A run into my market town

It’s a Monday and I am ready to head to my market town to meet up with my friend and to take care of some business in town. The morning started off great. I woke up early, around 6:15am to the sound of millet being pounded in big mortars with equally as big of pestles at the hands of women who pound millet with ease time and time again. They wake up before the sun rises to get the day going for everyone, men and children, thus making sure that the house is well organized in the morning and breakfast is cooked. So they start the day way before anyone else does. The sound of millet being pounded gets me before the rooster does. After getting myself prepared for the day, I eat my usual breakfast, oatmeal with millet powder, peanut butter, powdered milk, and honey, coffee, and a multi-vitamin, breakfast of champions, I set out to ride 12km to my market around 7am. I leave this early because I want to arrive at the bank before 8am to get a good spot in line because any later will guarantee at least 2 hours of my life sitting in the bank waiting to be called upon. The bank has two window tellers, though only one bank teller at all times which makes things go incredibly slow. To put it in perspective, when was the last time you waited in line at the bank just to withdraw 20 dollars? Or to deposit a check? Never. But this is the banking system in Mali. The bank company I use does have ATM’s at some branches, however there is no ATM at the branch in my market town. Just my luck. When that day comes, I’ll be dancing in the streets. Until then, it’s a race against time and everyone else that has to do business at the bank. I check my bike to make sure its up to code for the ride and I take off down the dirt road toward town.

The ride is pretty and the temperature is cool. During the hot season you can beat the heat in the early morning for a pleasant ride. I am making good time, greeting people along the way on the road who are going to town in order to sell goods they have. Most have a thing called “sebe”, which the fruit of a palm tree. Malians anticipate its arrival and love it when it comes in. Personally, I don’t care for it. It has a bitter taste and there is no real attraction to it that I can find. But they have donkey cart’s full of “sebe fruit” to sell. I wish them luck by saying a few blessings as I pass them on the road. During my ride, about half way I start to feel sick from something I am not sure about. It came pretty sudden with body aches and a head ache. Mentally I didn’t feel sick so I kept riding to town and told myself that later I would rest to pass it by. I am getting close to town when I look at my watch and notice that it’s close to 8am and I am still 15 minutes away from the bank, at least. My goal of being there before 8am is gone and I pedal faster to get there as soon as I can. Whizzing through town, people greeting me on all sides, passing donkey carts full of various items, motos approaching me from behind and in front of me, I set my sites on the bank through 20/20 tunnel vision. I arrive at the bank and no surprise, the bank is full with at least 40 people in front of me. Some are not in the bank though, they left there cards as place markers and went into town to do some other business and will return before they are called upon. Good thing is that if they are not present when the tellers calls their name, they are skipped, making the line go faster. But all I can do is put my card down, take a seat, bring out my reading material, and be patient knowing I will be in the bank for at least a hour. I am prepared, I’ve brought a book that I am about to finish so in the time I have at the bank , I can realistically finish it. The book is called The Wild Trees by Richard Preston. Its an account of the first exploration into the canopies of the redwoods in Northern California, home to the last groves of redwoods in the world. These trees are considered among the tallest trees in the world and some of the oldest living organisms in the world. It follows the story of a few botanist and arborists who are in search of the worlds tallest trees and their quest to find the ultimate tree, the king of the forest while discovering a vast and diverse micro climate 30 stories in the tops of these redwoods. If anyone has ever seen the redwood groves, you know how spectacular these trees are and how small we are compared to their size. If you haven’t seen them, take a trip up the 101 highway and you’ll be amazed at the size of these trees and how they are the last remaining remnants of what used to be the dominant tree species in the North American continent before climatic change and intensive logging reduced their size to only 1% of what their numbers used to be. They only grow in the North West, in sparse areas from Northern California to just inside Oregon. A wonderful book that I recommend special thanks to the person who sent it to me way back in December. You know who you are.

On my last page, I am called up to the teller. Perfect timing! Finished my book and now its my turn to do bank stuff. I am out in 2 minutes, feeling satisfied that I knocked out a book and that the major time consuming chore of the day is over. I head over to my friends house where we chat a little while before I take off to run a few more errands. I head over to Mali’s Department of Forestry, wanting to meet the director and to ask a few questions while leaving my name with him for future consideration on any work involving re-forestation of the surrounding areas. Basically to get acquainted with the Department and to offer my services. However, I just missed him so I will have to come back another day. Though I did meet his wife, wonderful woman. A gentle face with a warm smile, stout in stature with loads of hospitality, she answered all of my questions and was extremely helpful. I still wasn’t feeling well so she brought me some cold water to drink which soothed my aches and cooled my temperature from the heat. I bid farewell to Tabitha and headed back to my friends house where I slept for 4 hours to shake my ailments.

After my nap, I gathered my things because it was getting close to when I had to leave. My ride is at least 35 minutes so I want to be sure to beat the sun before it goes down. I said my good bye to my friend and headed to get some food before the ride. While picking up some water, I was approached by a man who spoke English as he greeted me. This is somewhat of a rarity so initially I was excited to greet him. Not much farther into our conversation, he said he wanted to show me something. Out of his satchel he pulled out a newsletter that looked very familiar. To my surprise, they were Jehovah’s Witness newsletters, “Awake” and “The Watchtower”. I am familiar with these from my time at college where the very same messengers would find you and talk to you about God’s message, handing you these newsletters to read while trying to entice you to come to their meetings. Come to find that this guy was from Nigeria and that he spoke English pretty well, well enough to convey the same message that I heard from others who where the same messengers in the states. We talked for some time but out of the corner of my eye I could see an ugly looking mass of cloud building behind me, not a good sign when I have a 12km bike ride ahead of me. I bid the man farewell and set off to ride back to my village, hoping to beat the coming storm.

I was pedaling hard and fast, still feeling under the weather, but wanting to get a good head start on the rain that was in count down mode on when it was going to arrive. Each time I rode a few hundred meters, I would look back to see where the cloud was and how much longer I had before I would be engulfed in it. This cloud had some serious teeth on it. Draped in rain, it was shadowed by a cloud of dust in front of it that was moving low and fast ready to blanket everything in its path with a layer of sub-Saharan dust. I was making good time by normal riding standards, but I could see that there was no way I was going to out ride this one. There was a window where I could beat it but my legs, not even Lance Armstrongs legs, could have beat what was coming. I got to the 8km marker when in from of me I could see things going south quickly. Trees, the sky in front of me, all turned into a wall of dust with the ground moving debris at 30/mph. I could see where the point of my entry into this zone of chaos would start and braced for impact. I had enough time to pull my shirt over my mouth and nose and say “here we go” before I felt the full brunt of a sudden sand storm. Then like that, I was bombarded with sand that pelted any exposed skin I left out. I had no goggles to protect my eyes and the best thing I could do was glance to one side to avoid a full frontal of sand on my face. The wind would slow my ride suddenly with every gust of wind no matter how hard I peddled. It wasn’t headwind that I was fighting but wind coming from all directions, swirling in all directions pulling me and pushing me at will. My vision was obscured as the cloud of dust got thicker every meter I rode deeper into it. It was a dust hell and all I wanted to do was get home and in doors before the rain came. That last 4km was grueling, one I wouldn’t like to repeat, but I finally made it home where closed all my windows and doors and passed out until it was time to eat dinner. Good news, hot season is over, rainy season has arrived. Halleluiah!!!!

Market Days

As my group and I approach our 1 year Anniversary in Mali, its a time of reflection on what we have experienced, emotions that first gripped us as we exited the plane in Bamako, the feeling of everything being way over our heads when we first set foot in home stay, the reality of my service the first day in site where i will spend 2 years in, the joys of new and exciting experiences, struggle with language, you know, everything I'm trying to sum up in a nut shell that in the end does no justice to 11 months in this beautiful country. I try and reminisce on everything but it's harder to do, at least specifically to each and every detail. Memories come in waves, there at the present that feel as if you are reliving it again only to pass while leaving its essence on the tip of your mind. To think of my service so far is almost a blur as time seemed to lap week after week. Someone once told me that "days are long but weeks are short". Never new how true that was until i started to be more involved in my village where time is only measured by the people you meet and grow with, enjoying times of work and good company as you chat about the day. Plus traveling around to meet up with other volunteers or trainings make time pass by as you finish one training only to come across another. But times where you appreciate how far you've come along in Mali are when you reflect on a simple experience and think about how you viewed it back when you first saw it. As we passed a market, a normal sized not-out-of-the-ordinary market, at first glace it is mayhem which we have grown accustomed to, just a market. But thinking about when we first arrived and reflect on the whole market experience, you pick out the ingredients that give the market its wild and unique character which always keeps you on your toes while enticing your intrigue at the same time.
You know when the market is coming to town. Buses upon buses arrive at the market place filled to the brim with people from all neighboring villages willing to transport their numerous goods for one full day of business and trade. Along with the merchants the buses are equally packed with the very goods they sell: Sandals and shoes of every kind, color, size, and material, some plastic and some leather, fruits and vegetables which vary depending on what is in season, clothes that are from such places as Good Will, Salvation Army, and companies equally as involved in second hand clothes that come from European countries. Plastic containers of all shapes and designs, electronics that are literally a dime a dozen, and fish that occupy a few rows in the market. How you can find this section you only need to follow your nose. When you enter, the throngs of people are gradual going in and going out. Some have beat the late rush and finished early getting only what they need before the rush comes in. You pass food vendors that sell plates of rice and sauce or snacks of different kinds that you nibble on through the market. The smell of oil being fried is overwhelming though and nauseating at first. You have fried sweet potatoes (great snack), fried flower dough balls called "pate", a french word, rice with peanut sauce or tomato sauce (not the Italian kind you think of when you get pasta), and "furufuru" which is rice cakes fried. As you can tell, oil is a stable substance in Mali that is incorporated with all kinds of food. Fruit is available, mangoes, papayas and bananas at the moment for your choosing. You browse through the food area and start to reach the edge of the market nucleus where the real market happens. Market jargon picks up in content and volume, people bargaining, men yelling at cart boys to help shuttle things through market, women being stern with their kids who help them sell things in market by walking around to sell stuff. Its a mesh of words that only a market can speak. Before entering, you must prepare for it because it is overwhelming. A lot of people and a language you are still grasping can distract you too easily and then you are at the mercy of the market, a good way to kill a day without really accomplishing what you want. So a list to stick to is a wise idea but of course, room for whatever comes your way allows freedom to experience the unplanned. So a hit list in your pocket, you travel through the isles, dodging people, walking and scanning each vendor at the same time. You, like driving a car, always keep one eye on the road because something could be heading your way. In this case, a motorcycle zig zagging through the isle. These isles are not wide by any means, about the width of a side walk. They honk and go about the pace of a person walking but still feel the need to weave through a packed isle comprised of old men, women, and kids. A hectic scene that still puzzles me on why you would drive a moto in the market. Carts that shuttle heavy items like sacks of millet and grain that reach over 100kg's bulldoze through isles. Its a wide cart that shows no mercy for feet and shins as it wedges through the crowd. While walking down isles you greet venders you've seen every week, the causal "hi, hows your family?, did you sleep well? and your market?", all normal conversations in market. It takes literally 30 seconds to greet the vendors your familiar with but a hundred greetings in a day and well, your exhausted. But greeting and meeting the vendors is wonderful because you get to know them, a little about where they come from and how they are. It brings me back to swap meets back home and how the best part of going to the swap meet was meeting the people there that showed up every weekend to sell what they had. They came from all demographics and all social backgrounds and just talking to them they would always have something to share with you. You didn't necessarily have to buy anything, it was all about greeting the person, Larry from Irvine with a wife and 2 kids, or Martha, who resided in the same place for 30 years. You meet these people and connect with them just by going to their place and saying "hi". Same goes in the Malian market as you have your "people" that you connect with in which you have built a loyalty to. Like Isetu Coulibaly who is a wonderful woman that makes street food to sell at the market. I like visiting her every day and just saying "hi", joking with her and seeing her warm smile is a great way to start the market. Walking around i try and get everything that is on the list. I try and chat with as many people i can but energy wears out and i then i bee line to what i need. The market is energy draining and there is only so much energy to keep me going. Before long, I have everything i need and make my exit, seeing Isetu before i hop on my bike and go back to site only to return next week to go back again.
As i walk through market, i think of the first time i went to market, actually to the first time i saw the market from the window of the bus. I thought about how crazy it looked, a maze of confusion which would take full advantage of me. Hesitation of the unknown would grip me at just the sight of the market. It was just a lot of things i didnt understand in a country that was much different from mine. Though with time i found that similarities are found if you look and let things come. The cross cultural experience isn't gained if you dont see for yourself. Everyday is a constant reminder of finding something new without the pre determined idea of what it could be. There are still many things i would like to see or experience but have been hesitant to come around to doing them. But there is still time and all i need to do is go with my instincts and let the experience come to me.

A little warm....

April has arrived in Mali and with it comes the heat. From late March to June is the hot season in Mali and it is now starting to pick up. March was tolerable, the adjustment period from cold season to hot season being difficult because the contrast between night and day weather wise was, well, night and day. 100 in the day and 70 at night really messes with the body trying to adjust to the change in temp. Now its just plain hot, over 100 during the day and in the 90's at night. Still i think at the moment it is a little better now then in the rainy season when it was humid and 90, worse than dry and 90.
Today was a different morning than the rest. I have been sleeping outside as of late because inside my adobe house is impossible as it literally is an oven inside. So its me, my tent, air thermarest, and pillow roughing it under the starts. Around 4am this morning i began to hear the pattering of rain. Waking with a feeling of bewilderment i wandered around looking up at the sky trying to get a glance of rain clouds. If anyone saw me they'd probably think that i was a kook, half naked with my headlamp staring at the sky. Crazy American! I tried to go back to sleep but couldnt do it so i retreated to the house and toughed out the next hour and a half inside. When i woke up the second time, the weather was overcast and windy, a cold discomfort for people in my village but heaven sent for me. Days like these are needed once in a while from the constant radiance of the sun. The overcast skies reminded me of my days in the YMCA where we would make sailboats out of foam, toothpicks, and paper and launch them in this gigantic puddle made by a depression in the asphalt. Also the food we used to eat, "pigs in a blanket", hot dogs wrapped in Pillsbury Dough boy croissant dough that came in the can. Man those were some good eaten's back then. The change in weather for the day made the bike ride a little easier as i didnt have to beat the sun today. I enjoyed it for what it was but anticipate things are going to get hotter in the near future, eh!
Recently I've been playing soccer with the local kids. It has been a while since I've kicked a ball in consecutive days so the first few days were slow and grueling. And i am used to the style of soccer back home which is totally different here. It is a lot like kick ball when one person kicks the ball to no person in general and everyone runs after it, that is the soccer here that i play. If it comes to one person, though he has all the time in the world to hold it and pass, he will decide to kick it as far and as hard as he can. So a lot of this way and that way soccer which at times is hard to play, patience wise. It doesnt help that the field was once a corn field so we are playing in sand, corn rows (not the hair), then hard compact soil, complete with holes that make dribbling the ball very hard. Maybe that is why they kick it with no hesitation because if they try and hold the ball to dribble, who knows what will happen. Its pretty comical to watch at times because the ball is unpredictable all the time. There are a lot of miss kicks, people falling down after putting there all into kicking the ball only to come up empty. Its soccer back in the school days, just fun and laughs and you cant go wrong with that. We play until the sun sets where warm colors turn cool marking that its time to go home and wash. To paint a picture i see when i play or watch soccer: the dirt appearing soft as carpet with the back drop filled with trees that stand to give depth of the land. As the sun sets behind these trees, barren with branches only, the players chase after the ball in a cloud of dust, brought upon by the shuffling of their feet as they position themselves to get the ball, the ball itself suspended in air with a trail of dust behind it. All before the African sun can set for another day putting to rest work and play.

Peace,
Geoff

Malian Matrimony

A few weeks ago I was more or less invited to a wedding in my village. I put it this way because in Mali, weddings always fall on Thursdays and Sundays and never on any other day so you know that when you hear a commotion of people, women dressed in flamboyant dress, men somewhat dressed up as if they were going to the bank, and the sound of music in the distance, a wedding is going on and that is your official invite. There is no formal invite. Just a word of mouth transfer in a conversation is all you need to be invited. Something like this:

Me: Hey Amadou, how are you?
Amadou: No problems. How are you?
Me: I am well. Where are you going today?
Amadou: I am going to Yaya's older brothers wedding? You should come.
Me: I was going to wash my clothes today, but Ok, i will come.

A bana (Finished). This is how you are invited to attend a wedding. And since i am the only foreigner in village, my presence is always welcomed with open arms and blessings. So after washing my light load of dirties, i put on my best "Sundays" and went to Lassine's house were he was having the reception. When i arrived people were still filtering in while others sat comfortably under neath the shade of a Neem tree, chatting and drinking tea while others standing on sheep skins prayed to Allah, the third prayer of the day set at 2pm. I took my seat only after greeting all the men there, the cordial yet loose greetings of "hows your family? are they in Peace?, no problems?" and such. We continued to get comfortable with each other, learning of where we came from and what we do for a living. I fielded the questions of where i come from and dispelling the impussive guessing of China, i filled everyone in on what America is like and how we only have ONE wife, a total universe-crasher to them. It makes no since here, hence the wedding i was at which was the marriage of a second wife to the groom. Also, by the way, Obamas my cousin if anyone asks. Having a little tulonke (fun) with them. We sat for a while and was getting tired, mostly the lack of food was bringing on the daylight snooze I was feeling until the bowl of dege came around and I perked up anticipating the best tasting porridge i have ever had in my life in my belly. After a few rounds of dege, content for the moment, we waited for what was next.
The women gathered around the house entrance singing and dancing, clapping in a harmonious tone. They were greeting the new wife as the men looked on with a simple gaze then turning back to the conversation at hand. After the women greeted the wife-to-be, we ate our first helping of rice and sauce. Nothing out of the ordinary at a wedding to eat a little more extravagantly. This was coupled with goat meat they had just prepared that day. I was handed a ladle of meat of dont-know-which-parts and began to have flashbacks of Tabaski where i ate a lot of sheep and goat but payed for it the next day with stomach cramps and Mr. D ariea. I knew the culprit, intestine and was destined to not repeat Tabaski. As i ate there was no sign of intestines so i was in the clear until i found it on the bottom of the ladle. I knew the next day would not be good and true to my thought, it was not. But in the moment, a celebration, you accept it and move on. After dinner we allowed the food to digest before the ceremony started.
Everyone in the neighborhood gathered by the eldest man of the village, the "Chekorroba", highly respected and revered in the neighborhood. As we placed the seats around and got comfortable the chekorroba came out and sat down, a frail man, partially blind and deaf but aware of his surrounding. He was surrounded with other elders of close age who assisted him in sitting down. After opening blessings, the proceedings began, spearheaded by one man who acted as the minister role. He started everything, acting as the liason of cordial communication. A person will tell another something, pass it to the minister, who then passes it to another elder who then passes it to the chekorroba, this network of telephone that says the same thing and that you can hear on the first go around. I couldnt make out most of what he said but managed to get some coupled with the feeling and content of how he used the vocab he did. Basically he at one point laid out the role of the 2nd wife role, so she and everyone knows her role in the family and community. The wife is there, with fabric over her head, shielding her face from everyone accompanied by her mother at her side. As the procession grew, the women presented the new wife with kitchen ware, big bowls, cups, fabric, and everything else that supports her "women as housewives role" in Malian society. They also brought out this paultry looking set of items that had no purpose but to throw in the nearest land fill. A flashlight with no light, punctured gas lamp, a 4 inch piece of cloth. I took it as a "pepsi/coke challenge" where she had to choose the right set to pick just by instinct because she could not see them. A little game in the wedding i thought was humorous. Once the items were laid out, chosen, gifts given to the elders as a sign of respect, her face was revealed to the crowd with utter surprise, she had a stone cold look on her. I was expecting a face of a cracked smile at least but nothing, a down beaten look of dispair at the realization of being married, possibly prearranged with the wife not looking a day over 17. And this man is in his 30's or 40's. I had to remember that this is not America and my beliefs are my own, holding very little ground on foreign soil. But could only imagine this woman and wife to be and how her life is going to change. 7-10 kids, harsh manual labor, and neglect, affectionately, awaited her for the rest of her life. And i imagine a life where she is off to college, pursuing a business degree and in control of her life and not the property of someone else. However this will not be the case as with other cases. But this is cross cultural experience and one to take in with out beliefs getting in the way. A hard thing to do.
Once the ceremony ended, i took endless pics with attendees who wanted a photo with me for their album which i happily did and only wanting copies for myself. I headed home just before dusk to simmer on what i had just gone to. Nothing elaborate, no bells, organs, white dresses, receptions with a cover band that plays only the "top 10". It was beautiful in its on style and the main component, bringing people together to celebrate the joining of two people, connected with me and I appreciated that i was welcomed to be apart of it. Looks like i have 2 more weddings this month to attend this month and I look forward to seeing if there are any differences between Christian Malian weddings and Muslim Malian weddings. The first was a Muslim wedding so we will see how the other two materialize. I just need another shirt to wear.

Peace,
Geoff

Rat and a Christmas

Rat does in fact taste like chicken. This curiosity was put to rest a couple of days ago when a rat, close to two feet in length, head to tail, was caught by a woman who found it in her house. As we sat by the fire, chatting as usual every night, the commonality of the evening was jumpstarted by the furry rodent who's fate was sealed in the clutches of my host fathers' eldest son. Carefully, Calib laid the rat down, held it in control with his foot firmly on the body, and grabbed the back of the head. By exposing the neck while pulling the head back, Calib put it down with the touch of a knife. Once the rat expired, Calib's son took the rat in his hands, walking around with it, parading the once cunning animal that managed to elude captures , evidence by the shear size of it. Aside from the size of its tail and body, I realized the scope of its size by length of its feet, which were as big as my thumbs. It was mighty while it lasted. I asked if this was the biggest they have ever seen. While using their hands to show an example of how big the rats can get, I thought "my God" and cared not to imagine one in my house, ever.

So we ate it. While they prepared it, I meditated the what ifs, the whys, and the why nots to eating rat. You always hear others say, "ah, it tastes just like chicken" without any self conviction of your own. As the time came, my decision was "what the hell, just another kind of meat in Mali. Lets see if it tastes like chicken". Curiosity won and the cat is still alive. Next!

Christmas has come and passed and the wake of the three day celebration will always leave its mark on me. On the Eve, the anticipation, the build up grew as "Noelly" was just around the corner. Everyone prepared fro the festivities. Food was preped for cooking, women and men came from neighboring villages and distant towns. Christmas clothes were laid out for their unveiling at church, work was finished ahead for two days of rest, and the animals were gathered for what would be their last breakfast . In my neighborhood, a cow and a pig were offered fro the festivities. Enough said about that. At night was the Eve surman at the church. I arrived to see the inside decorated with balloons strung across the church, dangling like those chinese lamps at a patio party. These balloons had drawings on them, hard to make out except for one, a catipillar with a cane and top hat. The surman was relatively short, 1 and half hours, which was followed by a dance party in the churches courtyard. The music is raw, using this term loosely. A scratchy PA system, the mic way too loud, guitar complete with feed back that rattles the ear drums, volume at a deafening tone, and the composition out of timing as if the guitarist and drummers were soloing together. But its all part of the essence, the fascination, and spirit that draws me to experience more while testing my fortitude and will to take things as is, no coats of sugar or paint, just what you see, a beautiful thing. As we danced in a circle, sectioned by men and women, I try to pick up their style of dance. Its a shuffle with Malian rhythm, aggressive yet smooth in style complete with clapping and kicking. A harmonious sound comes from a group of women who clap and sing in perfect unison. Its choreographed so well that it draws your attention all the time. The night ends fro me as they keep going well into the night and the early morning.

Christmas arrives and everyone is up. I head over to my host family's house for breakfast, rice and pork with a cup of sugared coffee. Not the usual oats and tea in the moring and especially not a breakfast recommended by nutritionists, but when in Mali...do as they do, besides its only one day. After breakfast we head to church where I get to see everyones new clothes. I'm wearing the same shirt that I wore to swear in, accompanied by new pants which are pinstriped and dont match with the shirt. Their clothes are vibrant, patterns and cuts that create a fashion sense. Women especially pride themselves in the finest and with little disappointment. Their dress is by far more creative and exotic than the mens. Church concludes 2 and a half hours later and now its time to celebrate. We eat our fill of rece, meat, and dege, a porridge made of millet, sour milk, salt, sugar, peanut powder, oil, and water. We also rise many rounds of tea as we chat with each other and members of families that live in other areas. No matter if its Christmas here or the states, its about one thing: Family and here in Mali, it is no difference.

The day after is Christmas part two. Church in the morning to start. I decide not to go, which opened me to field a flurry of questions of why I did not go. I answer truthfully but they still cant comprehend why I don't go. In time I suppose they will understand that their are more than two religions in the world. We eat a lot, drink a lot of tea, chat, and say our goodbyes to visitors. The night ends with me sitting amongst some prominent elders, having tea and chatting. As the night fades, the radio plays late 1990's to early 2000 rap, in english. An odd way to cap the end of Christmas but fitting because I've been so enthralled in Malian culture the past few days that aside from talking to family and my girlfriend, the american rap was the one thing that brought a taste of america to this years Christmas.

First 3 months in, what a way to begin.

Hey all!!

I am here and well, writing from our training site and 3 months into my 2 year service. Let me tell you that these 3 months have flown by soo fast and since the last entry, my integration and language have improved by leaps and bounds. My level of confortability has leveled out in recent weeks to the point where i feel like a part of the village and not the American running around doing Malian work. Now i am a worker in village, helping my friends and host family with whatever they need. Soon i will start actual developement projects that i hope will carry on past my service and place the people i work with in a situation where they will be self sustaining to the point where they will not need a volunteer in the future. So many projects in mind, but as we say here in Bambara, doni doni (slow, slow).

About a month ago, Nov. 17th, we celebrated Tabaski which is a Muslim holiday where they pray to Ala and have a grand feast for 3 days. This was my first Tabaski and was eager to see what the big feast was all about. The first day, i went to my friends house where i payed respects to the elders of the family. Then, we ate.....ALOT!!! For Tabaski, each head of the household is presented with an animal, goat or sheep, which is then sacrificed for the celebration. At my friends place, they killed 3 sheep and 2 goats for the festivities a very expensive purchase for one day. I was not there when they killed the animals, but did see the end result, dead goats and sheep and a lot of meat. But enough with the details. We ate a lot, rice, sauce, and meat then headed to meet and chat with some of the elders of the village. Malian tradition states that old men (chekorobas) are regarded as wise men and are treated with respect. Every neighborhood has a chekoroba that overseas the neighborhood while above him is the dugutigi (village cheif) who overseas the entire village. I met with most fo the chekorobas from the neighborhood i was in. We exchanged words, lots of jokes and laughs, food (meat, rice, and sauce) and many rounds of tea. For the rest of the day, a friend and I walked around and greeted everyone. People were dancing, singing, and being happy which is a wonderful site to see because the Malian people are so nice and genuine. At night time there was a dance party which was equipped with zylophones, drums, and a singer. This band was the purist jam band i have ever seen because their songs could run for 5 to 25 minutes, pounding away at the zylophone with a furious tempo, non-stop, not even for a cigarette, and played to the dancers that filled the dancing area. These dancers, both men and women, exhibited a shuffle dance but with crypt walking and the jig mixed into one. It was captivating to look at and i wish i had video of it which i am kicking myself right now. All in all, Tabaski was a great experience aside from the next day where I am pretty sure i got food sickness. But when in Mali................do as the Malians do.

Since Tabaski, i have been in the fields working away and making my garden. At 8:30 or so, i head to the garden to water and weed. Right now i have tomatoes, eggplant, lettuce, carrots, onions, beets, and arugula in my garden beds. The last one, arugula, is foreign to them and they always ask me what it is. When i say that it is arugula, they just laugh at me. I think because it is a funny sounding word that they cant pronounce because of the hard "R" or that they think its funny i am planting what looks like a weak crop. Either way i joke with them by calling them a bean eater and all is squared away. After garden work, i head to the field to dig for woso (sweet potato). It is hard work to dig and i get quite a work out doing so though i love the physical work that requires me to use my hands. On one day i was able to drive a donkey cart, a lot of fun to ride. I did go easy on the donkey with the switch because Malians at times can really lay into the donkey to make it giddy up. But i wanted to be light with it while saying positive affirmations to Frank, the donkey. Had to name it to keep it loose and fun. While digging for woso, you dig around the woso so as to not slice it which is very easy to do. I in the start was too conservative with it, which is why they would finish 2 rows to my 1 row. No matter, i dug up woso and ate some raw while taking 5. Interesting thing though while digging for woso. My younger brother was digging and unearthed a green snake, coiled up in the woso bed. With little hesitation, he killed it with his daba. Malians dont mess with snakes as they say, "u be mogo faga" meaning "they kill people". Its a shame because i am pretty sure it was harmless. When working in the field, food is always made because its tough to dig for hours strait without subsistance. Usually its a pourage but this time we had woso that was mashed. Delicious!!! After i was ready to tackle more beds though my host mother and brother easily outpaced me. Some day though, some day, i will out woso-dig them.

Training has been so so. Highlights were i learned how to graft trees, bee keeping, and saw a 10ft python on the road. The tree grafting was really interesting and a usefull tool now and later when i return. You basically graft a branch from a tree which produces healthy fruit to a seedling of the same type of tree. Example would be a mango tree. Its a way to pass along the good genes without starting a tree from seed. Bee keeping is fasinating and how bees operate is just as interesting. We learned the basics and how we can apply them to our village in order to generate income and food. And lets not forget the 10ft python. It was at night and someone happened to come across it on the road. We all jumped out of our seats once we heard and saw it with our own eyes. It was pretty impressive, 10ft and 6-8inches in diameter at the thickest section. We all were amazed by it and the guards were terrified of it. There are pics on facebook if you would like to see it.

Well i am off to site to spend Christmas with the host Fam. We are roasting a whole pig and giving gifts to eachother. I will let you all know how it goes. Take care, and always be in peace.

Kan ben (see you),
Geoff

Day 1 on the job

Havent journaled in a while as there has been a lot going on. But I won't dwell on the training as it's been a blur up to this moment. Training isnt worth mentioning, only the fact that it was short, stressful, rushed, and 90% went over my head to the point where i am still catching up. But all was necessary to prepair me for my first Day, number 1.
My first day on site, the real deal. Three years of working brought me here to this place where I set to make a difference. Sounds like a freak out but quite the opposite. I finally was able to relax in my own settings where i could make my own schedule. With my first day, I filled it with every day house chores. Being active and doing things in a new environment. I took a run in the morning after I procrastinated for an hour whether to run or not. I am glad I did, to see the landscape that is beautiful while shedding the Segou body fat I acquired while feasting like a king in town. I intended to be in shape while I am here, but not to kill myself over it. The run lasted almost an hour but I walked at times because i was tired. A boy, hearding goats and sheep gave me an ear of corn on the way back which was very generous. I returned home where i was pretty winded from the run. I greeted A LOT of people as well which is equally as exhausting as a 5k run. I showered (bucket bath) clothed, and went to do laundry by the water pump. The previous day I set out to visit every boutigi (shop) I could find and greet them. I intended on buying things while familiarizing myself with the boutigitigi's (store owners).
I went to the pump and sprawled my clothes out on the wash area for all to see, drawers and all. Only women here, no suprise, but i intended to change that, through example that men too can wash clothes. Will it work, we shall see. I washed my clothes with my hands, using a wash board only. Its hard work and time consuming. It took close to 3 hours to wash and rinse everything as i got a little sun in the process while enjoying the outside. I also realized that i shouldnt wait until all of my clothes are dirty to wash them for the sake of time and energy.
After laundry, i cleaned my bike as it needed it, badly. Mud from 3 weeks ago had resided on the chain, gears, and frame, hindering performance as i rode. Also the chain started to rust, not good. I scrubbed all the gears and the chain, trying to remove as much as possible. I tweaked with the derailers to hone my stallion for the ride into my market town the next day.
After chores i began to read Slaughter House Five by Kurt Vonnegut. I haven't read any of his books but figured what better time than now. I managed to down over 100pgs and enjoyed the read. I have 6 books lined up to read after Slaughterhouse five is finished.
So concludes the first day. I ate corn to (local dish) with sauce and went to sleep, always in peace.