Somatra

“Yesterday, my friend Amanda and I set out on our way to her site, a Victorian style French town 35 km north of Segouville in the Segou region. We had just stayed four days in Segou, swimming in the pool, drinking margaritas and getting ready to leave for our respective sites. I, for one was very anxious about finally riding public transit on my own, since I am notoriously bad at it. I remember being in San Francisco last summer and trying to get a bus to Sacramento when I got all worked up and just stood on the corner and watched busses go by, too afraid to get on. Bush taxis are a whole different animal. Bush taxis (or boches) are old jalopy conversion vans that Malians like to cram at least 2-3 times the maximum intended passengers into it at one time. Sometimes there are original seats in the vans, but they’re usually taken out so they can pile more people/goats/chickens/(insert strange object/animal you never thought would be in a motorized vehicle with you EVER) in their place. Most of the time the doors are off or broken so there’s the added fear of falling out of the boche while en route. I must admit I was petrified. So I thought I’d ride up to Amanda’s site with her for a few days and get my public transit wits about me before heading out to site alone…for three months…

Amanda and I shared a cab to the boche pick up and had thought we agreed on a fare with the driver at 500CFAs per passenger. When we got to the side of the road where the driver dropped us off, the fare had changed. Or at least that’s what I’m thinking happened. When we got out of the cab, we were swarmed with about 15 men, all anxious to know where we were going, grabbing our bags out of the trunk, which included three huge backpacks, a propane tank and stove for Amanda’s new house, plus various kitchen and cleaning supplies in separate and cumbersome plastic bags. While trying to keep track of our belongings, we handed him our 1000CFAs. Apparently that was not enough, and the man started yelling at us and tried to hand the money back. “O ma chan!” (that’s not enough!) Of course all the other men started getting into it with him, and us. I remember in our cross cultural sessions, our trainers stressed that greetings and joking will get you out of most situations like this, so I grabbed at any straws I could. “What’s your last name!? Are you a bean eater?” They just kept yelling and arguing in fast angry muttered Bambara that I couldn’t begin to decode, especially when all my translation skills had just shut down because of pure fear. Our language was just not good enough to get us out of this, so we agreed on an extra 500CFAs and the cab guy finally left us alone. I think I called him a liar (I ye galontige ye) and told him I was “not happy.” So lame. Thinking back on it I put together beautifully poetic Bambara jabs that would have surely gotten the fare lowered, but alas.

The stress didn’t exactly end there. The 15 men swarming us at the cab had scooped up all our bags and carried them across the road to where other men sat and drank tea. We asked if this was where the bush taxis would pick us up and they said, “No, the bush taxis aren’t running today, the gas is bad and we are getting you a private car to take you.” I knew we were being schooled. They kept saying, “I sigi, I sigi” (sit down sit down) but I was so annoyed I kept calling them liars and asking them why they thought I would believe that the bush taxis weren’t running today. Finally, after 20 minutes, the first bush taxis showed up on the other side of the road, FULL of people and goats piled on top. The men were resistant, but grabbed our stuff and headed for the taxi. Then an empty taxi showed up behind that first. Naturally, for comfort and sanity reasons, we wanted to get on the taxi with less people, so that was another round about of arguing price, getting our stuff on the right one. I befriended a Malian woman on the more empty bush taxi to kind of take our side (I think) and get us on the roomy, less expensive bus.

I’ve learned now to always take the bush taxi that is completely full. Otherwise, we’ll in the hot Africa sun for hours waiting for passengers to fill up the empty bus. OR! Drive back into town searching for passengers. At one point we went the wrong way down a one way street, almost bulldozing some donkey carts in the process to find a woman standing on the side of the road. She got right on the bush taxi like it was completely normal. I couldn’t believe it was happening at the time, but find myself saying more frequently, “This is Africa.”

Finally we headed out of Segou and on to Amanda’s town. It was around 5 o’clock and the sun was starting to set over a picturesque African landscape as I reflected over the afternoon’s somewhat hellish events. I was astonishingly relaxed, as I seem to always feel when I’m eventually on public transit. Finally the heat had let up, the sunset was breathtaking as usual and we were finally on our way. After a few stops and a run in with about 200 cows crossing the road, we were dropped off in Amanda’s town. It was dark now and pouring rain, of course. We stood under an awning at the bus stop/market and waited while we thought of the best way to get to her house, two miles away. We called her contact at site, who had picked her up at site visit to take her to her house, but of course his phone was off. Plan B. Well, we didn’t really have one. So we stood there as various people came up to us and asked us what were doing and where we were going. We kept trying to say we were on our way to our house, but had too much stuff to carry if we walked. Mostly we got some blank looks and offers to come drink tea in their house down the street. At this point we just wanted to get to her house, dry off and cook delicious pasta and tomato sauce that we had purchased at the butigi across the street.

Nothing like a two mile walk on a night in the pouring rain through flooded mud streets to work on those muscles! We hoisted our bags on our backs, balanced plastic bags on our arms and carried the propane tank between the two of us and headed toward our house. “We are going to be so much closer after this.” I exclaimed, “Or we’ll be enemies,” Amanda muttered. “Impossible.” I said. We were both impressed by how high our spirits were. There really was no point in being cranky because there was no alternative to getting to her house. We stopped a few times to readjust, fix a broken plastic bag and re-angle my headlamp so we could see the rivers in front of us that we had to navigate around. At this point as I’m writing this, I’m laughing hysterically to keep from crying but wincing from the pain in my ribs because I seriously pulled something last night. As we trudged on, I was afraid to ask how much farther it was to her house. All I know is, we made it, and it really didn’t seem that far once we got to her house, “nsh Allah”.”

Swear-in

We came back to camp early Sunday morning after our last ten days at homestay and an overwhelmingly emotional “final farewell.” It is very taboo for Malians to cry in public, so I was caught off guard when all the women in my family were practically wailing. In what I think was a defense mechanism on my part, I felt nothing and just wanted to get out of that village and on to my site. The last ten days at home stay were definitely the roughest. I had come back on a high from site visit, my language skills had really improved and I felt so integrated that I went practically unnoticed as a Toubab! Well, not really at all, but I was definitely more comfortable with my village, greetings in the local language, and even the food! My digestive system now feels like a tank, ready to take on anything Africa can throw at me, due also in part to the probiotics a little angel sent me in a care package (hi mom!), but I digress.

I would like to take a little time to talk about my host sister, Mama, because I feel that without knowing her, you won’t know anything about me in Africa and the strange personality that I have taken on as this “Alima” character. Mama is a sixteen year old who acts like she is the boss of her village. While at first it was endearing and kind of awesome because she acted as my body guard, she had become increasingly persistent and copped some sort of attitude with me every moment we were together. However, it was in those interactions when she bossed me around, that I developed the greatest cross-cultural asset, “sass.” I guess acting like a puppet by making me dance for other Malians at the market, or eating t’oh over and over again has its advantages. I can confidently say I am ready to take on any kind of crazy, rude, invasive Malian that’s thrown my way because I’m pretty sure I’ve dealt with one of the worst. Not to say that she’s bad, but she’s definitely… sassy. Mama may be the source of most of my frustration with Africa, but she was also my greatest learning tool.

On our last day at home stay, our village had a little party for us. Since it is Ramadan, dancing or partying of any kind is not encouraged, but our 101 year old village chief said “screw it” (loose translation from Bambara) and had a dance party for us anyway. We all gathered in his concession, greeted and thanked and blessed one another in much the same way as the first day we arrived. When I think back to that first day, driving into our village, trash covering the streets, nyegen pools overflowing, hundreds of children with unfamiliar faces, covered in flies, I was petrified. Little did I know that after two short months I wouldn’t notice the trash anymore, I’d be comfortable walking through the streets and the market, and not only know all the children, but like them too! I was sitting next to my host mother, Kyatu, and her little baby boy and had my three favorite gals, Batama, Awa, and Ara standing behind me, listening intently to the village chief and our language facilitators exchange blessings. Batama (my African C.C.) had her hands on my shoulders and would occasionally pick a little pimple off my back. I’d turn around and look at Awa, her big beautiful smile beaming at me and laughing like she would never be able to stop. Sitting there with them was another one of those reflective moments. These past months have been a part of the toughest thing I’ve ever done in my life and it definitely sucked at times, but this moment and the way I feel know in Africa has made it all worth it.

I’ve grown not only to like Malians and feel comfortable with them, but I am also growing closer to our group of 66 volunteers. It’s taken a while to get to know them all individually because there are so many, but I can definitely feel some long lasting friendships forming already. Everyone is really respectful and supportive of each other, and we haven’t had anyone “early terminate” yet, which is apparently a huge accomplishment for Peace Corps Mali. Groups from previous years had lost a significant amount of their members by this time in their stages, so we’re all pretty proud of how “die hard” our group is, especially since Mali is a hardship country and the 3rd poorest in the world.

We officially swore in as Peace Corps volunteers on Thursday (I’ve posted new pics of the ceremony and the after party!) I’m now in Segou, and I leave for my village on Tuesday. I’ll be there for the next three months, working on my language, getting to know people in my community and trying to figure out projects I want to work on. Today, I am excited and ready to get to my site. I’m ready for the change of pace and finally getting control over my daily schedule. Training was definitely starting to wear on all of us but the structure and preparation of it all has truly impressed me. Peace Corps is much more organized than I had anticipated and I feel totally taken care of.