Moussa

Saturday, March 5, 2011

I’ve mentioned Moussa before.  My “younger brother” who is really my uncle.  (Reminder: Moussa is my dad’s youngest brother but since he’s 15 I call him my younger brother).  And technically by Malian perceptions, he’s my “fa fitini,” my “little dad.”  I mentioned that my dad and my uncle Madu will both include each others’ kids as part of their own brood – that’s how it works here with fathers’ brothers.  So technically I have 4 Malian dads: Sirafa, Madu, Moussa, and their other brother, Oussaman, who used to live in my room but moved to another town – I just met him recently.

Anyway, back to Moussa.  For the rest of my life, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to think of Mali without thinking of Moussa.  He’s kind of my other half here.  If he’s not around, I can feel that something is missing.  He and I have reached the point where we’re comfortable enough with each other – and I have enough language skills – that we’re constantly joking around together.  I have to admit, I don’t always know what’s going on, but even then the joking still makes me feel more a part of the family and of the community, and essentially way more comfortable in my own life. 

It’s easy to feel like an outsider here.  I suppose we are outsiders anyway, and we’ll always be separate; but there’s a fine line between occasionally feeling those differences and falling into a trap where you’re bogged down by the weight of those differences.  I know there’s a difference between the way that I feel in the Mountougula community and the way some of my counterparts feel in their Malian communities.  I attribute much of my comfort to Moussa.  Let’s face it, he’s 15.  He goes to school during the week, and on weekends, and many times after school, he goes to work in the family garden.  He has a lot of commitments as it is, and in his little free time you’d think he’d want to spend it living his own life, not hanging out with a 24-year old whose conversational skills are far outdistanced by the 6-year old.  And occasionally Moussa does do his own thing.  He’ll play soccer with his friends, or he’ll “yala yala” (walk around) with the girl he likes.  But most of his free time he spends with me, and I am endlessly grateful for that.

My friend Andrew and I went for a bike ride one day, and when we got back into town, Andrew stopped at my place to borrow something.  We came to my house and Moussa asked where we had gone.  Since neither Andrew or I actually knew, we threw out a couple of possibilities and Moussa and I started a conversation that included a lot of gestures and a little bit of dirt drawing.  Before Andrew left, he commented, “It’s so funny how he gets you.”  I nodded and smiled and passed it off, but later on I thought about it more.  I really am very lucky to have Moussa.  Not every PCT has someone like him; someone who always has time for you, who knows which words and expressions you know,  who doesn’t treat you like a show pony, a fragile doll, or someone important and formal.  He’s become just like a real brother to me, and I will be genuinely sad to say goodbye to him in just 4 short weeks.

Today was by far the hottest day so far*.  Yesterday my door blew shut during my afternoon nap and it was 93 degrees inside when I woke up.  Today my door stayed open for my whole nap and it was 95 degrees inside when I woke up.  As the afternoon progressed, I started craving a cold drink, but somehow I just never made it to the butiki to buy a soda.  After dinner, Moussa took me back into town to pick up my phone battery from the guy who was charging it.  God only knows how Moussa knew my soda-craving, but before we went back home, we stopped by the butiki and Moussa bought me a drink.  This 15 year old who goes to school full-time, works alongside the adults, helps look after/raise his nieces and nephews, always gives me the best food and eats the boring stuff himself, and who has run out of money to operate his nightly butiki and didn’t have enough money to buy himself a drink bought me one and told me “because you’re my friend.”  With a brother/uncle/friend like that, how can I ever feel alone here?

*Note: I wrote this entry last night before bed.  I then experienced one of the worst nights of my life.  It was about 95 degrees in my room with no air circulation despite my open door.  I wore a wet bandanna on my head and fanned myself until I was too exhausted to move, and then moaned and groaned some more.  I woke up at 2am, drenched in sweat, to the sound of my loudly chatting neighbors against the backdrop of their loudly playing radio.  Desperately trying to get back to sleep, I heard noises in my room and finally got up the nerve and the energy to look – a giant cockroach was scuttling up my wall, out of reach.  I had to stalk it and wait for it to slip down my wall and then run straight toward me before I could kill it.  For just a moment, I was able to let out all of my frustrations with the night on that unfortunate bug.  After I finally fell asleep again, the rain started and the wind blew my door shut.  You’d think the rain would cool things down, but you’d be wrong; and when I woke up a few hours later and opened my door, my only clue that the mysterious noises on my roof were rain was the smell in the air, not even a drop of wet dirt under my feet.  So much for sleeping, let alone sleeping in on a Sunday morning!  And the hot season is only just beginning…