The final project I will be involved with concerns the building of a Chicken coop complex which will be 26 x 6 meters and will house 117 chickens. To the left, the foundation of mud bricks is visible layed out in the path that will constitute the length of the coop.

Due to the strong winds and dampness of rainy season, mud brick building is an activity done only during the hot and dry season. Thus, scheduling has played an integral role in the development of this project; wait too long and your project goes awash.

"You are one man but you have two hammocks!" said Fran a fourty year old Malian son of the chief slightly balding glasses wearing (rather rare in Mali) and so rather charming fellow. "Aha, so I do," said I, "but you are one man and have two wives!" So we laughed, and swang in our parallel hammocks underneath my sun-absorbing if not quite reflecting hanger.

The months are passing quickly by, and as the community and I try to mount our last funded project I remind myself to enjoy moments like these before I am not quite forced, but not quite so unwilling, to leave on a jet plane.

Amidst the change...

Trees are uprooted, dirt is gathered then spread, birds are sent flying, make-shift food stalls pop up to appease the appetite of the new population of construction workers.

All along the red road kids and old men gather to watch the beginnings of a makeover: the once bump-ridden and hole-pagued piste that lead from Bamako to Kangaba is being given a new surface, a smooth facade to cut the time of the journey.

Although it is not yet paved, merely compacted and smeared, the new surface allows the bachees to fly past the slow crawl that the deformities imposed; from three hours to two.

When passing other villages on a guidron (paved road) I often wondered what accounted for the difference in aesthetics between their ugly storefront boutiques, empty spaces, empty plastic coke bottles, and discarded plastic wrappers and my villages' "fullness". Now I know. It is the trees, green, brown, and complementary to the (admittedly evolving) lifestyle of village negotiations of sitting, chatting, eating juga and drinking tea. My position is not a fair one; I admire the village for its beauty, not for its practicalities, for its opposition to the vaguely New York terms of skyscraper, crowds, and taxis. It reminds one of the complexity of subjectivity, of the attachments we give to certain words like development, environment, and authentic.

Updated Photos: from the Toubkal mountain, to the blue medina of Chefchaouen, the sand dunes of Erg Chebbi to the atlantic coast of Essaouira. In the cities, Marrakesh's Djema-El Fnaa, Fes' Old Medina Fes El-Bali, Casablanca's Hassan II Mosque.

"What's the name of your new sister?"

"Umm... I forgot"

"You forgot your own sister's name?"

"Well she was just named yesterday."

"So, you don't know your sister's name?"

"Maybe"

"No, no maybe. There's yes, there's no. Maybe is no."

"Yea I know it."

"What's her name?"

"I know it."

"You don't know it."

"I know it."

"You're a Coulibaly. You don't know anything. You're not even a person. See that dirt? Keita made Coulibaly out of dirt and now you're our slave. Put this harness on your back and fetch me some water."

"Hmm...alright. How about if I guess right you buy me some biscuits. If I don't know it I'll buy you a car."

"Hah, you don't know."

"...."

"...."

"...."

"....Nagana"

"I'll buy you the biscuits tomorrow."

"That's alright. Just give me your hat. I like/want your hat. (Ed. like and want are/is the same word in bambana) It has a nice red color that would complement (Ed. I don't actually know the word for "complement" in bambana) my shirt well. It'll accentuate (Ed. Same) my eyes well. Even though it looks good with your healthy yellow cornea. (Ed. Def don't know "cornea")"

"I'll give it to you tomorrow."

"Ok."

"Give me your sister."

"She's only 8 days old. Wait at least a year."

"Cool."

A bit of context: my host family has delivered two new babies. One from Jala, named after her mother: Nagana; one from Aissata, named after her father: Kalifa. The conversation is not verbatim, but genetically, spiritually, linguistically, culturally, sarcastically, one. It took place on a bench by the formative "road", soon to paved, with my best friend and fifty five year old husband of three, Mamadi Keita.

A BBC program broadcasts a debate (World have your say); the issue- a member in the house yells at Obama in an address to both houses of congress over the veracity of an issued statement on health care reform – “liar”. And then BBC, in contrast to American politics, broadcasts an example of Prime Minister Question time and in me the memories of 2005 came back when I attended, on a fortunate Wednesday a PMQ session- the day when the conservative leader Michael Howard stepped down and asked the then PM Tony Blair, when would he? The following is an excerpt of part of that memory:

"Right. Hold on a moment." He turns and walks inwards to chat with another, the other taking the stub and continuing inside Big Ben. The original comes back to me and I stare at his unusual, strange Policeman's helmut. Of course, I have my own british headwear (the news boys cap) and so I now tilt it from its leaning position into the straightness of his posture as if saying "look! I'm on your side! I too have a funny hat!"

"I'll just be a moment sir." I nod and stand, beginning to feel anxious at having invested a larger sense of admission after the reception of ticket. The other helmut returns and summons me. Same question, same answer. He turns around and tells me to follow. My mind returns to the summer around 6/06 when my father says facetiously (I think): "I heard they shot an unarmed Brazilian in the subway" (he didn't use the Londoner's "underground", but rather the New Yorker's "subway". Interestingly enough a month or two after I had been in London, I wandered into Hammersmith through the tube (another word for the underground)- walking in darkness away from the station, restaurants and pubs. On my way to a river I saw a quiet sign "Subway" leading downward. "Voila!" I thought, (not literally but in spirit, for until Mali I didn't realize people, other than 3rd rate magicians in America, used the word and so emphatically. Sure, I had heard "oo-la-la" in many french youtube boxing clips, but that shattering of my elementary understanding of the french lexicon had no real connection with the word "voila"-at the time- only a vague relationship between two strange french exclamations. Despite the sign, the actual subway was a real disappointment. No people, no trains, just a literal "sub-way" beneath the lanes of car-traffic, leading the pedestrian safely from one corner to the other. Graffiti, newspapers, yeah, they were there, but in no other way did this resemble your New York subway. Disappointed I walked through.) Nevertheless I laughed at the time of my father's utterance not realizing A.) the differentiation in lexicon between Londoners' or New Yorkers' referral to their underground transit system or B.) that I probably had little to worry about with Ken Livingstone in charge (or so I think)

And now, the present, or near present:

Things about Mali I should have written about in my first post:

I eat with my right hand; People use their left hand after using the hole in the ground; There is a hole in the ground and it is our toilet; Most of Mali's infrastructure is unpaved; There are a variety of ethnic groups in Mali including: Taureg, Peuhl, Bambara, Dogon, Malinke, and Bobo; I live in a mud hut; I use a flashlight to read at night; Children call their parents by their first name; I eat rice every day; 26 people to a van including the assistant (prantigi) on top; Most villages relate announcements through a village crier; Cell phones are prevalent; New York Yankees apparel is everywhere; Women and children love to dance; I speak Bambara and French, Bambara when French doesn't work, French when Bambara doesn't, and Hand Gestures and Facial expressions when neither do.

Speaking of music, as some of you may be well aware of, Mali has a rather wide and varied assortment of artists- perhaps best embodied by the group Amadou & Mariam- two blind musicians, one matched to the guitar, the other- vocals. The strength and growth of their sound is reflected in their unusual choice of collaborators, from Manu Chao to Damon Albarn; from Mali to the rest. My personal favorite Malian musician is Rokia Traore, who I believe released a new album recently: Cemance (or Tchemantche) which in Bamanan means: "In the middle"... a reference, perhaps, to her re-embrace of Malian instruments and their incorporation into her newest album. Also, possibly, a reference to the type of personal development that occurs in a person living between cultures: the daughter of a traveling diplomat.

As for development... In the morning I wake to a white rooster's crow, a vagrant wandering into my compound joining the habitual termites, gradual ants, and crying goats. I've waken to this every day for the last year, or so - a delight in its reminder of the green, the forest, the healthy environment, the growing families, and the constant activity. The constancy of the djembe drums on communal workdays summoning a specific age group to come and build, or come and farm, or come and carry, or come and wash, or come and meet. The djembe is the measure of a thing preserved; a representation of things good and bad but steadily beating over, and over, and over.

Thus, sadness follows as well, for in between the steadiness of a beating drum lies the silence, the same, yet flipped reminder that most things are still the same. This, I can see in every old tree torn and every new tree planted. I can see it in every walk I take into the village, greeting people I consider both strangers and family, needy and giving... I am different, I am the same.

My work; my work so far has been personally succesful- I've taught, I've built, I've learnt, I've grown, I've taken, I've contributed: the type of work that requires an investment of your sense of self along with a real desire to help- not only because I believe that the village genuinely embraces my aid, but also because... because. Perhaps the women will be able to generate more income without the help (or perhaps, more succesfully now, in conjunction) of microfinance institutions thanks to the recently installed shea grinder. Perhaps they will become more organized with the help of literacy, numeracy classes. Perhaps working in the garden and sharing techniques will help farmers adopt, adapt, double digging, raised beds, natural compost, natural pesticides, tree grafting, re-planting trees... perhaps. There are more "soft" perhaps' in-between: organizing events and interacting with folks.

That's what you live with, caught in between. You question the ambivalence of development, and then you sidestep the question, is the village developing? Neither answer comes easily,

Hey ya'all, Happy Fourth! Attached is a link to some new photos and a couple of videos which, for this month, will replace my words:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/38211592@N04/

Cheers

“R”

“Arrrrw”

“R”

“Ahhrw”

“Rrrrr”

“Aaaaahr”

“Rrrrrrrr”

“Ahh”

“R”

“Ahhrrrr”

“Tres bien”

Although flawed in its final form, teaching the english pronunciation of the letter "R" to Aissata- the matron of the village in charge of its "public health system", has its benefits in unintended humor. Her final formation shaped the curves of her mouth into a slight downturn, emphasizing a glimpse at what I imagine to be the caricatured image of the Pirate. Whether or not her mental state reflected her physical gesture is another matter, but teaching english as a side project has seemed to be embraced by a village few eager to speak in the language of commerce, consumerism and dream.

In other ways it reflects, in a mirroring, my learning of the bambara language in my own on-going efforts. I imagine my pronunciation of a new word, or my eager display of appreciation with the bambara equivalent of "good" and smile, sometimes suppressed and sometimes embraced in that viscera of letting-loose laughter. It is that wonderful feeling that I find in many forms in village life; it is that wonderful feeling that helps to define this condition of life.

In the Capitol

A trip up a mountain, started by the improptu urge to walk, to walk into areas in the city I hadn't been to. At the north edge of the city where the paved roads begin to decline, and the small stalls housing mangoes, bananas, knock off bags, cheap belts, bicycles and young children clutched at their mother's side increase.

Hopping off the douruni (a modified pickup truck that plays an important role in public transport), I ascended upwards through the inclining road nearing the face of the cliffs, entering the dirt and improptu paths, cutting through the market area, lifting a bike with an old man past difficult stones. The faces stare for a moment as I walk through meters of water runoff and dirt, returning to their tea or the items at their stand after they've confirmed the presence of an unknown. I greet those who hold the gaze for a bit longer and always, with a smile they respond "Good afternoon," and "How's the family?" Paradoxically or perhaps not, like a warm hug from an old friend in embrace.

But Malian hospitality can be an example of how a good thing can turn into a bad thing at the wrong moment, in the wrong place. The constant hounding, the almost obligatory gesture of greeting, of excusing, of inviting, can turn into a false action like an obsequious compliment, a fawning "friend". Because it is consistent, because it does not stop, at the wrong moment in the wrong place one can break. Furthermore, Malian hospitality is a microcosm, or perhaps, the reason that Malians very rarely display any emotion but the smile. In fights there is laughter from the bystanders. In disappointment there are smiles. In waking every morning to what may seem inescapable there are smiles. Good or bad, one smiles. And so, from my perspective, when I am allowed into the intimate feelings of what a Malian emotionally feels, other than the smile, it is a yellow ray of light behind a mass of white.

But today, the sun is bright and I stand in no place, walking, until the movement leads to the realisation that I've left my belt in a small mud hut ninety kilometers south of the city. The whistle of an old man huddled under a building's shade is thus, for the first in 100 previous solicitations answered. He's a belt vendor and I pause to look them over before selecting a thin, perhaps woman's belt?, black, gold-ended, relatively competent-five holed wonder, fastening it around my waist and subsequently bargaining to make it 20 cents cheaper. From a dollar to eighty cents, just for the hell of bargaining and the chatter that surrounds an amazed Malian that somehow this Asian, or is it American, man speaks Bambara.

As I search for an opening into the mountain the glimpse of a man making his way down a side path of the mountain, winding and grasping at the rocks. "Sun's pretty hot eh?", I remark (after of course the greetings) as I notice how the sweat falls through the valleys and cracks in his aged face. "Really big today" he nods and smiles and continues. The ascent is a reminder of fatigue, fatigue I haven't felt in a long while. My calf shakes for a bit as I make a particularly stupid leap up, shortcuts, shortcuts. It doesn't end until I reach a level ground, with a large tower, viewable from most places in Bamako, and numerous satellite recievers.

Underneath a nearby tree, a student responds to my question, "I'm studying, because the shade is good here", and resumes his rest, his spot that to him is like my corner of New York where I would sit on my bench and light a cigarette against the wind, a force that would drag the ends of my coat further west.

"Enough mangoes to make old men diarrhea" Thus spoke Yacouba, my homologue. Mango season: the arrival of little balls of gold (metaphorically) dropping to the tune of hundreds of sticks thrown by the arms of young children searching, hoping, praying for the chance to sink their teeth into the tender goodness of skin, flesh, ripe, green, yellow, delicious, cheap, etc. Allah, may he grant the same for you. A stick for a mango?

The eponymous Hot season is almost to an end, so I've charted some of the villages activities in order to celebrate its close.

Searching for Gold

During the Rainy season the Niger floods the lands surrounding creating depth, width and length that spans most of Mali flowing North, then back down South. In the Hot season, the river dries (really?) and invites the surrounding villages to plunge into its fecundity of gold, of rocks, of fish.

The search for gold often occurs in groups. There is no rush to hord, rather the villagers participate in a relaxed manner: Shovel for rocks, place rocks and dirt in container, sift and throw out larger rocks, sift, sift, and then sometimes what's left is a very small amount in the dirt that they will then compile in a smaller container made from the gord of a particular plant. This occurs over hours until the sun's absence, in small pockets around the river. A community effort that is truly an incredible view to behold.

Fishing in the Comayoro

As with gold, fishing in the Comayoro occurs in the Hot season, when the Niger has receded to, what I estimate, as half its width. Unlike hunting for gold, fishing occurs "outside" of the Niger around a small body of water no greater than 40 meters in length. This dried up body becomes the site for a great hunt in which the entire community gathers with a variety of tools to capture the finite body of fish left.

The men arrive with two pikes to simultaneously capture and kill, the women with susu's or traps with a hole at the top to stick their arm in and grab the fish. Children wander in with large nets attached to even longer sticks, all lining up, all waiting for their chance to help feed their family.

On the day that the village decides to go the Comayoro a wide conga line of women can be seen walking in the general direction, gathering in a location where hundreds of people have come to skew some fish. When everyone has arrived, the signal for the hunt to begin is shouted and slowly but consistently the villagers enclose the small body of water with the men doing most of the heavy lifting by repeatedly striking the water, as if unsynchronized skiing (left arm down, right arm down, in conjunction with walking) with their sharp pikes. The women throw their traps onto a particular spot they believe hold fish and grasp with all their length.

At a certain point, when all the fish have been taken, all hell breaks loose and the kids rush to another spot a few hundred meters away, eager to have their first chance at catch. Something, I imagine, is like what was the gold rush of America's west. You should be warned that my only corresponding image of that is from a little movie starring Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman, "Far and Away"...

Although the river is dry, walking from one end of the Niger to the other, its width, is still a relatively difficult task. And because things are measured in context it will be interesting to see how the river looks in a few months when Rainy season has come into full force...

Interruptions and pauses; pauses and interruptions, everything, nothing, nothing, everything.

Things begin to become more vivid; as if re-reading "Dubliners" after "Portrait" and "Ulysses", or re-watching "Lord of the Rings" after completing the trilogy, hearing "Latika's theme" after watching "Slumdog Millionaire". The despair of Eveline, and the love of Sam, the tonal shifts to soft humming.

And so, what follows repitition is clarity and recognition. A walk to my student's home becomes more than the shea and mango trees, the dirt road and its red clay, the beaten down cultural center and endless pebbles. It becomes more than the simple recognition that follows greetings: to groups of giggling girls and yelling boys, huddled old men and wandering old women. The layout of the village becomes more than a path I must take to reach what I must do.

What must be done becomes what may be tried, parodoxically, not because I do not understand, but because I do. And then something like love, an understanding met, where the aspects of my life in its present form sharpens and I know why I'm here.

It is not a specific project, or a goal, despite the pride I take in my village's development of a new Shea nut storage center and the installation of a Shea nut grinder, or the happiness I feel viscerally when my fifty year old female student begins to read her first words and recognize her own name. When she begins to write what she's doing: "ka seben" and when she motivates other women to take part in learning how to read and how to write. It's not exactly this, it's something like this.

Read, watch, talk or listen to what you love, and perhaps it will become a bit clearer.

Writing, just to write, in a moment of transition. The third week of training is over, The Music Festival on the Niger is over, my trip to Ghana and Cote D'Ivoire is over, so now I find myself headed towards, and back, to somewhere, something like home; at the very least a deja vu. To you (the interweb, of course), perhaps, it is all Africa and thus all the same, so because you think this way I will not try to change your mind. Joking, joking.

I keed, I keed! Have I written of contradictions? Of juxtaposing images that flash between serving a small village and watching "Darjeeling Limited", "Ratatouille", (oxford comma) and "Flight of the Phoenix" all three on the same day, inside an apartment masked with modernities like running filtered water, laptops, speakers, and tiled, marble floors? Well, just did. Outside that apartment lies an old city filled with dust and trash, donkey carts, poor folks trying to follow the words of Sean dot Carter: "Can I Live?"

Yet, Segou is also a city of tradition, artisans and potmakers, wealthy businessmen and a serene river that wraps its fingers around the edge of downtown creating, at night time, a reflection of a reflection of the light of the Sun.

As I lay in bed to a stream of pre-selected music, the eyes begin to close and the light of my pupils begins to wither. To wither into a soft coma to the flowing music, guiding you through streets you once wandered through. Or rather, to streets I once walked through. The room is half lit; I am uncovered in cold. My jacket is worn over my body, my green and torn khaki's shedding their first layer and re-covering with patches of black and lines of white, on the knees and in the rear. My head scarf covers my ears, hair, and mouth; a bit of space is left to breath.

The Plateau of Abidjan is a poor yet developed borough with half luxurious scrapers and carefully planned structures. One of these, the Pyramid is a strange traiangular structure, half worn by time, half by improper care. Like an image out of "Blade Runner" it's a look at the future with the eyes of the past, an anachronism in its search to establish itself as a beacon to the present by offering a glimpse to the future. Its layers shed as the building crawls upwards, such a curious and simple structure in the heart of the city.

This worn out luxury litters the streets among the white, gray, the stones and the Wrangler store with no customers and no music, the beaten parks littered with ageing trash. The sheds of bootleg cd's, hilarious condom packs, cellphones, chargers, cheap radios that wait across the two way street and a glass and steel office building that shoots to the sky, that houses banks, travel agencies, department stores, radio stations.

For a moment I pause to repose in a hammock. For twenty cents I can hang in a park, hanging above the main highway that links the Plateau with Treichville and with the Deux Plateau. That lies underneath the flying bats, prolific enough to obscure the light... thousands maybe.

And then the images end as I wake up, twice, waiting to return with the next playlist. Perhaps Kakum National Park, or the slave holding Cape Coast Castle. Or the Akwidaa beach and its crashing waves and purple sunsets. Maybe the beautiful basilica of Yamoussoukro, or the monstrosity that is the basilica of Yamoussoukro, or the surreal space it inhabits. Or all. Or nothing. The past comes when it comes. If you want to see images, I'll try to upload some next time, or try googling:

"Yamoussoukro Basilica," "Abidjan," "Kakum National Park Canopy," "Cape Coast Castle." The Beach is in the photo below, but not the purple sunsets or crashing waves.

Took this out of my notebook. I don't have too much time to write, in preparing for the coast.

12.3.08

The first page looks as the rest; blank yet striped, thin yet wide; daunting yet inviting. An opening into whatever may fill these pages it presents the writer with the frightening possibility that he might write something true about his life.

As it is, I find myself encroached upon the fifth month of my stay in Mali; third month in my service; third in Degela in a life that brings to mind the path of youth and the life yet to come. But in between, separate from the penetration that blurs past, present and future, I am here, in a village that both welcomes and shuns, among people both selfish and giving. Where the sun rises from the east, and falls to the west in a streak of heat.

Outside, a bliss of shade where tea's boil warms and reminds, we who sit...

And I'm still captured by the reddish tan orange that sets the sun and rolls past the sky, past our atmosphere and shines on the land, illuminating the ground, hut, wall, grass...my pants. Redder, redder, brighter, brighter, smaller, smaller, until a song closes to the view. The lines of clouds, red from the sun disappear from sight as the moon and twin stars appear in the slowly darkening sky.

A sock hangs lazily from the clothesline dangling by its wetness, as the chicken I bought this morning clucks and quiets, slowly acclimating to its new hut, new owner and new life on a rather uneventful day. The final glimpse of sunset signals the beginning of BBC's world news, a brief on events, and then the steady pace towards a violet and red sky. Sitting in my hut, I dry from my bucket bath, and as the day begins to cool, gently shiver along the path to Polo's house for dinner, for talk, and for a bit of the feeling one finds in the pleasure of family and comfort.

Polo's jums to Ali Farka Toure from the depths of my music collection tickles me, as I mutter a brief prayer (to who?) for the shuffle to skip Bob Marley and a garbled shout to "Get Up, Stand up". He asks what the lyrics are to Tracy Chapman's "Fast Cars" are without singing them and I sigh in relief as little Brama crawls in my arms, nudging me to squeeze the air blown inside his cheeks.

As I get up to leave and prepare for a meeting with the Jeunesse, poorly prounced "bye, bye's" meet my ears. "Only til tomorrow" I reply, to my self.

In between meetings, I find myself chatting in Zumana's compound, over Polo's wedding plans and preparation for Tabaski, a large muslim festival.

The night continues to turn as the meeting with the Jeuness passes with laughter and excitement upon the questions answered. When I ask them for a list of the villager's activities, the replies come with the gravity of working for one's family and with the youth of a phrase, a phrase I cannot yet recognize followed by a hearty chorus of laughter.

It is usually the men who answer, and women who laugh; living in this village, in this early stage, it is easy to forget the implications of gender roles, or the lack thereof, performed by men. Performed by women. I am not sure why, for the inequality is intellectually stark by my own standards; perhaps it is because as a man in this village (even as an outsider) few things are explicitly restricted of me. The things they don't want me to do, I don't know about (or at least the theory goes). This is not an excuse, part of my percieved duty is to interact with the position of the roles, and in order to do so I must be conscious of both my gender and the villager's actions.

The meeting ends succesfully and I venture into the village to sit around a fire lit in the center of a crowd of men. Sekou is in the middle of a pantomime kick as I wander in. I sit for a bit. Tired, until next day's arrangement is decided. I will travel with a small group to a neighboring village to discuss the final details of Polo's new wife. Golonbi, the word, the idea, floats in my head until it disassembles into G's, into O's, into B's.

12.0.3.08

Well, cheers. Hope you enjoyed it.

Merry Christmas!

Happy New Year!

Read your Dickens, listen to your Crosby, and imagine a place, warm as the sand at my toes. Till next time,

Whew, busy month.

Mosque building; funerals; traveling across the niger; walking between villages; waterfalls of farako; caves of missirikoro; climbing towers in the middle of the night; running around taxis; walking into tombs; transportation and meetings, meetings, meetings. Beautiful.

I don't have time to write much, so, let me tell you about Joking cousins since 1.) It's long overdue and 2.) I promised it last time:

Joking Cousins

It may seem strange for you to call an older, and respected man a:

A.) Bean Eater/Farter

B.) Donkey/Grass Eater

C.) Parasite/Child

D.) Anything insulting that you can think of, including an especially touchy (for Americans) PC (Politically Correct) topic, i.e. "You're my slave"

In conjunction with any of the aforementioned topics, you can also throw in combinations until it becomes even more ridiculous, and the conversation goes something like this:

Solo: Good morning donkey!

Old, respected man (ORM): Good morning parasite!

Solo: Where's your saddle? Did your owner misplace it?

I now proceed to point to a child whipping a donkey into place

Solo: Why are you letting that child beat your poor older brother? Hasn't he worked hard enough for the last 70 years of his life?

ORM: Fugari (Parasite).

Solo: Would you like me to get some grass for you to chew on?

I now proceed to walk over, pull out some grass, and bring it back for him to chew on.

ORM: Horse (So, a play on my name) Coulibaly, you are nothing but a parasite.

Solo: Here, take some grass you retarded farting donkey.

I now proceed to throw the grass at him

ORM: Fugari. (At this point he might actually mean it((No, no, that's a joke, Malian's don't take this joking seriously))

Solo: You, Keita (His last name/ethnic group, Keita, are the joking cousins of the Coulibaly's, my ethnic group)

ORM: You, Donkey.

And then, the rest of the conversation takes place where we talk a bit about life over three rounds of tea. If I'm lucky the conversation is something like the splashes of rain that hit the ground and bounce to my feet, with the rest and main part hitting the umbrella placed squarely above my head.

In many tense situations i.e., the beginning of a potential fight, arguments over buying/selling and bargaining, bribery at a local police stop, Joking cousins is employed to disarm the situation and bring everyone to a laughing halt. At this point, it's become such a part of my daily dialogue it no longer seems strange, as I write and re-read what I've just written.

By the way, the previous number on the sidebar was off, it's now correct: 7478-0098. I promise, either the next post, or the post after will have photos; it's a beautiful country.

Mom, I'm sorry I didn't call you on your birthday, I didn't forget, I was just yala yala'ing into an area with no service. I'll tell you about it over the phone. Whew, two references to my mom in the same blog, I need to get out more,

Final note to Mikah: It ain't even cold.

Solo

The leaves have oranged and fall, gently but prolific. A cool breeze feathers the once harsh air. The sky darkens that purplish-orange color and memories come and go. It's been a great last month. Besides the Phillies winning the world series, everything seems to be going right. And of course, the last two nights in Bamako have been a blast; Obama! Attending a soccer game (Togo((Komlan!)-Cote D'Ivoire ending in a tie), negotiating my way onto a private roof in the middle of the big market, receiving my package, getting my Ghana visa in less than an hour, handing in my Natcat report, resting in my own hotel room, showering, showering, showering! and Obama! Again! The following may seem a bit negative; the motif is memories, but I thought it'd be a nice way of showing that I still think of home(s).

Bus Ride

The door to the back slides open and you briefly gaze inside to find 30 people occupying 16 seats. "Ini Sogoma" you shout, and a chorus of replies volley back an equally warm greeting. You stick your shoulder in and squeeze your legs between the last possible space that narrowly fits a cramped body. To your side is an old woman that you don't apologize to because this is Mali. This is the way it is on the early morning bus from your small village to the capitol of Bamako.

On good days, that either seem quick or are quick, you don't think about the contortions you've put your body through; you just sit. And if you can manage to squeeze your hands into your jeans and turn on your ipod you're rewarded with peace for the next hour or so if the red clay of dust doesn't destroy the parts that move you to listen. Or you find a sympathetic listener willing to hear your childish phrases; "Do you like Mali?"

On bad days you think of the abnormal position you've placed yourself in. When the bus stops, you get up to stretch, to move, to feel and you find it painful to stand. The sides, the butt, the hips throbs with pain, violated by the other five bodies that sit to your left and the hard interior that leans to your right. If it's really bad, you're sitting on the side with the sun, and its beating down your arms, to your face, in the front, in the back, to the side.

The interior's one thing, the road is another. The one you're traversing happens to be filled with crevices, pools of water, tree branches that swipe the side of your face, rocks, bumps and bruises. Sometimes it seems as if space hasn't changed, time hasn't moved, but then you stare at the landscape, a measure of contrasts, and nothing so bad seems to matter.

Shades of the Day

It's the morning and we're gathered outside of Madou Keita's butigi. "Fali Keita and So Coulibaly, together we'll go to your fields and eat."I hold a dunhill cigarette between my two longer fingers, turning it, holding it, pressing it against my face, smelling it. I desperately want to smoke it, but it remains unlit. A cool breeze enters as the sun encroaches on our shadows.

Labo signals for me to move a bench under the shade of a tree. The cigarette lingers for a while; I haven't smoked in the amount of months I'm counting. I continue to torture myself with the smells and taste.

Right now, a cigarette is Gilman street is a short balcony that falls, only slightly outside my door. A night falls, a cigarette blinks, I sit and watch as the smoke lingers and drifts. Music plays and my eyes close, a cigarette is a moment.

I'm in the shade, the morning shade, hiding behind a small tree, waiting, sitting, enjoying, chatting. In a bit of time, the sun will have continued its ascent, and the shade of the day will change. I will have to move my bench, change my posture, maybe my company. And I'll smell this cigarette until a kind stranger relives me of it, and even then, Gilman might linger.

AshesA faint crackling littered the air. I pause for a moment to remove my earphones, filtering nature from k-os (I really was listening to him, "Valhalla" if you must know). Its clear the sound is by me, is it the crackling of water off rocks? But where? My bike can go no further as it struggles through cracked branches and rocks, now, finally stopped by grass and fallen branches too high to negotiate. My hands clear the grass that shoots past my eyes cutting into the sky. I stumble aruond from mini clearing to mini clearing, following my ears, past the swarms of grass and thorns, over the rocks, through the groups of tiny trees until my feet are cut with blood and hands filled with bruises and pricks. Then the sound comes from the southwest. Closer to me, I listen closer; the consistency of crackling travels and ignites me rightwards. Through a crack between tree and bush I see nothing. No trees, no grass, no throns, no bush, no water, no rocks, just distance. Just space. The final tree is cleared and I step into this openness.On the ground are the ashes of burnt grass. As I step foward, a small crunch, and then another. West to south, south to east, east to north, north to west I'm humbled by this enormous plain of ashen fields. To the south the crackling of flames sounds as yellow is consumed by orange dancing across the skyline. As the smoke begins to enter my lungs, I can see black and ashen gray remnants float through the sky, followed by memories, vague and unrelated. A feeling of nostalgia floats through: A train in Greenwich, a tunafish sandwich, a walk in Cos Cob, the school yard in Roxbury, a tennis court, and something more elusive; observed but not understood.My feet are black and ash, my arms dried with blood and I'm tired. I wander through the ashes as "Champagne Supernova" blares through my ears. Minutes pass before a rational thought enters my head: survival. The sun begins to fall to the West, the daydream ends. "This is your warning, your four minute warning."

Peanut Field Memories

The second time around always seems to be easier. We made our way to Jala's peanut fields, daba's (hoe's) in hand, water in bag and bicycles underneath. The first time, after four hours in the sun, without water, I was ready to collapse as I made my way back. My hands were unrecognizable, covered in blood, filled with blisters; some opened some bloated. The fresh daba I had brought to cut the peanuts had turned a glazed brown from soft white. And I was damn thirsty.

So this time, I was prepared. We arrived aorund 7 am, and began one minute later. This peanut field was disorganized; the peanuts spread in a frenzy with no discernible rows lining the field. To make matters worse, the shoots that shot in the sky were among weeds. Sigh. Nevertheless I began my slow descent into a rhythm of cut and pull, cut and pull, cut, pull and drop.

A peanut plant looks like any ordinary plant. It has a few leaves that depart from the stem and they are colored in shades of greens and yellows. Beneath the shoot are the peanuts attached to the plants roots and covered by a hard tan shell. Beneath the shell are the peanuts, covered in a red skin, almost like a tiny onion. The taste of this peanuts is definitely raw. No salt, unbaked, it tastes almost as it looks, an onion.

As my cutting, pulling and dropping increases, my mind begins to wander until it focuses on a memory in Vegas. Here, I was going to write more, but I'll save it for a different space and time.

And then I look up and realize a quarter (hopeful) of the field has been cut. My hands are mildly bruised but there are no feelings of pain as the rhythm continues slowly over the next five hours. Right cuts, left pulls until both drop at a finished field. The woman arrive with food and I wonder at the humor of eating peanut sauce in a field of peanuts.

Despite the memories, whever you go, that's where you are. It seems like there's much more to write, but I think this is enough for now. I've got some photos, hopefully I can get my friends (in peace corp) to send them to me. I'll be back in Bamako late December (probably the 20th) a few days prior to Ghana and Cote D'Ivoire. Till then,

Solo Coulibaly, or

So (Horse) Coulibaly, or

Soso (Mosquitoe) Coulibaly (It's a joking cousins thing. I'll explain it next time)

Maybe you're sitting in your office right now, or desk, or laying in bed with a computer waiting to be entertained. Well, here are some stories about a place where I wake up to the sun's rise in the east and sleep to the sun's set. The first is a story about a religious ritual, the second a village ritual, the third about feelings and such, if that's your thing (Mom, maybe?)

End of Ramadan

It's the morning sun and I sense an unusual gathering taking place behind the school. Instead of the normal greetings that takes place between individuals, and individuals and groups, I hear groups greeting groups and the harmony in their replies. I take my bike out to the fields and notice msot of the village is gathering in a large clearing.

Kneeling and chattering with the open sun hanging above, with umbrellas sparsely littered, are rows of villagers lined up in a this long and wide plain of recently daba'ed grass. This is the Selikeyoro, or prayer place that marks the end of Ramadan.

The men and women are divided between two sections; Men before women in front of our Imam, Shediggi. As I approach the clearing, unsure of the limits of my stay and place in the village, I'm greeted by my father Polo, to kneel in the first row. There I sit squeezed between Madou and Jakaja with my forearms resting on my hiked knees. Before Shediggi takes his place, the men make sure the lines of rows are as straight as can be.

As I turn my head left and right I see that I'm surrounded by a large amount of people faithful enough to gather in the open sun right around the time of day when the light hits the hardest. And then there's me, there for fun, for the experience. In this open plain, in this hot sun, I can't help but think of death, death in the afternoon.

I participate for the first time in the Islamic prayer. Watching Madou and Jakaja on my sides, I mimic their movements and that of the Imam who stands in front of the kneeling. Hands hold arms, Hands grab knees while crouching, Kneeds fold, Hands touch ground: the submission. At my sides, men whisper privately, or not clearly to me, and occasionally bring their hands to fling the sweat from their faces. Then, the kneeling with hands on thighs and a repitition.

The Imam makes a speech in Bambara; I pick up a few words here and there; it concerns Ramadan, fasting, praying and duties to one's parents. (Information you didn't know, lol). And then we finish and everyone greets and offers blessings; Allah-ka, Allah-ka bo ti mine.

Koni

Morning breakfast has just finished and Madou Kone has arrived. He's very tall, and very skinny; he's also very funny and very friendly. "I sigi" I tell him, standing up from my seat. He refuses and tells me to come "dugu kono," the village proper. I wonder exactly what he wants to do; in my previous three weeks this invitation is different from the norm, and it just happens to be the end of Ramadan. I have an idea that a celebration is taking place, but I'm unsure of exactly what.

Two days before, my father Polo and I, had went into the village greeting people. From the outskirts of the village proper, I had heard the thumping of drums, and despite being plagued with my own drumming of Malaria (your head thumps as if you're standing right next to the loudest bass in the club, or waking up to a hang over...times twenty), I told Polo, "An ka taa", or "Let's go". The malaria was nothing as I became intrigued by the noises of men yelling and women screaming excited by the prospect of a celebration.

Instead, when we walked in, Polo told me that we could not go past a certain line, and at that specific point the only action I would partake in would be watching. What I saw, oh what I saw! Actually, I saw nothing or close to nothing. I saw a gathering of younger men running wildly, pacing back and fourth, staring at something blocked by the house of my friend Yacouba and an ensuing enclosures of huts.

The only information I could get out of Polo (due to a combination of my poor Bambara and his poor ability to decieve) was that I couldn't go past the line; that it was sacred; that it was bad and that their was fighting. Kosebe, Kosebe. At this point, I was itching to go but held back not wanting to violate the trust of my father and the village; I'm good like that.

So, when Madou offered to take me into the village you can imagine the excitement I felt, but also the reservation of one who knew he might not be able to see all. First, we stopped at his house where he changed into his shoes from sandals. Then, before leaving, he took a measured drink of water from the corner jug...

He points into the center, "Na," he waves his hand and we walk to an area filled with crowds and crowds and crowds. Young boys and woman alike are watching the event that's taking place in the center clearing. My heart stops for a moment as I believe I'll actually see the source of action. Instead, nothing. Again. Conversation begins, and the most I can get out of Madou is that it's an animal of some sort.

I look around and see the village chief, or dugutigi sitting on a wooden bench. He beckons with his hand to come sit, and I take my place beside him as he chews on the remnants of morning's breakfast (I hope). We greet in the traditional Bambara manner, asking about family, etc. and as I turn from his gaze to look back into the center a beat skips. I see young men fleeing from the center running straight at us!

They say third time's the charm, but no, something actually happened this time. Past the top of the fleeing crowd, I can barely make out the shape of a slump shouldered figure wearing a large mask. I move to the side and stare harder getting a clearer picture: He's dressed in a long brown velvety animal cloth, holding two whipping sticks. His posture is to the point where his shoulders have fallen beneath their normal position and his face is masked by a silver obstruction stretched to the length of two faces.

This creature is known as Koni, apparently because it comes from the fire, and chases the villagers around corners and openings, whipping them with his two sticks. If you happen to be caught, you're place in the middle of his entourage, and are forced to clap your hands or bang the drums under duress of a beating. Older men are not afraid of him, (he kisses the hand of the Dugutigi) but everyone else (including my 44 year old father) runs in a game of death! or not. But close, close, close.

A more Quiet, or reflective description

While I sit with Polo under a slowly diminishing straw hanger, the chicken, guinea-fowls, pigeons and doves begin to gather around my shiny blue bike fitted with manual gears and handle breaks. They fly upon the seats and bars, and I, playfully respond by throwing small pebbles that, even if they hit the flyers, is a mere touch.

Somewhat separate; moments before, I saw a mother hen "bamuso" says Polo, fight with a guinea fowl, "Kami," by jutting their beaks out, back and forth, back and fourth, through the muscles of their necks. The mother hen, a dark brown animal with spotty red streaks, and guinea fowl, blackish gray and a white feathered neck, move back and down, across the land and up a small mound. Kind of like in family guy. It's clear the hen, a larger animal, is winning and controlling the flow of the battle as it directs exactly where the animals move to.

That is, until the rest of the guinea fowl join in to ward off the hen and chase it behind the protection of my standing bike. No chickens came to the aid of the hend, and I couldn't help but notice the importance and tyranny of collectivity. I say, I couldn't help but, because notions of the community are illuminated by the space in which I now live. In many ways, my inhabitation and use of my familie's utilities i.e. food, guidance, care, as well as their use of my items i.e. flashlight, bicycle, without thought of whose is whose, is the same as the guinea fowls's (fowelie?) communal protection.

One can know this prior to; but struggling and living in an atmosphere where simple gestures change and can be an indicator of greater depths and their perhaps ensuing differences brings about an unusual personal experience, fittingly, one that should be shared. This doesn't necessarily mean that you have to appreciate the experience, but it is important to pass through it. I, myself, might argue that to experience (and all that falls around it, including the motivations i.e. desire or fortune/misfortune) is to appreciate, but you could argue, that the use and meaning of the term "appreciate" has shifted in my own usage.

Nevertheless, despite my dislike of describing or recognizing differences or discriminations, there is a palpable divide between what I've formally believed about this (I use "this" because it could extend to much more through associations/connotations), and what I live through day to day, and week to week. C'est la vie, maybe.

On one hand it is important to remain open; to accept the perspectives and views of others, not only if you see them as valid, but even if you see them as opposite, or illogical. One problem I have with this stems from the fact that I am human. If I am open to every perspective, I cannot but be destroyed by the tide of information that overflows and spills into my consciousness. To be completely open isto have no personality; to have no sense of self.

More realistically, what occurs is that we become members (socialized)of society by allowing certain information to enter our consciousnessand form our sense of self. This is dangerous because it can remove one from the ideas of others. The ability to hear other voices becomesmore difficult as it pursues a higher and higher platform from the ground in which you began.

But, to live, we must discriminate. Forget the pejorative connotations that the word has with racial differences, by "discrimination" I mean, we must decide what knowledge is useful and what is not. In Mali, it's difficult for me to get my bearings on what is what: What type of discriminations are useful, what kind are not? Is that even the correct paradigm to think in?

Whether or not it's correct, it's the immediate question that comes to my mind when I have to decide what is important in Mali and what isn't; the notion of "development" forces me to. This is because "development" doesn't really allow for a gray area. Peace Corps has a goal: to create a system in which a village can help itself by becoming self sustainable. All the projects that I will work on must have that final goal in mind.

This is not to say that the goal is a bad one. But as I look around and observe the various forms of culture that exist, I cannot help but wonder what forms of life are worth preserving. I don't believe that culture is a static entity; I don't believe that it is completely dynamic either. Irregardless of the philosophy one takes, at certain junctions one must decide which route to take; old or new, new or old, in essence one or the other.

Much of this reflection stems from the fact that I am outsider, a consummate outsider for I find myself a minority in both America and Mali. What's ironic is that I constantly find myself looking for clues to become an insider; observing Malian culture is similar to observing the culture I was born into, except now, I have fully formed discriminations. And other people have different types of discriminations. It is right that the word discrimination comes full circle now. Incomplete ideas, I know, but for now these are my thoughts headed in.

Here's a photo of my LCF (Language trainer), Brahima and I.

A rather enchanting photo taken from Ciby; a town filled with striking red cliffs that shoot up from the verdant plains. There's also a rather pretty waterfall, but you'll have to imagine/google that.

In the background is the River Niger, the third longest river in Farafina (Africa).

One of the towns by Banankoro, Senou, approximately 14 km south of Bamako.

This is a photo of our Peace Corps Swear-In ceremony, hosted by the American Embassy. Starting from far left, Markum, Moi, Shelby and Jared.

The only photo I have; courtesy of Shelby (fellow PCV). Yesterday, my fellow PCT's and I were sworn in at the American Embassy thereby making us... officially... Peace Corps Volunteers.

In other news, the trip to Cote D'Ivoire and Ghana for Christmas '08 and New Year's '09 is on schedule. Next on the plan: Guinea, Sierra Leone, and Liberia. For the former I'll be traveling with my new buddies, Jared (No Peace Corps Volunteer Left Behind) Markum and Shelby.

I'm looking forward to the next three months at my site; updates will come when they come.

Hop on a bike, play "Dayvan Cowboy", ride along the red clay road where the mahogany's span through natural columns; spot the mountainous hills in the sanfe (sky). Ride in that direction, pass through the plains and old towns filled with old houses, some old through attrition, others, new through maintenance. Greet the women walking by, high five the hands of children, shout In'i Bara to the men. See the large gaps that fill the landscape, spot the fields of kaba shooting into the air, gasp for the matter between the dust particles and breath in the air.

Sweat out what ever's left of your spirit until you see the mountains again; ride across the sand, slide through the dirt and hop through the rocks. Cross the large paved road, and struggle up a small hill. Get off the bike and lead it up a large path that climbs and climbs until you can no longer see how it continues, only the sky. "Kanadjiguila" says the old man through gaps of teeth and a straw of land. Claw up a hill and grasp through the tall stems when the slant threatens to push you off. Reach the top, its worth it. Sit, relax, grab one of the red stones and segin.

Mornings in Mali

Perhaps the most beautiful time in Mali, I wake up with the roosters crowing, and the sight of the sun rising. At these fortunate moments, I sometimes choose to plug in the iPod to my ear and enjoy an amalgamation of amazing-ness inundating the eyes and ears. Although inundating may be the wrong word, (connotations, connotations) because it is a very peaceful existence. These moments are difficult to describe because they are highly personal, highly contextual and thus specific. But, I think that if you are fortunate enough to recognize the beauty (albeit different) that exists in every part of the world you can appreciate and supply this poor description with your own personal creativity.

Family and Villages

For the record, I have two families, one in Banankoro, roughly 20 km south of Bamako, the other in Deguela 90 km south of Bamako. The former is my test-site or "practice site" where I do most of my language and technical training. The latter is my permaneant site, where I will be for the next two years or so.

Banankoro

Banankoro has a population of 6,000 people or so; thus, it is considered closer to a "city" than to a "village". The family that I am staying with are called the Coulibaly's, and as such, my name is Madou Coulibaly to everyone that I meet in Mali. It is my name and I have adopted it for good, even though I will be staying, for the next two years, with a family called Kone (in Deguela). My family is very kind and sincere; they often help me with the Bambara language and feed me three meals a day. Despite that I've still managed to drop roughly 20 lbs, down from 163. The baby, Merriem, is a little girl who at first was considerably afraid of me (afterall I'm a toubab). It took a while to win her over, but now I find myself lifting her to play with the four mango trees that litter my house. The other child, Djigui, is six and is a mischevious devil. A habitual line-stepper, I often find myself reprimanding him, even though his love for life is a wonderful thing to experience. This will be the last week that I'm at Banankoro, for on September 12th I will be sworn in as an official PCV (Peace Corps Volunteer).

Deguela

Deguela is a smaller village of 2000. The family that I stay with are called the Kone's. Polo and Awa Kone are my host father and mother, respectively. Polo got his name from excelling at the Polo dance at an early age; the name has stuck with him since! The village is considerably smaller, with less modern conveniences than Deguela; for instance, a noticeable lack of electricity (at least the people I know and have met). However, Deguela makes up for it with its charming beauty. The one week I was there I visited the sacred tree, the sacred house and the sacred well, all quaint examples of a more "simple" (for lack of a better word) life. Perhaps, the most dynamic physical aspect of the village (the gorgeous sunrise and sunsets are more pacifying) is the beautiful Niger River, 3 km from my site.

Yalayala'ing

The word for walking/wandering in Bambara, YalaYala'ing is one of the more important aspects of my life in Mali. This is because, in the hectic-ness of everyday-life-in-the-first-month-of-living-in-Mali, I have lost a considerable amount of time to think. That time has been replaced by the worries of not-quite "staying-alive" but close. This "worry" or "planning" time in Mali spent on maintaining a life (even if it was a poor one) didn't exist in America because surviving is a habitual and subconscious act. Hungry? I'll just go to Momma's Fried Chicken. Nature Calling? I'll just mosey over to the bathroom. Horny? I'll just...oh wait. Same problem.

But in all seriousness (ok I was being serious), Yalayala'ing offers me that time to escape the worries of Mali-life and go, Into the Wild. Often, I find myself out in the Kungo (the bush) cruising on a Bike enjoying the beauty of the African Plains, sunset, houses and people. At this time I can think about anything my mind might decide to set its sights on, or just follow my physical self and wander...

To be continued...

Niagins and Health

Training, Tubani So and Karamogo's

Language

My address:

Jonathan Wu

Corps de la Paix-Mali

Rue 422, Porte 301- Niarela

B.P. 85

Bamako, Mali