that other pair from Angola. Photos Dad included in his package of my family members all the way from sixth grade to recently were enjoyed very much by my Malian friends, along with disbelief that it was truly pictures of me they were looking over.

Traveling back to village proved a miserable Air Digan experience, with close to 35 people crammed in the thing. I couldn’t feel my legs before we’d even left Bamako. Just outside the city limits, in the town of Senou, I considered getting off and sparing myself the misery of the next two hours, but even my excuse that I was getting up to let an elder take my spot was rejected, as those sitting next to me insisted I not go anywhere.

Kafara is packed for the second Thursday in a row, this time for a wedding. It was slightly unfortunate to hear calls of Toubab in my own village, but I reminded myself those people clearly weren’t from here, or had been living in a hole the past two years. Muriama was convinced the Coumba Tigua I gave her for the kids to be something from outside Mali, but I told her it’s a product of Daoudabougou. Both Soumaïla and Kadia had left village today, and Bakary, despite telling me repeatedly he’d be coming with me, was unreachable all day.

A quick trip to reception tonight revealed a hilarious development. Maman had apparently called my dad, and after they both got embarrassed by the awkward lack of mutual understanding, Maman thought she’d die of laughter and my dad was freaking out thinking something was wrong. I called him to explain what’d happened, and after his initial relief, he told me ask for his excuse from Maman, which I said wouldn’t be necessary since the whole thing seemed to have left her in especially high spirits. The bustle of San Francisco’s airport compounded the difficulty of spotty reception, but in the end it was due to a lack of credit on my end we were cut off prematurely.

1 August 2010

Two months from today, I will be flying out of Bamako on my way back across the Atlantic. A week from now, my replacement arrives from Tubaniso with Soumaïla for their first week in Kafara.

Last night, I laughed at something Lamine told Fousseyni during a playful argument. Allah ko, fen min tè ben i ma, kana o kè mògò wèrè ma. This can be literally understood as “Do unto others as you would want done to you,” and I immediately made this connection, laughing because a young boy was telling this to his older cousin!

An interesting perspective I recently picked up on is the belief Muslims hold regarding any natural disaster or such calamity that befalls them. They perceive these misfortunes as Allah’s punishment for their sinful existence, and must beg for his forgiveness. I heard this concept put forward by a local on a BBC broadcast from northwest Pakistan, where the worst flood in living history has already affected 1 million people.

9 July 2010

My arrival at Mamadou’s in Daoudabougou came the morning after my friend had been taken to the hospital with a bad case of malaria. Mamadou’s Daoudabougou friend Lasine insisted on taking him across town to the Badalabougou quartier’s Clinique Officine Ibrahima Mariko, where he was prescribed Coartem for the malarial symptoms and codeine tablets for the periodic headaches he’s been having for the past week.

We spent the day at his concession brewing tea, reading several issues of The Economist, and enjoying the company of our original Daoudabougou friends, Lasine and Moussa, who spent all day with us. I learnt from Moussa that today, the 27th day of the Muslim month Rajab, is an important fête signifying the upcoming month Sha’aban, the last before Ramadan. Like most Muslim observances in Mali, it’s an excuse to eat well, so we had Mamadou’s girlfriend Sanata buy us avocadoes, tomatoes, and onions from market. That night, Mamadou’s friend Abdoulaye, who I only previously knew as Coach, joined us for a dinner of salad, guacamole, and rice. At one point, Mamadou’s portion of white rice had guacamole and salad on it, Abdoulaye’s had sauce, and mine just guacamole. Abdoulaye wondered aloud as to the meaning of this, one communal bowl but each person eating something different.

This wasn’t the only fête of the day, however. My namesake’s first birthday is today!

10 July 2010

Mamadou’s girlfriend Sanata waited for us outside the concession this morning to pass off a surprise second round of avocadoes. It is just the latest in a series of mysterious yet generous gestures, which ironically leave Mamadou trusting her less than before. Mamadou’s cynicism towards women is without precedent.

A heavy rain kept us under cover for close to half an hour before we could finally make our way home. In hopes of watching the second half of the third-place match between Uruguay and Germany, we stopped by Bocar’s house. Just as the second half was beginning, a lightning strike coincided with power blacking out. For a brief moment twenty minutes or so later, we were teased with a glimpse of second half action, and an update of the score, but power went off again, discouraging Mamadou and I enough to walk home in the light rain. Bocar had me borrow his coat, more suited for snow than rain, but an appreciated thought nonetheless.

11 July 2010

Mamadou’s friend Lasine spent the day with us again, through lunch, afternoon tea, and dinner, with the World Cup Final in there as well. Lasine cheered for Holland, I rooted for my preferred Spanish team, and Mamadou, well, we’ll get to him later. Throughout the match (we watched at the nearby shop), it seemed to me that Vieux (Mamadou’s older brother) and I were the only Spanish fans. This discrepancy in support only added to the agony of the game itself, filled with yellow cards and poor play from both teams. Scoreless after 105 minutes, the thought of the winner decided on penalties seemed certain, but Iniesta saved La Furia Roja with a goal in the 116th minute, and we were saved the awkward irony of the Netherlands winning a World Cup Final hosted in South Africa.

It came to light after the match was over that Mamadou had, like me, been a Spanish supporter from the beginning of the tournament, but to play devil’s advocate chose to root against whichever team I wanted to win the final, even if it were Spain. Al-hamdu lillaah, the way things finished, we were both happy.

Today, for those keeping count, is the two-year anniversary of my arrival in Mali.

12 July 2010

Just another typical trip to the Bureau, arriving with several errands in mind only to leave having accomplished parts of some and the rest not at all. Turns out one need their PC issued passport to renew our Mali visas. Mine’s in Kafara. The new administrative staff member wasn’t familiar with how to complete my Perkins Loan deferral without the help of the guy he replaced, and that person wasn’t around at the moment. I’d rather not wait who knows how long for them to show up, so I went to the Med Unit to pick up some medication. It hasn’t arrived yet. Neither has a package my dad sent recently. Really, my next trip to the Bureau has the potential to be especially productive! Let’s just say I won’t be betting on it though…

13 July 2010

I’ve had the opportunity to sample many different drinks and food from passing vendors while sitting at Mamadou’s workstation in Daoudabougou. There are the frozen hibiscus, coconut, tamarind and ginger drinks sold in clear plastic sachets, a yogurt drink called dègè, oranges, meat sandwiches, gateau, and peanuts. But lately a new item has been all the rage with my Malian friends and me: caramel cakes made with peanuts, sesame, or coconut, neatly packaged even including a label, Coumba Tigua. Yesterday Mamadou and I were enjoying our peanut caramel cakes when it struck me to request a big order of the sesame for Soumaïla, who in the past has told me of his preference for sesame treats. Mamadou told the women dressed in a black Wahab headscarf (with only the eye slit) to come back in the afternoon with 1000f worth of the sesame cakes. Her reply was a blessing, Ala ka wulafè yira anw na (May God grant us this afternoon), followed by Mamadou’s response, another blessing, Ala ka suga diya (May God grant you good business).

Right as we were prepared to walk home, the woman (who as it turns out is the younger sister of the Coumba in Coumba Tigua) arrived with our special order, along with a couple specially prepared coconut batches as a token of appreciation for our commerce.

15 July 2010

The way I learn about important events in Mali never ceases to amaze me. Yesterday, as I waited at Vieux’s shop for his son to give me my gateau and Mali Lait, I saw on the TV outside a military parade taking place in Paris. Later, when Vieux sat with Mamadou and I briefly outside Mamadou’s house, I was informed that 14 July is French Independence Day. Apparently, Mali’s president wasn’t invited, something my Malian friends and I speculated about during our conversation. It may just be coincidence, but the fact Iran’s president recently spent several days as a guest here might have something to do with it. Other African figureheads were present, I assume, to honor the participation and service of their ancestors on the battlefields that won France their independence.

Lasine joined Mamadou and me for midday tea brewing and lunch, before walking with us to the spot in Sogoniko where I catch Air Digan. I felt sorry to leave the day before their friend’s wedding, and eerily we saw that very person pass us by on his moto as we sat there waiting for my ride to Kafara.

An early evening brought a most pleasant breeze and lightning could be seen splitting across the dark night sky, as it’s only the second day of the new moon, a small sliver that could barely be seen on the western horizon. The quiet of village was so preferable to the bustle of Bamako.

Siaka and my friend visited our friend Sita last night, who was spending her final evening in Kafara a single woman. Together with her friends, we drank hot milk, ate candies, and enjoyed each other’s conversation. In the background, traditional singing and drumming could be heard in a neighboring concession, a particular custom to these circumstances of a woman about to become a wife. The whole thing had a bizarre, surreal feel to it. Sita just finished her eighth year of school, and is nowhere close to the maturity I would expect from someone getting married the next day (today). I repeatedly joked with Siaka that I thought this was some weird joke, or perhaps I was dreaming. Seeing her hennaed feet and left hand was like a hallucination. The truth behind all this, I eventually concluded as the only feasible explanation, must be the dowry paid to Sita’s father by this fellow from Zambougou. Sita’s father is probably laughing all the way to the bank about all this, as he’s now free from the stress brought about by Sita’s troublesome nature (she’s a sixteen-year old girl, after all). As I discover more and more about how Malian villagers go about life, I continually wonder how far back in time I’ve traveled.

16 July 2010

There’s definitely something charming about the small-town feeling of taking a trip to market in Ouélessébougou. The bank teller knows me, the folks at the cyber café refer to me as their friend, the bus boys I met on my ride here yell at me by (Malian) name as I pass by, I help my market vendor friend display on hangers the children’s clothes he sells before we share lunch, I run into an acquaintance from Daoudabougou, a certain shop owner is the grandson of my village chief, and another is the younger brother of my village matron, who I just came from meeting at her husband’s telephone cabin.

17 July 2010

It rained 45mm (1.77in) last night, a much needed and long-awaited good amount of rainfall for farmers. I took advantage, once again, of the wet soil to work in my concession to weed grass and create a rain trap around the base of my papaya tree. It’s now past noon and still below 80 degrees under my gwa, an incredible feeling, perhaps equal to the confidence I have in saying there’s no other place in Kafara that can boast a cooler temperature. This morning, I slept until past 11hr00, my first good rest in ages.

Adia surprised me last night as I came from Siaka’s house to see my door open and her sitting in my chair with her little sister. I’d just come from telling Soumaïla of my intention to visit the village of Molobala 25 July, and apparently Adia had sent Lamine to inform me of her arrival. Lamine probably expected to see me at Siaka’s before I found her in my house, but to Adia’s credit, she had told me earlier that afternoon about her plan to drop by to call relatives in Bamako. During our short interaction, I dropped two Bambara proverbs!

18 July 2010

While visiting with Dr. Niang at the Med Clinic this morning, a PC vehicle passed through town. I rushed home to see who had come, but first was told by a host family member to deliver Batima’s French Grammar book before she returns to Bamako today. I returned home to see Moussa from the Bureau, who’d stopped by to pay for housing repairs in preparation for my replacement’s arrival. This meant I had to quickly bike to find Abou in his field on the way to Sougoula, as he’d be quoting prices for the carpentry work. He’s now in Digan buying supplies for the new screen doors and windows, and a new concession door. From Dramand in town, we’ll buy two bags of cement to set under my gwa. The total replacement costs summed up to 19000f (~$38), and I was charged with writing the receipt for these materials in French, a somewhat hilarious prospect, as I’m unable to do so very well.

Since 1985, Soumaïla has kept written records of his farming schedules, something he says keep him from worrying about late planting due to lack of ample rainfall. This year, planting began in late May, almost a month earlier than ’09. The latest rain now has villagers busy tilling and planting fields, and women out at harvesting shea.

Orange is building a telephone tower in Digan, which means soon a major topic of conversation I hate (reception) amongst villagers will be muted! Malitel has two nearby cell towers in Dialakoroba and Dongorona as well, so soon Bamako-esque reception will be in Kafara, in shaa’ allah!

Soumaïla says Kafara’s Producer’s Co-op’s official paperwork has been finished, and each of the Bureau members will soon have a copy. He also tells me that five farmers have been chosen for sorghum test plots in the village of Dogotou, but we’re still waiting to hear from Issa in Dongorona.

On my way to Digan, I stopped by Batima’s house to say good-bye, since we won’t be seeing each other in Kafara again, only Bamako. She had me type my number into her phone, which she’s set in German, the other language she’s learning at university.

I had my radio antennae replaced in Digan, and sat briefly with Lamine before biking home, but not before surprising Bassirou with some furu furu (fried doughnut balls made of millet or bean paste).

I went with another bag of furu furu and a couple bags of Tazo Passion hibiscus tea to Adia’s concession, where I visit for a bit and got to greet Samba, who dropped by on his way back to Ouélessébougou, and showed me his father’s house next door. A quick rain soaked me on my ride home across village, after which I went to brew tea with Dr. Niang, a fitting ending to where I began my day.

19 July 2010

I was woken up before 7hr00 so Abou could take out my windows and doorframe to use them as blueprints for the new ones he’d build today. This left me to sit guard of my door- and window-less hut most of the day. But by the afternoon, the replacements were ready and installed. All that’s left is the cement work under the gwa and to set the concession door foundation.

Siaka told me last night Soumaïla gathered all the boys together to program farming tasks and also to prepare them for my replacement, saying things like not to base their perception on the precedents I’ve set (my mom visiting, the good report in village, personal traits, etc.). I was relieved to hear my counterpart had done this without my prompting and hope many similar meetings are held before the next volunteer arrives in Kafara.

Dad called last night around 19hr00, but I got the message an hour or so later at Siaka’s place, where there’s a reception spot under his gwa. Tonight we caught up around that same time and had our typical half an hour conversation, as I get carried away with any opportunity to speak English and tell funny stories.

20 July 2010

Last night rain could be heard for hours, and the tally of 70mm (2.76 inches) certainly didn’t come as too much a surprise. This second good amount of rain in three days has villagers tilling up and planting crops in the last of their fields.

Samba, the Fula in the concession, head to his hometown of Niono (east of Segou) for a week to visit his family. I had really wanted to go, as I’ve never been to the Mopti region, and this would’ve been a perfect opportunity to travel with a ‘guide’, but there are too many things going on right now for me to leave village.

21 July 2010

During the BBC’s program “The King’s English” a couple afternoons ago, I asked Soumaïla as I brewed tea in my concession if he knew who Elvis Presley is. To my surprise, not only had he heard of Elvis, but owns a record collection back before tapes became a popular commodity in Mali. This is how he knew who Elvis was!

I visited Naru, Batima’s younger sister, this afternoon, and sat chatting with her concession’s women until dusk. Naru prepared me corn toh with fish and leaf sauce, and even though I’m not a big fan of the dish, I finished it out of respect for my hosts.

22 July 2010

In a groundbreaking development, I learned today that Dr. Niang and I share very similar musical taste (who knew someone else in Kafara listens to Young Jeezy?). He has an enormous collection of hip hop music videos on his laptop, and together we watched several, occasionally adjusting the volume but all the while bobbing our heads in approval. Later we did a couple reps of declined push-ups together, which he does in sets of twenty, motivating me to be able to do similar feats.

The company of Kafara’s three doctors, Dicko, Keita, and Niang, are my new favorite group to sit and chat with in village, an opportunity to have a conversation that goes beyond the very basic and obvious (see most other interactions with Kafara folks). I’ve learnt new Bambara words each time I visit with Youssouf Niang, who also makes sure I teach him some English each time too.

Later, I stopped by for Dicko’s chicken dinner, as he’s quite the cook.

23 July 2010

I’d planned on a trip to Ouélessébougou today, but I woke up with another visit from this intestinal bug. I’m fairly certain the weather would’ve proven another obstacle, as it’s been raining on and off all morning.

A neighborhood friend, Solo (who Mamadou and I refer to privately as “Rick Ross”, as he and the rapper look quite alike) left me a 1.5L bottle of his famous Soloba ji(big Solo water), a naturally medicinal concoction that tastes like ginger brew but has a market from between Ouélessébougou and Bamako. The revenue accrued from this creation has allowed Solo to retire from his previous career as a public transport chauffeur.

Last night, Mamadou told me he’d overheard an interesting tidbit during phone conversation the day before between his older sister-in-law Awa and Maman. Apparently, Maman is currently working as a cook/maid for some Toubab couple in Bamako. As this was all Mamadou picked up, and hasn’t been told anything directly yet, this is all we know. He told me it’s possible he’ll be in village next Thursday for a friend’s wedding, but didn’t want to make any confirmations about that just yet.

There were several weddings around here last night, with a couple in Kafara, as well as Digan and Sougoula, all of which made for an afternoon filled with the blaring horns and revving of engines typical of Malian courtages.

As a storm flooded my concession along with nearby paths and fields, my host brothers Lamine and Adama borrowed my drawing pad and colored pencils in the guest house while I ate lunch and listened to the BBC. About two and a half inches of rain fell during the afternoon downpour alone!

Our neighbor Daouda Camara’s younger brother Siaka was here last night at my host brother Siaka’s house, together with a friend from Digan, where their mutual friend’s wedding is happening. They enjoyed chatting with me about all sorts of subjects, ranging from what I thought of Mali (compared to America), my legacy in Kafara, and Islam (compared to other religions).

Soumaïla spent tonight in Kita for the funeral of a friend’s parent.

24 July 2010

I felt like I was back home in the Pacific Northwest today, with the weather drizzly and overcast all day. Last night was the coldest I’ve seen in Kafara for months, with temperatures dropping below 70 degrees! This past week has recorded 180mm of rain (7.09in).

The song “Roses” by Outkast played on BBC today, an old favorite of mine from back in college freshman year. Yes, I sang along, then immediately wished I still had Speakerboxxx/The Love Below on my laptop so I could listen to all the other great songs on that double album.

During lunch, I heard a huge thud, the collapse of the old hut that used to be the cooking area, which had its roof removed several months ago and moved to another hut in the concession. A significant crack in the side of the mud foundation led to the inevitable fall this rainy season.

25 July 2010

I spent the morning with Dicko, and we had a really good chat during which I learnt about his awkward feelings about his place in Kafara. His good intentions by working in a village in Kafara are misinterpreted constantly by villagers, who seem bent on ruining his reputation with false rumors, to the point he’s now cooking and living by himself! Today, as promised, Siaka and I traveled to visit Kadiatou in Molobala. Heading south on the highway from the turn-off to Dafara, Kafara, and Digan, having passed through Dongorona, you turn west upon reaching Simidji onto the red dirt road that leads to Molobala.

The first village you reach after a stretch of bush is Manabougou. A settlement of Fula concessions are the first mud huts to be seen, after which you see the Bamanan folks’ huts. Siaka’s mother originally comes from this village, so we stopped by to greet Siaka’s uncles. Most of them were still in the fields, so Siaka decided to continue to Molobala and come back a little later.

Barely having left Manabougou, you have in arrived in what Siaka referred to as Molobala Coura (new Molobala), before finally reaching Molobala Coro (old Molobala), where Kadiatou’s husband, Kazim, lives on the far south-western part of town. Siaka and I sat briefly, but after the first round of tea he wanted to check-up on his uncles back in Manabougou. We arrived close to dusk only to find out that they’d yet to arrive from the fields, but were assured that tomorrow, market day, we could expect them to be home.

Having arrived back in Molobala, I was presented a chicken by Kazim that would be cooked for our dinner before my bucket bath, which Kadiatou told me would be cold water because warm water isn’t found in America. She very much appreciated the photos I’d developed from a visit she made to Kafara close to a year ago for her younger brother’s wedding, which interestingly enough was to a girl from Molobala, Umu, who stopped by to say hello when she heard word of Siaka and my having come visit.

Siaka and I were lead around neighboring concessions to greet Kadiatou’s in-laws, including two elder women she referred to as akin to Soumaïla’s mother. Many of these neighbors came later in the evening to sit and chat, drink tea, all due to my visit, something Kadiatou made sure I understood.

Siaka and I slept in one of the younger boy’s huts, and unbeknownst to me at the time, Kadiatou arrived sometime during the night to cover me under a bed sheet to protect me from mosquitoes.

26 July 2010

I took the opportunity to take some photos this morning with Kazim and Siaka, before moving to beneath an enormous tree just past their concession to snap more. We all sat most of the morning at Kadiatou’s gwa where I brewed tea while the women shelled peanuts.

Another chicken was given to us as we prepared to leave, and I held it in my lap as we left for Siaka’s relatives in Manabougou, where he planned on collecting another chicken as part of traditional observance (uncles apparently gift their nephews chickens when they visit). With one uncle, Siaka and I walked across town past where market takes place to a man who sells traditional Bamanan medicine. Siaka was apparently purchasing a powder the man said was used as a remedy for snake bites. Upon our return to Siaka’s relative’s place, we had to wait briefly as Siaka’s uncle was in the process of casting some kind of animist spell, and could be heard speaking some ancient tongue (not any language I’d ever heard before) at a tiresome pace inside one of the concession’s mud huts. All of a sudden, his speech was broken by the squawking of a chicken bursting from behind the blind of the doorway to the hut, intermittently fluttering about in post-mortem spasms. This was to be my first witnessed such sacrifice, and it only left me more curious as to that whole animist culture I’m so unfamiliar with, especially how it continues amidst those who also claim to be Muslim.

27 July 2010

I’m quite ashamed after this latest Ouélessébougou trip. I left with the expectation I’d be back before noon and didn’t let Muriama know I would be gone, something I normally make sure to do, at the very least telling any one of the concession’s children.

Things began unfurling in Korobougou, where my bike tire went flat, and I was delayed more than two hours getting it fixed by the only villagers I could find at home. This time of year is the worst for finding folks at home, because they’re all in the fields farming.

I finally arrived in Ouélessébougou at 11hr30, right before the bank would close at noon. When I biked into town, I ran into Ousmane, the chauffeur friend I made a while back during a past trip to market. My intention of returning to Kafara early was quickly postponed upon hearing the news that his wife had given birth to his fourth child just two days ago, so I was culturally obligated to accept his request to go visit and spend the afternoon. I enjoyed meeting Ousmane’s family, including his older brother, a fluent Spanish speaker who’d spent some time in Spain. Both Ousmane and his brother are also Arabic students, and they taught me several of the ninety-nine Arabic words for Allah as we sat outside the concession drinking tea and listening to Akon tapes playing in Ousmane’s van. Sure enough, rain was approaching, making my return to Kafara evermore difficult. Ousmane drove me in his van to the road, where I collected my bike and hopped aboard Ousmane’s friend’s van on its way to Bamako. He arranged that I sit up front, and would be taken to Marako for free. By the time I arrived in Marako, it was raining heavily and I had no choice but to wait out the storm sitting with the butcher. It was then I decided it best to wait to see if Air Digan would pass by and I could catch a ride home that way. But once the rain had subsided and dusk began to fall, Air Digan was nowhere to be seen, and my options soon diminished. No one would allow me to bike home in the dark, and I wasn’t prepared to spend the night. By a twist of fate, I was able to catch a ride with a man from Kodialan. My bike stayed in Marako with the butcher, who agreed to send it to Kafara the next time Air Digan passed through town.

Finally home, I was ashamed to see that my evening bucket bath water had been pulled and sat waiting for me in my nyègèn. I already expected Muriama to be upset, but now that belief was cemented. Having finally located Soumaïla, I explained the staggering list of misfortunes that resulted in my late arrival, and rather than get upset, he understood how tiresome my day must have been. Knowing I had no meal prepared, Siaka and I went to buy some food in town.

29 July 2010

All day yesterday I lay in bed with body aches and a fever, finally sending Siaka last night to the Med Clinic to buy some aspirin. Completely catching me by surprise, he arrived with Dr. Niang, who sat in my house and carried on with a proper consultation. He confirmed my intuitions as to early malarial symptoms, especially after I described the lower back pain and fever I’d had most of the day. I told him which malaria prophylaxis I was taking, but when I showed him the pack of Coartem I’d had since arriving in Mali but not yet had to take, he immediately told me how glad he was I had this available in my hut, because there’s none here in town; the nearest place to find some in a pharmacy is Ouélessébougou, and it costs just under 5000f. Since it must be taken with food, he asked if I’d eaten just as Muriama arrived to ask if I wanted some porridge. I told her that would allow me to take the meds, but Niang quickly said that alone wouldn’t be enough, and in English proposed to me if I would like some of the pasta Dicko had prepared that night, before telling Muriama in Bambara to go ahead and prepare the porridge. Siaka came back with some spaghetti and beef tips, which I took my first dose of meds with, later eating a good portion of the porridge that came as well.

This morning, after telling all this to Soumaîla, we both confirmed that finally Kafara had found a good doctor again, and marveled at the seriousness and professionalism Niang took to his work. I’ve visited Niang several times to hear he’d not slept the night before, because he’d either been tending to patients at the clinic, or made similar trips to concessions in village to care for someone.

A village elder died late last night, the father of Siaka the chicken seller, a relative of the village chief who spent most of his time in Sokorodji, a quartier of Bamako. I went to the grave-digging site with the men of Kafara, where I asked Siaka about how the selection of a grave site is done. He says there’s no real system as to deciding where a grave is dug, just a “good place”. I continued from there to the Med Clinic to check up with Niang, who was in some meeting with Dicko, Ba Samaké (the local party member), and two Malians from other villages. Niang made sure I’d taken this morning’s dosage of medication before I went home, and each of the men at the meeting who knew me gave blessings.

Soumaïla called Yacouba from inside my hut last night, a tribute to Malitel’s superior reception in village these days, and gave him names of folks in town to know and introduce to the new volunteer. Soumaïla will be going to Tubaniso 5 August for a formation before returning to Kafara with my replacement 8 August. I’ll be here for the first two days of their week in village, before spending the remainder of that week in Bamako. This is the protocol I as a “site buddy” to which I must adhere, the same course which my first visit to Kafara took.

A new family member is here from Daoudabougou, the younger brother of Sidi and Kadia, another Mamadou. I don’t remember ever meeting him during my visits to Daoudabougou, but he knows me! N’Dia’s younger brother from Digan is here for the funeral observances today as well.

As Air Digan is still broke down, Lamine and Salim were sent to Marako this morning to collect my bike. Samba, the Fula in my host family concession, arrived from Niono last night, and during our greetings this morning told me his family send me many greetings and invitations to visit once rainy season has ended. Siaka’s friend from Djonkalan, Lasine, is here for the funeral as well, and wants me to visit before I leave too.

Niang and Dicko left for Bamako until Monday, and after going to say good-bye I went home to leave my bike and walked in the direction of the mosque, before meeting up along the way with Drisa, N’Golo, Boura, and Oumar. We could see close to 300 men leaving for the cemetery and picked up our pace a bit to catch up with them, then returned to the concession of the deceased for blessings, spoken mostly in Arabic. One of those who spoke is from Kafara and speaks Arabic exceptionally well.

On my way home from the blessings, I heard someone calling my name and was surprised to see Mamadou sitting in his concession. He’d arrived with Samba from Ouélessébougou for the funeral. I proposed meat for dinner, so we walked to Samba’s all the way in the far northern part of Kafara. Mamadou borrowed his moto to check for beef in Digan, but found none, so we went to Siaka’s, who told us to come back for chickens in the evening.

Kadiatou is here from Molobala for the funeral, and I was happy to have another opportunity to see her. Customarily, she and Muriama will spend the time between the funeral and the sara ka bô (on Saturday) at their father’s concession. She’d originally planned on being here for a wedding, but since it would’ve taken place in the same concession as the funeral occurred, it was postponed until next Thursday. So I’ll be seeing her again next week!

After eating dinner, Mamadou, Siaka, and I walked to Siaka’s and purchased an enormous hen that normally Siaka wouldn’t have wanted to sell, but decided to make an exception for me. The size of the chicken provided a good photo opportunity, so before Mamadou got down to the business of undertaking, pictures of my Molobala and Kafara chickens are now on record.

Later, Samba, Baba, Lasine, Siaka, Mamadou, and I sat, drank tea, and enjoyed the chicken until past 2hr00!

30 July 2010

On my way to Ouélessébougou, I stopped by the Canadian volunteer’s place in Dongorona to sit and chat with them and Kadiatou, who cooks for them. They leave Sunday, having spent just under three months here, so were interested in what my two years here have been like. In between questions, I enjoyed bread with chocolate and jam spreads.

In Ouélessébougou, Ousmane Bah, Kadia’s younger brother, pointed out Kadia’s older sister, Yiya, and mother, Benga Sow, who sat nearby selling milk. He described the ethnic tensions between Fula and Bamanan tribes that result in such a segregation of concessions like I’d seen in Manabougou. It essentially boils down to a lack of trust and differing lifestyles.

Back in Dongorona, I bought melons for my host family at the roadside from a girl who’s the friend of Adaman’s wife Awa, originally from that town. Her newborn baby girl, another Mariam, was asleep nearby as she pounded rice, and she told me to have Drisa, Adaman’s younger brother, send her some cucumbers from his garden in Kafara.

I ate again at the Canadian’s place, as Kadiatou insisted. It was an amazing rice and sauce filled with veggies (carrots, cabbage, potatoes, and eggplant) that I topped off with hot sauce. One of the volunteers from Quebec served me some lemon leaf tea as I enjoyed my third lunch of the day, all due to the invitation of Malians.

The bananas Ousmane gave me eventually found their way to Kadia’s son and nieces at the Med Clinic. Soumaïla graciously accepted the six or so melons, and was interested to hear they were from Dongorona.

27 June 2010

Big rains fell last night, and I could finally take a daba to the grass that had grown like crazy around my papaya tree. Soumaïla and Muriama each made separate comments approving of my small ‘farming’ work, which I’d mostly done to distract myself from the news that broke this morning of a village elder’s death. Around La’ansara several hundred men went from praying at the mosque to the cemetery in the woods. As we passed the school teacher’s house, I saw from afar Mamadou resting on his moto waiting for me to walk by, and he joined me. After the burial, we walked back to the deceased family member’s place, in this case the fourth butigi of Kafara on the north end of town, owned by the son of the elder, Sekou Bagayoko. After given food, the typical ending show of appreciation for all those guests who came before we return home, Mamadou and I went to Mugutari’s place to get the moto he came on from Bamako repaired. Once it was fixed, we went to get my phone from where it’d been charging at the Med Clinic. We found the new doctor at the house Keita had been staying, and this made for an awkward first interaction between us. I did my best to be polite, and he tentatively shook my hand, but kept responding in French to anything I said in Bambara. He wouldn’t let me take my phone until Keita was there to confirm I’d left it there, and frustrated by all of this, I just told Mamadou to go back home, and I’d send Siaka to get it.

I took my dinner to Mamadou’s concession to share with him. He’d literally just arrived from making final repairs to the moto in Digan, and was upset with all the money he’d just spent on doing so. His father let me add some seasoned peanut pieces to the zamé, an excellent combo, and Mamadou and I ate the whole bowl before heading off to Siaka’s place. A pretty huge storm broke off the chatting there, and I went to my hut before the rains began. As they did, Mamadou knocked at my screen door, and we waited through the loud thunderclaps chatting for a couple hours, mostly about the World Cup, and my funny accounts from Brazil’s match tonight against Chile. We shared similar support for Ghana to win their upcoming match and therefore become the first African team to reach the semi-finals, and made speculations for who we expected to reach the finals.

28 June 2010

I only came to the conclusion myself that Fatou is pregnant today, when I passed by her washing clothes outside my concession. It’s improper for me to inquire about this, so I’m only left to wait and see.

Lamine told me that Mamadou had sent for me, and when I arrived at his place, I realized he’d spent all morning in the field’s with his parents. He couldn’t believe I’d thought he might have left for Bamako without my knowing, and reassured me even if I were asleep, as I had been late this morning, he’d wake me up to say good-bye properly. He said he had pity on me in village this time of year, since no one is around to chat with, and people spend all day in the fields, leaving my host family concession empty. Mamadou had a good suggestion to accompany them every so often to brew tea. As his older brother Vieux and he boarded the moto to return to Bamako, Mamadou asked when to expect me in Daoudabougou next, and I said it depended on when I found money in my bank account. Just as he was about to rev up the engine and be off, he stopped and reached into the sack he keeps his cell phone repair stuff in, and handed me a 500f piece.

I walked to Batima’s concession to pass a couple afternoon hours, and sat while older women shelled shea nuts and the younger girls braided hair. I found Lamine there brewing tea, and was given a radio to listen to the match between Japan and Holland. Dicko stopped by on his way to Digan, and I went to the Med Clinic to await his return, burning time by helping Kadia daba small area she plans on planting okra, I think. This go-round, I got to properly meet and spend time with the new doctor, who turns out to be a laid-back and pleasant guy. He’s multi-national, with a Senegalese father and Ivorian mother. I brewed tea there until just past 18h20, just in time to head to Dramand’s for Spain against Portugal. This Iberian derby was the most exciting game of the World Cup so far, and David Villa added to his goal tally off an amazing assist from Iniesta, the match’s only goal.

8 July 2010

Today the best friend I’ve made in PC Mali will be flying home, and the week we’ve spent together leading up to it has still done little to help fill the void I know will be gaping beginning tomorrow.

I received a text from Mike 30 June asking when to expect me in Bamako and that he hoped to see me before he left for America. The following morning I was on the next ride to the capital on public transport. Circumstances of my friend’s imminent departure influenced several impulsive decisions: travel to Manantali (10 hour long bus ride during which the majority of PCVs were soaked in a rainstorm that blew threw the open windows) for 4th of July weekend; leave Manantali the morning of 4 July to spend the night in Kita’s stage house; accompany him to develop photos and deliver them to the place in downtown Bamako where his public transport to village is stationed; walk through the artisana market to purchase a chiwara, a traditional symbol of Malian culture; take a ride to Tubaniso for Mike’s final language exam (he got Advanced Mid in Bambara), where I got a chance to visit with PC Mali’s country director (and thus, a feeling like I might be OK not having any reason at all to be at the reformation center), who also gave Mike and me a ride back to the Bureau.

Rather than spend time trying to pinpoint the craziness my spontaneous last week may yield, I’d prefer to appreciate the type of friendship I’ve found with Mike that is to blame for these displays of loyalty.

18 June 2010

At the surprise of everyone in my host family, Amadou arrived last night with his younger brother Soumaïla from Bamako. I’m not sure what his plans are for staying through rainy season in village, but people here are certainly happy to see him for the first time in six months. The murky circumstances behind his disappearance are becoming a bit clearer; apparently it had something to do with a loan he took from the local bank but never repaid.

My arrival in Bamako for USA’s match against Slovenia found Mamadou’s workplace supervisor Moussa on a mad search downtown for an American football jersey, a request I’d placed with Mamadou the night before over the phone. Moussa arrived just as the match was about to begin empty-handed, convinced after his torrid yet unsuccessful attempt that he’d checked every possible place. Mamadou and I were left with the slightly amusing conclusion that perhaps American jerseys hadn’t yet found a market in Mali.

19 June 2010

As of 23 June, there will be a new doctor at the Med Clinic in Kafara, in a most disheartening development. Dicko, it seems, has gone behind Keita’s back and stained his reputation with the MZC folks, enough so that they chose a replacement without anyone in Kafara’s input, except the party member in town that I’m sure claims more than his fair share of credit for MZC’s projects in village. In one of the most passive aggressive manners I can imagine, the replacement arrived to be given a tour of his new facility and basically inform Keita that his last couple of days at the post were few. The coup de grace came when the new doctor left a suitcase of his stuff in Keita’s room, then returned to Bamako, with no intention to come back until his contract began. For the past three months, Keita has been working at the Med Clinic neither on contract or receiving any sort of monthly stipend. The party member in town had the nerve to tell Keita that his last month of work would be paid, but said for the time-being he could only present Keita with a 5.000f bill. Keita had his suspicions that this type of messy situation was in the works, but the betrayal in brought to light from not only Dicko but also his friend Bissan, who Keita had been working in place of, left Keita cynical and distrustful of just about everyone. I’d been present for most of this day’s unbelievable turn of events, and talked with Keita afterwards, trying to convince him to remain positive.

20 June 2010

Programme Sorgho representatives arrived today at Soumaïla’s concession unannounced, expecting us to be prepared with last year’s data and ready for this year’s new protocols. I gave them my data from last year’s hybrid tests, and was told to email one of them photos of farmers in their fields.

This impromptu meeting interrupted Soumaïla’s main activity today, that of assembling sacks of zaban fruit piled under the entire area of shade beneath the mango tree outside my concession. A Senegalese guy and a woman from Kati are here to take these sacks to sell in Bamako. Those who collect the fruit were promised to be paid 1500f for a sack’s worth, so villagers (mostly children) were busy collecting the fruit from the forest most of the day.

Adaman Bagayoko’s second wife, Awa, came by today to present her newborn to Soumaïla. This happened under such circumstances, in the middle of an unexpected meeting with Programme Sorgho, and the chaos of zaban collection and sorting all around us, that I have no recollection as to even the gender of the newborn.

22 June 2010

My arrival in Daoudabougou and Mamadou’s workplace led to another surprise, that of his workplace being shut down by the mayor’s office for lack of tax payments. His coworkers and he were still working outside the locked door, and I suppose have worked out some sort of agreement with their neighboring businessmen to store their materials with them. Mamadou had already had a stressful morning getting his national identification document renewed, and I’m sure arriving at his workplace to see that posting on the door wasn’t too helpful in reversing his displeasure.

25 June 2010

I woke up this morning and went to take my bucket bath, but instead found myself having another bout of the worst diarrhea I’ve ever had, just like I’d experienced not two weeks ago in village. Slightly concerned, I called Dr. Dawn and told her whatever I’d had was back again with a vengeance. I’d originally intended to visit the Med Unit today to checkup on the progress of medication I’d been taking for a minor ear infection, but the return of this gastrointestinal bacteria gave me new reason to head across town. I’m now on my second round of Cipro in as many weeks, and can only wait until Monday for the results of the stool sample I left for lab testing.

26 June 2010

I arrived in Marako just after La’ansara (16h00 prayer) and made my way past the schoolhouse to Bantin’s concession, where I’d left my bike. She had me sit down and brew tea while she swept the concession, having just finished extracting nèrè powder from the pods she’d collected that afternoon in the forest right before I’d arrived. I took photos of an especially timid young girl who spent my first half hour watching me intently from her mother’s doorway. Finally, sensing I was not a threat, she moved closer and sat next to the basket of nèrè powder, unintentionally providing me with a perfect pose for another photo.

I’d barely sat down outside Dramand’s cabine in anticipation for the television to get setup to watch USA play Ghana when Batima called me over to her concession. She told me Kadia’s true reason for not coming during Rokia’s visit to Kafara. The excuse of being sick was actually due to her being pregnant! During my latest Bamako visit, she gave birth to a second daughter and the baptism will be this coming Monday. I remember receiving a call from Kadia during America’s match against Algeria, but when I answered with repeated lack of response, I was only left wondering why she’d called, as that was the first instance of such ever since she’d left Kafara. I figured if it were important, as I’d assumed it was given this circumstance, she’d call back later. She never did. Now, back in village, I was finding out two days beforehand, in similar fashion as to how I learnt of her marriage. I couldn’t believe this was happening again, and called Mamadou later to express my disgust with Kadia’s latest actions that left me wondering how things came to this. Kadia had been my closest Malian friend during my first year in Mali, but our split could not have left me more in the dark. Mamadou said he’d do his best to attend the baptism, but understood why I was so upset, agreeing what Kadia had done (or failed to do) was akin to insult. Even Batima got upset with Kadia when this news broke and Kadia said I hadn’t been informed. Batima told her this was not a proper way to treat one’s friends, first lying about the reason she’d fail to visit us for the first time since she’d left and now not informing us of her daughter’s birth or baptism. The speculation as to the reasons for this treatment only leaves us more frustrated.

8 June 2010

After going around and introducing each other with a fact about us previously unknown to our fellow volunteers (mine was I play harpsichord), we were told to write down an accomplishment that especially pleased us during our service in Mali. A lot of folks told stories of successful projects they’d completed, perhaps the majority, but I suppose my interpretation of the activity was a bit different, because I preferred to remember the close relationships I built within my host family, culminating in the one child that was born during my stay to be named after me.

Over the course of this first day, we practiced beefing up our successes with numbers, like how many people or villages we’re talking about in our projects, and using strong verbs at the beginning of these descriptions about what we did, as these could be later transferred to our resume drafts. The emphasis on results over duties on our resume was the reason we were told to think about numbers in this manner. Looking over a list of transferable skills, we could then apply certain aptitudes to our description of successful projects, making for strong resume bullet points.

The last topic was a brief introduction to our description of service, the only kept official record of our time spent as a PCV and what we accomplished. This document allows each of us 1-year non-competitive eligibility for federal government jobs.

9 June 2010

Today we talked about how to make a “hot” resume, something our coordinator kept saying that kept my friend Peter and me amused throughout the conference, along with her other favorite phrase, “that’s so cool.” Nothing we learnt today was topped by a career resource manual cd-rom, stock full of tips and advice, as well as examples of resumes and cover letters. I did catch a couple good pointers during this session, like including a qualifications summary at the top of the resume, and substituting titles such as “assistant, consultant, liaison, or manager” instead of “volunteer.” Another good strategy I liked was calling or emailing anyone you give your resume to make sure they “received it” (looked at it), a smart way to at the very least stay on top the stack.

For those of us (myself included) who always walk away from job interviews wondering how that couldn’t have gone worse, even if it went really well, I paid special attention during this part of today’s meeting. We were told to prepare pre-written scripts to memorize and say about ourselves to our interviewer, almost a vocal version of our qualifications summary at the top of our resume. It’s always important to show your interest in the potential employer, so coming with a couple questions about the company can never hurt. Leaving a thank-you note is another good way to distance you from the crowd, like when you called or emailed to ask if they’d received your resume. If you come to the end of the interview and feel like something didn’t come up that you think might be pertinent, that’s when you would put that forward.

Before lunch we had a panel of four RPCV’s who now work in various fields in Bamako, either for NGOs or teaching. Hearing about their experiences and the paths that took each of them to where they are now was especially valuable, helpful, and interesting.

Something I definitely took from today was a serious consideration to apply to grad school. PC is a good first stepping stone, but in the end that’s all it’s good for in a competitive job market, where so many positions require a master’s degree, especially when looking for a specialized position or working abroad.

During the admin session today, everyone wrote down their preferred close of service date, one of the main purposes of this conference. Even as that form made its way about the room, I still hadn’t picked what day I was going to leave Mali. Everyone seemed to have come with a specific date in mind, and early dates too, but I wasn’t in any rush to go home just yet, perhaps because I’m still formulating my next life phase. I scrambled through my cell phone’s calendar to look for a Friday near the end of September, since the bureau people said that was a day that made flight scheduling easier, eventually settling on 1 October.

10 June 2010

Another of the perks for RPCVs are the 50 or so universities that have PC Fellows programs. Unfortunately, there aren’t a whole lot with journalism, which just happens to be what I want to study. I noticed in the various brochures just one school of communications, at the University of Denver. I’ll have to check out that website though before I give up and just look for a school that specializes in my chosen field, whether they’re a PC Fellow program or not.

My Malian namesake on Mali Peace Corps’ training staff, Mamadou Samaké, gave an especially informative, and final, cross-culture session on how to say good-bye. Ironically, he would be doing so himself here soon, as he informed us he would be retiring later this year.

Sam, as he’s called by colleagues, began with several cultural overtones to consider, first being the setting we make our farewells to various parties in our village. For our counterpart, village chief, imam, and village associations, a formal meeting is appropriate. Courtesy visits are reserved for local services, administration, and any other friends or acquaintances. Sam told us it was best to start making these courtesy visits during these final months, especially if they mean traveling to another village. So that list of folks I made last month, and have started tentatively planning, was right on the mark.

During these farewell meetings, we inform those we’re meeting with of the date we’re leaving Mali, and then begin a long cultural exchange full of proverbs and expressions. Mamadou helped me draft a version of my own that I can practice.

Other cultural connotations during our last moments in country were to thank gift donors, accepting whatever they offer graciously. If offered a chicken or goat, cook it with friends, or give it away. It’s recommended to take time to sit with folks who come by to say goodbye, no matter how busy you are with last minute arrangements. If a party is thrown for your departure, go and enjoy it with your friends. Be prepared for left-handshakes, the only occasion you will ever see such in Mali. Offering your left hand is an insult in any other instance, but doing so in this context gives an added layer to the faux pas. Since you’re offering it to someone who’s leaving on a long journey, it means you hope they return another time, so then you can make up for the mistake by greeting them with your right hand once more.

We had a short question and answer session on returning to America with one of our RPCV panel members from yesterday. While he didn’t share the experience with everyone else on the panel of bursting into tears upon walking down the cereal aisle of a grocery store the size of the village they’d been working in, he did explain some of the challenges we will experience during our re-entering phase of service. We shouldn’t be surprised if friends have moved on, or get a glazed over look after just five minutes of stories we tell about our time abroad. His best advice he could offer was to just take things as they come, and to adapt like we’ve been doing the past two years.

An intense tropical storm came this morning, with fierce howling winds that made the building we were in sound like it was about to take off, but some of us went outside to the covered balcony to look at the foreboding skies darkening over Bamako, in an apocalyptic fashion. I was kicking myself for forgetting my camera back in the hotel room, but no more than I was later when a couple wedding parties were on the grounds getting their professional shots taken. What an amazing photo that would’ve been!

1 June 2010

This past Friday or Saturday, I cannot remember which, I received a text message from Orange detailing a promotion for Mother’s Day this past Sunday. As I re-read this message, the overwhelming feeling of déjà vu that overcame me remained until Sunday night, as I tried repeatedly both my mother’s cell phone and home phone numbers, only to reach voicemail. Eventually, I called my grandmother’s house, the number to which somehow popped out of my memory at that moment. We talked for a few moments, but my mom wasn’t there, she was at home, quite possibly outside somewhere.

The next morning, as Mamadou moved our bedding inside, I decided to try my mom’s number again, as it was now Sunday night back home. I finally reached her, and sure enough, Mother’s Day had already happened, and I had remembered to call her. She appreciated the phone call anyhow, and I was relieved my memory of the American Mother’s Day to have past was true. Apparently the French have a different Mother’s Day than us, leading to all this confusion and international calling.

For a while now, Mamadou has been talking about visiting an older cousin whom he’d spent a long time without seeing. Perhaps this is mostly due to where she lives, Banguinéda, which is to the east of Bamako on the way to Koulikoro. Today we finally got this visit programmed into our somehow always full schedule whenever we’re in Bamako together. Banguinéda has three quartiers, and Mamadou’s cousin, Ami, lives in Kobala Koro. In a noticeable contrast to most Malian villages in this area of Mali, the vast number of houses were built of cement. The market had a considerable variety of fruit, including melon, which I hadn’t yet seen elsewhere so far this year.

We sat in Ami’s concession for several hours, a concession that is full of Fula (Peuhl) Malians. One of the women invited Mamadou and me to eat some toh, and later joked with me about eating that for dinner as well, as we would be spending the night, n’est-ce pas? Another joke we shared was when I was also offered one of the concession’s many young girls to make my wife, but I declined saying the Fula dowries were too expensive. Before we left, Ami prepared our guinea fowl egg sandwiches.

Mamadou took several photos during our visit, and also as we walked on our search for a public transport ride back to Bamako, passing by a cool rock formation he thought would make a picturesque scene. On our way, the sotrama stopped to pick up two women. The elder of them, a bigger woman, was unable to climb aboard, in what became an unbelievable scene. Each of the bus boys tried to pull her up without success, and even after the driver suggested the woman try sitting up front, the height of the van was still too high for her. Not until some form of stepping stool was presented for the woman to assist her ascent, we may have all died laughing at her misfortune. She took it all very well, even making jokes about the situation herself, saying things like truthfully the van was too tall, no, if she couldn’t get in herself she was afraid for the van’s height.

My first night in Bamako, a couple days ago, I got out of my seat outside Mamadou’s concession and on my way to Vieux’s butigi as I pulled down the tail of my shirt, my hand revealed a rip in the rear of my pants that could only have happened sometime between my evening bucket bath and that moment. The frustration of this revelation was compounded by my current situation regarding the rest of my pants. They’re all wearing out at once! I’m now left with one pair of presentable khaki pants, and the third set of pants, my jeans from back home, have now a second tear from the intense hand-washing they’ve incurred during their stay in Mali, leaving them essentially void for wear. This morning, I called Mamadou into his house as I forlornly looked at my only clean pair of pants, these holy jeans. He asked whether I could wear a pair of his own jeans that he’d worn the day before, a pair of Levi’s I’d posed a question about that night. I learnt he’d received them from a distant relative all the way from Angola. Immediately upon trying them on, I realized my luck. They fit perfectly, more perfectly than any other pair of pants I’ve put on in some time. I fell in love with them so abruptly that I joked with Mamadou about them all day, to the point we both decided to find ourselves another pair. I suggested my dad might be willing to at least appreciate this request, after describing to Mamadou that my dad wears Levi’s almost exclusively. For many years, he would always wonder why I never realize their value, instead opting for other styles of pants. I only wish I could see his reaction to reading this story.

Another funny story from today came about due to Mamadou’s telephone. I arrived in Bamako with my Nokia I bought in Mali, and since it’s battery was in need of attention, he took it and replaced my Orange sim card with his own. The phone he’d been using, my Motorola from back home, is now in my possession. Mamadou also has a Malitel sim card he seldom uses, but now keeps above the battery of the Nokia, referring to the phone as a French model with two sim card option, the first of its kind. Yesterday, while he waited for me outside the BNDA bank in ACI-2000, I’d forgotten his Orange credit had run out and text him on that number. He read the text, then replaced the Orange sim card with his Malitel, replied to the text, before quickly returning the Orange sim card just in time for my reply. This story he used to his defense of the phone’s status as a dual pièce, only for me to refer to the fact it was a manual setting, not automatic. Oh, and the fact that there’s no such thing as a French phone with the option to have two sim cards! Haha…

4 June 2010

Tuesday morning I took a cab to the Bureau in ACI-2000 in order to follow up on a text I sent to the PCMOs about some medication re-fills. Before I stopped by the Med Clinic, I checked in Kader’s office to see if any packages were waiting for me there. Sure enough, two birthday boxes had arrived.

It became apparent upon opening one of them that a container of Gatorade powder had exploded on its journey across the Atlantic, leaving us to empty the entire package’s contents and rinse off a thin layer of sticky lemon-line colored particles. Luckily, nothing was ruined and the remainder of the powder we salvaged in a small paper bag.

Another item from this package, a Cuban cigar, was enjoyed Wednesday evening by a special group of Bamako friends. Mamadou and I invited our friend Bocar dit Ivo to join our hangout crew leader, also named Bocar, and a special drop-in, Mamadou’s friend Bra, who just happened to stop by that night. Both Bocar’s had past cigar smoking experiences, but I’m fairly certain this was each of my Malian friend’s first Cuban, so we took photos to document the fun moment.

Wednesday afternoon, I spontaneously came up with a short-term solution to my pants problem. Across the road from Mamadou’s workplace is a market stand that sells, among other items, long prayer robes called forokiya. No matter how many holes my pants may have, the length of the robe would conceal any wear and tear from view. Plus, they fashionably casual. I’d asked a couple of the neighboring shop owner’s friends that morning how much one of those robes should cost, and their estimate, 1000 fcfa, encouraged me to pursue this affair. I knew I’d have to send a Malian to buy it for me, because there’s no way any vendor would sell me, the white Toubab, anything at that price, not even if I spoke my best Bambara or employed considerable bargaining skills. Later, as I told Mamadou of my intentions, another of the neighboring shop owner’s friends, Dri, offered to go barter a price for me. He returned to say he could bargain no lower than 1250 fcfa, and when I said I was only willing to spend 1000 fcfa, Dri held out his hand with the remaining 250 fcfa, and shortly came back with the exact color pattern I’d privately selected were I to have gone myself, a revelation Mamadou later told Dri enthusiastically.

12 May 2010

Air Digan pulled up earlier than expected, and made for some exciting last second audibles. Mamadou had yet to return from fetching me oranges down the road, and his sack of cell phones was with me. Unsure whether we would cross his path, I left the sack with a cobbler nearby, telling him the Malian I came with would be looking for it shortly. I climbed aboard, and could barely settle myself in as we got moving before Mamadou could be heard shouting instructions to give me the sack of oranges he just passed off relay style to the crewman. Upon finding his cell phones, he text me a thank you and wished me a good trip, all in English!

I arrived in Kafara to see grass sprouting all over, remnants of the monster rain that poured this past Friday. There were the typical amount of changes in the family concession, despite only being away for five days. Muriama’s daughter Awa is back with us in Kafara, after spending some time in Molobala with her aunt, Kadiatou. I’d been wondering what Awa’s last name is today, and thus the family name of Muriama’s first husband in Kodialan. Little Lucas Mohamed is standing on his own now, as of three days ago, and cries of such by any other host family members as he does so alerted me to this development. Little Sori and Kumba ran to greet me, but my happiness in receiving their attention was briefly interrupted at my surprise to see the identical infected sores on each of their faces. I could hear one of Sori’s older siblings telling his mom to get his sickly appearance away from me, but before she could say anything I quickly picked him up into one of his preferred Lucas airplane rides, perhaps the most intimate affection he’d received since I’d left last Tuesday.

Yesterday in Ouélessébougou, I recognized a woman along the road selling mangoes who I normally saw in Dongorona. She told me that Kamba was expecting me. Somehow I knew she was referring to my Dongorona friend, although I’d never learnt her name. I said I’d just come from there, and hadn’t seen her. This was because, her friend tells me, she’s now married in Ouélessébougou!

Then from beyond the curbside, I could hear someone calling my name, and noticed it was Kafara’s matron’s older brother, Ousmane, who owns a shop along the highway. He told me to sit briefly, sending a younger boy off to buy me a Coke, and then I was greeted by a variety of people passing by or working next door. The running joke was that I must understand Fulani, as I was sitting with one, and I probably didn’t do much to help the fact I don’t upon answering a couple elementary greetings, thanks to practice I asked from Umu (the wife of the cattle herder in my host family) a while back.

Maman was very upset last night having to call me from Adiaratou’s phone, due to her own being beyond repair. She said that up until my call, since she’d arrived home from the cell phone place, she’d been so upset she wasn’t speaking to anyone. I did my best to lighten her mood.

A big storm passed over this morning, keeping temperatures in the low to mid-80s today, a nice change from yesterday’s sweltering heat, which did its best to ruin me. It seems impossible to stay hydrated in such extreme weather, despite my best efforts to gulp down liters of water.

15 May 2010

My younger host brother Vieux came searching for me at the Med Clinic, where I spent most of Thursday with Dicko, to tell me two American volunteers from Digan were waiting for me at my house. Barely believing what I heard, I hurried on my to catch up to him to confirm he said about Americans in Digan, just down the road from Kafara. We both wondered how neither of us had heard anything about this, but sure enough, we pulled up to my house to see Soumaïla and a neighbor sitting under the big mango tree outside my concession with two young Americans and their host from Digan. During our visit, over a couple rounds of tea, I did my best to steer the conversation around who they were, and what brought them to Mali. Their vague answers kept my curiosity humming but rather than continue prodding, I just listened carefully for subtle cues in order to come to my conclusion without asking directly. For instance, they mentioned the ngo they’re affiliated with, but left me with just an acronym. The only work they mentioned to me was improved farming and composting techniques, but an off the cuff question about the religious affiliation of villagers in Kafara caught my attention. I was impressed with their Bambara and considerable awareness of Malian culture, and we enjoyed sharing experiences we’d had during our similar amount of time spent in the country. Later, I heard one of them explain to Soumaïla that their work focused on the same improved farming and composting techniques they’d mentioned to me, but then he added something about religion. Violà! Since they’d decided for whatever reason to selectively omit that from what they’d told me, I didn’t even acknowledge it, only silently absorbing the information for myself. Later, I biked with them to the north of Kafara, where one of them was getting a door built for his hut in Digan. They fastened it to the back of his bicycle, and the three of us made jokes about such an African moment, lamenting that none of us had a camera to document its hilarity. Upon returning home, I reconfirmed with Soumaïla that they were missionaries before explaining I’d come to that conclusion myself without their telling me so, relaying a story they’d told me about the lack of hospitality they’d received in one of the villages they’d stayed. In a country renowned for its affability, I found this account puzzling. Then again, it didn’t surprise me that perhaps the villagers weren’t too excited about foreigners proposing not only to suggest new ways to do something they’ve been doing for generations (farming), but also to switch their similarly historic religious affiliation (Islam). Soumaïla made an interesting comment on religion, saying each had the right to their own personal preference, but warned against proselytizing.

That night, I went with Siaka to the north of Kafara encore for the arrival of a host family relative’s wife. The concession was packed with young villagers dancing and the area’s perimeter lined with tea brewing groups. As we searched for a place to sit down, a friend of Sita’s greeted us, and quickly lead me to an empty seat where she’d been sitting. Sita’s half-sister Aïssata periodically took her place next to me between her wandering about the party scene, keeping me awake with her seemingly unending energy, yet soon enough the space between big yawns became shorter and shorter. Normally, the point at which I tell Siaka it’s time for me to head home to sleep comes too early for him, but this time I’d made it past midnight so he was happy to walk me partway home.

Yesterday Siaka and I went to market in Ouélessébougou to gather food items for my second birthday fête, this time for my friends in Kafara. Siaka and I got no further than just past the post office where Air Kafara dropped off its passengers when I saw Dramand Bagayoko, the homologue of my site mate in Bassa, Sara Snider. As we approached the entry to market where many other bush taxis park, and a variety of vendors cook up food or sell produce, we crossed paths with three girls from Kafara who are now in Ouélessébougou, Tènin Camara, Tènè Coulibaly, and Banzele Doumbia. Finding our dinner ingredients proved short work, and soon my bag was full of beans, avocadoes, tomatoes, and onions. Siaka had several other errands to look after for host family members, and while he looked after those, I sat outside the shop owned by Kafara dugutigi’s grandson. It was there where Sara found me, and we proceeded to catch up on how things are going with each other for a bit. She’d just come from the radio station, where she’s been doing a weekly program for the past few months. I learned she’s extending at her site for an extra six months, and we also discussed our thoughts on replacement volunteers.

Siaka and I didn’t arrive back in Kafara until past 18hr30, after a miserably slow and tiresome ride back from market. When we walked from Siaka’s house to greet family members, I was pleasantly surprised to see Kadiatou, Muriama’s younger sister, sitting with them. She’d just come from Molobala and would be here for the weekend, particularly for the scheduled distribution of complimentary medication at the Med Clinic the next day. Immediately my mood perked up due to her immediate barrage of teasing, and the quick rebuttals I had to issue in turn.

It was Kadiatou who would assume the late night fête meal’s cooking responsibility, but first she made sure to understand how exactly it was to be prepared. Rather than complicate matters, I just let her prepare each dish separately as she was accustomed, and won’t soon forget when she arrived with my portion at my hut, one big bowl of zamé, a seasoned rice dish of Senegalese origin, and a smaller bowl of beans with a top half layer of guacamole. Her nervousness about how she’d interpreted my preparation instructions made me laugh, and I assured her of my appreciation for her cooking the meal on a night she would’ve spent otherwise chatting with her mother.

The area outside my concession, under the big mango tree, was the scene of dancing, card playing, and Tazo hibiscus tea brewing until very late in the morning. I can safely say children from all neighboring concessions were present, enjoying a chance to have a good time.

By the time I woke this morning, Soumaïla was already at the Med Clinic. In fact, I was woken up by my host brother Vieux, who’d been sent by his father to alert me that the Cuban doctors had arrived. Soumaïla found me near Fodé’s concession, where I sat most of the day observing the event. There were so many people, not just from Kafara but most neighboring villages as well. I met an uncle of Muriama who was here from Bamako, and impressed with my Bambara he chat with me for a while, joined briefly by Soumaïla and later his other niece Kadiatou.

Finally in the afternoon, Bara drove by in the Winrock International truck. Soumaïla called me over to intercept the vehicle, but it had already pulled over when I we arrived. Bara was very happy to see me, as was their newly hired translator from the formation, Bourama Sissoko. They both told me Dave always asks about me in his emails, and now they could tell him they’d seen me. Bara’s boss from America was with them, and soon we learnt we shared the same birthday, after I’d explained why Bara hadn’t found me in Kafara the previous weekend. Several members of the BENSO co-op assembled near the dugutigi’s house, where Bara’s boss asked what each of them thought the best result of Dave’s work was. Eventually I was asked for my input, as Soumaïla said even if I’d been quiet it was possible I had something to add. I told them what stood out to me about Dave’s formation was his capacity building methodology, which allowed the Malians to call the work their own. Bara and his boss agreed, before Bara went on to say this was the answer they’d been hoping for, reinforcing its importance while giving me a big thumbs up. At the end of the meeting, as we ate from a communal bowl, he invited me to come to Winrock’s office just down the road from our Bureau in ACI-2000.

On their way back to Bamako, the Winrock staff stopped by Soumaïla’s concession to take his mother with them, as she had a medical appointment in Bamako on Monday. Bourama, after watching a woman from Sougoula talk to me on her way home, told me he knew many people would miss me when I’d left Kafara. Before they were on their way, I told Bara I’d see him 6 June, noting wordplay with the date, six-six, to jog his memory. Talking with Bourama and him is fun, because we’re constantly switching between Bambara, French and English.

I returned to the Med Clinic, where all the Cubans had just finished eating lunch. An approaching rainstorm forced them inside, and as they passed by one of them shook my hand, giving me a thumbs up. I was so surprised by his doing so, that I completely forgot to even greet him in Spanish, which surely would’ve broken the ice well. Normally, folks that come to town from Bamako like them seem to have little time to say hello to the foreigner, something even Kafara villagers noticed. Kadia, the matron, gave me some of the zamé they’d prepared, along with a healthy dose of hot pepper sauce, which hidden beneath the top layer of rice surprised me as I upon consumed a complete spoonful in one gulp. The storm began and Kadiatou, her friend, and I sat in Dicko and Bissan’s house for the half an hour downpour. The heavy rain flooded parts of roads and knocked down mango trees, but cooled the temperature down almost twenty degrees.

Mamadou and I caught my mom to say happy birthday during an evening visit to the reception spot down the road from my house. He’d bought credit due to today’s Orange bonus, so we took advantage by calling all our friends in Bamako to say hello.

16 May 2010

Dicko had borrowed my camera for yesterday’s event, which he told me overall had gone very well. He filled my memory card with photos and videos of the large crowd, along with scenes at the Med Clinic, Cuban and Malian doctors consulting their patients throughout the day. I expressed my wish to visit Dicko at his home in Bamako, and together we picked 12 June, the Saturday after my close of service conference.

I sat with Mamadou and his dad briefly this evening before we came to my house, sitting under my gwa and chatting until 1hr30. Our conversation began with his latest email from my Iranian friend Monica back home. They’ve been sending emails back and forth for a bit now, and together we draft his replies, beginning in French but eventually translating into English. This has provided me with a good way to practice French while at the same time helping Mamadou with his English. It’s funny, we’re at the same level in each of our studies, barely comprehensible as we confuse words, construct new tenses, and make grammatical errors, only left with each other’s encouragement.

18 May 2010

If you look southeast from the entrance to my concession, you see a concession where an enclave of Bagayoko families live. I was called over there this morning by Awa, Adaman Bagayoko’s second wife, and she walked me over to the house where Siaka’s friend Ma Bagayoko lives. Ma’s older sister, Sata, and I think a cousin, Blantine, wanted me to sit, chat, and brew tea with them. I learnt that Blantine is married in Marako, and hosted a member of my stage of volunteers for our homestay. She helped facilitate explanations of mine about things Americans do differently from our Malian hosts. Each round of tea saw me walk across the road to Adaman’s concession to give a round of tea to his first wife, Mariam, who was busy cooking toh for lunch. She informed me that Drisa, Adaman’s younger brother, would be back again in Kafara soon after spending dry season in Bamako. Before I went home, I brought over my world map to show Awa, Sata, and Blantine where I’m from, the countries I’ve traveled to, and where certain friends are abroad (Ghana and Hong Kong), as well as my sister (Mexico). Sata promised to set aside some paté, fried dough balls with onion, from the batch she would prepare that afternoon and sell around town.

19 May 2010

Even as I began biking to Dongorona on my way to Ouélessébougou, I still wasn’t positive it would prove a worthwhile venture. Nonetheless, I enjoyed the novelty of seeing hornbills, white egrets, hawks, doves and sand pipers on my way to the town where I bank. I arrived at the highway that splits Dongorona, where I was waved over by Issa’s mother, who was among the mango vendors along the road. Issa is the husband of Siaka’s older half-sister, and his house is where I leave my bike. His mother always enjoys greeting the Bambara speaking Toubab, and this time, as she asked whether I was off to Ouélessébougou, I pointed to the bush taxi that had just pulled over and explained I was going to run to catch a place aboard. She excitedly urged me on, as I privately celebrated my luck at finding a ride so quickly.

The unusually positive tone the day in Ouélessébougou took began at the bank, where I was blown away to find no one to wait after, and walked up to the teller without taking a ticket at all. I said I was only needing 5000 fcfa (~$10), but he notified me that June’s monthly stipend had been deposited. Barely believing what I’d heard, I peaked through the window to look at the computer screen, delighted with this completely unexpected development.

Having only eaten the last of my Clif Bars that morning, I found a woman at the entry to market selling cègè, who remembered me from past visits to her stand, asking me how Kafara people were. She mixed her Bambara with French, a stimulating method of interaction I appreciated. I sat down outside the butigi owned by Kafara dugutigi’s grandson, and one of the men who sell water and soft drinks there sat with me preparing small plastic bags of yeast to be sold. He somehow read my mind about the situation; as I sat chatting with mere acquaintances, I purchased avocadoes and onions from a women sitting across the way from my place next to this man. He took the money to pay and collect my produce, before taking his seat again to my right, remarking at how such a series of interactions would be hard to come by in America. I heartily agreed with his assessment.

The opportunity to visit Samba then occurred to me, and since I had yet to do so during all these past trips to Ouélessébougou, I took advantage of this chance to spend the day with him. First we went to another cyber place different from where I usually go, where for the past month their internet would not be working until “tomorrow or the day after tomorrow.” I found a message from my sister, who I hadn’t heard from since March, so that was reassuring. After sending a quick note to my mom, I sent Mamadou a list of people I’d like to visit in Mali during these last months, all written in French! The night before, I told him I was pretty confident with my latest attempt at the language, but a quick grammar correction he gave me on one of the sentences threw me into a panic that it was incomprehensible. Eventually, I’ll get the hang of this Français thing.

Samba works as a secretary for an accountant, who currently is keeping records for a soybean company. His makeshift office is part of a warehouse, where packed in a corner is his desk with a desktop computer, a couple jars of soybeans, and whatever work he’d been drafting before I called him that morning. In case I didn’t make the connection, Samba said, “Lucas, c’est mon bureau.” He did the same upon arriving at his house, where he has one room in his host’s concession, this time referring to the place for me in English, saying, “Lucas, this is my ghetto.” Both these phrases ended in each of us laughing. Samba’s jatigi, the man who hosts him as well as heads the concession, gifted me a big mango from in town.

On my way back home, I struggled biking left-handed while holding the ever heavier plastic sack of guacamole ingredients I’d purchased at market in Ouélessébougou. As I approached Kafara’s perimeter, I stopped to eat mangoes with Bou and Karim, who’d spent the day helping dig a well in Dongorona. Malians are mango-eating machines; the two of them ate over thirty mangoes in less than ten minutes!

Soumaïla’s older brother, Daouda, arrived today in Kafara for the remainder of the week. Their grandmother’s sara ka bò is Friday in Digan. That day is also the second year anniversary of Kafara’s mosque being built, which means many folks from Kafara who are in Bamako will be in town. The first of those I’ve seen is Batima, the daughter of the butigi owner folks in town refer to as Commerçant, who I saw last during my mother’s visit to Mali.

20 May 2010

My little host sister Fatim arrived at my hut this morning to ask me to accompany her to the Med Clinic for a shot. As I sat outside waiting, I thought back about how this time last year I was in the middle of my formation in Sougoula, all the work I’d put into that project and how frustrating I’d found going about seeing it through essentially myself. Pulling off a similar stunt this time may have proved difficult by yet another uncontrollable variable – the weather. It rained this morning briefly, and many people are preparing fields for next month’s planting to begin.

Daouda and N’Dia went to Digan this morning. As N’Dia prepared to mount the moto, Mariam asked across the concession for her to get my assistance, but N’Dia assured she was alright. Upon Mariam’s second urging, I said N’Dia didn’t believe in my ability to support her, a comment that lead to Daouda’s approval of my understanding his mother’s words, which he gave by of laughter, before reiterating that N’Dia would accept help but didn’t think I alone could provide it. I did however help Soumaïla push start the moto before it revved up and they were on their way.

I spent the afternoon at the imam’s concession with Kadiatou chatting and brewing tea. All visitors and members of the concession appreciated our conversation, full of joking and tease-filled bickering.

After Fatim got her afternoon shot, Dicko took a look at her burn scars that spread across her chest, and concluded she would need to get a specialist’s attention, perhaps including surgery in an area where her skin would otherwise stretch to the point of opening again.

Mamadou’s friend Soumaïla arrived from Bamako today, as well as Vieux, Mamadou’s older brother. I saw them both coming to and from in town this afternoon. During my visit to Mamadou’s concession to welcome Vieux, his mother gave me a piece of Bamako bread, a traditional gift folks bring for kids.

Today was so nice, with temperatures never rising above 85 degrees, and I could be seen wearing a long-sleeve shirt comfortably all day.

21 May 2010

Today marked the two year anniversary of the construction of Kafara’s mosque. All morning, the imam and several Muslim clerics read Koranic verses. I went, somewhat reluctantly, with Siaka and his friend but sat outside at first, a bit stubborn in my initial hesitance to go inside with them. For whatever reason, I felt uncomfortable this time about what I should properly due, what was culturally appropriate without perhaps going too far from my own comfort zone. Villagers know I’m not Muslim, and generally we make jokes about whether I’m going to ever join them to pray at the mosque, but that’s on any normal day. I suppose since this day carried a certain significance, I was more understanding of their invitations. Plus, there weren’t any prayers happening at the time I was there today, just observances, I suppose you could call it. Anyhow, I finally was convinced to feel welcome to join in when Amadou Bagayoko, the butigi owner on the south end of Kafara, arrived to see me sitting alone outside on a tree stump, and in a friendly manner asked me to go in with him. We found our place in the final row of prayer mats, just in front of the partition that divides the men from the women. The clerics sat in a circle up front, surrounded by several standing men who’d been assigned to keep them cool, that is to say fan them. Elders and important villagers sit closer to the front, while younger men and boys generally occupy the area where Amadou and I were. I did my best to keep attentive, but after a while the Arabic being spoken just became a sound effect, like a constant humming of electricity. Searching for those in the crowd I knew, I noticed thedugutigi’s son, who’s a high-ranking police officer in Bamako, dressed to impress and sitting up near the front. I also saw Drisa, hard to miss in his new white Muslim cap and neon yellow Ronaldinho FC Barça jersey.

The construction of this new mosque was a project completely undertaken by Kafara villagers. Those in Bamako supplied the funds, and I assume the village provided the workers. It’s easily the most impressive structure in town, and I’m sure an intense source of pride. I assume the fleet of cars parked outside the dugutigi’s concession this morning belong to those folks in Bamako that perhaps played a role in the building process. I heard the dugutigi had a cow sacrificed to commemorate the anniversary.

23 May 2010

Just by chance I biked into town to the butigi around 15hr00, where a group of men told me I’d been chosen among a list of players for Kafara’s side in a soccer game to begin in just an hour’s time. It would pit those from Kafara against villagers who are in Bamako. I was selected for Kafara’s starting lineup, and put up front on the right wing. I was given Vieux’s shoes, which were too small and after only a short amount of play my left big toe was poking out the front. I’d my first scoring opportunity spoiled by a teammate folks told me later was from Kafara but I’ve never before seen. Advancing past the line of defense, it was only the opponent’s goalie that stood between the goal and me, but out of the corner of my left eye I saw what I thought to be a defender swoop in to take the ball from me. Upon realizing it was someone on my team, and I saw an easy scoring opportunity spoiled on an erratic shot over the crossbar, I could only shake my head wondering what type of soccer match I’d found myself in that afternoon. Luckily, I was subbed out right then, before my fatigue coupled with frustration at the lack of organized strategy, my spot taken by a younger player, which pleased me. The first half ended in a scoreless draw, but as soon as the second began, Kafara scored first. Bamako responded later to even the match, but our same goal scorer struck again, securing a 2-1 victory. Play was physical, with two of Kafara’s players suffering injuries. Ba Kumba cut his lip during a collision with a defender, an impact I nearly escaped as I was in the vicinity. I, myself, had the ball taken from me forcefully from behind, in what probably should’ve been called a foul. Siaka told me after the game he joked with the player who committed that offense, telling him that if he’d hurt me Siaka would’ve been on his tail. Moussa I’m fairly certain suffered a concussion that stopped play for several tense moments during the second half. Otherwise, it was not unlike any other friendly, as we’re all from Kafara in the end, family members and friends once again. Each of Kafara’s goals were celebrated in euphoric fashion, with supporters storming the pitch shouting “goal, goal!” and doing cartwheels. Villagers who saw me play were supportive and encouraging of my efforts, even though I didn’t score, for it was the first time they’d seen me on the pitch.

25 May 2010

I thought I just might be able to escape the enormous storm front approaching from the south, especially as I caught a ride on transport after winds began picking up and raindrops started spitting. Ironically, later I would learn less rain would fall in the place I’d originally tried to miss it, Ouélessébougou, than where I’d run to, Dongorona.

This soon became apparent as we passed through the last village you pass through between those two towns, Simidji. Another equally enormous storm front was approaching from the east, and I knew it was coming fast because the crew member riding shotgun slammed a dèbèn shut into his door to serve as a makeshift window. Just as we arrived in Dongorona, heavy winds and rain began, and for the next 30-45 minutes I sat huddled with all the street vendors under a small covering next to the butigi. Within minutes, a small rapid formed between us and the highway. A couple brave younger vendors continued their selling to a couple cars that stopped when the worst of the storm had passed, but most stayed under dry cover. I made my way across the muddy, puddle-filled paths of town to Issa’s concession, still somehow under the impression I would be able to make it back home. But as soon as I’d sat down in Issa’s house, a second round of rain began and that’s when I was beginning to realize the prospect I’d be spending the night at Issa’s place. It was more due to their integrity and hospitality than of the logistical complications of crossing the bigger rapid they recommended I wait until the next morning to continue home. Plus, up until then, I’d yet to spend a night with the friendly folks I left my bike with during past Ouélessébougou trips. Issa’s attempts to reach my host family in Kafara proved futile, and not until his phone rang around 21hr00 did Soumaïla finally get through to learn my whereabouts, though I’m sure he probably had a pretty good hunch.

This morning, I finally arrived back in Kafara, certainly with the appearance of someone who’d been stranded in a rainstorm, but still in good spirits, sharing my host family’s laughter at the latest circumstances of rain and my trips to Ouélessébougou. Upon hearing of my arrival, Rokia came to greet me; she’d been here since Saturday but somehow we’d not seen each other yet!

I learnt a whole bunch of random facts about village recently, as I carefully ask certain folks subtle questions about people’s affairs. Some might call me guilty of searching for gossip, but I’d take offense to such as I’m actually looking for the truth, not rumors. From Siaka, I found out the girl who’s currently cooking meals and pulling water for me is Muriama’s oldest child from a previous marriage. I’ve mentioned this girl before, Awa, but her history has remained a mystery, as my host family never felt it necessary to explain who she was to me. Awa has a younger sister still in Kodialan, where Muriama was married before. The reason Awa is here now I’m told is because she herself had been married in Kodialan but for whatever reason the marriage didn’t last, before she had any children even, or at least that’s what Siaka knows. Kadia, the village matron, thinks Awa’s family name is Sacko, but wasn’t entirely certain. Awa Sacko, the same name given to my mom during her visit to Mali.

During my latest trip to Bamako, a child fell down a well and drowned. The girl was a member of a neighboring concession of Bagayoko folks, and the well she fell in is nearby my house. I only found out today at Kadia’s concession, when Dicko, Ba Kumba and she told me about what had happened. I’d never have known otherwise!

A Fulani named Samba has been herding Soumaïla’s cattle for the past year unpaid. He was supposed to be given a monthly stipend, but even one month hasn’t been given to him. Now his mother’s been calling him to come home but he doesn’t have any means to catch a ride back, essentially kept captive for the time being. Kadia told me this as well, another update on village news I otherwise wouldn’t have known, happening in my own concession!

Soumaïla’s mother, N’Dia, is one of the four Kafara villagers who’ve observed Hajj in Mecca. Two of those people are the dugutigi and his wife, so that gives you some insight into the type of company she keeps in that regard.

Rokia braided little Fatim’s hair in a criss-cross pattern I’ve yet to see anywhere. I asked Fatim what the model was and she said “dèbèn”, as in the mat people lay out to sleep or sit on here, that have a similarly intricate stitched design.

26 May 2010

Last night, I called my supervisor, Yacouba Koné, to return the message he’d left over the weekend about his upcoming visit. I’m glad I caught him yesterday, because it came to light his trip to Kafara had changed to today rather than the originally scheduled date, tomorrow. He said he’d be coming once the morning meeting at the Bureau had finished, and to expect him around 10hr00.

Soumaïla placed out several chairs this morning outside my concession under the shade of the big mango tree before heading off to the bank, where he works every Wednesday, something his older brother Kariba used to do. I sat myself in one of those chairs after putting on a nice shirt and waited for Yacouba’s arrival while listening to the radio and playing with little Mohamed. A little before 11hr00, I saw the PC vehicle pull up from across the concession. Yacouba and I chat for a bit while Rokia took my bike to inform Soumaïla of his arrival. I updated him on MZC’s projects in town, how I felt about their presence in town, and the potential collaboration I was initially hesitant about with them. Since he was once upon a time a homologue, I asked him about what it was like when his first volunteer left for America. He said it was a sad time, but he was reassured by the fact a replacement would come in their wake. When my time comes, he told me many villagers and I will be crying together, and there was no questioning this, as he knew it all too well.

Soumaïla came soon thereafter, and described all the things he was thankful for about my time with him. The grace of my presence here resulted in the creation of a cooperative; Programme Sorgho representatives informed Winrock International about the farmers in my area, leading to the formation that they held last year here in village. Yacouba was so impressed by this project, the fact I’d hosted the American trainer for two nights not slipping his mind, and explained it was a perfect work opportunity for another volunteer to assume. Soumaïla also told Yacouba about my work in Sougoula with the women’s association there with the partners I found at Helen Keller International, and the nutrition formation Soumaïla wasn’t ashamed to say we’d funded ourselves. Together, the three of us took the short walk to Soumaïla’s compost pit, recently filled with new material, and nearby the USAID/WACIP cotton test plot where the previous pit’s contents are now spread about in piles. On our way to the field, passing through a mango grove, Yacouba’s attention was diverted to our left, where he noticed something none of the rest of us had yet seen. I followed him, picking up on his intentions, and sure enough, a huge black scorpion just fell victim to my supervisor’s dress shoe heel.

Yacouba also wanted to see the sorghum hybrid Soumaïla has been growing in the garden, during hot season no less, but not before he got to see the family of muskrats Soumaïla has been raising for a project based out of Benin. The calendar my mom gifted Soumaïla was also shared with Yacouba, and he was pleased with this special souvenir. He asked me to send him photos like he saw in the calendar of farmers and me in the fields.

We ate lunch under my gwa, and Yacouba shared stories of his first volunteer with me, and also informed me as to the cultural significance of something that happened to me several days ago. I was sitting alone underneath my gwa when Sita and a friend stopped by to say hello. When they found me sitting outside my hut with the door shut, they quickly opened it and said it wasn’t customary to do as I’d been doing. Yacouba says this is similar to the belief that if you sit in your doorstep, another taboo, the spirits that come and go through the doorway will pass through you as well! These old beliefs that have passed through many generations are so interesting to me, I wish I knew more of them, as I’m sure there are a whole bunch of them I’ve yet to learn, generally by unknowingly violating them, as I did with the door example.

Soumaïla’s courage and work ethic really stood out to Yacouba, enough that he made a remark to me about it after lunch. He said this I think to subtly confirm the luck I had with finding such a work partner. We hopped in the 4X4 and went to greet the dugutigi and his wife, to let them know Yacouba was here to mark the final months of my time in Kafara, and start preparing for my replacement. Then to the other end of town we went to introduce Dr. Dicko to my supervisor in hopes of perhaps building a potential collaboration with MZC. It turns out Dicko and Yacouba share a similar passion for animal raising, and they got along seemingly well, speaking with each other in very educated French.

Before Yacouba was on his way, he stopped back by my host family’s concession to drop off some gâteau for Soumaïla’s kids and got Dicko’s number from me. After sending him off with blessings and thanks, I couldn’t help but share my very high opinion of how the visit went with Soumaïla before he took my bike on his way back to the bank.

27 May 2010

It’d been a frustrating day, and I decided it best to let Soumaïla know how I felt, so after I finished my dinner I walked over to his house and sat next to him. As I rarely do so, he gathered I probably wanted to tell him something, but probably nothing more than letting him know I’d be going to Ouélessébougou or Bamako whichever day. This time, I started by saying that today had been discouraging, before going on to describe my frustration with MZC events in village.

Ever since they’ve been working in Kafara, almost a year now, I’ve yet to be even introduced to the Spanish representatives during their visits to see the progress of their projects. This is the responsibility of Dicko, it’s not my prerogative to introduce myself, that’s not proper protocol in Mali. I’d hoped that yesterday’s meeting with my supervisor would be reciprocated by Dicko today, so I went in the morning to the Med Clinic, where women sang and danced while waiting for the arrival of MZC’s truck to pull up with the visitors from Spain. I took my place off to the side with Alou and Kadia, and just before the truck approached us, Dicko sat across from me. As there was no microphone, the group had to huddle closer to the front where the speakers would be, and I sat in the back, mostly observing, but really waiting for that elusive introduction to the other development workers in this small town. The perfect opportunity for this came when during their tour of the different projects, just as they arrived from the Med Clinic to where villagers have Bambara class, when Dicko and one of the women passed behind me. I was told later that it was then that she asked who I was, and Dicko took the liberty of introducing myself rather than walk the ten yards to where I was sitting and do so properly. He knows I speak Spanish, but this never came up, just that I was an American and here as a PCV. Later, still sitting in that same spot beginning to realize I had been forgotten in the background, Soumaïla noticed my disposition from across the area people were gathered, and called me over to give me his cell phone to charge at the Med Clinic. I walked over there and sat with Dr. Keita, who asked if I’d eaten. When I told him since no one had called me to do so, I didn’t even know about it. He went to see about the food situation, and then Seydou Camara passed by, asking me again whether I’d eaten. His response, upon hearing I hadn’t been informed of lunch or even introduced to the Spanish women who’d come, confirmed my displeasure, as he agreed it was not proper. Even Ba Kumba, the nurse, who was sitting next to me, said he would mention such to Dicko later. When Dicko passed by in the truck as the MZC folks went to greet the dugutigi, Ba Kumba told me to come eat. I arrived to the gwa outside Dicko and Keita’s house where Keita and Kadia were eating, and Kadia quickly asked for my excuse for her forgetting to call me to eat. I told her not to worry, as that wasn’t her responsibility alone, before Ketia and I told her about how I’d yet to be introduced to Dicko’s superiors, like I’d done the day before during Yacouba’s visit. Each of the people who share the concession, Kadia, Keita, and Ba Kumba, agreed with my assessment of the situation as a cultural faux pas, and even more surprising were their words of disapproval about Dicko’s negligence. Kadia recommended it was up to me to tell Dicko this myself later, but just as the Spanish representatives had left, Dicko called me under the gwa again to ask my help with my camera, which I’d lent him for the day’s events, like I’d done for past events too. It was then that Keita told him, in French, about my disappointment at not being introduced to the MZC people. Dicko said I hadn’t been there during the reception, a baffling distortion of the truth, as Keita then reiterated I was sitting in the audience the entire time. Dicko then remembered one of the Spanish women had asked about me, and he told me of her positive reaction upon hearing I was a PCV in town. It still hadn’t hit him such an opportunity to introduce me had presented itself quite plainly. I finally understood Dicko was just a certain personality type that tended to disregard or forget about such things during his affairs. The fact none of this really surprised me either helped to keep me from feeling too upset about it.

That being said, it did help to tell Soumaïla about it, and Muriama laughed in appreciation what she’d interpreted at my expression of anger. I quickly corrected her that I wasn’t angry, just frustrated and discouraged. What could I take from all this but a slight feeling of betrayal, being asked for me camera, seeing my bicycle ridden about on errands, but myself sitting in the background forgotten? Soumaïla’s read-in on the ordeal was especially cynical, concluding that Dicko was not trustworthy and perhaps intimidated by not only my presence in town but also that I understood Spanish and therefore could’ve discussed matters with Dicko’s supervisors in their native tongue. Although this is possible, I certainly hope it not to be the case, as all my interactions with Dicko I’ve had would be irreversibly tainted. It’s also somewhat odd that the Spanish woman who’d asked about me didn’t initiate an introduction to me herself, but then again, that’s fairly typical of most visits by foreign workers. Perhaps I just blend in with the crowd, having become simply another member of the village. Am I supposed to feel culturally integrated by this? Because normally that’s supposed to be a good feeling, not one that leaves me feeling negative.

Soumaïla and I continued chatting until close to midnight about all sorts of things, from family history to Malian culture to bats to the feelings we have about my leaving Mali soon to soccer. Our discussion of family began with Soumaïla giving me his birth certificate, and when I asked about his father’s name, N’Galadiou. I’d heard his father referred to by another name, Moussa, but Soumaïla said this stemmed from a stint his father spent in Guinea, where he was given a name by his hosts, much like me here. Apparently, this is a common cultural practice across the region. Soumaïla told me he preffered his father’s given name, even to the point of naming one of his sons after him. It was then that Muriama asked me whether this was something Americans did. I said I was familiar with a couple instances of such personally, but overall, it wasn’t an overwhelmingly popular name-giving process. This discussion of names reminded me of something new I learnt from Ba Kumba that afternoon. Each family name is given a totem animal; Traoré a magpie-like bird, Camara a turtle, Samaké an elephant, Keita a lion. I told Soumaïla I knew this to be the case in Senegal, but hadn’t yet known about totem’s existence in Mali.

Bats might seem like a random lapse in attention, and that’s somewhat true. A huge bat caught my eye behind Soumaïla’s concession as it flew back and forth between a grove of mango trees. I asked for the name of the animal in Bambara, but it became clear that each type of bat has a particular name. This big fruit bat is called n’tonso. I asked about vampire bats, but Soumaïla told me there weren’t too many of those around here, but was still familiar with them.

We both shared our similar dread for the day I leave Kafara, Soumaïla even inferring he hopes the day never comes! He says whenever he finds himself thinking too much about that, he recalls the first time he met me at Toubaniso and his second thoughts about this whole hosting a PCV idea, because we couldn’t even greet each other in Bambara without an interpreter! Oh how we laughed at this memory and the distance we’ve come from that first awkward interaction.

I asked Soumaïla whether he’d heard on the radio about his favorite soccer club, Real Madrid, hiring a new manager. José Murinho just achieved a historical treble with Inter Milan, winning Italy’s national cup, the Serie A league title, and the European Champions League all in the same season. Soumaïla hoped he could bring similar success to Real, who’ve recently under-achieved in epic fashion despite a roster filled with superstars. All the while, their supporters are lamenting in their team’s floundering amidst the success of their arch-rivals FC Barça.

29 May 2010

While reading through my journal entries from a year ago, I was drawn to several similar themes. It didn’t come as much of a surprise to see descriptions of things that would happen this time every year, like the first big rain storms or the harvesting of nèrè pods from the forest. Cool side note about that, though, while I’m on the subject. The word in Bambara for yellow is the same as the word for the powder of the nèrè fruit (nèrèmugu). A fun story about this occurred not long ago when Winrock International’s West Africa Regional Director visited my family concession. I told her this linguistic fact and her only question was whether or not the powder was yellow. Nearby, some women in my host family were shelling the pods into a basket full of, yes, very yellow content.

But several coincidental experiences could not be attributed to any time frame. Around this time last year, I had my fingertips dyed in red henna, just like I did a couple days ago. In the beginning of this past June, my oldest host brother was married to his second wife, and many of the women in my host family were applying henna for the event. Rokia decided to let me join them, after finishing with her younger cousins. Even stranger was the account of a trip to Ouélessébougou last May and my chance meeting with Abou Kounaté, who hosted Siaka and I for the afternoon while Siaka’s bike tire was repaired by one of his children. Abou’s profession was as a chauffeur, and he’d lived in many West African countries before coming to Mali. Well, it just so happens that during my latest trip to Ouélessébougou, I met Ousmane, completely by chance, as I bought some cucumber seeds. He was sitting with the man I bought the seeds from, and invited me to sit with them to drink tea. During our visit, we spoke almost exclusively in English, as he’s known many other PCV’s and been able to practice that way. His English is not unlike that of an American because of this, and it allowed for casual conversation to commence without loss of comprehension. Ousmane is a chauffeur too, and has also been to other African countries, just like Abou. A PCV from a nearby town took him on a vacation to Ghana several years ago, and he’s also spent a couple years in Libya, which after five years of learning Arabic in school solidified his fluency in the language. He taught me how to say “good-bye”, a phrase I’d forgotten from my writing exercise book, and was sincerely impressed when he taught me the afternoon greeting and I answered correctly. I learnt a phrase in Bambara that alludes to when someone isn’t expressing them self clearly, which is translated directly as ‘keeping you in darkness’ (musalaka). Anyway, I cannot wait to catch up with Yousmanne another Friday at market in Ouélessébougou, as I could’ve picked his brain about such things for hours. Even though I’m fairly certain he shares this hope, his farewell greeting included another appropriate phrase. “Until next time, in shaa’ allah.”

5 May 2010

Three women on my ride into Bamako stood out from the rest. They spoke with each other in a language I’d never before heard, and wore their hear in a style I’d not yet seen. I recognized this hairstyle to be that of an ethnic group originally from the border between Mauritania and Niger (Aussa). I can think of no better comparison than to say it reminded me of a groomed standard poodle. If I hadn’t been too ashamed to ask, I would’ve taken a photo of the one sitting next to me, who spoke Bambara the best of the three. The language (Aussa) sounded vaguely like that of Mali’s Peuhl/Fulani ethnic group, one which spreads all across West Africa. Muslim nomadic herders, they are the gypsies of the region.

Mamadou wrote a letter in French for our friend Bakary dit Ivo, thanking him for his visit to Kafara and inviting him to my birthday celebration. The letter was written from me, but its author was Mamadou; I only saw a draft. In fact, I received Ivo’s thank-you text last night before even reading the letter I supposedly sent him! Here’s what the text said…Bon soir, Amed. J’ai reçu la lettre. Je suis très content que Dieu nous donné tout ce que ont demandes, santé, longévité, prospérité, succès, beaucoup d’argent, et moins de problème dan les foies. Je te souhait joyeux anniversaire Lucas Mohammed, merci bey bey. Bakary dit Ivo.

I head to the Bureau yesterday afternoon to fill out the volunteer replacement form my supervisor sent me a couple weeks back, and made sure he had not only the hard copy I gave him before I left, but also an electronic copy in his inbox. Yacouba has a way to always catch me with his words, but not in a bad way. Looking over the form, he asked if I was ready to be replaced. I thought so, I said. He said okay, but that he was hoping to hear I was ready to extend, ending his sentence with n’est-ce pas? I could only smile, thinking of nothing to say, kind of like when he caught me before with this whole replacement business. I thought about what he’d said on the entire walk from the Bureau to where I would be meeting my PCV friend Peter to watch a Premier League soccer match (this caused me to get briefly lost!). Yacouba may have changed my mind with the talk of getting replaced, but for right now, I’m fairly certain his suggestion at an extension will not have similar results. On va voir, we’ll see.

7 May 2010

Even now, the next morning, I’m sitting outside Mamadou’s house still trying to come to grips with yesterday, a day which did its best to leave me mentally unstable.

I’d wanted to make my last birthday in Mali a memorable one, but perhaps I should’ve just kept my plans more realistic, translation: cheaper. It’s easier to accept this in terms of venue, because despite my never having been to the Piano Bar, where I’d originally wanted to go, hearing about it’s location and typical clientele was enough to discourage me from pursuing it. But when something as simple as getting a couple shirts tailored didn’t work out, it left me emotionally deflated and submissive to the point I didn’t care anymore about any of it. This was the second time Mamadou and I have asked a friend of his for some bazen fabric, the style Mali is famous for, only for her to bail on us at the last possible moment. Anywhere else, the fabric itself is too expensive for me to buy, let alone get pressed and tailored, leaving me to wonder how so, so many Malians own several complets of it.

(Later…) A simple trip to the African Arts and Artisans market in the heart of Bamako turned into a experience rich with a series of coincidental fateful happenings. I’d only been to the place once before with Mamadou to buy a pair of leather sandals, but we were in and out within ten minutes. This time I wanted to walk about the market first just to see all the cool things that the area is brimming with before finally deciding on something. Turns out Mamadou and I had a perfect guide, his friend and cell phone repair place patron Moussa, the same one I went with to football academy last Saturday at Stade du 26 Mars. Why, one might ask, would Moussa be the perfect guide for a stroll through the artisan market? Turns out before the whole cell phone repairing business began, he would wander about that area selling various items, like toothpaste. Now you’d think he owned the place! I was so busy concentrating on not losing him among the throngs of people as he navigated the chaotic scene seemingly in a trance that I forgot to check out all the cool things I’d come to see! Masks, statues, animal skins drying in the sun, traditional items, and it’s all handmade. In fact, you pass by all these shops/stands/etc. and the artisan himself is most likely found sitting nearby creating more of whatever he’s selling. They’re also quick to put that work down if they notice the slightest hesitation in any potential buyer, and run over to begin marketing their handiwork. My friends and I were caught in this manner with one guy selling wood-carved masks and statues of all shapes and sizes. I’d try to describe what sorts of shapes and sizes those were, but all I remember from his shop is the only article inside he didn’t make: a figurine of the Virgin Mary. As Mamadou and I stood in the doorway, he asked me under his breath in English what I wanted there. Upon my answer, nothing, we pulled Moussa along so he could continue leading us on our truant through the maze. Almost losing Moussa on one of his sharp right-hand turns, I noticed a place in the corner of my eye that might have some interesting stuff, so I called him back before he was not only out of sight but also earshot. The two sellers proceeded to help us pick out a leather bracelet I’d been after for almost a year now, and patiently answered all the questions we had about their other various merchandise (bracelets made out of cow horn, or a necklace bursting with cowry shells, for example). We took a long detour on our way out of the market, and I paused at another place briefly to show Mamadou some crafts I thought to be made from elephant tusk. The artisan ran over to say it was bone, and then in a similar fashion as our previous acquaintances, answered all the questions we had about all his items. Moussa had the funniest inquiry for sure, asking if people would really eat with the fancy utensils he held in his hands pretending to eat ravenously. Mamadou asked specifically about a set of earrings, little pieces of bone carved into elephants, which he eventually bought to gift my mother, given their the source of my Malian last name. Sama is not only the word in Bambara for elephant, but also for a gift, appropriately enough in this case.

It was now time for us to look after the other reason the three of us went together to this area of Bamako: to develop the photos taken last Saturday during my visit to football academy practice. It’s just a short walk from the market, and we arrived just before juma’a seli, so the wait was short. Moussa was very pleased with how the photos turned out, he having taken most of them himself.

We caught a taxi just around the corner from the photo place. The driver got out to buy some dégé, a delicious yogurt drink with little bits of sorghum and sugar inside. Moussa sent Mamadou to buy some too while we waited, as he knew the place had a good reputation. Actually, he knew of the place ever since it started years ago, back during his days selling in the area, when it was just one woman selling the snack herself. Now, there are more than ten people working there, a long line of patrons, and tickets issued indicating how much you intend on purchasing. Quite the enterprise! It’s easy to understand how they were so successful, because the dégé was excellent.

On our way back across Bamako, the prayer call signaling the start of juma’a selicould be heard and soon we were cutting through streets bordered by men, hundreds of men, standing shoulder to shoulder in prayer formation in a most surreal scene, a fitting end to our foray into the arguably most bustling setting Bamako can offer giving way to the serenity and order that can only be found around 13hr00 every Friday.

8 May 2010

After the first of a couple trips to the cyber café, my phone rang with the caller id scrolling a couple handfuls of numbers from an unknown location, almost certainly another country, but not the one I’d expect calls from on my birthday, you know, the one I’m from. There was so much noise sitting outside Mamadou’s cell phone repair place, and perhaps due to the caller’s long distance connection, I could barely make out his voice. Then in complete disbelief I realized it was my friend Peter, who recently moved to Hong Kong. We hadn’t heard each other’s voice for close to two years, although we’d be keeping in contact through email and each other’s blogs, living vicariously through our similar experiences in such different places. That half an hour chat flew by, but was a most welcome surprise, definitely setting a good tone for the day.

I made a surprise call of my own to Kadia, remembering how last year she declared my birthday across town, resulting in a steady flow of her friends arriving throughout the celebration. We hadn’t talked since I visited her with my mom last December, but did our best to act as though we still kept up with how things were going, her asking me about my host family in Kafara and my confirming she was doing alright in Kalaban Koura. The call left me feeling admittedly depressed, wishing I could somehow relive the past and change its course.

Perhaps the best surprise of all was the arrival of Mamadou’s friend Kara from Sabalibougou, a far western quartier of Bamako, as we waited at Mamadou’s place for Maman. His coming on my birthday was a complete coincidence (or was it?), as I’d not mentioned the day’s significance to him. He sarcastically rejected my invitation to join us for dinner, using joking cousin-filled teasing to his defense. Maman came with gifts, a tailored shirt and a beaded necklace complete with a camel bone carved into a sharp point. During my phone conversation with my dad, Ivo arrived to complete our dinner party, and soon we split off on our way to l’Amandine. Kara, Maman, and I took a cab, reserving a table before Mamadou and Ivo arrived on Kara’s moto. I imagine we were quite the head-scratching site to the other patrons, me the white person with a group of Malians, carrying on and having a grand old time in Bambara. Maman picked out her own meal this time, without my help, a beef schwarma sandwich, while Mamadou, Ivo, and Kara each had the pavé cut of steak in a mushroom gravy. Neither Mamadou or I knew what the pavé cut of steak was, besides thick, but both decided if the word chef was involved, it must be the best. Our blind logic proved to hold true after a taste test. Myself, I settled on two skewers of Indian spiced beef kabobs. Afterwards, I took Maman inside to pick out a couple slices of cake to bring back to her aunt and younger sister. Imagine, not only buying cake on my birthday (in Mali), but doing so with someone who’d never done such a thing! Luckily, pictures had been taken at Mamadou’s place before we left, because both of us forgot about bringing the camera to dinner. Also, I’d been on a torrid search for orange juice the entire day, strangely enough, and was flabbergasted upon arriving at l’Amandine to learn somehow they hadn’t any that night. Alas, I settled for a Sprite.

4 May 2010

The thought came to me long ago, but I failed to act upon it until today. My hesitance to do so sooner was perhaps taken too cautiously, too afraid to burn bridges I’d spent most of the past twenty or so months building. Now I’m at the point in my service, with four months left, where I guess I’m more willing to take risks in that regard, or maybe it’s the fear of future regret that finally pushed me in this direction. In the end, in shaa’ allah, it could be the beginnings of a partnership with which my replacement can take off running.

That’s really where all this began: my replacement. I’ve debated back and forth about the idea, but my indecision was finally bucked by a chance run-in with my supervisor at the bureau last week. He said he wanted to talk about my replacement. Those words blindsided me: my replacement. Wait, my what? I asked more for my own re-confirmation than much else whether my supervisor was set on replacing me, although I had no recollection of ever discussing this matter with him before. He said yes, he thought it best to get another volunteer for Kafara, because it would establish a PC legacy. I suppose hearing this from my supervisor convinced me and upon receiving the appropriate form via email, I didn’t waste any time starting to draft my answers to its questions. It was the section concerning potential work opportunities that I ultimately made the decision that it was time to walk over to the med clinic and have a chat with Dr. Dicko.

My proposal came with a detailed description of what PC volunteer’s work entails. Dicko knew we worked in many sectors, and could serve as an effective liaison between MZC and the village of Kafara. What left him puzzled is why I would decide to live two years in another country, in a manner similar to the country’s nationals. He asked if I was paid well. I said my stipend, in ordinance with PC policy suggesting volunteers’ economic condition be no different from that of my host country nationals, was just over $200 a month, an amount so low it surprised him. He asked about my medical care, whether it was free. I said yes, no matter what the ailment. He asked if I was guaranteed a job when I return home. I said not exactly, but there are definitely advantages to being a PC volunteer when job searching. This status and PC’s reputation hold considerable weight with potential employers across the board. Upon hearing this, Dicko began to understand why one might choose to make the arguably crazy choice to live for twenty-seven months in a mud hut in a small farming village in the world’s third poorest country. In the end, he was very excited about the possibility to work together. I told him I’d very much like to even just shadow him on any of his oversight of MZC’s activities in Kafara and neighboring villages, and possibly go meet his MZC counterparts at their office in Bamako. His answer to any of my requests was il n’ya pas de problème, no problem at all.

27 April 2010

Last Friday, as I woke up from a nap at Ma fitini’s concession in Djonkalan, still lying on the mat on the floor of the hut I raised my arms above my head, arched my back, and stretched. It was then that I felt something pop in my lower left ribs, leaving me uncomfortable ever since.

Three days later, still having discomfort I decided to call Dr. Dawn and describe to her what happened. Expecting her response that she’d never heard anything like this before, I told her it was something that’s happened to me on several occasions back home, and normally my mom would be able to reset whatever facet had popped out of place. Dr. Dawn recommended I come into the Med Unit so she could take a look for herself and then decide what we would do.

Arriving this afternoon, Dr. Dawn scheduled me a consultation at a clinic just down the road from our Bureau in Hamdallaye-ACI 2000. The Pasteur Clinique is where I got my first X-ray, and had the pleasure of receiving care from friendly Dr. Hamet Touré, who speaks excellent English.

I suppose I should be happy the X-ray showed nothing cracked or broken or dislocated, but that did little to explain this residual pain. Left with recommendations to find a good masseuse and apply some topical ointment to the area before I sleep each night, I knew this latest slipped rib ordeal would prove a test in endurance of a different sort, as if life in Mali hasn’t enough of those.

2 May 2010

It is way too early for me to be saying my first good-bye in Mali, but that may have just happened last Friday night. My Daoudabougou friend (more like an uncle at this point) Baba Coulibaly left yesterday night for another sixth month contracting project for Somafrec, the construction company he works for, I think driving heavy machinery. This trip takes him to a town near the border of Burkina Faso, Kuri. As we sat together outside Mamadou’s concession, I told him I’d just decided I wasn’t okay with that being our last night together and I’d do my best to visit him before I left, as in get on a bus and go find him. We went together to see Batima and Nènè, the former of whom he revealed is the woman he’d like to make his second wife, a decision he’s been chasing after ever since he met her, which he said had been before he’d gone on his first ever project in another region of Mali. Even though I know Baba shares my feeling of this uncle-nephew relationship we kind of have, he rarely opens up and shares personal matters like this with me. Before he left Mamadou’s place, we did our best to navigate the awkwardness of such a good-bye greeting, saying even if we couldn’t see each other that we’d do so over the phone. That night I dreamt of him!

Yesterday morning I went to Stade du 26 Mars where Moussa Sacko, Mamadou’s boss at the cell phone repair place, has football academy each Saturday morning. I’ve never been to a football academy practice, and was blown away by some of these young people’s skills. I’d also never been to the stadium where Mali’s national football team, the Eagles, play their international matches, and took pictures on the pitch with Moussa and several of his friends after their practice was over.

20 April 2010

So I’ll begin with a couple updates in town. I arrived in Kafara for the first time not in Air Digan, as the van had been out of service due to a lack of a chauffeur. The day prior to my leaving Bamako, we called that guy more than ten times, only to reach his voicemail. Finally, he picked up and told us he was in San, a city in the far away region of Mopti, but before giving us any indication of whether he was returning or Air Digan still in operation, we lost our connection.

Once again, we’re without power, something I correctly assumed my first night in town as I biked past the mosque to see a light fixture hooked up outside as well as a fire, neither a good indicator of electricity available community-wide.

Last night, a short downpour passed over around 20hr00, allowing for an early bedtime, but not before Siaka informed me of his friend’s marriage this Thursday in the neighboring village of Djonkalan. Another reason for me to visit there he informed me was due to my host sister Ma fitini’s husband passing away recently. He’d still been in the Kayes region trying to make some extra money, and the cause of his death is yet unknown to me, but if I were to guess I’d go with malaria. They were a young couple, Ma fitini herself just 20, leaving me to wonder what lies ahead for her now.

Today, I was told by Soumaïla to remove all my articles from my hut to the other adjacent mine in order to replace my slowly sinking roof, threatening imminent collapse as rainy season draws near.

Riding to the butigi across town, while trying to look at my bike’s rear tire and figure out what noise it was making, I looked up to see a hug sunken pot hole. There was no way to avoid it, and soon I was thrown over the handlebars, before I broke my fall somehow by rolling in a somersault. As I sat on the dirt road, more than slightly embarrassed, I scanned the wide open area I’d fallen for any witnesses, and to my amazement I found not a single person to join in laughter at my expense.

As I left the butigi for home, the imam (my younger host mother’s dad) called me over to greet. He said while I’d been in Bamako he’d dropped by my host family’s concession a couple times to say hello.

There are close to twenty homeless frogs now huddled in the shade of my thatched windbreak. They had been spending the day under the pile of old powdered milk bags that were for whatever reason in my concession (didn’t come from me). Nevertheless, the bags, and those frog’s former shady locale, are gone now. I imagine once Soumaïla discovers how many of them there are hanging out, they will be tossed outside the concession’s walls just like the fate that befell those powdered milk bags.

Minding my own business, snacking on the fruit of the tree whose shade I stood beneath, a hungry cow approached me from behind and poked at me with its horns in pursuit of my mango.

21 April 2010

During my brief visit to Sita’s house last night, I learnt her older half-sister Djénéba is now a mother. This news came as a bit of a surprise, as Djénéba struck me as more responsible than having a kid under such circumstances (she’d only left for Bamako the year before to continue studies, cannot yet be 20, and isn’t married). Perhaps my perception of women in Mali is naïve; too often I’d be quicker to blame the man in any similar situation.

Another surprise came this morning when I noticed Air Digan passing through town, already equipped with a new driver. This though came with some relief, as I’d not been looking forward to the inconvenience of not having direct transport to and from Kafara during future Bamako trips.

Today I brewed tea while Soumaïla prepared the last layers of my thatched-roof. I helped Soumaïla measure my square hut’s perimeter, marking each corner on the ground nearby to assemble the new roof structure. Once that conical form takes shape, I took pictures while Siaka and Daouda fastened the top, even climbing up there myself so Siaka could take my photo.

It was as hot tonight as it ever got yesterday (~95), so I laid my bed out under my gwa. Before long, Kadiatou stopped by with news that Vieux Ba had sent her on a mission, specifically that she and I were to go to reception and call Maman. Kadiatou would leave with Vieux Ba the next day for a short stay in Niengue-Coro.

Little Sori has begun to refer to me as “Mamadou kuma ba” (big Mamadou) to differentiate me from his younger brother “Mamadou fitini” (little Mamadou).

Using the long stick Malians pick mangoes with, I fell a mango from 25-30ft above me straight down into my left hand, an act that left my host brother Vieux laughing in disbelief.

25 April 2010

I’d spent the past three days in Djonkalan, a neighboring village, the last of which surround Kafara I’d yet to visit. It’s a weird place, with piles of lumber everywhere in stacks to sell, and seemingly every woman over 20 married and with at least one kid. Siaka would probably like to think I came along with him to attend his friend’s wedding, but I preferred staying with Ma fitini and her late husband’s family. The sight of Ma fitini in the same robes Fodé’s widows wore for the similar grieving period was a trip.

Siaka and I stopped on our way in Digan to greet N’Dia’s younger siblings, as their mother recently died. To give this some context, N’Dia is Siaka’s grandmother and close to 85. This leaves only to assume that his great-grandmother’s age is somewhere in the ballpark of 105, so perhaps her passing away was easier to accept for her relatives than under different circumstances. Even Siaka’s great-uncle, whose concession we arrived at first, invited us to eat before letting me know it wasn’t serious that his mother was now gone, because God exists. Something about the way he said this gave me the chills. Before Siaka and I went on our way, Siaka passed along my 500 FCFA contribution, an alms-giving that pleased his relatives immensely.

There are several immunizations planned in Kafara coming up, and I’d wanted to be around for all of them. Somehow Siaka didn’t understand this and convinced me he’d heard the one scheduled for yesterday had been cancelled. Well, this morning I wake up to see Djonkalan’s doctor distributing polio vaccine to children. Upon Siaka’s typically tacky handling of this type of matter (he tends to think he knows exactly what I’m feeling at any moment, only to almost always be wrong, this time suggesting my missing an opportunity to help with a national immunization initiative in lieu of his friend’s wedding wasn’t a big deal), I kind of lost it in front of Ma fitini’s in-laws. Upon arriving to Kafara, Soumaïla told me by that time Kadia and Ba Kumba would have already finished administering shots to all children under five in each of Kafara’s 57 concessions. Rather than continue being upset about it, I just accepted the unfortunate situation and made the best of it I could, searching for those in my host family who should’ve received a shot to make sure they did.

27 April 2010

Back when I got word Kadia was getting married, I was repeatedly told by villagers in Kafara that Soumaïla had betrayed me. Up until today, I didn’t understand exactly what that meant, beyond the obvious fact she was perhaps the closest member of my host family. Well, yesterday I was with Mamadou’s older brother Abou in the northern part of Kafara where an enclave of Doumbia family folks live, and they informed me that when a Malian woman is to be married, her father’s younger brother has the final say in the matter. In the case of Kadia, that would be Soumaïla, and there you have the villagers’ reasoning for betrayal.

14 April 2010

I chose to come into Bamako last night with my friend Mike in sort of a last minute decision, plus it gave me a chance to hang out with him and my other good PCV friend Megan, who was in town from Segou. Since they’re both on their way up north currently, I knew I should take advantage of the opportunity to spend a night with them. The three of us enjoyed a delicious dinner at the Broadway Café before walking down the road to find a dive bar to continue our evening together. Just past a well known place called the Bla Bla was a delightfully tacky institution with outside seating, and we sat ourselves at a corner table. Turns out this was no ordinary dive bar, because the waiter was a mute, leading to a most memorable experience.

After bargaining Megan’s cab ride back to Niarela, Mike and I found our own to take us to Hamdallaye ACI-2000. No less than two blocks from the stage house, a truck full of Bamako’s finest pulled in front of us. Two of the officers got out and approached the taxi; I immediately, and rhetorically, asked Mike whether they were really coming to id us. I handed my PC id card to one of them while Mike gives the other a copy of his US passport. The cop looked over Mike’s passport photocopy skeptically, asking for another form of id. Mike said his passport was a block away at our bureau, but the policeman seemed impatient. We were left with no choice but to get out of the taxi. Mike tried calling our safety and security coordinator, Alkalifa, but wasn’t getting through. Finally, the policeman told Mike to get into the bed of the truck with around ten other cops. When I tried to get in with my friend, they told me this was not an option. I was told to get back in my taxi, which I thought was long gone, and meet Mike at the station. Mike told me instead to walk to the stage house and wait for him there. The police truck took off before I could do anything more.

To my surprise, our taxi driver had waited just down the road and called me back to drive me the rest of my way. I said it was alright, the distance was really not far, but the driver insisted, I’m sure pitying our situation, even suggesting the policemen’s true intentions (bribes).

Soon enough, Mike text me saying he’d gotten through to Alkalifa, who’d talked some sense (or fear) into the cops, and they brought him back before even arriving at the station. Mike collected his bag from the stage house, and after confirming on the internet he owed me 5000 FCFA on a bet we’d made about Alabama’s state flag (thank you fifth grade state report), he was on his way to our friend Peter’s apartment, a short walk from the stage house.

15 April 2010

“The Toubab is here, and he came with soap!” It was with these words that I was greeted upon entering Bocar’s concession in Daoudabougou. His newborn son’s baptism was today, and as I’m a close friend I’m culturally oblidged to attend. The soap is a traditional gift for the mother to have for cleaning the baby’s clothes, and, al-hamdu lillaah (thank God), I remembered to buy some as I rode in the cab across town. Another important matter of proper arrival was getting my grizzly face shaved, save for the goatee Malian men favor, at the coiffure nearby Mamadou’s workplace. A funny moment occurred when I sat down next to Bocar and Mamadou. Bocar asked why I hadn’t taken the taxi all the way to his house, to which I replied jokily asking would he rather I hadn’t shown up with either my groomed face or the plastic bag with three bars of soap.

Rather than the normal hang out spot outside Mamadou’s concession, tonight we went down the road to where Baba has met a woman who spends the evening selling street food, the type I described him showing up with one night last week – hard-boiled eggs, fries, cucumber salad, beans, cègè, etc. Baba had wanted me to come along before I went to Tubaniso, but that was around the time I left for the stage house whichever night. I asked Mamadou before the two of us decided to go if it would be awkward for us to visit without Baba, but it turned out that wasn’t an issue at all, as Malians tend to interact as one big family – everyone’s welcome just about anywhere. We arrived, were given a place to sit, a cold cup of water, and a fan, as it was hotter tonight than normal. Our two hosts, Ami Keita and Nènè Samaké, were immediately sold on my Bambara when I dropped a proverb within the first five minutes I’d started chatting with them (Don o don tulow bè taa kalanso la - Everyday, ears go to school), and by the time Mamadou and I head out, they were asking me when the next time I’d be visiting would be, and, whenever that was, I had to stay for the second round of tea.

12 April 2010

Things are a little different at Toubaniso, where there’s no internet and I’m not sleeping in the same H2 hut as I have at all other stays at Toubaniso with Peter and Jon (Peter and I settled for H3 with our friend Mike), but there’s still delicious food and fun folks to hang out with, plus I have a ton of reading material!

Last night at the Trash Pile, a bar that serves as a nightly locale for PCV's during any training at Toubaniso, I had interesting conversation with a couple PC transfers from Guinea and Madagascar. It was hard to hear their respective stories about being pulled prematurely from their villages, and problems they’ve had with adjusting to their new country of service. But both said they were very happy with how Mali has treated them so far, and thankful for the ease with which life here has been less challenging then they might have expected.

7 April 2010

In a show of camaraderie, I decided to leave for Bamako the same day Maman would be returning to start up classes once again. Drawing back to a similar choice I made for her visit during the end of Ramadan, we planned on sitting together on transport, a laughable plan really because Malian public transport is impossible to plan around in any way. It was a nice thought, I guess.

Sure enough, Air Digan arrived stuffed with passengers yesterday morning, and I was lucky to even find space up on top of the van, catching a spot on a sack of rice. Unfortunately this all occurred at the first stop on the eastern end of Kafara, so by the time we approached the spot under a mango tree nearby the Med Clinic where Maman sat waiting for her ride to Bamako, we slowly passed by and the driver said there was no room for any more people. Perhaps this was blown over by the quite possibly hilarious sight of me on top of the van, something Maman had predicted would happen not two days before. She pointed and laughed as I waved at her enthusiastically.

I stayed on top until we reached Marako, the first village you pass through upon turning north on the highway. Everyone on top of the van got off and from there to Dialakoroba we stood on the rear bumper and held on for dear life. Quite possibly the dumbest but most exciting ride on public transport I will ever have.

As it was my first time going to the new bureau, I asked one of the bus boys where to get off to catch a cab across town to Hamdallaye-ACI 2000. In the first quartier of Bamako we arrived, Faladie, I got off and approached an area down the road where I saw a number of taxicabs. I greeted a group of drivers, and after a brief joking exchange about my family name, one of them agreed to take me. The trouble was I’d never actually been to where I wanted to go; I only knew the general area. Turned out the driver knew even less than me, and we drove in circles for a bit before asking several people on the street how to get where I needed to go. Eventually, I made it to the bureau, an impressive and much more professional looking place than our old building. I was wanded by the security guard, an interesting new change to get used to, before I wandered about the entire grounds, just to orient myself to where people’s offices were and stuff like that. Packages were waiting for me (thanks mom!) and I was able to pick up an inner tube for my bike.

I walked with another PCV the short distance to the stage house, another new place I haven’t been to yet. There are a bunch of us holed up there, with a/c, wifi, and a flat screen TV with movies, as well as friendly Malian staff, including a guard.

In the afternoon, I took a taxi to Daoudabougou and Mamadou’s workplace, where I sat until dusk when we walked to Bocar’s house to watch the second leg of Barça and Arsenal’s quarterfinal Champions League match. Afterwards, we walked to Mamadou’s place, took a quick bucket bath, and then I sat briefly outside the concession and brewed a bag of tea from the packet I surprised Mamadou with as a gift. Baba arrived with food from another hangout crew, a delicious concoction of hard-boiled eggs and fries on top of cucumber and tomato salad. Around 22hr30, I caught a taxi back to the stage house, where I stayed up on the wireless until close to two in the morning.

8 April 2010

My Bamako Malian friends were blown away with the calendar my mom sent in a recent package, especially the photos of Mamadou bargaining for chickens in Kafara or my mom dancing with hang-out crew members last New Year’s Eve.

I think I’ve decided it makes more sense to stay in Bamako through the weekend rather than go to Kafara just for tomorrow only to leave again Saturday. Koulikoro Regional Training is at Toubaniso Monday-Thursday, and although it’s not an obligation for second year volunteers, it’ll give me a chance to see my PCV friend Mike and one last stay at our formation center. I’m also fairly certain my meeting with the director won’t happen by the time I’d have to leave to catch my ride back to village this afternoon. So now I have another day, tomorrow, to hopefully make that happen if it doesn’t today. I emailed him yesterday but haven’t seen a reply yet, and I’m about to go check out how busy he is at the Bureau, which is less than a five minute walk from this stage house. (He ended up calling me as I wrote this, and I met with him this afternoon – it went really well!)

I saw an amazingly funny thing leaving the stage house yesterday: a Chinese man speaking Bambara to a Malian! He’s in charge of a construction project nearby, and apparently sent one of his workers to fetch some lunch. I will be laughing about that for some time…a Chinese guy emerging from his house without a shirt to collect food from a Malian driving a moto taxi, completing the interaction with casual Bambara. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen it all folks.

Today I remembered something I learned during Maman’s visit to Kafara. I noticed a mark on her left forearm, a kind of circular scar, and asked her about it. She said that it’s a kind of birthmark given to all children born in Mali; if you see someone with it, they’re Malian. Sure enough, I’ve started noticing the mark on everyone now, and wonder how I’d skimmed over it in the past.

Yesterday, around 12hr30 the power cut off for about an hour. The Malian staff person who overlooks reservations for the place, N’Daou, told us to calm down while he went to see about it. He arrived shortly and in a solemn voice said he had bad news: the power company workers had gone on strike. When asked for how long, he said anywhere from a couple of days to a week. I sat quietly as the rest of the volunteers fell for N’Daou’s bluff immediately. While the possibility of a strike likely, I wasn’t convinced. Not a minute later, before people started having hernias, N’Daou came back inside to say April Fool’s, and I approved of his joke with hearty laughter.

I called Mamadou this morning to run by my idea to not head home to Kafara just for a day, which he agreed made a good amount of sense. He told me he was at the hospital, but not to worry as it was due to our Daoudabougou friend Bocar’s wife giving birth to their fifth child, and first son. Another Daoudabougou friend had a baptism this morning for his newborn son, which unfortunately I had to miss because I wasn’t sure when I’d be catching my country director at the bureau. I did make sure to greet the new father today and give proper blessings, as well as apologize for my absence.

11 April 2010

Maman spent the day with Mamadou and I at his place in Daoudabougou yesterday, having come again to visit us as well as her father’s namesake, Mamadou’s nephew. Mamadou and I spent almost her entire visit continually teasing her over the calendar my mom gifted Mamadou, which we both predicted Maman would immediately not only love but also want a copy for herself. Mamadou kept telling her that the copies we made her would be in black and white, and also kept jokingly asking whether she was finished looking at the calendar, his calendar, reminding her to look at the name my mom wrote on the plastic envelope in which the calendar came. Right before she left, Maman reiterated her desire for her own copy, making sure we understood (how could we not already?) how serious she was about this. Mamadou finally said she could have his copy, which she immediately, and surprisingly, agreed to. I asked her whether she was actually willing to take someone else’s gift, to which she again immediately, and surprisingly, said yes. It was then that I went to get my copy of the calendar, and now had the lead-in that she could take my gift rather than Mamadou’s, adding that I now expected her to give me something she’d been gifted. The daylong joke had finally come to light, and even Mamadou and I were impressed by how well it went over in the end.

12 April 2010

Yesterday afternoon, a few of us PCV's headed off later to Toubaniso for Koulikoro Regional Training met up for lunch at the Colline Parfumée, a bar nearby my friend Peter’s apartment in the Hamdallaye-ACI 2000 quartier of Bamako. They make the best chicken schwarma I’ve had yet in Mali. The place has a fun atmosphere, with entertaining hip-hop music videos playing on a flat-screen, and our waitress exotically dressed in a get-up that I’d expect to see at an outer-space-themed venue.

Three nights ago, I met up with Peter, Suzy, Mike, and Megan at Colline Parfumée. I should probably preface this story with a description of what most bars in Mali double as: brothels. While Mike went out to meet up with Megan, I got up to smoke outside, as Suzy had recently quit and I didn’t want to be obnoxious (it was the only cigarette I smoked that day, don’t get too mad, OK?). A well-dressed Malian woman walked by, greeting me in French before finally just saying, cigarette. Wondering what she meant, and now speaking in Bambara, I confirmed that yes, I was smoking a cigarette. She shook her head, confusing me further but then I realized, ah, she must want a smoke. I held one out for her, but she told me to light it first, and as I did so she asked about the location of my woman. Stupidly, I replied I had no woman. She asked whether I was waiting for one, and I did my best to backpedal by saying I was only sitting outside to smoke my cigarette before going back inside. Giving me a weird look, almost in disbelief, as if I had no reason to smoke outside other than waiting for a woman, she asked whether I wanted her. Her directness continually surprised me. I reiterated I was only sitting outside to smoke; I wasn’t waiting for or wanting any women. She seemed to understand, starting to walk away before pausing to turn and ask whether she was too big for me. Blown away, I said no I had no intention of insinuating this and her size had nothing to do with my decision. Completely uncomfortable about all this, but still considerably amused, I walked inside to tell the whole story to Peter and Suzy, because clearly this laughter needed to be shared.

19 February 2010

The first several days in Kafara after just any amount of time in Bamako are always tough. But the reasons for these past couple days’ hardships have been different.

First off, power isn’t running like normal during the evenings because the village chief has decided it best to leave it off because he feels a large portions of those who are connected to power in town have started piling up too many month’s pay on credit. Last Monday, he called a village wide meeting to tell those folks “they had the money,” and even if it meant they had to sell a donkey cart or cow to pay off their debt, he expected them to do so. Perhaps even threats of law enforcement were alluded to, but since I wasn’t there myself, I’m only hearing second-hand accounts, which I’m sure are full of dramatic touches. How this hasn’t been an issue before surprises me, because the monthly rate for power is outrageous (3000 CFA), and it troubles me to think the village chief believes a common person in his village has this type of money floating around. Some people have accumulated over a year’s worth of power payments that they now have to cough up somehow before the end of February! At the same time, it’s the responsibility of those who bought the outlets for electricity to pay for that service. The problem is, well, a lot more complex than that. Does it really make sense to have electricity in a village where there are, I believe, more pressing matters to take care of, like health and water sanitation.

For whatever reason, the first two nights here I wasn’t given dinner and were I not to share salad with Siaka, Vieux, and Ma fitini, I’d not have eaten. I’m still lost as to how to even approach this issue, which frustrates me because it only enables the problem.

Secondly, hot season is underway, with the past several afternoons reading 104 degrees under the shade of my gwa. Fortunately my body’s adjusted well so far and the heat hasn’t been too bad yet, i.e. sleeping, heat rash, dehydration, etc.

Finally, unfortunately, a handful of my host siblings are sick, which almost inevitably leads to my getting sick too, as I’ve spent almost a majority of time in Kafara in such a state. The list is staggering though this go-round: Fatim, Oumar, Drisa, Safiatou, Kumba, Koniba. I’ll explain for those of you who may not understand why I say the list is staggering. I’m not sure which of these people got sick first, but you can see from their relationships within my host family that the sickness spread from one set of wife’s children to the next, and from one end of the concession to the other. Then again, one can’t be too surprised by this, as everyone eats from a communal bowl and hand washing with soap is a foreign concept (and frustratingly difficult to reinforce the importance of for this reason).

I backed up all my Mali photos (5,000+) onto my ACORN external hard drive yesterday, as well as my Mali blogs, letters, and music. A trip to Oueléssébougou is in store next week to make photocopies of the baseline food security survey, email a copy of my PCPP grant form to the Bureau (still waiting for reimbursement…), check the bank, and pick up a couple random items.

There was a wedding in town last night. Siaka the chicken seller married his second wife, and the nights were filled with the sounds of balani (wood xylophone), a typical village party mode of entertainment.

Abou has a cool woodworking setup next to his house now. He was upset I’d biked by several times since arriving in Kafara without greeting him. After I let him finish, I asked how he could have a child without letting his siblings in Bamako know (I unintentionally broke the news to Mamadou). We both made each other bashful with this playful teasing exchange.

20 February 2010

The second round classes for men and women in Kafara have begun. Siaka is among the students and constantly asks me to visit class one day. It’s fun for me to watch especially the women come and go from class, in their nice clothes, carrying their chairs on their heads, and in the case of Mariam, Soumaïla’s first wife, toting their notebooks in a canvas bag, evoking images of my own mom.

It hasn’t gotten over 100 in the shade of the gwa the past couple days, a noticeable change (believe me) and thus less uncomfortable. I’ve spent all of today reformatting my observational entries from the very beginning, making edits along the way. Even after all that time, I’m still only through last April.

Soumaïla’s friend Moussa visited today from Dafara to check up on Soumaïla’s health. It was quite evident Moussa had been worried about Soumaïla’s long absence in Bamako to get medical treatment, and he was relieved to see my homologue back home and feeling better.

My PCV friend Jon surprised me yesterday with a text message saying he’s leaving for America Monday. Confused by his phrasing, I mistook his saying so as he’s doing this for good. My other PCV friend Mike told me Jon was actually leaving last night, and might be back in March. I saw Jon at Le Campagnard by chance during my time in Bamako recently but I didn’t expect it to be our last meeting in Mali. We’ll see if it was…

21 February 2010

Two men with camels came through town yesterday. They travel all the way from eastern Mali in this fashion, spending the hot and dry season essentially begging across western Mali before returning to their homes upon the start of rainy season. The camels that accompany them are enormous, often scaring village children who’ve never seen the animal before. My little host sister Awa said seven of these same men came through with their camels Thursday night.

The gate Abou made for my concession is literally deteriorating before my eyes, as termites have hollowed the wood frame completely. This will have been the third gate to fall victim to such a fate during my time here.

I’m thinking I should call my environment sector director and ask him for advice on properly caring for a papaya tree, a constant source of stress and anxiety standing just outside my house. My unfamiliarity with the fruit and, let’s face it, growing trees in general, makes me nervous for its future. All the big leaves have fallen off, leaving only a little tuft at the top and exposing the fruits to the sun’s hot rays. I’ll be quite upset if I lose my second tree, especially with all the fruit it has.

I’ve been having weird dreams lately depicting manifestations of confrontation between my Malian and American friends, full of cultural misunderstandings and failure to resolve issues. PC says we’re working 24/7; turns out that’s literally true, as I do even in my dreams! Dreaming in Bambara was something I’d never thought possible a year ago.

Mangoes can be seen in village growing on trees in all various sizes, some varieties faster growing than others. The grafted varieties common in Bamako are already being sold in markets or by street vendors. I’ve yet to have my first ’10 mango.

22 February 2010

I’ve noticed lately my stomach has begun resisting the daily morning routine of porridge for breakfast. It started during my last stint in Bamako; each day I had porridge I would have an upset stomach until lunchtime. Initially puzzled by my stomach’s sudden rejection, I decided to substitute another breakfast menu, opting for the local shop’s gâteau and yogurt drink. Sure enough, after this minor dietary switch, the coming days were without internal discomfort.

This change was easy enough to make in a city like Bamako, where food options sometimes seem unlimited to those routinely expected back in village. Over the past week, I’ve probably split the days evenly I either eat or skip morning porridge. The mornings I skipped breakfast, I’d usually end up eating two rounds of lunch, one served by the village matron who lives next door to Bissa’s house, where I would edit past observational entries on my laptop, and then another at my house cooked by one the women in my host family.

My recent alteration in daily routine had gone unnoticed until this afternoon. I spent the morning under the shade of my gwa writing up a lengthy series of entries for my cross-culture blog. Appropriately, during the “talking about food” section, Muriama, who’d been in town for wedding observances the past several days, arrived with my lunch. As she collected the bowl of porridge, inspecting its untouched contents inquisitively, she asked whether I didn’t want porridge. The broad nature of this question left me lost in my search for an appropriate answer, and not wanting to be inconsiderate, I said that wasn’t the reason I’d not eaten it today. Since I’d not waken up early this morning, I explained, I decided to wait until lunchtime to eat. Muriama seemed to understand my reasoning, but as she picked up the bowl of porridge to return to Fatou, who’d been responsible for its dispersion this morning, Muriama told me that to regularly skip breakfast wasn’t wise. I told her this was true, and silently appreciated her motherly concern. Sometimes I wonder how strange a precedent my mother and I have set for my host mother regarding American’s eating regiment. Our, perhaps in Muriama’s mind, erratic behavior patterns, like when my mom decided to eat less when she was sick, something Malians do exactly the opposite, or my latest choice to wait until lunchtime to eat, expose my host mother to a completely different orientation towards sustaining one’s self. Based solely on these experiences, Muriama probably thinks we don’t eat enough, and for this reason, may simply think something is wrong with us. I’d prefer this slight misunderstanding to the Malian women in my host family mistaking my differing dietary habits to mean I don’t like Malian food, or the meals they prepare for me aren’t satisfying.

Before she left, Muriama informed me one of my papayas had ripened during my stay in Bamako, and she’d split it amongst the concession’s children. She wanted to let me know this in case I’d been wondering where one of my papayas had gone to, but as I’d not even remarked as a single fruit’s absence (as they’re plentiful), I said this wasn’t a problem and I was glad that the kids got to enjoy the first fruit from my tree.

While editing more observational entries on my laptop at Bissa’s house yesterday morning, I briefly got to greet Dicko as he dropped by to let Kadia know something. It was the first time I’d seen I’d seen him in a month, as he’s been on vacation. Mariam’s younger brother Vieux visited from Oueléssébougou most of yesterday. Soumaïla and he chat under the large mango tree outside my concession. I joined them, along with Fatou, Daouda, and Mariam. At one point, Mariam asked Oumar to fetch her schoolbooks, and while Fatou reviewed one of the texts, I moved my chair next to her’s, and helped her pronounce the words in Bambara she had troubles with reading. All this prompted me to find the textbook I was taught Bambara from, which is full of interesting cultural reminders and background, plus a bunch of vocabulary builders.

Siaka and I biked to Digan to find nowhere with salad seeds or Orange credit more than 1.000F. Sita, who lives in the same concession as Kadia’s grandmother in Digan, was seated on a moto outside the second boutique Siaka and I checked for phone credit. She told me to hop on and take a ride back to Kafara on her moto. Calling her bluff, I asked if she knew how to drive a moto and, if so, to start it up and meet me at the far end of town so I could assess her aptitude. It’s fun to realize my ability to have such joking exchanges with people not only in Kafara, but anywhere I go, due solely to my Bambara speaking ability.

26 February 2010

Because today is Maouloud, an important Muslim fête commemorating the anniversary of Prophet Muhammed’s birth, and thus, a nationally observed holiday, Siaka and I made our Oueléssébougou trip yesterday. My preparation for such involved spending all of the previous day, Wednesday, resting in my hut or reading underneath my gwa, doing my best to avoid the dusty winds and get rid of the head cold I’d acquired that prior evening. Somehow, I woke up yesterday morning feeling much better, and before too long, Siaka and I were biking on our way to Dongorona. Despite a close call (Siaka skid at one point, and were I not to break in time, I would’ve T-boned him and probably gone flying headlong into the dirt), we made it to Siaka’s older half-sister’s place in one piece, before walking to the main road to wait for a ride on public transport the rest of our way to Oueléssébougou. The roadside fruit vendors, exclusively women, all greeted the familiar Toubab and did their best to procure my future business upon my return from the big town down the road. The girl I’ve bought oranges from consistently walked over to where Siaka and I stood on the roadside to share with us millet donut holes. A short moment later, another vendor who knows me gave us each an orange, asking me if I liked Kafara. I said not so much right now, as Kafara isn’t a very happening place this time of year. She asked if I’d prefer to live in Dongorona. When I said no, she said that meant I liked Kafara, and I laughed at her tricky manner of speaking.

Once in Oueléssébougou, while Siaka ate his egg sandwich at the center of town, I walked to the post office with the intention of charging my phone while we did our errands. I found the chef at his normal spot at a nearby shop, and together we walked to his bureau de poste. After the typical greetings, I asked about charging my phone. He took an apologetic tone when replying his power had been cut off since he’d missed a recent payment. I walked back to meet up with Siaka, thinking about how much of a problem power has been lately everywhere I’ve been in Mali, from the capital to big towns to small farming villages.

A funny moment arose during my time at the Internet place, where I was also able to give my phone some juice. While I cleaned out the messages yet to be checked in my inbox, the mouse kept skipping, and upon expiring my patience, I blurted out “What the hell?!” Siaka chuckled, and picking up on my tone, asked what was wrong. I was slightly ashamed, but almost immediately recognized the humor in what Siaka must have just witnessed, and soon was laughing too, at myself no less.

As I did my last Oueléssébougou trip, I opted for something different from the Keita woman’s rice and peanut sauce, for no particular reason. Siaka and I didn’t make it much further than the path entering market when we found what I’d requested: cégé, comprised of whatever grain is found in Lebanese tabouli and mixed with sliced onion, hot pepper sauce, and a fishy oil. I’ve heard it’s a commonly served dish in Cote d’Ivoire. Wherever it’s from, and whatever its ingredients are, it’s tasty. The women selling it sized up their clientele, beginning their dialogue with me through Siaka, unbeknownst to the fact I could understand their every word. They asked how much cégé I wanted, and knowing it was sold by the monetary increment to which I was unfamiliar, I replied to their indirectly asked question myself, saying I wasn’t sure how much I’d be getting for what price. Excited I understood Bambara, one of the women spooned out a portion into the plastic bags that make the food easy to eat on the go and asked me if it would be enough. I guessed its price out loud and said to add half that amount on top of it. This simple phrase convinced these women I was fluent in Bambara, and quite possibly made their day, even though I didn’t add one of the woman’s fried fish to my meal.

Catching a ride back to Dongorona on public transport is never easy, as the crews are usually too bitter about dropping us off along the way to Bamako instead of taking us all the way there, and for this reason making more money. Eventually, a big bus pulled up, and before I could warn him, Siaka was running up to one of the men on the bus asking for a ride. In any other instance, they would’ve turned him down, but somehow he got each of us a place aboard. This was made even more remarkable upon climbing in to see sitting room only in the aisle on top of a cooler. Siaka and I were nearly, in so many words, thrown off the bus when the crew learnt we were only catching a ride to Dongorona, but luckily the man sitting next to us told them it was alright. I’m not sure who this guy was, and how he held this power, but I appreciated his words on our behalf.

Siaka was in a rush most of our trip because he had to be back in Kafara by the class his Bambara studies began at 13h. So it was forgivable when we hopped off the bus and he made straight for Issa’s house before stopping to pick up a couple papayas from my roadside vendor friend. I was glad he was there to weather the storm of selling questions too, because the women are quite aggressive (verbally). It’s hard sometimes because as much as I’d like to buy something from each of them, not only is this impossible, but also, as too often is the case, they’re all selling the same thing! Siaka saved the day by saying I’d like to buy from the same person I’d bought from during earlier trips. And that, my friends, is the best example of saving face I’ve ever witnessed. Getting your point across without stepping on any toes, in an indirect fashion surely, but beautifully executed.

The main reason for Siaka and my trip came to light later in the afternoon, when he delivered plantains, potatoes, and a chicken to Muriama to prepare for my host siblings that evening, as I’d prefer this to be a memorable last Maouloud for my Malian hosts. Siaka says Muriama accepted the gift with a blessing for me, that I may become wealthy in all aspects of life. Amiina! That, and Maman’s wish of Joyeux anniversaire (as I share the Prophet’s name), made my Maouloud of 2010 memorable.

27 February 2010

As I sat down this morning under my gwa to finish up The Human Stain, a book my PCV friend Jon lent me a while back, Soumaïla arrived with his notebook almost presciently, drawing my attention from an escape mechanism back to the task at hand. We sat together and came up with a list of ten villagers for the food security baseline survey I found in my Bureau post office box during a past Bamako trip. After I showed him a translation of the questions in Bambara, along with my own general outline of the survey’s purpose, Soumaïla helped me make a list of five men and five women in village who represent what we hope to be a solid representation of Kafara at large. He was meticulous in his choices, making sure to select people from large and small concessions, as well as mid-sized ones. Once we were satisfied with our list, I took the opportunity to share a couple of work-related ideas I had for the rest of my service. Although I’d like to help out with the women’s community garden in Kafara, particularly assisting them with additional water sources to keep it growing as well as it has thus far, we both agreed that our assistance to this project wasn’t feasible due to its origins with the Spanish group MZC (Mujeres en Zona de Conflicto), a frustrating conclusion. Had we been able to establish some sort of partnership at the start of the project, perhaps such an idea wouldn’t have been too far-fetched at this point. Instead we opted to continue our work with the women’s association in Sougoula, and perhaps transition from our past formation on improved nutrition with a technical exchange on improved porridge preparation. To end our mini-session, I presented Soumaïla with a list of several villages I’ve been asked by those living there before my time in Mali expires. They are, in no particular order, Molobala (to visit Kadiatou, Muriama’s younger sister), Kodialan (to visit Fajiki, a member of Kafara’s Producer’s Co-op BENSO), a homecoming of sorts to Tamala (to visit my original Malian hosts), Denfara (where Soumaïla’s family is from), Oueléssébougou (to see my friend Samba’s workplace and home), and Niengue-Coro (which I’d like to make if possible whenever Maman spends part of her break from school there).

4 March 2010

It’s been a while since I’ve written, well, because not too much has been going on honestly. I’ll do my best to cover the highlights of the past week, as scant as they may seem.

Saturday night Dad and I talked for close to an hour, as I got carried away with my first opportunity to speak English in some time, and the stories to share were endless. My cell phone’s battery, however, is not, so before we got cut off I told one last funny account of my younger host siblings cooking a misbehaved cat the previous morning, and how this didn’t in the slightest bit draw the type of reaction you might expect. I noticed Lamine skinning an animal as I passed through the concession to greet N’Dia (Soumaïla’s mom), and upon recognizing the body form to be that of a cat, I silently made the connection to this event and when I saw Lamine and his younger brothers running wildly after something that morning some time before this. I reacted in no other way than this was a perfectly normal occurrence and continued on my way to say good morning to the oldest member of my host family. Dad said this was easily the funniest story he’d heard from my time here yet and said I’d become truly assimilated. I corrected him, saying that were I to be as such, I would’ve joined in the cooking and consumption, reassuring him that I would do no such thing.

My sister’s quasi birthday (29 February only happens once every four years so we have no choice but to adjust for non-leap year’s 28 February) saw the first rainfall of 2010 in Kafara, a most welcome change in the weather. And if you don’t think I’m too integrated already, with that cooking the cat tale, try this out: I’ve started sleeping outside due to the heat, something most Malians in villages begin doing this time of year, and this morning I woke up under a blanket because of a slight breeze. As I got up and moved my bedding back into my hut, I glanced at the thermometer hanging from my gwa. Upon double-taking, perhaps the sleep in my eyes deceiving what I thought I saw, I realized what I thought this morning’s “cool” temperatures to be around 80.

Today, six days after Maouloud, is the observance of the Prophet Mohammed’s baptism. The radio I bought at market in Digan last Sunday has been playing songs typical of this celebration all day thus far when tuned to any Malian station. Last night was the official beginning of the celebration, and as I lay down to sleep underneath my gwa, these songs served as a pleasant form of lullaby.

7 March 2010

Ma fitini, my younger host sister, had to make a trip to market in Digan to purchase yams, something she’s been cooking up and selling across village to make some money for herself lately. I went with her, and together we visited Kadia’s grandmother’s concession, where I hadn’t been since Kadia was married last year. After initial teasing remarks as to this lapse in seeing me, as well as my lack of informing them of my mother’s visit to Mali, we enjoyed each other’s company, as well as that of passing neighbors who came to say hello.

We’d arrived before market had really begun, which allowed for our visit to my host family relative’s home, and once we’d spent a good part of the morning there, Ma fitini and I went first to Lamine’s stand. He was his normal pleasant self, and shared his morning snack of stewed cow meat and bread with me, as well as treating me to my preferred market food, cégé.

The heavy sack of yams made the bike ride back home during the heat of midday an exhausting one. Upon pulling up to my gate, I could barely get off before I lost control of the bike and its load. As I struggled to untie it, rather than offer me any assistance, three women in my host family stood close by and laughed over my misfortune. Most particularly annoying to me was the reaction of Koniba, who was seated nearby doing nothing and could’ve easily held the bike steady. Then again she’s never been that respectful, and in the past refused to prepare me porridge when I was sick to my stomach. Ma fitini finally noticed me from across the concession and came to help un-strap the sack of yams which I then carried back to the center of the concession to more laughing and lack of offers of help from the women.

8 March 2010

It’s International Women’s Day and I’ll take this opportunity to describe the latest roadblock to understanding between the women in my host family and myself. Normally I would have nothing but praise for them, as my hosts have been excellent overall although occasionally I’m surprised by their behavior. Have I perhaps set a bad precedent, unintentionally, as they know I’m shy and unlikely to make a scene over something like forgetting my morning bucket water? Or is it their simply overwhelming amount of daily responsibilities that causes them to forget?

In my most cynical moments, I wonder how things would be different were I to be just another Malian male. Sometimes this is a valid case to make but unrealistic to apply across the board, as each woman in my host family is at their own comfort level with me and it would be unfair to expect them all to interact with a stranger like me in a similar fashion. Only when it comes to situations where I feel a general lack of respect do I think my complaints to be justified, like the incident yesterday that occurred outside my concession when they didn’t offer to help me untie the yams from my tipped over bike, particularly from Koniba, someone younger than me.

Siaka is attending a sara ka bô in Denfara for the village’s dugutigi, who died last week. Soumaïla’s family comes from that village and he showed me a couple photos taken several years back of the chief, along with other village chiefs holding huge ceremonial spears.

Of all the things living in Mali have resulted in my doing for the first time, and that list is staggering, eating sardines wasn’t one I’d have expected but sure enough it’s on there. Lately I’ve been supplementing my breakfast of porridge with bread and sardines in order to make it to my late lunch on a full stomach.

10 March 2010

Siaka attended a meeting in Oueléssébougou yesterday at O.H.V.N.’s office there, to share the results of Soumaïla’s cotton harvest yields. A hectare field was split in half between the NGO’s improved crop and the normal variety, and the productions were compared. The improved crop yielded close to one and a half times the yield of the normal variety. O.H.V.N.’s representative in Sougoula, a man I only know by his last name, Doumbia, has been visiting frequently to relay messages to Soumaïla about this meeting.

I went to Oueléssébougou yesterday too, but on my own agenda. After leaving my bike at Issa’s house, I walked to the highway and as I stood briefly outside the shop, my roadside vendor friend called me over to sit with her and her fellow villagers. She asked how many papayas to set aside for me when I returned, and commented on the beaded bracelet I was wearing, which upon hearing me say I’d made requested I come another time with more. When a public transport could be see on its way, she hailed the driver for me and told me to hurry so I could catch a place aboard. This turned out to be not an issue, because as soon as the crew saw me I was told to sit shotgun.

Once I finally made it back to Dongorona, having spent the majority of my time in Oueléssébougou waiting for a ride back, my friend called me over to affirm our planned transaction, before taking me back to a place next door to the shop where her papayas were. Two elder villagers, perhaps the girl’s grandparents, sat there and delighted in my Bambara conversational ability. Typically, the girl insisted on loading the fruit into my backpack herself. As I prepared to leave, she asked where my bracelet had gone, noticing I’d taken it off since that morning. Having completely forgotten this, I was glad she’d said something, because I’d done that in preparation to give it to her, as I had no purpose keeping it. I briefly returned with her to the spot she sits with many other village women to say hello. I declined their requests that I sit for a moment, instead saying it was past time I head home. I proposed spending part of a future Oueléssébougou journey with them, which eventually they agreed to.

Power is running once again in Kafara, as it seems credit payments have started rolling in, and this could not be better timed, as Champions League soccer was on hand last night. It was the first match I’ve seen this year and it was excellent, pitting Arsenal against FC Porto. Arsenal was in superb form, devastating their opposition almost mercilessly, the final score tallying five goals to nil. Their captain, Cesc Fabregas, didn’t even play! When Arsenal is at their best, their style of play is a pleasure to witness, full of quick precise passing and specializing in the counter attack.

Ba Seydou biked through the concession yesterday to say he’d spent Tuesday in Bamako with Batima, his younger sister, and she’d asked about me, particularly why I hadn’t called her yet. I said I didn’t have her number, so Ba Seydou said he’d give it to me later. He also told me Batima wanted me to stop by the next time I’m in Bamako and help her with some of her English studies.

Right now I’m seated under my gwa while Ma fitini braids Awa’s hair. Awa is Muriama’s younger sister, and is married to a man from Kodialan but is spending dry season in Kafara probably due to her husband’s absence from their home making money in a big city, a common undertaking of many Malians in small villages this time of year. Tea is brewing and the radio is tuned to a station playing a popular radio drama Jenman ni Finman.

Ma fitini made fun of me for adding roasted peanuts to my seasoned rice for lunch today. The pilaf of sorts I thought was a fun improvisational idea but when Ma tried for herself, her facial expression couldn’t have reinforced her verdict more negative and her assumption I was crazy left confirmed.

Umu, the wife of the concession’s Fulani (ethnicity) Samba, came and joined us and proved to not be as shy as I’d previously thought. Awa, Ma, and her had animated conversation full of teasing and laughter.

Once the third round of tea had been served, my guests all left to begin their daily afternoon duties. Awa arrived with a purple bandanna and I asked her where it’d come from since it wasn’t one of mine. She said Ma told her to give it to me. I saw Ma across the concession and walked to the entry to my gate to ask her why she’d given me someone else’s thing. Did she want Muriama to think I stole her bandanna? Ma doubled over in laughter and was unable to reply. Soumaïla, Daouda, and Nanko, seated under the mango tree, all found my words amusing as well.

11 March 2010

As I sat with Soumaïla and his neighbor friends at their late afternoon chatting spot under a mango tree, two more camel riders could be seen making their way across the southern concessions of Kafara. I asked Soumaïla to explain what they were doing. He said they beg for grain across western Mali during dry season, which later they assemble as a group to sell for a profit. Both his friends and he disapproved of the way the camel riders take advantage of people’s charity, indirectly making income from other’s goods. I was told they are ethnically Bela, considered historically the slaves of the Tomashek people. Their wandering results in a surprising lingual repertoire, as they come all the way from Gao and can at least greet in all the regions along the way.

We also watched from a distance a local villager who’s mentally ill deliver a hand-woven mat to Soumaïla’s mother. Apparently his affliction hasn’t affected this skill, although the same can’t be said for his social life. His marriage fell apart and he now lives with a younger brother. He’s around 70 and exclusively refers to me as “Jacque”, a German missionary in a neighboring village he must remember from years ago. Later he came over to sit briefly with us, and my alter ego came to light for my fellow villagers, one they found very amusing.

Vieux had one of his sons deliver me two papayas as I sat there, perhaps in appreciation for my helping him adjust settings on his cell phone. Nevertheless, a pleasant surprise, and one I hope to reciprocate once my tree’s fruit ripens.

Yesterday evening more Champions League soccer was on hand, this match pitting Real Madrid against Lyon Olympique. I can almost certainly say amongst the twenty or so of us watching at Amadou’s shop, I was the only Lyon supporter. Ending in a 1-1 draw, Lyon advanced on aggregate goals from the previous match, and I relished in Cristiano Ronaldo and Kaka’s early exit, as they’re my least favorite players. It’s a shame too, as their incredible talent is overshadowed for me personally by their egos. Kaka was especially intolerable, notably furious at a late substitution taking him out of the match in place of Raul, the squad’s veteran.

I arrived home from watching soccer to see my door ajar but after a quick search of my house, as well as my neighboring hut and even the nyegen to see if the culprit was still around, the search proved futile. Even more surprising, or distressing actually, was both Siaka and Vieux’s immediate accusation of Ma fitini. The only thing I found missing was my container of cocoa butter, and I was convinced even as flamboyant a character Ma can sometimes be, she wasn’t responsible for this petty theft. Eventually I was joking with Siaka about the whole thing, saying the brazen nature of it all made me nervous. Leaving my door open? No, surely this was a force to be reckoned with! We both laughed at my sarcastic interpretation of the night’s events.

12 March 2010

Didier Drogba was named Africa’s best footballer of 2009 last night, so I wore his jersey today. The Ivorian was one of three finalists, beating out Samuel Eto’o of Cameroon and Michael Essien of Ghana.

As I bought a bar of soap this afternoon, Bob Dylan was heard on a nearby radio hanging outside the shop. I sang and whistled along, causing the shopkeeper to notice I understood the music and ask the singer’s name.

I just finished listening to a cool radio program during which the origin of certain Malian last names was explained linguistically and geographically. Also the names of several Latin American countries, like Guatemala, Paraguay and Uruguay, have Bambara linguistic origin, from what I understood the host detail during his most interesting lecture.

Ma fitini just stopped in to say she’s going back to Djonkalan tomorrow, per request by her husband’s messengers who arrived this morning. His foray to Bamako must be over, and so her time spent in Kafara will come to an end as well. She was discouraged by the news, and later came by as I ate dinner to say she knew that within a couple of days back in Djonkalan, loneliness would set in and she would begin missing people in Kafara. She named me among those, and said from time to time memories of me would cause her to cry. I told her I’d prefer not to be a reason she cries, but I could see I was already too late, as even in the dimly lit space beneath my gwa could reveal a tear streak on her face. And so is the case apparently all too common for young girls in Mali, as I’ve seen with two of my host sisters, married for no other reason than I can see but cultural obligation, and almost certainly the dowries that were paid to their fathers.

13 March 2010

It came to light as Siaka and I were chatting as I made my bed last night that Awa, who I thought was Muriama’s younger sister, is actually her daughter from a previous marriage! Muriama was originally married in Kodialan and had three children. Awa herself used to be married in Kodialan too, but it also ended in divorce, explaining her recent stay here with her mom. Now, Kadiatou, Muriama’s younger sister, will look after Awa in Molobala for the time being. This news surprised me, leaving me to wonder just how little I knew about my hosts despite spending much of my time living alongside them. I was also aghast at the amount of children Muriama has had at her young age (~37): 10! Even Siaka agreed her health is at risk because of this, and we discussed the tricky nature of this issue, because Malian women take pride in having many children, perhaps under the impression this is part of being a good wife. To suggest this to be an unhealthy practice would be inappropriate if not done properly.

14 March 2010

After Ma fitini left for Djonkalan yesterday, I biked to the Med Clinic with the intention of collecting my laptop and camera, both charging batteries there. Instead, I spent the rest of the afternoon there sitting with Dicko, who’d arrived from Bamako that day, and brewed tea. Dicko had two humbling compliments for me that could be interpreted as assimilation into Malian culture. He praised my Bambara after I joked about Kadia’s (the matron) not drinking tea, suggesting this meant something. I proposed the reason could be she was pregnant, as was the case in the past with another friend from Daoudabougou, The way I presented this example impressed Dicko and he was convinced that upon my return to America I would be successful in whatever I pursue as a career. After the second round of tea, Dicko told me I would be appointed that evening’s tea brewer at his place while we watched films on his laptop, because it was clear to him I was a Malian tea brewing extraordinaire.

Before dinner, as I sat at Siaka’s gwa, I found out Rokia was here for the weekend at the request of Soumaïla. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since my mom and I visited her in Kalaban Koura, a south-eastern quartier of Bamako.

16 March 2010

Yesterday marked a year since the death of Soumaïla’s oldest brother, and then head of my host family concession, N’Fany Samaké, familiarly known as Kariba. It would’ve been easy to miss such an anniversary, because the day passed by like any other normal one.

Bara Kassambara arrived this morning to meet with Kafara’s BENSO members to discuss what they felt were the successes brought about by the formation David held for them this past July. Bara also asked for suggestions in order to continue advancing the co-op forward.

He had advice for the board members as well, reminding them to take into account plans for the future when making decisions. This concept is initially difficult to grasp for un-developed country nationals but an important idea to remember and emphasize.

Bara says he met with the PC Mali director and another PCV recently to discuss a project of rice and fish farming. He tells me the new bureau is not far from Winrock’s office in Hamdallaye ACI 2000, and was impressed with the new building.

17 March 2010

Muriama arrived last evening after spending a couple days in Bamako for a younger sibling’s child’s baptism. When I greeted her, I was told Kadia said to be sure I heard her hello.

Last night’s Champions League match could not have gone better. Samuel Eto’o scored for Inter Milan, whose defense played superbly, frustrating Didier Drogba to the point he was sent off after two yellow cards, and Chelsea was eliminated.

19 March 2010

Koniba left yesterday to spend the remainder of dry season in her hometown of Kaban. I joined the group of young men from Kafara who transported Koniba and her belongings the 15 km or so distance. The group split in two from the start, as Vieux, Moussa, Issa, and Daouda went off ahead once their loads were fastened. I rode with Bakary (Bu), Siaka, Mugutari, and Alou. Koniba rode behind Siaka, Bu hauled a large fishnet sack full of cooking utensils and containers, Mugutari a sack of food, and Alou a bucket filled with clothes. Vieux and Daouda each carried 50 kg sacks of food (peanuts and millet), and Issa another bag of clothes.

Passing through Digan, Bougouda, and Tiémba, eventually you reconnect with the red road you originally began your departure from Kafara. It goes from Digan and loops around through Falan, so we took a shorter route through the villages I just mentioned, and have been to previously. Kaban is the village furthest east of Kafara’s surrounding area I’ve been to. Koniba’s house is the first set of concessions you see upon reaching Kaban from the west. We greeted her parents and relatives before walking across town to a friend’s place, where we spent the afternoon chatting, brewing tea, taking pictures, etc. Koniba went to market to buy my lunch and cool pump water was readily available to drink.

Mugutari, a mute, proved to be our entertainment, surprising all of us when he refused to drink the 50 F tea our hosts provided, insisting instead to buy 75 F tea to brew. What I found most interesting about this whole thing was how it just blew over, perhaps due to our guests having pity on Mugutari’s condition. Normally what he did would be an awkward situation; a guest refuses what his host provides him, buying what he prefers instead? We all laughed at only Mugutari’s ability to get away with such behavior, also feeling slightly ashamed when our hosts returned with from the local shop with another 75 F tea. I’m getting better at understanding Mugutari’s sign language, and can sometimes even answer him myself, or interpret for others.

Around Laansara we prepared to leave, but first Issa’s front tire needed patching. The two groups returned to Kafara in similar fashion and eventually we made it around dusk, our postponed arrival due mostly to slipping chains on my friend’s bikes.

20 March 2010

After spending the day with Lamine at market in Oueléssébougou rather than go straight home, I sat until dusk by the road with several of the women selling papayas, grapes, oranges, and mangoes in Dongorona. I was asked to sit there by the girl who I’ve become a loyal customer of late, while her hair was braided. She was taken aback by my arrival with the powdered milk she’d asked for, as well as a couple beaded bracelets. She promised me future mangoes or papayas when I came again.

The laid back atmosphere typical of sitting and chatting with any group of Malians was abruptly broken anytime a car pulled over to purchase any of the women’s produce. Each of them would dash to collect their fruit and in their aggressive manner do their best to garner business. Observing this three or four times while I sat there was very interesting, the marked difference in the women relaxing in contrast to the way they swarmed patrons. Mangoes, having just begun to be available, proved to be the most popular item.

This morning I accompanied Soumaïla and his Oueléssébougou counterpart Guindo as they went about village conducting a survey of farmers. We began appropriately at the village chief’s concession, as is common procedure before beginning any work in town. Then we moved to Dramand’s place next to the cabine, where Guindo interviewed both Dramand and a passing villager, Abdoulaye. After that we went to the mosque, where many men were gathered due to work taking place there, allowing us a chance to ask three more of them questions under a tree on the south side of the mosque. That tree, as I write this, is being cut down to make way for the wall being built around the mosque.

A relative of Kafara’s village chief is getting married in Bamako tomorrow. Many villagers have been invited, and two women from my concession will be among those attending (Fatou, Mariam).

21 March 2010

I arrived at my house to sleep last night around 23hr but was horrified to see it still above 90 degrees. Sleep was hard to find between sweating and constant fanning. Guindo was spending the night in my neighboring hut, so I was reluctant to move outside to try getting rest there. When I greeted Soumaïla, Guindo, and Daouda (the neighbor), they all remarked at last night’s heat. Upon telling them I hadn’t slept well, Soumaïla told me in the future not to hesitate to sleep under my gwa. Guindo said even he wanted to do so, but there were too many frogs. It’s down to 90 degrees this morning but a quick attempt at a nap proved unsuccessful as I just lie and sweat, finally getting up feeling dehydrated. Malians, in their strange manner, are always quick to remind me that the heat will only be getting worse in the coming months.

Guindo and Soumaïla surveyed 25 people yesterday and this morning and are now wandering about town to finish the remainder of their participants. I’m slightly annoyed that I have a survey to do as well that Soumaïla and I told the village chief about and informed our sample villagers of but haven’t yet begun. Hopefully Guindo’s work will help my survey get going but it’s been a source of cynicism so far for me since I’ve wanted to do mine for a month now. The time it takes for simple things like this to do in societies where approach to work is so different is still something I’m getting used to, and although it can be frustrating, it’s important to realize and accept as just the way things are. Rather than change everyone else’s orientation I must adjust to their lifestyle and do my best to produce results accordingly.

I had my first taste of 2010 mango this morning, along with an orange I saved from Dongorona.

Work began at the mosque today as the first cement was mixed and laid for a wall to encircle the mosque. Siaka is among the many male villagers taking part.

Two bush taxis were parked near the shop at the center of town this morning specifically to take Kafara people to the marriage of a grandchild of Kafara’s dugutigi in Bamako today.

The other night Siaka and I saw a hedgehog near where we were finding cell phone reception. Yesterday as I walked home for lunch, I noticed a young neighbor carrying the carcass of a large decapitated snake, almost as long as the boy carrying it, to a nearby field to bury.

Maman plans on heading to Niengue-Coro today to spend part of her fifteen-day break from school there. She says the remainder of her break will be taken in Bamako, leaving me with little belief that she will ever come to Kafara again, as this would’ve been the chance to do so. She wants me to visit her in Niengue-Coro but there’s a lot happening in Kafara this coming week, as there’s a wedding Thursday.

A man I’ve never seen working at BNDA in Oueléssébougou gave me trouble over my bankcard, asking me condescendingly why I’d folded it in half. This was the first time in almost two years, and at all the BNDA’s I’ve been to in three regions of Mali, that anyone has mentioned anything about my bank card. The fact PC hadn’t yet deposited our living allowances furthered my displeasure with the situation.

Last night during Sita’s visit to Siaka’s gwa, I read her a Bambara fairy tale about why frogs grow up in water. The story begins with a promise between a frog and a turtle. The frog asks the turtle for the ability to beat all wildlife in the forest. The turtle agrees on the condition that the frog and turtle remain friends, providing the frog with a special stone. The frog summons all the forest’s wildlife to say he could beat any of them in a fight. They laugh at what they assume to be bluffing and select the rabbit to be the frog’s first opponent. The frog takes the rabbit by the ears and spins it around and around before bringing it down to the ground. The frog then takes on a donkey with similar success. The last animal the frog defeats is the lion, a victory the frog takes to his head, causing him to forget his promise with the turtle. Upon picking a fight with the turtle, the frog is taken by its rear leg and thrown into a nearby river. The turtle had without the frog’s knowledge taken back the special stone during their tussle. The moral of the fable is to not break promises between friends. Together Sita and I began answering reading comprehension questions at the end of the book. As Siaka and I walked her home, she told him how much she’d enjoyed the story. There are innumerous similar fables like this one and I plan on finding more books like this to read during Sita’s future visits, a fun cultural activity.

22 March 2010

I took advantage of an early opportunity to sleep, as it was cooler and I was at that point exhausted having not slept the night before. Siaka arrived around 23hr, surprised both by my arrival home without his knowing and also by the manner in which he found me – asleep. He came to invite me to eat food brought from the wedding in Bamako of Kafara’s village chief’s grandchild. Batima sent Fatou back on the first possible ride to Kafara with food for us – yams and beef along with some popcorn. We both appreciated Batima’s surprise very much and the coordination it must have taken to ensure its arrival to Siaka’s house still warm.

A drop-in to Kadiatou’s this morning revealed her hearing from Soumaïla a couple of days ago that he plans on taking me to visit Maman in Niengue-Coro during her stay there. I received two calls from Fatoumata’s number today, I’m hoping to say nothing more than Maman arrived. Adiaratou also text me to request a credit transfer, but as I have none, I couldn’t return either of their messages.

23 March 2010

I should’ve known from the start how today would go. I was barely beginning to eat my morning porridge when a fly dive-bombed straight into the utensil from which I was about to eat.

A very consistent and unwelcome monthly state of being I’ve for whatever reason accepted as part of life as a Mali PCV, I arrived at BNDA to find there’s still no money in my account and no idea when any might show up, only that I have none until then. My text to the person at the Bureau responsible for depositing our living allowances was unanswered.

Walking from the bank to the cyber café, I saw along the edge of the road something I’ve never seen before: a dead donkey. A car must’ve done it in, and its body has since been butchered, leaving behind a still intact but desiccated carcass of hooves, ankles, head, and all inedible insides. You’d think something like this would surprise me but my reaction was not unlike it was an unordinary sight. Initially I questioned what I saw but almost immediately upon recognizing what it was I just kept on my way, wondering just what other omens to today’s bad luck would arise later.

At Lamine’s house this afternoon, he sat next to me to say his friend had died in an accident the day before. The friend had been sitting on top of a bush taxi when somehow they fell off and were run over, all of this occurring at the center of town. In fact, we later passed by the Gendarmerie on our way to Dongorona where the very bush taxi in question is now in police custody.

24 March 2010

Using a piece of charcoal from a pile lying in my concession, I decorated the wall of my mud hut with Arabic script and my Malian name. The Arabic phrases I wrote are my favorites, hello & welcome (ahlan wa-sahlan), peace be upon you (as-salaamu xalaykum), thank God (al-Hamdu lillaah), and God willing (in shaa’ allah). Above that I have the nickname Ba Seydou calls me, “el americano", and my complete Malian name, Mahamadou Kariba Samaké. Those who’ve learnt my first two Malian hosts shared a similar name, Kariba, find this coincidence to be especially notable.

Fatou laid out some grain I was unfamiliar with later. She picked up a handful and came over to where I sat under the gwa to ask if I knew it. After close inspection, I told her I didn’t. She said it was fini (fonio), and upon affirming it was good she said she’d let me try some once it was prepared.

25 March 2010

For the first time in several months, I biked the entire distance to Oueléssébougou on the bush road that passes through Sikoro and Korobougou. I just needed to check the bank one last time to reaffirm I’ll still be expecting a living allowance deposit next week. Then I biked to the post office, where I generally leave my bicycle if I do take it, and walked back to the entry of market where there’s a haircut place, because it was time to get rid of the horrid job done in Digan on my head this past Sunday.

Mugutari’s wife arrives today, along with a score of people from Bamako and elsewhere to attend the marriage events beginning tonight. So far I’ve seen many people – Soumaïla (Mamadou’s friend), Lasine (Djènebou’s oldest brother), Tchèkoroba and his older brother Salifou, and Mugutari’s younger sister, Djèneba, a friend of Rokia. Djèneba’s uncle just dropped by to greet Soumaïla, and joked about seeing him on TV, in disbelief that his child (family name joking) could do such a thing. Tena is also here, Siaka’s friend who’s studying in Oueléssébougou whilst staying with relatives in Korobougou, and she spent most of last night chatting with Siaka and me at his gwa. Once again, Kafara is no longer a lonely place and thanks to this marriage coinciding with school breaks, village will be bustling with many people I haven’t seen for a while.

A recent developing story in village has really raised a lot of questions for me about how Malians in small villages interact with each other. Last week a car with three men aboard arrived from the direction of Digan, stopping at commerçant’s shop. The driver remained in the car while the two other men approached the shop owner, saying they were there to collect cigarettes, bullets, and pills due to what they claimed was some sort of governmental control action. The shop owner, sensing something was amiss, asked them for paperwork alluding to this course of action. After they said this wasn’t available or necessary, the shop owner refused to even allow them into his shop, concluding to himself their identity to be crooks. The men went just down the road to the next shop, where many villagers sat outside and did nothing despite hearing a commotion from the shop, as the men demanded 200,000 F from the shop owner. He gave them 15,000 F and they went with a carton of cigarettes and bullets. This all occurred in broad daylight in front of many people. Will the men return later at night to reclaim other items, or worse, destroy the shop? Why didn’t the first shop owner warn the other of those men? Why didn’t anyone sitting outside the second shop go to see what was taking place? Are the villagers of Kafara really this complacent and cowardly, allowing harm to fall unto others as long as they are left unaffected? Do they have no pity for what befell the second shop owner? Siaka, Tena and I discussed this matter last night at his gwa only to arrive at cynical conclusions.

I biked into town in the early evening expecting Mamadou to be among Air Digan’s passengers, but he wasn’t to be seen. Transport was packed with folks from Kafara, including Fousseyni and Ba N’Dia Diarra, Soumaïla’s (host brother, not father) wife. A little later as I was biking to the shop, nearby the main road I saw Mamadou and his friend Boubocar Diakité, known as Ivo, walking towards me. I walked with them to Mamadou’s concession and sat until it was time to head home and bathe.

Mamadou has been busy with my Motorola phone, equipping it with a headset, encasing it in plastic, and adding a bunch of photos of Bamako friends, including a hilarious picture of our friend Soumaïla wearing my father’s sunglasses.

Dance music can be heard across town coming from Mugutari’s house, as could moto’s engines and blaring horns earlier, as is typical upon the arrival of a new wife. So far it’s been a fresh set of faces at Siaka’s gwa tonight. Tchèkoroba’s back, and Solo was there with Lasine, a friend from Djonkalan. Vieux, my host brother, stopped by a moment ago with a friend who’d arrived today too. Kafara is full of people again! I was just told Mamadou and Ivo just arrived at Siaka’s, where tea gifted by Tchèkoroba is brewing.

I found a papaya on my desk this evening, with no clue as to who put it there or where it’s from. I’m fairly sure it’s not one of mine, as it’s kind of a weird shape I’d certainly remember seeing on the tree I water twice daily and inspect thoroughly to monitor healthy growth.

26 March 2010

I was lying in bed this early morning after fajiri prayer call and could still hear dance music coming from in town. Perhaps I shouldn’t have tried sleeping and instead spent the night there with Mamadou. Most of my night was spent sweating rather than sleeping.

Mamadou’s Daoudabougou neighbor friend Buwa gifted me tea and sugar. He said she offered a proverb as well, saying if you see a snake and are only armed with a stick, you do your best to ward off the snake with what you have. This proverb was said perhaps because Buwa felt her gift was insufficient, but I couldn’t disagree more. What a Malian exchange – tea and a proverb!

Mamadou told me last night that our Bamako friend Kara may soon have a Land Cruiser 4X4, due to his father’s dugutigi status and the wealth such a social standing carries. I told him the three of us should go on a trip to Mopti for my birthday. Strangely enough, he outlined this very plan in an email he sent my mom a short time ago!

This morning many villagers gathered at the neighboring concessions of Mugutari’s home for breakfast. Rice and couscous were made in plentiful amounts, as well as porridge. Siaka, Soumaïla, Mamadou, Ivo and I then spent the afternoon at Abou’s gwa brewing tea. Djènebou and her elder cousin of the same name stopped by briefly for some group photos.

Before lunch, we went to sit with a group of young village men at Mugutari’s house. Lunch arrived and the men all ate in the same area we’d had breakfast. Once full, the same group moved to the center of town shop to wait for a transport to take Ivo to Bamako. After not too long a wait, a bush taxi passed by and we paid farewell to our guest.

I took pity on Ivo during most of his visit, knowing exactly how hard it can be sometimes visiting another Malian village for the first time. People can be really inconsiderate and sometimes rude. While we sat waiting for lunch, a random Kafara guy repeatedly asked Ivo who he was and where he’d come from, in a most unfriendly manner that left Soumaïla and me with no choice but to defend Ivo’s response that he’d left home and arrived home.

Mamadou and I walked back to my house to rest on a mat under my gwa. Singing and drumming can be heard in town, as women welcomed the village’s new wife.

27 March 2010

Traditional singing and drumming took place at Mugutari’s house last night. I sat with Mamadou and Soumaïla until around 23hr, when Mamadou and I decided to move to my gwa due to its cooler and quieter atmosphere. Sita and her friend Aminata came too to sit with us briefly before heading back to the wedding events. Mamadou set out the large mat to lay down, yet we continued to have really entertaining conversation. I told him of how I learnt Muriama was previously married in Kodialan, but Mamadou took my host family history lesson further, explaining that Soumaïla had spent a day hostage, locked in a house there, for his pursuit of Muriama before her first marriage had ended. He told me this in a hushed voice and said he’d stop there, constantly peeking above my concession’s walls to make sure no one was listening. We both found this exchange most entertaining.

Mamadou’s alarm went off several times around fajiri before he finally got up to go home. The early morning’s cooler temperatures (~70) made my last hours of sleep especially pleasant, and under the comfortable warmth of my blanket.

Most of this afternoon I spent at Mugutari’s house with many male villagers of his age group. There were cultural lessons abound for me, and my faux pas in not taking part in a couple became a quick joke. It is expected that these men spend the night at the new husband’s place during the wedding event’s first several days. I instead slept at my house with Mamadou. Upon the arrival of the new wife at her husband’s home, which this gathering was due to, the new wife’s friend who accompanies her to the husband’s village offers water to each male as they arrive. It’s obligatory to drink, but I couldn’t as it was well water. Most of the men thought I misunderstood the cultural significance of what was taking place, but I quickly reassured them I knew exactly what was going on, and that regardless I can’t drink well water under any circumstances and for them to excuse me if I’d off

13 February 2010

Mamadou’s younger sister, Mariatou, gave birth to her first child at the beginning of this month, around the same time I arrived in Bamako. The baptism/name-giving ceremony was this past Monday, and since Mamadou and I were unable to attend, we made time yesterday afternoon for a special visit to see Mamadou’s newest niece. Only a couple weeks old, little Kumba is still quite fair-skinned with strikingly piercing eyes. We sat together under the shade of one of the concession’s mango trees for a little while, and Mariatou shared photos taken with friends and relatives at the baptism.

14 February 2010

As it draws ever near, the day I leave Mali is constantly crossing my mind. My mom did her best to describe it in a recent email, alluding to the complex and mixed feelings the day will carry. In only three months my stage will have our COS (close of service) conference. The earliest of us will leave in late June while others not until early September. Malians have begun telling me the day I leave won’t be easy, with little reassurance as to the contrary when they say things like “all of Kafara will cry the day you leave.” At least that means I won’t be the only one. How to properly say good-bye or thank those I should is a stressful proposition. Perhaps I’ve overestimated the sentimentality of Malians and will realize my over-dramatic preview of the day to be false. I’d almost prefer such as otherwise the farewells would seem too final, as if I were attending my own funeral.

An equal amount of “pre-reflection” has been given to my first days back home and seeing people I haven’t for the past 27 months, gauging the genuine nature of their words and questions. I hope I don’t seem too cynical or bitter because I know at first it may be hard not to be. While others may have changed little over the time we were apart, I certainly have significantly, which I’m sure most will expect. I truly hope most will understand my initial emotional distance and not take such personally, or perceive it as elitism. While the pity card may be fun to play, I certainly won’t be easy to tolerate uninformed comments others make about how they think my life here may compare to that back home. Attempts at humor or whatever case they make without any reference will test my patience, as they pose images of how they think things are in a place they’ve only read about or seen images of. It’s my duty to educate Americans, especially those who say things I’d rather they thought about beforehand, about the conditions I lived through and experienced firsthand, perhaps in the process surprising those as to how reality may differ to their fictitious perceptions.

15 February 2010

I’m sure Dakar would’ve been fun, with it being my first pan-African trip, all the new sites to see, a worthwhile vacation. But had I spent the past few days in Senegal, I wouldn’t have had an enjoyable visit from Maman on Saturday as Mamadou ran errands across Bamako. Or had a memorable Valentine’s Day dinner at the Amandine café, where Mamadou had his first cheeseburger. Or had the growing experience I had upon making the tough decision not to go to Dakar in the first place, which hasn’t gone unnoticed. The director of Mali PC sent me an email commending me for the way I spend my time in Bamako (with Malians), saying he wished others would follow my lead. Although I wasn’t surprised by this comment, it still felt good to see, and I immediately forwarded the message to my parents.

12 January 2010

For only the second time I can remember, Air Digan was empty as I boarded at the same spot in Bamako where Mamadou and I wait for my ride back to village. To my surprise and pleasure, the ride wasn’t too cramped or eventful (by that I mean nothing bad happened), and I was back home before dark. As soon as we entered Kafara’s limits, the air was noticeably cooler, which felt good too. A villager who lives close by to my host family’s concession, Daouda Bagayoko, greeted me as I stepped out of the van before taking two items of mine onto his bike. As I began walking home, turning from the main red gravel road to the path leading south towards my house, Soumaïla’s oldest daughter took my backpack, strapping it on her front as little Lucas was already tied to her back. I took the bicycle she’d been riding and continued home with my messenger tote bag. While waiting for Mariama to come from the garden to fetch my key, I sat with Lamine under Soumaïla’s gwa soaking in all the changes typical of my time away from village. My papayas were growing well, and it looked as though Soumaïla had built up an area about its trunk to trap any water that found its way there. Our neighbor’s oldest son, Yousman, is in Kayes until the start of rainy season. My friend Drisa Bagayoko is away in Bamako for a similar stint. The whereabouts of my oldest host brother, Amadou, are unknown. He had turned up missing the day before, leaving behind his two wives and daughters, thwarting Siaka’s similar scheme, instead finding himself head of the concession since Soumaïla is in Bamako until further notice getting treatment for an aggravated leg injury that has hampered him since 1998.

That evening, I made calls to both Soumaïla and Mamadou to inform them I was back alright, before letting Siaka tell Maman the same, allowing her the opportunity to chat with him and also say hello to Batima, who just so happened to be among those packed in Siaka’s small hut.

This morning is a breezy one, and it’s not yet 80 degrees at 10am. I have lots to look after and keep me busy. My mom’s second package of materials for the med clinic needs to be delivered to Dr’s Bissa and Dicko, my PCPP grant form needs Sougoula’s Women’s Association’s President’s signature (that’s a lot of consecutive possessives!), and my vacation request form for my trip to Senegal next month is missing part of the proposed itinerary. I have to look over and start a food security survey I found in my post office box at the PC Bureau, as well as remember to deliver Vieux Diarra a phone charger Mamadou sent for him with me.

13 January 2010

It was a busy morning of translating, whether it was my food security survey into Bambara or a letter in French for Maman using my French/English dictionary and two French grammar books. Eventually, after toiling through the labors of the French language’s numerous tenses, I wrote another letter, this one for Fatoumata in Bambara, a much more generous language without such inconveniences as verb conjugation, which Kadiatou will deliver for me on her trip to Niengue-Coro next weekend.

I continued to notice the strange state of my host family concession, full of married women but no husbands (either widowed or in other towns). All this leaves Siaka, seven months my younger, as the oldest male family member and thus head of the concession.

This afternoon, I stopped by the med clinic to greet Dr. Bissa, who sat alone under the shade of the covered walkway to the facility working on his laptop. I asked permission to charge my phone, which he said was no problem, and also let him know I’d come later with my mom’s second package of materials. Dr. Dicko was busy at the schoolhouse, so I walked to a nearby concession to greet extended host family members. On my way back to collect my bike, passing through Fodé’s empty concession gave me an eerie feeling. That concession was always full of activity and is now completely vacant, uncomfortably so. Maman tells me many of her family’s belongings are still behind those locked doors! It will be a sad day when they come to gather up those last possessions, and an even stranger day when the concession is taken over by another family or left to weather away or whatever fate may lay ahead of it.

Around twenty-five men sat in front of Bakary’s boutique this afternoon to watch an entertaining soccer match between Nigeria and Egypt, two of the better teams in this year’s Africa Cup of Nations.

I will never get over Kafara’s evening bucket baths with a view of the brilliant sunsets, or the tranquility of village, or the overwhelming amount of stars that fill the night sky. Even the dust-filled winds are preferable to those filled with pollution in Bamako.

I visited Kadiatou’s house in the evening and enjoyed watching her prepare salad with mustard vinaigrette, all by flashlight and for whatever reason in her fancy clothes and high heels. As I had amusement at her outfit, it in no way came close to that which her family took at my head wrapped in a prayer scarf. We went together to the house where Dr’s Dicko and Bissa stay, where they were munching peanuts and watching American films (I.Robotand Timeline) dubbed in French.

14 January 2010

I had a front row seat in public transport to Oueléssébougou today, where I planned to take advantage of Orange’s phone credit bonus due to Mali’s soccer match today against Algeria. Mamadou and I predicted final scores in a series of hilarious texts he sent entirely in English. Coincidentally, Maman asked about her concession the day after I took note of its emptiness, even asking me about how it felt to see it in such a state. I was silently glad I’d done such reflecting the day before and was thus prepared to answer these questions genuinely. She requested I go with Kadiatou to Niengue-Coro for observances to take place forty days after her father’s funeral (sara ka bò), typical of Malian tradition, which prompted me to tell her about the letter I wrote for her mother, which after I explained what it said, pleased her very much.

During my visit to his gwa last night, Dr. Dicko put photos of Fodé and Maman onto my USB drive. That same USB drive served as a portal through which I was able to share with him photos we took together this morning at the Med Clinic as I delivered my mom’s second package of materials. As he gave back the USB and said gracias, I replied de nada before the village’s school headmaster asked what language we were speaking that no one else understood. Kadiatou’s evening tea was brewed so well that Dr. Dicko was prompted to tell her if she weren’t around he would give up drinking it altogether. Later, Dr. Bissa gave me some salad, which Dicko thought was from Kadia, the matron. He called Kadia over and said not to give me salad again without his knowledge, as he loves a good salad, only to learn it wasn’t from her. This fake quarrel proved hilarious. I stayed much later than usual tonight, since he put on one of my favorite films, The Good The Bad And The Ugly. The recurring scenes of Clint Eastwood lighting cigars made me voice my desire for such, and when Dr. Dicko affirmed I was serious, he told me he had a Cuban Cohiba at his home in Bamako he was willing to gift me. For whatever reason, he also had me write out my mom and my full names.

16 January 2010

Bakary arrived yesterday late afternoon for a sara ka bò in Digan today. Both Siaka and he left very early (before I had even eaten or bathed) and since I felt uncomfortable going alone I expected to be missing out…or not? Siaka arrived at midday to ask for me and together we went to Digan around 13hr, just in time for food and plenty of joking, mostly with Adama Bagayoko. My Bambara impressed those who listened in and made them all laugh. I observed the events keenly, still impressed at how genders were separated traditionally. I sat with men the entire visit, only seeing women when food was served or as everyone left, when several Digan villagers greeted me. I arrived back in Kafara around Lansara stuffed having eaten three lunches.

Bakary spent the night in Donkorona before returning to Bamako, and as he left I biked across town to briefly visit Sita’s family concession for the first time in months. Even her parents thought I’d given up on the place!

Kadiatou and I visited a reception spot near her house this evening to call Maman, who informed us the 24th is her father’s sara ka bò. I really want to make it because I’m still upset at having missed the funeral day’s observations. Kadiatou, who plans on going as well, said we’d figure out how to go best in the next couple of days. As we walked to Dr. Bissa’s house, I paused in front of Fodé’s concession to wait for Kadiatou, who was still at the point where that road splits from the big red gravel road. Just then my phone began to ring while still in my pocket! Even stranger was the caller ID spelling out Maman’s name as I stood there behind her house, but before I could answer we were disconnected. I immediately scoured the area for reception but found none, half expecting my phone to ring again as I slipped in back into my pocket.

17 January 2010

Siaka left for a formation in Oueléssébougou this morning leaving me (!) as head of the concession. It’s nothing more than my being the only male adult left, but still I will relish this perhaps unprecedented honor – a white American as head of an African family, if only for a day.

Bakary was talking yesterday in Digan about Amadou’s probable whereabouts, which led me to thinking what would prompt a thirty something year old to up and leave his two wives and daughters behind without at least telling them where he would be and for how long. All the speculation stills causes me to wonder even more as to how little anyone knows about each other. Maman asked me during our phone conversation a couple days ago if I would ever pull a similar stunt, even if it would be to make some extra cash. I said absolutely not, but that did little to curb my curiosity and wish to experience the feeling Amadou had of what I’m guessing to be desperation, just to see what it’s like or understand why he made that decision.

18 January 2010

I arrived in Donkorona around nine, easily the earliest start I’ve had on a trip to Oueléssébougou in some time. Even Djènebou, Siaka’s older (half) sister, was surprised with my arrival at such an hour. Djènebou is a wife to Issa, a delightful fellow who is well regarded in the town and surrounding villages. I began to walk towards the highway when Issa’s mother called me back, asking rhetorically if I was greeting people today. I answered of course, and returned to do so properly, before turning back down the path through town that leads to where I would wait to be picked up by public transport. It’s that portion of the highway where one can find roadside vendors, all of whom are women ranging all ages, selling whatever produce is in season. Those who saw me walk by sequentially greeted and took turns asking the typical questions, like, where did you come from, how did you get here, where are you going. Two of the younger girls selling tomatoes and oranges enjoyed my conversation (that of a complete stranger) immediately, even asking I return from Oueléssébougou with a gift. Sure thing, I responded, before one of them pointed to a transport that had just pulled to the side of the road, yelling at me to hurry and grab a place aboard the van.

My first errand was at the poste where I sent a letter back State-side to my schoolmate Greg, and just so happened to run into Sara, the PCV who shares Oueléssébougou with me as a banking town. She presented such a strong case for changing her address to that post office rather than dealing with the lazy bum at the PC Bureau, who’s in charge of volunteer’s mail retrieval but somehow never does consistently, that I’m now seriously considering telling everyone back home who intends to send me anything to do so atB.P. Oueléssébougou in Oueléssébougou rather than B.P. 85 in Bamako.

While I gave Sara some time to do Internet related matters, I took a quick trip to the market, where I’d purchased some sandals last Thursday that I arrived back in Kafara only to realize they were a size too small. The seller and I get along well, mostly because of my ability to joke with him in Bambara about our last names (he’s a Maïga, and when he asked me why I wouldn’t take his last name rather than the donkey’s one I have, I told him we were no longer in Gao, the region his last name comes from). He exchanged the small sandals for my size without issue, even making sure I had a serving of whichever round of tea was given to him during our transaction.

I arrived back in Donkorona, and after greeting Issa, who sat with several male villagers at the roadside boutique, said I had some unfinished business with a couple orange sellers. As I approached the two younger girls, they greeted me enthusiastically, asking how Oueléssébougou’s people are and, of course, where their gift was. I said I’d arrived with money to purchase some oranges, asking whether they had any for me to buy. One of them shot up, pointing down towards neatly assembled stacks of oranges into pyramids of ten. I said I’d take one of those stacks, at the reasonable price of 500 F (just over $1), for my host family back in Kafara. The girls, despite their young age, were good service providers, making sure they double-bagged and even offered to load the fruit into my backpack. They told me when I came back another day, they’d be sure to have more oranges waiting for me, before adding the appropriate farewells (tell Kafara’s people hello, etc.) as I strapped on my bag and walked back towards the boutique where Issa was seated.

20 January 2010

Today is the 49th anniversary of Mali’s Army.

I spent all of yesterday at the Med Clinic/Dr. Bissa’s house typing up all of last week’s entries as well as drafting another letter in French, translated from the original English version. That alone took me 2 ½ hours! Kadia, the matron, served a delicious lunch of rice and an unknown sauce but really good and kind of spicy. I sat briefly and wrote under Fatoumata’s gwa while Kadiatou washed clothes. We both missed her while we filled the concession’s empty space. Fodé’s sara ka bò was changed to Friday which means Maman will be unable to go (her trimester ends Saturday). She was more than upset and discouraged about this last night. Kadiatou, Siaka and I did our best to lighten her mood with a couple phone calls from his house. Her inability to attend numbed Siaka and my plan to go too.

Little Kumba was ill yesterday and her medicine cost 3125 F (~$6.25), which I paid for since Soumaïla or her father were not here to do themselves. That’s not to say I did it out of contempt, because I consider my host family members to be akin to my own family members, but it was frustrating to think how things would’ve been different were I not here either. Who would’ve paid for her medicine?

There has been no power all this week during the evenings, as apparently there’s no money for gasoline to fuel the generator. Villagers were able to watch Mali play Malawi in the African Cup of Nations this past Monday only because the nice man who drove the trailer truck loading Kafara’s cotton paid for that afternoon’s fuel. I don’t blame those in Kafara who are unable to pay for their power, as the monthly rate is obscene (3000 F ~ $6).

Kadiatou took me to greet her uncle last night. Having never met him before, he asked me my Malian name. Despite his pleasure that I was a Samaké like him, he said it was unfortunate that I wasn’t a Keita, because there were many good jokes between those two family names he could’ve busted in my general direction. He informed me of the Samaké family name’s history, explaining their ancestry with the Touré, a family name from the eastern region of Gao. This means the origin of Samaké is not Bamanan but of the Songhaï ethnic group. A past war split us off, but we are still considered the “same” people, and I’ve been told before the two last names are as such. Perhaps this is part of the explanation for the sandal seller’s joking in Oueléssébougou, since Maïga’s and Touré’s have this relationship as the two prevalent family names in the Gao region.

25 January 2010

My short amount of Internet surfing in Oueléssébougou was time well spent. My PCV friend Peter has sketched a tentative post-WAIST vacation plan for us, with stops in Saint-Louis, Senegal and passing back through Gambia on our way back south. I’m really stoked for this trip, as I’m ready for a vacation but also because it’s to new places and will be made with good company. After Googling Saint-Louis, as I hadn’t heard of that city before, I searched proper papaya tree watering techniques. I’m glad I thought to do so, because my intuition that I’d been perhaps watering it too much turned out to be true. Apparently papaya trees are pretty resilient, requiring little watering even during the hotter parts of the year. In fact, they are such sun soakers that during the cooler season (right now) it’s recommended that watering be cut in half, otherwise the roots will rot. Once or twice a week a bucket of water is really all I need to give the tree for it to be happy. In shaa’ allah the plentiful fruits slowly ripening at the top of the tree will be ready to eat in the coming months. I would be rather depressed if that tree realizes a similar fate as its lost companion, which mysteriously broke at its base and died within days. During all these web searches and browsing emails, my mom caught me on G-chat (Gmail’s instant messaging service) and we were able to exchange greetings between American and Malian peoples.

26 January 2010

After Nigeria and Zambia played their quarterfinal match of the Africa Cup of Nations, I called Maman to be sure she wasn’t taking Zambia’s loss too hard. It had been an awful match really, as neither team produced anything close to entertaining soccer, and no goals after 120 minutes of such was a painful affair to witness. Nigeria won 5-4 on penalty kicks, and even though I took small pleasure in the result it was only because I’d taken the opposite side as Maman, who for some unknown reason chose to support Zambia. It was only when I called her after the match that she revealed the reason why: she said the Zambian manager reminded her of me. You be the judge.

I’ve forgotten to mention how well I’ve been eating lately in village, as Mariama has let loose her culinary prowess to my sheer delight. Surprises of hard-boiled eggs a couple of mornings this past week, occasional lunches of beans, and sometimes a salad or slice of squash to accompany the normal rice and sauce for dinner.

27 January 2010

Siaka and his mom spent last night in another village for an unexpected funeral. He left somehow without my knowing even though I was sitting under my gwa all afternoon studying Arabic while the women sat under the shade of the large mango tree outside my concession shelling shea nuts. There I was, the white American, head of the African family concession by default once again.

I had a really strange dream last night in which I saw Amadou from a distance. While I tried to make sense of the setting of the dream, or any glimpse of something that would clue me in as to where he was, I noticed he had some sort of injury to his right forearm. The bizarre nature of such a dream awoke me suddenly, and I lay there wondering what the reason behind it was, with little luck.

My Arabic is coming along, and slowly I’m starting to get the hang of the alphabet, which really isn’t that difficult once you recognize the letter’s shape.

Good eating again today, with beans for lunch and a yet to be enjoyed dinner of squash in a stewed onion, garlic and tomato sauce.

29 January 2010

I’m not sure if it was an unspoken expectation in my host family’s concession or maybe it was just between Siaka and me, but at least I was surprised when Soumaïla didn’t return from Bamako with his mom, who had also gone to the capital briefly for a medical check-up of her own. Soon, Soumaïla will have spent a month in Bamako, an unprecedented amount of time away from Kafara during my time there.

Yesterday the members of BENSO’s cooperative chose the price per kilo for their millet harvest as well as the amount they would deposit per hectare into a cereal bank. Another order of business they saw to was selecting a date for dues to be paid, eventually settling on the first of March.

Siaka and I took a brief trip yesterday afternoon to Germaine Samaké’s house in Sougoula for her signature on my PCPP grant forms. Her religious affiliation was on display in her home, with several photos of Pope John Paul II hung on a couple of its walls. This Sunday, one of her daughters was getting married, and she requested Siaka and my presence at the event.

I played soccer with my host siblings before yesterday evening’s bucket bath. The small inflatable ball made for fun with those who passed by and fell victim to my mischief, as I took to enjoying pelting those who did so, or if I was caught in a game of monkey in the middle, pretending I was watching the man on ball, I’d back into Koniba as she passed by on the way to pull well water. The music playing from one of the concession’s radios made for a good soundtrack to bounce along to during times when the ball was either in my possession or on its way to or fro.

This morning, the overcast skies spit raindrops on my bike ride from Kafara to Donkorona, making for a pleasantly cool trip. The people of Donkorona have grown accustomed to my routine of biking there to catch transport to Oueléssébougou, and many of them greet me by name. I passed the girl who sells me oranges along my walk to the highway, and she told me there would be some waiting for me when I returned. I arrived at the highway to see the transport that leaves every Friday for market in Oueléssébougou waiting along the side of the road. The driver was among those villagers that knew me by name, calling me over and greeting me as Kafara Mamadou. He asked if I was headed to Oueléssébougou and when I said yes, he told me to hop aboard. Upon arriving at the entry to market, I walked all the way back to BNDA bank without hearing the word “Toubab” and only twice hearing “bonjour”, a rare occurrence that left me in a pleasant mood.

4 February 2010

I had two Christmas cards in my Bureau post office box waiting for me yesterday, one of which I had been expecting and the other a pleasant surprise. Finally my PCPP grant forms were ready for the director’s signature and all that’s left to end that epic debacle is for the reimbursement to be deposited in my bank account. That was a long overdue weight lost off my shoulders. I was also able to turn in my vacation request form to my supervisor after finally deciding I wouldn’t be extending my trip to include later adventures to Saint-Louis and the Gambia, only doing several days in Dakar before heading back to Bamako. I’m not going to kid myself into thinking I have the means for such a vacation on my PC salary. I’d rather not have a similar experience as my friends who spent Christmas and New Year’s in Ghana, only to return to Mali broke. I feel like despite the great time I’m sure they had it was only left with that sour after taste.

After waiting a couple of months for its arrival from Washington, the medicated body wash I’d been asking for was at the Med Unit as well as another flu shot, this one specific to swine flu, which four reported cases in Bamako resulted in an obligatory vaccine for all PCVs.

I spent the afternoon at Le Campagnard with my friend Mike, and we played a couple pool games with two Senegal PCVs who are in town. One of them taught me the Wolof greetings for me to utilize in situations to my advantage (see taxi fare negotiations in Dakar), and also told an interesting tidbit about Senegalese last names. Family names in Senegalese villages are affiliated with a certain totem animal. If your last name, for example, is the word for a rabbit, you are obliged to refrain consuming such meat. This Senegalese PCV in particular had a last name which referred to a ram. My friend Mike joked that if a person’s last name meant “four-legged mammal” they’d be in a tight spot, proposing they will have the chicken.

An awkward moment occurred when I came back through the Bureau on my way to Daoudabougou. My supervisor passed me by and upon seeing me asked about my vacation request form I’d left on his desk. He was uncertain about how many days I was requesting, to which I responded the days I’d be out of country or en route, as I understood that to be the case. But what about the message I sent the whereabouts box about this week I’d be in Bamako, he asked. I said I was in Bamako to take care of things at the Bureau, like those forms I mentioned as well as to complete this year’s first of three Volunteer Report Forms. He seemed to disapprove of my taking an entire week to look after these affairs only then to leave for another on my trip out of country. I felt uncomfortable having to defend my case because I really didn’t have a choice. If I want to get anything done at the Bureau, it almost always takes at least two trips because either the people I need to see aren’t there the first go round, or in this case, the computers volunteers use to fill out the report forms are occupied. Was he upset at an apparent lack of time at my site? I am still unsure, although I know such could be the reason for his asking. Instead of getting too upset about it, I realized I knew we were only misunderstanding each other because I spend more time at site than a lot of other volunteers. My trips to Bamako are also very much not the same as other volunteers as well. I don’t stay in hotels, go out to bars or nightclubs, or even really socialize with other PCVs too often. I continue my cultural immersion here in the capital with my friend Mamadou. Take this time spent in Bamako as a typical example. We will be visiting his younger sister Monday for her first daughter’s baptism. This weekend we plan on spending an afternoon in Yirimadio to check up on Soumaïla and his older brother Daouda. Rather than deal with the stress of finding a hotel to stay in or the stage house I’ve yet to even go to, I stay with Mamadou. Yesterday a PCV asked me why I preferred to stay with him rather than somewhere else. Again I felt confused at such a question, because the answer seemed obvious, at least to me. He’s my friend! Why would I not stay with him? All this leaves me wondering about just how different each PCV’s experience is, because it’s not a question of who’s right or wrong, it’s just my personal choice. I’d rather spend my time here with host country nationals, because I’ll have plenty of time later to spend with Americans.

I’ve gotten better at not dwelling on such matters lately, and was already in a joking mood with the taxi driver who gave me a ride back to Daoudabougou that evening. When he asked for my family name, immediately upon hearing me say Samaké he told me I had a slave’s last name. I asked how, and who’s slave I was. He said I was the slave of the Coulibaly family name, to which I replied he must be a Coulibaly and therefore I didn’t believe him. As he pulled over to let me off at the spot where Mamadou’s cell phone repair workplace is across from Daoudabougou’s market, the driver continued this traditional joking, saying i Coulibaly, which if it were my last name, I would respond n’ba. Or since he’s also a Coulibaly I could’ve replied i dò wèrè. But as I’m not a Coulibaly I said nothing, even after he asked me to respond, I just shook my head. Finally he begged me, and I said, voilà, now that you’ve pleaded me in such a manner, I will respond, because that means you are now the slave. I could barely finish this statement without chuckling, and the driver himself was laughing as I stepped out of the taxi.

5 February 2010

As is our normal late breakfast tradition, Mamadou and I walked a short distance from his workplace to buy our food from the same woman we’ve been going to for the past year. She cooks up some excellent spaghetti noodles, fried potatoes and plantains, and sometimes we add on top of that a tomato omelet from a nearby stand. Today we were feeling generous and bought the remainder of the woman’s fried plantains and potatoes, as that was all that she had left to sell. On our way back we bought some bread, and together with the neighboring boutique owner and his friends, we all enjoyed a pleasant Friday brunch. When one of the boutique owner’s friends asked what the occasion was, suggesting my friend Mamadou’s (hypothetical) wife had given birth, he said no, it was actually my (hypothetical) wife who had done so, and they should give me appropriate congratulations and thank-you’s.

6 February 2010

Mamadou and I took a cab to the far southeastern quartier of Yirimadio to pay a visit to Soumaïla, who I saw last a month ago. From the looks of him, it seems the leg that had been troublesome has settled down, although he’s still been paying regular visits to the doctor to be sure treatment is seen through to the end. Another member of my host family I haven’t seen the likes of lately, Amadou, is there at Daouda’s house as well. His whereabouts had been unknown, and still are in Kafara except for a choice few. For whatever reason, Amadou is stubbornly reluctant even now to share his location with those who are quite assumedly worrying about him. He had been in Sikasso near the border of Cote D’Ivoire when one day he fell quite ill, so much so that he had to return to Bamako for medical treatment. When Daouda told me this news, my mind immediately recalled the dream I had about Amadou. In the dream, I could see from afar something was wrong with him. As it turns out, the day I had that dream was around the same time Amadou’s sickness began. The eeriness of this coincidence kept me from sharing my dream with Daouda and Soumaïla right away, but when I did they appreciated the corresponding events with keen interest, pondering as to the reason behind their collective occurrence.

I noticed a lingual tendency between genders in Mali during Mamadou and my visit. Soumaïla remarked that Amadou had left Siaka, Vieux, and myself behind, before pausing briefly in reflection. I half-expected him to continue but when he didn’t, I added his two wives, joking that the day I left Kafara his younger wife Koniba was still trying to get a grip. This instance led me to thinking about the times women made similar remarks back in village. They would say Amadou ran off and left his two wives behind, and his kids too. Personally, I think the women have their mind on the more important people in this case. It’s still worth noting the gender influenced manner in which Malians make such remarks, also evident whenever you greet them. Men will ask about your family and friends, but never get too specific. Women though will ask about your mother and children. As I write this, perhaps the explanation for all this is fairly simple. The separation of gender in Malian day-to-day life may be the reason, as either men or women ask about those people they associate with most routinely.

8 February 2010

Every month, PC Mali submits a newsletter, entitled Mali Rag, with updates from the country director and each of the sector supervisors, along with our med officers and safety and security advisor adding their tips and advice. This month’s issue reiterated several key points that I felt unnecessary for them to remind volunteers, because they stem from our individual maturity and ambassadorship. Unfortunately, of late, it seems both of these issues have fallen to such levels that our administration feels it obligatory to call each of us to remember their significance.

There are repeated references in the issue outlining the importance of spending a significant amount of time at site, unbroken by visits to regional capitals or Bamako. A specified detailing of PC’s whereabouts policy is included in the country director’s notes, a policy that’s flexible but often not well practiced. In some cases, volunteers have spent multiple weeks in succession away from site. Thus the reason for the awkwardness with my supervisor when I said I would be spending a week to ten days in Bamako, even if the reason I was doing so is valid and the way I conduct my time spent in Bamako I feel to be professional. Regardless, I will be sure to continue to observe this policy properly.

But the overwhelming theme I took from this month’s Mali Rag is that of volunteer’s deteriorating reputation in country. Both our country director and administrative officer reminded us that we are on duty 24/7. Volunteer’s presence in our respective assigned communities does not go unnoticed at any time. We are continually the center of attention, whether we are walking around outside to greet people, or staying in our house, hut or compound, which Malians may perceive as a sign that something is wrong. Wherever we are, people (especially children) like to stare and watch the “Tubabou” (also referred to as Tubabou “T.V.” – this has happened to me!). All the while, we are working to learn a foreign language, trying to understand a different culture, striving to establish a sense of place in a community we will call our home for two years, getting used to working with people who have a work ethic different than our own, acquiring a taste for strange foods, and living in uncomfortable conditions.

Our presence does not go unnoticed anywhere we go in Mali, and we must be cognizant of the fact we are representing the PC, and all other Americans, in all of our actions here in Mali, whether they be good or bad, and whether they happen during the day or evening, weekday or weekends. We mustn’t forget as well that we may be the only American many people in our community may ever know. Our service as PCVs is a privilege we are obliged to treat with integrity in the communities where we serve.

There are now reports rolling into the bureau of how PCVs are hanging out in Bamako, being drunk, and generally causing problems. The Djoliba Hotel in Segou recently refused to renew their agreement to offer PCVs lodging. As part of his reasoning, the hotel’s director said “the PCVs of today are not like the PCVs in the past.” It seems soon the lack of respect and esteem for PCVs currently being sewn by a few disconnected individuals may result in destroying other’s wishes to do something meaningful.

As if this weren’t enough to dampen one’s mood, my mind was also occupied with another of this afternoon’s passing events. I was in the middle of a reply to an email from my mom when my PCV friend Mike called me on his way in from Segou, where he’d been the past several days enjoying Le Festival Sur Le Niger, a music festival featuring many of Mali’s best artists. In the past, Mike’s been very generous in lending me a helping hand when I was low on cash or phone credit, but now he was in need of help in order to get back to his site tomorrow. I felt more than obliged to do whatever I could to return his kindness, even if it meant canceling my trip to Dakar, something if he were to learn may upset him. In fact, I know it will. After spending most of my time yesterday afternoon seated at Mamadou’s workplace thinking it over, I decided even though I technically have the means to travel to Dakar, I felt it irresponsible to go on such logic. Sometimes making a sound decision like I feel I have about this trip, one that shows maturity and makes economical sense, can be hard to swallow. In the past, I would’ve gone without even giving this choice a second thought, but that’s no longer the case. There will be other opportunities to travel to Dakar, or elsewhere. I’d been excited for my first pan-African journey, a chance to compare Mali with another west African country, and to see the Atlantic Ocean. While I perhaps made the better choice not to go, I will still be wishing I was on the bus to Dakar Thursday rather than taking care of matters at the Bureau.

It seemed the overture to this year's African Cup of Nations would be underwhelming. The match pitted the host squad, Angola, against Mali. After a pathetic first half, and continued poor form in the beginning of the second, Mamadou and I were ready to give up on Mali. Two awarded penalties to Angola made the tally 4-0, with just 15 minutes to play. This match was over. Or was it??? Literally, as we step outside Bocar's concession, it erupted in celebration - Mali had finally scored. Mamadou immediately flipped open a phone he'd been repairing that day, equipped with a TV, and we both tried to reset the antennae to see a replay despite Bocar's yelling at us to hurry up and forget about the match. Just between the short distance from Bocar's concession to Baba's place, Mali scored again. Mamadou and I began to get excited, much to Bocar's dismay. The game was over guys! The 90th minute passed with the score still 4-2. But there were four minutes added on, and as we walked from Baba's place and turned onto the road that leads to Mamadou's, Seydou Keita scored his second goal, Mali's third. You could feel energy from everywhere, Malians we passed sensing the impossible was about to happen. Sure enough, we walked no further than 50 yards and Mamadou's screams of goal, goal were accompanied by an explosion of sound all around. Malians flooded the streets in exhilaration and euphoria. I briefly piggy-backed Mamadou as Bocar celebrated like the children around us. Bamako became almost immediately a party zone, streets were packed with people, motos and cars whizzed by honking horns, blowing whistles, and barely moving to avoid those of us walking the streets. Fireworks blew off, throngs of children chanting Mali, Mali and banging on whatever made a drum sound paraded through the dirt roads. Intersections became bottlenecks of chaos, with people climbing on top or banging on idle vehicles, even as they passed by. Others just joined along in the clapping, singing, screaming, and flag waving. The colors red, yellow, and green were flashing about all around us, adding to the frenzied scene. It was something unlike I had ever experienced, but only seen on TV.

And Mali didn't even win!

My heart was still pounding half an hour later, when Maman called amidst the celebration. I answered saying it would difficult to hear her even if she were standing next to me, as everyone had become crazy. She asked whether I were not among the supporters, and I admitted I was but that Mali had only drawn the match. It seemed she'd become one of them, insisting instead that Mali had won, Mali had won before reassuming whatever celebration was taking place around her. She would later say that after Frederic Kanoute (her favorite player) headed home the second of Mali's goals, she cheered until her voice was hoarse. After the match ended, she joined in one of those parading groups of kids, running about chanting and drumming.

Thinking back, I'm actually glad at how it all panned out, even though it meant I saw none of the goals happen live. Instead, I saw an entire neighborhood of Bamako come alive, an unbelievable experience I will never forget.

My mom treated Mamadou and I to a leisurely lunch at that same Lebanese place (Ouragan) for a farewell of sorts. In order to make sure she got to the airport in time we left rather early, around 20hr, despite her flight not taking off until 23hr40. Soumaila and Yousouf met us at the airport while my mom waited for her flight to begin the boarding process. Soumaila arrived with two craftly made stools, carved out of tree stumps. My mom could only take one, due to stricter flight regulations, and Mamadou and I had it shrink-wrapped to ensure its safe arrival back stateside. When it came time for my mom to go inside the terminal, Mamadou slipped me a ring with his initials on it for my mom to have and remember him by, which she found quite thoughtful. I found it rather thought provoking that Mamadou took the whole interaction of saying goodbye to my mom the hardest, as I had expected he to play the role of good spirits. I was glad to assume that role for him.

Later, as I walked by from the nyegen to head to bed, I saw a large plane take off on the horizon and figuring it must've been the one my mom was in, I called for Mamadou and his brothers to see it ascend towards Paris. We all waved and said 'bon voyage', our own way of bidding adieu to our guest.

16 December 2009

It’s the big day, yet it still doesn’t seem real. My mom arrives in Bamako tonight, and it seems with each moment the excitement surrounding her visit grows. Mamadou started spreading the word yesterday to co-workers and friends, to no other reaction other than elation and joy. Last night, he told a couple of our normal nightly hangout crew to join the already deputy-esque meeting party that will receive my mom this evening at the airport. Soumaïla’s older brother, Daouda, just called Mamadou to say Soumaïla is on his way to meet us here, at Mamadou’s workplace in Daoudabougou. This morning, Mamadou, his friend Daouda, and I walked to the Hotel Triton to confirm a room would be set aside tonight. Somehow, Mamadou, in French, convinced the concierge that we need not pay for the first night in advance as a way of confirmation, an impressive manipulation my mom will appreciate.

(Later…)

Daouda and Soumaïla arrived around 17hr to discuss last minute plan coordination before Daouda took a quick trip home across town to shower and change clothes. Soumaïla sat with Mamadou and I for two rounds of tea before we walked to meet Daouda at the sign pointing the way to Hotel Triton. Soumaïla had arranged for one of Programme Sorgho’s drivers to take us to the airport, his swift pace reminded me of riding with friends back home.

As we sat down, Mamadou told me, in English, he had to pee, very, very soon. I told him to ask the nearby parking lot’s guard the location of the toilette, but he wondered if the guard would properly answer such an inquiry. Surprised at his timid response, I told him if he couldn’t get the urge to ask that simple question, good luck with his issue. I noticed straight ahead a sign directing one to the bathroom’s location, pointing Mamadou’s eyes to it. After asking me several times if I was sure that’s what the sign said, he finally got the nerve to see for himself, telling Daouda and Soumaïla his intentions. Upon his return, I asked rhetorically if everything went OK, to a surprising outburst of laughter from Daouda, who continued the teasing to ask Mamadou if it had built up to such a point that I would ask such a question.

Sitting and waiting at the airport led to my mind race with similar questions I had myself when traveling alone to Paris, a place I had never been and didn’t know the language. Upon arriving at the airport, it occurred to me I had no way to contact my mom if anything were to happen. Now I was on the other end of that dilemma – what if she missed her flight? Is she having issues understanding airport staff? Are her bags missing? How will I know? I won’t, haha! As an Air France flight-full of passengers began to emerge from the terminal, Mom’s greeting party (Daouda, Soumaïla, Mamadou, Mamadou’s older friend Baba, and me) moved to stand next to the walkway, where we waited some more. Around the time I figured her flight might be delayed, a text message from Maman beeped on my phone, reassuring me not to be down about her inability to be there and to greet my mom for her emphatically. Literally as I was reading this, Mamadou’s voice drew my attention to my mom walking by. I yelled, “Mom!” and snapped my fingers, but my racket was too small to compete with a huge group of Malians rushing to greet someone having just returned from Hajj in Mecca. Their vast numbers blocked the exit to the walkway and while their ceremonial song filled the air, I tried to grab my mom’s attention, as you could tell she didn’t really know what to make of the scene. Soumaïla pushed through to reach her, probably surprising him when she said his name straight away. Mamadou took one bag and Baba took another, and together we walked to the truck to wait for Daouda and the driver. Soumaïla snapped a photo of Mamadou, my mom, and I as we made our way to the far end of the parking lot. As we reached the truck, my mom said she appreciated what she referred to as the heat wave of the night temperature. When I translated what she’d said, Mamadou squawked in disbelief and Baba, bundled up in a suede coat, jokingly reminded me to respect each other.

On the ride to the hotel, my mom said to thank the greeting party for meeting her at the airport, which Daouda and Soumaïla responded to by saying her visit made them especially proud, to the point it was their duty to be such accommodating hosts. Once set up in her hotel room, Daouda and Soumaïla asked permission to head home across town to the quartier of Yirimadio, while Mamadou and I stayed behind for a moment before my mom said she was ready to crash, and Mamadou and I hadn’t eaten since 13hr (now around 23hr).

Mamadou and I walked the short distance from the hotel, arriving at the hangout outside his concession to a general vibe of excitement amongst friends upon hearing the news that my mom had arrived safely. I know some of them were happy for the boost this gave my mood and disposition, as they knew the past couple day’s events had been rough for me. Once they all broke off one by one to head home and sleep, Mamadou and I moved outside the door to his room to boil some milk to have with gâteau as our “dinner”, but more like midnight snack as it was already 0hr30.

17 December 2009

Finally around selifana (14hr), I told Mamadou even if my mom were still asleep, we should go check to make sure, otherwise her first full day in Mali would be gone before she realized it. As we entered the lobby, she greeted us from one of the couches before saying she’d begun to wonder if we’d ever arrive. The text message she sent me once she woke up, it turns out, was missing a number so I didn’t receive it. While the three of us waited for Daouda and Soumaïla to arrive, I entertained Mom with that funny story about getting my hair cut.

Soon Daouda and Soumaïla came with their cousin Alou (Rokia’s uncle), and Daouda started things off with a reiteration of how happy it made them for my mom to make the trip all the way to Mali. They knew me, and their high opinion of me led them to believe that I must come from good parents, thus their excitement at the opportunity to meet my mom. Soumaïla continued this sort of praise, asking Alou to translate since he was referring to me and wanted to be sure every word he said was understood. Compliments about my superb integration in village and blessings that I live long to achieve similar success in all my future endeavors left my mom only able to respond with repeated thank yous. Daouda had me give him a tentative daily schedule of activities between now and our trip to Kafara, just so he had an idea of what we had in mind and also because he’d like to go with us when we went to village. Daouda also wanted to be sure that if my mom and I wanted to do anything together that we do so with a host family member, as white people tend to taken advantage of by locals in certain contexts. Before my mom arrived, I told Mamadou that it was my intention that he assumed this type of role during her visit, a guide of sorts, and whenever I referred to anything my mom and I would be doing, he was included. Soumaïla’s impending departure to Kafara that afternoon led them to leave shortly after they arrived, and after I wrote up my day-to-day plan in Bambara for him, they were all on their way.

Mamadou asked the concierge about food available for my mom to choose from, as it was time for her daily dose of malaria medication, best taken with a meal. A simple rice and peanut sauce was an easy enough request, and the cooking staff impressed me with their interpretation of this popular yet uncomplicated dish.

My PCV friends Mike and Jon wanted a chance to meet my mom over a nice dinner, so we coordinated such a rendezvous at Ouragan, a Lebanese restaurant just across the river near the huge BCEAO bank. Mamadou came along too, and the five of us split two mixed platters of various typical Lebanese cuisine (hummus, yogurt, goat cheese, kebabs of various meats, falafel, and similar appetizer type snacks accompanied with pita bread). It was a fun time, and I thanked Mike and Jon afterwards via text for the chance it provided my mom to meet them.

18 December 2009

I’m already realizing and appreciating the influence my mom has on seeing friends I wouldn’t have seen for who knows how long had she not visited Mali. Today we saw Kadia and Rokia, both of whom I wouldn’t have otherwise seen until maybe their break from studies or more likely the middle of next year. Now that Maman won’t be visiting Kafara perhaps at all the rest of my time here, and given the difficulty for us to just see one another during an afternoon in Bamako, our acquaintances were going to become even more difficult. But since my mom’s here, and would like to meet and properly greet Maman and her mother, a trip to Fodé’s hometown is possible. When I proposed this idea to Maman during a phone call yesterday evening, her initial disbelief turned to great anticipation.

We ate well at Kadia’s house, with generous helpings of zamé and later a salad with fried plantains, each served with sodas. It was the first time in my life I’d ever seen my mom drink a coke, which she later said broke a forty-some-odd-year streak of not having done so. While Rokia brewed tea, we sat in the concession’s salon area, where more than ten children crowded around a small television watching a selection of films. My mom’s first taste of Malian (Chinese) Green Tea proved to her liking, which for whatever reason I found especially amusing. Perhaps it was just the way she said, “I actually kind of like it.”

After stopping by Rokia’s place (just around the corner and down the road from Kadia’s) for a brief exchange of pleasantries, Mamadou, my mom, and I head back to Daoudabougou, our first order of business to pass through Mamadou’s concession and introduce my mom to those second hosts of mine. We all sat briefly outside the door to the room Mamadou and I sleep in, where my mom got to chat on the phone with Samba, a friend of Mamadou’s who is also from Kafara, and later tried to exchange words with Maman, but eventually felt bad for lack of understanding and passed the phone back to me. When the time was right, we moved outside the concession’s entrance and sat at the nightly hangout spot briefly so my mom could meet the crew. When it came time that she as ready to walk to the hotel, Bocar and Baba joined us for a short ways before they head back to sit while Mamadou and I assumed guardian duties.

19 December 2009

Mamadou and I have been spending our time waiting in the mornings at his workplace while my mom rests at the hotel until midday. Not only does this keep us occupied, it also allows for Mamadou to have a steady income during my mom’s stay. Yousouf met us there this morning, and the two of us walked to the hotel while Mamadou rode Yousouf’s moto there. Later, Mamadou told me when he’d arrived before us in the hotel lobby, he greeted my mom, and told her in broken English that I was on my way with Yousouf before saying he had to pee. Apparently her response was the expected one, a mixture of laughter and granted permission.

Yousouf rode in the taxi with my mom and me while Mamadou took the moto with my bag to the far southeastern quarter of Yirimadio. It’s only the third time I’ve made the trip out that way to Daouda’s concession, just as its distance results in a required day set aside for the visit. After the initial greet and handshake at the concession’s entryway, Daouda sat my mom and me down next to him on one side of his covered porch, while Mamadou sat with Yousouf and Sidi on a bench at the other end. We passed the afternoon there, once we’d eaten a king-sized lunch (zamé, potatoes with chicken, and watermelon), and greeted a variety of passers-by. The eldest relatives of Daouda, two elder men respectively named Seydou Sacko and Madou Diarra, presented my mom with a traditional gift to any visitor who comes from afar, ten kola nuts in a carved-out gourd. They also shared an extensive, blessing-filled greeting that I did my best to translate, slightly wishing I could’ve had someone like Mamadou to filter the heavy weight of their words into more conversational, everyday speech I would understand and be able to translate better or less generally. To no one’s surprise, well mostly Mamadou and me (yes, he already knows), my mom spent fifteen minutes or so snapping photos, and mandatory pictures of her and our hosts for the day (Daouda and his wife Aminata) were taken. It made me happy my mom got to meet a lot of extended host family members in one stop, like Bakary and his older brother Soumaïla, who otherwise are hard to coordinate meeting with because of their busy schedules. As dusk began to fall, I asked Daouda’s permission for Mamadou, my mom, and I to head back across Bamako to Daoudabougou. He made sure I reiterated, once again, that my mom’s visit, specifically to his concession, made everyone very proud. I told him the pleasure was all my mom’s, and it allowed her the opportunity to meet so many extended family members and see a part of Bamako otherwise not on the radar.

20 December 2009

Mamadou and I spent the morning arranging our things and packing before we said our brief farewells to the hosts in Daoudabougou, and were on our way to wait at the hotel with my mom for Daouda to arrive with the car we would be taking to Kafara. The two of us probably looked like sherpas on the walk from his house to the hotel, each carrying full bags and a package. I was glad to find my mom both awake and already part way into the packing process, because Daouda would be arriving shortly and was not one to be kept waiting.

Our ride to Kafara was infinitely the best I’d ever had, save perhaps in PC transport. A family friend let us ride in his typical Malian 90s model Mercedes-Benz sedan, our journey taking easily a third of the time it does in Malian public transport (we left Bamako at 11hr and arrived just past noon). I told my mom to point out anything she wanted to know about, because it was her first time to see a lot of things I would no longer notice having been there, done that. When we passed through Sanankoroba, I did draw her attention to the red dirt road that leads to Tamala, my homestay site, and I’d also tell her the names of the towns we passed through, or as we turned off the highway onto the red dirt road that leads to Kafara I would identify different types of trees and crops along the way.

We pulled into Soumaïla’s concession, where younger host family siblings rushed to greet us and carry bags to the canopy between my two huts. Several chairs appeared and the overwhelming yet impressive number of visitors began to pass through to greet/shake hands/meet/see my mom. At one point, my gwa had upwards of twenty people seated beneath it! I was given tea to brew, all the while playing very polite host along with translating between Bambara and English for my mom. Around the time the second round of tea was brewing, our lunch was set for us in my mom’s hut. Mamadou joined Soumaïla to eat my mom’s first Kafara meal, and it was fit for a king. I was in charge of arranging the various dishes properly (e.g., adding sauce to the rice), and making proper traditional joking cousin references when I lifted the lid to one container filled with beans. I immediately told Mamadou they were for him (a Camara). To make that matter even more humorous was my mom’s preference for the beans, even though truthfully, everything was delicious. I was the last to finish eating, which I have decided to do with my hands, like my Malian counterparts. My mom added the remainder of the rice to the beans, seeming to read my mind as to what I’d intended, but as she reached for the lid, I told her I wasn’t yet full, to loud laughter from Mamadou. During our lunch break a group of more villagers awaited us under the shade of the mango tree outside my concession. An elder woman in my host family gave my mom a Malian name, which coincidentally is as close to a Bambara interpretation of Eva Sokol I can think of – Awa Sacko. Kafara’s Imam sent a chicken, a typical gift to a guest or newcomer, and many pictures on three different cameras were taken throughout the rest of the afternoon, as more and more people stopped by to say hello and welcome to my mom.

As the sun began to set, we moved nearer to the wall of my small concession, and my mom was given water to bathe, during which time another chicken (from Vieux Camara) along with yet further numbers of Kafara villagers stopping by to see my mom. Dusk began to fall, and the assembly of my mom’s mosquito net was postponed for a brief walk to neighboring concessions to greet and introduce my mom.

The first moment since we’d arrived in Kafara to ourselves was when my mom and I were served dinner. We tried each of the three dishes, cous cous with peanut sauce, fried potatoes, and rice porridge, but our full stomachs from that afternoon’s lunch kept us from eating for too much longer. Soumaïla and his younger wife sat with us before my gwa filled yet again with host family members and visitors. My mom took pictures of some who were flipping through a National Geographic while Mamadou and I Bluetoothed Salif Keita and Tiken Jah songs to Batima’s phone from my laptop. Mamadou remarked on my latest desktop photo, a picture I took of Maman in her family’s concession pouring water over a fire for that evening’s bathing water, a scene I may never witness again, as their concession is now completely, and eerily, abandoned. Around 22hr30, people started to head home, giving my mom a chance to get settled in and ready for bed. The “cool” late night temperatures (mid-60s) made me thankful my mom had arrived with another hoody, as leaving the comfort of the people-filled and cave-like protection of my gwa into the open air of the night was quite the body shock.

21 December 2009

The major business for the day was to walk across town to greet the village chief. Mamadou and Siaka joined Daouda and Soumaïla for the important visit. Kafara’s dugutigi had many blessings and compliments for the occasion, for example telling my mother that villagers were eager to meet her due to my reputation in town. If I were good, I must come from good stock, essentially was the village chief’s conclusion.

A steady stream of village women greeted my mom all day, some spending most of the afternoon sitting and chatting for several hours, until I was so tired from translating back and forth between Bambara and English that I nodded off in my chair!

After her evening bucket bath, my mom had another group of women waiting for to see her, at which point she wondered aloud if there’d ever be an end to the visits. I reminded her the importance to these folks a visit of such circumstance had, and the immense pleasure it gave them. They genuinely were taken aback to not only host one American for a couple years, but for his mother to visit seemed almost impossible. The chance to at least shake her hand could not be passed up.

Our evening began with a visit from a local assembly of women, a group who refer to themselves as “Bènkadi” and act as a sort of shea butter producer’s association. The meeting’s purpose was to recruit my mother’s membership, complete with a gift of ten kola nuts and a chicken. Many of the women were wearing matching complets and as group photos were taken, my mom was lent a shirt of such fabric and Fatou literally topped things off with a headscarf as Mamadou and I played paparazzi.

An improbably eclectic mix of people filled the space beneath my gwa for the night’s round of tea and conversation (Mamadou’s mother and two of her friends, Soumaïla’s second wife, Siaka, Batima, Kadiatou, Dr. Mohammed, Sita, Adia, younger host siblings, neighbors), all there to see my mom. I couldn’t get over how amazing it was that one person could bring so many different people together, if only just for a moment.

As has become the late night pattern, once my mom calls it a night, I end my day with a brief release at Siaka’s hangout venue. Batima and Mamadou stayed for the first round of tea before heading home around 23hr45.

22 December 2009

In preparation for our visit to Kafara’s medical clinic, Soumaïla arrived in the morning at my house donning an entire outfit I’d never before seen him wear: nice slacks, Malian tailored shirt, leather flip-flop sandals, a heavy bracelet, chic glasses, and one of the many agricultural formation hats in his collection, this one from WACIP. As we passed by the concession of one of Kafara’s teachers, Dr. Dicko greeted us in Spanish, having met my mom the day before and spoken that language with her then. I answered for the group, in Spanish, to his delight. He became Mom’s interpreter for the visit, translating from their Spanish into Bambara or French for the other doctor. Passing through Fodé’s empty concession, we saw Kadiatou washing clothes. My mom arrived with a package of medical supplies for the clinic and we took a brief tour while Mamadou snapped photos with two cameras. A couple group photos were taken before a quick trip to the schoolhouse to greet three teachers and the director, who sat assembling report cards. Back at the hospital, I translated greetings and blessing for my mom from the doctor and Dicko, who very much appreciated meeting her and receiving her generous contribution.

We received greeters under the shade and wind cover of my gwa for the remainder of the day, before my mom took a break while I did a couple culture exercises with Siaka, Mamadou, and Soumaïla. Apparently, during this time, Soumaïla’s younger wife took off her necklace and put it on my mom, a display of friendship and respect I found very profound. The school’s headmaster paid a brief evening/dusk visit before he went on his holiday break. Soumaïla had dinner with my mom and me before excellent photos were taken of him holding my namesake in his lap, an interaction between them I’d yet to see and told my mom to hurry up with the camera. After translating this into Bambara, both Soumaïla and his younger wife laughed at my comment, very much amused. We had another night of many guests filling the space beneath my gwa (Kadiatou, Djènebou, Soumaïla’s two wives, Siaka, and Mamadou), and I brewed Tazo Passion tea for the group before sitting for a bit until my mom was ready for bed.

Mamadou and I walked Kadiatou partway home, and before I joined Mamadou at Siaka’s house, my mom and I discussed difficulties of continued friendships with my Malian friends once I leave the country. It’s an issue that bothers me frequently and wish I could do something more about, but realistically cannot.

I stayed up late typing up blog entries before the temperatures dipped below 60 degrees, forcing me inside and under the warmth of my blanket. Sleep in Kafara has been great lately, as it tends to be when one can wrap themselves up in such a manner.

23 December 2009

I hurdled the small step to my hut over two papayas set there from some mystery gift giver. During my morning greetings in Soumaïla’s concession, he pulled me over to slit the second of my mom’s five chickens. This morning’s program was to check out the women’s garden Mujeres en Zonas con Conflicto (MZC) built in Kafara some months ago. Perhaps the entire group of women who either work or have a plot in the garden awaited us singing and dancing to repetitive drumming beats. The women welcomed us before a couple of them accompanied the garden technician, Alou Diallo, on his tour of the one hectare garden, which has both community and private plots. A variety of produce is grown there, including cabbage, lettuce, tomatoes, eggplant, hot pepper, green beans, beet greens, and onions. Before we head home, the women did a traditional circle dance to see us off, and after a couple of group photos with my mom included were taken.

The two of us relaxed in my concession during the afternoon, both fighting back sinus infections that are all too often a part of life in village. There are too many germs floating about in the blustery air! My mom transferred photos from her camera onto my laptop, or from my laptop to her external memory drive while I flipped through several Newsweek’s.

Sougoula’s English teacher, Bramand Keita, stopped by in the late afternoon to visit and greet my mom. He stayed for dinner too, and my mom remembered from my writing he was the first Malian I ate with family style. Later, Soumaïla, his two wives and two women from in town (Kadiatou’s mom included) came to chat under the gwa until close to 22hr, when my mom realized how late it had gotten and wanted to get some rest.

24 December 2009

I laid in bed this early morning enjoying the sounds of singing and drumming in town due to a circumcision ceremony for several young boys. While my mom rested most of the morning hours because of an upset stomach, I sat under the shade of the large mango tree reading Newsweek’s and greeting my mom’s visitors, who included one of Soumaïla’s work partner from Sougoula. Siaka and Mamadou took an afternoon trip to Digan to repair Siaka’s radio, only to return to Kafara to be sent off to Falan, a town 10km away to buy my mom watermelons.

My mom, Mamadou, and I took an afternoon walk into town to buy gifts for Soumaïla’s family from the boutique (MAGGI cooking seasoning for the women, a packet of tea and sugar for Soumaïla, and pasta to cook for the

kids, along with biscuit cookie treats). These gifts both surprised and pleased our hosts very much, and even Soumaïla’s mom (around 84) came to greet my mom with thanks and blessings, before which I had never seen her in my concession.

After walking Kadiatou partway home (she took my Paris bracelet Maman also has – I still have an extra I now wear), I called Maman from Siaka’s house, aka reception central, and she chatted with Mamadou, Siaka, and I until all of us were in the best of moods. She had no idea about my mom and I planning on visiting her tomorrow, even after Siaka almost spoiled this surprise trip. Luckily, my quick look of displeasure as he began to give it away and Mamadou practically tackling him kept our secret safe.

25 December 2009

My mom surprised me with French and Arabic language books this morning!

Our Christmas Day was spent in the town of Niengue-Coro with Fodé’s family. My mom got to meet Maman and Fatoumata (her mom), something I had really hoped for and was very happy about. Maman was completely surprised, to the point that once we arrived and a family member told her we were there, she didn’t believe them. Mamadou, she, and I took a brief sojourn to a nearby river, where villagers there fish or take a 15km trip to the Niger River. On our walk back, we passed through a neighbor’s concession, one of the men having done just that, and after Mamadou and I enjoyed looking a the different species of river fish that filled the man’s two buckets I’d never before seen (some with sharp teeth and colorful fins), Maman bought a kilo worth to have us bring back to Kafara to eat for dinner. I really don’t know if my mom and I will ever know how significant or appreciative our hosts felt our visit was, or for traveling the significant distance to do so. It was, I must say, a most memorable day.

I caught my dad and got to briefly say hello to the people I normally would’ve spent Christmas Day with back home, those being Jon and Danna, my uncle Stephan, among others, but my battery died mid-conversation.

26 December 2009

My mom spent all morning assuring her stomach was through with its turmoil before getting up around midday. I’ve enjoyed our typical breakfast of salad with hard-boiled eggs, a style I recommended to Soumaïla’s younger wife, Mariama. When the two foods arrived separately the first day. Even that day, I put the eggs into the salad, having missed such a combo since my days at Carleton.

Soumaïla’s uncle from Digan stopped by in the morning with two papayas for my mom, adding to her small collection of produce and other gifts. More arrived with Daouda, Soumaïla’s older brother, in the afternoon, who came from Bamako with bread and four apples. Soumaïla’s friend Moussa from Dafara came with two papayas today as well. I almost felt at times I was part of the “Twelve Days of Christmas” carol.

Soumaïla’s relative Sanaba Sacko arrived that evening, as Mamadou and I finished a brief introduction to the French passé composé, with some of her singing group in preparation for a couple days worth of music.

Another walk into town during the evening, this time taken by Siaka, Mamadou, and myself, was in store to purchase a gift of chickens and eggs. One chicken and two dozen eggs were given to Soumaïla’s family, and the other chicken was given to Mamadou’s parents for letting him spend time with us during his visit home.

After dinner, I started to copy down some of my mom’s written observations before Mariama came to tell us it was time to go to tonight’s concert. Along the way, I saw her take my mom’s hand, an interaction inferring friendship I had yet to witness between older women. Sanaba sang while three drummers made rounds about those seated (close to 400). Clusters of villagers sat around small fires brewing tea under the moonlit sky, enjoying a traditional dance involving costumes. All the while, Karim played the role of announcer and donation collector. I’d been wondering how the singer and dancers make money for their concerts, but this was quickly made clear by Karim’s frequent interruptions of Sanaba’s singing to let everyone now who had given how much to her this time. Mariama pulled my mom into the dancing circle of village women, and Mamadou hurried to find Siaka to take a picture. Much later, by chance, my eyes happened upon a falling meteor in the night sky, which depending on whether you find such events akin to omens, could be interpreted as good or bad. I could see no way to interpret tonight’s meteor as negative after such an excellent time.

27 December 2009

Mamadou and I were given lunch a little earlier today, and boy was it a treat. I thought I’d died and gone to Mexico; the rice, beans, chicken, green pepper dressed in lime juice were all so excellent.

As dusk approached, the singing and drumming began once more, and my mom snapped some photos as Sanaba sang a song about me, of all things. Mamadou made sure a video of this moment was recorded for posterity.

During my mom’s evening bucket bath, I called Maman to “invite” her to the concert, which she could hear in the background. Her youngest brother, Laji, said hello, the first time he’s ever talked to me. He answered most of my questions with the usual shy, “Mm hmm,” but I could still tell he enjoyed a chance to talk on the phone for real, especially after the enthusiasm I heard in his, “Halo!” (Hello!)

Mamadou had a chance to greet my dad in French during another late night phone call, and my dad did his best to return the favor (in French), thanking Mamadou for his friendship and hospitality.

28 December 2009

During a break in the shade (it had to be around 100) on my ride back from Oueléssébougou between the villages of Djitoumou-Tamala and Djitoumou-Sanankòro, I called Maman to be sure the phone credit I had just sent her via text message arrived all right. Maman was still overwhelmed with how to go about thanking my mom and me for our visit to what she felt was justified repayment to such a significant show of respect and cultural observance. I did my best to encourage her by saying she will arrive in Bamako this weekend enabling her to see my mom again, which allowed me a smooth transition to saying goodbye (greet your mom for me, which she said for me to do the same).

Many village kids are friendly and use to my mom by now, counting her bracelets and toes. Others are still unsure or shy (Kumba), oblivious (Mamadou Lucas), or terrified (some small toddler in Niengue-Coro)

Siaka, Mamadou, and I hung out with Ba Seyidou (Batima’s older brother) tonight, something I had yet to do since arriving in Kafara, despite our friendship. We played cards, brewed tea, and listened to cassettes (including Akon, much to Mamadou and my delight) until after 2am, by which time all of us were freezing and ready to head to our beds in search of warmth and sleep.

29 December 2009

Who comes into a gated concession, opens a locked door, and wakes someone up saying it’s late (actually not even 8am), then leaves the had-been locked door open, as well as the gated concession’s gate open so that the person they woke up is woken up later by the sound of goats eating his breakfast? Siaka! I was not pleased…

Soumaïla shared all his concession members’ (33 total!) birth certificates with my mom and me (except Koniba, Amadou’s second wife), something I’d been curious for a long time but felt uncomfortable asking about seeing.

I uploaded photos this afternoon, and seeing those taken during our trip to Fodé’s village prompted me to call Maman, who told me she has her own photos of me to look at during lonely times. Laji, who had apparently been asking when I’d be calling again, used an informal greeting I found very cute coming from a child his age (normally between young adults): ko kagni?

Soumaïla joined Mamadou and I on a trip to Kaba so my mom could see the large granite formation for herself, and we climbed to the top where one can see a full 360 degree view of the Malian bush. The sun was in the process of setting, making for opportune photos on our descent.

On our bike back from Kaba, Mamadou and I went through town snapping photos, buying more eggs for Soumaïla’s family, and some tea sachets and a tonic water for my mom. It was dark by the time our errands were seen through, all except the purchase of two chickens. The seller, Siaka, arrived during my bucket bath. Mamadou and he bargained theatrically over two of the three chickens Siaka came with, the third he told us had been in an area with sick chickens and he’d rather not sell us. I told him I appreciated his honest salesmanship. These chickens are coming with us to Bamako, one for Soumaïla’s older brother Daouda, and the other to give Mamadou’s older brother in preparation for New Year’s Eve fête dinner. I purchased Soumaïla’s eggs with money sent from my dad, and Soumaïla’s reaction in French (ah, le Vieux!) made me laugh.

As her voice was failing, my mom went to sleep early, so I walked to Mamadou’s house passing along the way Kadiatou and two friends, who had been on their way to my place. We all walked together and sat to chat with Mamadou’s dad and the friendly Peuhl in town (Bari).

30 December 2009

My mom’s last day in Kafara saw no end to the gift-giving. Two more watermelons from Falan, Soumaïla added a fifth chicken to our batch coming to Bamako, and his younger wife Mariama gave my mom a set of gourd utensils (galaman), somehow knowing my mom likes that type of thing. Mariama’s fellow Bènkadi association members gathered to see of my mom, as we left around lansara (14hr). The trip took over five hours, as catching transport proved to be difficult along the highway. We finally did so in Dialakoroba, but our driver was in no rush; it took two hours to go 40km! Daouda awaited us at the hotel’s entrance, and once my mom was settled, we presented him with his chicken.

That night, seated with Mamadou and his friends outside the concession, plans and preparations were at hand for the following night’s New Year’s fête to take place in that very location.

31 December 2009

Today’s program saw a trip to the PC Mali Bureau, where I exchanged some of my mom’s money as well as introduced my mom to my PCMO (doctor) and my supervisors. We spent most of the afternoon at Le Campagnard. While my mom checked her email, Mamadou and I played two games of pool and took a walk for lunch at a nearby Vietnamese stand.

On our taxi ride across Bamako, the market for chickens was evident, with motos loaded with up to twenty birds. Mamadou made the funny remark that December 31st was probably the worst day to be a chicken in Mali.

Mamadou and I arrived at his concession in the evening to find out his younger brother Alou had killed all nine of our chickens. To Alou’s credit, he’d arrived from Kati that day, and the women next door were in a hurry to get started cooking. He was unaware that one of the chickens would be put aside for my mom, but at least all the chickens were accounted for (two weren’t when Mamadou and I got home, which had both Mamadou and his older brother on edge).

Later, Mamadou brought my mom on Baba’s moto to the hang-out, where she proceeded to out dance all the “homies”, as she called my Malian Daoudabougou friends. The late night meal, that arrived past 1am, of chicken and fries disappeared in seconds, as did the case of 24 soda bottles (Mamadou had three to himself!). Maman text me New Year’s wishes and blessings, and her younger sister called at 1hr30, which was rather funny as we’d both not begun eating our fête meal yet.

1 January 2010

Today’s main activity saw its roots set about a week ago. On the first night of the concert Sanaba gave for my mom’s visit, my mom saw one of the village children sitting outside my concession wearing a complet of a color she particularly prefers (wine red). Unfortunately, she forgot to take a picture or ask me who the child was. A couple days later, when my mom brought this all up to me, no one in my host family’s concession could remember such a dress, or find one for that matter. For all we knew, it could’ve been a neighbor or friend sitting with Fatim, who my mom thought was who she saw wearing the dress. It was quite the scene searching two huts, the laundry pile, and even the hanging clean clothes without any luck.

Today the epic fabric search continued, but this time the setting was the market of Daoudabougou and after looking through four shops in different areas, Mamadou and I were ready to give up. But the woman Mamadou had been asking for recommendations told us of one other place on the far end of market to check before throwing in the towel. We arrived to see the shop owner, a larger set woman, asleep on the counter! My mom later told me had she not seen the woman’s face, she’d have mistaken her for a pile of fabric, which there were several in the place. I immediately was struck by a fabric I had yet to see the likes of before, which the seller told me many foreigners preferred, but the color didn’t seem to attract Malian’s taste. Despite this, I decided I wanted to test her theory and bought some to surprise Maman on her birthday this weekend. Thank Allah, my mom found some fabric she liked, and after another round of frustrating bargaining through translation (not because the seller was disagreeable, but I didn’t know how else to say to my mom there was no disagreement!) our search was complete.

2 January 2010

On our walk from Hotel Triton to wherever tailor we were off to, Mamadou, my mom, and I stopped by Mamadou’s workplace to greet the folks there, as well as meet up with Daouda, Mamadou’s moto repairman friend, who knew a tailor nearby. The four of us walked the short distance past the Petro Golf Station to Papa’s Tailor. My mom, ever so particular, looked through six or so photo albums of sample products. Meanwhile, the three of us guys were kept sane with the Mali-Qatar World Cup warm-up match on TV. Eventually, my mom settled on a couple of styles for her fabric, and then came the exhausting bargaining process, at least for me, the translator.

My mom wanted to ask about a place for the three of us to just sit and rest for a bit, to which the hotel staff recommended a patio upstairs. A German family is staying in an adjacent room, and apparently assume the patio is part of their arrangement, at least that’s how they seemed to us. When my mom asked for two unused chairs, the father German said those were their chairs, even though the three of them were sitting and Mamadou and I had nowhere to sit. Later, a bottle of water my mom had asked for was brought upstairs. When the Malian mistakenly set it on the German’s table, not only did they fail to say that they hadn’t asked for it, they also didn’t ask whether it was for us, instead just leaving it on their table unopened. In fact, the mother German came back from a short shopping trip some time after this with other bottles of water! As it started to get too dark to read our magazines, Mamadou and I proposed we go home, but first my mom wanted to go the boutique down the road to get a couple things. As we approached the hotel again, we noticed the Germans had quite possibly waited for us to leave before turning on the patio light. Mamadou and I both found this all rather funny.

I used some Christmas money to surprise Mamadou with an early birthday present I’d been promising for some time now – a bed mattress and two pillows. Normally we’d sleep on a grass mat on the cement floor of his room, using rolled up clothes upon which to rest our heads. This gift made him very happy.

3 January 2010

It was supposed to be just another one of those birthday dinners, but as only Mali could provide, it would become such an experience one will always remember. My mom wanted to treat Mamadou to such a dinner at the same Lebanese place we’d eaten with my PCV friends Mike and Jon. The taxi driver took a strange loopy route, avoiding police who may have inspected his defective rear brake light. As our food arrived, the power cut out, so our meal began by candlelight. Our mezza plate was followed by hookah, which I’d promised Mamadou his first taste of, and we enjoyed the opportunity to have a one-on-one chat for a couple hours. My mom practiced on the pool table, having not done so for some time, and I’d forgotten she played the game left-handed. Mamadou had never before celebrated his birthday, and thanked my mom very much for the chance to, an experience he would never forget.

4 January 2010

This morning my mom wanted to spend another day in Niarela, particularly to stop by the Med Unit and meet the other of my PC Med Officers, who is originally from Guyana, studied on scholarship in Cuba, and probably speaks five languages. My mom also wanted to check at the bureau for the other package she’d sent for Kafara’s med clinic. Hopefully the package of mine we found was this one in question, because there’s nothing written on the package slip to clue us in as to its contents. We spent the rest of the day at Le Campagnard so I could upload 160 or so photos from my mom’s visit so far onto my Picasa web album. A funny moment occurred when one of the waitresses arrived with a pizza we hadn’t ordered. After we told her it wasn’t ours, and it was properly given to whoever ordered it, I reminded Mamadou that if we were like our German friends back at my mom’s hotel, we’d have a free lunch. As we left to search for a taxi, my mom got the chance to meet my PCV friend Peter.

5 January 2010

Around midday, Maman called me to say she’d gotten off transport near the Petro Golf station near Mamadou’s workplace, where she planned on meeting us. Turned out she’d actually been dropped off nearer to market, and was seated at Mamadou’s cell phone repair station by the time I got back from looking for her. The three of us walked to Hotel Triton and sat with my mom as she ate lunch. I brought out my laptop so Maman could look at my mom’s photos. Before we left the hotel lobby, Maman gifted my mom two necklaces, two bracelets, and a set of earrings. Quickly the bracelets were added to my mom’s already heavy wrist, and Mamadou quickly joked as to whether she’d begin selling some of her collection before she became weighed down to the left.

We spent most of the afternoon nearby Mamadou’s work-station, where he knows a woman who is a henna artist. My mom had her feet set in a fancy floral design, which made for quite the spectacle. Many Malians passed by with comments (if they knew me) or surprised looks on their face. The joke had been my mom was expected to pay in $US, but Mamadou seemed to have cut a deal of his own, because when my mom asked how much to give he said it had already been taken care of, and then refused to accept however much he had given. Once her feet were dried, washed, and moisturized, the four of us walked to pick up her finished outfits at the tailor. Maman had to get going in order to be home by 17hr, which cut short my mom’s plan of buying fabric together, and although we were glad to have at least had the chance for them to see each other again once more before my mom leaves, it seemed to pass by all too quickly. As she boarded transport, both my mom and Mamadou said they saw Maman wiping tears from her eyes as my mom hastily waved goodbye. A short while later, when she’d arrived home and begun cooking supper, Maman called to say so and seemed to have settled down, thank goodness.

Observation/Description

I’d been keeping my mom up-to-date on Fodé’s health as the days approached her arrival in-country, even sending her the email relaying the message he’d died the day her travels began (15 Dec) knowing in Paris she would check her inbox during her lengthy layover. She had wanted to visit him were she to have arrived earlier, and immediately asked about the possibility of paying respects to his family, who are all in his hometown.

Mamadou and I saw no issue with that plan but knew we’d have to pass it by both Daouda and Soumaïla before acting on it.

I’d forgotten to mention the plan to Daouda when we initially created a rough itinerary of my mom’s visit, so as soon as we sat down with him at his concession in Yirimadio I made sure to let him know my mom’s wish, since he’d told me to keep him in the loop of any plans she or I had for her stay.

His initial reaction was discouraging, with remarks like the village being far away or he himself having never been there. But he still said we would share the idea with Soumaïla to get his input and final verdict.

After our first dinner in Kafara, my mom and I were told several villagers went to the one-week anniversary observances in Fodé’s village that day. I told Soumaïla my mom wanted to make it a point to visit Fodé’s family there. Soumaïla’s reaction was more realistic, saying it is far and the road is bad but we’d check our options. By afternoon’s end, he’d asked around town about the best way and mode of transportation to get there, leaving the only factor up to choice to be the day we go.

Opinion/Analysis/Judgment

This has become my benchmark for a successful visit. My mom is a doctor; she already had been looking forward to meeting the nurse of my village, even arriving with some materials to supplement the town’s hospital. It has now become her choice to meet his family in light of what has happened. She very much wants to meet Fatoumata and Maman. When Maman first heard of the possibility my mom may be coming to her father’s home, her reaction was filled with anticipation and hope.

There should’ve been no issue or question about it, as this would be a perfectly legitimate and culturally appropriate visit. Daouda’s initial reaction made all three of us (Mamadou, my mom, and me) very upset. Why was he so discouraging, saying it is far away and he has never been? It couldn’t be that far, as close to 100 Kafara villagers went to the funeral! Why does he have to know every plan or idea my mom or I have for her visit? It doesn’t seem to be just to know our whereabouts or for our safety, instead just to assert his power. My mom is, after all, older than he and knows herself what may or may not be appropriate code of conduct. She now was making jokes about whether she was 13 again. Soumaïla’s response was much more what I expected, realistic yet quick to find a solution. If my mom really wants to go, then why not?

I already feel badly having been unable to attend the funeral service. Maman feels guilty that her plans to come to Kafara with us were buggered up, and my mom feels almost obliged to do her best to meet Fodé’s family while she’s in Mali. All this made for a stressful past couple of days, but now it looks as though everyone will get their wish.

16 December 2009

Maman’s father, Dr. Fodé Comagara, left Kafara a little over a month ago due to an illness villagers left me with little specification over their use of the broad French term tension, which could be understood to mean anything from high blood pressure to depression. My occasional visits to his concession at that time led me to believe it had to be something more than that, because he spent the day either bed-ridden or sitting with his head rested upon his arms, and ate little more than two spoonfuls of any meal.

Tabaski came around, and Fodé’s health had improved marginally, depending on whom you asked. Maman spent the fête in Kafara, which she would later say was because of me (were I not in Kafara, she’d have stayed in Bamako looking after her father), a humbling confession that has since left me guilt-ridden. I stayed behind when Mamadou left for Bamako earlier than we’d originally planned, instead waiting to leave the same day Maman did, a gesture I felt was obligatory at least to acknowledge my appreciation for her exceptional display of friendship. At that point, both of Fodé’s wives had been in Bamako for several days, which couldn’t be a good indication of his current condition. Maman was left alone to over look her two younger sisters and assume all household chores (cooking, clothes washing, etc) normally split amongst the two wives. Fodé’s younger wife arrived once Maman’s departure date approached, but Maman’s mother, Fatoumata, remained in Bamako, perhaps having assumed caretaking responsibilities.

Maman wanted Mamadou and I to join her day visit to Fodé’s hospital room only a couple days since we’d arrived in Bamako. Mamadou suggested that he and I wait until another day, as he felt it less socially appropriate for all three of us to arrive together than for he and I to come of our own accord. We promised her that a future visit would happen soon. After spending most of that day at her father’s side, Maman sent me a text saying things had gotten worse, to the point she’d been crying upon the moment she saw him until then. This directness surprised Mamadou and me, suggesting that perhaps updates from other sources that alluded to improvements had only been said to keep us from worrying, a socially acceptable cultural practice.

Mamadou, his older brother Vieux, and I made our visit this past Sunday. The med school hospital is on the outskirts of Bamako, sitting atop a hill that overlooks the city. Maman met us at the entrance and walked us all the way back across the grounds to a ward labeled Pneumatologie, which did little to boost my spirits. As we entered the room, I became completely deflated upon seeing Fodé, his appearance painfully frail. Even though I’d never seen someone in person this close to death, I knew this to be his case and said perhaps two words during the entire time we sat there, with Maman, Fatoumata, and other relatives. Fatoumata, interpreting her husband’s movements and gestures, told me Fodé wished to say something but he was too weak to say whatever that may have been. I will forever wonder what he wanted to say, as I imagine it must’ve been important – it took a seemingly enormous amount of strength just for him to speak, and I’ve rarely heard him talk even under normal circumstances. When she told him I had responded and was ready to hear what he wanted to say, he only shook his head, either because he hadn’t the energy or perhaps realizing what he’d wanted to say was non-substantial. It felt awful to sit there watching a person die, but I know it was a gesture very much appreciated and will not soon be forgotten.

I’m not sure what I expected but our visit to Fodé left me absolutely drained emotionally. The entire ride home I uttered not a single word, only after Mamadou asked me what was wrong as we sat down to eat dinner did I explain to him that Fodé’s appearance was still fresh in my mind. I tried to enjoy the nightly hangout crew setting but it only made me more upset and bitter. I spoke only when spoken to, and was brutally honest about why I was discouraged. Maman called to ask if I was OK, and I told her why I wasn’t truthfully. She preferred I stop mulling over the same depressing thoughts and would rather I enjoy the company of my friends. Her encouraging words worked well to change my mood, and by the next morning, I was feeling a lot better.

As has been almost a daily ritual this Bamako trip, Maman called me during her midday study break Monday, and was happy I had gotten over the previous day’s emotional baggage. We were back to the normal joking and friendly conversation typical of our phone calls.

Not a couple hours later, I received a text from Maman I may never forget. “My father’s dead.” I literally reacted blurting out the word, “What?!” and quickly got up to show Mamadou the message. I told him I hadn’t wanted to say this the day before, but I immediately knew upon seeing Fodé that he was dying. That did little to temper the overwhelming surprise and grief that would encompass my conscience the rest of that day. I eventually was so upset, mostly due to my knowing I’d be unable to attend the funeral service the next day, I went to bed rather than sit with Mamadou’s friends that night.

Yesterday morning, as I ran errands in town, I finally couldn’t take it any more. I hadn’t spoken to Maman since she informed me of her father’s passing and that bothered me, mostly because I didn’t know what I should do, what my place socially and culturally was at that point. I asked Mamadou for his advice, and he said for right now, I patiently give the family members time and space to grieve. Once she is ready, Maman will call. Even though I expected this to be the proper action before asking, I told Mamadou that observing it would be very hard for me, as I’m American and we culturally rush to the aid of anyone in trouble.

Mamadou’s older brother Vieux attended the funeral service in Fodé’s hometown, and that evening, upon his return, reported the majority of Kafara was in attendance. Fodé’s reputation in village was substantial. He first arrived there over twenty years ago with a well-digging project team, eventually settling there a decade or so ago, in the process becoming the town’s doctor.

Maman called tonight and asked me to pass the phone to Mamadou. He told me later as we prepared to head inside that Maman had called to delegate him responsible for keeping me emotionally stable throughout this matter. She wanted to be sure that even if she weren’t around to see to my well being, that Mamadou be there for me. As is expected, Maman will be in her father’s hometown for the unforeseeable future, and wanted to be sure that despite her inability to do so herself, that I greeted my mom for her emphatically. Her last words left both Mamadou and I wincing, as she explained that since her father would no longer be in Kafara, her visits or time spent there would be reduced dramatically. In fact, their concession in Kafara had already been abandoned! All this, from one conversation over the phone no less, left me thankful she’d decided to relay the message through a third party rather than tell me directly, as I’m fairly certain we’d both have been crying by the end of the call. Even hearing these words second-hand almost produced this reaction from my generally well-composed demeanor.

I’ve been keeping my mom up to date with all this, and yesterday sent her an email with the details dating from my hospital visit Sunday to the news I received Monday. I wanted her to know before she arrived here today what’d happened, because I know she would’ve wanted to pay Fodé a visit herself. As far as her desire to meet Maman, that will be a tricky one. Mamadou and I discussed an impromptu trip to Fodé’s hometown, a visit we can spin genuinely as a culturally appropriate one, a plan I’m rather set on seeing through as part of my repayment to the incredible debt I feel to have accrued to Maman’s incredible hospitality, amiability, and loyalty.

14 December 2009

During my last Bamako trip, I proposed an idea to Mamadou that had until then skipped my mind: a visit to his older friend Bocar’s workplace. This afternoon, once Mamadou’s work was over for the day, we took the short cab ride to the next-door quartier of Kalaban Coura, where Bocar and several other Malian men repair cars. Mamadou brewed tea and took photos of the place, along with chance shots of orange vendors who passed through. The social parameters of the workplace were pleasant. When the boss arrived, he had no airs about him, and everyone ate together. They all got along rather well, joking and teasing each other rather than quarreling over small matters. My visit was enjoyable for them as well, and they appreciated the foreigner’s conversation. I even inadvertently made a joke that left one of them speechless, as he realized I clearly knew more Bambara than he expected. He pointed to one of the men seated with us and told me the man was a Coulibaly. I jokingly posed the question as to what that meant, a loaded question that Mamadou later told me was not only funny (he said at the time, he did all he could not to burst out laughing, not wanting to come across as disrespectful on his first visit to the place), but proved my proficiency in Bambara speech and cultural joking between different family names.

15 December 2009

It’s been over a year since I had my hair dressed typical Malian male style, buzzed the shortest possible length, and bordered with a safety razor blade. The next day I got a cold, which was immediately attributed by my Malian counterparts to the wind’s ability to catch my head much easier now that my hair was gone. Whatever the reason, it was enough for me not to think about cutting my hair again since then.

But now that my mom was arriving, I realized my stubbornness about a haircut would reach its end. Plus, the Jesus look was growing old with me, as well as the novelty of having hair down to my back for the first time. Soon enough, I would’ve gotten annoyed with the task of just keeping that clean during dusty hot season. Regardless, my mom’s arrival provided a perfect excuse to any Malian’s question as to why I decided to cut it all off again.

There’s a barbershop of sorts near Mamadou’s workplace, and we went together in the afternoon to take care of business. The small shop had a mirror on one wall optically confusing me at first, while the rest of the wall space was covered completely with posters of soccer players and hip-hop stars. Excited at the prospect of cutting a Toubab’s hair, the two hair stylists asked me what type of cut I wanted, asking me to refer to any one of the pictures on the wall as a model. What an improbably hilarious moment, a culmination of so many variables! I was probably the first white person to walk into their place, it was only the second time I’d had my hair cut in Mali, and I was being asked to use soccer player’s flamboyant hair styles as a guide, and all the players I saw initially were African (Michael Essien, Seydou Keita, Samuel Eto’o, Emmanuel Adebayor), whose hairstyles I could only dream of pulling off with my straight European hair. One of the stylists drew my attention to one of the only white players, Wayne Rooney of Manchester United, and actually that photo proved to be a close enough resemblance of what I envisioned that I said actually that would be perfect. It was an unbelievable scene.

As the inches of a year’s worth of hair fell to the ground, the stylists joked with us that it amounted to a normal day’s work. You see, Malian men keep their hair at buzz length, to the point even at less than a quarter inch length they say the time has come to get a trim or touch-up, as Mamadou did once my turn was up and we were pleased with the result.

5 December 2009

My hut was the scene of intense cleaning Thursday afternoon. Living in a house made of mud has its romantic novelties, but it’s a dusty and termite-infested affair. The rearranging of all my things gave me motivation to assemble or throw away a bunch of old papers that I just didn’t need, or had become a termite nest’s food supply. Last week, Mamadou Camara’s younger sister did a similarly rigorous sweep of my house, to reveal the rustling noise (coming from atop the tarp that separates a year’s worth of dust and dirt from my roof and my floor) that on occasion would keep my awake at night: a baby bird. Clearly, I am not this thatched-roof residence’s only tenant.

Soumaïla, ever the planner/organizer, shared several ideas he has for making my mom’s visit a memorable one. Both he and his older brother Daouda plan on meeting her at the airport 16 Dec, perhaps even arriving in one of Programme Sorgho’s pick-ups to make transportation less of a head-ache for everyone. He proposed setting up an area in a nearby mango grove for us to spend the afternoons relaxing, brewing tea, and chatting with passers-by. “Why not organize an event in town for her visit with drumming, singing, and dancing,” he wondered aloud. So many great ideas left my head spinning and even more occupied with thoughts about her visit.

No question, I’m excited to have plans and ideas like this put forward, but my cynicism and experience with planning ahead keeps me from getting too excited or even telling Mom about them. I did briefly in an email yesterday explain that many plans were being tossed around for her visit to Mali, but warned her not to expect all of them to go quite as she might think, or for some to even happen at all. We’ve already encountered such an issue with the most unlikely of matters, that is Mom’s preferred greeting party at the airport. Remember when I first mentioned Maman’s participation in this situation was a very big inshallah? Sure enough, Maman said that since Mom’s flight arrived at night, her familial hosts would not allow her to come along. Trying to suppress my frustration as best I could at such different and stringent social norms that restrict women, I asked her if she couldn’t reiterate to whoever or wherever the buck stops that an exception couldn’t be made for my mother’s visit. After all, as I asked her rhetorically, is this not a rather big deal? My mom is coming all the way from America to see me in Mali. But in the end, I can never get too frustrated about things I cannot change. Instead I prefer to let things unfold naturally, improvising along with the spontaneity of every day’s new experiences.

My evening visit to Mamadou Camara’s parent’s concession for brief conversation fireside (!) revealed an interesting lingual fact about Bambara spoken in Côte d’Ivoire. The afternoon greeting (I ni wula) is parallel to that used in French (Bon soir), said even after the sun has set. This is not the case in Mali, where once the stars and moon are out, the greeting changes (I ni su). All of this arose due to a family member sitting down next to me and greeting me as if it were still the afternoon. My response, to ask whether it was not yet nighttime (as it was certainly dark), drew laughs and a brief lesson in linguistics.

7 December 2009

Saturday night I arrived at one of the neighborhood boutiques to see a small group of villagers watching the end of the Federation Cup championship match that pitted Stade Malien against a team from Algeria. Stade Malien won in dramatic fashion (a shoot-out), and Bakary, the shop-owner, proceeded to celebrate so enthusiastically I was startled and flinched before joining in his exuberance.

I was so cold that night to the point I shut both my door and window, but after lying in bed until 3am without having slept a bloody wink, I got up to call Dad, as that seemed the best idea at the time. We had a fun chat but I’m sure he thought I was crazy for calling at such an hour, and also complaining of “cold” 65 degree temperatures when it was 23 and snow on the ground where he is.

Air Digan (transport) was packed, so Maman’s plan of sitting next to me on our way to Bamako was thwarted, but that didn’t keep us from talking along the way, as we text back and forth once we reached the highway, where reception begins. One of her messages lamented at her inability to sit next to me, but I jokingly responded that she was lucky to get her seat riding shotgun. For whatever reason, my elementary French grammar was at its peak, and I filled my texts with French-induced Bambara, typically spoken in bigger cities like Bamako and among younger students, like Maman and my friend Mamadou.

As transport reached the edge of Bamako city limits, in the cartier of Faladie, Soumaïla’s older brother Daouda handed off my USB chip, which I’d given to Mamadou on Thursday to pass off to Daouda, with photos of the cow donated by the Agence de Musulmanes d’Afrique to the director, whom Daouda knows well. Daouda asked me where I’d be getting off transport, and then met me, along with Yousouf (Soumaïla’s oldest son), at the turnoff to Daoudabougou. Yousouf and I walked with my bags to Mamadou’s workplace, where Daouda met us to ask about specifics of Mom’s arrival. He told me not to go alone, instead to properly greet Malian style with a large group of host family members. Later, Mamadou suggested we wear matching outfits, an excellent plan! Mamadou took two trips into town dropping off Yousouf and his friend Soumaïla, the last of which he didn’t arrive until almost 19hr. As I sat waiting for him at the doorway of his workplace and it began to get dark, I started to wonder not only why he was taking close to an hour to come back, but also how we were to go about buying our dinner. His delay was due to his arrival at Soumaïla’s family concession at fitiri (dusk prayer), and rather than just drop his friend off, he did the culturally appropriate thing: wait for prayers to finish and greet before leaving. His late arrival meant no market trip or cucumber salad, so instead we stopped at a place along our walk home he happened upon by chance, where a woman cooks fried plantains, potatoes, spaghetti noodles, and beef kabobs.

We took our cold bucket baths (Mamadou exclusively bathes with cold water, even during cold season) before sitting with the normal crew outside the concession. I was really tired having not slept more than two hours the night before, and went to bed earlier than usual.

It’s been a busy day so far, as I have several errands to do in town. Now I’m posted up at Le Campagnard doing the normal thing – updating y’all on the blog, uploading photos, checking emails, etc.

30 November 2009

While I sit waiting for the PC Shuttle to pass through Marako (a village on the highway not far from where the road you turn off to head to Kafara is), I will do my best to recount the past several days of fête-related happenings. It seems I will have plenty of time on my hands to do this, as I’ve already been sitting here since 9am and it’s past noon.

26 November 2009

In a testament to just how much different life has become for me the past year in Mali, my Thanksgiving this year was a perfect example of how far away I feel from America and that lifestyle at times here.

In preparation for spending Friday fête shopping at market, I biked early Thursday morning to the bank in Oueléssébougou only to realize upon arriving that my bank card was back in my hut in Kafara. By midday, I had biked to Oueléssébougou twice and sat waiting my turn along with a small crowd of Malians. I had fun listening to their conversation, and made small talk with two older men seated next to me.

Even after biking 76km (45.6 miles), I stayed up late at Siaka’s place, brewing tea and munching pastries I came back with from Oueléssébougou. Dad enjoyed a surprise phone call that occasionally took pauses due to incoming calls to Siaka’s phone, hanging just below mine from his hut wall, where reception has been exceptional of late.

The first of many expected arrivals I was hoping for this Tabaski came from Mamadou Camara, who will be here for a couple of weeks before we go back to Bamako together and start preparing for Mom’s visit.

27 November 2009

Siaka, Mamadou, and I did our best to get an early start on our way to Oueléssébougou, despite Mamadou’s sleeping in and a short stop in Dienfing for bike repairs. We left our bikes at Siaka’s older sister’s house in Donkorona and caught transport along the highway. The three of us rode shotgun, an occasion which prompted me to snap a couple photos.

Market was packed, as expected the day before the biggest holiday of the Muslim year, but we got all our affairs arranged rather efficiently, and by jumaseli (midday Friday prayer) were rewarding ourselves with a treat of gâteau and milk.

Another day of biking and the exhaustion induced from the mall-like experience had in Oueléssébougou that morning, I napped briefly at Siaka’s house before we had a late afternoon snack of goat meat brazened over hot coals. Then we got to finding a chicken in village to buy and deliver along with cucumbers to Maman’s house to prepare for one of the coming nights of Tabaski. Maman was due to arrive that evening from Bamako, but had yet to leave around the time Siaka and I dropped off these items to Fatoumata (her mom) around dusk. Later that night, though, she and Kadiatou arrived at Siaka’s house, where the hang-out crew was in full effect: Yousif (Soumaïla’s oldest son), Sidi (Kadia’s older brother), Sekou (my neighbor Daouda’s younger brother), Salifou (Sekou’s work friend), and Mamadou. Sekou, Salifou, Sidi, and I walked Kadiatou and Maman partway home, all of us commenting on the cold temperature at the time. As we exchanged the typical good night handshake, I also told Maman to take my heavy Carhartt hoody.

Around 1am, after a night filled with jokes about owls (Siaka’s hang-out crew moniker – I became referred to as the “white” owl, and later poked fun with Siaka’s catch phrase “we go until 2am!”, because this time it was extended to 5am…I told him even owls sleep to raucous laughter from the rest of our friends; as I was offered a cigarette later, I reached for it, then pulled back to ask whether owls smoke, once again my lame joke evoking loud guffaws from the bros), Djenèbani (Maman’s friend) and Ma (Kadiatou’s younger sister) stopped by with a late-night fête meal of fried plantains, French fries, and beef tips. It arrived at the perfect moment, as for whatever reason I was hungry and had no idea food was even on its way. A perfect surprise!

28 November 2009

I did well to take it all in during the village gathering for fête prayer, as I knew it would probably be the last time I ever had the chance to experience that type of event. Since so many villagers take part, instead of the mosque an area is set up on the far east end of Kafara off the red dirt road that leads to Digan. As I sat down with my friends, the younger imam could be heard singing a hymn alluding to “Allah is One”. The elder imam arrived with 3 others from the rear, engaged in a call and response prayer song of their own. Once they arrived at the head of the group, they walked along the aisles of prayer mats where patrons stand in columns repeating the phrase, sufú safan, rahamatulahi safan, which can be understood almost like “hold line” militarily. The prayer began with the imam uttering the phrase Allah akhbar seven times. Then the I bissimalahi prayer is said (that includes the low bow and kneel to forehead prostrate eastward), followed by Allah akhbar five times. Another round of I bissimalahi and the prayer ends with the aslamu alayikum greeting. After prayers, as the imam outlined how to properly go about fête observances, I made eye contact down the aisle with Sidi to ensure Siaka hadn’t fallen asleep like he did at that point last year.

As the group of us arrived back home, we all changed out of our prayer clothes since it was now time to go about sheep sacrificing. Rather than take part, I sat and observed next to Soumaïla and his mother, snapping a couple photos before moving closer to the action while Siaka and Yousif divvied up the meat among immediate neighbors and the family concession.

Sidi, Siaka and I made our greeting rounds together, to repeated compliments or questions from villagers about my clothes, since they alluded to my having observed Hajj (Arab prayer robe with a scarf tied around my head and neck), appropriately enough as this past month is the time devout Muslims observe Hajj each year.

Maman prepared the chicken and cucumber into a delicious fête feast for our friends. Sidi, Mamadou, Siaka, Maman, and Djenèbani (and me) all filled ourselves to the brim, all the while enjoying each other’s company and conversation. It had been a very pleasurable fête indeed.

29 November 2009

I spent the entire morning at the area about Kafara’s dugutigi’s concession, where a cow donated by Agence de Musulmanes d’Afrique was sacrificed and divvied up between all 57 concessions of Kafara, to ensure everyone in village ate meat for this year’s Tabaski at least once, generally understood as an integral part of a successfully spent fête (you ate meat!).

I finally arrived home around noon to find Bakary, who I hadn’t seen for at least four months. We had lunch together and caught up on each other’s news before I took a long overdue nap, catching up on the hours lost to sleep due to late nights spent with friends at Siaka’s house.

The late afternoon saw a trip to Kaba with Mamadou and his friends Soumaïla and Samba. Mamadou and I called my PCV friend Michael to exchange greetings before the four of us exhausted my camera’s battery snapping photos along the face of the granite formation.

Kafara’s schoolhouse was the site of a soirée with a DJ and the whole she-bang, but technical difficulties with the equipment lead to an underwhelming scene. Mamadou, Maman, and I left early (haha, note really, it was around 23hr), spending a couple hours at my place. While Mamadou took my bike across town to Samba’s house with my computer full of photos from Kaba, Maman and I had an especially candid conversation, the type I’d like to have with a lot of my friends but never have. It stemmed from one of the letters I wrote her, with twenty-one questions to serve as an ice-breaker for broader discussion. Mamadou and Maman left around 1hr, and I walked a short ways to a spot in a field to check my phone for messages. I could hear the DJ yelling over a Malian rap song asking if the American was in attendance, since the song was dedicated for him. Rather than walk home, I strutted along to the beat of my favorite song at the moment, under the light of a near full moon.

1 December 2009

On our way to Maman’s house for an afternoon of photo-taking in fête clothes, Mamadou told me his trip to Bamako had been pushed forward from next week to this Thursday. When I asked Mamadou if that meant I would be leaving with him that day, since we’d planned on going to the capital together, he immediately asked whether I’d be leaving Maman behind in Kafara. We both agreed this was not a proper idea, and that I would wait until Maman left Sunday, leaving together with her. Mamadou told me that it was quite possible Maman spent Tabaski in Kafara because I was here, and for me to leave during her stay would be insensitive to this gesture. Once again, Mamadou looking out for his foreigner friend’s reputation, something he does repeatedly and for which I will be forever grateful.

Another memorable moment came at the hands of Vieux, the vagabond from Digan who wonders about during fête times gracing us with his blessing filled and inebriated song. I had Mamadou write down the lyrics to Vieux’s cry, which he inevitably ad-libs to fit any situation he encounters among the people’s concessions he passes through to greet. For example, he adding at the end of his round at Mamadou’s mother’s concession a short bit about shea nut shelling, which she just happened to be doing as he arrived. Mamadou and I sat at the other end of the concession listening to their interaction, occasionally bursting into fits of laughter at Vieux’s pleasant yet liquor-induced speech. Mamadou’s mother, Maïmouna, reached for pocket change to give the familiar drifter, but Vieux instead suggested she keep the money and substitute it with peanuts, since those were what appealed to him at that moment. As he received his donation, Vieux said many blessings. Mamadou jokingly told him from across the concession to retrieve more shea nuts from a hole they were stored in, and to his surprise, Vieux immediately descended into the hole to do that very thing. Later, as he passed by greeting us in French upon seeing a white person seated, Vieux went on a random tangent about why he was wearing two hats (he saw it along the road and felt obliged to take it, asking our confirmation while flamboyantly flashing a mischievous grin and resting his chin on his peanut-filled hand). He then showed off his new acquisition as he turned away, assuming a brief catwalk before continuing on his rounds, leaving Mamadou and I behind clenching our stomachs due to laughing-inducing cramping.

2 December 2009

Digging through the chest PC gave us way back during homestay, I found among the small library of textbooks I accumulated during training a cross-cultural workbook. A quick skim through the first chapter led me to the idea of creating another blog specific to cross-cultural experiences, with the help of stories and exercises in that workbook. This is the aspect of PC I cannot get enough of, and part of the reason foreign correspondence journalism has such an appeal to me since it would allow me to have similar experiences as a career. There is nothing more enriching than learning not only the differences between your own culture and those of another group of people, but also the similarities we all share despite our various backgrounds and beliefs.

3 December 2009

I just came from in town to see off Mamadou. We walked together to greet various villagers, all of whom asked whether I was leaving with him only to learn I was just doing the culturally appropriate gesture of seeing off a friend, which made all of them proud. Several asked whether I’d now be lonely, but I assured them I would be alright, as I myself would be leaving Sunday to stay with him.

7 November 2009

Wednesday night, the last night I would spend in Daoudabougou for a while, Mamadou told me he wouldn’t be able to stay up as late as we usually do, and would head to bed as soon as the last round of tea was served. I asked him if that was how my last night in Bamako would be spent, and upon remembering this himself apologized before saying he’d make up for it the next day with intermittent conversation while we sat at his workplace before the time came for us to head to the spot we wait for transport back to Kafara.

Thursday afternoon, we walked by the street side watermelon vendors so Mamadou could snap a couple photos of that vivid memory I had from Halloween. As we knew all too well that transport never arrives when they say they will (15hr), we sat at his house and relaxed there until the time transport said they’d arrive. We called Mamadou’s brother-in-law, a taxi driver, and caught a ride to the transport stop. To our surprise, Batima, the daughter of the shop owner in Kafara I’ve gone to several neighboring village’s markets with, was sitting there waiting for a ride back to Kafara as well. Batima told me Kadia’s new cell phone was defunct after water got inside it somehow. Kadia has terrible luck with phones it turns out; one gets stolen and the next, within weeks of its purchase, is unusable. I had wondered why I hadn’t heard from Kadia after she called me last Sunday to say she’d be arriving in Bamako that day, and would like for Mamadou and me to go visit her if possible. Who knows when the next time I’ll hear from her will be, but at least she knows my number and can call me from another phone.

Air Digan finally arrived at 16hr19m with a fancy new paint job and new benches. The ride back was pleasant without too many passengers and Batima’s entertaining conversation. By the time we turned off the highway onto the back road towards Kafara, all the passengers still aboard were chattering about the foreigner’s Bambara, and asking me all sorts of questions. I arrived home, took a bucket bath, and made a trip to the butigi all before dusk, something that rarely happens the same day I arrive from Bamako. Maman was surprised to hear this when I called her to say I’d arrived all right back in Kafara, and I did my best to lighten her spirits (she’s lonely in Bamako) with upbeat humor. Mamadou was also blown away I got so much accomplished before dark, and gave me encouragement that the next couple weeks may seem daunting but soon enough Maman, he, and many other friends from Bamako will be arriving in Kafara for Tabaski.

When I arrived from that trip to the butigi, Soumaïla and I had an extended greeting exchange, as he had been worried about me when I left for Bamako and was very happy I was healthy again. He asked how Mamadou was, as he knows that’s who I spend my time in Bamako with exclusively these days. I told him how the open house at ICRISAT went and of Bara’s plans to check up on Kafara’s Co-op next week.

Yesterday I took transport to Oueléssébougou. I had no big errands to attend to at market, and really only went to check and send work-related emails. The day was filled with overwhelming and repeated instances of memorable interactions with my Malian acquaintances. On the road between Dafara and the highway, a woman who knew me but I hadn’t the slightest clue as to even where she was from (this happens all too often – I’m easy for Malians to remember but I meet so many people I can barely remember my own villager’s names sometimes) gave me 5 guavas, for no other reason I can think of except she noticed I seemed to be enjoying the one another woman gave me. As I walked from market to the place I like to eat lunch, I passed many of the students who were on break for Friday prayer, and they all had things to say to the lone White person coming the opposite direction. One girl in particular, from the moment she saw me from afar until she passed me repeated in Bambara with a teasing smile that I was an ugly Toubab (White person). As she passed me, I too couldn’t help but smile with her and shook my head at how entertaining just seeing a White person can be for some Malians. These people are fascinated with foreigners! I arrived at Madame Keïta’s food stand and enjoyed yet another excellent batch of rice and peanut sauce, which I told her I had yet to find an equivalent in all of Mali. She told me that instead of going back to America after my two years of PC service were up, I would stay in Mali, as it was now my home. After all, I understood Bambara completely! I went next door to where Issa, a friend of Siaka’s, works with his father welding all sorts of contraptions, from motorcycle and bicycle parts to farming equipment and crop grinders. I asked Issa when he’d be coming to Kafara, suggesting Tabaski. We both settled on this plan, adding the every so appropriate inshallah. He treated me to a bowl of dègè, a mixture of yogurt and millet dough, and a cool treat on the hottest of days. When Issa’s father arrived from Friday’s midday prayer (juma seli), I greeted him before heading back to market, where I sat most of the day with Lamine Doumbia, a vendor Kadia introduced me to back during our first trips to market in Digan. This connection has been invaluable, as Lamine is not only an excellent businessman, but also a good friend. He is going to help me assemble my fête clothes for Tabaski (take me to buy the material, dye the fabric, get measured, etc.) and also search about Oueléssébougou and Bamako for a certain model of shoes I’d like to complete my outfit of traditional Muslim clothes. After asking whether I’d eaten, he insisted I share his lunch, which turned out to be exactly the same as the one I had just finished! So after another round of rice and peanut sauce, topped off with a Coca-Cola, I was feeling quite content. Lamine surprised me with a couple photos he had taken at a photo studio in town, and he appreciated my extended company on what amounted for him a successful market day, at least from my observation.

I arrived back home in Kafara around dusk for the second time in as many days, the toll of which had me rather exhausted. Regardless, I sat at Siaka’s for a little longer than I did the previous night, as Alou Diallo and Djenèbou’s company kept me entertained enough to postpone heading to bed early.

8 November 2009

Maman’s mother, Fatoumata, requested I spend part of yesterday afternoon at their concession and brew some tea. As I sat waiting for Maman’s youngest sister, Tènè, to gather all the items I needed to brew a couple rounds of tea (fire, water, clean kettles and shot glasses, sugar, vanilla sugar, cough drops, limes, and several sachets of Thé Champion, a product of Côte D’Ivoire), Seydou Camara stopped by to greet on his walk home from teaching older villagers arithmetic. As he sat down next to me, he asked if I could read and write Bambara. When I told him I could, he asked under his breath ‘Est-ce que c’est vrai?’ After writing something in his notebook, he told me to read it aloud. I read the sentence (Madu Samaké na bè wèlè Lukasi Amerikan jeman – Mohammed Samaké who is called Lucas white American) to reactions of laughter from both Fatoumata and Seydou, who both agreed I indeed mastered Bambara. I asked for Seydou’s pen so I could write a short phrase for him to read, (Seyidu Kamara min bè Bamanan kan kalan mògòw ye Kafara ye – Seydou Camara who teaches Bambara to Kafara people) and I may or may not have made his day when he saw his name spelled correctly in Bambara, as it’s quite different from the French version.

On the subject of reading and writing, it’s been a fun side-project writing letters in Bambara for Maman. This activity helps so many people learn or be teachers. Any time I need help with a word or phrase in Bambara, I ask Siaka, who has become somewhat of quasi-tutor of late. Once I’m finished, I read the letter’s text to him, exclusively to rave reviews. Not only does Maman appreciate the letters, but it also provides her a chance to practice reading Bambara. And of course, although one may write letters without the expectation of receiving a response, what a welcome surprise that would be! For right now, I’ve been delivering the letters myself, as I expect even if I knew an address I could send them to in Bamako it might take longer than waiting a couple weeks for her to arrive in Kafara, or get lost in the black hole that is Bamako’s post office.

The first letter I wrote for Maman was a by-product of the assignment I took part in with the studies taking place in Kafara. I mentioned to Seydou that I had turned the letter in to Karim, another teacher/villager, to look over. Knowing it wouldn’t be returned right away, I went ahead and made corrections myself, and delivered it to Maman during my last Bamako trip (that ordeal I described…perhaps I was channeling Mali’s postal system). Well, it’s been a couple of weeks now, and I still have heard nothing back about the faux assignment. Well, not in physical form. Karim did tell me he received the letter, read it, thought it was wonderful, and would make corrections then return it. Vieux, my host brother, has asked several times about it during breaks in class, but it appears to keep slipping Karim’s mind. Maybe one of these days, I’ll happen by the old schoolhouse when studies end for the day (~17hr) and check on the status of my foreign language practice exam.

10 November 2009

Soumaïla’s grinding machine was out of commission all Saturday. Siaka and he spent the hours between 8 and 5 trying to fix the problem, but to no avail. Sunday, a repairman from Digan came in the morning and after another hard day of work, and a couple replaced parts, the machine was up and running once more. While machines like this provide a convenient service for women in villages, who otherwise would do the work by hand, as well as serve as a source of income for whoever mans the machine, too often they break down, become a loss of capital, or cause infighting between villagers or family members (stemming from costs incurred by gasoline or repair).

Last night, I sat in my doorframe for a moment when my thoughts were interrupted by the sight of one of my papaya trees. It had fallen down and was now propped up against the wall of my concession. This could not have happened too long before, as it had been standing up proudly until dusk. It looked upon inspection that a combination of loose, wet soil from watering and the tree’s top-heaviness (three sizable fruits) were the cause of its fall. Luckily, the trunk remained intact, and a now reinforced base along with a couple props will help the tree with its heavy load.

My younger host-sister, Setou, who has assumed several of Kadia’s duties, walked with me into town this morning to buy this week’s portion of sauce ingredients. As we passed a familiar face along the road, the woman confirmed with Setou that now Kadia was gone she’d be accompanying me about errands in village. My host-sister and I both laughed at this comment. Although I’m sure all sorts of wild ideas have circulated the Kafara grapevine about the context of our relationship, it’s notable the extent people about town have all made the connection that Kadia and I were at the very least close friends and now that she’s not around, have encouraging words for me.

There are two men in Kafara who are curious fellows. I feel badly taking amusement in their sorrow, but their craziness is something so different than interactions I’m accustomed to having, and their friendly disposition is infectious. One of these men, referred to as Karim Doumbia, manically wanders about (I’ve seen him sit once) collecting scratch paper that he passes out in small torn-out squares. I actually have kept one of these that has an interesting doodle scribbled on it. He exclusively refers to me as “Monsieur”, always beginning his greeting to me with “Ah Monsieur, bonjour!” The other man’s name escapes me (Bourama), but I normally see him whenever I visit Dr. Fodé Comagara’s concession. One day, when I was brewing tea with Adiaratou and Kadiatou, Adiaratou asked the man why he always referred to me as “Jacques”. He went on a long tangent about how I was one of several Germans working in a village near Kafara, building a school or something. I asked about this after he left, and Germans hadn’t been anywhere near Kafara for several years. For some time, Adiaratou jokingly called me “Jacques” after this interaction. Unlike back home, these two unfortunate souls are not outcast or hidden from society; in fact, it’s quite the contrary – I see them almost everyday! They have families that care for them, and I’d be surprised if they both weren’t married and had children. I’m not exactly certain how people “go crazy” but I’ve been told by many people that both these men weren’t always this way, their ailment came with age.

11 November 2009

Yesterday afternoon, I sat with Kadiatou under the shade of Fatoumata’s gwa. While she brewed Sahel Ceylon (former name for Sri Lanka) tea, she asked aloud whether the upcoming fête of Tabaski would please her. I asked how it could not, many people would be coming. She inquired which people, and I said our friends. Kadiatou said she would be waiting for only two people, Maman and Djenébani, and then added that she’d be satisfied even if Maman alone came to observe the fête in Kafara. She asked if I was expecting many friends to arrive, and I said I too was only anxious for the arrival of two people, Maman and Mamadou Camara. Before I forgot yet again, I took the opportunity to ask Kadiatou what Maman’s birth name is. “Maman” is a respectful nickname, and among several that many Malians substitute for their actual names, sometimes to the extent that even their closest friends don’t know what their real name is! But Kadiatou, a close friend of Maman, answered my question right away, and now I know Maman’s given name: Sanaba.

Fatoumata arrived a bit later when her studies ended for the day, and together we reviewed that afternoon’s Bambara grammar exercise. I noticed considerable progress in her reading ability since the classes began, and she’s beginning to not only recognize letters and their sounds, but also relate this knowledge to words she’s never seen, sounding out the syllables until the words registers in her head, as she already speaks and understands Bambara.

Siaka and I had a couple chats with Maman over the phone last night, and we exchanged a customary joke I make with my Malian friends on the phone whenever possible. It’s customary for her to ask if we’re at his house, the hangout place, and then to follow this up with whether tea is ready to drink. We said we’d get right to sending her the first round, through the phone of course!

This morning I accompanied Soumaïla to a compost pit he dug yesterday so we could take a couple photos. Our latest venture is to get photos of villagers with their field crops, specifically those involved in the improved sorghum varieties project. Currently he’s in town with my camera documenting several other projects underway, as Kafara has no shortage of them right now, which is I suppose for right now is a good thing. I just hope it doesn’t take the form of a gold rush, and I come visit again years later to find a ghost town.

15 November 2009

I knew the response to my assignment would be worth the wait. It arrived several days ago, as I sat down at the regular nightly venue (Siaka’s gwa) I triggered Vieux’s memory and he went to retrieve Karim’s reply. In customary Malian fashion, Karim went on and on about how my letter was superb and pleased him and his students/fellow Kafara villagers very much. He ended his note with an encouraging suggestion that I not be discouraged by the last visit I made to observe their studies (the whole photo-taking fiasco with Mamadou and Dramand), as his students would appreciate my dropping by again.

Kadiatou left for Bamako yesterday to spend the time between now and Tabaski making preparations for the fête. These include, but may not be limited to, finding a fancy outfit (or two) and styling her hair. She also mentioned she’d be visiting Maman, so I took the chance to have my letters delivered, a favor Kadiatou was more than willing to do for me. Maman called me this evening to say she was walking home with Kadiatou, who she’d gone to meet elsewhere. As far as responding to the letters, one in particular which had a bunch of questions, Maman half-jokingly suggested that if she were to acquire a bunch of phone credit, she’d respond to the questions via text message. I asked why, and she went on to say her writing studies were focused exclusively in French. I said there was no problem; I have a basic enough understanding of written French that I could gather the gist of what she wrote. It took a little convincing but I finally persuaded her a letter in French would be a welcome language exercise for me.

Siaka asked me to write him a letter for posterity’s sake, and I must admit I had a lot of fun with his, describing the fun times and atmosphere of his hang-out. I ended with the hope I could create my own place back home with his as an example, and were people to ask me where such an idea came about, I would tell them from none other than Siaka Samaké, my host brother from Kafara, Mali. The best was saved for last, a reproduction of what I guess you call the catch phrase or slogan of Siaka’s “Gin Gin Gèrèn” (owl hangout): An ka taa fò 2hr! (We go until 2am!) As I read this last part aloud, I could barely finish without joining in Siaka’s laughter.

Last night I was surprised with a call from Kadia, the first I’d heard from her since she arrived in Bamako. Her phone had been out of commission, the reason for which I was told by Kadia and my mutual friend Batima to be water got in it somehow. Kadia asked how long I’d been in Kafara, and if that month-long cold I had was finally gone. After asking about several other family members and a short exchange with Siaka, I said what everyone in the room was thinking at that point, suggesting that Kadia’s credit would run out if she didn’t take the chance to say goodbye rather than get cut short. She quickly responded that this wasn’t possible, and I implied if such were the case why she wouldn’t send me some, drawing chuckles from all those listening.

Harvest season seems to be whizzing by this year. Corn and peanuts are finished, giving way to sorghum and millet. I spent the past couple days helping Soumaïla and Daouda with their improved variety plots, gathering data to have prepared for IER’s next visit. Soumaïla and I have been slightly frustrated with the paperwork IER (Institute for Rural Economy) gave us to fill out, as it’s filled with errors. So I drew up my own spreadsheets and hopefully the people from IER will arrive with better version.

17 November 2009

Yesterday afternoon, as he sifted through his reserve stock of millet from last year’s harvest, Soumaïla asked me how many kilos I thought were spread out on the rather large tarp on the ground next to the chair upon which I was sitting. I said I couldn’t really say, as I wasn’t familiar with even how much one-kilo would look like. Soumaïla said it was around 500 kilos (just over 1000 lbs). When I asked how many months this would last, he said around one. After grabbing his calculator, he and I went through a bunch of calculations so I could get a sense of what the rations were like day-to-day, month-to-month, etc. Generally, 16 kilos (35.2 lbs) is consumed daily, so in a 30-day month, that means 480 kilos (1056 lbs). Soumaïla likes to have the goal of 6800 kilos (14960 lbs) for his millet yield each year, because that would allot the monthly demand plus have extra on hand.

19 November 2009

After we finished morning greetings, Soumaïla noticed this morning I had my heavy Carhartt hoody on, hood up in full effect. He asked if this morning’s chilly temperatures were such that American clothes made an appearance. I laughed at his rhetorical observation, and a quick look at his thermometer (it was around 70 degrees) confirmed to me that “cold” season was upon us. There is a notable difference in temperature at night in Kafara nowadays as you head south. A small river cuts through the bush that way, leaving those of us in that part of village with no choice but to move nightly get-togethers inside. For whatever reason, since the nights have cooled off, and the night skies are cloudless, cell phone reception has been excellent. In fact, I had full reception in Siaka’s house a couple nights ago, an unprecedented occasion. I wondered, desperately perhaps, if the purported meteor shower that same night had anything to do with it.

24 November 2009

It’s 3am and I can’t sleep. Call it fête preparation-induced insomnia. Ha, fête preparation. Tabaski, the biggest fête of the year, is this Saturday and I’ve yet to begin putting anything in order. The beginning of cold season here in Mali has taken a brutal toll on my health, which is rather embarrassing. Temperatures dip just below 70 degrees and my body panics, with nightly feverish episodes, another round of sinus headaches, and a deathbed cough. Having begun medication a couple days ago, those first two issues have been settled, but that cough still keeps me paranoid, sneaking up at any opportune moment to keep me short of breath. On other fronts, a trip to the bank in Oueléssébougou last Friday revealed that our month’s allowances had yet to be deposited. I thought it had only been the case, like in previous visits, that money had been deposited but the bank was slow in registering the money to each volunteer’s account. Instead, it seems Washington forgot to mail the checks on time, or rather the worst possible time, a week prior to Islam’s most important holiday. What makes matters even more tragically impossible is that even if the checks were to arrive this week, they’d be deposited during the administrative assistant’s weekly visit to the bank on Thursday, which just happens to be Thanksgiving. All this is keeping me up late tonight, battling questions and frustration as to how I am going to make it a memorable fête without money. This is to be, assumedly, my last Tabaski in Mali, and I had big plans to make it special: Siaka and I were to have matching outfits; a typical late-night meal prepared for my host siblings; surprise Maman (who is spending the fête in Kafara, as I’d hoped) with the ingredients for my favorite meal – chicken, cucumber salad (which we would then share!); extra phone credit to call and exchange the long fête greeting with friends and host-family members in other towns. I text Mamadou Camara the other day to tell him the news, and he reassured me, inshallah, this Friday money will have been deposited in my account. But even if it isn’t, Tabaski will still be enjoyable because we’ll have each other’s company and help each other along to make the most of what we can of the big day.

25 November 2009

I just found an entertaining list I had started when reading Dark Star Safari of ideas, reflections, and observations that I relate to based from my own African experiences.

• “all travel is a lesson in self-preservation”

•

• - Africans seem the most lied-to people on earth – manipulated by their governments, burned by foreign experts, befooled by charities, and cheated at every turn

•

• - African leaders are thieves, evangelists steal people’s innocence, self-serving aid agencies give them false hope

o - Africans try to emigrate, beg, plead, demand money and gifts with a rude, weird sense of entitlement

•

• - the natural order in Africa: frolicking children, laboring women, idle men

•

• “Swahili” = journey

•

• - Africa is one of the last great places on earth a person can vanish into

•

• “A morbid experience of my departure for Africa was that people began offering condolences. Say you’re leaving for a dangerous place. Your friends call sympathetically, as though you’ve caught a serious illness that might prove fatal. Yet I found these messages unexpectedly stimulating, a heartening preview of what my own demise what be like. Lots of tears! Lots of mourners! But also, undoubtedly, many people boasting solemnly, “ I told him not to do it. I was one of the last people to talk to him.” ”

•

• - welcoming foreigners with a mixture of banter, hearty browbeating, teasing humor, effusiveness, and insincere familiarity

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• - a thin line between pestering and hospitality

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• inshallah = “God willing”, “we hope”, “don’t count on it”

•

• - travelers’ invention: I saw it, you didn’t, therefore I am

• licensed to exaggerate

As I got up from eating a bit of lunch at Fodé’s concession, Fatoumata asked me (rhetorically/culturally) if I wouldn’t eat more. I said I was full, and then heard Laji (Maman’s youngest sibling, probably 2 years old) ask me the same question. Fatoumata and I laughed while a friend of Fodé asked Laji whether he knew who I was. Laji said he did, but when he was asked my name, his response was Toubabou (white person).

26 November 2009

Up early this Thanksgiving, in anticipation for the end of these past several weeks of waiting. Last night, I confirmed with Mamadou Camara if he indeed would be arriving today, and before he could answer I told him not to say peut-être, and we both laughed remembering the Paris joke. He instead proposed inshallah, and ended our chat with k’an bèn sini, ou bien? (see you tomorrow, right?)

26 October 2009

I spent Saturday night at my PCV friend Peter’s apartment in the Hamdalaye ACI-2000 cartier of Bamako. He was nice enough to let me stay there even though he’s not around this week. I should’ve enjoyed a good night’s rest on a comfortable mattress under the cool air circulation of a ceiling fan, but after just lying there until 3am, I decided to give up and put on one of the DVDs I saw on Peter’s desk. The Big Lebowski did well to lighten my mood, and after washing up I put on another flick (Donnie Brasco) while I waited for the grocery store around the corner to open so I could buy some breakfast.

I got to Daoudabougou just in time to watch Liverpool play Manchester United next door to where Mamadou Camara works repairing cell phones. A huge crowd of Malians and I enjoyed an excellent match. Despite being fouled repeatedly and playing with a not fully recovered nagging thigh injury, Fernando Torres (my favorite player in the world) scored the first of Liverpool’s two goals midway through the second half. Being a Liverpool supporter has been rather unpleasant so far this season, in both the Premier League (England) and Champions League (Europe). Too often they are without one of the their two best players (Steven Gerrard and Torres), and drive fans like me crazy when they defeat formidable clubs like United but then lose to teams at the bottom of the table. But after yesterday’s victory, Liverpool has repositioned them into the race for first place in the Premier League standings. I hope they can carry some of the momentum from this victory into next week’s Champions League match, because FC Lyon (a French club) is running away with their group.

29 October 2009

Tuesday was a nerve-wracking ordeal. Mamadou and I saw each other briefly in the morning before he head off early. A friend of his who had been in prison for two years finally would be tried that day. Yes, you read correctly. I would wait for him at his workplace and hope the only other obligation we had that day wouldn’t fall through. We’d organized an afternoon visit with Maman in nearby Sabalibougou at 16hr, but when Mamadou text me around noon saying one person hadn’t yet finished and two more people were in front of his friend, I asked him whether we’d have to postpone our other plan. To my relief, he said we’d go through with our visit with Maman even if his friend’s hearing hadn’t begun yet. It had been like pulling teeth to set up this meeting, and the thought of having to do it all again was unappealing. Mamadou and I met two of Maman’s school friends and together they walked us to a concession where Maman was brewing tea a short walk from the road. They enjoyed my sarcasm, which I now apply in healthy doses to my Bambara when chatting with friends, and I enjoyed making them laugh, as it made me less nervous about the new setting. After we sat for around an hour or so, or a couple rounds of tea, as time could be measured in Mali, Mamadou told Maman we had to get going, as I had to get to Niarela (I was spending the night there) and he would return to the courthouse (his friend was finally tried and that night Mamadou text me to say he’d been released).

The stress of finding a hotel room at Le Campagnard got to the point months ago that I’d rather never stay there again, instead opting for Mamadou’s company. It was no different this go around. The first room they told me to stay in had three people in it, plus the door was locked. I was given a key to another room only to see that I clearly would be playing third wheel, but luckily it wasn’t as awkward as I initially thought it would be. I’m glad PC folks are generally laid back about this type of stuff, plus I had already given the hotel voucher (stupid, check the room first next time!). I hung out in the bar with a host of volunteers from all over. Guinea, Senegal, and the Gambia were all on hand. The Gambia volunteers I sat next to had bought 13 different brands of Malian (Chinese) green tea to bring back to their villages, an idea I found very original and cool. The Senegal volunteer across from me knew a friend of mine who volunteered there a couple years ago I worked with at Trader Joe’s back in the day. We had very entertaining conversation about the Gambia’s and Libya’s presidents, two similarly flamboyant and controversial figures, and they did their best to convince me to attend WAIST (West African International Softball Tournament) next year, swapping hilarious stories from this past February’s edition. Ex-pats and PCV’s from all over West Africa gather in Dakar, Senegal for the three-day bash every February, and I was told it’d be a shame not to take the opportunity to attend since it’s just a bus ride away. So I’ve marked February 13-15 on my mental calendar for my next vacation.

Yesterday, I attended an open house at ICRISAT (International Crops Research Institute for the Semi-Arid Tropics) with my supervisor Yacouba Koné. ICRISAT has locations across Africa in Mali, Niger, Kenya, Zimbabwe and Malawi. ICRISAT-Mali initiated their activities with the collaboration of the Institute of Rural Economy (IER) in 1976. In 1988, the government of Mali reinforced relations with ICRISAT through the donation of 124 hectares in the town of Samanko to establish a regional center of research. The activities undertaken at the center in partnership with national programs work to find solutions to the problems affecting farmers in the semi-arid zone of West Africa. The daylong open house not only showcased the work of ICRISAT but several of their partners: the World Agroforestry Center (ICRAF), The World Vegetable Center, and the International Livestock Research Institute. Visitors to the open house were divided into 5 groups. Yacouba and I, along with another Environment PCV from the town of Sibi, were in Group 1, or the green group. Our guide, Adama (whose outfit was so perfect – a traditional Peuhl hat, work clothes, and rubber boots), took us to 7 different stops set up about the grounds where various agricultural research activities were undertaken by the institute, with the help of their partners. Dr. Kirsten vom Brocke had a demonstration of sorghum sugar extraction, complete with a sample of sorghum honey and bread (my breakfast)! Oujdoumou Samanké of ICRAF showed us an orchard of moringa trees, which have an innumerable amount of medicinal properties. Yacouba asked me if I remembered the last time I’d seen this orchard, as it looked very different this time around. ICRISAT’s Samanko campus is literally next door to Toubani So, and during sector training, we environment volunteers visited the place several times. During in-service training, we saw this orchard when it was full of tall trees and barely passable. Now all the trees had been pruned to small little bushes! Dr. Tom van Mourik had a test plot of striga-ingested sorghum. Striga is a parasitic plant that destroys many fields of sorghum, attacking the plant through its root system. The effects of the striga are not seen until the next harvest season, when the soil’s nutrients have been completely depleted. Dr. Mourik’s test plot had several varieties ICRISAT is testing to see if they can develop a striga-resistant string that can be distributed to farmers where the plant is rampant. Next was an area with several varieties of peanuts, explained by Dr. Bonny Ntaré. We took a short bus ride across the road to the far north end of ICRISAT’s grounds where Ibrahima Sissoko showed us soybean varieties, and lastly Dr. Eva Weitzen and Willmar Leiser had two adjacent plots of sorghum, one with applied phosphorus fertilizer and the other without (I’ll let you guess which one looked better – think about the properties of compost). It was very interesting and fun to walk around the grounds and see what ICRISAT and friends were up to (I took photos at each display, only to discover later looking through them that a smudge I hadn’t noticed on the lens ruined them…), plus once the tour was over and all the groups assembled back under the shady area next to the parking lot, I ran into Bara Kassambara, the Malian representative for Winrock International who with David Pearce helped establish a cooperative in Kafara back in July. After the initial surprise of seeing each other after several months, he asked me over complimentary Coca-Cola’s how things were going and said to expect him in Kafara sometime in early November to check up on the cooperative’s progress. He then went on with his purchase of several Sahel Apple trees.

30 October 2009

When Mamadou and I got out of the taxi in Sabalibougou Tuesday on our way to visit Maman, I uttered an exclamatory remark in Bambara (yes, I know a couple of those, but nothing I couldn’t say in front of children) upon realizing I’d forgotten the letter back in Daoudabougou I’d written in Bambara to give Maman. Yesterday Mamadou and I went through the agonizing ordeal of coordinating another brief meeting with Maman so I could give her the letter rather than wait until Tabaski November 28th. The plan we put in place Wednesday night was to meet at the Olympic Hotel at 16hr. But yesterday morning, Maman called to say that wouldn’t work, and I convinced her not to put it off until next month. Together we came up with a workable solution where she and her friend Batima would come meet Mamadou and me in Daoudabougou around selifana (14hr). They sat briefly with us at Mamadou’s workplace, and together we walked to Mamadou’s concession and brewed a couple sachets of tea. Maman got her letter and I surprised her with a sandwich from one of the Vietnamese stands scattered about Bamako. Mamadou took several photos before our two guests head back home. The visit went very well, and both of us were pleased at its successful coordination. It came to light that Maman had been hesitant to meet at 16hr because she wanted to be back at her house before her older brother arrived at 17hr with questions as to where she’d been. This was only part of the headache just getting together with girl friends can be in Mali. There are so many social norms and restrictions I am not used to but must observe as a visitor in Mali. For example, now that Kadia is married, it’s not up to her whether I can come visit, even though I am fairly certain it is her wish. With the help of Mamadou, we’re always making sure to evaluate my interactions with my girl friends, so as to avoid miscommunications and misunderstandings, as well as strict husbands, fathers or older brothers, but also to uphold my reputation in village as a respectful guest, a report I’ve worked too hard on the past 16 months to risk losing.

2 November 2009

Mamadou, his schoolmate Adaman Diarra, and I spent Halloween morning checking out a couple hotels for my mom the first couple of days she’s in Bamako. As fate would have it, there are two hotels within walking distance of Mamadou’s place in Daoudabougou and both are very suitable candidates for accommodating my mom’s needs. Adaman and Mamadou asked in French each hotel’s staff about room rates, and we took notes (mine mental, Mamadou’s on his cell phone, and Adaman’s on a scratch piece of paper) so I could send Mom the specifics in an email later that afternoon.

A vivid memory I have from Halloween occurred as Mamadou and I walked along the busy main road the cuts through Daoudabougou’s market area. The scene unfolded appropriately enough, a bunch of fruit piled amongst dry grass, something I am used to seeing this time of year back home. But the big difference that surprised me was the type of fruit, as my eyes expected to see pumpkins but instead were met with watermelons. Loads of watermelons. Without explaining this entire pretext to Mamadou, I told him I wished my camera were available. He asked why, and I pointed to all the watermelons. I think he understood why I thought the sight made for a suitable photo, but for different reasons perhaps than its reminder for me of late October in America.

Last night, Mamadou and I prepared our dinner since the woman who normally does this in his concession for us hadn’t returned home yet and it was after 20hr. Mamadou diced up the cucumber and tomato, and I added the oil, vinegar, and seasoning, finally mixing all these ingredients together with my hands and a couple shakes. The whole affair was a riot; we took turns holding my cell phone’s flashlight for the other to be able to see what we were doing, and many photos were taken during the entire process, including a hilarious picture of the two chefs with the prepared meal taken by Alou, Mamadou’s younger brother. After we began eating, several bites in Mamadou broke the silence with an affirmation that we hadn’t done so badly. I agreed, saying the preparation of the meal had been fairly simple and straightforward, yet I was happy with our first try at making it ourselves, especially given the lack of a sharp knife, mixing utensils, and a light. But by far, the best part of it all was the pictures, which had us all in laughing fits. When Mamadou’s friends Bocar and Baba arrived later, the laughter returned, especially when Baba saw a photo of Mamadou peeling cucumber and said, “Ça c’est le grand cuisinier!”

4 November 2009

Two nights ago, I enjoyed the company of Mamadou’s Daoudabougou friends, who are like uncle figures to us twenty-year olds. Bocar Doumbia and Baba Coulibaly join us outside Mamadou’s concession each night for entertaining conversation and tea brewing. Monday night a third member joined us, their friend Bakary Coulibaly, whose trial had been the week before. I had met Bakary for the first time earlier that afternoon at Mamadou’s workplace, and the first thing he said that night when he sat down next to me was that I brewed an excellent first round of tea (I had prepared the tea that workday). For someone who spent two years in prison without having been properly processed, Bakary approached the whole situation with a good-humored disposition. His accounts of prison life had us all in hysterical fits of laughter. He jokingly told me when I wrote about meeting him to remember to make sure to say he thought Malian prison is bad, a bland statement we both found very funny. Mamadou took a couple photos of Bakary and me since the next day he would head to his home village.

Baba and I have, well I guess you could say it’s a special relationship, akin to a running inside joke. Since he’s a Coulibaly, I am constantly reminded that as a Samaké I am obliged to pay him the utmost respect, because I am his child (joking cousins tradition). So, for example, each time he arrives to greet me I must stand up when shaking his hand. Last night, as Mamadou walked home from Bocar’s house after watching a Champions League match between AC Milan and Real Madrid, Baba passed us on his moto. I was on the phone up until he revved the engine to continue on his way, before I could properly greet and apologize for the untimely call. Later, after Mamadou and I prepared yet another excellent dinner of cucumber and tomato salad, I sat outside the concession next to Bocar, Mamadou, and Baba, as usual. After a few minutes, Baba told me to get up and have a couple words with him. He asked rhetorically whether I was a good person, to which I wondered aloud what occurred for him to pose this question. Since he had passed us on his moto up until that moment, he said, I had yet to greet him properly. Perplexed, I insisted that I had greeted the group of people seated there as I sat down, looking at Bocar for reassurance. The woman next to him defended me, saying she heard me greet. Baba disagreed, saying this couldn’t be so as he hadn’t heard me say anything. He told me An ka nyògòn bonya (let’s respect one another), another inside joke Mamadou and his friends have with me ever since I told Mamadou this when he was giving me a hard time about something during a previous Bamako trip. None of us can hear or utter this phrase again without laughing at this memory.

Memorial observances for a famous Malian singer were the subject of much conversation the past several days here in Bamako. Arimata Diakité, only 38, died last week as a result of an illness, the type of which I’ve yet to learn. She had recently married a man from Burkina Faso, her second marriage, the first to a guard of Mali’s President, Amadou Amani Touré. Word of her passing came as a tragic surprise to many of her fans, a reaction unexpected deaths of famous young celebrities tend to cause. Her funeral observances were nationally televised, and if Mali had anything akin to viewer ratings, I’m sure the readings of this event would have eclipsed perhaps even the national soccer match’s.

Mamadou and I, per my mom’s request, dropped by the Hotel Triton yesterday to reserve a place for her when she arrives December 15th. They said there should be no problem, and to come by the 14th or the morning of the 15th so they could prepare the room. It was relieving to set that all up more than a month in advance, but I’m careful not to relax too much with plans like this, because this is Mali after all. We’ll see how it all goes down when we check up again with the hotel staff a couple days before my mom’s arrival. Inshallah, things will fall into place like they eventually always do. The spontaneity of day-to-day life in Mali keeps things interesting but can be downright exhausting sometimes.

5 November 2009

The latest in a series of emails back and forth between Mom and me revealed an entertaining mistake. I was under the impression she’d be arriving in Mali the 15th of December, but that is the day she’s leaving the States. It’s the night of the 16th that she actually touches down in Bamako. As Mamadou and I had told the Hotel Triton staff the day before she’d be arriving the 15th, my Mom wanted to be sure that it wouldn’t ruffle the hotel’s feathers to say she’d not be there until the 16th. I had fun responding to this concern, because as plans go in Mali, from my experience, I’d be very surprised if the hotel staff even remembers Mamadou and my visit when we check back in with them a month from now. The fact the day changed may completely slip their mind! I’m glad I now know which day to expect her, because coordinating a rendezvous at the airport would depend on knowing this. It had been Mom’s original wish that Kadia come with Mamadou and me to receive her at the airport, but unfortunately unexpected marriages will postpone her and Kadia’s first meeting until Mamadou and I can arrange such a get-together at Kadia’s husband’s concession. Inshallah, Maman will be able to go in Kadia’s stead, but for right now, that’s a very big inshallah.

Today I hesitantly head back to Kafara. I say hesitantly, well, because Kafara is not the place it once was for me. Usually my feelings about going home are very much the opposite; I’m so tired of Bamako I can’t wait to leave! It’s different now though, as Kafara this time of year is a lonely place. Concessions are empty during the day, as children are at school and everyone else is in the fields. I’m not looking forward to continued awkwardness with host family members as a result of Kadia’s absence. My closest friends are in Bamako working, studying, or being wives. I will be anxiously awaiting their arrival for Tabaski the 28th, and until then be engaged in a rigorous test of mental stamina. I’m glad I have a couple work-related matters to attend to, which will do well to keep my focus on why I am here, a question that emerges during lonely times in village. Plus, all too soon I will be enjoying the biggest fête of the year followed by what I’m expecting to be a very memorable time when my mom visits me in Mali.

5 Octobre 2009 – The Day’s Passing Thoughts

I notice looking upon my shadow this morning, dead papaya tree branches in one hand and brushing my teeth with the other, that a more perfect photo opportunity is hard to find.

I arrived at Kaba(la), the huge granite formation, to find reception. I’ve done this countless times the past year and never seen anyone else take advantage of this area’s cell reception. But today, I saw the moto of Kafara’s doctor parked where I usually leave my bicycle, and his silhouette could be seen scaling the rock. Feeling that awkward twitch one has upon seeing someone they just passed along the road (he passed me no more than 5 minutes before), I took the long route along the perimeter of the formation’s base to the northwestern face. The doctor and PCV from Kafara made their phone calls from this remote location today, and I snuck away while I heard different medical jargon (in Bambara) coming from the rock’s summit.

I decided to bike to Kaba(la) at both afternoon prayer times. Perhaps it’s my subconscious mosque. I sat on top of the rock and enjoyed the approaching storm’s heavy winds. As I descended the formation and begin biking home, the second big gust of wind confirmed my worry that I’d waited too long enjoying the view from atop my cell phone “cabin”. I hurried to the cover of a mango tree, but it did little to keep me dry from the heavy sheets of rain. Didn’t I learn in grade school not to stand underneath trees during an electric storm?

It’s that time of year again. Lots of frogs at night, always threatening to enter my house. I got over this issue months ago, because really, what can I do? I sometimes wonder whether it really makes sense to respect their space as opposed to as little they do my own. If a frog and I switched size as related to the other, I’m fairly certain I just became lunch.

Despite our having known each other a couple of months, Maman and I already have a running inside (tragic) joke. She has prepared my favorite Malian meal (tomato/cucumber/onion salad) several times arbitrarily as a surprise were I to come visit. I usually find out during my next visit what I had missed (again) and we can only shake our heads and laugh. Perhaps making the joke even better is the one time I arrived as Maman was preparing both cucumber salad and fried eggs, because having eaten what she had been preparing before made it that much worse to miss the next time. The latest blunder in coordination came last night, when my phone woke me up from an early night’s rest. It was Maman calling to say she had the typical spread prepared waiting for me, and again I hadn’t shown up yet. Of course, I thought, because there was no way I could make it there that night – I’d been so sick all day I hadn’t even made it outside my concession.

9 Octobre 2009

I remember a time where day-to-day life seemed to crawl at an unbearable pace, with seemingly nothing going on to pass the hours. As you will notice reading about the past several days here in Kafara, those days are long gone. My head is still spinning and struggling to come to grips with heavy arsenal of events I’ve confronted of late.

(6 Octobre 2009)

I made two bike trips into town yesterday that saw me returning on foot holding toddlers of host family members. On my way back from Kaba(la), as I passed the schoolhouse on one side of the road and the maternity on the other, Fatou flagged me down and asked me to take Kumba home. After struggling to walk my bike with one free hand and hold a 1 year old with the other, I eventually left my bike leaning against a mango tree to come back to once Kumba had been dropped off at home.

Later I biked to Batima’s house to give her phone back. Little Mohamed Lucas Samaké had been at a neighboring concession and again I left my bike behind to walk home baby in hand. I already like my namesake. He made absolutely no fuss the entire walk home, quietly taking in the scenery with an intense staring glance. Batima arrived later with my bike.

Kadia and I walked to Maman’s concession just as a storm began getting to the point where people were running inside for cover. Winds were so strong I barely escaped the beating of swaying cereal crop stocks upon reaching the concession’s entrance. I was told to get inside urgently, something I’m still hesitant about with Malians, only out of respect for their privacy. My host mother’s younger sister, Kadiatou, and Maman’s mother, Fatoumata, were chatting as Maman got dressed in the other room having just finished bathing. Kadiatou, after several small conversations, was so impressed by improvements in my Bambara since the last time she saw me (several months) that she became shy, something she certainly isn’t normally. It was fun to make her laugh, poking fun at anything I could that she said. She facetiously asked if I had drunk breast milk when I visited my mom in Paris. I shot her a surprised look and said I did no such thing, asking her directly if she did so the day she arrived at her mother’s concession in Kafara. Without missing a beat, she said of course, that’s what children do when they see their mothers. I asked how it was and she said it pleased her very much. We both laughed at this point and I could only remark, “Ah, bon,” the equivalent I suppose of having just learned something new and saying, “Well,” before drifting off into thoughts of how I hadn’t happened upon such a conclusion myself.

After waiting out the downpour, Maman and I walked next door along the now mud-ridden and rain soaked paths to Dr. Dicko’s house to greet a Spaniard who’s back in town to continue a photojournalism assignment of first pregnancies in several different countries (Mali, India, Bolivia, USA, and Spain). José was here last in July and we caught up briefly while looking through his photos, one of which he gave me as a surprise gift. Having searched me on Google, he happened upon an article I recently submitted to an online news page, so I gave him my blog address so he could read about all the rest of my reflections and experiences. Dr. Dicko put on a film and together with Maman and another of Kafara’s doctors, I sat, drank tea, ate corn on the cob, and enjoyed their company until 12:30am. José is here until Friday and I’m glad I learned he was here the day he arrived this time as opposed to the day he was leaving. In fact, the pharmacist and doctor visited Soumaïla’s concession this afternoon to let me know José had arrived and wished to see me.

Before he put on the film, I couldn’t help myself but to look over Dr. Dicko’s shoulder as he worked on several write-ups in French for the four projects the Spanish NGO MZC has undertaken in Kafara. He’s MZC’s representative in country and visits Kafara periodically to check up on how the various projects are progressing.

(7 Octobre 2009)

It’s not that I wasn’t expecting this day to come, yet I wish it hadn’t snuck up on me so abruptly. A week from tomorrow, Kadia is getting married. Soumaïla told me this morning that Kadia would be leaving soon, but when I asked whether is was to study in Bamako he added that she would be returning for the marriage next week. “Kadia’s getting married?” I confirmed, almost not believing I was uttering such words. Soumaïla said the wedding preparations had all but been implemented ever since I had been on vacation in Paris. Somehow until now, I was completely none the wiser to this news. Slightly embarrassed, Soumaïla apologized for forgetting to let me know when I arrived, but I said he had no reason to be ashamed. It’s a busy time of year and he has many things to look after. Besides, with a host family as large as I have, it was completely possible for me to have learned such information from a number of other sources, which added to my surprise at having not heard the slightest hint from anyone. I suppose everyone assumed I knew. Even Maman! As I told her this evening how I came to find out so late, I noticed partway through my story that she was giving me a look, this slightly breaking smile, and I knew she had only been listening to old news to be polite. I jokingly said that I must have been the only person in Kafara who didn’t know about this, and we both laughed.

Kadia blew open a huge can of worms for me to mull over past experiences I’ve had in Kafara. Dramand, as I’d picked up on even from our first interactions, is a generally unpleasant and cold person. This stems mainly from his linear heritage in village. His father is the village chief (dugutigi), and as Dramand is the oldest male offspring, he officially handles a lot of Kafara’s affairs. This command he holds is ironically tenuous – once his father dies and another dugutigi is chosen, Dramand will have no such oversight. But for the time being, as witnessed during Mamadou and my visit to class in Kafara (a project he isn’t the director of and had no business telling us what we could or couldn’t do, specifically photo-taking), he can wield this fragile authority at will and no one stands up to him. His social standing in community is just as feeble. He is disrespectful to anyone not from Kafara, disapproves of outsiders working with anyone of these community members, and does his best to eliminate their participation in community events. Take my homologue/host father Soumaïla for example. Soumaïla is from Denfara originally, so he’s already on Dramand’s bad side. Soumaïla supports a different political party than Dramand. Programme Sorgho chose to work with Soumaïla, and it goes on. Dramand’s grudge against Soumaïla runs so deep he saw to it that of the villagers chosen to teach Bambara studies for this latest project in Kafara, Soumaïla wouldn’t be selected. During the last election, Dramand bullied Soumaïla’s party affiliation at the voting booth to the point Soumaïla abstained from casting a ballot altogether.

While this is all rather discouraging, I’m glad there’s a consensus here in Kafara, although it’s silent and passive-aggressive, against personalities like Dramand. When another dugutigi comes around, Dramand will find himself very lonely on an island surrounded by burnt bridges.

(8 Octobre 2009)

I always enjoy the feeling I have whenever a Malian comments on an observation I’ve made about their culture. The most recent occurrence of this I can recall was during a taxi ride to Daoudabougou in Bamako my last trip. As the driver and I made small talk, the typical moment of this interaction I have over and over is when just my ability to talk with them brightens their mood. This driver then said something that definitely couldn’t be more characteristic of my time spent with Malians – how much they enjoy the conversation of strangers.

I reflected on reasons for this briefly, and it’s simple really. The hospitality of Malians makes these interactions possible, and their curiosity of outsiders is very genuine. Many Malians have never been to another part of Mali from where they grew up or live, let alone another country. Their enthusiasm upon realizing I can speak and understand Bambara makes these conversations all the more special for them.

A dance was at hand tonight due to a wedding here in town, and Siaka and I arrived to check it out after brewing three rounds of Jolly Sun Sri Lankan tea, which I prefer to the Chinese green tea Malians drink exclusively. I passed Maman on the main road, and the two of us stood at the entrance to the concession filled with people waiting for the DJs to put on more music. To my pleasant surprise and relief, it was her first who decided the atmosphere to be such that she’d rather just return home. Even she was uncomfortable by the stares we were receiving from the various Malians, trying to make sense of the one white person in the crowd. Later, she added humorously, the general odor of the area was enough to make one run the other direction (a combination of dancer’s sweating and a neighboring corral of donkeys and cows). It’s funny, I love music and I enjoy dancing, but I am not big on dances. Perhaps this is just due to my distaste for big crowds and that I am a shy person, who knows? We walked back to her house, and as I sat down she placed out a portion of that night’s meal she’d prepared for Dr. Dicko and his Spanish guest – chicken and dumplings. In a rare moment of uncharacteristic behavior, I ate slowly, enjoying yet another delicious culinary creation from the most unlikely of kitchens. How Maman cooks such delicious food using simple, rudimentary techniques and equipment, all over a fire just boggles my mind. If she were to have the opportunity to let loose her talent and imagination with modern technology, just thinking of the parameters of what she could achieve make my mouth water. While I ate, I asked Maman who taught her how to cook. She hesitantly asked why, maybe worrying I didn’t like the food, but I insisted it was superb, adding she was one of the best cooks I’d ever met anywhere. Taken aback by my praise and compliments, she bashfully squirmed in her seat and didn’t immediately answer my inquiry. I asked again, this time posing the question as if to suggest there were no teacher. It became apparent that while she, like myself, may enjoy hearing these comments, her shy demeanor doesn’t allow for the applauder to go on too long. She said her mother taught her and I stopped my poking fun at our similar personality quirk after adding one last time that the food was excellent.

9 Octobre 2009

Siaka rebuilt his gwa canopy, and we brewed a round of Al-Jawal Sri-Lankan tea while I typed up the past several days’ events. The atmosphere was particularly aided by the sounds of Malian jazz and Memphis blues tunes, which Siaka very much enjoyed. My younger host siblings gathered around the laptop to see what I was up to, and Siaka snapped several photos.

The rest of the afternoon I spent at the imam’s concession, the site of a wedding gathering. The imam, Mamadou Samaké, is the father of my younger host mother, Muyama. One of his sons, Salifou, was the groom. Muyama’s younger sister, Kadiatou, is very much an aunt-like figure and I enjoy her company for this reason. I took photos of her two young daughters, and together with her three girlfriends, we went to the concession where many of the village’s married women were singing and dancing to honor the new wife. Kadiatou had a couple photos taken with the bride and friends before I accompanied her in a walk about several concessions to introduce her friends to people in Kafara. It became clear that her reputation in village was of high standing, her father’s status partially responsible, but her personality couldn’t hurt. She has a tireless energy about her, and is always locked and loaded with teasing words for whomever. It was fun to see someone not afraid to give Soumaïla a hard time, a type of interaction with my homologue I had yet to see. In a very sister-in-law moment, she disarmed Soumaïla in a bear hug and told me to run and get my camera to take a photo of him, referring to my host father as an old man, in his ratty and torn work clothes. Upon hearing these words, I admired her fearlessness and bold confidence. Clearly, her joking words knew no boundaries. Several Kafara community members, noticing I’d been spending the past several days in Kadiatou’s company, all offered a variety of commentary as to how this pleased them, would exhaust me, or (jokingly) corrupt me.

I wish the circumstances surrounding my visit to Maman’s house last night couldn’t have been so bittersweet. She prepared another excellent late meal, a tomato/onion omelet with beans and cucumber topped with a little mayonnaise. Sounds weird, I know, but mixing that all together made for a delicious treat. I should’ve enjoyed the moment with my good friend, but I couldn’t stop thinking about how all too soon she, like Kadia, would be gone in Bamako for an undetermined amount of time, anywhere from a month to early next year. Maman asked why I was so quiet, if something was wrong or I wasn’t feeling well. I told her I was tired, and felt badly when she said my silence was making her uneasy. It became apparent that my cold was acting up, and I kept nodding off while we watched a concert of various Malian artists on TV. Ever the accommodating host, despite my distantness and almost absent presence, Maman would repeatedly offer me a more comfortable seat or if I needed anything. As we walked back to Siaka’s house, Maman said it would perhaps be three months or so before she would return to Kafara. I said that was too long, and in jest told her to propose a better figure, borrowing a phrase in Bambara generally used when bargaining with a merchant. I reminded her of Tabaski next month, the biggest fête of the year, a no more reasonable opportunity for a short visit. She said peut-être, and I revised her answer to absolument before telling her the funny story from Paris about peut-être, mostly to lighten my mood. We sat at Siaka’s and when Maman told him that I had been very quiet during my visit, Siaka knowingly said that it was possible something was bothering me left unsaid. After another round of Al-Jawal tea was served, we walked Maman partway home and she added to our goodnight greetings a blessing that my cold go away completely.

10 Octobre 2009

The amount of preparation Maman put into our visit for the last night she was in Kafara was akin to that I witnessed when Mamadou and I went to Djenèbou’s relative’s house in Bamako. Siaka and I arrived around 21:30pm, and soon Maman and her friend Kadiatou began preparing fried plantains and a tomato/onion omelet. Kadiatou brewed Jolly Sun tea and Vivalait café flavored milk. After enjoying this meal, we were treated to sodas from one of MZC’s garden technicians, a Malian whose is referred to by his last name, Diallo, who also provided us with all this food and the venue, the canopy outside the house Dr. Dicko and he stay in during visits to Kafara. Siaka and I enjoyed the pleasant company of these folks, along with Maman’s younger brother, Vieux Ba, until 1am, when the six of us walked back towards Siaka’s house. Around the spot where we pass the mosque, Siaka said they could let us two break off there, and the four hosts each took turns shaking my hand to say “good night”.

11 Octobre 2009

While members of Kafara’s Producer’s Co-Op Benso voted new bureau positions, I went to Maman’s house to wish her off to Bamako. As it was around noon, lunch was served and, as is customary, I moved from where I was seated next to Maman’s mother, Fatoumata, and ate with the men across the concession while the women all ate at the place from where I moved myself next to Fatoumata’s house. After I was full, I moved back to sit with Maman for a short bit before she got dressed and loaded her things onto a moto in preparation to set off towards the highway, where she would catch public transport to Bamako. She seemed in good spirits up until this point, but after a short chat with her father, Dr. Comagara, as she walked over to where her mother and friends (Kadiatou and me) were sitting to say good-bye’s, her eyes began to well. This was hard to me to watch for several reasons: it was only the second time I’ve seen a Malian cry, I never like to see anyone cry, and I would hate to be part of the reason anyone cries. Later at night, Maman called me to say she’d arrived OK. I told her not to cry because it made me upset all day, and soon we were both laughing again, an emotion I’d much rather bring to someone’s face.

14 Octobre 2009

I spent most of the afternoon yesterday at the imam’s concession with Kadiatou and her family members, enjoying ourselves until she rode off with her brother-in-law back to her village, Monibala, around selifana (14hr prayer time). I will miss her joking and entertaining company.

Soumaïla was supposed to arrive from Bamako this morning with Kadia, but it’s now past noon and no sign of either of them yet. I brewed three rounds of Jolly Sun Sri Lankan tea under Siaka’s gwa for host family members, and greeted several visitors from Mana, the village Kadia’s fiancée is from, who sat briefly at Soumaïla’s mother’s concession before they all went to Digan for wedding preparations, I’m assuming (that’s where Kadia’s grandmother lives).

Siaka is en route to Donkorona with his older sister Djenèbou. He said he’d be back around 14hr, but ever since he went on a trip to another village earlier this week, promising to be back around 15hr, when dusk came and he still hadn’t arrived, I’ve given him a hard time about his proposed itineraries ever since.

I biked to Kaba(la) yesterday in the late afternoon and just enjoyed the spot for a bit before hitting my PCV friend Mike up for an Orange credit exchange. After sending me 2000 FCFA, he made sure that would be enough, and surprised at his suggestion, told him merci beaucoup, but I had just wanted to be able to place a call to a friend in Bamako and credit is hard to come by in remote Malian bush villages.

18 Octobre 2009

Yesterday morning, I was sitting under the shade of Siaka’s gwa when Mamadou Camara’s younger sister Batima stopped by to ask me to come sit with her family while they gathered peanuts. I brewed tea and chatted with them until around noon. Abou, Mamadou’s older brother, teased me about not visiting them much since Mamadou left for Bamako last month. His mother seems to think I only visit them whenever he’s in town, which kind of makes sense. Back home, if my friend isn’t home I don’t drop in to hang out with their parents and siblings. I also added I’d been sick and not going much any place these days. But Abou told me it was better to stop by and greet periodically, as I live close by and they enjoy my company. They planted their peanuts after the first rains in June which explains why their harvest precedes much of Kafara’s other villagers, who await another rainfall to begin pulling the first peanut plants of this harvest season. Before I went home for lunch, Abou made sure I left with a plastic bagful.

In the afternoon around Lansara (16hr prayer) I biked to Kaba to text Maman. I translated the phrase É nianafin bè ne la, a common phrase exchanged between friends in different places, into English (I miss you) for her to learn. I made sure to approach slowly the water hole I pass on my climb across the granite formation in hopes of discovering whatever it is I keep hearing enter the water before I see it. This time, I was lucky. That is the fastest moving turtle I’ve ever seen.

I sat with Abou again before dusk briefly and together we wondered at the frequency rain-filled storm clouds surround Kafara but never pass over us, as was the case yesterday evening. He said in class they were given an assignment to complete Monday: a letter written in Bambara. Excited to hear this, I quickly biked home to write my own and turn in, as it would be great language practice for me and a fun way to participate in this community activity.

Last night, a good rain fell and today many Kafara villagers took the opportunity to begin harvesting peanuts. If you had spent the day at the voting booth, like my homologue Soumaïla, you would’ve known this very well. He told me he saw three people pass through his bureau all day! Talk about a commentary on priorities. Harvest peanuts, or vote? The position up for election was not too influential, assumedly, but I still questioned the lack of turnout. Soumaïla assured me is was because people were farming, but after I asked the candidate’s party affiliation, he explained that since a SADI representative wasn’t among the voter’s choices, many Kafara villagers would abstain.

The rain provided me a good excuse to get some extra rest. I woke up early last night perhaps due to a stoppage in the rain but also because my phone beeped, the first instance of reception I’d seen in Kafara the past three days. It was a text message from Maman, and to my delight it incorporated the new English phrase I’d introduced to her, along with a humble justification that I knew she couldn’t speak English. I found it very amusing that she blended Bambara and English in her text, much like my PCV friends do with each other. She wrote, “I miss you koosèbè,” adding a second “o” in “kosèbè" for emphasis. “Kosèbè” can be understood as “very much” or “a lot.”

Yesterday as I texted the PCMO from Kaba, I wondered about a call I’d received from an unknown number. I called that number this morning to learn it was Kadia! She has a new phone – the one I gifted her was stolen from Siaka’s house. Inshallah, she said, tomorrow she’ll come to Kafara in preparation for leaving Thursday to her new residence in Bamako as the second wife to her husband, originally from the village of Mana, between Kafara and Oueléssébougou (the wedding formalities happened while I was in Paris).

19 Octobre 2009

After lunch yesterday, it was brought to my attention that a trip to Digan’s market was in order to buy this week’s portion of sauce ingredients. Normally, I would make this trip with Kadia, but since she’s been gone of late, I actually haven’t been frequenting Digan on Sundays like I used to. In fact, the past seven weeks I’ve only gone twice, although a couple of those days I was either in Bamako or Paris. Since I am not familiar with the quantity and names of the sauce items I needed to give Soumaïla’s younger wife, who now with the help of Setou and Koniba cooks my meals in Kadia’s absence, she had one of her young daughters, Awa, accompany me to market. Here I am, twenty-four years old, and I have an eight-year old helping me shop? Only in Mali. Anyhow, I was glad to allow Awa fitini, as she’s referred to (there are two Awa’s in Soumaïla’s assembly of children, she is the “little” one), the opportunity to ride behind me on my bike. I’d rather go anywhere in Mali these days with a Malian, as it detracts from the spectacle of the Toubab in any setting, albeit sometimes less than you might expect. As we pulled up to the entrance to market, I parked my bike next to several others and showed Awa where Kadia and I normally would purchase sauce ingredients. It quickly became apparent neither of us, the eight and twenty-four year old, knew the program too well. I improvised in Bambara with two women selling the items we needed, telling them I needed enough to make lunch and dinner for a week. They helped Awa and I pick out the spices, garlic, onion, and macaroni we needed and I thanked the older woman very much for her assistance, wishing I could do more than greet her appropriately (I ni cé.). Sita and her younger sister Aissata noticed me and together we all biked back to Kafara together. After I dropped Awa off with our market purchases, I went to Sita’s house so she could braid my hair, something she’d expressed her wish to do earlier this week. This third installment of cornrows is a different style from the model Rokia fashioned my hair, and I was impressed Sita could pull it off with my stubbornly straight hair. Unfortunately small rubber bands were unavailable to keep together loose ends but we made do with a hair band to pull it all together in one piece. It will be fun to experiment more with different styles now that my hair is long enough to maneuver into those intricate braided patterns.

21 Octobre 2009

The list of obstacles just seems to keep growing, yet having experienced most of them before, as they are all part of how life is different in Mali, rather than feeling down in the dumps about it all, I know that eventually things will improve.

It’s been a sometimes frustrating but important lesson that in a lot of places, food availability is very seasonal. I come from a place where I can eat cucumbers, mangoes, corn, peanuts, and a variety of other staple Malian seasonal crops any day I want. But here, once that harvest season is over, c’est fini. My crop of cucumbers ended last week, and up until that day I’d been enjoying the nightly ritual of having a cucumber salad with my dinner, or that elusive surprise at Maman’s house when she prepared that same meal. Now I must wait until I take a trip to a bigger town, like Bamako or Oueléssébougou, as most gardens in Kafara are without cucumbers or the crop is not yet ready.

Maman had also been stocking me up with hot pepper sauce, and whenever I was running low she would make sure to prepare me more the next day. When she left for Bamako, she said if I ran low again to bring the can to her mother, Fatoumata, who would assume responsibility for future refills. Turns out Maman had been going out of her way to make sure I had a steady stock. Siaka and I went for the first time to ask Fatoumata about more hot pepper sauce Friday night. She told us the next afternoon she’d do her best to make more. Sunday, on my way to Kaba to find reception, I stopped by their concession and Dr. Comagara’s younger wife told me that the sauce hadn’t yet been prepared, as the past couple days had been busy with peanut harvesting, clothes washing, and a whole load of other daily activities Malian women undertake. I knew this had been the case, and made sure to say I wasn’t in a hurry, but Maman had told me to stop by and check out why it had taken a couple days for my sauce to be ready. I was told not to worry, once the opportunity arose to prepare more, it would be done and I would be notified accordingly. Yesterday evening, Maman asked about the sauce again, and when I said I was still waiting to hear about it, she asked why I hadn’t gone to ask again. I told her I felt badly even going the one time, not wanting to seem impatient over such a small thing. She said there was no issue asking a second time, but it did little to convince me against my intuition that it would be best to just relax. Later she added that once her phone credit was recharged she’d call and check on the matter herself. I said this wasn’t necessary but knew anything I said wouldn’t make a difference to this stubbornly accommodating host. Siaka, as well, wonders at the disparity between Maman and her mother’s preparation schedules. He’s taken a more defeated outlook on the matter, halfway joking that another round of sauce may never come until Maman is back in Kafara.

And Kadia’s married. Life in Kafara without hosts like Maman and Kadia has been somewhat of a struggle. The first three days Kadia was in Bamako last week, I had to buy eggs and bread for my breakfast as my morning portion of porridge had been “forgotten” (I’m still wondering how this is possible). This wouldn’t have been such an issue (hard-boiled eggs, hot pepper sauce, all stuffed into fresh bread is a welcome breakfast any day), but I’m not in a position to buy breakfast everyday. The daily schedule of activities Kadia carried out has been replaced with a more haphazard one, understandably at first. Three people now assume the tasks Kadia alone had looked after, which creates a bit of an awkward position for me because I haven’t yet figured out who to ask to do what. Wait, is it her who washes clothes or is cooking? Oh, she’s the one who sweeps the house and pulls water. Soon enough, I imagine, it will all make sense once again.

As was the case last October, I’ve spent the month battling a formidable cold that refuses to get better. Some days all I can do is rest in my hut, hoping the next day brings improvement. At least it’s not amoebas again, just the periodic sinus infection with which I’m all too familiar.

There is light at the end of the tunnel, however. Inshallah, sometime next week I plan on a short foray à le capital de Mali (Bamako), where many of the challenges of living in a small village like Kafara I’ve listed here will disappear. While Bamako is a far cry from back home, I can find just about any food I desire (cucumbers galore!), and antibiotics I need to eradicate month-long colds are available for free at the Med Unit. It will be a new adventure this go round, as the Bureau has changed locations from Niarela to ACI-Hamdalaye 2000, an area of Bamako I’ve only been to a handful of times. I will be busy finding a new place to use wireless (au revoir Le Campagnard) and searching for the nearest Vietnamese sandwich and potsticker stand (best bang for your buck in Bamako, and delicious). But perhaps the best part of my trip will be a short visit to see the people I’ve been missing most in Kafara recently, Adiaratou and Maman.

24 Octobre 2009

Thursday was a day I’d rather not remember but I know I will never forget. It was the last day Kadia would spend a single woman, and perhaps the last time I would see her for a long time. We sat together with Batima under Siaka’s gwa until midday brewing Jolly Sun tea. Kadia spent the rest of the day preparing to leave, and a horrible sinus headache kept me in my hut resting until around five. I sat next to Soumaïla’s house as I noticed people convening around his mother’s place, a signal that perhaps soon things may start happening. It was a quiet late afternoon, but soon I heard loud, intense bawling coming from that general direction, and one of the more difficult events I have witnessed took place. Kadia, elegantly dressed, hair braided, hands and feet henna dyed (only married women wear henna), greeted each of her family members to say she was leaving amidst such forceful crying I thought she might vomit. She returned inside her grandmother’s house to await the arrival of her husband’s wedding party. Soon, four men from Mana, a village on the main highway between Kafara and Oueléssébougou, pulled up on their motos, and after a short round of greeting and procedure with Soumaïla, they were on their way. Before Kadia mounted on back of one of the motos, she waved at me, and before she could utter the phrase “bye bye,” burst into tears once more. It was this last interaction I couldn’t erase from my short-term memory for the entire evening, and it finally got to me. I sat completely silent under Siaka’s gwa, unable to distract myself, replaying that moment over and over in my head until I realized that if I didn’t collect myself pretty soon, the levies would break. After only a couple tears, I regained composure, slightly amused by the fact the entire emotional episode went completely unnoticed.

Siaka and I biked to Oueléssébougou yesterday, even though I knew this would ruin me. The bike ride itself was quite pleasant, as gathering storm clouds kept the sun’s heat at a comfortable temperature, and kept me from even breaking a sweat (this will never happen again, I thought). The trip was more of an obligation than a choice, really, as I needed to visit the bank in preparation for coming to Bamako today. Around midday, repercussions for biking 19km with a sinus infection began. My daily headache was much worse than normal, and I began to feel feverish. I told Siaka I couldn’t make the bike ride back, and after an unpleasant round of talks with the crew of Air Kafara (who were unconvinced I could bike to Oueléssébougou but not return), they agreed to load our bikes on top and let us climb aboard. This was the fullest ride on public transport I’d seen, with upwards of 30 passengers. By the time we arrived in Kafara, the pain my sinuses were causing me had me contemplating whether my head was about to split open.

What a strikes and gutters month this has been. I just arrived in Bamako and will spend the next five days here killing whatever month-long sickness I get in Mali each October. It would’ve been nice to be able to stay at the Med Unit while I did this, but due to the closure of PC’s Guinea program last week, this is impossible. All 94 Guinean PCV’s are now at Toubani So, going through various administrative and medical processing before they either go home or continue their service in another country next week. I met some of them at the Bureau this afternoon; their collective disposition was detached and somber. Sometimes I wonder about how difficult being evacuated from your country of service would be. One of them told me he had left village to take an exam, heard word of the evacuation and was flown immediately to Bamako, unable to say goodbye to any of his villagers. I cannot imagine this scenario, it’s too depressing.

2 Octobre 2009 – Yet More Examples of How I’ve “Become Malian”

I remember the first time I heard it, way back during my first visit to Kafara. Despite its intended complimentary connotation, I had conflicted reactions to the affirmation I was “becoming Malian.” Ironically, despite how hard I had been working on becoming well integrated in my new community, I found myself rejecting this initial acceptance. The question now became, is there such a thing as too integrated?

Among the many other mental challenges I must tackle as a PCV, this has been a particularly difficult one for me. We’re told over and over during training that integration is the first and most important objective to a successful relationship and service within your community. Not only do we learn local languages and culture, we live and work there too. Sometimes you get so caught up in the whole thing you forget to evaluate certain situations from an American perspective. It’s especially tricky to explain to Malians certain differences between Mali and America just because they have no frame of reference for my point of view. I’m told by my Malian friends that while I’m here I do things the Malian way, and when I go back to America I will do things the American way again. For certain aspects of daily life, sure, this is an OK approach. But for many others, it’s not only impossible, but also irresponsible as an American ambassador to assume. Part of cultural exchange, perhaps the most important part, is the differences that emerge and broaden the participant’s understanding of the world.

Nowadays, there are still times when it’s pleasant to hear I’ve “become Malian” in reference to my language skills. Two examples of this occurred last night during conversations with my Malian friends. While on the phone with Maman, she asked if I was coming back to Kafara Saturday or Sunday. Careful as to not be too precise (I’ve made this mistake repeatedly), I said if transport came on Saturday I would go back then. She said there should be no problem, because transport comes every day except Friday. Sometimes though, I responded, you sit and wait for 3 hours for transport to pick you up in Bamako before giving up and waiting until the next day. That’s also true, she said. So if transport came early, I was coming Saturday, she confirmed. My reply, Inshallah, drew surprised remarks and laughter, and finally implications that I truly was a Bambara savant. I love to use Inshallah whenever I can, but apparently had yet to in Maman’s company, resulting in this memorable interaction.

I had been waiting for a long time for this next story. Every so often I pick up on situational phrases in Bambara that are almost like jokes – they must be perfectly timed in order to emit the best reaction. It’s been a good exercise in patience and memory for me to implement these new colloquialisms. While Mamadou Camara was off picking up a friend in town, I sat with a couple of our Daoudabougou friends (both named Baboucar) and Mamadou’s older brother, Vieux. Vieux’s radio was tuned to a station playing doso n’goni, a very popular genre of music with Bamanan Malians. The Bambara spoken by these artists is very much the original form of the language, with many words you would never otherwise hear in everyday conversation. Comprised of intense, repetitive traditional guitar riffs, the singers ramble off indiscernible speech concerning the theme of the music: hunting. A typical greeting given to hunters upon their return from the bush after a successful hunt is I ni ko! I dansogo! It’s also common when sitting with a group of friends listening to this music for someone to say these words spontaneously. This is the moment I’d been waiting for, and having not said much at all, I broke my silence with dansogo! Vieux and both Bocars perked up, turning their heads to me briefly before all assuming the same reaction: a mixture of laughter, disbelief, and finally questions as to where I learned this phrase.

3 Octobre 2009 – Trust and Friendship

I know I realized it during my short vacation in Paris, but even more so now I’m back in Mali is how much I appreciated the ability to just walk down the street without drawing attention to myself. This may be an unfair complaint, after all, I’m usually the only white person many Malians see during any given day, and why wouldn’t they react as such? But recently, and I think having been in a place recently where this was no longer the case, it’s this unsolicited attention that has been irritating me of late. Normally, Malians approach strangers with the usual accommodating and welcome hospitality to which they are noted for and I appreciate their friendliness to a point, but other times I cynically question whether I’m being taken advantage of. Am I expected to repay their kindness, do they see a white person as an opportunity to gain something? Yes, I come from a place where privileges and possibilities are available that Malians could never realize, but that isn’t a universal truth. I, for one, do not have the material wealth many expect me to have just being an American, and when I tell them this, they perceive my words as humility or deceit. All this is to say I am constantly vigilant of the relationships I have with my closest Malian friends and how I interact with Malians I meet every day. Unfortunately, it’s not always possible to take people at their word alone, instead to pick up on nuances and body language, and, maybe, after several meetings, trust and mutual understanding can begin. It frustrates me whenever I have an interaction with a Malian that leaves me asking to myself, “How would that have been different were I just another Malian?” Believe me, it’s a depressing and all too frequent reflection I catch myself having. I’m lucky to have a friend like Mamadou Camara, who helps and advises me to manage these complex relationships appropriately. After a little over a year, we’re finally at a place where, I think, if I’m unable to explain how I feel about something, he’s able to sift through the context and explain to my Malian counterparts where I’m coming from. This is an irreplaceable asset to have in a foreign environment and I’m fortunate to have made such a friend.

Yesterday, many villagers gathered next to the schoolhouses for the inauguration of Kafara's newest building, a maternity built by the Spanish ngo MZC. I've described this project in past entries but this event was just a formal opening of the facility. The women were all dressed elegantly, and dancing to drummer's beats. There was even a traditional dressed male dancer with a huge mask, and a large poncho type garb covered in feathers and snake skins. Siaka took close to 100 photos of the day's events, including the Spanish representatives who came and "cut the tape" marking the official opening of the maternity.

It was also Mamadou and my last night in Kafara before heading to Bamako. Mama visited Siaka's gwa where the "Gin Gin" (Owl) crew hang out every night, and she brought with her some of that delicious Tazo Passion hibiscus tea. Yousif, Soumaila's oldest child, was also present, and the night's chatter with amiss with laughter and good spirits.

18 September 2009 – Back to Africa

As I literally stepped out of the plane and began descending the stairs into Bamako once more, my phone rings – Mamadou is outside waiting for me. I took a shuttle to the terminal where officials check our passports/visas/etc. The woman who checked my paperwork before I made it too far ahead in line asked me, in French, where my yellow paper was. I looked around at all the other passengers with their yellow forms and said I’d never been given one. She looked at me as though this was impossible, but I insisted I had a visa in my passport. How long is the visa for, she asked. I said a year, once in French, and a second time in Bambara. Upon realizing I understood Bambara, the woman asked my nom et prénom, and soon she was blaming all my trouble on the fact I was a Samaké (synonymous to her with a naïve child). I asked if I could leave the line for a moment to exchange my Euros to FCFA, and she said there was no problem, but she’d be waiting for me to give her some.

I still remember the last time I left the terminal at Bamako-Senou Airport, with children everywhere grabbing at my bags asking to help, but really wanting spare change. This time, I was more prepared for my exit, and only one taxi driver solicited my business. At the end of the walkway, Mamadou emerged from behind the crowd of Malians and together we found a taxi back to Daoudabougou.

The first thing I did upon reaching his house was take a cool bucket bath, because it was hotter at 10 pm in Bamako than it had ever been during the week in Paris. We had our cucumber/tomato/onion salad and then sat with friends outside the concession until 1:30am. I fielded many phone calls and made several of my own to all the typical crew. Upon checking my missed calls as I left the airplane, I noticed people had been calling me right around when my plane was scheduled to land despite my lack of remembering telling anyone the flight schedule except Mamadou. Eventually, after several attempts due to bad Orange ML reception and reaching voicemail, I chatted with Adiaratou, who said she’d been staying up waiting for me to call. Since I’m going back to Kafara tomorrow, I promised another trip to Bamako and her place in Torokorobougou sometime around next weekend – after all, I have a gift for her! Siaka and I exchanged greetings, and Drisa joined in for a bit too. The only person I wish I could’ve caught was Mama. She and I played an epic round of phone tag, complicated with bad reception and lack of credit on her end, and bad timing by me each time I tried to reach her. It helped ease my frustration to think that tomorrow we’ll be in the same place.

19 September 2009 – Last Day of Ramadan

So far, I’ve been surprised with how smoothly the transition from Paris to Bamako has been for me. Maybe I’m mentally numb or perhaps the two cities are so completely dissimilar places that I’ve been able to differentiate them in my mind as such. This first day back did its best to draw a reaction from me, as you will soon see.

It was the final day of Ramadan, and a very hot one. Mamadou and I packed up our things after a midday bucket bath just to cool ourselves. We each had several bags to lug all the way to near the market, but fortunately we found a taxi near his concession. Air Digan came around 15hr (3 o’clock) and was already filling up quickly. Our last stop in Bamako, Faladié, was where the van became a sardine tin. At least twenty adults (this was the first time I’d seen no children aboard) on the benches against the sides of the car, and 4 in the middle on top of buckets and sacks of rice. In a moment of excellent planning, Mamadou and I bought bread to bring our host families in Kafara, as well as bananas and gateau to break fast with in the case we would still be in transit two hours later. I literally couldn’t move, packed between two other passengers and my lap full of the food we just bought. Batima climbed aboard there too, adorning the awesome Malian Independence Day fabric that comes out around every 22nd of September in a new design.

A couple more passengers were added in Senou, just outside Bamako, causing me to wonder if this beaten up old van could support so much weight. All of us and a significant amount of cargo did not bode well. Sure enough, after passing through the checkpoint where a small toll is paid for using the highway, a terrible sound could be heard from beneath the vehicle. We pulled over and all got off while the crew attended to the rear driver’s side axle. After about an hour, the driver called another bush taxi driver to follow us in case this happened again, which sure enough it did a short ways later in the small town of Bananzole. The Air Digan crew repaired it enough to drive the van to the next town, Marako, and then joined the rest of us aboard this other bush taxi, so full that several of us rode on top, with a bunch of other cargo. I’d always wanted to ride on top of one of these transports, against all logic, and it’s because I knew how fun it would be. Although it was getting dark (Mamadou and I had already broken our fast at this point), the breeze was lovely and the view from up there was like none other. That’s not to take away from the anxiety I felt every time the car approached bumps, puddles, or anything else that made it sway from side to side, because it’d be a long fall. Soon enough, we arrived in Kafara (in one piece!). It was now completely dark and I walked with Mamadou to his family’s concession before he helped me carry my bags to my house. After greeting everyone and telling them all of France, Bamako, and my family greeted them, I sat at Siaka’s waiting for Kadia to return from wherever she was in town, actually enjoying the opportunity to just sit for a moment and get my bearings. I was exhausted, in desperate need of a bucket bath, and drinking obscene amounts of water in my best attempt to re-hydrate myself after such a hot day. Finally, Kadia came, I was able to clean my dirty self, eat some enormous slices of fresh cucumber salad, and all was well once again. Well, everything except reception. An approaching storm front cut me off in the middle of a conversation with Adiaratou, but I was able to say I’d arrived in Kafara before the weather interrupted us. I walked into town to greet my favorite butigi owner, and as intended, met up with Kadia there since I knew she’d walked with Batima from Siaka’s. Together we made our way back home, and I was able to give her a gift (an H&M sparkly bracelet, great success) covertly under the cover of night without the prying questions and eyes of others asking where there gift was. Everyone is asking for their sama (gift) from France, and since I was unable to develop the picture of Mom and me I plan on giving to several people, I could only reply that it was not ready yet. It’s cool in Bambara, because the way they ask for a gift can be understood the same as if it’s a fruit. My response is to say it isn’t ripe yet. I love these clever metaphors Bambara is full of, relieving faux-pas makers like me from awkward interactions.

20 September 2009 – Wet Fête

Just returned from end of Ramadan prayers at the mosque. Batima (Amadou, my oldest host brother, and Fatou’s daughter) arrived at my door, said morning blessings, and then told me to get ready quickly to go pray. I walked over to Siaka’s and he told me to change into fancy clothes even though a light rain and muddy paths made this seem slightly absurd. We ran in our fête clothes (what a great sight this must’ve been) to the mosque and I sat next to two of my younger host brothers, Vieux and Omar, waiting for prayers to begin. I looked around the seated men for people I knew, checking out everyone’s outfits. After prayer was over, the imam (my host mother’s dad) read from a Koran in both Arabic and Bambara before we filed out, in a mad rush to find our now water-filled shoes, and sludge back home in the mud, covering our heads with prayer rugs and scarves.

A break in the rain allowed for Siaka, Sidi, and I to make greeting rounds in the southern end of Kafara. Navigating through fields of tall sorghum/millet stocks, avoiding muddy paths in their flip-flops and my plastic shoes, we made our way to around 13 concessions to say the long I sam bé sam bé greeting exchange. The three of us decided to wait until the afternoon to continue our cultural obligation in northern Kafara. I arrived home to find reception on my phone, and placed calls to people in Bamako to give this greeting (Bakari, Djenèbou, Boucar, Adiaratou).

(Later…) Mamadou woke me up from a bizarre dream-filled nap (courtesy of malaria meds) and we sat in my house listening to my iTunes for a bit. Adaman Bagayoko stopped by to give me End of Ramadan greetings; it was also his first time to see my house (the inside part). Siaka arrived and the 3 of us (Mamadou, Siaka, and me) with Sidi made our way to the northern end of Kafara after I put on my nice tailored Malian fabric dress shirt and Sidi quickly bathed. It was the same group of us last year walking about town to deliver our End of Ramadan greetings, and this time I was able to say the lengthy greeting along with them as if I’d been saying it my entire life. Anyone who questioned whether I understood, knew, or didn’t hear my greeting was told by those sitting with them or any of the 3 friends I was with that I did indeed understand, know, and successfully greeted. Some would ask for me alone to repeat it, and after starting the greeting, they’d cut me off before I finished, usually laughing in appreciation. I had to take off the nice shirt partway through our promenade since the long-sleeves were too much for the heat. It even looked great around my neck – I look forward to having more of these shirts made. When we passed through the imam’s concession, he told us that my host mother (his daughter) said I’d been fasting every day I was in Kafara during Ramadan. He asked me to confirm this, not out of disbelief but because it impressed him very much. Upon returning to Siaka’s concession, many photos were taken since we were all in our fête clothes. All of the photos Siaka took today are excellent, as a matter of fact, especially the ones of Amadou and his wives.

Siaka and I had a quiet night in his concession tonight. All our normal crew members were in town visiting with those spending this fête in Kafara and I think there was a dance too somewhere in northern Kafara (you could hear the music all the way this side of town). Mama and her friend Djenoba stopped by briefly to greet, a nice surprise (Sidi, Mamadou, Siaka and I saw them during our greeting rounds as they were making telephone calls at a reception spot), and I cannot wait to return that favor tomorrow afternoon, because someone has Tazo hibiscus tea and more H&M bracelets to share.

21 September 2009 – Mama & I Exchange Visits/Words

Sidy and I took our bucket baths before heading to Mama’s place for a quick visit. Sidy and Mama are the same age, and studied together in Sougoula, so they caught up on how studies and exams went this past term in Bamako. We enjoyed more of Mama’s excellent cooking, rice served with fresh hot pepper sauce, which I applied liberally to my side of the bowl since Sidi preferred to skip the heat. Before we left, I made sure to hand off the Tazo hibiscus tea-filled Ziploc bag. Mama walked back with us and sat at Siaka’s concession until the first round of Lipton tea was served, and then Sidy, Siaka, and I walked her towards home. When I’d arrived with Sidi at her house, Mama jokingly said she and I were fighting, probably because I waited two days before visiting. As I shook her hand to say good night, I passed off her H&M bracelet (Siaka and Sidi none the wiser, plus it was dark) and asked her facetiously if we were still fighting.

22 September 2009 – Mali Turns 49

Soumaila brought me to Marako for what I hoped to be a cool work-related venture. He said that IER-Programme Sorgho was having a conference with experts from around Africa and America coming to see the test plot in Marako. Even the African Director of the program, a Ghanaian, would be there. I was excited to meet these people, which I think made me even more under whelmed by their visit than I would’ve been as a neutral bystander. We were told they’d be arriving around 9am. Around noon, the small group of us gathered waiting thought aloud whether they were still coming. Two shuttles arrived shortly thereafter, filled with foreign faces. Of the twenty or so people, only 3 of them introduced themselves to me, Africans only. I know for a fact Americans were in this group of experts. They assembled in front of the test plot and asked a couple questions, snapped photos, and then, having just arrived, loaded back up into the shuttles and were gone within 10 minutes. What are these farmers these people are supposedly “helping” supposed to take from such a visit, besides the hats they gave them? The whole thing made me sick. Those of us who waited all morning for a 10 minute drop-in sat and relaxed in the shade, drinking tea and chatting until selifana (14hr). Soumaila made sure I knew the names of the 3 farmers from Marako in case I needed a place to stay there. One of them, Mamadou Coulibaly, hosted a PCV from my stage during homestay.

Mama and her friends Kadiatou and Djenoba had on their matching Malian Independence Day fabric complet dresses tonight, something I wish I could’ve taken a picture of because although they were the same fabric, each girl had their own dress designed differently. Mama teased me about forgetting to buy some fabric of my own so the four of us could have matched. Although that may have been good for a photo, I probably would’ve felt slightly ridiculous, all of us dressed in uniform.

23 September 2009 – Oueléssébougou + Heat = No Bueno

Today’s Oueléssébougou trip was successful but man, I am dying now. It was way too hot for a 38km bike ride today, and my body is not pleased with my making the trip under such conditions. I got hot peppers and mustard so Mama can prepare me some of that delicious hot pepper sauce. She called me on my way back as I passed through Tamala-Djitoumou, and I was glad to have an opportunity to chat since I knew Siaka would be visiting her in my stead to deliver the cooking ingredients and, more importantly, to take her photo in those Malian Independence Day clothes I was describing.

24 September 2009 – Tièmba

Since I returned from Paris, Mamadou Camara had been telling me to make sure we visit his older sister in Tièmba while we’re both in Kafara. Today we did just that. Tièmba is the furthest east of Kafara I’ve been (around 10km), and a pleasant bike ride. We spent most of our day with his sister’s husband and his friends, finally heading back around Lansara (4 o’clock prayer) under threats of an approaching storm. Luckily, the rains didn’t pour until we were back home, having bathed and inside our huts.

Siaka apparently failed to relay the message that I’d be away today as no one knew where I was and he was in Oueléssébougou at a formation on a last minute sub for Soumaila. Fortunately Sidi remembered Mamadou telling me the night before to bring 2 Nalgenes of water on our trip, and saved me from lots of explanation. Soumaila wasn’t upset at all, instead happy I took the opportunity to go see a new place and meet new people. He was also pleased with the cucumbers and melons I came back with for his family. I spent the evening with Mamadou and his brothers Abou and Alou. We ate delicious chicken and cucumber/tomato/onion salad, all courtesy of our hosts in Tièmba, and after the first round of tea I went home early to get a good night’s rest to the pleasant sound of light rain and cooler temperatures.

Mama stopped by in the morning (I was already gone) to deliver the hot pepper sauce, which I applied liberally to the rice and peanut sauce Kadia had made for my lunch, but I instead ate for an early dinner. I wasn’t hungry at all, but within minutes the entire bowl was gone. The combination of my favorite Malian rice and sauce with Mama’s hot pepper creation was just that good. Unfortunately, the photos of Mama Siaka took yesterday are all blurry (I forgot to change the flash settings for him). However, Mamadou and I plan on visiting Mama on Saturday. More pictures will be taken and with a bit of luck, perhaps hibiscus tea will be consumed.

25 September 2009 – Thinking Like a Hindu, and No More Wiping

Turns out that I’m (spiritually) Hindu. Flipping through an old Newsweek, I happened upon a most interesting little blurb written by the mag’s religion correspondent about America’s changing spirituality. Statistically, Americans have become more accepting of various pathways to spiritual truth. I’ve always thought this way, with less emphasis on orthodoxy instead opting for whatever works. Upon reading the Rig Veda, the most ancient Hindu scripture, I nodded in agreement: “Truth is One, but the sages speak of it by many names.” Hindu’s beliefs regarding what happens when you die mirror my own too, centering on reincarnation. Indeed, like Hindus practice, I would prefer cremation to all other forms of burial, save perhaps for donation to science.

Another fun little snippet in that same issue of Newsweek struck a chord with me. Since arriving in Mali, I like many other PCVs scoffed at the notion of abandoning toilet paper for the salidaga, a bidet type contraption used in lieu of dry paper. I am now a full endorser. Upon returning home and (a big “if”…) whenever I have my own place, I will scour the land for a bidet instead of the typical porcelain throne. Perhaps the Japanese bidet marketing giant Toto, who plan on a big sales push in the States, will begin a new trend, and an environmentally sound one at that. If Americans were to cut off all TP usage, it would save 15 million trees, 17.3 terawatts of electricity, and more than 473 billion gallons of water annually. Plus, no more track marks in your underwears!

26 September 2009 – Picture Day

Not able to sit in my house any longer after spending the morning writing, reading, and looking over fête photos to be developed, I decided on a whim to bike 12km to the highway and take a photo of myself next to the little sign that reads “Dafara – Kafara – Digan”, a random task I’d been meaning to fulfill ever since I arrived, seeing the sign for the first time from the passenger seat of the PC Land Cruiser. I stopped by Mamadou Camara’s house to ask him if he wanted to come with, but as no other bikes were available, I told him I was alright just going to come right back, as I was only doing this for fun and to fill an afternoon. I’m quite certain his relatives think I’m insane, as well as the rest of the Malians who found out what I was doing – biking 24km in the afternoon sun to take a single photo. It took me five attempts; I kept forgetting to relax my face from the glaring sun and intense look it took one’s face assumes when taking a picture of yourself.

Later, after drinking a couple rounds of tea at Mamadou Camara’s house, Siaka, Mamadou, and I walked to Mama’s family concession for a short visit. Mamadou teased her repeatedly that if she didn’t finish her assortment of late afternoon chores and bathe before dusk, that we’d go home without retaking her photo. This batch of photos is excellent; even Siaka and Mamadou will say the photo of Mama seated is model-esque. The new maternity in the late afternoon is an excellent area for photo taking, with good lighting and nicely colored walls for background. Plus, as it has yet to be opened, no one else was around. When Mama asked me how to pose for a standing shot, Mamadou told me for her to stand in an en guard karate position, giving us both a sample to resounding laughter. I also took a picture of her with my two Malian compadres, and then Mamadou and Siaka had a photo-taking duel to see who could take the better photo of Mama and me. Sidy preferred Mamadou’s, Kadia preferred Siaka’s, I prefer Mamadou’s, and of course the photo-takers are guilty with conflict of interest, understandably. I guess Mama, who the photo was taken for originally, must determine the true winner. As we prepared to walk home, I realized I’d completely forgotten to ask Mama to brew us some of that Tazo hibiscus tea. Another time.

As we sat underneath Siaka’s gwa brewing Lipton (actually Jolly Sun – all tea in a sachet is called “Lipton” in Bambara) tea, Sidy told me that Mama and he would not see each other again until the new year, save perhaps for Tabaski if both happened to observe the biggest fête of the Muslim calendar in Kafara. Eerily prescient these words were, because not 15 minutes later Mama and Djenoba showed up for a surprise soirée visit.

27 September 2009 – Beans, Beans, the African Hit, the More You Eat, the Runnier Your…erm.

I’ve never liked the fried bean gateau. In fact, the only gateau I’ve ever fallen head over heels for have been the millet variety Mama makes. Those are so good I feel badly placing them in the same category; they are their own category of culinary excellence. Anyway, Sidy arrived at Mamadou Camara’s house where he and I had just sat down to brew tea. Sidy said he had some change to buy furu furu and asked us to come with him, chip in a little money of our own and together enjoy a spontaneous treat. While waiting for our helping to fry, the 3 of us walked to the schoolhouse so Mamadou could vote. Today was an election in the circle of Kati to replace the seat of a deceased Deputy. Two classrooms split the residents of Kafara onto two lists, where the voters would find their name and know which bureau to cast their ballot. I looked through the birthdates listed, just out of curiosity, and noticed two very old villagers (one born in the ‘40s, another in the ‘20s!). On our way back, Sidy collected our small batch of fried bean cakes, and as we began eating them back at Mamadou’s place, I noticed they didn’t seem cooked enough. Ignoring what I should’ve realized was an excellent excuse to pass on eating more of something I already didn’t like that much, I ate several more, not wanting to be rude, any other various lame excuse in the guise of being culturally respectful rather than looking out for my health, in this case eating uncooked pastries. I would spend the rest of the afternoon until dusk either lying on my mattress or in my bathroom, witnessing just how upset a person’s insides can become. I learned two lessons from this ordeal: 1) I’m not eating furu furu ever again, with one very important exception: Mama’s gateau; 2) Perhaps I should reevaluate eating beans since I’m no longer a Coulibaly (Malian inside joke, sorry).

28 September 2009

Ever since I learned that classes have been taking place each afternoon at the schoolhouse for older Kafara villagers, I very much looked forward to sitting in on one of the sessions. This afternoon, Mamadou Camara accompanied me to the schoolhouse and together we decided to sit in the male student’s class first. In each of the 3 classrooms, we stood in the doorway to ask permission from the professor to sit for a moment and take photos. The first two classroom’s teachers had no issue with us doing so, and appreciated our interest. Upon asking the teacher of the third classroom, Baba Bagayoko, we were given the same answer. For this reason, Mamadou and I were very surprised after he took his first photo and another teacher, Dramand Samaké, turned to us and said, “There are no photos taken here.” When Mamadou said we’d asked permission, Dramand said he heard no suggestions of photo taking. I looked around the classroom for one of the 29 other people who I know heard us suggest this very thing to say something to the 1 person who apparently didn’t, but the room remained awkwardly silent. Completely put off by Dramand’s abruptness, I closed my notebook, put the cap on my pen and told Mamadou I would like to go home. We left the classroom and upon reaching the big road that splits the town north-south, I asked him how Dramand could not have possibly understood that by our asking permission to sit in on class for a moment we intended to perhaps take one or two photos, and what was wrong with us doing so in that classroom but not the other two. Apparently, Mamadou didn’t pick up on my tone, asking if I was upset. I said very much so, and although I know Mamadou probably didn’t appreciate how our visit to class in Kafara ended, I could tell it didn’t bother him as much as it did me. Not a whole lot of things bother me, but anything bordering on censorship is a good start. What about this classroom of women compelled Dramand to tell me, the PCV in his village, not to take a photo?

I’d been very happy to hear about this activity. Although it had been initiated and facilitated by an outsider, it was now completely overseen by Kafara villagers. Even the teachers are community members. I still am overjoyed at the overwhelming number of women students (~70). This is exactly the type of thing a PCV should be grinning ear to ear about, but instead I’m left to ponder why my friend and I left that last classroom feeling very unwelcome.

14 September 2009 – Paris en Pieds, Isabel, and My Hands

Royal Regency, the hotel I’m posted up with my mom and sister, is very near the Château de Vincennes metro stop. Our first order of business today was at the Bastille stop, where we walked to a café we saw yesterday that offered free Wifi. After updating blogs, uploading photos, and answering emails, we took that yellow line to the Louvre Rivoli stop, and back-tracked a bit on a walk to the Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris, which is on a small island, something I never knew. We walked along La Seine (the river that cuts through the city) to Jardin des Tuileries, and while Mom was trying to figure out interval timed photo settings on her camera, a Spanish speaking family passed in front of us at the exact moment the shutter engaged. The man was so ashamed he offered to take our photo, and after exchanging words in Spanish, we each walked in our opposite directions. As we continued along La Seine, the Pont Alexandre III caught my eye, as it’s ornamented with gold sculptures. Around where the Pont d’Alma and Av. New York are, there’s an overpass with a monument in recognition of the 100th anniversary of the International Herald Tribune, but it has since become a place where people place flowers or write notes for Princess Diana (she died in a car accident there), and recently, it seems, Michael Jackson. While we approached the Tour Eiffel, we passed the Musée du Quai Branly, a fancy piece of architecture, and why not, it’s an art museum. I have to say I was impressed with the size of the Tour Eiffel, its original intention to be erected for a World Fair and then taken down, which seems preposterous upon seeing it in person. Crossing La Seine and looping back towards the yellow line, we happened upon the fancy district of downtown Paris, specifically Av. Montaigne, where every shop is a different high-end designer. It was overwhelming…Prada, Fendi, Louis Vuitton, Valentino, Versace, Dolce & Gabanna, Gucci, oh my! We boarded the yellow line at Champs-Élysées Clemenceau and rode until the end of the line where we head home. All feeling a little stiff, sore, and tired from walking all over Paris today, I’m also ready for some delicious dinner, late-night European style (it’s 21:17hr).

My sister Isabel kills me, but in a refreshing way. I just read her this entry and she said it was fine, but she would’ve written about completely different events. For example, she said, this morning at the café we saw a woman wearing high heels, except one of the shoes didn’t have the heel part. Yet the woman walked as if it did, tricking your brain. She got on the back on a motorbike, and although she left our eyesight, our minds were full of questions and intrigue. Another event from today I bet she would’ve written about was when my mom and I were busy taking photos of the Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris, Isabel was behind us snapping a shot of a bum with a pigeon on his shoulder sitting next to a young Asian woman. Who took the better photo? While we walked about, I definitely noticed passers-by checking out her outfit, which never fail to catch attention. Today’s was all black, with a long feather-like earring in one ear only, her Palestinian prayer scarf (think Arafat), and her hair tied back to reveal the one bottom corner/side under layer she had buzzed. Everything made sense until people’s eyes reached her feet, probably expecting flats or fancy dress shoes. Instead, Isabel had on her Haviannas flip-flops.

A recurrent theme of this trip thus far has been my hands. Yesterday I tried to slip my metro ticket into the slot of the machine, but when it didn’t get sucked in I set it on the apparatus to flip it over and in that split second the ticket fell back into a small crack. I stood there struggling to understand what just happened and looked to my family members on the other side trying to explain what occurred, fumbling through words like my hands had just done with the small ticket stub. A nice French man that just came through the exit saw the situation and scanned his card to let me pass. This afternoon as I stood up from our place in a café/bar where we stopped to pass the rain with a hot chocolate, the change I had in my hand slipped through my fingers onto the floor. The lighting of the place was already dark, and beneath tables and chairs made for finding small coins like a shot in the dark. I was looking for two Euros and for the life of me, even with Isabel’s flashlight, could only find one of them. I scoured the area, on hands and knees, with little luck. I needed that Euro to pay for our hot chocolates! Starting to get frustrated with myself and my butter fingers, struggling to believe that two hot chocolates could cost 8.40€, and wondering how this coin could’ve possibly disappeared, I did my best to approach the situation with my typical laid-back demeanor. Eventually, Mom just spotted us the Euros we needed. Later, I stepped out on the tiny porch of our hotel room for a moment and when I turned back to reenter the room, I realized I had accidentally locked myself out. The sliding door had latched. This is getting ridiculous, I thought. I squatted there and knocked on the glass until Mom poked her head out from around the corner, perhaps wondering if the morning workers had started early, and she let me in shaking her head.

I am generally confused and frustrated by how expensive French cafés/bars/restaurants are, leaving me to question how normal, everyday folk can afford such high prices. A plate of French fries is 7€, a pint of beer around 6€, three-course brunches from anywhere around 12-20€, and these places are never empty. Everywhere we go, even during workday afternoons, places are doing good business. Comment-ils vivrent comme ça? (How do they live like this?)

15 September 2009 – Music and Soccer

I played both the violin and piano today for the first time in over a year. Everything was from memory because, well, I don’t have any music sitting around. My time with the violin was this morning in the hotel room. Isabel bought it for $350 from a second-hand store (Really Great Stuff) in Portland, but it’s a diamond in the rough, with excellent sound. I struggled through memories of Irish jigs and Bach Preludes. Later this evening, as we wondered about the Jewish quarter of Paris, we passed by a piano store, and I sat struggling through more memories of Chopin nocturnes and Bach partidas. I think it may have been the only time I’ve ever forgotten to play at least part of Joplin rag on a piano. Next time.

Continuing today’s musical theme, both walks through the Bastille metro stop were serenaded with professional musician’s playing. The first were a string ensemble and a rendition of Pachelbel’s Canon. The acoustics were so resonant underground in those tunnels that 10 string players sounded like a symphonic orchestra. As we left, they were finishing a piece from the opera Carmen. On our way back through, I sprinted upon hearing the tooting of bagpipes. The bagpipe is a remarkably loud instrument, and the acoustics of the metro tunnels made it most impressive. It was so cool; I’m a bagpipe geek. I tried to learn briefly in high school, my dad bought me a canter, which is the fingered part of the instrument with a reed tip. I gave up after getting tired of the dying duck racket I kept producing after weeks of practice.

Mamadou Camara called after we ate some dinner in the hotel room. We spoke in French for a bit and he asked if I was watching Marseilles v. AC Milan. I had forgotten the Champions League started! He asked what happened today, and when I said not too much, he refused to believe that. Then I told him about playing the piano, by chance, which pleased him very much.

I walked down the road to the pub and watched part of the Marseilles v. AC Milan match, part of Juventus v. Bordeaux, and a small bit of Real Madrid against someone. Neither French team won (Marseilles lost 2-1, Bordeaux tied 1-1) but the soccer was excellent. Many Malians were playing too! There are several on Marseilles, and one each I saw on Juventus and Bordeaux’s side. I had no idea how many players on Juventus also play for the Italian national team.

16 September 2009 – A Night In Paris

I finally had a night out in Paris I was hoping for. After several hours in the Louvre, Isabel and I met her friend Baptiste at his flat near the Place de Clichy metro stop. His best friend since elementary school, Sara, was there as well. Before we decided where we were going first, Isabel got herself a baguette and I secured a delicious looking Grec Poulet sandwich with fries from a Turkish kebob place. From there, the four of us took the blue 2 line to Jaurès and switched to the tiny 7bis line for a couple stops on our way to the Parc des Buttes Chaumont. There we sat at a venue that stays open late and has outside seating, drank wine, and met three of Baptiste’s Brazilian friends, Anamaria, Thyago, and Fabio. Before leaving the park on our way to another place, Baptiste and Fabio rolled down the hill of the park, which has an excellent view of the city from the north. Fabio was full of energy, and was in a constant state of dancing/entertaining. Aboard the 7bis line for a short moment, Fabio spun around the poles of the subway singing love ballads. While we waited for the metro at the Place des Fêtes stop, Thyago and Anamaria went around the tracks to buy candy bars, and when Thyago attempted to throw one across to Fabio, it landed on top of the lights! I finally was able to finish my sandwich, which I did in a squatting position, and the picture Isabel took of me is hilarious (I look like a street person). We took the brown 11 line to the Rambuteau stop and before leaving the underground all seven of us crammed ourselves into a tiny booth designated for identity card photos. It took several takes before we were pleased with the photo. Fabio passed one of the several baby photos used in a car ad campaign that had a vague resemblance to him, and in his small, small English said, “That’s me!” while smiling and posing next to it. Moments later, he passed an ad with a picture of an older black woman, and said equally enthusiastically, “That’s me now!” The place we went, a bar called Andy Wahloo, is pretty hip. It had pictures of Arab people dressed in traditional Muslim outfits but many of the women sported Louis Vuitton scarves to cover their faces. Besides the seating along the wall, there were Coca-Cola crates with leather Louis Vuitton cushions as well. There was Arabic written all over the place, the tables, on the toilettes sign, and a glass-cased wall full of products imported from an Arab country. They were ordinary products, like soda and food staples, but all the labels were written in Arabic. A DJ played cool, catchy tunes and Fabio impressed us with his amazing dancing skills (he’s a professional dancer). Baptiste treated me to a fabulous mojito, which I found out cost 10€. During a smoke break, Fabio would’ve had me in laughing fits and tears had we not been told by the bouncer to keep quiet due to noise complaints they’ve had in the past. Isabel had told him that in Bulgaria, where she’s been, people shake their head to say yes rather than nod. Fabio started trying to do this himself, then took it further, wondering aloud and providing an example of what ‘maybe’ must be like, saying peut-être as he turned himself around in a stationary circle. In Japan, he said, when people say ‘no’ they put their arms up in an ‘x’ position, and started giving examples of interactions he had with Japanese people where they used this lingual device. I thought my stomach had turned itself inside out from laughing so much.

Around 1 am, things definitely slow down in Paris. Bars start closing, the metro stops running, and the city is eerily quiet. After parting with our new friends, French style with the kissing each cheek, Isabel and I waited for a bus in Bastille, listening to Dizzee Rascal’s “I Luv U” and Dr. Octagon’s “Halfsharkalligatorhalfman” before the 11 line bus arrived. We rode this very crowded bus (think Malian public transport) to it’s last stop, Château de Vincennes, and walked the short distance to Royal Regency, finally getting to bed around 3:30 am.

17 September 2009 – H&M, Rodin, Une Soirée de Musique

I exchanged more dollars for Euros today (always depressing these days) and walked along the avenue outside the Louvre Rivoli metro stop on my way to H&M for a gift to bring back to Mali. I walked into the shop and had a twilight zone moment. The store looked completely different, the escalator went up instead of down, and all the clothes were new styles from just two days ago. This was either the fastest and best remodel ever, or I was going insane. Ah, there’s another store on the same avenue, right. Man, that was too weird.

Why cannot all museums be as pleasant as the Musée de Rodin? The presentation of the sculptures in a quiet courtyard is far better than inside a building behind bulletproof glass (see Mona Lisa). The man who checked my bag at the museum’s entrance pointed at my Malian shirt and said in English, “This is very good.” Walking through the courtyard with Mom was much more enjoyable than the same stroll through the Louvre. I’ve come to the realization I’m not a museum type. I spent more time people watching in the Louvre than art watching.

From La Tour Maubourg stop on the lavender 8 line, Mom and I transferred to the yellow 1 line at Concorde and head towards Louvre Rivoli once more to meet up with Isabel, who had to return to Royal Regency for her violin. The 3 of us took the yellow 1 line to Hotel De Ville and walked towards the flat where Isabel and I would be spending the evening with Anamaria, Thyago, Baptiste, Fabio, Sara, and whoever else came. We sat at a café for a quick espresso (or baby mojito, my choice) and a chocolate mousse.

Isabel and I arrived at Anamaria’s flat, and were presented with a delicious spread of amuse-gueules (Lays chips, pistachios, bread and various dips – caviar, hummus, and chicken salad) and glasses of red wine. Soon, Louis, a friend of Thyago’s and another Brazilian, arrived and within moments Thyago on the guitar, Louis on the sax, and Isabel on the violin were jamming. Thyago says he learned English from listening to music, and he plays excellent covers of all genres of music on his guitar, from Rhianna to Smashing Pumpkins to Pixies to Amy Winehouse to Seu Jorge. Eventually Baptiste, Sara, and Fabio arrived, but before too long Isabel and I had to say our good-byes. How lucky to meet such accommodating and fun friends!

18 September 2009 – Whirlwind Trip

It’s already over? I’m starting to understand people’s reaction upon learning my vacation was only a week long – only a week?, they’d ask. Here I sit at my gate in the airport wondering where that week went. My mind is also racing in preparation for the return to Mali and potential culture shock likely to occur. Baptiste said last night as Isabel and I left that of the 3 of us traveling today (Mom, Isabel, and me – they’re going to Barcelona, Mom by train, Isabel by co-voiturage), I am certainly the most likely to experience the trip that is akin to a slap in the face. It will certainly make for interesting writing and reflection.

Two interesting things I learned from my new friends in Paris. Baptiste told me that no building could be taller than the Eiffel Tower, which is why the city doesn’t have that many skyscrapers, even in the business/financial center. They look very strange amongst the more modestly built apartment complexes and other very old buildings typically seen throughout town. As Thyago was singing and playing guitar, he told Isabel and me that if the neighbors started to complain about the noise, we would have the option to continue our music somewhere along the Seine River. He equated music to sex, explaining that’s why Parisians don’t like it. The belief French are romantic, he says, is a myth. I offered my own interpretation of the reason behind this, noting that so many tourists travel to Paris on romantic terms that perhaps the locals have become cynical and jaded to it themselves.

11-12 September 2009 – Air France Flight 791, Finding the Royal Regency, First Day in Paris

Here I sit awaiting take-off, and realize this will be the longest time in between flights in my life (>1 year). The Bamako-Senou Airport was certainly an exercise in organized chaos. Mamadou bid me farewell (after we took each other’s photo) as I entered the departure line and I eventually was directed to Air France’s designated check-in area. Then I made my way to the gate and took an air shuttle to climb aboard this huge aircraft. So far, everything’s gone very smoothly – I even got to call Adiaratou and say goodbye before my credit ran out. I’m upset I don’t have a little bit more to call Mama, who beeped me in the taxi ride to the airport, but I could send a text saying farewell. We had a good chat last night so that makes me feel a bit better about missing tonight. This is already shaping to be a pleasant flight. I just found Salif Keita’s new album “M’Bemba” on the in-flight entertainment CD library. Soon I will have my choice of two really delicious sounding meals: beef fricassee with bell peppers accompanied by pasta twists and fresh spinach –or- fillet of emperor fish with curry sauce and rice with raisins. We also get chicken and tabouli, fruit salad, cheese, pineapple tartlet, coffee/tea and our choice of beverage.

(Later…) I didn’t sleep a wink the entire flight, instead watching movies. We arrived in Paris at 6am, but I didn’t make it to the area Mom and Isabel were staying until 9am! It was a test of sanity, that long interim of waiting in lines at the airport, and then figuring out the RER train system. I walked the deceptively short distance from the train station to the Royal Regency hotel, and as I entered the room, both Isabel and Mom were asleep. Isabel heard me set down my stuff and we talked for a couple hours before I said I needed to get some coffee. Before we left, I woke up Mom to say hi and that I found the place alright, although I had a brief moment along the way when I wondered if I had any trouble I would have had no way of contacting her, as my phone has no credit or Orange France sim card.

Isabel and I walked around looking for a café and later walked to a boulangerie, where I settled for a chocolate croissant and she got spinach and goat cheese quiche, as well as some bread to have with cheese and sausage she brought from Bulgaria back at the hotel room. Isabel later that evening made an excellent tomato, pepper, onion, cheese, basil, and olive oil filled salad (all fresh from a marketplace down the road) for dinner. Then she and I went in search of a pub that had the Manchester United-Tottenham game on, but eventually learned the French would rather watch their crappy teams play, so we settle on a place down the road from our hotel, which has hookah it turns out. That’s for tomorrow night, for the moment we enjoyed Stella Artois and peanuts, as well as a pleasant conversation sitting outside in the cold.

13 September 2009

We ventured to westward today towards the center of Paris, but only made it as far as Bastille. There we walked around quite a bit just enjoying the scenery, as well as finding places with free Wifi to come back to another day. Paris reminds me of many other cities I’ve been to combined into one place. Its diversity recalled Vancouver, BC for me. One street we walked down today reminded me of Portland, for whatever reason. In Bastille, the big roundabout with a large monument in the center (Colonne de juillet – the July Column, in remembrance of July 27-29, 1830 events) surrounded by shops and restaurants had me remembering DC. In a way, Paris, a city I’ve never been to, seems very familiar.

I wore my Malian tailored shirt today since I knew we would be wondering about the city. I’d never admit this to anyone, but I kind of hoped I’d receive a comment from a random person about it. While I certainly got looks from passers by, no one actually said anything. This is coming from someone who doesn’t like to draw attention to them self! It was fun to notice other people wearing traditional African clothes, and wonder if they came from Mali too.

Mom let me use her phone to send texts to my Malian friends letting them know I was in Paris all right, and my family and I were together. Instead of buying an Orange France sim card, we both decided it to make much more sense for her to let me use her phone to send texts, which are cheaper than calls. I sent a text in French to Mamadou Camara, Adiaratou, and Mama: Je suis à Paris. C’est très bien mais tu ne c’est pas ici. Ma maman et sœur tu dit salut. À bientôt. Mohammed (I am in Paris. It’s very nice, but you are not here. My mom and sister greet you. Until soon. Mohammed) Adiaratou called me a little later and I wasn’t able to answer the phone in time. Frustrated, I wished I could’ve called back but instead sent a text saying Je sais messages envoyer seulement, excusé moi. (I can only send texts, sorry.) She called as I was typing that message and we talked briefly before she handed the phone off to her aunt, and I’m still not sure what her aunt said, but it sounded like they wanted me to call them back since they don’t have a lot of credit lying around to call me in Paris. Sadly, ‘tis the case pour moi aussi. Maybe she was just saying for me to not stay too long, which she began with. So that text got sent. As I got ready to shower this evening, for some reason I knew I’d get a phone call, and sure enough, the phone rang. Mamadou Camara asked if my mom was nearby, but she was asleep. So he talked to my sister briefly before she handed me back the phone laughing due to lack of mutual lingual understanding. Mamadou told me to text him when Mom woke up so he could call her and say hello. Just thinking about that conversation is so wild. Here I am in Paris, France sending a text on an American phone to Mali, West Africa, and he calls back and we speak in Bambara. I love this cosmopolitan feeling.

So my sister and I decided the 10€ hookah was beyond our monetary capacity tonight, so I took a walk down the road to pick up a couple Bavaria brews and we sat on the tiny porch outside our hotel room for a little while before the cold got to us. I have been freezing since the moment I arrived in this city. This does not bode well for returning home in the month of September next year.

It’s been fun for me to teach Mom and Isabel Bambara blessings and proverbs. Yesterday night, I told Isabel all the proverbs I could remember from Mike’s email, explaining what each meant and how they apply to me as a PCV. When Mom wasn’t feeling well yesterday, I greeted her with appropriate blessings and told her what each meant and how to respond. Isabel just went to sleep and before she could get too far I told her all the potential blessings that are said in that scenario. Basically, I’ve been enjoying fulfilling Peace Corps Goal no. 3, bring your host country back home.

10 September 2009

My first memory of yesterday is hearing the nearest imam say “Wuli! Wuli! Dumini ko waati sera!” (Get up! It’s time to eat!) But really we had 1 ½ hours until dawn, and were woken up half an hour earlier than any other imam in the area by his wailing (he’s quite possibly the worst imam heard in history – dogs think he’s howling and join in).

My first order of business was at the Bureau, where I responded to several emails, got my passport, exchanged some FCFA for Euro, and found (perfectly timed) the package from Mom with new pants and my jeans, which I wore the rest of the day.

Around noon-thirty, Adiaratou called me to say I could show up anytime in the afternoon to visit for a bit. She told me where to meet her aunt, who she’s staying with in Bamako. I took a memorable taxi ride to Torokorobougou’s market area. The driver’s radio was playing the song “Rehab” by Rhianna, and as I enjoy making small talk with taxi drivers, I said she was perhaps the most beautiful woman in the world. The driver excitedly asked me to reconfirm my remark, and immediately asked if she was married. When I said she wasn’t, he asked my assistance in procuring her so he could exchange vows. I said that would prove difficult, because he might find that I decided to propose to her before passing her off on someone I barely knew. We both laughed at our silly hypothetical fantasy and he expressed his wish to fill the taxi with her picture and purchase many cassette tapes of her music to play in the car. Alright, well things got eerie when he dropped me off in front of Alimentation Wassa, and after he drove off I noticed a big picture of Rhianna posted on the shop’s window. The was a small amount of confusion in the process of meeting Adiaratou’s aunt (another Toubab was in the area throwing everyone off), but finally we found each other in front of the banana seller, very near I had sat down initially in front of the alimentation. I visited with Adiaratou for a couple hours and wish I could’ve stayed for iftar but my friends were telling me to head their way.

I only went to Hamdallaye-ACL 2000 last night because I have no plans on going to anything swear-in related today. I’m going to catch hell for this from everyone but too bad. Last night was much more my type of fun: small group, close friends, lots of laughing, good chats. Michael met a Malian who’s the son of his village’s dugutigi. The man was so happy he bought the 8 of us a round of beers. It was hilariously random.

OMG – so as I just wrote this, I was introduced to a Malian who says his grandfather is Kafara’s dugutigi. This is too weird.

Instead of staying the night with Peter, I decided at the last minute to head back to Daoudabougou to stay with Mamadou. I always feel bad leaving my PCV friends like that, and I do it often, admittedly. I’m not sure why but I always get really anxious and uncomfortable whenever I’m in a large group of PCVs in Bamako. Hence another reason I’m skipping tonight: I don’t do large groups, and over 100 PCVs will be out and about.

Oh god, how could I forget? Mamadou spent all day yesterday trying to get fabric I asked to be made several weeks ago. Somehow it wasn’t anywhere to be found until 17hr (5 o’clock). Both of us are convinced the woman lied about it being ready, then she got upset when we didn’t want it or her (lack of) business anymore. While I’m glad to still have 7000 FCFA, the fabric is really handsome: waxy material with colorful tie-dye patterns that would turn heads. Another time I’ll find another place to get a shirt made in this style.

I was completely exhausted upon arriving at Mamadou’s last night. I crossed the Niger River seven times yesterday and was running ragged going to places I’d never been. It wasn’t anything short of interesting or fun, though. Everyday is like this here and I love it – never know what’s next, never dull or routine, always engaging.

I don’t think it will ever be comfortable, however, for me to live in a place where, as a male, it’s OK for me to hand my dirty clothes to a woman, like I did this morning, fully expecting them to be clean by the evening. Or last night, the young woman who lives next door to Mamadou, Lala, spent 15 minutes running all over town searching for eggs so I could have breakfast this morning. She came back twice discouraged, breathing heavily, and empty-handed. Once she had at last found 8 eggs, I wanted to thank her profusely and ask why she hadn’t just given up, that I was OK without eggs right this very second. But I get the impression it’s so culturally imprinted behavior for women here to heed any male’s request that for me (as a male) to show appreciation for such behavior they assume to be ‘normal’ would not be understood. Often I get the feeling that they expect me to be upset with them and then wonder why I never am, instead always encouraging, forgiving, or understanding.

So I’ve been negligent in my Ramadan observances of late. The past 3 days going all over Bamako I’ve been eating a small lunch just because I thought if I didn’t I probably would’ve passed out. Today, though, since I’ve no plans to go into town, I’m back aboard the fasting train. It’s almost noon, the hardest part of each day. I never had as much respect for lunch as I do now after skipping it for 16 days.

As Mamadou and I walked along the road adjacent to Daoudabougou’s market searching for our iftar and dinner items, I pointed to where I thought were a bunch of avocadoes. Mamadou laughed said they were guavas. We entered market, turned a corner and WHAM! Avoca filé (there are avocadoes). Best sight ever. It’s been a while since I’ve had me some guacamole, and we have tomatoes, onions and lime to add to the goodness.

11 September 2009 – Last Night in Bamako

Mamadou was sick with a sinus headache all f yesterday and he finally had to lie down in the evening after eating something and taking some medicine. This was a good play for my not attending swear-in party events, and one text message to Mike sealed that up nicely.

After a brief rest, and as my guacamole was served, Mamadou emerged from his house feeling perfectly fine. Once I finished eating, we moved to the place we sit each evening outside the concession’s entrance, drank tea, chatted and laughed until 1am. I can guarantee I had more fun than I would have had at the swear-in party, because the night would’ve rested on the night club playing a single song (“Turn My Swag On”), Peter and my new top hit.

9 September 2009

So my MacBook has decided that it's battery is dying. I turn on my computer and within 5 minutes it's shuts itself off. When I push the power button again, the battery can be heard engaging but after three attempts, it gives up. My mind was spinning...my entire writing collection, my photos, my music is all on that thing! Luckily, last night it stayed on long enough for me to put the writing stuff all on my thumbdrive, so y'all could read that last posting. Now I suppose I'll have to ask Mom to take the computer home and have a Mac doctor take a look, hopefully just replace the battery and then when she visits in December, bring it back. Until then, I will be going insane without any access to my music, and unable to upload photos to open up memory on my camera. I do have a second memory card though...it's just that the two largest Muslim fetes of the year happen to be this month and November.

Alas, all else is falling into place as I prepare for my flight Friday to Paris. I'm in the process of exchanging money, getting my passport, etc. Mom's package with pants is here! Excellent. Tonight, there's tentative plans for happy hour at the hotel Radisson with PCV friends Mike, Peter, and Dan, which I'm looking forward to. I don't plan on going to anything swear-in related tomorrow, which will make me public enemy no. 1 with friends, but this time I'm not giving in to the pressure (see Koulikoro).

21 Août 2009 – Koulikoro > Original Plans

So as plans typically go in PC Mali, change is the only constant. Here I am in Koulikoro with three other friends preparing the stage house for the site visit party for the new Koulikoro region trainees. Mike and Amber are good friends I’ve hung out with a lot before, both members of my stage of volunteers, called the HoBos. Brandon is a transfer volunteer from PC Madagascar, where all PCVs were evacuated due to a coup (the new leader at the time of his assumption of power wasn’t recognized by many international leaders), and he has quickly become just one of the gang.

Found out earlier this week from Dr. Dawn that my latest MIF kits are negative of amoebas, parasites, or other unwelcome bacteria. Since Mike was also in town and I knew he’d be coming to this Koulikoro get together, and now that I was healthy, I decided I had no legitimate excuse to miss the opportunity to meet our new friends. I jokingly told Mike it would be better this way, since now I wouldn’t be that one Koulikoro volunteer who the new volunteers would meet later, find out I am in their region but skipped out on the welcome gathering.

24 Août 2009 – My First Day of Fasting

Remember my original hesitancy to miss the beginning of Ramadan? When my PCV friends asked me why I had been reluctant to join them in Koulikoro, I told them it felt awkward partying on the same day 90% of our host country began a month long fast. I received a uniform look from all of them, as if to say, “And…” My American peers apparently didn’t share my feelings. What does Malians’ fasting have anything to do with my attending this get-together? Well, as a matter of fact, I told them, I had been planning on fasting this year with my host village. I’m still kind of upset I didn’t stick to my guns, skipped out on the whole thing, and just gone to village the same day they all left for Koulikoro. I would’ve done such symbolically and mostly just out of principle (after all, it was my original plan), not at all worrying about what anyone thought about me due to that choice, because I couldn’t care less. I’m starting to sound elitist, so I’ll just get to today’s program.

As soon as I boarded the taxi around noon, I thought to myself, “Well, we’re about to see if I can pull this fasting goal off.” I woke up around 11 am, had a café au lait and bread brunch, and then told myself it would be the last time I ate during daytime hours until I landed in Paris September 12th. Mirroring what some may think of my decision to do this, my taxi ride to Daoudabougou was bizarre. I was delayed fifteen minutes or so due to a part of the deceivingly nice looking Mercedes-Benz falling out from under the hood. At one moment, my chauffeur ran down the road to…? Purchase something? Get a tool, who knows? He was no longer in sight. As I waited in the hot car, contemplating whether I should make a run for it, I saw a hog-tied sheep fall out the rear of a passing taxi. Somehow, neither the driver nor passenger heard its exit, and continued down the road as if nothing had happened. At this point, I started to wonder if my head was playing games with me the same day I decided to fast for the first time. My driver said not a single word throughout the entire trip. I wasn’t sure if he was upset about my bargaining down his ridiculous fare request or, maybe… “Are you fasting?” I asked. His one and only word affirmed to me as to his silence.

The afternoon progressed and soon I wasn’t much of a conversationalist as well. I’m glad I had a book (Dark Star Safari) to read so I could blame it for my anti-social demeanor. But then I finished the book, and could only sit quietly, people watching from Mamadou’s cell phone repair area among the shops adjacent to Daoudabougou’s market and main road, or just staring into space. Fasting makes your mind go on weird trips, I’ve already discovered, but what better cultural exchange? Every Malian male who has asked me whether I’m fasting has been pleased with my answer and even comforting. One bought me the doughy bread (takula in Bambara) many will break today’s fast with at dusk (the word for this meal in Arabic is iftar). Mamadou Camara admired my ability to fast even just seven hours, saying I’d become a man.

Now the two of us sit waiting for dusk’s prayer call (fitiri) signaling, well, chow time! Tea’s brewing, stomach’s grumbling, mouth’s watering, and…yes! Children alert us all with yells of sun tigera (the fast is broken)!

Mamadou had asked me what I wanted to break my fast with and as I was unaware of any particular food that was appropriate to do so, I embarrassingly said I’d never fasted before, asking his recommendation. The food you break the fast with is not unlike a snack you would have during the day when you feel hungry between meals, and later you have dinner at the normal after dark time (~8 pm). My first fast was broken with takula, fried toh patties, bananas, water, Lipton tea, and a Dunhill cigarette. After all this, Mamadou immediately began brewing Malian (Chinese green) tea. He ate toh with his host concession’s family and I enjoyed a cucumber and tomato salad, ingredients fresh from Daoudabougou’s market.

25 Août 2009 – Fasting Q & A, Artisan Market, & a Pot Pourri of Stories

When one of Mamadou’s friends found out I was fasting again today, his inquiries and my answers were the following:

“You won’t eat?”

“No.”

“You won’t drink water?”

“No.”

“You won’t smoke?”

“No.”

“You will pray?”

“Erm, no.”

“All right, well, you won’t look at women?”

(Laughter)

During the afternoon, Mamadou and I took a bush taxi ride to where Artisans sell their exquisite merchandise near the Grande Mosque. I was looking for leather sandals. We could’ve been mistaken for secret agents our mission was achieved so quickly. Found the style I wanted, bargained down 7500 FCFA (~$16) to 4000 FCFA (~$9), from the first seller we saw, and were off within 5 minutes of arriving. I’d like to check out that area again; there were many cool things to browse, all handcrafted in traditional style.

Malian days already seem to crawl by and fasting certainly exaggerates this feeling. Men here typically sit idle during the day (while women are busy to the point one questions their endurance or sanity) and now that most of the men aren’t eating or smoking during daytime hours, there’s the same amount of idleness with a bit more napping and an overtone of grumpiness, something otherwise rarely seen.

The butigitigi (shop owner) I like to go to near Mamadou’s house always has a trick up his sleeve whenever I drop by. Last night he thought I was lying when I said I had fasted. The two Malians in the store waiting in line behind me were convinced before the shop owner I was telling the truth, mostly impressed with my Bambara. Tonight the shop owner told me he didn’t speak Bambara, so I had to buy tea and sugar in English.

“Do Americans make tea?”

“Yes, but all our tea is similar to Lipton, it comes in a sachet. It is nothing like Malian (Chinese green) tea, with all that presentation and such.”

“Ah, Lipton. It’s very…(pause with puckered lip face)”

“Bitter?”

“Yes!”

I love this guy!

At the last prayer time of each day (safo) during Ramadan, Muslims say a special prayer seventeen times! This takes about twenty minutes to complete. The imam, after this round of prayers, offers a Ramadan specific blessing in Bambara. Alàh huma inàka afùwéne kèrïmune tohibul afuha fa’afuàni.

26 Août 2009 – More Notes on Fasting and 8 Missed Calls

Around 5 am the past two days, I’ve woken up with Mamadou for our pre-dawn meal. Both mornings, Mamadou’s older brother Vieux has knocked on our door to make sure we don’t miss our last opportunity to eat. The menu for us has been the same: hard-boiled eggs stuffed in bread, bananas, water and a juice mix. I’m actually really glad Mamadou just turned on MP3s on his cell phone before lying back down, because Kanye West’s “Heartless” is far more pleasant than the whining of mosquitoes’ constant buzzing.

Last night Mamadou asked whether I would be fasting today. I asked why I wouldn’t and he thought since I’d be taking a trip home to Kafara that I’d opt out of observances. I said I have every intention of continuing to fast until I leave for Paris (Sept 11). His initial surprise turned to appreciation once he was convinced I wasn’t just paying him cultural rhetoric. I think many Malians are confused as to why I’m fasting at all, because I’m not Muslim and don’t pray. Last year, this excuse wasn’t good enough; this year, I decided to fast and they wonder why I choose to be hungry out of my own volition. Others I think I give guilt trips, unintentionally, because I’m fasting and they aren’t. I am not doing this as a competition with anyone else, or because I’ve converted to Islam. I am doing this more as a test of my own discipline, to further share some camaraderie with my fellow Malians, and to experience something otherwise completely foreign to me.

Taking advantage of my last chance to charge the MacBook during the day, I’m holed up inside the shop where Mamadou and his two co-workers named Moussa repair cell phones. They always sit outside around a small table littered with cell phone parts, pieces, and tools. While they work, I too get down to business, typing up the past three days here. I didn’t think out my first 14 hr long fast out too well yesterday. If you don’t keep yourself busy, you begin to realize how long that really is without eating or drinking. Now that a computer is in my lap, the past hour and a half has flown by, and I accomplished something! Great success.

Mamadou just shoved my cell phone in my face to catch my attention, as I’m lost in the sounds of ear buds blasting Dizzee Rascal (who had a new album released the 24th, somebody hook a brother up!), and I see I have 8 missed calls from a number I don’t recognize. I call the number and find out it’s Adiaratou Comagara, the daughter of Kafara’s doctor (a Guinean, hence the unfamiliar last name), who I’d been looking forward to seeing once I made it back to village. She had been trying to reach me (8 times?! I definitely teased her about that excessive amount) to say she arrived in Bamako yesterday and isn’t sure how long she’ll be away from Kafara just yet. Bummer dude. Her older sister, Mama, makes the best gâteau (fried dough balls) I’ve ever had in Mali, and Adiaratou told me to make sure there were some waiting for her when she came back home. Adiaratou, Mama, and their mother assure me that the Lipton tea I brew them during my visits (I add lime juice, sometimes diced ginger, and of course, a cough drop) is of similar caliber to Mama’s gâteau. Now that’s excellent company to share culinary wise.

27 Août 2009 – Missing Transport

The hours between 11-13 o’clock yesterday were especially unpleasant. I’m hoping fasting is similar psychologically as the passing of the week. Yesterday would’ve been Wednesday, the hump, so it’s all downhill from here right?

Around selifana (14h – 2 o’clock for you Westerners), I got a phone call from Kader at the Bureau saying I had packages arrive today. What exceptional timing because Mamadou and I were soon to leave to the area we sit waiting for transport back to Kafara. I took a quick taxi trip to Niarela and was surprised with two flat rate envelope packages and a flat rate box all from Mom. Mamadou saw me arrive back in Daoudabougou with my booty and asked me, effectively, what’s all this then? My mom received many compliments for her latest postal gift, the contents of which were akin to a perfect trip to the grocery store for essentials: tons of reading material (Newsweek, National Geographic, The Economist), another notebook for continued writing, Altoids gum, Listerine pocket strips, Neutrogena face wash, Colgate toothpaste, two new toothbrushes, boxer briefs without holes, hair bands, various seasonings (Cajun, Mrs. Dash, cheese powder, butter powder), canned milk, Clif Bars, and Mamadou’s favorite, beef jerky. Mom, you clearly have outdone yourself. Merci bien! I ni baraji (Bambara thank you with added blessing touch)!

Mamadou and I took a new route to Sokoroji, the area in Bamako where we wait for transport to Kafara. Normally if we arrive around 15h (3 o’clock), we see either Air Digan or Air Kafara soon thereafter. Yesterday we sat for two and a half hours, until 17:30h (5 o’clock)! Repeated phone calls to the driver, who insisted they were on their way, resulted in bitterness and frustration. Finally, Mamadou and I were threw waiting, but so exhausted and hungry we could barely begin our walk back before deciding it would be best to take a taxi. I was not a happy camper, fully expecting to have been in Kafara by that time, not on my way back to Daoudabougou. Soon I was laughing about it all, though, because it was Kadia who had the day before on the phone said that if I planned on arriving back in Kafara yesterday, she would not expect me until today.

As Mamadou and I prepared our iftar, I was so out of it I flirted with a serious faux pas. I was squeezing lime juice onto slices of melon and, forgetting that the day’s fast had not yet been broken by dusk’s prayer call, licked lime pulp from one of my fingers. Luckily only Mamadou was there to witness it, reacting so quickly that he startled me. He only laughed at my expense, asking me facetiously if I was fasting or not. Not two minutes later, imams from the surrounding area could be heard, almost as if they had been waiting for me to make this mistake.

Every night I’m in Daoudabougou I sit with Mamadou, and whoever comes to visit us, outside the concession’s walls, a perfect people watching venue since there’s a busy dirt road right there. We brew tea, listen to music or watch a movie on my MacBook, and sit late chatting and laughing. Early on last night, I had another missed call from a number I don’t recognize but have had calls from the past few days several times. Turns out to be Adiaratou again, this time calling me from her phone (she’d called from a friend’s this morning) to ask if I’d made it to Kafara. Pretty soon, I’m going to answer any number I don’t recognize on my phone with, “Oui, Adiaratou, ça va?” (joking!)

28 Août 2009 – There’s No Place Like Home

As I told Siyaka last night, in Bambara of course, nowhere else can replace home (yòròsi wéré te se ka so bò). I told him this is an American saying, but its meaning wasn’t lost in translation because he replied with the assertion that Kafara is my home. I found it especially fitting that the first song I heard come from Siyaka’s cassette player had the chorus, “I ni se, Mamadou, i ni taama” (Welcome, Mohammed, you and your travels).

I arrived in time to take a bucket bath before iftar, and Kadia made sure my first one in Kafara was excellent: cucumber and tomato salad fresh from the garden Siyaka and I planted. I seasoned my dinner of rice with the Mrs. Dash tomato-basil and cheese powder, making it even more delicious than normal. These seasonings and the Cajun powder are all now under Kadia’s supervision to add to any dishes she feels the need. Before she left, I made sure she had a Chocolate Brownie Clif Bar in hand, her favorite flavor.

Before I went to Bamako, I had left some fabric with one of Kafara’s tailors. I used a portion of the pagna to make a dress shirt. The rest I plan on giving Mom in Paris. Kadia’s review of my first Malian tailored chemise says it all: when I wear this in Paris (the world capitol of fashion), people will be taking notice. Then she shown her flashlight upon my artisan crafted leather sandals. What an ensemble, she exclaimed, no one else will have such an outfit!

29 Août 2009 – Fasting Particulars, Morning, & Remembering Michael

Two interesting takes on my fasting this year for Ramadan were provided to me this evening by Ba koroba and Batima, the children of my favorite Kafara butigi owner. I passed Ba koroba on my way to the butigi, he on his way to the mosque for safo. He asked me why I wasn’t going to pray and I said that since I’m not Muslim I don’t go to the mosque; for me to pray there would be disrespectful. I am only fasting, no praying. “But what will you say to Allah when you die and he asks of your religion?” he asked. I will tell him while I may not have had religious beliefs I was a good person and conducted my interactions with others accordingly. This explanation pleased Ba koroba and he agreed that it was a good philosophy. His sister’s reaction could not have been more different. As Batima left the mosque and I passed her on my way home, she inquired as to why I hadn’t been praying. I asked her which people pray at the mosque. She said everyone. I told her that wasn’t true; Muslims pray at the mosque. I’m not Muslim. “Then why do you fast?” she asked. Doing something is better than nothing, isn’t it? She disagreed, saying that if I didn’t pray that my fasting was meaningless. Despite her friendly and joking manner, I was a bit discouraged. Normally I’d be quick to counterpoint such double standards but I decided it best to just leave it there, saying that if my fasting was meaningless to Allah if I didn’t pray as well, there was no problem (besides, I’m not sure if there is an Allah in the first place – I didn’t say that, although I was thinking it, because I’d probably still be defending myself now, four hours later, instead of getting some sleep). I can only hope that if there were an Allah he wouldn’t hold such grudges. But I’m not going to spend my entire life worrying about pleasing a celestial being, pretending this will save me from whatever certain doom waiting for me if I don’t. I prefer Mark Twain’s take on it all: “Heaven for the weather, Hell for the social life.”

Call me a hopeless romantic, but I feel something especially poignant yet satisfying about this morning. The sounds of a jazz playlist I just put together softly accompanying the scent of burning incense particular to Ramadan and the taste of rice and sauce liberally seasoned with Cajun and tomato/basil flavor. As morning prayer call (fajiri) alerts us all that daylight approaches, the steady chirping of crickets fades and the still dark sky is interrupted with the flashes of an approaching electric storm.

Excuse my attention deficit writing, but the way I write is pulling thoughts from my memory, however and whenever they surface. The result, admittedly, can be a bit disorderly, so forgive me.

It’s been a couple weeks since Michael Jackson’s unexpected passing, and now that I’ve gotten over my initial cynicism with American’s emotional outpours of celebrity deaths (see Princess Diana), I think I’m ready for my own reflections on the life of the curious yet undeniable talent the King of Pop was and will forever be remembered as. Like I’m sure anyone will admit, Michael Jackson was nothing short of entertaining, in all spectacular and tragic forms. Easily the most commanding performer of his age, his dance moves are hypnotizing, his voice eerily innocent despite the sometimes intense lyrical content. I still remember my obsession with the song “You Are Not Alone,” and that silly movie Free Willy that had me in tears. Hey, I was in middle school, OK? My take on the whole downfall that was the final years of Jackson’s life is yet another example of the monsters Hollywood creates. It seems the apex of Jackson’s career, Thriller, the best-selling record ever, and his best efforts to top such a high standard eventually was too much pressure to live up to. Plus, let’s be real here folks, this guy had some seriously mental scars from being in the spotlight his entire life. I get the sense Michael Jackson never wanted to grow up, always searching for ways to return to the childhood he didn’t have. How else can you explain the Neverland ranch, surrounding himself with children (eventually leading to allegations that ruined him, despite dropped charges), and his taste for cartoons? Nevertheless, he was a pioneer, an African-American superstar known the world round (yes, even in my small Malian village). Some suggest his success in altering the status quo of Black’s acceptance in American popular culture allowed for others to achieve things never thought possible, like the election of Barack Obama.

30 Août 2009 – Selling Tomatoes on a Soggy Sunday

It’s been raining at some capacity for the entire day, at least the parts I’ve been awake, so from the hour between 4-5 in the morning, and the hours between 10-17 o’clock. Until just now, it’s been a pleasant yet steady drizzle, which has given way to the typical downpour that can sometimes last as long as 30 minutes. Although this makes for messy and muddy navigation through the concession and beyond, we needed a wet day to make up for the past two hot and dry days, so everyone’s happily damp and grimy.

Siyaka had a big tin pale of tomatoes from our garden to sell at Digan’s market today, so we rode our bikes in that steady morning drizzle the 3km on that muddy red road and sat for an hour or so before his batch was bought and packed away in one of the fleet of public transports mini-vans PCVs amicably refer to as “bush taxis.” Next time, I’m bringing my camera and not giving the lame excuse it’s raining again. How pathetic. You’re from Oregon, Lucas!

31 Août 2009 – Lists I’ve Been Working On & Looking Back A Year Ago Today

I’m sure any Malian PCV, or any West African regional PCV perhaps, could make a similar list, but here’s my attempt at a collection of T-shirts I’ve seen Malians wear that left me thinking, “If they only knew…”

“Ski your ass off” (some Austrian ski resort)

a Trader Joe’s sweatshirt (no kidding, for sale in a market in Segou)

“Rejoice with me”

“Promises to be good next year”

“What’s up buttercup?”

“Let’s shoot some crap” (Casino Resort)

“Penn State Grandma” (worn by a young Malian male)

“Pedro offers you his protection” (Napoleon Dynamite)

“I  what’s his name”

“Official beer taster – it’s a hard job, but someone’s got to do it”

“Now this is Italian!”

“Never kiss and tell”

“Lisa is 30!” (young Malian male)

“F.B.I. –female booty investigation”

Here’s a short list I drafted of things to readjust to back home, some obviously easier than others.

•electricity

•not spending all my time outside

•proximity to farm animals over

•biking is not the fastest way to get to my bank

•public transport that works

•English

•rice and sauce not eaten everyday

•no prayer calls

•4 seasons

•being cold

•women wearing pants

•less tea-drinking

•so many white people! – I’m no longer a minority

•no celebrity status – I’m just normal again

•lack of greetings

•no one to relate to – people don’t relate to 2 years in Mali and how its affected me

•telling a lot of the same stories to many different people

•how expensive everything will seem (mangoes especially)

•an immensely inflated access to information as compared to Kafara

•how behind I feel on current events

•privileges due to my male gender in a Muslim village are lost

•doing many things for myself that had been previously done by Kadia

•the fact no one may seem to care about certain stories/changes/experiences like I do

And, lastly, things I’ve experienced in the past year for the first time.

•living in another country/continent/Africa

•speak up to 6 languages in 1 day

•eating without utensils

•no toilet paper, electricity, running water, phone reception

•months without rain

•the establishment of a Cooperative

•seeing someone the same day they die

•have a child named after me

•shortest and longest hair length

•only white person for miles

•biking 180 miles in a month

•sleeping on the ground

•amoebas

•fasting

•praying in a mosque

•new name

•live in a patriarchal society

•skin a cow, kill a chicken

•not seen my immediate family

•hear an imam prayer call

•live in a majority Muslim country

•pull water from a well

•awoke to a donkey’s bleating

•see an African-American elected President

•temperature never below 65

•constant exposure to malnourished population

•picked a mango from the tree

•harvested cotton

•rode in a donkey cart

•braided my hair

•applied henna

•made phone calls/texts in another language

•eaten toh

Something that occurred to me last night was that I’m now able to compare current reflections and experiences to those of a year ago in a similar context, because I’ve been in Mali long enough for this to be possible. Turns out last year on this day, my Tamala PCV guy friends Dan, Jon, Joel and I had our adventure in Bamako’s Grande Marché with our LCF (language and cultural facilitator) Abdoulaye Coulibaly getting our Brad Pitt-inspired suits tailored for swear-in. Later that afternoon, I learned of Sarah Palin’s nomination as Sen. John McCain’s running mate. Upon returning that evening to Tamala, I had to explain to my host family what the honey I bought them was, because I think the container threw them off; Malians harvest honey, they know what it is. I was a week from leaving homestay in Tamala, and judging from my writing, very anxious to finish training and get on with it!

Today, I’m a week from leaving Kafara for Bamako, in preparation for my first vacation! I’d rather not start counting down the days, instead enjoying myself here in village as much as possible. It’s crazy to think about how soon I will be in Paris though. I spent a good portion of today at the residence of Kafara’s doctor, since it beat sitting alone in my concession. Better to keep occupied when fasting, like I mentioned before. Mama, Adiaratou’s older sister, and I chatted while she braided Awa’s hair. Awa is Vieux’s wife, Vieux is Mamadou Camara’s older brother, got it? Before I leave I promised Mama to bring my MacBook over at some point this week so she can hear Akon’s latest album, Freedom, as she’s a big fan of his music, like many West Africans. The resemblance between Mama and her father is uncanny. It’s like they have the same face! A funny moment during my visit was when she was preparing some mixture and asked if I’d be buying any fried bean cakes (furu furu), another popular snack Malians eat for their iftar during Ramadan, later this afternoon. I said no, maybe another time, but her mother read my best attempt at a polite decline like a book, saying I’d prefer Mama’s gâteau. I could only smile as we gave each other a look that said, “We are so on the same page.”

A trip to the reception place early tonight revealed a missed call from Adiaratou not four minutes before I arrived, so I called her to say hi. Apparently the older relative she’s staying with in Bamako wants me to teach them how to laugh, because that’s most of what they overhear during Adiaratou and my phone conversations. It’s turns out Turokorobougou, where she is staying, is not far from Daoudabougou, where I stay with Mamadou Camara, so if Adiaratou is still in Bamako around the 7th of September, I’d like to visit another part of the city. She told me to be around reception around 23hr (11pm), as Orange Mali (cell service) has a special promotion during Ramadan from 23hr to 7hr (so nighttime basically) where any call you make costs less than $1 (around 92 cents), but I waited for 40 minutes playing Snake before wondering why I had stood in a field waiting for a phone call for so long. I bet Adiaratou succumbed to what she warned me not to, that is falling asleep before 23hr. Haha, god I miss these type of interactions, they remind me of those with friends back home!

I’ll end today with two cool facts. Bamako in Bambara means “crocodile’s back,” and France has the highest Muslim population of any country in Europe. I’m still skeptical of that last one, but Al Jazeera English probably knows more than me. I would’ve guessed Turkey.

2 September 2009 – Twelve Hours of Rain

It began last night as a huge storm front from the east could be heard thunder-clapping and flashes of lightning interrupted the moonlit night. I fell asleep as the first round of rain clouds passed (and poured) over.

I woke up at 4:15 to a flooded house. It was still raining out and showing no sign of fatigue. There were two spots where the water had crept in from the point at which my thatched roof meets the wall. Together, Kadia and I moved everything sitting in a pool of water (2 bags and packages) to a dry spot and she mopped up the floor. Things approached normality briefly.

I was suddenly awoken a couple hours later by Soumaila moving a bunch of things from behind my bed where another leak had begun, soaking all that’s near and on my desk. My house now looks completely haphazard, with piles of stuff spread out all over. At least it’s dry though. Yes, I took pictures.

I feel back asleep, and it was still raining. The sound of splitting wood woke me in a panic as I thought my hut was about to collapse on me. Alas, it was only the gwa, which fell so abruptly my screen door swung open. More pictures. Soumaila returned to survey the damage and we both laughed at this crazy morning. The rain was still falling twelve hours strong and we both decided my plans to go to Oueléssébougou were to blame for this Noah’s Ark reenactment (remember our running joke about Oueléssébougou trips and rain?).

Around 11:30 the rain finally took a break and I emerged from the wreckage. Before I could burst into a rendition of “I Got It Bad (And That Ain’t Good),” I noticed the area where cows and sheep had been kept previously, the mud walls of which had disappeared on each side, and the area was filled with water. Crops were laid flat from heavy rain and wind.

And despite all this, I’m still laughing. What else can one do?

3 September 2009 – Tlaloc

If you’re thinking I will ever top the excitement yesterday morning alone provided, good luck. That is a tall task, folks. I’ll tell you what though, it made for the day to pass by like nothing, and before I knew it, iftar was ready before my stomach remembered I hadn’t eaten all day. Party bonus.

I spent almost three hours this afternoon drawing. The impulse comes out of nowhere, and if I don’t fulfill it promptly, I lose that artistic surge. Fortunately, I have art supplies and quickly browsed a National Geographic for a suitable subject to recreate. By that I mean the first picture that struck me was fine. The issue I chose features an article on the Black Pharaohs of Egypt, and I was planning on finding a cool Egyptian artifact was drawings on it to inspire me. Before I even made it to that story, however, an Aztec rain god, Tlaloc, caught my eye. Lots of color and intricate design kept me occupied and distracted from today’s fast. How ironically appropriate after a day 150 milliliters of rain fell in Soumaila’s fields I decide to draw an Aztec rain god? Oh fate, haha.

4 September 2009 – Oueléssébougou, Cucumber-Tomato Salad

Today’s Oueléssébougou trip was a mixed bag. My friend Kadiatou also made the trip, so I had someone to sit and talk to in the afternoon while we waited for transport. The bank took over two hours, mostly because one person took 30 minutes, which still baffles me. There were several good notes in my Gmail inbox: Isabel arrives in Paris the day I fly there, Greg sent me a long update message, and my PCV friend Mike sent me a list of Bambara proverbs which will impress my Malian counterparts when the time is right. I scoured the entire market area for avocadoes, but found none, only the katani I’d been asked to get for Soumaila’s wife, Muriama. Lastly, I got Ba koroba his friend bean cakes (furu furu), which he was most delighted to receive when I got home.

The best part of yesterday was definitely in the evening. As usual, I broke my fast with a sparkling ginger soda mix, cucumber-tomato salad (fresh from the garden), and added Mama’s gateaux to moni (porridge). Kadia later made a larger batch of cucumber-tomato salad for Siaka and all the younger siblings, with bread this time to dip in the peanut oil, and she had a small portion set aside for me. When I arrived at Mama’s, she and Kadiatou were busy preparing, you guessed it, cucumber-tomato (and onion) salad, and a tomato-onion omelet. Mama is easily one of the best cooks I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing (and therefore getting to eat their delicious masterpieces) and I would guess her to be around 21 years old. Everything she makes is fantastic! Coincidentally, as I look back a year ago in my writing, the night of September 4 the group of us in Tamala cooked delicious pasta with our LCF Abdoulaye. I also noted back then the signal I’ve been waiting for each evening during Ramadan, the imam prayer call broadcasted over the radio signaling to all the fast is over until dawn. Believe me, it makes the call even more beautiful than it already is when you know food is headed your way.

5 September 2009 – Sun Kalo 101

Today marks the 15th day of Ramadan, and the full moon tells us that the month of fasting is at its midway point. Literally translated from Bambara, sun kalo means “fast(ing) moon” (Kalo is also the word in Bambara for month, hence implying the Lunar calendar frame of reference), and I like to think as I gaze at tonight’s full moon that it is the archetypal kalo in the month’s Bambara name. Last year, as it every so often happens (one might say, once in a blue moon…ugh, I apologize), the lunar calendar and the month of September coincided. This year, the 15th day is on the 5th of September. How that 10-day discrepancy in one year happens I’m still trying to figure out.

For whatever reason, today’s fasting was particularly difficult for me personally. I tried to distract myself during the lunch hours studying French, but eventually had to just lie down and hope a quick nap would help. Perhaps the super-sized portion of cucumber-tomato salad from last night threw things out of whack. That isn’t to say I wouldn’t make that same mistake again, because there is something about that simple dish I just love.

I’ve had to remind Malians that while I’ve decided to fast this year for Ramadan, I have no intentions of this paving the way for conversion to Islam. Many have interpreted my choice to fast as a crucial first step in that direction. Despite my best attempts to reel them back to reality, reminding them I don’t pray at the mosque each night, I may use one of the Bambara proverbs my PCV friend Mike included in the list he sent me. Zonzan ni fali bólen don nka a den té (The rabbit looks like the donkey, but it is not its child.). I love the application section Mike writes to explain this proverb. “Firstly, for those of you who do not quite yet grasp how a donkey and rabbit look alike, the resemblance is all in the face: long ears – flat nose – wise, weepy eyes. They way to tell a donkey from a rabbit apart is to look at the tail. There is more of it on the former. This proverb is, in my experience, the most adaptable of those here. When wishing to dispute being defined as or compared to anything (whether it be the word toubab, or that someone has just said that Doucoure’s and Coulibaly’s are the same) replace rabbit and donkey with applicable words and make your point clear. I’ve met very few Malians who do not know this zana well.” In my case, I become the rabbit, and Muslims become the donkey. If I’m unsuccessful with this proverb, there’s another applicable one that many of us learned as trainees. Yirikuru mé o mé ji la, a te ké bama ye (The log in the water will never become a crocodile.). When Malians tell you you’ve become Malian, and therefore need to marry every last woman in sight, or spend the rest of my life farming, it’s nice to be able to have a culturally appropriate way to set boundaries, differentiating between learning about a culture and joining it. What’s great about Bambara proverbs is the easy application each of them has to the life of a PCV. When we use them, not only do Malians understand immediately what we’ve been trying to say in broken Bambara, they are also taken aback that we took the time to learn their cultural wisdom. Again, as Mike states in his introduction to the list of proverbs, the benefits of knowing these phrases are many: they make excellent ice-breakers, allow a PCV to relate explanations directly to the culture of Bambara, defuse tension in moments of confrontation, and demonstrate a level of cultural proficiency which establishes an air of legitimacy while reducing that of a target.

Book IX – Testing My Grit

11 Août 2009

Yes, I know what y’all must be thinking. Lucas was in Bamako until yesterday and didn’t blog the last 4 days?! OK you probably weren’t thinking that. If you were, here’s my excuse/your reward: the past several day’s events to the best of my memory.

Friday morning I woke up in the Med Unit feeling terrible. My stomach was making noises I didn’t think possible and three trips to the bathroom in one hour had me wondering what just happened. I haven’t been sick for months and the day after I finish my mid-service I’m hit! I packed up my things and as I left, Dr. Dawn tells me my blood and urine samples were clear. I sat for a bit at Le Campagnard, answering emails from Mom, Isabel, and Dad, but still feeling awful around noon, I called Dr. Dawn. She said I may have eaten something bad and to do all the things I had been doing: water, pepto, etc. The waitress gave me the funniest look when I asked for tonic water and bread. I told her I was sick to my stomach and she clarified whether this would make it better. I could only reply with, “inchallah.”

Later, as Mamadou, Lasine, and I were watching a soccer match between Orange Mali (the phone service company) employees from Falajé and Lafiabougou (bureaus of Bamako), Dr. Dawn called me to say my MIF kits (stool samples) were positive for amoebas. Hence the gorilla in the room, I mean, my stomach. She left me some medicine in my post office box at the Bureau and for the remainder of my stay in Bamako my stomach would occasionally be upset but nothing more. This whole episode left me with many questions yet unanswered. How could I be feeling as healthy as I have been and have amoebas at the same time? How long have I had them? Are they gone now or do I need another 3-day pack of that medicine? How many questions will Mom have about this?

Sunday, Mamadou, Lasine, and I did our best attempt at making an omelet. We got seven eggs, five tomatoes, mixed that all up and added two packs of chicken flavored MSG seasoning, and cooked it over ridiculously unevenly hot coals but the final product, stuffed in fresh, delicious Bamako bread was delightful. I really wish the entire thing could’ve been videotaped, because it had to have been a riot.

Mamadou and I took a long taxi ride Saturday afternoon to where Djenèbou is spending her break from school. The preparation for our one hour visit was overwhelming. Tea sitting so as we plopped ourselves down on the three seats awaiting us we were served the first round, with peanuts! Food served in silver Tupperware and the presentation of which could’ve caught a culinary artist’s attention: African rice (zamè), okra, African eggplant, cabbage, onion greens, hot pepper, and two tiny white fish filets. No sooner had we finished eating were we presented with three cold sodas, in a variety of flavors for us to choose from. I was so baffled by this hospitality that words escaped me and I just sat quietly trying to figure it all out. I could tell Djenèbou and her hosts were happy I came, that’s all I suppose. It would help if Djenèbou would clue me rather than never talk in my presence, beyond random questions that seem to come out of nowhere. Oh well, I was glad to make the visit, despite the weird overtones.

I learned that lack of trust isn’t just a problem between Americans. Mamadou was telling me the reasons why certain folk in Kafara have an irrational opinion of Soumaila. Rumors are rampant about his political affiliations, activities and their rewards for him, and reasons why he is so involved in the community goings-on. My read on it is very different. Soumaila has no corrupt aspirations about him, he has no desire to become anything more than he is now, just another Malian doing his best to make a life for himself and support his ever-growing family (see, 11 children). He doesn’t undertake projects for personal gain, he’s doing them to try and help his village receive the attention of organizations that can help them improve their quality of life. How do they not see this? The same people who have these cynical views of people like Soumaila, enthusiastic about doing something help, complain about problems that could very easily be solved with the help Soumaila does his hardest to find. Were people like Soumaila not around, the people of Kafara certainly wouldn’t have an American living with them for two years.

12 Août 2009

Just another day in Mali leaving me questioning how much I can put up with. Finding out I have amoebas is one thing; many PCVs learn this and it might sound crazy but there are worse illnesses we can get so I’m alright with the fact I feel hungry an hour after eating.

But what I witnessed in Oueléssébougou today checking my email was too much. The place already had a sketchy vibe to it, but nothing too harmless. Frequently I would interrupt the same employee from uploading porn onto his cell phone so I could connect to the Internet. The event that occurred today was at the hands (literally) of the shop owner, a normally quiet guy who I had rarely seen leave his seat near the front door. I’d barely finished reading my inbox when he could be heard yelling at a teenager, very aggressive, hostile yelling, repeatedly telling the kid to get in the house, or the area in the back where I was. I watched a terrible sight unfold not ten feet from my seat as he began beating the kid and continued yelling the same question over and over, the context of which was lost on me but could no way warrant such punishment. Already feeling sick to my stomach, I thought perhaps things had boiled over. Then the man told the kid to take off his shirt, unplugged a cord from a printer sitting nearby and began whipping him with it, saying he was going to continue doing so until he killed him. I could watch no more and got up and left, wishing I could do something less cowardly. Had it been a woman victim perhaps I would have at least said something. The man and kid were about the same size, both tall and skinny, but that did little to dampen the words coming from the man and helpless pleas and screams coming from the kid. The owner’s co-worker stood up front and sheepishly apologized to me as I left paying for an arbitrary amount of time I didn’t care at that point to be truthful. He offered me that same amount of time for free my next visit, an offer I could barely acknowledge with a nod. How sick are these people? I get 15 minutes for free on the Internet in exchange for this behavior? Why am I rewarded for witnessing this? What if Siaka had been with me, like he usually is? The worst feeling I’m left with is the lack of any sort of enforcement or consequence to such an event. It’s just another day in Mali leaving me questioning how much I can put up with.

14 Août 2009

Back at the Med Unit. I spent the past several days in Kafara doing nothing more than resting in between stomach pains. Diarrhea began again Wednesday and after calling Dr. Dawn yesterday to ask what to do, she said to come back for another MIF kit test to see if the amoebas are still acting up or maybe something else has joined the party. I barely caught her, forgetting it was Friday and no one works after noon, but luckily she was still around when I arrived at 12:30. Over the weekend I’m to produce a couple more MIF kits for testing and Monday when she’s back I will have another diagnosis and treatment. I’m reluctant but not quite at the point with this strong amoeba medication many of my PCV friends are, their reviews of it being that they’ve all been on it various times and have opted to forgo another round for the remainder of their service, instead living with the ups and downs amoebas give them. Very reassuring. So while they’re all at Le Campagnard enjoying a promotional buy-one-get-one-free Beaufort beer doo-dad, I’m calling it a night early and succumbing to another visit from Mr. D (Dr. Aissata’s playful euphemism for diarrhea).

Alla ka nogoya. (May Allah lessen the suffering.)

Alla ka tòrò dogoya. (May Allah ease the pain.)

Alla ka segin e yèrè ma. (May Allah grant that you return as yourself.)

Alla ka sini fisaya ni bi ye. (May Allah make tomorrow better than today.)

Alla ka ban. (May Allah grant an end.)

Alla ka dugaw minè. (May Allah catch our prayers.)

Amiina. (Amen.)

15 Août 2009

Felt terribly last night, but today I feel perfectly fine. Confused health-wise overall, but didn’t let that keep me down. Mamadou Camara told me to spend the weekend with him in Daoudabougou, and I’ll go back to the Med Unit Monday to hear back about the latest MIF kit’s results.

The good vibes of today were aided by the beginning of Premier League football, and I watched Arsenal’s splashing debut, a 6-1 demolition of Everton, next door to the cell phone repair shop where Mamadou works, across from Daoudabougou’s bustling market and busy road. I love the icebreaker sports are for conversation, as I’ve mentioned before, since I could talk sports with just about anyone until my lips fell off, or my poor audience’s ears, whichever comes first. One Malian was the expert, knowing more about summer transfers in the Premier League than I did after visiting ESPN’s website yesterday.

One thing I’ve forgotten to mention about Mamadou’s living quarters are the especially friendly dogs that belong to the concession’s owners. The younger one, named Prince like my old dog back home, runs to greet us every time we return home each afternoon/evening. Normally dogs here are so afraid of punishment and people in general that this type of behavior catches me off guard, not to mean I don’t love Prince’s spunk. At some point I should learn commands, like ‘down,’ and teach him some discipline Bambara style.

My PCV friend Mike is taking responsibility for the site visit I was supposed to do tomorrow and Monday. We were going to do that together but I’m not confident in my stomach at this point to go through with what would’ve been a fun introduction/orientation for the trainee in Bougoula.

Another site visit related event I’m going to have to pass on is the site visit party in Koulikoro this weekend. Not only does it coincide with the beginning of Ramadan, an important Muslim observance I feel awkward missing the beginning for to throw a fiesta, I’m not sure how this med visit is gonna go down and would rather just go back to site that weekend and hopefully begin fasting with my villagers, a goal I’ve been planning somewhat secretly, not wanting to bring too much attention to myself. My vacation to Paris falls near the end of the month-long fast, so I’ll kind of cheat out of that week, but I’ll be back in time for the break of fast fête, which also falls around Mali’s Independence Day, the 22nd of Septmeber.

My PCV friend Mark, remembering a conversation we had at Le Campagnard a month ago or something about travel writing, surprised me with a book in my Bureau post office box. Dark Star Safari is written by a former PCV in Malawi, Paul Thoreux, about an overland voyage he took from Cairo to Cape Town. I cannot put the book down; I’ve already finished the Egypt portion of his journey! It’s been fun to personally relate to many of his experiences and reflections already.

slept like a champ at the med unit last night. got up early this morning and had my lab work done by nine o'clock. only thing left for me to do is provide two mif kits (stool samples) to my doctor by tomorrow, when i finally head to mamadou camara's place. i'm excited for tonight at the med unit, because i'm pretty sure i'll have the upstairs to myself, and will watch a couple films from the insane movie library at my disposal.

last night, many other pcvs and i met peter at the hotel radisson near his apt for happy hour. i've written about that place before, it's arguably the nicest hotel i've ever been to anywhere. we got to sit inside this time, rather than on the outside patio, and despite the freezing a/c of the place, we enjoyed ourselves. i didn't feel quite as uncomfortable and out of place as i did the first time.

the 16th i'm doing a site visit with a new pcv in a village near oue. and i'll be helping them get acquainted with their new village, meeting appropriate people and settling in logistics. all i know is that it will be an education volunteer. more on that as i get updated on the specifics.

the 21st or 22nd there's a site visit party for koulikoro region newbies in koulikoroville, about an hour to the east of bamako. several friends have request my presence and i hope to make that trip out there to meet our new friends. we'll see how that pans out...

i always arrive in bamako with grandiose plans that are inevitably shat upon within an hour of my arrival. or at least upon checking my email, where the majority of my pc updates come from, of course. i learned that my supervisor, while still on vacation back stateside, has been promoted, her position now vacated and my asst supervisor was on lunch break. i still haven't heard back about either my grant proposal or vacation request forms i turned in last month. my priority in coming here was for my mid-service medical exam, which apparently i shared with many other pcvs, because the doctor told me the med unit had no space for me to stay. luckily, my good friend peter, who used to be in gao, now has an apt in bamako and i crashed there last night. in a coincidental manner, it was peter, jon, and me, the toubani so roommates, posted up in peter's bachelor pad and we spent the night watching the first season of weeds, a showtime tv show. i slept terribly, mosquitos abound, and eventually gave up around 4 am, and after applying bug repellent watched milk, an excellent film about harvey milk, the first ever openly gay candidate elected to public office in america. i almost cried at several points during the movie. and then, it rained, a lot. i was glad, because bamako has been aching for such the past month or so, but also annoyed because it eventually conflicted with my trip to the med unit this morning, postponing my visit until tomorrow. oh, and how could i forget, i left my phone at le campagnard last night, only realizing such upon arriving at peter's apt. another pcv called peter from my phone telling him they'd place it in my mailbox at the bureau. however, having checked said mailbox and several others of friends, i find no phone of mine. insanity looms.

Book VIII – At the Hump (Middle of Service)

10 July 2009 – Outclassed, Kafara Updates, & Journals

I arrived in Mali one year ago today, something that still hasn’t quite hit me yet. The new stage of 74 PCVs arrives tonight at Toubani So.

Funny story from my Bamako trip – the night a group of my PCV friends and I were celebrating a send-off for the Gao PCV going home, we moved from Le Campagnard to the Sofitel, Hotel Libya, or otherwise referred to as the tallest building in Mali (around 30 stories and not even built by Malians – slightly depressing). I lagged behind the group waiting for Mike, whose ex-girlfriend is visiting and was with us, but he eventually told me to just go myself. I directed the taxi there and upon approaching the entrance, I realized how out-of-my-league this hotel was and underdressed I felt. I also hadn’t the slightest clue where to go, as I’d never “hung out” at arguably the most expensive place in Bamako, so I asked one of the Malian bell-boys where the karaoke was, the word for which I didn’t know in Bambara. He didn’t understand so I just asked where singing was happening. He said many places and eventually just said for me to have a look around for myself, so I loitered about the lobby, poking my head into the bar where a jazz group was playing. I felt so uncomfortably out of place that I exited the building and considered just going home before calling Jon, who directed me to the downstairs club where everyone was. Our bill was apparently picked up by another hotel owner and I would’ve had a lot of fun (I had signed up to karaoke 50 Cent’s “Candy Shop”) were it not spoiled by another PCV’s misunderstanding that she and I were in a relationship. Trying to talk sense into her was useless since it was very clear she’d been enjoying the bottle service. I eventually fled Niarela around one am, calling Mamadou Camara to say there was no place for me to sleep there and I didn’t like the area. He found this hilarious and met my taxi in Daoudabougou’s market so he could direct the driver to our sleeping quarters.

My abrupt exit didn’t allow me to say the good-bye I wanted to Tim, the Gao PCV, so when I arrived back in Kafara yesterday evening I called him up to say good luck, safe travels, and keep in touch.

Soumaila had many updates for me, and all of them were good news. Kafara has seen over 70 mm of rain the past two nights and it seems our rainy season is going to be a good one. Wednesday he was in Bamako to check on his wife, who he tells me gave birth yesterday to a boy. After saying appropriate blessings (may it grow up healthy, may it become Muslim, etc.), I asked his newest son’s name. He said he would have to ask his older brother Daouda if the name had been given yet but in the meantime asked me to think of a name I like and he would inform Daouda of my choice!

Last night, Kadia’s friend Batima and I were reading aloud a practice language sheet I’d made copies for village friends that has Bambara translated to French and English. She helped me with my French pronunciation and although I took a while to figure out rules about the letter “s” and nearly tied my tongue in a knot trying to say “croire en,” I cannot wait for our next practice session.

I received an intriguing and exciting email from This is Diversity, written by someone who works with EthnicUSA who came across my blog in his research and was impressed with my writing and insights as a PCV. He asked for me to consider editing and selecting portions of my blog to submit to them. I checked out both This is Diversity and EthnicUSA’s websites and they look to be very legitimate places with articles on various subject matters from a variety of news and private sources, all reputable. A cool opportunity indeed and my first chance to test the waters of journalism!

Speaking of which, I just finished reading a very interesting article in the March ‘09 edition of Newsweek that chronicles a former Gitmo guard’s conversion to Islam after experiences and conversations he had with one of the detainees. The article is entitled “The Guard Who Found Islam.” I admire the guard’s courage to do such while still serving at this post, which certainly led to awkward moments with his superiors upon learning of his interest in the “enemy’s” faith. As I read the article, I identified with several observations the guard made as he became more and more exposed to Muslim faith. Rather than convert, however, I’ll just leave my interest at intellectual curiosity and respect.

This afternoon while Drisa and I brewed tea under my gwa, Soumaila stopped by for the first round (“premier”), and as we sat waiting for our tea, I asked if his newborn son had a name yet. He said no and asked me if I’d thought of a good one. I said no, but added it’d be fun if it could become my Malian namesake. He agreed and gave me his phone with Daouda’s number to call and give blessings as well as suggest my name preference. Since it was just past 4 o’clock prayer time (Lansara) Soumaila told me to wait until after 4:30 since Daouda would be at the mosque until then. Needless to say, I was still a little bit overwhelmed with the task of suggesting a name for someone else’s child, and having to run this by Soumaila’s older brother, whose intimidating presence surpasses that of Soumaila with me. Father figures in general give me this anxiety, for whatever reason, perhaps due to my relationship with my own father. It’s not that I’m scared of them; it’s more out of respect. Not having my father figure constantly present growing up, I’m still figuring out the intricacies of this relationship. Luckily, I’m different from our animal friends, like elephants, where studies have shown that those raised without a fatherly presence are generally unruly and troublesome. Alas, I digress. Drisa and I went to the reception spot near Daouda’s (the neighbor) house and Daouda (the brother of Soumaila…this is getting ridiculously confusing) was very pleased with my calling to give blessings and he said both Soumaila’s wife and newborn were in good health. He erupted in appreciative laughter when I said it would give me great joy if the son could be named Mamadou, like me. What better way, I thought selfishly, to remind them of his birth occurring while I was here?

Kadia and I tacked up my foldout picture of Obama in my hut today. After we finished, I said now 2 Americans lived there. We both laughed and she said I was right. “Barack Obama and Lucas,” she added.

I woke up around 8 am this morning to rain and it didn’t quit until 11! I stayed inside reading the library of Newsweek’s I had received in the latest package from Mom. Kadia didn’t wake up until 11:30, I’m guessing because the cooler temperatures (I was wearing long-johns, no joke, until this afternoon…in the 70s!) made for good, hard sleep. She greeted me at my door with salutations normally said earlier in the morning, like how I slept, and I asked whether she had just woken up, surprised at her timing. Upon telling her it was close to midday, she didn’t believe me and hurried to prepare my lunch after seeing my watch. Man I’m going to miss her silliness and our close friendship come her school days in Bamako.

11 July 2009 – Obama’s Brother Becomes Tracy Morgan…In One Blog Posting!

Upon greeting me this morning, Soumaila immediately noticed and complimented the newest addition to my mud hut: the Barack Obama picture. Last night, Siaka was telling Kadia’s friend Batima of his hopes for his hangout crewmember’s names to be read on Sanankoroba’s radio station. Every Saturday night, the DJ reads such lists submitted by listeners over fun Malian beats. Each member’s real name and hangout crew nickname is read, usually resulting in several laughs. The hang-out crew names can be funny too, as Batima’s friend found Siaka’s to be, telling me “Gin Gin” (pronounced like the “g” sound in “gun” and not like the “j” sound in “germ”) was a species of bird. I said it was astronomically better than “Bad Boys” or “G-Unit.” Batima immediately asked Siaka what my hangout crew name was, and he proudly responded “Mamadou Samaké dit Américaine!” She laughed and shook Siaka’s hand while saying in her giggly voice I was Obama’s brother.

It’s been a year, and I’m finally collecting some cool critter experiences. I know people back home will be expecting me to have insane stories of wild encounters with African animals and I’m trying my best to not disappoint them. When I tell these stories, I’d like to do so in homage of Brian Fellow’s Safari Planet, that hilarious sketch from Saturday Night Live done by Tracy Morgan. Before my Bamako trip, I was sitting outside my concession when I was alerted to a loud buzzing sound coming from within its walls. I stood up to look over them and saw a huge scarab beetle! That’s crazy! But then last night, as Siaka and I walked with Batima across Kafara to her house, Batima’s flashlight glanced over a bright red spot in the green grass adjacent to the mud path we were taking. I told everyone to hold their horses and I went for a closer inspection. Sure enough, it was an arrow dart poison frog! Wow!

12 July 2009 – Wedding Dancers

Beginning yesterday afternoon, singing and dancing could be heard from across the village near Amadou’s butigi. Later last night, I went to have a look for myself, since I heard the dancers were wearing traditional costumes. The area was packed with people, so I watched only for a couple of minutes from the obscure pathway between two huts. Sure enough, the dancers’ costumes were impressive, with headdresses, tassels, clanging chimes, and such. The drumming would every so often assume a frenzied pace and the dancers would start jumping about and scurry across the circle’s perimeter the audience formed around them. Next time I’ll definitely get pictures. In case you were wondering, like I was, the reason for the entertainment was a wedding.

14 July 2009 – Diago Market Trip, French Lesson #2, Phone Calls, & Namesakes

Last week, Ba koroba, whose father owns my favorite butigi in Kafara, asked me to join them today for their weekly trip to Diago’s market. After running the plan by Soumaila, I let Ba koroba know over the weekend that it was a go.

I woke up in a panic that I’d overslept the 7:30 call time, but I had fifteen minutes to spare, just enough time to get dressed and brush my teeth. Normally I’d like to, you know, have a bucket bath and leisurely breakfast, but no such luck today.

This story cannot be told without a description of the mode of transportation we were to take the 19 km trip with, because it is mythical. Somehow this automobile (an ancient Peugeot small pickup) makes it to Bamako and back every Tuesday, a fact that blows my mind. Just getting the thing started is an adventure, as there is no key or ignition involved, instead it is literally hot-wired and sometimes pushed from behind to build momentum and engage the motor. I shortly thereafter realized the brakes are completely shot, around the time I started wondering what the hell I’d agreed to: a trip to Diago or my utter demise? Diago is the same distance on bush roads from Kafara as Oueléssébougou, but instead of taking a southwest direction, our course took us beyond Digan, east and south, through the villages of Sananba and Sanankoro-Djitoumou. Parts of the road are very pleasant; it’s the parts that resemble anything but road that had me contemplating religious beliefs. We had a brief hiccup when a tire went flat, and I helped Ba koroba and his father change a couple tires out before we were back on our way. Somehow, this was the only mechanical delay we would incur on our trip, which Siaka later told me was due to Allah’s mercy. Whatever was to thank for such good fortune, I am forever grateful. Against all reason, I enjoyed the trip thoroughly, and look forward to making it again next Monday.

The market in Diago is the biggest I’ve seen outside of larger towns like Bamako or Oueléssébougou. That’s just in terms of size, however, as I was puzzled at the lack of certain items in stock I noticed walking through the stands with Ba koroba. This may just be due to the time of year as well, I’m not sure as I’ve only been this one time. After Ba koroba and his father set up their area, I told them I hadn’t eaten yet and it was close to 11! Ba koroba took me to get some rice and peanut sauce, and as I ate wondering why he didn’t sit to eat some himself, he told me when I returned that he’s fasting for a week. Unaware of any Muslim observances that involve fasting besides Ramadan, which isn’t for another month, I asked why he was fasting. He said that Muslim teachings state that if you’re in good health and willing to do so, any Muslim can choose to fast for 3 days or a week per month. Some even go so far as to fast for a whole month or the entire year! The reason behind fasting, in many religions, is its association with enlightenment and atonement and understanding the suffering of the poor. Part of me respects the self-control this build’s in one’s psyche, but how healthy can it be for say a Malian who normally isn’t eating a nutritionally sound diet to begin with to not eat from sun-up to sun-down, all the while carrying out the enormous workload their daily lives entail?

Batima was at Siaka’s last night, and we had another French practice session, my pronunciation showing tiny improvements. I nailed “croire en” this time, but the pronunciation of the letter “y” in between two vowels or words ending in a certain accented “e” sound stole my small victory. She taught me the conjugation of the irregular verb pouvoir (to be able to/can – a politician in Gao adopted Obama’s “Yes We Can” slogan and adorned it on his posters in French, “Oui Nous Pouvons”), and she helped me learn how to say “surprise” in Bambara, something I tried to explain to Kadia’s friend Sita with very little success, even after giving several examples of surprises. “Surprise,” one word in English, assumes an entire phrase in Bambara (“ka balikodoké i ma sigi ni mi ye”), and I felt a little better about perhaps the complications in translation through my roundabout explanations. I also learned the different ways to say “unless,” an important transitional phrase, in Bambara, depending on the context.

Last night, after making their periodical calls to Bamako, this time to tell relatives they’d received their DEF diplomas, Djenoba and her friend Indy asked if it was time to call my mom. I said another time. Indy asked if my mom would visit me, a question I never know if they’re asking rhetorically or genuinely, and I said actually yes, in December. Both of them were worried this meant they would miss seeing her, as they would be in Bamako for studies. I reassured them that my mom is planning on spending three weeks here and hopefully at least part of that time they will be on break. Kadia has pledged to come see my mom even if there is no break overlapping her visit to Kafara. I jokingly told Kadia she didn’t have a choice. She has to meet my mom, because really, she’s been like a second mom to me in Mali. Djenoba, and Sita for that matter, both requested I develop photos of my mom for them, a request I was more than happy to fulfill. Since they all refer to my mom as their friend, based solely on the fact that since I’m such a great guy (their words, not mine!) my mom must be amazing, plus they hear me talk about her all the time, since she’s who I grew up with and has made a significant impression on who I’ve grown up to be. They’re very anxious to learn when their break is and said they’d give me their number in Bamako so we can coordinate schedules when the time comes (Kadia told me she plans on joining me at the airport for my mom’s arrival).

Djenèbou surprised me last night by calling my phone and I talked with her and her older sister for a short bit. They said whenever I want I could reach them at the number they called me from. Mamadou Camara gave them my number so they could do the same.

Soumaila informed me this morning that not only had his newborn son been named Mamadou, Daouda (his older brother) added my American name on top of that! I remember back when I arrived here an email Dad sent me detailing impacts and impressions I would leave with my host family members, even foreseeing children named after me. But this did little to numb the humiliating feeling I had learning my newest host sibling was named Mamadou Lucas Samaké.

15 July 2009 – Close-Up, Familial Relations, Last Hibiscus, & Going Mental

Batima’s younger sister, Naru, stopped by my house last night and we shared my dinner together before looking through some Newsweek’s. Any time she would come upon an advertisement that had larger text that was easier to read, she would do so aloud and then ask me to translate the phrase into Bambara. What was cool though was that she would eventually do so herself, mixing French and Bambara in her translation when necessary. I was impressed. But easily the moment I won’t soon forget is when she told me not to buy Colgate toothpaste again, instead to get Close-Up. I said I had gotten Colgate because it was a familiar brand, but she insisted Close-Up was better. I asked if there could really be any difference between the two and she almost seemed insulted by my repeated questioning of her toothpaste recommendations. I can never look upon my Colgate toothpaste the same, or without laughing.

I might have taken longer than normal to figure this out myself, which I’d prefer to prodding questions, but familial relationships are hard to gauge sometimes here, just due to their immensity. Ba koroba, Batima, and Naru are all siblings. The father, Bakary, is my favorite butigi owner. That’s why I’ve kept seeing any one of them around that butigi’s vicinity.

Last evening will be the last hibiscus tea brewing session at Sita’s house for a while, as I am out of stock. I’ll have to make a request for more tea very soon. Since Kadia and I arrived rather late, I just gave Sita the tea sachets and sugar for her to make later. She had undone her braids that day too, but unlike me, she had a poofy afro to show for it. It had been three days since my last visit and Sita made sure to make me feel guilty about my short absence, saying things like “long time, no see,” and she’d missed me. The photo album I had gifted her recently, in which I inserted photos of her parents and siblings to start it off, as well as her requested photo of us two and another of my mom, is almost full of photos she’d had lying about her house. Her mom, as usual, made sure I left with a plastic bag full of peanuts before Kadia and I head home for supper.

I’m having one of those days again that make me question my own sanity. It’s not that I’m anti-social, depressed, or exceptionally lonely. I’d just prefer today to stay at home, read my magazines from as far back as December 2008, and work on my writing while listening to American music. Having done this until lunchtime, I start to feel guilty about the fact I’ve only been outside my concession once all day, a quick trip to the butigi to get sugar for my morning porridge. The sudden realization that literally no one is present in my family’s concession does little to aid my quest to finally be social. Everyone’s in the fields until this evening, and although I’d like to go try and find them, I inevitably feel useless and in the way with my lack of farming experience, and eventually just brew tea and sit with toddlers too young to work. The crazy thing is they would all be perfectly happy for me to do this, as if it were the most productive task ever achieved. Meanwhile, I’d be brewing (along with the tea – terrible unintended pun) over in my mind thoughts of ineptitude and remembering the time a couple weeks back when I tried my hand at the plow pulled by cows to build rows. Siaka made it look so effortless that I naïvely thought surely I could do just one row, since he’d insist that was enough. I could barely place the plow in the soil before the cows spooked, and were I not quick to stabilize the foreign farming tool, and myself, I would have constructed the row with my face rather than the plow. Sure, it was fun to tell this story later to villagers and all get a laugh at my expense but it didn’t do much to patch battered self-esteem.

16 July 2009 – Wells and Weavers…& God’s Flag?

My pathetic moping session yesterday didn’t last long. Rather than rot away in my hut waiting for company to arrive that would never come, I decided to go looking for it! I biked to Kaba (the reception filled granite formation) and noticed how different it already looked this time of year. Patches of green grass dotted the grey stone with beautiful contrast. In nothing more than I can describe as (blind and dumb) curiosity, I decided to bike beyond the formation and in the general direction of the big red road that takes you back to Kafara. I got lost briefly in the bush but was enjoying myself nonetheless. Finally I happened upon the road and was re-oriented towards home.

As I biked by Bakary’s butigi and past the old mosque, Naru called me over to where she was pulling water. She twisted my arm into helping her for a bit and together we filled several bucketfuls and carried them to fill clay bowls in their concession. On literally the last pull from the well, I set the sack on the water’s surface so it filled and with my first tug, the rope snapped and there went all of the rope and sack down, down, down. I uttered an exclamatory remark and expected the wrath of Hades, but Naru was too occupied laughing at me. Both she and Batima fished out the sack with a grappling hook and the story will forever be told that everything was my fault (jokingly).

I sat with Batima and Naru in their concession for the rest of the afternoon. It’s not unlike any other Malian concession I’ve been to, save for one thing: the flock of weavers busily building in the two concession’s trees. Their racket provides an interesting and unique flavor to the otherwise normal concession. The birds themselves are brilliant too, colored bright yellow with black accents. I asked Naru why the birds chose to only live in that one place, as Kafara is large and has many trees. She said because they like this place, providing no further explanation. Every so often, a big group of the birds would buzz off, the sound similar to a gust of wind, followed by an eerie silence as few are left behind still chirping. Watching them weave their nests is fascinating, their ingenuity and resourcefulness inspiring.

When Bakary arrived from Dafara’s market, I asked if it was a good business day. He replied “Thanks to Allah,” in Arabic. I expressed my wish to accompany him another Wednesday. He said there was no problem with that except we would say instead of “another Wednesday,” “next Wednesday.” His son Ba koroba’s weeklong fast ended yesterday, and it was either that or their successful day at market that had him in high spirits. I came by to get eggs to fry up and put in the rice I’d be having for dinner and he greeted me in English saying, “Welcome to our shop!”

Yesterday afternoon, while she was fetching my bucket to fill for my evening bath, I asked Kadia the word for rainbow, pointing to one in the southward skies. She didn’t know the word in Bambara for it, instead suggesting “Allah’s flag.” This list of everyday things I am unable to look upon without remembering a funny story is quickly growing this week: Colgate toothpaste, weavers, wells, and now rainbows.

18 July 2009 – Kadia’s First Trip To Oueléssébougou & An Evening Conversation

This time the rain preceded my Oueléssébougou trip and for a moment I was worried it would spoil my plan take Kadia on her first trip there. Luckily, the downpour was short-lived and plans went on as scheduled.

Although going by transport delayed our arrival until near noon, I arrived dry and clean to my banking town for perhaps the first time. After my half-hour email session (a quick reminder and request note for Mom and an update for David on Soumaila’s newest child), Kadia, Ma fitini (Soumaila’s oldest daughter), and I wandered about Oueléssébougou’s large market collecting various items for family members. We called Lamine Doumbia (the man from whom Kadia buys all her clothes at Digan’s market) and were directed to his stand in an area of the market I had yet seen. I treated my host sisters to lunch and a Fanta (Kadia refuses to drink Coke) and then we paid a visit to Vieux, their uncle (Soumaila’s first wife’s younger brother). Vieux wasn’t home but his wives and children were, making the ridiculously long walk from market not completely in vain.

As we waited for transport to leave Oueléssébougou, I sat with the Air Digan crew, who I prefer to those of Air Kafara. Sadly, their route didn’t head through Kafara, instead taking the big red road I usually bike on that goes through Tamala-Djitoumou, Dialakorobougou-Djitoumou, and Sougoula before finally posting up in Digan. They also left timely, while us Air Kafara passengers were stuck waiting for auto repairs. But before too long, we were on our way back too, and upon arriving in Kafara I began delivering the many items people had asked for us to bring them. Ba koroba was happily surprised with my including fried bean cakes (a staple gift from any market for kids and those young at heart – Ba koroba is my age) with his requested milk to make coffee that evening. Batima and Naru teased me for getting them mangoes again, even though we all know that this time of year, when mangoes are hard to come by, this is an excellent surprise from any market. Nevertheless, two of the four mangoes I brought them disappeared within minutes.

Kadia enjoyed her first trip to Oueléssébougou, and it was fun for me to switch the roles between us (guide and visitor), albeit briefly, as many people recognized her during our day at market.

When she delivered my dinner, Kadia sheepishly remarked it had been too late to make a proper meal. Quite the contrary, I told her when I was finished. It was a culinary delight! Rice porridge, second only to the corn variety, hard-boiled eggs that Kadia seasons with something that is downright fantastic, and the two whopper cucumbers I forgot I had picked up at market in Oueléssébougou, sliced and doused in peanut oil.

I finally made good on my promise to spend an evening at Yousmanne’s house, a couple days late, but I’ve been held up with visitors of my own. Last night was no different, as Sita and her friend Adia surprised me with a quick drop-in for some photo taking. They left around 10:30 pm, and when I realized how quickly it got so late, I wondered if I’d have to awkwardly explain myself to Yousmanne as to why I hadn’t shown up (again). Perhaps if I’d known some of his personal history, I wouldn’t have been so flaky. The son of Dramand, the telephone cabin operator and business professional-type of Kafara, Yousmanne has been serving in Mali’s military in Sevaré (Mopti region) for the past two years and change. Much of his action has been concentrated in operations against looting and generally disorderly rebels, the majority he claims to be of the Tomashek ethnic group. Upon asking if he’s killed anyone, his answer gave me the impression that he thought it should’ve been obvious: of course. He challenged my question with his own: wouldn’t you shoot back at someone whose gun is pointed at you? When I inquired as to whether this had adverse psychological affects, he said not at all. At this point, I wasn’t sure whether to believe him. You’d never have a clue upon meeting such a friendly, accommodating Malian that they could be capable of such things. It reminded me of learning PC’s Security Officer used to be involved in similar military operations, and says his service’s objective was to eliminate extremist Touaregs, another rowdy ethnic group in eastern Mali. Yousmanne had many intriguing and pointed questions for me about American foreign policy, making several educated statements on the hypocrisy of several stands our government has taken in the past. I did my best to answer his questions objectively, as they were approaching subject matter I have to walk a tightrope along due to my PCV/US Ambassador status.

19 July 2009

Yesterday morning I helped Soumaila and Issa from IER (Programme Sorgho) stake out and plant seeds for a test plot of improved sorghum varieties. The plot is behind our neighbor Zan Samaké’s house, so it wasn’t a long hike. Despite the cloudy skies, the sun was still very hot and once I finished sowing five rows of one variety, I spent the rest of my time in the shade.

I took a late afternoon bike ride to Kaba (the granite formation/cell phone reception haven) and placed a call to Ezra. He was directing a car to a Trader Joe’s in DC, and just listening to his interactions with the driver and rear seat passenger, our friend Sam, made me feel like I was there with them. Even Ezra said it was like I was there, and he put me on speakerphone so I could say hi to Sam too. I hadn’t called them for months and it was good to hear their voices and laugh with them.

While waiting to buy my eggs to include with dinner, I spent a little while with Naru and Batima at their concession. Batima gave me a French-English study book and Naru showed me her German class text and notebooks. Before I went home, they had me translate French greetings/introductions into Spanish. This proved to be a challenging exercise for my brain, because the archives of all those years of Spanish study are now filled with Bambara, but somehow I was successful at pulling out each translation from the depths of my memory.

I learned the other night that another of my good PCV friends, Sydnie, is heading home early, in fact, tomorrow night. This came as a surprise, as I’d been under the impression she wouldn’t be leaving until sometime in September, but luckily, another PCV friend from Segou let me in on the breaking news, requesting I make a trip into Bamako to send our friend off well. As I’m unable to do that, I replied I’d be preparing a farewell phone call, like the one I gave Tim, the Gao PCV.

21 July 2009 – Spaniard, Email In Oueléssébougou, & French Studies

It only came to my attention the day before they left that a Spaniard was in Kafara – since last Wednesday! He speaks Spanish and English, very little French and no Bambara. Most of Kafara knows I speak English and my friends know I speak Spanish, but no one made the connection that I might like to know someone else is around I can speak these languages with! Plus, no one informed this guy I was even in Kafara. He hadn’t the slightest clue! José is here doing a photo study of pregnant women on a grant from a Spanish organization, not only in Mali but also India, Bolivia, and New York. He’ll be back in October and later in February, documenting each time the progression of one woman’s pregnancy in each country and its affects on the woman and her family.

Yesterday morning I biked to Oueléssébougou to do some emailing. David told me to give my greetings to Soumaila and his newborn son, and David expressed similar excitement at the namesake story. Mom and I found each other on Gmail chat, because for some reason she was still up at 3 am. Apparently Tazo hibiscus tea is unavailable at the moment (ça c’est grave!), but a package with Sita’s bandannas and other items is on its way due to arrive sometime next month. Isabel leaves for Bulgaria on her WOOF (working on organic farms)-ing adventure in four weeks and soon, all three of us will rendezvous in Paris!

Batima lent me a French-English study book a couple days back and I just finished my first note-taking session, copying down phrases and translations. Little by little, I notice improvements in my ability to not only speak but also now write French. It will be fun to practice up until the Paris trip and then test myself while I’m there, hopefully not embarrassing myself too much in front of my family members, both of whom are bi-lingual, but luckily not in French, so they can’t be too hard on me.

(Later…) “Trip to Kodialan”

After lunch, I got on my bike and passed through my host family’s concession to let Kadia know I was off to Kodialan to meet Soumaila for another test plot planting. Kadia asked me if I knew how to get there, and I said no, but I knew which road to take. As you head towards Dafara, there’s a bush road that splits off to the northeast with a small sign that tells you the way – “Fanikodialan”.

I met Soumaila at the first concession you reach at the edge of Kodialan, where a Fulani (Mopti ethnic group) family lives. They were all impressed with my Bambara greeting ability; this meant to them, apparently, that I knew the language very well. If only everything were this easy! Soumaila said to sit for the first round of tea, and he showed me the brand for further persuasion. There are many brands of tea to be found in the local butigis, and despite my lasting argument that they all taste the same, as they’re all green tea from China, Malians tell me this simply isn’t true – why don’t they all cost the same? Good point. Everyone has their own favorite brand, and preferred flavor additives: mint, vanilla, cough drops – oh wait, that’s for Lipton tea, my bad. I will never forget what my facial expression must’ve resembled upon realizing cough drops were being added to tea in order to enhance the flavor. Bizarre. I’ve come to prefer my own type of Malian (Chinese green) tea, Razelle, not to be confused with Gazelle, a popular brand among Malians from Kafara to Bamako. Siaka and I came across Razelle tea in Oueléssébougou, and were both impressed with its flavor. I spent my entire latest Bamako trip asking whoever would listen if they knew where it was found in Mali’s capital, as somehow I could find it nowhere. When I told Siaka about this puzzling realization, he suggested it was due to trafficking. As the truck comes along the paved highway looters pick it off taking whatever they can get their hands on! Giving him a quizzical look, I asked where the tea came from. He said Guinea. I told him many, many things come from Guinea to Mali and the one thing that people chose to traffic is Razelle tea? Siaka, you don’t tell the truth. This type of activity cannot possibly take place in a relatively stable country like Mali, at least in the region you’re referring to. The eastern and northern regions, sure I’d believe you. I’m positive Razelle tea is found in Bamako, I just wasn’t looking in the right places. It has to be found in the Grande Marché. That place has everything. Anyway, I digress. The brand of thé verte de chine Soumaila was brewing at the Fulani’s concession was “Obama,” and it wasn’t bad. I swear, I won’t go another day here in Mali without seeing my president’s name on something, and, you know, I’m kind of okay with that. Can’t be a bad thing, right? It’s just been such a noticeable change because you certainly don’t see “Clinton” or “Bush” tea floating around, let alone the innumerable other products where I’ve seen Obama’s name. It’s staggering.

The field we were to plot was that of Fajigi Samaké, a member of Kafara’s Producers Co-op, who turns out is a Christian. People call him Fajigi, but his Catholic name is Joseph. I tried to explain this was Jesus Christ’s earthly father’s name, but Fajigi told me Joseph isn’t Jesus’ father, Allah is. I told him I understood, and that Joseph was married to the Virgin Mary when she conceived Jesus. By this point, I was in over my head in Bambara roundabout explanations and finally gave up, preferring to not get carried away in religious conversation, something I’d rather avoid in any language. I spent 3rd through 12th grade having that conversation in Catholic school.

On my bike ride back to Kafara, I stopped briefly to sit with Djenoba, Sita’s older (half-) sister (same dad, different mom – two wives, one husband…Muslim village, remember?), who was taking a break from peanut farming.

22 July 2009 – Visit to Dafara’s Market

So remember my description of Bakary’s automobile? And how lucky I was that nothing beyond a flat tire delayed our trip to Diago’s market last Monday? Well, this week’s Diago trip (that I didn’t go on) was a reminder to my good fortune. The truck is still in Diago (the market day is Monday – today is Wednesday)! This meant that Bakary would be taking his moto to Dafara’s market today, and I would precede his departure on my bicycle. Somehow, I beat him there (it’s seven kilometers away!) and waited briefly before entering town off the side of the road under the shade of shea tree until he passed by. I followed him to the area where market takes place next to the big red road that takes you to the highway between Sikasso and Bamako. When he noticed me ride up behind him, we both laughed. I knew he had been wondering where I could’ve gotten lost along the way. It’s a straight shot from Kafara, yet he arrived and where was Mamadou?

Batima warned me, with reason, Dafara’s market would be underwhelming. But even this couldn’t prepare me for what I saw this afternoon. Bakary’s makeshift butigi on the side of the road is Dafara’s market. There’s nothing else to be found except fried bean dough balls, which are sold by several women. I felt badly buying my share for children back in Kafara from only one of them, wishing I could help each of them out to earn something from their market day.

24 July 2009 – Islam and French Study Books, Possibility of Tech Exchange in Bassa, & Teasing/Exhaustion

Last night Soumaila gave me a children’s introduction to Islam book. It’s written in Arabic and Bambara, and I copied down words and phrases in both languages, as well as a prayer. Allah’s name alone in Bambara, a good place to start any Islamic introduction, is quite long. Hinèlabòlen tigi Hinèkèrènkèrènnen tigi. What a mouthful! The prayer you say to begin each of the five times of day Muslims pray is referred to in Bambara as “Fatiya suran.” It is as follows, in phonetic Arabic… Bisimilaahi Arrahamaani Arrahiimi Al Hamadu Lillahi Rabbil aalamiina / Arrahamaani arrahiimi / Maliki yawni diini / iyyaaka na abudu wa iyyaaka nasta iinu / ihidnaa siratò almustagiima / siratò laziina an’amta alayihim / ghayiril maghduubi alayihim wa laa dò olliina. The book goes through several basic Islamic teachings, for example “Ne tigi ye Ala ye (My chief is Allah)”, and “Ala ye kelen ye ani Muhamadu ye Ala ka ciden ye (Allah is one and Mohamed is his prophet)”. There’s a brief account of the prophet Mohamed’s family, his father (Abdulahi), his mother (Aminata), and his seven children (Abdulahi, Al kasimu, Iburahima, Fatimatu, Zeyinabu, Rugayatu, and Umukulsumi).

I’d like to at some point today take some time to do a little more French study out of the book Batima lent me, but we’ll see how that goes…Daouda just arrived with Soumaila’s wife, my namesake, and Soumaila and Daouda’s mom, all of whom had been in Bamako for a couple of weeks now. Lots of villagers have been stopping by to meet and greet the newest villager of Kafara.

Sara, the closest PCV to me, called last night expressing her village’s interest in my attending a meeting there next week on forest protection/afforestation techniques. Kafara has an established convention locale that prohibits the harvest of firewood for profit and if I could bring one of its members to talk with the villagers of Bassa and its neighboring villages about how to establish one there, that would be excellent. The meeting is tentatively set for next Thursday, inchallah.

Batima and Naru have taken to relentless teasing of my Bambara, not due to their lack of understanding (quite the contrary, in fact!) but how I say things or use “old” words. For example, I use “barisa” instead of “parce que”, not because I choose against speaking Frambara (French-Bambara, which I love!) but I learned this way to say “because” from my Bambara teacher, Abdoulaye. Batima especially will use “barisa” in her teasing whenever possible, elongating its cadence for effect, inevitably finishing her sentence amidst laughing fits. Naru’s teasing usually pokes fun at my vocal inflection; now that I’m comfortable with my language, some of my lingual expression from how I speak English has emerged in my Bambara speech. Naru will imitate me after I say anything in this manner. Although I enjoy spending part of each day laughing, chatting, and learning with them, it is exhausting. They talk and talk, and we laugh until our stomachs hurt. Since this is all in a different language, at least for me, I am drained even after just 30 minutes in their company.

Speaking of exhaustion, it’s bloody sweltering today. I’m feeling about as droopy as my concession’s papaya trees. It hasn’t rained for a week, but storms can be seen all around us. Today and the past three nights they’ve flirted to pass over but nothing came of these advances. I need to learn some rain dances or something before too long. Where did our rainy season with 70 mm of rain in two nights go??? Quit playing with these people’s livelihoods!

25 July 2009 – Malian Melon, First Rain, & Bye to Adia

I love even after a year in Mali I still experience new things every day. Yesterday, while translating an English conversation into Spanish for Batima (I forgot how to say “bacon,” eventually substituting it with “sausage”…), I tasted Malian melon for the first time. It was not unlike honeydew, only smaller. If I had access to a lime to squeeze onto it, I might have died and gone to heaven. Delicious.

Finally, rain all day! Mariamu, Soumaila’s older first wife, was just holding my namesake outside the hut he was sleeping in so he could feel his first raindrops. It’s only spitting now as dusk approaches and hopefully it will settle down so I can keep the promise I made to Sita’s mom that I would visit again tonight. Sita’s friend Adia leaves for the rest of rainy season to Bamako tomorrow, and since we’ve spent the past three nights together chatting, brewing tea or hot milk, and photo-taking, I’d like to say good-bye. She introduced me to her parents last night and they appreciated my stopping by to greet and take photos.

28 April 2009 – Bike Trip Complications & Bassa Trip Preparation Thoughts

In a cruel twist of fate, it was my bike delaying Siaka and my Oueléssébougou trip yesterday morning. My rear tire went flat after we passed through Dialakoro-Djitoumou and we walked for what seemed at least 5 km to Tamala-Djitoumou, eventually finding someone to fix my bike. Three patch-ups only resulted in re-deflation and eventually we just replaced the inner tube. The three inner-tubes I was issued at the beginning of service are shot, and as I trust them more than the one I got for $1 at a Malian shop, I’ll be asking for more next time I’m at the Bureau. We finally reached Oueléssébougou around 11 having left Kafara at 8, but resting for the hour or so in the air-conditioned BNDA was nice, although a ridiculous amount of time to wait in the bank.

Another variable making the bike ride miserable is yet another cut on my pinky toe acting up. I hate how quickly small cuts get out of hand here and inevitably how long they take to heal.

This is not the best motivation for my trip planned to Bassa tomorrow…the route for which is still up in the air. Soumaila told me of a shorter route through backroads, but Sara said she’ll be in Oueléssébougou tomorrow, and we could meet and bike back together. Either way, lots of biking with chances of rain and foot pain abound…

That all aside, I’m very much looking forward to the trip to Bassa! Here it’s one year into service and I’ve yet to visit another PCV’s site. Why I’ve taken so long not to do so I’m not sure. I hope this will be the first step in reversing that trend. Each PCV has such different experiences and now I’ll have a chance to see another volunteer’s village and meet her host family and friends. I’m upset I haven’t seen more of Mali thus far. My experiences have mostly been in three places: Kafara (and surrounding villages), Oueléssébougou, and Bamako. My trips to other regions (Segou and Sikasso) were short and spent during major holidays (Christmas and Thanksgiving) with large groups of PCVs, leaving me with very little opportunity to differentiate the place from my village. I also for some inexplicable reason didn’t take any photos (zero!) of either place. I’d like to revisit these and new places with this in mind, rather than treating them as vacation spots alone. I’ve been told over and over again to visit the Mopti region, the most coveted part of Mali to see according to tourist guides, and many Malians too. I’m saving that trip for when Mom is here, because one cannot visit Mali without seeing Dogon country.

A cool note I picked up on recently: walking through Kafara you get the feeling concessions seem to sprout out of spontaneity. This is because their location always takes into account surrounding fields. Field space is never (rarely) compromised when building; house planning is adjusted accordingly. You notice this especially once crops start growing literally outside your concession, or when navigating through town, i.e. the maze of crop stalks.

Good rains came last night and good wet soil allows for crops to be planted. It’s been fun listening between different families who’s out-farming who. It’s never competitive; differences are mostly due to lack of rain. Some families have planted their peanuts, others have yet to, while other’s plants are already growing! I do my best to keep up on Soumaila’s progress, because villagers often ask me about it.

29 July 2009 – Tweets From Oueléssébougou

Yes, I’m a little late to be writing about Twitter, the latest Internet craze that allows us all to find out even more about what each other is doing, feeling, etc. because really we don’t have enough stalking options yet. And yes, I have an account…*sigh*

Since I don’t have Internet access a lot these days, I thought while I’m sitting here in Oueléssébougou to spill out some Tweets I would’ve Tweeted during this day so far. I don’t have an iPhone, only this pad and paper.

8:30-ish * I could swear this headwind is defying the laws of nature. No better analogy than to say it’s playing remarkable defense. I change direction, it stays in front. (This might exceed the 140-character limit…really, I could’ve gone on forever about the headwind on my bike ride this morning. Insane.)

9:30-ish * Facebook reminds me why I should not miss the Internet. The newsfeed almost emptied my IQ.

10-ish * Brownout!

10:15-ish * Power back on and ESPN fix fulfilled

11-ish * Egg and mayonnaise sandwich

11:30-ish * That Malian has the same cell phone as my first!

11:45-ish * Coca-Cola is a delicious beverage

1 August 2009 – Bassa, Oueléssébougou Market Day, & Whatever Else I Remember From The Past Several Days

Wednesday I met up with Sara in Oueléssébougou so we could bike to her village, Bassa, together, as I didn’t know the way. I’d been there twice before, but in PC Land Cruisers. We took the highway out of Oueléssébougou for a bit before branching off on a dirt road through several villages and over a sweet land bridge before reaching Bassa. It really isn’t that far away, but technically I was in a completely different region of Mali, Sikasso, and under the jurisdiction of the mayor of Keleya, the commune, and in the circle of Bougouni (Kafara is in the circle of Kati, commune of Oueléssébougou, and region of Koulikoro). The most common family name in Kafara is Samaké, which gives you an idea of the area in Mali I’m from, Djitoumou, the collection of villages Kafara is part of, and thus, many Samaké’s are found. But Bassa’s prominent last name, almost exclusively, is Bagayoko, reminding visitors like me that despite the short distance between our villages, I was truly in foreign territory. Inevitably, I am teased about my family name as a result.

The reason for my visit was two-fold: I’d never seen another PCV’s site, which really is shameful, and Sara’s villagers were having a meeting about forest protection with neighboring villages. Bassa’s neighbors had taken to cutting down trees in Bassa’s city limits, a violation that I still cannot wrap my head around. How could someone possibly in his or her right mind do such a thing? Although village’s reach aren’t specifically marked, everyone knows where they are; trust me, Malians know these things. To make matters worse, the lumber was being harvested to sell as charcoal, a completely unsustainable practice. Needless to say, most Bassans were not pleased, so they called a meeting with five neighboring villages and also invited Keleya’s mayor to begin formal paperwork proceedings regarding the establishment of a convention locale (agreement between villages to protect environmental resources, i.e. not cutting down trees to sell charcoal).

After all representatives from each one of the villages present said their piece, Sara and I were given the floor to say a little bit too. I had been hoping a representative from Kafara’s convention locale would be there to help me, but I was left hanging. So literally as we were waiting for the mayor’s appointee to arrive (3 hrs. late, par for the course – excuse given was legit, actually…Thursday is a big day for Muslim weddings, so the mayor’s office is busy), I hastily drafted a short blurb in Bambara on environmental protection.

Even if a forested area looks great now, cutting down trees is going to hurt its appearance later. If you continue to cut down trees, the forest cannot maintain itself. When you run out of trees to cut down, what’s going to happen then? Will you go to another place to cut down that area’s trees? That cannot happen.

Cutting down trees is bad for the environment. It’s bad for the soil, and many other things. Cutting down trees to sell lumber, firewood, or charcoal is going to create problems. That is why we came to exchange ideas with each other today.

A solution is possible. We are taking the first step towards that solution right now as we learn about convention locales. The village I come from, Kafara, has one of these agreements with its neighbors that has been in effect for many years. It can also happen here.

Sara went on to reinforce the importance of thinking about future generations as well as listing all of the things trees provide villages as a natural resource. Everyone was very pleased and impressed with our Bambara and what we had to say. I’m anxious to check back with Sara’s homologue to see how that paperwork is progressing.

Staying the very short amount of time I did in another PCV’s village, I still noticed just how different each of our experiences really is. Everything from housing situations (Sara lives on her own, her host family is a short walk, and her homologue lives across town) to village size (Bassa has no more than 500 people!) to the relationship between volunteer and villager (being a female volunteer in Mali is very different from being a male volunteer…for many reasons). One thing that was very much the same, however, was the overwhelming hospitality and friendliness of Malians with their guests. I thank Sara’s excellent integration and Bambara skills in creating this opportunity for me to see another PCV’s experience for a day.

Biking from Bassa to Kafara is close to 45 km, but I killed it within a couple hours. I left Bassa on Thursday at 3 pm, arrived in Oueléssébougou at 4 pm, took a half hour water break and also got some mangoes to give Sita’s family, then was on my way home, posting up in Kafara at 5:30. When Soumaila learned how quickly I made the trip home, he marveled at my pace.

Yesterday, as I’d rather not look upon my bike for a while, I took Air Kafara on its Friday trip to market in Oueléssébougou, where I spent the day mostly just relaxing amidst the chaos. At one point, I was on a mission to find puka shell bracelets, for whatever reason. I asked several people, and was repeatedly pointed towards places where puka shells were sold in bulk. Upon asking whether they could be found on bracelets, a random Malian took me on a walk through Oueléssébougou’s large market, stopping at several stands to repeated redirections as to where puka shell bracelets could be found. Finally, before we ran out of market to peruse, a woman told me to sit and wait for her daughter to run home and get the last piece of such jewelry she had. The man who took part of his day to help me said he would leave me now that we’d successfully found what I’d been looking for. Random acts of kindness baffle me here, just because I encounter them so often. This interaction with the woman seller was no different. Not only did she fetch that last puka shell piece, but also included several other beaded necklaces with my purchase, perhaps because I took everything all in stride, patiently waiting and chatting with her and her friends, who guessed my age to be 40. After telling them I was only 24, they couldn’t believe I was younger than their third oldest child. Neither could I, actually, because none of them looked to be older than the age they suggested I was. Before I left, the woman told me her name and not to forget her place at market. How could I after such an escapade?

After I finished my market rounds, I sat for a while with the crews of Air Digan and Air Kafara, who were resting near the Post Office. We played cards and talked for a while before I got up to explore the market area once again. They asked me if I liked Mali, and after telling them very much so, they qualified my answer saying that I must like America better. I told them only sometimes, because in America I couldn’t have an experience at a market like I’d had in Oueléssébougou that day. Random people helping me find miscellaneous items, others telling me to sit and chat having just met me, the crew of the transport I took telling me to sit and play cards, these types of interactions don’t happen frequently in America. Sadly, I said, Americans don’t trust each other so it’s hard to have this type of connection with strangers.

Upon arriving home yesterday evening, I was inundated with rave reviews of Sara’s radio program that happened that morning on Djitoumou’s station. She began an introduction to English, teaching listeners greetings and times of the day. Her new time slot, beginning next Friday, is at 19:30 pm. Kadia remembered everything she learned from the program from memory! Soumaila, Siaka, and she all had comments on Sara’s Bambara and questions for me about when I will join her to do a show together. I said I would wait for her to invite me rather than pop in on her project impromptu.

Soumaila has plans of letting me practice gardening in the space bordering my concession. He showed me the area this afternoon and said cucumbers or melons would be the best choice as chickens, donkeys, and cows wouldn’t interfere with growth. I’m excited to pick up seeds and a daba (hand-held Malian farming tool) at Digan’s market tomorrow and get to work!

2 August 2009 – Thinking Criminally, Mali’s Melting Pot, & Pick-Up to Digan

It’s been over a month since the day I heard a blood-curdling scream come from Daouda’s concession. Like I said that morning, when David was still here and asked what could possibly have caused such an outburst, I figured it was just another child’s tantrum. Turns out it was much more than that.

Since then, Daouda has been laying low, apparently due to “shame” and “embarrassment” despite receiving next to no punishment for his infractions, nothing beyond verbal disapproval. I would almost go as far to say he’s more ashamed about the fact he has one less wife rather than any regret about why this is the case. But now, he’s been seen at the normal rate once again and interacting with people as if time alone has put things right.

This really bothers me. Am I the only person who still remembers what happened that day? I know that isn’t true; it’s impossible to forget. I guess I am the only person who is struggling with how to interact with a criminal. Yes, a criminal. Domestic abuse is a big deal; I don’t care where I am. Is it appropriate for me to interact as PCV, an American, and a human being with someone who beat his wife, and then refused to contribute to her medical care? My hosts laugh whenever I say something a Malian did would land them behind bars in America, wondering aloud how we have so much space for law-breakers. Sure, our prison system has its issues, but I’d much rather pay a tax than see these people every day, or live next door to them! Were I in America and heard that racket come from next door, even if my bestest of friends lived there, my main homey, you’re best assured I’d be hitting up the po-po on my cellie (call the police) to bust their ass. To ignore it or not report it would make me as guilty as the perpetrator. I seriously considered telling Soumaila I’d rather not go with him to help plot Daouda’s sorghum field. Interacting with a criminal, working with a criminal, where does it end? How do I culturally-appropriately, politically-correctly tell someone I used to consider a friend that I no longer feel comfortable doing anything associated with him ever again? Sometimes I hate how passive-aggressively Malians deal with such issues. It scares me to think what someone must do to actually be put in a Malian correctional facility.

Sitting with Kadiatou and Adiaratou next door to Kafara’s hospital last night, I was thinking while watching the news about how diverse Mali is ethnically. There were people on the TV that were Malian but you would swear were Arab. As you travel eastward in Mali, the people’s appearance becomes more and more North African. Mali itself is a relatively small country, about the size of Texas maybe, but is host to an amazing number of languages (40 or something) and an eclectic mixture of ethnic groups, both West and North African. In a testament to the phenomenon that is the relatively peaceful country Mali is in a fairly unstable region historically (Sierra Leone civil war, military coups abound, extremist Muslim groups), these different people get along with each other generally quite well.

As we began our walk to market in Digan, Kadia repeatedly affirmed the sun’s heat despite our late departure (around 3 pm). About halfway, as if fate took pity on us, a car passed us and pulled over. The driver told us to get in and asked if we were headed to Digan, and since there’s only one road to get there, he’d no issue taking us the short distance in his sweet ride. It was not unlike any other of the 90’s model Mercedes-Benz diesel sedans you see a lot here, but this car looked new both in and out and was very well taken care of. The radio deck was fancy and playing a pleasant Ivorian tune, the plates were from le République du Ghana but the driver said he’d come from Bamako, and in the blink of an eye we were in Digan! I made conversation with the driver in the typical manner I have with strangers I meet from Bamako, they speak French and I respond in Bambara, yet our mutual comprehension makes it seem as if we are talking the same language. Eventually he identified who I was himself, asking if I was a PCV. I stepped out and told our compassionate driver (I forgot to ask his name – d’oh!) “Merci bien,” and one of the several elders that sit beneath a mammoth mango tree near the center of market asked if today’s mode of transportation was an automobile. I said only by chance, as we’d begun our way to Digan on foot, and this nice guy picked us up along the road. The old man gave me a blessing that made me laugh, “May Allah grant you better luck with finding a car.” A familiar face, an elder form Kafara, then came to shake my hand and greet in his typical Arabic manner, “Asalamu alayikum.” I gave the proper Arabic response and then he gave me this suggestive look waiting for me to continue my greeting. Hesitantly and tentatively I proposed, “Ça va?” With a wry smirk, he said with a wave of his hand, “Ça va pas!” Although we were both laughing, I knew that next time I should just stick to asking him how his family is, in Bambara!

3 August 2009 – Pigs in Digan

I forgot to mention a funny story from last week’s trip to market in Digan. As Kadia and I were walking from her grandmother’s house back to the market area, a pair of animals crossed the road ahead of us. I figured them to be goats or sheep, the usual farm animals roaming about villages all the time. But a second look revealed them to be pigs! It was only the second time I’d seen a pig