Niasso to San

When I am in my village, I am at home. It is comfortable in my house (emotionally, since no one could call 108` comfortable) and I find my routine easily. My neighbors happily greet meet and I am always welcome at the houses of my colleagues and village friends. Children know my name and want to help me with anything and everything, from pumping my water and shooing random animals out of my compound, to sweeping my dusty yard and watering my garden. After 10 months of being in Mali, and over 8 months of it in Niasso, my site is really becoming my town, my neighborhood, my home. When I have been away, I look forward to returning, and the feeling that washes over me upon reentering my village, pulling off onto my dirt road, passing all of my familiar places, is overwhelmingly comforting.

When I leave village to come to San, the town I go to for my banking and market, I usually go by bike. The ride is about 20k (12 miles) and usually takes me about an hour, depending on the wind and how much sleep I got the night before. On my ride, I pass lots of other villagers biking to and from markets with any number of random things packed on the back of their bikes - bags, market buys, children or other passengers, sheep, chickens, goats. We greet each other, exchange a brief wave. Sometimes, if we are traveling the same direction, we will talk a bit. “Where are you from? Where are you going? What village do you live in? What work do you do there? Do you know Bakary Coulibaly, he lives in the village near yours?”

My route is along a main road, frequented by not only other bike riders, but motos, cars, buses, and freight trucks as well. When these huge trucks rush past me, going the opposite direction, I am treated to a face full of dust and head wind so fierce, I seem to be suspended on the spot, my peddling only keeping me from being blown backwards. We also share the road with donkey and horse carts, piled high with goods for market and women who are headed to sell their wares there. As I pass them, the women return my greetings with enthusiastic smiles and questions. “How’s your family? How are your children? How are the people from your village? How is your man?” As I ride by, I grin, answering as many questions as I can, trying to juggle my greetings while weaving between the carts, the traffic in both directions and the multitude of potholes that make up the majority of the road.

Now, after the Tour d’Afrique has come through town, the road is labeled with distances; 10k, 5k, and 3k from San. Although we recently confirmed our doubts that the distance from 10k to 5k is in fact more than 5k (7.5 at least!), as I approach the 3k mark, I start to feel a little lighter. I have entered the San city limits and suddenly the wind and the heat don’t matter. As I pull around the corner, almost to our house here, the same feeling of comfort comes over me. It is my home away from home. When I come in, I know that there is a good chance that at least one other of our 8 volunteers will be in town, all of whom I look forward to seeing, which I know is a feeling I am so very lucky to have. We volunteers know our neighbors and the people who run different businesses in town. We have clean, running water, which means showers, real toilets and filling up our cistern, a concrete hot tub of sorts. We also have electricity, which means movies, music, and a running refrigerator aka cold water.

Talking to another volunteer recently, I thought of a perfect comparison. Growing up, we used to go to my grandparent’s beach house on Stretch Island. We’d pack up the car and after at least 4 checks and rechecks of the house, we’d be on our way. When, two hours later or three with traffic and stops, we got to the bridge that connects Stretch Island to Grapeview, I felt excited. Happy to be back there, happy to have endured the long ride in the car next to my little brother who knew my buttons and just how to push them. Even the dogs would know when we were close, smelling the beach and the ocean, rushing to get to the window.

Of course, we all know the feeling of returning home after a vacation. While the vacation was probably awesome, the minute you step foot on the plane or in the car, the minute you start heading back , its over. And you’re eager to get back to the routine, your own bed, the comfort of home. When you finally pull into the neighborhood, get the car in the driveway, it’s a relief. You are home. For me, San is the beach house on Stretch Island and Niasso is home. While in reality, nothing in Mali could ever replace my home in Washington, and definitely not my favorite place on the Pudget Sound, it is nice to have some places to help to fill the gap. And to feel like home.