Somebody to Love

Before coming to Peace Corps, I had decided that I wanted to have a dog at my site. I figured it would be a good combination of protection and companionship. When I moved to my site I kept thinking about it, but the timing just never seemed right. I didn’t want to get a pet before IST and then have to leave it alone for 2 weeks. And after IST I sort of kept half an eye out for puppies or even kittens, but I didn’t really see any. But in preparation for future pets, I came up with both a cat and a dog name…just in case.

Waka Waka

And then one day my host brothers brought me a kitten! They had found it out in the fields. Poor little guy was soooo tiny. I named him Waka Waka after the Shakira song that Alima and I sing together. As soon as Alima came over, she took one look at Waka and said, “That’s not a cat.” I responded, “Of course it’s a cat.” (I know what a cat looks like, for Pete’s sake!) Alima said, “No, that’s not a cat!” This went back and forth for a bit. Finally I asked Alima what it was and she said he was a kongo kono jakuma – a sort of wild cat. Other people from my village agreed – and he did indeed look just a little bit different. Some people said it was fine anyway, some said it was bad to have a wild cat. Some said once he grew up he was going to run away from me. And everyone laughed at his name!

Waka Waka!

Waka Waka was quite the challenge. He was just so small. Way too small to have left his mother, who apparently had run away. I tried everything I could think of to feed him, but he just wouldn’t eat. The head doctor’s wife got him to drink a tiny bit of milk, but it was just a little bit, and he basically ate nothing for the first three days I had him. In fact, I hadn’t wanted to name him because I wasn’t sure he’d make it, but after people started asking for his name that’s when he was officially dubbed. For those first few days, he cried almost 24/7. I’d leave to him crying, come home to him crying, and wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of him crying. It was so sad!

So tiny!

Finally after three days, I went out in the morning with my homologue to do polio vaccinations in the village. At some point it occurred to me that the droppers we used to administer the polio vaccine are kind of like tiny baby bottles…maybe Waka Waka would drink from one of those?  Djeneba gave me a used one which I washed out at home and filled with milk.  (I figured if there was any residual vaccine my cat would be protected from polio!)  Waka Waka, as usual, was not very receptive, but I managed to force the tip of the container into his mouth and squeeze out a few drops.  He didn’t seem to be choking so I continued to squeeze the milk into his mouth, and eventually it was gone – success!  He was still crying so I gave him a second “bottle.”  In those 2 bottles, he ate approximately 4 mL of milk, the most food he’d had in the 3 days that I’d had him combined.  Poor little guy. 

Waka's Last Feeding

This method worked really well for the next several days. I could only feed him 2mL at a time, but at least he was eating. After a few days I had to go into San for some meetings, and I took Waka with me. He did great on the bus and was looking good when we got to San. After a few hours I fed him, but he was starting to seem a little lethargic, and I wasn’t sure what to do. I took a break to eat my own dinner, and came back about 30 minutes later to try to feed Waka again. But it was too late – my poor little wild kitten had died. I’m still not quite sure what he died from, but I knew from the beginning it would be a miracle if he survived. The next day my friend JClay helped me bury him in a field behind the San house.

Months later, I visited Chrissy, who had recently been given a kitten about the size of Waka. This little guy was a bundle of energy and could eat fish and chase chickens, so I guess something was probably wrong with Waka to begin with. :(

Moose

After Waka died, I still sort of wanted another pet, but again I went through a period where it just wasn’t a good time. Eventually, right around the same time, 2 of my PCV friends offered me both a kitten and a puppy! Like a fool, I decided to take both at the same time. Luckily the kitten fell through, but my puppy arrived at the San house at the end of October, a chunky little guy probably about 2 months old. I named him Moose, after my homestay brother Moussa. (Moussa has told me repeatedly what a stupid name that is for a dog). ;)

First meeting with Moose!

My little Moose is soo cute! He’s the perfect combination of spunky and loveable. He’s actually not that little anymore. He’s about 6 months old, and he’s gotten so big! And he’s so smart! I told my parents that new moms must just be nauseating, because when my parents call, all I want to talk about is Moose, and he’s just a dog!

I could write a book about all of my Moose stories, so I guess I’ll have to just choose a few. And I’m sure more will crop up here and there.

Tiny Moose Passed Out.

Moose Copperfield

Moose chilling in the drain hole.

Moose is quite the escape artist. Our first morning back in my village, I let him out to pee while I stayed in bed (outside) reading. All of a sudden there was a knock at my door, which annoyed me because I don’t like it when the kids come over sɔgɔma joona – early in the morning. Turns out my goofbutt puppy had squeezed himself through the drain hole in my wall and escaped! Except I didn’t know yet that’s how he did it, so 10 minutes later there was another knock at the door: “Michelli! Moose left again!” So for the first few months that I had Moose, the drain hole was blocked up from the outside by bricks and rocks. But he’d still wiggle in as far as he could and just hang out there in the hole.

About 6 weeks after Moose came home, I left early in the morning to participate in my village’s USAID funded mosquito net distribution, leaving Moose behind in my courtyard. A few hours in, I decided to stop home and grab my camera. I walked in my courtyard and saw my ɲεgεn door open – uh oh! I'd been making a point to close and lock it every day, because it also has a drain hole, but I’d forgotten to lock it that day. But then I saw Moose sitting in my yard – what a good puppy! He didn’t even escape! And then I walked into my ɲεgεn and saw the rocks stuffed in the hole. Apparently he wasn’t such a good puppy after all. I went to my host fam’s house to ask what had happened, and my brother Sinali told me Moose had escaped, and he’d dropped Moose back off at my house.

Later that afternoon Alima stopped over and said all excitedly,
“Michelli! Moose escaped today!”
Me: “I know, Sinali told me.”
Alima: “I brought him back home.”
Me: “What are you talking about? Sinali said he brought Moose home?”
Alima: “Oh, he escaped 3 times. He came all the way to my house!”
What?!? 3x?!? And he went all the way to Alima’s house? My host fam’s house is understandable, they live right across from me and Moose goes over there all the time. But Alima’s house is a decent walk for a tiny puppy, through lots of twisty paths and into a narrow alley entrance – I couldn’t believe he made it there!

Needless to say, the rocks stayed stuffed in the ɲεgεn hole until about 2 weeks ago, when I was positive Moose was too big to squeeze through.

Moose and the ɲεgεn

Moose has a weird thing with my ɲεgεn. It started when he was just a puppy. He really likes to go in there with me. At first I thought it was because he was jealous that I was in the place with the escape hole, and he needed to make sure I didn’t use it without him, but the hole stayed closed for months and he still followed me in every time. If I shut the door but don’t lock it he can (and does) open it. If I lock it, he scratches his nails on the metal door and cries till I come out. So these days I usually don’t even bother shutting the door. He just comes in, checks it out, and sits down to wait for me. I don’t get it. Even when we both get up in the middle of the night, he goes behind the tree, I go in the ɲεgεn, and he comes running in to make sure he gets in before I leave. And recently he’s picked up a new habit: when I let him out in the middle of the night to pee and don’t go outside myself, he still has to check out the ɲεgεn before he’ll come back to bed. N ma faamu. (I don’t understand!)

Moose and the Kids

Moose LOVES the kids, and they love him! At first I was worried that they would hit him, especially because he bit a lot when he was little. I was his favorite chew toy for about the first 3 months I had him, and my arms are now covered with tiny scars from his teeth. But after yelling at only a few kids for hitting Moose (they’ve never heard me yell so much!), that quickly stopped, and they’ve been great with him.

Tiny Moose and his football

I used to have a rule that the kids couldn’t come over in the morning, but how can I say no when they come over and ask if they can play with Moose? Puppies need their exercise! So I let Moose out to play, and eventually they all wander back in together, and my peaceful morning is over. I’m such a sucker. When he was little, and totally rambunctious (and biting), he used to scare the crap out of most of the kids, but they still wanted to play with him. It’s like when I was little and my mom would take me to Cedar Point. I’d beg to ride the Ocean Motion (pirate-themed swinging boat) and then scream and be terrified the whole time I was on it, but as soon as the ride was over I’d beg to ride it again! That’s how the kids were with Moose. We’d take him for a walk and they’d run ahead and egg him on, but then as soon as he approached they’d scream with terror and run away – and of course, Moose would follow!

Sometimes when they take him out to play, or occasionally even when they’re playing outside without him, I can hear them from my house chanting in a group, “Moose Sogoba, Moose! Moose Sogoba, Moose!” But by far my favorite is Alima: when I leave Moose at home and go out and then come back, I greet him in a high-pitched voice saying, "Hi, Babydoll!" (Yes I do realize I am turning into my mother). Alima heard me say this so many times that she icked up on it, and now she greets him with me, and when she takes him out to lay I can hear them running around and Alima callling, "Ah Bεbεdah! Ah Bεbεdah!"

Moose and My Village

Aside from being exactly the companion I needed, Moose has been a great talking point in my community. Sometimes it’s hard to get past the standard greetings with people I don’t know as well, but once they got used to seeing me with Moose he always comes up in conversation. Even though Malians rarely name animals (most dogs, if they even have a name, are called “Polizi” – like “Police.”), every single one of them asks me what his name is. Just as they call me “Michelli,” Moose is usually called some form of “Moosi,” “Mooshi,” or “Moosh.” In fact, I often call him “Moosi” because I hear it so often that it just seems natural.The best is the little kids whose house I pass on the way to the CSCOM. They spot me from afar and run to their courtyard entrance yelling, “Mee-shellll-eee! Mooooosh!”

The adults will always ask me how he’s doing: “Michelli! How are you? How is your family? How are your kids? (Doesn’t matter than they’re well aware that I have no kids). How is your Mooshi?” I get a kick out of the way they say your Moose. And once he’s entered the conversation, I pretty much always have a Moose story I can share. If they ask his last name, I like to tell them of course he’s a Sogoba – not only is he my dog, but he eats any and all food except for beans – and everybody knows only Coulibalys are bean-eaters. And it’s true! Moose will eat cooked beans if and only if they are the only food he’s given, and once when I made pasta with veggies, he ate the entire thing except for the green beans. Although the other night at my host fam’s house someone made a great joke – he told me Moose must be a Coulibaly because Moose has a tail, and Coulibalys have tails! We must’ve laughed over that joke for a good 10 minutes, because I turned and asked a visiting cekoroba (old man) if he had a tail.

Moose the Guardian

I have never felt unsafe in my village, but if I felt safe before, I feel super safe now! Ever since he was just a tiny little guy, Moose has been quite the guardian. He’s fun and playful during the day, but once the sun sets and it’s dark outside, his whole demeanor changes. He gets agitated very easily to the point where I finally told the kids they can’t play with him after dark. He stays right by my side to protect me, and barks at any noise he hears, even the ones outside of my walls. Even from inside he keeps an ear out for trouble! It’s a little bit annoying when he freaks out at a donkey braying, but luckily as he’s gotten bigger he’s gotten better at judging the outside noises. He’s also gotten more aggressive though. He does not like it when anyone over the age of 12 enters my concession at night, or even at dusk, men in particular. My favorite neighborhood boys have an older brother who is probably about 16, and day or night, Moose freaks out when Adama comes over, to the point where I have to put him in the house. So rest assured, all you worry warts (ahem, Mama), I am well protected by my little Moosi!

Moose and the "Moose" Jack-o-Lantern he inspired!

My host dad gets a kick out of charading Moose’s Guardian skills: he pretends to sling his gun over his shoulder, charades tip-toeing sneakily along, and then bursts out with Moose’s part: “Wooo wooo wooo wooo! Wooo wooo wooo wooo!” And then he runs away and cracks up laughing. My dad is such a character!

Moose the Dog

A few things about Moose:

1). He’s wickedly smart. He’s probably the only dog in Mali who sleeps in his owner's bed (under the mosquito net, of course) and he has never once had an accident in bed. I never even had to train him. We had a few issues at the very beginning with peeing in the house, but I figured that wasn’t really his fault, since he rarely ever even goes in a house to learn not to pee there. From the first night, when he was just a little guy, Moose wakes me up if he needs to go out. He walks around and around until I wake up, and once when I refused to wake up, he came over and touched his little cold nose to my upper lip – so smart! Once in the first week he got sick and threw up in my bed 3x before I woke up, but he was desperately trying to wake me when I finally woke, so at least he was trying. I got him outside in time for his last 2 vomits.

Moose, post 5:30am

2). He loves to play. When I first got him, we were sleeping outside at night, and he’d sleep all night until about 5am when he woke up and wanted to play. Every day. Needless to say, I did not agree with that plan, especially since his way of waking me up was to walk on my face and bite me. So I’d give him one chance, and let him out to pee and then back in again, and if he still wouldn’t let up I’d kick him out of bed till I was ready to get up. Refusing to give up, and oblivious to the mosquito net, Moose would get a running start and fly into the net, then get bounced back and be so confused! He’s try this a few times, and after realizing it wasn’t working, he walk around the bed, squeeze between the edge of the bed and the wall, which I’d rolled over to face, and fly into the net at my face. So I’d roll over again, put in my earplugs, and go back to sleep. I’d wake up 2 hours later to find that he’d pushed the mosquito net far enough in that he could curl up on the edge of the mattress and go back to sleep till I was ready to get up and play.

3). He’s totally ADD. We’ve tried to play games like fetch, but he gets so distracted after about 2 throws that he forgets what he‘s supposed to be doing and comes over to chew on my arm instead. Or play with a piece of cotton. Or eat some donkey poop ( a particular favorite of his).

4). He’s extremely loveable. He used to show his love by biting, but thankfully he doesn’t do that anymore (much). He knows who his master is, and he knows who protects and feeds him! 

Yaya with Moose: Nov

Yaya with Moose - Jan

Alima’s brother Yaya LOVES Moose, and back when he was tiny, Yaya would wear Moose out playing. Once at their house they were playing and eventually Moose came running into my lap. Yaya marched over and took him from me, and as he walked away, I could see Moose looking over Yaya’s shoulder with a distraught expression: “Nooo! Don’t let him take me!! I’m soooo sleepy!!!” And he always comes running back to me when he needs a rest and he sees a break. (That being said, Yaya is one of the few people that Moose will still calmly let hold him, now that he’s bigger).

Friends :D

He’s found refuge in my lap from the beginning. He sits quietly in my lap in vehicles and even when I take him to the CSCOM (totally not an issue to have a dog in the maternity). He used to scramble his tiny back legs to crawl into my lap when I was on a chair, and I’d have to boost him from behind. Now he just jumps up!

He never wanders far. When he was little I never let him off the leash outside of my house, and gradually as he got bigger I would take him out in the fields to run around and he’d always stay within earshot and eyesight and make his way back to me after running around. Now that he’s a big boy he can go anywhere he wants. I open my door and let him run free, and he’ll go yalla (walk around) for a few minutes and then come home to check in before heading out again.

Moose with the puppies next door!

5). He’s spunky. We’re working on basic commands and he understands “Moosi! Na yan!” (Moose! Come!) perfectly well, but he knows when to pick his battles. He’s well aware if I’m calling him to shut him in the concession, or to put him on the leash, and then he avoids me as I chase after him. Or he’ll come running toward me and then barrel right past me as I scramble to grab him. My family is totally used to hearing me yell, “Moosi! Na yan sisan sisan!” (You come here this instant!) and then seeing me march around the corner to their house, hands on my hips, and then have to chase after him to grab him, the kids falling in to help.

Moose playing with my host fam's puppy.

My host fam has a puppy about 3 months old, and he and Moose have been friends from the beginning. Moose is much bigger but they wrestle and play and bite and chase each other and have a grand old time. The puppy’s mom used to bark and chase Moose away, but after the puppy got bigger, she got used to Moose and now just keeps a watchful eye out to make sure they don’t get too rough.

Like I said, I could go on and on and on! But this is now a pretty long post, so I’ll stop for the time being. But expect to hear lots more about Moose! He’s made such a big difference in my life here. As much as I didn’t like leaving site before, it’s even harder to leave now – heck, I hate leaving him at the house alone for an afternoon! It’s wonderful to have his company at my house, and he’s helped my integration a lot as well. I am so thankful for him!

Me and Moose!

The 1st Year is the Hardest

They say the first year is the hardest. Actually, when you first arrive in country, they say the first 2 months (PST) are the hardest. Then when you move to your site, they say the first 2 months living at site are the hardest. After those 2 months are over, they say actually the first 6 months at site are the hardest. And eventually, they say the first year is the hardest.

I’m a whole year in now, and I agree that the first 2 months at site are the hardest, or at least they were for me. Life has gotten so much easier since then. But that doesn’t mean it’s always easy.

I spent a lot of time out of site during Aug-Oct for health, work, and other reasons, and so I was coming back to site after about 7 ½ weeks of either being gone or being in site but sick. Going back after that hiatus was tough. I was excited to get back to my village and my house, and to see my host family and my friends. But about 2 hours after I arrived, my spirits kind of plummeted. I had spent so much time recently with other Americans: speaking English, talking about our experiences, and generally just relating to each other. Walking around my village I suddenly saw myself there for another 18 months, everyday struggling with communication. Never being able to have the kinds of conversations that I can have with Americans. Trying to find a way to be useful to my community. April 2013 started to seem decades away.

That was probably my lowest point since back during those first 2 months at site when a bunch of teenage girls made me cry. But at least this time around I had a better idea of what good things I had to look forward to! It’s true that I will never be able to have the kinds of conversations in my village that I do with other Americans. But that doesn’t mean that I haven’t developed real and meaningful relationships in my community – I have. I am lucky enough to have 3 entire families in my village that I feel close to. I have a place I can go to every day to hang out and spend time with other health workers. I have a 12 year old best friend who is incredibly smart and remarkably fabulous at understanding me, especially considering she has absolutely no formal education. Every night I have a host of friends who come over to hang out at my house. Sure, they’re all between the ages of 4 and 11. But that just means we have more fun!

What else do I have?

• I have an incredible support network back home of family and friends.
• I have an equally awesome support network here in Mali of friends and coworkers.
• I have a homestay family who continues to welcome me back into their home every few months for visits.
•  I work with people in my community who have struck a great balance of encouraging and supporting me without pressuring me or demanding unreasonable things.
• I live in a safe and welcoming community. I have never been put in a situation where I have felt in danger.
• I have a house that doesn’t leak, doesn’t have problems with mice, termites, or other pests, and gives me the perfect amount of privacy. My host family regularly checks up on me and makes sure my house is in good working order.
• I have been relatively healthy thus far. (Knock on wood!) Sickness tends to be a part of most PCV’s lives, and while I’ve definitely had my share, mine haven’t been too bad relatively speaking.
• My community makes an effort to include me in social events, whether it’s a village party or a 3-person conversation.
• I am part of the best region there is in Mali! Every time Chrissy and I leave San, we remember why we don’t actually like to leave. Our house is awesome. Our Kaw (volunteers who live in our region) is fantastic. Our house guards are incomparable. San is perfectly sized and fits all of our needs. We’re pretty centrally located for traveling to many other regions, but not so central that other people are coming in and out all of the time. “The center of everything but the middle of nothing!”  

All in all, I really love living in Mali. If only there was an easier, cheaper way for me to go back to Amεriki every few months to see my family and splurge on pizza and margaritas, I could easily live here for a long time. As it is, I can’t imagine having to leave this country, and I still have a little over a year to go! Those 4 months since October have passed so quickly. I can only imagine how hard it will be to leave when the time comes.

Recently, the older volunteers have been saying the few months between 1 year in country and 1 year at site are the hardest. Or at least really hard. I have no idea if that will be true for me. I’m at that point now so I guess I’ll find out soon. My schedule is so full for the next few months that I doubt I’ll have much time to sit around and mope, and if ever I do, I have this awesome list to look at and realize just how much I have - and this is just the sort version!

As always, thanks so much to all of you for being a part of one of the top things that I am grateful for here in Mali!!!

Here's to the next year...I've never heard anyone say the last year is the hardest! :D

Travel In Mali

Travel in Mali. Where to begin… I’ve been working on this post for ages, and really I probably should’ve just posted it months ago, because pretty much every time I travel in Mali it ends up a story. In fact, writing this is overwhelming, because Chrissy keeps asking, “Did you write about this trip? Did you write about that trip?” You get the point. Or you will by the end of this post.

Back in March, I described my first, long-distance public transport experience in Mali. It was not fun. Now that it’s not Hot Season the trip isn’t quite so bad, and I’ve found some strategies to make it more bearable. But when you get down to it, traveling in Mali is just not fun. It turns some people into Site Rats entirely because they just don’t want to deal with public transport (Ahem, Chrissy).

A few of my traveling stories:

To begin, among other long trips, I’ve done the San-Bamako or vice versa trip 19 times now. Only 5 times have I done it in under 8 hours. It’s funny, that used to seem like such a long trip. But a few months ago, I was sitting around with a bunch of PCVs and one of the veterans was talking about a film festival in Burkina Faso. She mentioned that it’s only 17 hours by bus and we all exclaimed, “Oh wow, that’s short!” (A group of friends who recently went to Ghana had a 60 hour bus ride coming home – it was supposed to only be 28). How perceptions change…

Are We Still in Mali?!?

In early June, (still hot season), all the PCVs from my stage (The Kennedys) headed into Bamako, after our first two months at site, for 2 weeks of In-Service Training (IST). Chrissy and I went down to Bko together. We’d heard about this fancy new bus company, Africa Tours Transport, that was super reliable, fast with no superfluous stops, and occasionally air-conditioned! Please understand, all of this is completely unheard of in Malian public transport. It’s enough to make your jaw drop when you first hear about it. In addition to all of that, they charge you the normal price (6000 cfa) but give you a 1000 cfa food voucher for lunch at the midway point. Brilliant.

We got up in the morning and headed to the bus stop to catch the ATT bus. Unfortunately the first bus was full (it’s starting departure is a region farther up north) so we waited for the second bus and were able to get on that. We made the halfway point in 3 hours, a whole hour quicker than usual. Trips are so much more pleasant without stopping constantly and having the bus invaded by women selling every Malian food item imaginable and beggar boys singing for coins. (I’m going to take a video of this experience one of these days). After lunch, Chrissy and I both slept for a long time. We woke up after several hours and realized we had no idea where we were. Nothing looked familiar. With the rate we’d been going earlier, by this point we should have been passing the villages where we all lived during homestay, which are about an hour out of Bamako. Nothing. We started joking – where are we? What happened while we were sleeping? Did the bus make a detour? Are we in Cote d’Ivoire?!?

(That’s pretty much impossible. Mali has one main road going from major city to major city, and our particular road went straight to Bamako, and only to Bamako).

Despite the joking, I was slightly worried. We should’ve been recognizing signs, and an hour later, we still didn’t see anything familiar. Eventually we realized everything looked so different because it was all green. I hadn’t seen green like this since the previous summer in Amεriki. Rainy Season had begun in Bamako! It was still mango season, and we passed literally thousands and thousands of mangoes lined along the sides of the road, waiting to be bought. I can’t begin to imagine how many mangoes must go bad every year, simply because people can’t eat them all.

Eventually we did make it to Bamako. It took us the usual 8 hours, which means while the first leg of the trip was shorter than usual, the latter leg was longer, in spite of the lack of extra stops. Between the weird timing and all the green everywhere, it was a very confusing trip! Thank goodness our bus had air-conditioning. :)

Sick & Traveling/Bashés

After IST, Chrissy went back to San (It took her 29 hours, including an unplanned overnight stop. But that’s her story.) and I went with my friend Michaela to Manantali for the PCV 4^th of July party. We stopped in Kita, Michaela’s regional capital (mine is San), for a night, as it is about halfway between Bko and ‘Tali. After 6 months in Mali diarrhea-free (believe me, it’s quite the accomplishment!) I’d gotten sick that morning. On a travel day. So not cool, Mali…so not cool. I managed to sleep the whole way to Kita and most of the night. The next morning I downed some Imodium and prepared for the trip – I’d heard it wasn’t the most pleasant. Sure enough, we crammed into a bus and enjoyed a fairly pleasant one-hour trip on a paved road, and then turned off onto an unpaved road for the next 4 hours. That’s right. Four hours on an unpaved road. During rainy season, with pits and ditches and mud everywhere. And I was sick. Good times.

A Bashé

Well, we made it, thank Allah. And had a great 4 days in ‘Tali. But then we had to go home again. This time we were on a bashé, a bush taxi. Basically it’s a van with crappy seats in the back – it’s the same public transport I can take between San and my site. I was feeling much healthier this time, but the trip was much more miserable. The seats were designed 5 to a row, 4 rows, but the seats were made with midgets in mind. Or Michaela, but she is an extremely tiny human. No one else could ever comfortably fit in those silly little seats! Which means at least one of your shoulders is on top of someone else’s, or their shoulder is on yours. Not to mention other body limbs. You don’t actually fit on the seat, so you end up sitting half on one seat at one height, and half on another seat at another height. My backpack was too big to fit on the ground, so I had to put it on my lap. It was heavy enough that it cut off the circulation in my legs, and after 4 hours on the unpaved, pot-hole filled road, my legs were swollen and I could barely climb out of the bashé and walk to the ɲεgεn. It was miserable. And after we got to Kita, I still had another 4 hours on the bashé back to Bamako. At least this time there were less people and a bit more space.

Malians Are Awesome

I spent a night in Bamako and the next morning headed back to San alone. I found myself a cab and told the driver I needed to go to the Sonef Company Bus Station. ‘Which one?’ he asks. ‘Well crap, there’s 2?!’ I asked the prices for both and picked the most reasonable sounding – the cheapest, of course. (In Mali you negotiate taxi prices before ever getting in the car). So he drove me to the station, and I knew immediately it was the wrong one. I asked him if I could get out and ask for help at the counter. Not only did he agree to wait, but he got out with me to help interpret. Sure enough, I needed to be at the other station across the river, but at least I could purchase my ticket here. The driver and I got back in the car and he told me he would give me a slight discount on the price to go to the second place. On the way, he taught me how to give directions to the correct station for the next time I came to Bamako. Once we got to the right station he got out of the car, took my 2 heaviest bags, walked with me to find someone who could point out my bus, and waited with me to make sure my bags got on the bus. And when I paid him, he didn’t even complain that I needed change! (Most Malians use nothing but change. Most people rarely have change. Most banks insist on giving out the highest bills in existence. It’s all very problematic). Best taxi driver I’ve ever had. And on the bus, my seatmate offered me the seat next to him when he saw I didn’t know where to go, shared bananas with me, and kept me updated on where we were and what was going on. Moral of this story: Malians are wonderful people!

Totally Normal

Another trip to Bamako a few months ago I again wasn’t feeling well and was traveling alone. A lovely young woman on the bus decided to take me under her wing. At each stop she sought me out and found a seat in the shade for the two of us. She watched my bags while I went to the ɲεgεn. When we unexplainably stopped in a particular town for over an hour, she explained to me we had to wait because the President of Mali was coming through and all the roads were closed until he passed.

The bus I had wanted to take – the fancy ATT – was full, so they put us on another nearly-full bus. In fact, in order to accommodate for me, two boys had to squish together into one seat so I could have the other seat. And like typical Malian kids, they were used to it and never complained the whole 8 hours. They were so cute, the big one taking care of the little one. They would find ways to sleep, the big one with his arms wrapped protectively around the little one. I felt bad they had such little space.

It was strange, I kept hearing chicken noises near us. Chickens on the bus are totally normal, but I couldn’t figure out where these sounds were coming from. Near the end of the trip I realized there was a box with chickens in it under the boys’ feet. So in one, little, two-person seat, there was me, two boys, and a box of chickens. Totally normal!

Making My Way

A Bamako Sotroma

Back in September I was in Bamako and had the opportunity to visit my Homestay family for two nights. The hard part about visiting is that the village is not easy to get to. It’s outside of Bamako and another 7km off the main road. The first visit I was able to take Peace Corps transport most of the way there and several Sotromas (similar to a bashé but sort of a city bus system) and a taxi home. This time I was already half-way there – I’d gone to a resort for two nights with a group of friends for a birthday celebration. The resort was located in a town I’d once biked to during homestay to go hiking. So I was pretty close, but still had to find transport the rest of the way.

Moto-Taxi

The resort was several km off the main road, and we took a moto-taxi to get to the road. A moto-taxi is a motorbike with a sort of cart attached to the back, and people ride in the cart. They’re pretty fun! Once on the main road, my friend and I shared a cab – me to the turn-off to my vill, and him continuing on to his vill further down the road. I was able to find another moto-taxi to take me the 7km into Mountougoula. The cart was full, so the driver put me on the bench right behind his moto. It was a great ride, and I felt so…Malian! I was breezing into my old town, joking with the men who were riding in the cart. I’d found my own transport, negotiated my price, and was chatting with Malians, all outside of my comfort zone of San or Bamako. I felt pretty good. :)

Getting out of Mountougoula was more complicated, and I wasn’t sure how I was going to do it. To complicate matters, it was Rainy Season and a storm was approaching, but I needed to leave; I had business to take care of and I’d already stayed several hours later than I’d intended. My brother Moussa walked me to the main road and almost immediately we saw a pickup truck approaching. It stopped and the man in the passenger seat moved to the back to join another man and a woman so I could have the more spacious front seat. Several minutes later we picked up another man who also squished into the back, again leaving me alone in the roomier front seat.

I had only asked for a ride to the main road, but when the driver found out I was actually headed to Bamako, he offered to take me as far as he was going. It was a good portion of the distance I needed to cover so I happily accepted. As we turned onto the main road, the wind started to pick up and the sky darkened. Just after we passed the town with the resort, the rain started. I was frustrated that my bag was in the back of the truck, getting wet, but what could I do? Well, it turns out I didn’t have to do anything. The driver stopped and one of the men got out to get both my duffel and his backpack. He passed his small bag up to me and crammed my bigger duffel into the back seat with him and the other 3 passengers; and despite my protests that I had plenty of room up front, he said it was no problem to keep my bag in the back. One by one we dropped off passengers, and by the time it was my turn to get out, the rain had stopped. I was willing to take an expensive cab the rest of the way, but the driver passed his turnoff and kept driving until he saw a Sotroma where he could drop me off. The remaining man in the back got out and took my bag onto the Sotroma for me. Then the driver got out and walked me onto the Sotroma, made sure I had a dry seat, and made sure the Sotroma door guy knew where I needed to go. Again, Malians are wonderful people!

The Sotroma was pretty quiet most of the ride. When the door guy asked for my money, I had to ask how much I owed, and he answered me in super-dumbed-down Bambara, obviously thinking I couldn’t understand much. When I gave him the wrong amount he clearly thought I was confused, so I explained to him in Bambara that I understand Malian money perfectly, I just didn’t have the proper change. Immediately everyone in the Sotroma swiveled their heads to look at me and broke out into huge smiles – the toubab speaks Bambara! After that, everyone wanted to talk: who was I? Where was I going? What was I doing in Mali? And as usual, they took care of me; told me where we were in the city and when I should get off.

Immediately after I got off the Sotroma in the grand market, a man came up to me, took my bag from me, and asked where I was going. I assumed he was a taxi driver, so I told him my destination and he said, “Ok, let’s go!” Again, I was totally willing to take an expensive taxi. But then he didn’t move and I certainly didn’t know where to go. Turns out he wasn’t a driver, just a guy carrying my bag for money. After a few moments of awkwardness, he asked someone else how to get me where I was going, then the two of us walked a few blocks to another Sotroma. The driver told us it wasn’t the right one, but he did flag down the right one for me. A woman on this Sotroma overheard where I was going and also took me under her wing. She made sure I got off at the right stop and pointed me in the right direction for where I needed to go. So by the end of this trip it had taken me much longer than a simple cab would have, but it’s not like I had anywhere to go, and thanks to lots of help from some really good people I saved 5x as much money as I would’ve if I’d taken the cab!

Annoyed.

After a trip to Bamako in October, I left with 2 other girls at 9am, all of us to take 10am buses back to our various sites. The cab driver (who was very nice) said he knew both bus stations where we had to go. Mine should've been first, but I didn't know the exact turn-off so I didn't realize he'd gone too far till we were almost at the other station. After we dropped off the other 2 girls, the driver told me he didn’t know exactly where my station was. So he asked directions from another cab driver. We went back the way we came for awhile before he made a turn, realized it was wrong, and asked directions again. We went back the way we had just come (I'm now passing some places for the 3rd time) and he once more asked directions as we stopped at an intersection. By the time we actually got to my station, I'd missed my bus and the company didn’t have any other buses going to San that day.

I called my friend Virginia for help and she promised to send me phone numbers for some other bus companies. I waited for 40 minutes before calling her back. Apparently she had sent the text, but somehow it never arrived at my phone (Thank you Malian cell service). She said she'd try again, so I waited another 15 minutes before giving up – if I was going to try to catch a noon bus I needed to leave now! I grabbed a cab to the main bus station and the driver found me a company that was going to San - but not till 6pm. I put my name on the list but didn't pay (trial and error has taught me that!) and sat down to wait for 7 hours at the dirty, noisy bus station, all alone with my 4 heavy bags (Don't judge me. We all know I suck at packing). Virginia called back and gave me the other bus company numbers over the phone. My best shot was a bus leaving at 4pm, which meant I still had to wait for 5 hours, and then I would be traveling alone at night, and wouldn't get to San until at least midnight. OR I could go back into Bamako, stay the night, and take a 6:30am bus in the morning with Virginia and our friend Tom. On the super-reliable ATT bus with air-conditioning and no superfluous stops, cutting the trip short by 2 hours. Done.

Carrying My Bags

For this particular company you have to personally go to the station the day before to buy the tickets. I was close by, so I offered to go get the tickets for all of us. I walked out to the main road and decided I could walk to the station, so I climbed 36 stairs in order to use the pedestrian bridge to cross the busy road. Oh, and all this time I'm carrying my backpack, my purse, my duffel bag, and my giant pink plastic Malian bag - on my head. Up at the top I realized I couldn’t actually see the station, so I decided to walk back down to the road, suck it up, and take a cab. Well, the cab driver wanted to charge me at least 4x an appropriate price, which was just insulting. I talked him down, but not to the correct price, and I was so pissed off on principle that I told him I'd just walk - and I did. I walked for 25 minutes at noon, in Africa, with all that crap. The bag on my head had soft stuff at the bottom so it kept conforming to the shape of my head and pushing down on my glasses. I kept having to take the bag off my head to pound it back into shape and then put it up again. I walked past scary motos, around people who wanted me to stop and talk to them despite my obvious struggles, and through trash in the street. I was so hot and exhausted by the time I got to the bus station, but right next door was an ice cream place! I stopped inside and bought an ice cream and ate the whole thing right then and there. The price was almost as much as the cab ride would've been, but way more worth it. And the cashier felt sorry for me and gave me a discount. Booyah, stingy cab driver!

I finally bought the bus tickets and grabbed a cab back into Bamako. On the way there, I decided there was no point in going back to the PC house right away. I had all of my stuff, I might as well go to the American Club and hang out at the pool! So I did. I bought ridiculously overpriced food and beer (the AC is notorious for that) and hung out at the pool all by myself for 4 hours. I was the only one out there the whole time. It was awesome.

Kimparana

My friend JClay lives in the town of Kimparana, about 25km down the road from me. It’s fairly easy to get between our two sites, so we occasionally make a day trip to visit each other.

My first visit, I left JClay’s house at 4:30pm. That gave me 2 hours to get home – plenty of time. Not. My bashé sat there forever before leaving, and then it took a total of 72 minutes to get home. 72 minutes. To go 25km. That’s approximately equal to 4.6 mph. So. Painful. So much for getting home before dark!

The second time I went to visit JClay, I left even earlier, just in case I got stuck on the bashé from hell again. While we sat in town forever again before leaving, this bashé moved at a normal speed. Thank goodness, because under my feet was a carpet of goats. In Mali, you quickly get used to animals as travel buddies. This particular vehicle was leaving Kimparana on market day and therefore a lot of people had purchased goats. Basically I used a live goat’s head as a footrest. Totally normal, I swear.

Traveling with Moose

A line of bashés at the San bus station

Traveling from San to my site with my puppy, Moose, for the first time was dɔɔni (a little bit) ridiculous. He was tiny enough back then that I was easily able to carry him to the bust station while carrying my other belongings as well. Then we sat down to wait awhile for our bashé to leave. Somehow Moose and I were the last ones to load. I’ll give you a refresher course on bashés. It’s important to remember a motto I learned in Niger: “In Africa, there’s always room for one more (in the car)!” These bashés are basically vans with rows of seats in the back. Each row is the width of a normal van – maybe 5 feet or so. And each row has 5 “seats” in it. That’s less than a foot of space per person. It’s utterly ridiculous. Malians tend to be pretty thin in general (result of lifelong poor nutrition + physical labor) but even 5 Malians don’t fit comfortably in a row. In fact, you really don’t even fit. Four can be a tight squeeze and certainly not comfortable. But if enough people are waiting to take a bashé, somehow they all fit in.

By the time Moose and I loaded, we were put in a row that already had 4 adults, plus a toddler sitting on a woman’s lap. We were to sit in the middle. Basically I was sitting on one thigh each of the man and woman on either side of me. I was supposed to put my backpack (which is technically normal-sized but pretty large and overstuffed) on my lap but I had Moose on my lap, so the bag was mostly on the lap of the guy next to me. The woman on my right had the toddler on her lap. I was in a middle seat, which has a short seat-back only about mid-back height that has the ability to fold down to allow for climbing in and out of the various rows. Since I didn’t have an actual seat, I was doing my best to keep the majority of my weight balanced between my legs (I was pushing off the floor on my tiptoes) and my back, but I was terrified at any moment the seat-back would break and Moose and I would fly backward into the laps of the people behind us. Thank goodness that didn’t happen!

This was Moose’s first travel experience with me, not to mention in a bashé, and I really didn’t know him all that well yet. In that tiny, crowded space I held him in my lap, praying he wouldn’t pee on the lady and toddler next to me. I was so proud of how well he did! He didn’t move at all for the first half of the trip, and he calmed down pretty well when he got antsy a little later. What a good puppy. :) But I was really grateful when that trip was over!!

Life is Good!

After finding myself sick with malaria, I needed to go to Bamako to finish my medical treatment and get the all clear to go back to site. I convinced my friend Lyle to go down a day earlier than he was planning so I wouldn’t have to go alone. We didn’t buy bus tickets in advance but rather assumed we’d find transport pretty easy in the morning.

We headed to the San gare (bus station place) and had only just sat down when a bus arrived. We headed over with our bags, only to find that the bus was full. So we went back to our seats. Again, we’d been sitting for just a few minutes when the bus station people called us over again – but they were pointing at a civilian car. Lyle and I were confused, but we went with the flow. Sharing rides in Mali is totally common, I’ve just never had a bus station-person put me on one before. But the bus people know us and maybe they just wanted to help us get to Bamako quickly.

Whatever the reason, the driver of the car was given our bus money, and they started to load our bags in the car. The very small car. With a very small trunk. Which already held 4 people plus their luggage. Allah only knows how they managed it, but somehow they got both of our bags in the trunk, tied it down, and moved the few things they’d removed from the trunk to the backseat. Lyle and I crowded in the back with another man, each of us holding something on our laps, while another man and woman smushed into the front passenger seat and the driver settled into his seat. And we were off for our 8 hour ride!

A short while down the road, Lyle tried to ask our driver a question in Bambara, but the driver seemed to be having a hard time understanding. He responded in French (neither Lyle or I speak much French) and when that didn’t work we switched to English. As it turned out, the group we’d hitched a ride with were actually from Cameroon. Our driver was a Cameroonian gendarme (an armed road police officer) currently living in Bamako as a student -  not sure what the other 3’s stories were; they didn’t speak much English.

It turned out to be a pretty fabulous ride. They blasted music the majority of the way and our driver either sang or danced most of the 8 hours. I’m pretty sure at one point we listened to a marching band version of the Cameroonian national anthem on repeat. When we stopped about 2 hours out of San for a rest break and food, the Cameroonians bought a bunch of meat (a fairly expensive treat) and called us over to help them eat it. “Take food! Eat meat!” Our driver shared his wisdom: “Life is good. We sing. We dance. We eat. I do not like problems. Life is good!!” Then he pumped up the music and danced outside next to the car. Later in the car we were driving along and out of nowhere he bursts out, “Barack Obama!!!” I replied, “Yes, he is the President of the United States. Do you like him?” The driver answered, “He is not a woman! I like women!” This guy was great. Despite the moderately cramped conditions, it was a pretty sweet trip to Bko.

Chuckie

A few weeks ago I traveled from Bamako to San. It wasn’t terrible but it also wasn’t a very good trip. The craziest thing that happened? The bus had a TV and played the movie Chuckie. In English.

Another typical form of transport which thankfully I have not had to do!

View from behind.

Happy Anniversary to ME!!! :D

Last Thursday, I officially celebrated one year in Mali!!!

Recap:

It’s Been One Year (or more) Since I’ve…

·      Hugged my mom

·      Played games with my dad

·      Fought with my sister

·      Seen snow

·      Eaten a variety of foods, including, but not limited to:

• Blueberry waffle cone ice cream
• Mango margaritas
• A real Chai Latte
• Jif Peanut-Buttered English Muffin
• Skim milk

·      Been skiing

·      Ridden a rollercoaster

·      Driven!

·      Worn heels

·      Flown in an airplane/left the country

·      Not slept under a mosquito net

·      Channel surfed

·      Gone to the movies

·      Bowled

·      Gone a whole day without lugging around (at least one) a Nalgene

·      Seen a white baby

·      Been to a Wal-Mart or a Target

·      Attended and understood a church service

·      Gone a day without seeing, or hearing, at least one donkey, goat, or rooster

·      Worn contacts 2 days in a row

·      Been to a library

·      Gone to the beach

·      Gone on a date

·      Baby-sat (although I do run an unofficial day care center at my house every day whether I want to or not)

·      Experienced weather <50°

·      Worn a coat

·      Seen or used a washer or dryer

·      Been to the chiropractor

·      Used a hair brush, dryer or straightener

Surprisingly, I HAVE:

·      Consumed the following:

• Yuengling beer
• My dad’s homemade chocolate cookies dunked in cow’s milk
• Amεriki-style PB&J (made with Amεriki bread, PB, and jelly!)
• Pop-Tarts
• Jameson
• Delivery pizza
• Gelato
• Pig (4x!...remember, it’s a 95% Muslim country)

·      Salsa danced

·      Baked challah

·      Gone out dancing till 5am

·      Worn my lip ring

·      Managed to keep up with 3/6 Amεriki TV shows

·      Laid in the grass (once!)

·      Ridden an elevator (after 357 days)

·      Ridden a boat

·      Tried to teach a villager how to use a laptop, in Bambara

·      Played Pub Trivia

·      Used glitter glue!

·      Watched a soap opera

·      Learned new Amεriki music from villagers

New Things I’ve Learned:

·      To like tomatoes, eggplant, cabbage, and beets

·      How to plant fields of millet, beans, and peanuts

·      How to harvest peanuts and cotton

·      How to balance and carry things on my head

·      To speak a new language

·      How to walk in a tafe (wrap skirt) without tripping (usually…)

·      How to navigate a country, alone, where I’m a foreigner to the language, culture, food, and pretty much everything about it

·      How to eat rice and sauce with my hands

·      How to feed milk to a baby goat

·      Not to put water into a pan of hot oil unless you want to burn down your hut

·      How to read the skies: the directions storms approach, the movement of the sun, star patterns

·      How to play a new card game without a common language

·      How to administer polio vaccines and Vitamin A supplements

·      How to tell the difference between sheep and goats

·      Wash my clothes (ALL my clothes, ALL the time) by hand

·      The fine arts of Patience, Sitting, Thinking, and Sleeping

·      How to bargain prices

·      To make peace with ants and roaches

New Things I’ve Done:

·      Lived alone in my very first place! (Sure it’s a mud hut with no electricity or running water, and I don’t pay rent, but it’s a step in the right direction…)

·      Ridden in donkey carts

·      Seen real, live cases of lymphedema, the most common symptom of chronic lymphatic filariasis

·      Gained 5 new families (Homestay in Mountougoula, my site host fam, my homologue’s fam, the CSCOM fam, and my Peace Corps fam)

·      Ridden a bike with 2 people
·      Fulfilled a 12 year curiosity of shaving my head! Plus worn a mohawk and unintentionally started growing a mullet.
·      Purchased, carried, and vehicle-transported a live chicken.

·      Eaten bugs

·      Lived through 4 consecutive months of 100°+ everyday without air conditioning, fans, or cold drinks

·      Experienced and lived through ‘fun’ diseases: Amoebas, Malaria, and Intestinal Bacterial Infections

·      Gotten away with calling my boss, friends, and strangers a donkey or a farting bean-eater

·      Gone to the doctor/dentist ALONE and navigated the hospital/appointment with limited language skills

·      Gone more than 1 day in a row without email, Facebook, YouTube, OR Wikipedia

·      Made travel buddies with goats and chickens

It’s been a great year…may there be much more greatness to come!! :D