Having my parents here for a week was so good in so many ways. There are the obvious reasons of course; I missed them and enjoyed spending time with them. But having them here also opened my eyes to how much I like being Mali. Introducing my parents to the different people I am surrounded by daily gave me renewed appreciation for them and the ways that they look out for me.
Spending time with my host family in my village has always been fun for me. I have always enjoyed talking to my host dad, learning new vocabulary, hearing new stories. So when I brought my family to village, acting as their interpreter, helping them through the greetings and the customs, it made me feel proud. I could use the language that he taught me to introduce my parents and to act as the go between, changing my mom’s thanks in English to Bambara. My host dad, my homologue and the women’s association all presented us with chickens, which is a form of great thanks. It was sad that we had run out of time and could not sit and share in the meal with them, and yet it was funny to me that both my parents and my adopted parents thought on the same lines, suggesting in two different languages that the chickens be saved for when I came back to village.
I also took them to meet my host family from my homestay village. I am sure they were not surprised to see that the family dog took to my mom just as quickly as he had to me. It was one of the first things my host dad pointed out upon entering the compound. Standing in their yard, Awa, my host mom, pointed out how much my mother and I looked the same. I thought this was quite ironic because this was the very same woman who had once told me that a lot of Malians do not recognize the differences in Tubabs the way they did in Malians. She had said that we might all look the same to Malians. Yet she immediately commented that we had the same face. Returning to their home for the first time since my training had ended, I was excited to see my host sisters and was overcome with a feeling of the familiar. Again, pressed for time, we had to leave shortly after arriving, but I am looking forward to going back for a longer visit.
Playing interpreter for my parents, I was surprised at how much I could understand, and how much I was understood. Because I was sent to DC for 3 weeks and then didn’t immediately return to site, I felt my language suffered. I am sure it has. But I was still able to ask many of my dad’s questions and even understand some of the answers. I got us all around Bamako, which I will tell you is no small feat, with the taxis and the different cartiers and the millions of cars and motos.
And of course, my parents were constantly impressed with the friendliness of the people of Mali. I know, have known, that I am surrounded by good people. But it’s a good reminder of just how open and friendly and helpful Malians are, to hear it from someone else. From people on the airplane, to people at the hotel, the staff at many of the places we had lunch or dinner, the cab drivers, the random people in the market, the people in my village and in the other villages we went to. We were warmly welcomed, and even more so when I spoke Bambara. It seemed to blow some of them away, to meet a Tubab who didn’t want to speak French. I set them straight, telling them I couldn’t speak it. Which really only really became a problem when we were trying to find a non-existent water fall.
I felt it was a successful trip. I’ve learned that the measure of success is different for everyone, but no one was sick, we had minimal bug bites, no sun burn, no one was forced to squat over a latrine hole (a miracle!) and we took away some great memories and some good stories. I know I’m half a world, and lots of shots away, but the gate is open; visitor’s are being accepted.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Friday, January 15, 2010
Victory!
Today, I killed a scorpion. In my hut, I have my fair share of critters: long egged spiders, crickets that keep me up at night, and even the occasional lizard. I like to think that as long as they aren't touching me, they are ok. I let them be. But as some of you know, I've had a few run ins with scorpions, and have not actually managed to kill them. My host dad has even taught me a song about killing dangerous things when you see them.
But today, I killed one. He was hiding in my trunk, and when I was moving the fabric I kept in there, he skittered out. I stepped on him and then couldn't find his remains. He had scuttled to the side and was trying to fool me. But I stomped on him again, squishing him into a splattered mess on the bottom of my flop! Take that, Scorpion!
But today, I killed one. He was hiding in my trunk, and when I was moving the fabric I kept in there, he skittered out. I stepped on him and then couldn't find his remains. He had scuttled to the side and was trying to fool me. But I stomped on him again, squishing him into a splattered mess on the bottom of my flop! Take that, Scorpion!
Getting there
Malian transportation is a funny thing. And sometimes, when you’ve been on a crowded bus all day, stuck between screaming children and screaming goats, all you can do is laugh about it.
My parents are coming to visit. And in planning our excursions, I am recalling all of my favorite public transport moments thus far. Yes, I’ve only been in country for 6 months, but already I have had some great experiences, getting to and fro on Malian buses, cars, trucks, and bachees (large green vans. Used for short or long distances, packed tight with people).
Not long ago, I took a trip west. I started out early one morning, catching the 6am bus out of San towards Bamako.. This ride usually takes somewhere between 6 and 10 hours. The bus is a coach bus, or a charter bus, with padded individual seats. Not like a school bus. But unlike charter buses in the states, there is not a bathroom on the bus and the bus is probably as old as I am. The seats are upholstered in flashy fabric from decades past and hold more dust than a welcome rug in the desert. The windows may or may not open, more likely that they don’t, and the bus may or may not have vents in the roof. If it does have vents in the roof, or windows that open, opening them will usually get you a glare from those sitting near you, Malians bundled up in fleece sweatshirts and puffy jackets. Mind you that while it is only 60` or 70` at 6 in the morning, on a ride that lasts an average of 8 hours, one finds themselves traveling through the hottest part of the day with temperatures reaching the 90’s. And when you are on a bus filled with people, random children placed on your lap, sleeping heads bobbing on your shoulder, extra passengers shoved into the aisle ways sitting on giant plastic jugs or other luggage, 90` turns into at least 110.
So this is how I find myself walking through San at 5:45am, looking for a bus at a gare (terminal) that just isn’t there. Am I too early? Am I at the wrong gare? With my pack on my back and breakfast in hand, I wander towards the nearest buuru tigi. Buuru is bread in Bambara, and tigi is “owner of.” This is why rich people are called waari tigi (waari is money) and village chiefs are dugu tigi’s (dugu is village).The shop keeper sends me out towards the goudron (main road in and out of San) where I meet a bus just about to leave and find my way on. These buses stop for people on the side of the road, trying to fill their seats and make their money. It takes us a full 45 minutes to even get out of San city limits, by which time I have fallen asleep sprawled over both seats. I am awoken by a shy young man, maybe high school aged, who is asking me to scoot over. I look around and realize that every other seat on this bus is taken. Waking the Tubab and asking her to move is a last resort. In front of me, the mother and two children who were sharing two seats have moved over to let a man sit with them, the eldest child sitting in the lap of this stranger. That is just how things go here. Everyone is a mother, a father, a child, so it is not strange to be handed a little one to hold, or to see someone you assume is a stranger sitting with a random kid or two on his lap.
Later, in this same trip, I have been dropped off at one corner and need to take a taxi to get to another corner to catch different transport. So while I try to hail a cab, a driver approaches me and tells me that I should get in his cab. With the other two women who are already in there. This is also not uncommon. He will drop us off in succession as we head towards the furthest destination. Or go all over town, dropping off who ever makes more of a stink first. And make some good money doing it. At the next gare, I purchase my ticket and get ready to wait for the next bus, which will be leaving in two hours. Getting water at one of the stores, I make a new friend in the shop keeper. And another in the namasa tigi (banana seller) while I wait. People here are very friendly. And curious. What is your name? Where are you going? Why? And then because I am a Tubab, the questions continue. Where are you from? Why are you here? Where is your man? Do you have a Malian man? Do you want one?
As I was getting onto the next bus, I met a man who was going where I was. We ended up sitting next to each other. He is Malian, and in addition to speaking Bambara, French and Malinke (a minority language), he also speaks some Spanish. He drives freight from West Africa to Spain for Toyota. Sitting on my other side, on a big water jug in the aisle of the overcrowded bus is an older woman. I try to offer her my seat, but she will not take it. We chat, the three of us, for the 4 hour drive. She shares her fruit with me, we laugh about the Malian music playing through the speakers, we talk about my work. When we finally arrive at our destination, the man next to me, my travel companion, makes sure that the people I am meeting are at the bus station before he leaves. As I walk away, people yell out to me, by name. Traveling as a Tubab, everyone knows my name and where I am going and why. I will tell only the few people sitting near me, or the bus driver’s apprentice, and somehow everyone knows.
This is especially helpful when trips don’t run as smoothly as they should. Which can be said for most trips, actually. Another time, I had gotten on a bus leaving Manatali, a town in the very far western part of Mali. I had had a good few days, hanging out with my friends John and Jason, seeing the area, floating on the river in inner tubes, dodging the hippos across the river and watching the monkeys play in the yard. The road between Manatali and Kita, the next nearest town with transport, is quite bumpy. And transport doesn’t go so very often, so I set out towards Kita when I could. I got on a bus unlike the one I had taken out to Manatali, which was basically a truck with seats and a roof over the bed. This was more of a bus, uncomfortable seats and all. As we filed on, children were placed in laps or set on the floor to make room for the adults who paid for their seats. One girl, about 6 years old, curled up under the seats, next to the feet of her mother and another passenger. I could see her blue socks sticking out from under the seat in front of me. We left just about on time, which is highly unusual, but only got about an hour into the 4-6 hour drive when the bus pulled over and everyone was asked to unload. Something was wrong with the engine, or the breaks, or something important, and we would have to wait for another vehicle to come get us.
As I said before, the road was quite bumpy. After the ride in, we were sore for days from our tail bones hitting on the metal framed seats as we came back down from bumping our heads on the ceiling of the truck-bus. I had grand dreams of this ride being smoother, but they were dashed as we made the 20 minute walk into the nearest village, away from our bus. At this point, I had made friends with a few different passengers. Three different men riding to Kita and on to Bamako, just like me, took me under their wing. Neither of them knew each other either, but as we sat at the house of one of the villagers, drinking tea and waiting the 3.5 hours for the next bus to arrive, we all became close friends. I think we drank at least 7 rounds of tea and talked about everything under the sun. We at least exhausted my limited Bambara. One of the guys was a soccer player, coming from visiting friends in Manatali, on his way to Bamako to play with one of the many teams that come out of Mali. He was originally from Cote D’Ivoire, but had spent most of his adult life traveling through West Africa, playing soccer in different countries. He spoke great English, so when I was really confused about transport or any other related thing, he broke out of Bambara and helped me. He also helped with my Bambara, giving me a mini lesson as we were waiting.
Finally, we heard a big engine and ran out to the road to get on our bus. Our bus was in fact not a bus but a big huge truck. This is the kind of truck you would see with big cows or huge sacks of grain in, and instead we filled it with people and their luggage, making seats for people on bags and suitcases. Many people stood up, letting the wind cool them, as the sun beat down on us. Some very brave men even rode up on the edges of the tank, dodging the branches of the trees we whipped by. I was applying sunscreen like it was gong out of style and got lots of laughs from my companions and the other passengers when I tried to explain what it was and why I was using it. Again, we resumed talk of me being married. I usually tell people when traveling that I have a man, and even go as far as to wear a ring on my left ring finger. I don’t usually say I am married, because saying I have a ce (pronounced Che, means man) is enough. Somehow, it was assumed by one of the others that I was in fact married, but that didn’t stop them. Everyone knew a Malian man I should meet, they told me. It is ok, they said, to have one here and one there. Two years is a long time, they reminded me. As we were talking about this, my footballer friend informed me that he wished he could meet a nice American girl like me, since there was no way he’d marry an African woman. They are too much trouble, he says. I assured him that women the world over can be quite similar. He went on to say that he was referring more to the fact that marrying an African woman meant a marriage to her whole family, mother and father and second cousins and uncles twice removed, which made things more complicated. It would be easier to marry an American girl. Besides, he said, they could travel together, see places most Africans wouldn’t, because there would not be a family, and the duties Africa women are expected to carry out, like immediate childbearing, to tie them to one village.
When we reached Kita, one of my travel buddies took me to get food, helped me find water and fruit, and then even made sure I knew where to catch our bus when it was ready. The last leg of my journey, I traveled with him sitting next to me and my footballer friend behind me, next to the third member of our tea party. We were exhausted. They all kept checking on me, asking “I seggenen don?” (are you tired?) I’d say dooni (a little) and they would agree. Our journey, including when we were stopped and ID’d by the gendarmes as we left Kita, had taken 15 hours. It should have taken 7 or 8.
Of course, it was dark when we got to Bamako, but my friends made sure I got where I was going safely, acting as interpreters for me and requesting that I call them when I was back in town. Throughout the headache of it all, I had had a great time. I met some terrific new people, gotten a little tan, acquired a new story and had a good laugh. Sometimes its all you can do.
My parents are coming to visit. And in planning our excursions, I am recalling all of my favorite public transport moments thus far. Yes, I’ve only been in country for 6 months, but already I have had some great experiences, getting to and fro on Malian buses, cars, trucks, and bachees (large green vans. Used for short or long distances, packed tight with people).
Not long ago, I took a trip west. I started out early one morning, catching the 6am bus out of San towards Bamako.. This ride usually takes somewhere between 6 and 10 hours. The bus is a coach bus, or a charter bus, with padded individual seats. Not like a school bus. But unlike charter buses in the states, there is not a bathroom on the bus and the bus is probably as old as I am. The seats are upholstered in flashy fabric from decades past and hold more dust than a welcome rug in the desert. The windows may or may not open, more likely that they don’t, and the bus may or may not have vents in the roof. If it does have vents in the roof, or windows that open, opening them will usually get you a glare from those sitting near you, Malians bundled up in fleece sweatshirts and puffy jackets. Mind you that while it is only 60` or 70` at 6 in the morning, on a ride that lasts an average of 8 hours, one finds themselves traveling through the hottest part of the day with temperatures reaching the 90’s. And when you are on a bus filled with people, random children placed on your lap, sleeping heads bobbing on your shoulder, extra passengers shoved into the aisle ways sitting on giant plastic jugs or other luggage, 90` turns into at least 110.
So this is how I find myself walking through San at 5:45am, looking for a bus at a gare (terminal) that just isn’t there. Am I too early? Am I at the wrong gare? With my pack on my back and breakfast in hand, I wander towards the nearest buuru tigi. Buuru is bread in Bambara, and tigi is “owner of.” This is why rich people are called waari tigi (waari is money) and village chiefs are dugu tigi’s (dugu is village).The shop keeper sends me out towards the goudron (main road in and out of San) where I meet a bus just about to leave and find my way on. These buses stop for people on the side of the road, trying to fill their seats and make their money. It takes us a full 45 minutes to even get out of San city limits, by which time I have fallen asleep sprawled over both seats. I am awoken by a shy young man, maybe high school aged, who is asking me to scoot over. I look around and realize that every other seat on this bus is taken. Waking the Tubab and asking her to move is a last resort. In front of me, the mother and two children who were sharing two seats have moved over to let a man sit with them, the eldest child sitting in the lap of this stranger. That is just how things go here. Everyone is a mother, a father, a child, so it is not strange to be handed a little one to hold, or to see someone you assume is a stranger sitting with a random kid or two on his lap.
Later, in this same trip, I have been dropped off at one corner and need to take a taxi to get to another corner to catch different transport. So while I try to hail a cab, a driver approaches me and tells me that I should get in his cab. With the other two women who are already in there. This is also not uncommon. He will drop us off in succession as we head towards the furthest destination. Or go all over town, dropping off who ever makes more of a stink first. And make some good money doing it. At the next gare, I purchase my ticket and get ready to wait for the next bus, which will be leaving in two hours. Getting water at one of the stores, I make a new friend in the shop keeper. And another in the namasa tigi (banana seller) while I wait. People here are very friendly. And curious. What is your name? Where are you going? Why? And then because I am a Tubab, the questions continue. Where are you from? Why are you here? Where is your man? Do you have a Malian man? Do you want one?
As I was getting onto the next bus, I met a man who was going where I was. We ended up sitting next to each other. He is Malian, and in addition to speaking Bambara, French and Malinke (a minority language), he also speaks some Spanish. He drives freight from West Africa to Spain for Toyota. Sitting on my other side, on a big water jug in the aisle of the overcrowded bus is an older woman. I try to offer her my seat, but she will not take it. We chat, the three of us, for the 4 hour drive. She shares her fruit with me, we laugh about the Malian music playing through the speakers, we talk about my work. When we finally arrive at our destination, the man next to me, my travel companion, makes sure that the people I am meeting are at the bus station before he leaves. As I walk away, people yell out to me, by name. Traveling as a Tubab, everyone knows my name and where I am going and why. I will tell only the few people sitting near me, or the bus driver’s apprentice, and somehow everyone knows.
This is especially helpful when trips don’t run as smoothly as they should. Which can be said for most trips, actually. Another time, I had gotten on a bus leaving Manatali, a town in the very far western part of Mali. I had had a good few days, hanging out with my friends John and Jason, seeing the area, floating on the river in inner tubes, dodging the hippos across the river and watching the monkeys play in the yard. The road between Manatali and Kita, the next nearest town with transport, is quite bumpy. And transport doesn’t go so very often, so I set out towards Kita when I could. I got on a bus unlike the one I had taken out to Manatali, which was basically a truck with seats and a roof over the bed. This was more of a bus, uncomfortable seats and all. As we filed on, children were placed in laps or set on the floor to make room for the adults who paid for their seats. One girl, about 6 years old, curled up under the seats, next to the feet of her mother and another passenger. I could see her blue socks sticking out from under the seat in front of me. We left just about on time, which is highly unusual, but only got about an hour into the 4-6 hour drive when the bus pulled over and everyone was asked to unload. Something was wrong with the engine, or the breaks, or something important, and we would have to wait for another vehicle to come get us.
As I said before, the road was quite bumpy. After the ride in, we were sore for days from our tail bones hitting on the metal framed seats as we came back down from bumping our heads on the ceiling of the truck-bus. I had grand dreams of this ride being smoother, but they were dashed as we made the 20 minute walk into the nearest village, away from our bus. At this point, I had made friends with a few different passengers. Three different men riding to Kita and on to Bamako, just like me, took me under their wing. Neither of them knew each other either, but as we sat at the house of one of the villagers, drinking tea and waiting the 3.5 hours for the next bus to arrive, we all became close friends. I think we drank at least 7 rounds of tea and talked about everything under the sun. We at least exhausted my limited Bambara. One of the guys was a soccer player, coming from visiting friends in Manatali, on his way to Bamako to play with one of the many teams that come out of Mali. He was originally from Cote D’Ivoire, but had spent most of his adult life traveling through West Africa, playing soccer in different countries. He spoke great English, so when I was really confused about transport or any other related thing, he broke out of Bambara and helped me. He also helped with my Bambara, giving me a mini lesson as we were waiting.
Finally, we heard a big engine and ran out to the road to get on our bus. Our bus was in fact not a bus but a big huge truck. This is the kind of truck you would see with big cows or huge sacks of grain in, and instead we filled it with people and their luggage, making seats for people on bags and suitcases. Many people stood up, letting the wind cool them, as the sun beat down on us. Some very brave men even rode up on the edges of the tank, dodging the branches of the trees we whipped by. I was applying sunscreen like it was gong out of style and got lots of laughs from my companions and the other passengers when I tried to explain what it was and why I was using it. Again, we resumed talk of me being married. I usually tell people when traveling that I have a man, and even go as far as to wear a ring on my left ring finger. I don’t usually say I am married, because saying I have a ce (pronounced Che, means man) is enough. Somehow, it was assumed by one of the others that I was in fact married, but that didn’t stop them. Everyone knew a Malian man I should meet, they told me. It is ok, they said, to have one here and one there. Two years is a long time, they reminded me. As we were talking about this, my footballer friend informed me that he wished he could meet a nice American girl like me, since there was no way he’d marry an African woman. They are too much trouble, he says. I assured him that women the world over can be quite similar. He went on to say that he was referring more to the fact that marrying an African woman meant a marriage to her whole family, mother and father and second cousins and uncles twice removed, which made things more complicated. It would be easier to marry an American girl. Besides, he said, they could travel together, see places most Africans wouldn’t, because there would not be a family, and the duties Africa women are expected to carry out, like immediate childbearing, to tie them to one village.
When we reached Kita, one of my travel buddies took me to get food, helped me find water and fruit, and then even made sure I knew where to catch our bus when it was ready. The last leg of my journey, I traveled with him sitting next to me and my footballer friend behind me, next to the third member of our tea party. We were exhausted. They all kept checking on me, asking “I seggenen don?” (are you tired?) I’d say dooni (a little) and they would agree. Our journey, including when we were stopped and ID’d by the gendarmes as we left Kita, had taken 15 hours. It should have taken 7 or 8.
Of course, it was dark when we got to Bamako, but my friends made sure I got where I was going safely, acting as interpreters for me and requesting that I call them when I was back in town. Throughout the headache of it all, I had had a great time. I met some terrific new people, gotten a little tan, acquired a new story and had a good laugh. Sometimes its all you can do.
Friday, January 8, 2010
A new year
2010 is here! After our Christmas excursion in Dogon, we were all headed to Bamako for New Years. We PCV’s took over a party held at the home of a Lebanese friend. You tell volunteers on a strict budget that you are providing the booze, and you would be fool to expect anything less. We all counted down the new year and set off fireworks to celebrate, but the party lasted into the wee hours of the night. I don’t believe many of us were home before morning prayer call (which happens around 4:30am).
So the next day, when we headed out for the hangover hash run put on by expatriates in Bamako, we were all feeling it. This is one of my new favorite things about Mali. Ever heard of a hash run? I hadn’t. It’s a run set up like a puzzle, with lots of beer at the end. The runners all start together, headed down a path marked by “shreddies,” pieces of some miscellaneous white substance. The idea is that these markers take you to the finish, but along the way you come across big circles, marking a split in the path. Each circle has arrows pointing off of it, telling you which directions you could go. One direction is correct, leading you on to the rest of the trail. But the other arrows send you down a false path. You can identify the correct path by encountering 3 hash marks in a row. People tend to work as unofficial teams, sending people down each path, and yelling out when they have found a dud or a real path. The runs are usually about 5k, but rarely does one ever actually run the whole thing. At the end of the run, every one gathers together to raz the winner (the front running bastard) and any offenders during the race. These are people who may have cut parts of the course, or who might have worn ridiculous clothing, for example. The whole thing tends to finish up with dinner at someone’s home, which of course, us volunteers cannot resist.
This run was my first, and I set out with the other volunteers from my stage that came along. At the firs circle, we set out in different directions to find the right path. Ali and I found one and yelled for the others to follow. And some did. But there were other runners who swore up and down that they had also found a path, so we split up and moved on. About 10 minutes into our run, Ali, Billly and I realized that in fact we had found the path, but that we had found it going the opposite direction. So we decided that whatever our punishment might be, we would continue on and finish, running the whole thing backwards. These runs are frequented by many of the expats living in Bamako, from embassy workers to those working with NGO’s and the University. We ended up finishing first, which earned us three cups of beer. One for finishing first, one for going the wrong way, and one for being hash new-comers. The whole evening finished off at the home of one of the expats, with lasagne(!), socializing and more drinking.
The next few days followed with more fun, including a pool party/bbq at a friend’s house, a night of dancing, and lots of ice cream and indulgent food that we can’t get in brusse. So, needless to say, I am headed back to site today, back to reality. After being away from my village for so long, I hope they remember me. I talked to my host dad yesterday about coming home, and he sounded simply giddy! I’ll be introducing birthdays to them next week too. Malians tend to not even know when they were born or how old they are, so birthday celebrations are a foreign affair. But Monday is market day, so I am coming in to get the fixings for a good dinner and will be inviting everyone to join me in celebrating. Che (chicken), frites (potato fries) and zere (watermelon) all around!
Miss everyone lots,
Loves, hugs and kisses!
So the next day, when we headed out for the hangover hash run put on by expatriates in Bamako, we were all feeling it. This is one of my new favorite things about Mali. Ever heard of a hash run? I hadn’t. It’s a run set up like a puzzle, with lots of beer at the end. The runners all start together, headed down a path marked by “shreddies,” pieces of some miscellaneous white substance. The idea is that these markers take you to the finish, but along the way you come across big circles, marking a split in the path. Each circle has arrows pointing off of it, telling you which directions you could go. One direction is correct, leading you on to the rest of the trail. But the other arrows send you down a false path. You can identify the correct path by encountering 3 hash marks in a row. People tend to work as unofficial teams, sending people down each path, and yelling out when they have found a dud or a real path. The runs are usually about 5k, but rarely does one ever actually run the whole thing. At the end of the run, every one gathers together to raz the winner (the front running bastard) and any offenders during the race. These are people who may have cut parts of the course, or who might have worn ridiculous clothing, for example. The whole thing tends to finish up with dinner at someone’s home, which of course, us volunteers cannot resist.
This run was my first, and I set out with the other volunteers from my stage that came along. At the firs circle, we set out in different directions to find the right path. Ali and I found one and yelled for the others to follow. And some did. But there were other runners who swore up and down that they had also found a path, so we split up and moved on. About 10 minutes into our run, Ali, Billly and I realized that in fact we had found the path, but that we had found it going the opposite direction. So we decided that whatever our punishment might be, we would continue on and finish, running the whole thing backwards. These runs are frequented by many of the expats living in Bamako, from embassy workers to those working with NGO’s and the University. We ended up finishing first, which earned us three cups of beer. One for finishing first, one for going the wrong way, and one for being hash new-comers. The whole evening finished off at the home of one of the expats, with lasagne(!), socializing and more drinking.
The next few days followed with more fun, including a pool party/bbq at a friend’s house, a night of dancing, and lots of ice cream and indulgent food that we can’t get in brusse. So, needless to say, I am headed back to site today, back to reality. After being away from my village for so long, I hope they remember me. I talked to my host dad yesterday about coming home, and he sounded simply giddy! I’ll be introducing birthdays to them next week too. Malians tend to not even know when they were born or how old they are, so birthday celebrations are a foreign affair. But Monday is market day, so I am coming in to get the fixings for a good dinner and will be inviting everyone to join me in celebrating. Che (chicken), frites (potato fries) and zere (watermelon) all around!
Miss everyone lots,
Loves, hugs and kisses!
Dogon Christmas!
Hi all!
Long time, I know. Sorry. Let me start off by wishing everyone a happy holiday and a fantastic New Year. I hope 2010 is off to a good start for everyone.
I spent Christmas hiking through Dogon country. It was a three day, two night hike, with 15 other volunteers and two Malian guides. Our primary guide was my friend’s homologue and he was great. We all took lots of pictures, which you can find on facebook now. I have not had the opportunity myself to upload any of mine, but if you follow this link, you should be able to see quite a few of them. We spent Christmas day at Sam’s site (another volunteer from my stage). We watched the sunrise from her roof it the morning, which was sort of hazy, but beautiful none the less. In the afternoon, we went to the opening of a mask festival. The Dogon people give several mask dances, a very popular tourist attraction. But this festival specifically was to bring together all of the different villages in the Sangha cartier (a circle of Mopti, Sangha is where Sam lives and works) to perform for each other. The parts that we saw were only the opening day, but we were entertained by multitude of different groups of dancers and the opportunity to do some dancing of our own. Following that, we were treated to a wonderful Christmas dinner, prepared by Sam and other members of her village We had cornbread stuffing, candied sweet potatoes, veg, and a roasted goat. We even had millet beer! It was a very nice set up, a sit down dinner for all 16 of us, including two other travelers who happen to be staying at the hotel in Bongo, Sam’s village.
The evening ended with a dance presented by all the women of Sam’s village, which we were also encouraged to participate in. We exercised PC goal #3 by singing Christmas carols to them as thanks for their performance, and general hospitality, They were thoroughly amused.
We started off the next morning, hiking down the cliffs on the side of Bongo, into the valley. We were lead, as I said before, by Sam’s homologue, who continued to finish off the millet beer through out the next few days of our hike. Our days we would spend hiking in the morning, stopping for rest and stories of the Dogon and Telum people. The Telums lived in the cliffs of Mopti, carving homes out of the sides of the rock face. When the brothers of Mali, the Bambara and Dogon people, could no longer get along in the northern part of the country, the Dogon people moved north, running the Telums out of their dwellings and taking over residence in the cliffs. They also changed their language so that their Bambara brothers could not understand them. When you look up into the mountain sides, it is amazing to think that anyone would ever have been able to live there. In fact, the Dogon people, taking up residence in the bottoms of the hills, believed that the Telum people could fly, enabling them to reach their homes over a hundred yards up these otherwise unscaleable rocks.
We stopped each day for lunch at a new encampment, like a small hotel along the route. We ate well, couscous (the rice so nice, they named it twice!) or rice and sauce, or macaroni and sauce. These are pretty common Malian dishes, but they were so well prepared, and of course, we were pretty hungry. After filling our bellies, we’d nap a bit and then set off for our afternoon hike. The afternoons were much shorter than the mornings, which was good considering how warm it was. We’d end our day arriving in another village, at another encampment, a cold beer or soda to greet us.
The first night, we stopped into a Christian village. It was the 26th, and set up right over the 3 meter wall from us was a church celebration. We spent a lot of time watching the dancing, and listening to the singing and chanting. While chatting and taking it all in, Jeremy and I made friends with a woman and her children standing next to us. I have seen my fair share of beautiful babies here, especially working at the health center. But this child was by far the standout. She was giggly and we made gurgling noises to each other, much to her mother’s amusement. We were also given a coconut milk like drink that was being passed around the dancing circle. When we decided to walk around and explore town, we were invited to join the dancing. It was us two Tubabs and at least 50 Malians, and one of our guides and the children dancing were all trying to teach us how to do it. We were joined later by other volunteers from our group, but for once we were less the spectacle than usual. These people were so engrossed in their dancing and their celebrating and their singing, that a couple extra white people seemed to go with out notice.
When we could dance no more, Jeremy and I stepped off to watch. And the children followed. We played chase and acted like kids ourselves. It was a great end to a good day.
Our hike the next day led us up onto the cliffs to the most amazing views I could have imagined. It was tough hiking, mostly all straight up, but when we got to the top, we were all greatly rewarded. I will put up pictures as soon as I can, but don’t wait! Check out the pictures here; they are brilliant. We were told that from the top of the cliffs we were on, one could see all the way to Burkina Faso on a clear day. It was windy up there, and even though the sun was pounding down on us, it was a wonderful feeling. The rest of our hike that day led us to another encampment in a village on the side of the hills for lunch, and then on to our stay for the night in a village pushed up against the bottom of the cliffs across the valley from the mountains we had just climbed. The journey seemed to always be either climbing rocks or traipsing through desert sand, and a good time on either terrain. We spent each night sleeping on the roof of the hotels, under the desert stars. And man oh man was it cold. The last night of our hike, we ended up in a pile of people, a spoon train if you will, just trying to keep warm!
I know Mali is not on the top of many people’s travel lists, but should anyone decide to venture this direction, the Dogon hikes are not to be missed. The pictures and words will never really do it justice.
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