OK. So I’m home. Sorry for that – I imagine it’s relatively anticlimactic to read that all of a sudden. But that’s how it happened – my last week was hurried and I didn’t have time to blog as much as I wanted. So I’m making up for it now.
The last week was good. Strange in that it was both shorter and longer than almost any other week, but that may just because I was more aware of time as my date of departure came closer. Strangely, it was relatively uneventful, though still busy. Lots of loose ends to tie up. Following up on business arrangements, picking up last-minute presents, saying goodbyes. It was all both very surreal, being there but being somewhat absented from the life I had grown to know and expect. It was if suddenly, in anticipation of our leaving, everything stopped to let me and Katie off before kicking it back into the good ol’ Bamako gear.
As anticipated, we were NOT able to finish our project in time. In all actuality, we likely would have if one or both of us had been able to stay as late as we had originally planned, but the circumstances did not work out that way, unfortunately. Instead of spending our last days celebrating the new health ed curriculum with the peer educators, we spent out last days meeting with the artist to re-re-revise images (again) to make them: 1.) helpful and easy to use/understand and 2.) factually accurate (e.g. putting ONLY foods that actually have protein in them on the protein source card). We organized most of the peer educator training session(s) with the key players and even planned out most of the kickoff celebration, even if we didn’t get to start buying supplies and booking deejays. In short, I feel that I feel a little short in delivering having not been able to get everything pulled together nice and neat with a little bow on it, but then again, when is NGO work EVER that easy?
(The answer is no.)
As much as I do feel slightly underwhelmed with the work we did this summer, I am also acutely aware that we absolutely did as much as could have with the resources we had available to us and our ideals. It would have been easy to come in with pre-made health ed cards and beautiful t-shirts and lots of gifts, do a session or two, evaluate for funders and leave. In fact, that’s what many NGOs in Bamako (and elsewhere, for that matter) do. And I’ll tell you – after being on the ground and seeing them in action, I’m not impressed. Nor are most Malians. They want sustainable change and for better or for worse, that type of change comes SLOWLY. Painfully slowly. And that’s how it has to be. The only people who know the situation we’re addressing well enough to fix it are the people who live in the midst of it every day. And they are the ones who need to be given the power to choose how and where aid is used. So if they don’t work as quickly or efficiently as we do, that’s fine. Because it’s NOT our project. It’s theirs. And that is one key thing this internship made me realize.
One of the most important moments in that process of enlightenment came just before the end of my stay in Mali. I was in a CHAG meeting with Niang working out the details of the new curriculum and we asked the CHAG members if they wanted to include diarrhea. Caitlin and every doctor in town said this was a KEY priority. And in fact, so did the CHAG a few meetings ago. Diarrhea is not only a horrible symptom of many diseases, but it is also a symptom that is often left untreated and leads to far too many preventable deaths. How do you fix it? Oral rehydration therapy (ORT), to prevent dehydration. However, when we asked the CHAG whether or not they wanted to teach participants to make ORT at home, they said absolutely not.
My jaw dropped. Everyone else had given us an emphatic yes, but our supposed program heads were adamantly opposed and I was at a loss for words. Until, that is, they explained that the government was already on a huge public health campaign that urged people to go to the CSCOM (clinic) at the first signs of diarrhea no matter what and that any ORT-based campaign would not only make our program look rebellious and underhanded, but it would also undermine the good work that the existing governmental campaign is doing. And that’s when I realized – THAT is why we let locals do the work: they don’t just intellectualize these problems, they GET them. It was the proudest moment for MHOP I have had all summer. There was no question I was working for a solid organization with a good head on its shoulders. In fact, 12 of them - the CHAG members’.
The rest of the days spent in Bamako are best remembered by the food I ate. I essentially decided to celebrate my homecoming and the good food that was sure to follow by eating the nicest food Bamako had to offer. Or at least my favorite. So on Monday, we went to DeGuido’s, the only Italian-owned and operated pizza joing in Bamako (also home of the most delicious pizzas I have ever had not only in Bamako, but in my life). I split basil cream gnocchi and chevre pizza with Katie and I almost peed just looking at it. And it was only $15, I might add. Tuesday I was feeling sick so I skipped dinner, but that morning I treated myself to homemade French toast. It was odd to make it on a propane grill with uninspected raw eggs, but it was delicious: cinnamon, sugar, ginger, and cardamom (my favorite spice in the world, which we had a bit of courtesy of Miss Caitlin!) with honey. Wednesday night was our last day and we had both a good lunch AND a good dinner. Katie and I got burgers at our local ice cream shop, Broadway Café. I also got a scoop of hazelnut, my favorite staple there. And then for dinner, we went back to Appaloosa, the Bamakois equivalent of TGIF (complete with Americana paraphernalia on the walls), the best place in town to get Tex-Mex and bottle-blonde Lebanese hookers. We only indulged in the food – another pizza, actually. Quite good.
Looking at that line-up, you’d think I was being overly dramatic about food in Bamako, but these are the places we can only afford to go to once in a while, so this was a ridiculous splurge to eat out three times in one week (three days, actually). But it was so worth it.
After all that, we went home. I took a shower in the rain (literally) and gave my gifts to the family. To Maasi, cushioned insoles so her feet won’t hurt when her belly starts popping out a bit more. I hope she will find a way to make them work with bare feet/sandals, because when I bought them I thought she might wear some type of sneaker. If not, Niang can use them. To Abba, my broken watch. To Niang, a solid new trapper-keeper style binder and three dirty limerick books to encourage him to keep learning English. Hopefully he doesn’t ask his teacher to translate them in front of the class…
Unfortunately, I missed the chance to say goodbye to Mama and Fifi, but I am sending them an e-mail via Julie and Cari in the next day or two.
And then I left. The trip was brutal, but to spare us all, I’ll just give the abridged version. We left for Casablanca at 4AM from Bamako and that flight was great. Since I’ve been sick, I asked to sit in the back next to the toilets and got a whole row to myself to lay out and sleep in. It was great. From Casa to JFK, no such luck. Nine hours in the back of the plane, but this time surrounded by: 1.) 9 overly excited children, 2.) one mommy who refused to pay attention to her kids to keep them occupied, 3.) one mommy who didn’t know that five year olds aren’t supposed to drink five cokes and eat four chocolate bars in two hours, and 4.) one wannabe-mommy who decided to keep them occupied for her for the duration of the flight (right next to me). It actually wasn’t horrible, but in the last hour when I realized I was going to be landing in America after two long months and just wanted out, I almost killed one of them with my plastic lunch utensils. I almost tried.
We got off and, remembering that I had checked my bag all the way through to Boston and not thinking it would show up the carousel, I left customs bagless. And found out that I DID need to get it. But now I couldn’t go back to find it because I wasn’t “sterilized”. So customs had to rip my lock off (even though it had a TSA-approved lock on it), go rifle through all of my stuff, and send it along after me.
Flash forward to my wait for the layover. I’m scheduled for 10:10PM, but I want to get on the earlier flights. And then flash forward to the 7:30PM flight leaving at 11. And my flight being postponed until 11:10, then midnight, then just plain old cancelled. At this point, it is 4AM in my head and I want to die. I get reassigned to a 7AM flight and sleep at the gate on a floor clutching both of my bags. I wake up and get a $9 bagel, wait for the plane. It is delayed. I want to kill someone. Again. I finally get on the flight – it ended up taking off at 9, so not too bad. I pass out.
Wake up. And I’m home safe. Easy sailing. No more hitches. Royal Air Maroc did NOT lose my bag (thank G-d! Who knew they had it in them?) and I was just in time to take the Silver Line back to South Station and catch the 10:25 train back to Providence. And here I am, writing away as green tree blurs pass me by through the windows. I did it. Now let’s just hope I don’t get mugged on the way up College Hill. I really don’t want them to take my sweet fabrics. ☺
So what is the summary? How do I respond when everyone asks: “How was AFRICA?” The answer is, “It was long, difficult, but a great and rare chance to learn a lot about myself.” Would I do it again? Not for a while, likely not in Mali. Do I regret it? Not at all – I had a blast, even though parts of it sucked (hard). Best part? Seeing a beautiful new part of the world and feeling like I got to really know their culture well. Worst part? Diarrhea for three weeks. Thing I am looking forward to most in the States? Reliable electricity, healthy and delicious food, and seeing a doctor with equipment that works.
Seriously. I have never been so excited to get a physical in all my life.
That having been said, this internship also made me realize that I have seen what the ideal kind of work I want to be doing looks like and I’m not cut out for it. At least not in West Africa. Who knows? Maybe India or Thailand or Ecuador will shed new light on this perspective, but for now, I’m crossing foreign aid off the potential job list and sticking to being a tourist - a very culturally aware and curious, always respectful, very informed… tourist. Just like many other brilliant minds who work in other fields.
For now. There’s always next summer.
Signing off for now.
One last time.
X Adama “Toubab” Diarra X
Friday, August 1, 2008
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Gross as all get-out
P.S. I got amoebas. Just like Cary. And now, Katie. Gross. Furthermore, I think I got it from Pays Dogon. How, you ask? I unwittingly tried millet beer. And then found out that the Dogon ferment their beer by spitting in it. So I basically drank a big ol' bowl of spit. As a friend pointed out, I am lucky that amoebas was ALL I got. WHEW! GROSS!
Friday, July 25, 2008
Finish Line
So I only have five days left in Bamako and he finish line is rapidly approaching. Like I already said, I have only just recently grown to love Sikoro in all of its glory and as I prepare to leave, I am trying hard to soak up everything around me so as to never forget it. With that in mind, here is a list of 20 things I will miss about Mali when I leave:
1.) First and foremost, Niang. If he lived in the US, I would want to be his surrogate child. Minus the fact that he occasionally beats the child he does have… But aside from that, he is an amazing man and a very talented businessman. I will definitely miss him. 2.) The rest of Niang’s family. Even Fifi.
(P.S. To follow up on that love story, after I told her I couldn’t love her, Fifi turned ice cold to me for two weeks. Even after I brought her a reconciliatory apple from the market. She only just started liking me again, and luckily I think I will be gone before it re-escalates to love and heartbreak. In short, I think the crisis has been averted. Mom, Dad – no Malian brides this time around. Save the goats and dates for the next lucky lady’s bride price.
3.) Everyone in the neighborhood who now knows me by name and corrects strangers when they call me Toubab. 4.) Making really scary dinosaur cries when children from the neighborhood get too close and bothersome. Don’t worry they like it. They just think I’m part dinosaur. 5.) The bean tigi being ten feet away from me (and costing 50 cents). 6.) Living in a courtyard surrounded by mango trees. I pretty much made myself sick of mangos for a good long while, but it’s still a romantic place to take a nap in a hammock. 7.) Bucket baths outside. Surprisingly, they’re really fun. And it’s so much more fun to get clean outside than inside. 8.) Pit latrines, even if it’s only because I think they’re a challenge to use. I might even miss the cockroaches and maggots that live inside. Then again, maybe not. 9.) Cheap, beautiful fabric and the ability to have any sketch turn into an actual outfit for less than $10. 10.) Carrying toilet paper with me everywhere I go – because as much as I want to assimilate into Malian culture, I’m not quite ready to wipe myself with my hand on a regular basis. It was a fun reminder of a lesson I learned a while ago – it doesn’t matter if you speak the language or dress the part; you’ll always be a Toubab. 11.) Making a fool out of myself trying to dance at balanies. 12.) The griots that always drag me in to make a fool out of myself at balanies. And just griots in general. Their songs are a little jarring at first, but actually really beautiful. 13.) Waking up with the call to prayer at 4AM on a semi-regular basis. I’ve pretty much learned to sleep through anything now, but also add to the list of things I will NOT miss at wee hours of the morning: dogfights, card games in the courtyard, mortar and pestle grinding, and teenage tomfoolery. 14.) The joy of finding American foods I don’t even like back home and devouring them because they are NOT rice and fish sauce. 15.) Seriously, though, I will miss De Guido’s pizza. It’s the best I’ve ever had, stateside or in Bamako. 16.) Zaban and zabanji (juice). I wonder if I can make the equivalent back home by soaking Sour Patch Kids in OJ… 17.) Malian cheese-yogurt. It sounds gross and tastes ALMOST fermented, but it’s actually an amazing dessert. 18.) Eating/drinking any and everything from a plastic bag. 19.) The constant battle to find an adapter that both fits into the sockets and won’t crap out after two uses. 20.) The constant amusement of looking through field health manuals and trying to determine which difficult to pronounce disease is giving everyone diarrhea. Maybe it’s amoebas, maybe is djiardia. Who knows?
(P.P.S. I found out recently I also joined the ‘moebes club. Much more empathy to Cari now. They’re nasty little buggers. Luckily, I started treatment yesterday and already feel a million times better.)
This is just a starting place. I know there are more things than this to add, but I need to eat banana with some peanut butter and take a break from thinking so my head doesn’t overheat. More to come.
5 Days! AHHH!
X Adama X
1.) First and foremost, Niang. If he lived in the US, I would want to be his surrogate child. Minus the fact that he occasionally beats the child he does have… But aside from that, he is an amazing man and a very talented businessman. I will definitely miss him. 2.) The rest of Niang’s family. Even Fifi.
(P.S. To follow up on that love story, after I told her I couldn’t love her, Fifi turned ice cold to me for two weeks. Even after I brought her a reconciliatory apple from the market. She only just started liking me again, and luckily I think I will be gone before it re-escalates to love and heartbreak. In short, I think the crisis has been averted. Mom, Dad – no Malian brides this time around. Save the goats and dates for the next lucky lady’s bride price.
3.) Everyone in the neighborhood who now knows me by name and corrects strangers when they call me Toubab. 4.) Making really scary dinosaur cries when children from the neighborhood get too close and bothersome. Don’t worry they like it. They just think I’m part dinosaur. 5.) The bean tigi being ten feet away from me (and costing 50 cents). 6.) Living in a courtyard surrounded by mango trees. I pretty much made myself sick of mangos for a good long while, but it’s still a romantic place to take a nap in a hammock. 7.) Bucket baths outside. Surprisingly, they’re really fun. And it’s so much more fun to get clean outside than inside. 8.) Pit latrines, even if it’s only because I think they’re a challenge to use. I might even miss the cockroaches and maggots that live inside. Then again, maybe not. 9.) Cheap, beautiful fabric and the ability to have any sketch turn into an actual outfit for less than $10. 10.) Carrying toilet paper with me everywhere I go – because as much as I want to assimilate into Malian culture, I’m not quite ready to wipe myself with my hand on a regular basis. It was a fun reminder of a lesson I learned a while ago – it doesn’t matter if you speak the language or dress the part; you’ll always be a Toubab. 11.) Making a fool out of myself trying to dance at balanies. 12.) The griots that always drag me in to make a fool out of myself at balanies. And just griots in general. Their songs are a little jarring at first, but actually really beautiful. 13.) Waking up with the call to prayer at 4AM on a semi-regular basis. I’ve pretty much learned to sleep through anything now, but also add to the list of things I will NOT miss at wee hours of the morning: dogfights, card games in the courtyard, mortar and pestle grinding, and teenage tomfoolery. 14.) The joy of finding American foods I don’t even like back home and devouring them because they are NOT rice and fish sauce. 15.) Seriously, though, I will miss De Guido’s pizza. It’s the best I’ve ever had, stateside or in Bamako. 16.) Zaban and zabanji (juice). I wonder if I can make the equivalent back home by soaking Sour Patch Kids in OJ… 17.) Malian cheese-yogurt. It sounds gross and tastes ALMOST fermented, but it’s actually an amazing dessert. 18.) Eating/drinking any and everything from a plastic bag. 19.) The constant battle to find an adapter that both fits into the sockets and won’t crap out after two uses. 20.) The constant amusement of looking through field health manuals and trying to determine which difficult to pronounce disease is giving everyone diarrhea. Maybe it’s amoebas, maybe is djiardia. Who knows?
(P.P.S. I found out recently I also joined the ‘moebes club. Much more empathy to Cari now. They’re nasty little buggers. Luckily, I started treatment yesterday and already feel a million times better.)
This is just a starting place. I know there are more things than this to add, but I need to eat banana with some peanut butter and take a break from thinking so my head doesn’t overheat. More to come.
5 Days! AHHH!
X Adama X
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Pays DOGON!
So… Dogon Country. The big trip. If you’re short on time, suffice it to say, it was awesome. If you have the time, I took detailed notes, so settle down and stay a while.
Dogon Country was absolutely gorgeous and I’m so glad Katie and I had the time and means to see it before we left. Unfortunately, Cari and Julie couldn’t come because of their work schedules, but I don’t feel too bad seeing as they are planning an even longer stay in Pays Dogon once we leave. We were this summer’s guinea pigs, a title I own proudly.
I had read a bit about Pays Dogon in our Lonely Planet guidebook and after having been, I can honestly say that in many ways they sell it short. However, the thing about the trip is that it only starts being fantastic once you get to Pays Dogon. The getting there part is a little bit more of a challenge and definitely less glamorous (certainly smellier).
Katie and I woke up super early to catch the Bani Transport bus to Mopti. Mopty is northeast of Bamako and is one of the biggest tourism hubs known to man. You really have to pass through in order to gain access to Pays Dogon, though, so it’s a necessary evil. The trip to Mopti is around 15 hours by bus, so it’s important to be prepared. Luckily, our guesses were correct and we were. Before we left for the bus station, we stopped by the Sikoroni market and picked up two medium-sized plastic baggies of fresh peanut butter, some small apples, a kilo of bananas, and a half dozen water sacks. It’s lucky that we bought the food before the bus station because once we pulled in, we had four Malian bus tigis latch onto us like hagfish and start screaming the names of certain bus companies at us. The funny thing is that we already knew to go straight to Bani (one of two or three reputable companies in Mali), so it was funny (/scary) to watch them try to claim ownership of our taxi, even as our driver swerved to try to shake them loose.
We did eventually get on the bus and since Katie was sick, they even let us on first. That was actually critical to our success in surviving this trip, since we got to get a window seat. Many Malians think that moving air makes you sick, so if you’re not right next to the window to open it yourself, don’t count on a breeze for the next 15 hours. The trip was uneventful other than the ridiculous amount of stops our driver made to: 1.) smoke, 2.) pray, and/or 3.) piss us off for no apparent reason. At every stop, about ten million village children tried to get on the bus and sell their wares and at any given stop, you could count on at least one girl with a REALLY annoying voice to shout “SHAY FAHN BAY!” (“Get your eggs here!”). If not eggs, then they assaulted us with bargain prices for sweet limes or fruit or water or sweet bread (I know it sounds good, but it often has tons of sand in it, which makes it great for polishing your teeth but not such a great snack).
When we got to Mopti, we stayed with a family friend of Katie’s. Her parents were married in Mali after they did two years in the Peace Corps together. Needless to say, that girl has mad connections. They put us up for the night free of charge and even gave us food at 1AM when we arrived. We slept on the roof on the most comfortable mattress I’ve found so far in Mali and it was amazing.
Pays Dogon started immediately the next morning with our obligatory ride to Bandiagara, one of three main cities surrounding the Dogon villages where tourists start and/or end their trips. One of the big tasks awaiting anyone who wants to visit Dogon country is finding a guide. This is the main reason why Mopti is so unbearably annoying. Everyone and their mom is wearing one of the traditional Dogon hats (actually really cool looking), claiming to be a real Dogon. Finding a good guide is critical because: 1.) they know what everything is, from the big obvious things like graineries to the smaller things like fetish stones for sacrifices and millet grinding, 2.) guides aren’t cheap and you want someone who doesn’t suck, and 3.) if you’re not with someone who speaks Dogon, you’re likely to either offend villagers or else miss out on lots of good stuff to see and do. That last point is pretty important. Every village has its own dialect of Dogon and the only people who can really manage from village to village are actual Dogon guides themselves. We were lucky and got the number of a respected guide from a friend we know in nearby Sevarre named Hassimi. Hassimi and his brother Oumar were our guides for the trip and all I can say is that I was pleased. Their services cost 15,000CFA/day/person and the car was 30,000CFA/day for the group (in total, approximately $75/day/person), but it was well worth it for the experience of being with knowledgeable guides.
When we got to Pays Dogon, we serendipitously got to do the exact tour I had planned based on my analysis of the guidebook, which means starting in the south and working our way back up through the cliffs. What makes the trip better is that we got to do it in an old-school station wagon with shag interior. Yeah, I said it. The Dogon are primarily known for their cliff dwellings, although nowadays, their villages are all off the cliffs at their bases. So our trip consisted of going from one village to the next and basically just seeing the sights, talking with the village people, then moving on to camp for the night. I don’t know enough to talk about Dogon culture extensively, so I’ll let you research it online to get a good taste of it for yourself.
If you want the abridged version, know that they live in a very isolated region with only sparse vegetation in sight for miles and that there is really only one road in the area. The villages still look like something you might find in a National Geographic representation of “African culture,” that is to say mud-brick with thatched grain roofs and lots of wooden carvings on doors, etc. They still largely practice animist religions, though most villages are divided into three sections: Muslim, Christian, and Animist. Tourists have built the most modern buildings in their villages, usually schools, in attempts to “modernize” the Dogon, but the Dogon Country is really the perfect example of manufacturing culture for tourism. If you were to look at a Dogon village, you might wonder if you were in a theme park. Everything looks so old, so rustic, you almost have to wonder if they actually still live there or not. The truth is that they do. And they do still practice animism, including all of the amazingly intricate practices of fetishism (ritual sacrifice), but they also know exactly what tourists like to see, and better, buy. So even in these villages, you can expect to have at least one person come up and try to sell you a traditional Dogon hat or leather neck pouch. The difference is that in Dogon Country, if you say no, they actually leave you alone.
One of the beautiful things of this dynamic is also that money is not so important to the Dogon people as is your appreciation of their willingness to share their lifestyle with you (in whatever representation they have chosen). So instead of paying to take a photo or speak with someone, you give them a kola nut. If you don’t know what a kola nut is, it’s just one of those things that only old people seem to like and always seem to chew on. So if someone does something nice for you, you give them a kola nut.
There were many things I saw in Pays Dogon that I liked and wished we had in America. I liked how the elderly were treated. When men get to 60, you no longer have to work and can retire under the shade of a special hut made just for older men. Furthermore, these men serve as a sort of town jury in that they make all decisions regarding punishment for public crimes and general shenanigans. In some fetish sites, only these men are allowed to enter the sacred space, and even then, sometimes only once every 1/3/15/60 years, depending on the site.
The intricacies of Dogon Culture could go on for ever and ever, including their detailed relationship with the Dog Star Sirius* and how they have timed their most famous festival to coincide with its arrival every 60 years, even since before it was discovered. However, I prefer to talk about what I actually did and leave you to read online if you want to learn more about Dogon culture.
For example, I promised myself that I would NOT leave Pays Dogon without climbing a baobab, something I told Hassimi on day one. And on the last day, you better believe I did it. I have pictures to prove it. ☺ Similarly, you might find it funny to know that amidst all of the “strange” and “different” sites in Dogon Country, Hassimi still found someone to try to sell use weed. Don’t worry, family and friends, it didn’t happen. I also made a habit of collecting things I found on the ground along the path. That includes scraps of old bogolon (mud fabric) and indigo-dyed cloths that usually sell for high prices when intact and new. I figured why pay for what I can find on the ground? I’ll make it look pretty when I get back home and can sew it up. The guides would NOT let me forget that. In fact they thought it was so funny that I wanted to collect things from the ground that they actually threatened to steal them from me in my sleep to teach me a lesson.
Dogon Country also has plenty of places to swim. On the first day, we had this great shadowed lake about the size of half a soccer field, surrounded by rocks with a drizzly waterfall in the middle. Two days later, we got to go cliff diving with local kids into this tiny little turquoise river. It’s nice enough to go swimming. Even better to dive! What a treat. On the last day, I had the best experience. Katie had to leave because she was feeling sick the whole trip (really sucks, but she was a trooper), so it was just me and Oumar hanging out by ourselves. We went to this great little collection of waterfalls all feeding into the same tiny river, all surrounded by boulders that made great bridges and caves to play on/in. True to form, I derobed and had a fun time romping around the river grounds. Oumar didn’t mind, and actually joined me for a bit. That day was also the best view of the trip: atop a giant boulder that probably should have fallen once I climbed on, looking out over the river running through hidden caves and down rock cascades, then trees, then the second waterfall and lake next to the village, then nothing but desert and baobab trees until the horizon at sunset. It was pretty amazing. I have a friend who collects water from around the world. I had been debating where I was going to get the perfect water to bring back to him. Needless to say, this day answered that question.
On the last day, I got my fortune told by an old toothless Dogon man. I was actually really into it and was excited at the prospect of seeing shamanism up close and personal. However, I was ultimately let down by his prediction. Apparently (after talking for a minute to Oumar), he thought I was a college student studying medicine. When I asked about my future with love, he asked for money to shake with the cowry shells and sand and he threw them down to see what was what. He pointed excitedly to three shells that were touching and told me that it meant they were talking about my future. He further interpreted this to mean that I would soon find a woman. In FACT, if I bought his special bracelet, they would actually FLOCK to me - but only if I bought the bracelet. When I asked what role men would play in my life, he just repeated the bracelet pitch. Needless to say, I hesitated to even give that one a kola nut. In any event, it was a great trip, even to the very end.
The next day, I left and met up with Katie in Mopti. Ironically, we had a real movie moment in that I couldn’t get in touch with her, but we both magically appeared at the hotel we had talked about going to if her family arrangement fell through. And it turned out to have a great pool, delicious food, and be really affordable. It was great.
Back at the hotel, we also ran into Chris and Gina, our travel companions in Pays Dogon. I don’t think I mentioned it yet, but we had two friends traveling with us for the majority of our trip. Chris, a nurse from Missouri, and Gina, a magazine writer from Canada. They were dating and had started a trend of working for six months, then blowing all their cash on year-long backpacking trips around the world. They met doing that in Southeast Asia and now they had come together to West Africa. They were great travel companions. Really fun to be with and they made it really fun. It was nice to make new friends and even nice to run into them again in such a happenstance way. They even treated me to pasta and salad at the hotel. I look forward to keeping in touch (for the friendship, not the food).
The trip back was kind of a nightmare, but we survived. The short version is that we thought we had our act together to leave at 8AM and in fact, we did. We got on the bus and were an hour in when I realized I left my passport at the front desk of the hotel. So we got off, found a bus going the other direction (in the middle of nowhere, great timing), and crashed at the hotel until the afternoon. Unfortunately, buses only leave at two times in Mali (8AM and 3PM), so we lost a lot of time because of my idiocy. Then again, better to be able to leave the country and be an idiot then be proud and be stuck in Bamako without an identity. We eventually got back around 4AM (our driver didn’t smoke and apparently is ambivalent towards G-d, luckily). The trip was ridiculously long and Katie and the fortune to be stuck next to a Malian who hated having the window down but refused to move. So he just sat huddled in his windbreaker for 15 hours. It was quite a sight. When we got back, our room was locked despite our attempts to ask them to leave it open for us, meaning that we had to sleep in the courtyard on the ground until the first call to prayer woke the family up. At that point, the day was so frustrating, it was just funny. We laughed it off and passed out.
Now, we are thoroughly exhausted. And rightfully so. TONS of work to do this week now that everything has developed while we were gone. A bit of a time crunch, but we’re going to make it work. 8 days left and counting. In the words of the infamous Tim Gunn, “DESIGNERS, MAKE IT WORK!!!”
I need to pass out.
X Adama X
Dogon Country was absolutely gorgeous and I’m so glad Katie and I had the time and means to see it before we left. Unfortunately, Cari and Julie couldn’t come because of their work schedules, but I don’t feel too bad seeing as they are planning an even longer stay in Pays Dogon once we leave. We were this summer’s guinea pigs, a title I own proudly.
I had read a bit about Pays Dogon in our Lonely Planet guidebook and after having been, I can honestly say that in many ways they sell it short. However, the thing about the trip is that it only starts being fantastic once you get to Pays Dogon. The getting there part is a little bit more of a challenge and definitely less glamorous (certainly smellier).
Katie and I woke up super early to catch the Bani Transport bus to Mopti. Mopty is northeast of Bamako and is one of the biggest tourism hubs known to man. You really have to pass through in order to gain access to Pays Dogon, though, so it’s a necessary evil. The trip to Mopti is around 15 hours by bus, so it’s important to be prepared. Luckily, our guesses were correct and we were. Before we left for the bus station, we stopped by the Sikoroni market and picked up two medium-sized plastic baggies of fresh peanut butter, some small apples, a kilo of bananas, and a half dozen water sacks. It’s lucky that we bought the food before the bus station because once we pulled in, we had four Malian bus tigis latch onto us like hagfish and start screaming the names of certain bus companies at us. The funny thing is that we already knew to go straight to Bani (one of two or three reputable companies in Mali), so it was funny (/scary) to watch them try to claim ownership of our taxi, even as our driver swerved to try to shake them loose.
We did eventually get on the bus and since Katie was sick, they even let us on first. That was actually critical to our success in surviving this trip, since we got to get a window seat. Many Malians think that moving air makes you sick, so if you’re not right next to the window to open it yourself, don’t count on a breeze for the next 15 hours. The trip was uneventful other than the ridiculous amount of stops our driver made to: 1.) smoke, 2.) pray, and/or 3.) piss us off for no apparent reason. At every stop, about ten million village children tried to get on the bus and sell their wares and at any given stop, you could count on at least one girl with a REALLY annoying voice to shout “SHAY FAHN BAY!” (“Get your eggs here!”). If not eggs, then they assaulted us with bargain prices for sweet limes or fruit or water or sweet bread (I know it sounds good, but it often has tons of sand in it, which makes it great for polishing your teeth but not such a great snack).
When we got to Mopti, we stayed with a family friend of Katie’s. Her parents were married in Mali after they did two years in the Peace Corps together. Needless to say, that girl has mad connections. They put us up for the night free of charge and even gave us food at 1AM when we arrived. We slept on the roof on the most comfortable mattress I’ve found so far in Mali and it was amazing.
Pays Dogon started immediately the next morning with our obligatory ride to Bandiagara, one of three main cities surrounding the Dogon villages where tourists start and/or end their trips. One of the big tasks awaiting anyone who wants to visit Dogon country is finding a guide. This is the main reason why Mopti is so unbearably annoying. Everyone and their mom is wearing one of the traditional Dogon hats (actually really cool looking), claiming to be a real Dogon. Finding a good guide is critical because: 1.) they know what everything is, from the big obvious things like graineries to the smaller things like fetish stones for sacrifices and millet grinding, 2.) guides aren’t cheap and you want someone who doesn’t suck, and 3.) if you’re not with someone who speaks Dogon, you’re likely to either offend villagers or else miss out on lots of good stuff to see and do. That last point is pretty important. Every village has its own dialect of Dogon and the only people who can really manage from village to village are actual Dogon guides themselves. We were lucky and got the number of a respected guide from a friend we know in nearby Sevarre named Hassimi. Hassimi and his brother Oumar were our guides for the trip and all I can say is that I was pleased. Their services cost 15,000CFA/day/person and the car was 30,000CFA/day for the group (in total, approximately $75/day/person), but it was well worth it for the experience of being with knowledgeable guides.
When we got to Pays Dogon, we serendipitously got to do the exact tour I had planned based on my analysis of the guidebook, which means starting in the south and working our way back up through the cliffs. What makes the trip better is that we got to do it in an old-school station wagon with shag interior. Yeah, I said it. The Dogon are primarily known for their cliff dwellings, although nowadays, their villages are all off the cliffs at their bases. So our trip consisted of going from one village to the next and basically just seeing the sights, talking with the village people, then moving on to camp for the night. I don’t know enough to talk about Dogon culture extensively, so I’ll let you research it online to get a good taste of it for yourself.
If you want the abridged version, know that they live in a very isolated region with only sparse vegetation in sight for miles and that there is really only one road in the area. The villages still look like something you might find in a National Geographic representation of “African culture,” that is to say mud-brick with thatched grain roofs and lots of wooden carvings on doors, etc. They still largely practice animist religions, though most villages are divided into three sections: Muslim, Christian, and Animist. Tourists have built the most modern buildings in their villages, usually schools, in attempts to “modernize” the Dogon, but the Dogon Country is really the perfect example of manufacturing culture for tourism. If you were to look at a Dogon village, you might wonder if you were in a theme park. Everything looks so old, so rustic, you almost have to wonder if they actually still live there or not. The truth is that they do. And they do still practice animism, including all of the amazingly intricate practices of fetishism (ritual sacrifice), but they also know exactly what tourists like to see, and better, buy. So even in these villages, you can expect to have at least one person come up and try to sell you a traditional Dogon hat or leather neck pouch. The difference is that in Dogon Country, if you say no, they actually leave you alone.
One of the beautiful things of this dynamic is also that money is not so important to the Dogon people as is your appreciation of their willingness to share their lifestyle with you (in whatever representation they have chosen). So instead of paying to take a photo or speak with someone, you give them a kola nut. If you don’t know what a kola nut is, it’s just one of those things that only old people seem to like and always seem to chew on. So if someone does something nice for you, you give them a kola nut.
There were many things I saw in Pays Dogon that I liked and wished we had in America. I liked how the elderly were treated. When men get to 60, you no longer have to work and can retire under the shade of a special hut made just for older men. Furthermore, these men serve as a sort of town jury in that they make all decisions regarding punishment for public crimes and general shenanigans. In some fetish sites, only these men are allowed to enter the sacred space, and even then, sometimes only once every 1/3/15/60 years, depending on the site.
The intricacies of Dogon Culture could go on for ever and ever, including their detailed relationship with the Dog Star Sirius* and how they have timed their most famous festival to coincide with its arrival every 60 years, even since before it was discovered. However, I prefer to talk about what I actually did and leave you to read online if you want to learn more about Dogon culture.
For example, I promised myself that I would NOT leave Pays Dogon without climbing a baobab, something I told Hassimi on day one. And on the last day, you better believe I did it. I have pictures to prove it. ☺ Similarly, you might find it funny to know that amidst all of the “strange” and “different” sites in Dogon Country, Hassimi still found someone to try to sell use weed. Don’t worry, family and friends, it didn’t happen. I also made a habit of collecting things I found on the ground along the path. That includes scraps of old bogolon (mud fabric) and indigo-dyed cloths that usually sell for high prices when intact and new. I figured why pay for what I can find on the ground? I’ll make it look pretty when I get back home and can sew it up. The guides would NOT let me forget that. In fact they thought it was so funny that I wanted to collect things from the ground that they actually threatened to steal them from me in my sleep to teach me a lesson.
Dogon Country also has plenty of places to swim. On the first day, we had this great shadowed lake about the size of half a soccer field, surrounded by rocks with a drizzly waterfall in the middle. Two days later, we got to go cliff diving with local kids into this tiny little turquoise river. It’s nice enough to go swimming. Even better to dive! What a treat. On the last day, I had the best experience. Katie had to leave because she was feeling sick the whole trip (really sucks, but she was a trooper), so it was just me and Oumar hanging out by ourselves. We went to this great little collection of waterfalls all feeding into the same tiny river, all surrounded by boulders that made great bridges and caves to play on/in. True to form, I derobed and had a fun time romping around the river grounds. Oumar didn’t mind, and actually joined me for a bit. That day was also the best view of the trip: atop a giant boulder that probably should have fallen once I climbed on, looking out over the river running through hidden caves and down rock cascades, then trees, then the second waterfall and lake next to the village, then nothing but desert and baobab trees until the horizon at sunset. It was pretty amazing. I have a friend who collects water from around the world. I had been debating where I was going to get the perfect water to bring back to him. Needless to say, this day answered that question.
On the last day, I got my fortune told by an old toothless Dogon man. I was actually really into it and was excited at the prospect of seeing shamanism up close and personal. However, I was ultimately let down by his prediction. Apparently (after talking for a minute to Oumar), he thought I was a college student studying medicine. When I asked about my future with love, he asked for money to shake with the cowry shells and sand and he threw them down to see what was what. He pointed excitedly to three shells that were touching and told me that it meant they were talking about my future. He further interpreted this to mean that I would soon find a woman. In FACT, if I bought his special bracelet, they would actually FLOCK to me - but only if I bought the bracelet. When I asked what role men would play in my life, he just repeated the bracelet pitch. Needless to say, I hesitated to even give that one a kola nut. In any event, it was a great trip, even to the very end.
The next day, I left and met up with Katie in Mopti. Ironically, we had a real movie moment in that I couldn’t get in touch with her, but we both magically appeared at the hotel we had talked about going to if her family arrangement fell through. And it turned out to have a great pool, delicious food, and be really affordable. It was great.
Back at the hotel, we also ran into Chris and Gina, our travel companions in Pays Dogon. I don’t think I mentioned it yet, but we had two friends traveling with us for the majority of our trip. Chris, a nurse from Missouri, and Gina, a magazine writer from Canada. They were dating and had started a trend of working for six months, then blowing all their cash on year-long backpacking trips around the world. They met doing that in Southeast Asia and now they had come together to West Africa. They were great travel companions. Really fun to be with and they made it really fun. It was nice to make new friends and even nice to run into them again in such a happenstance way. They even treated me to pasta and salad at the hotel. I look forward to keeping in touch (for the friendship, not the food).
The trip back was kind of a nightmare, but we survived. The short version is that we thought we had our act together to leave at 8AM and in fact, we did. We got on the bus and were an hour in when I realized I left my passport at the front desk of the hotel. So we got off, found a bus going the other direction (in the middle of nowhere, great timing), and crashed at the hotel until the afternoon. Unfortunately, buses only leave at two times in Mali (8AM and 3PM), so we lost a lot of time because of my idiocy. Then again, better to be able to leave the country and be an idiot then be proud and be stuck in Bamako without an identity. We eventually got back around 4AM (our driver didn’t smoke and apparently is ambivalent towards G-d, luckily). The trip was ridiculously long and Katie and the fortune to be stuck next to a Malian who hated having the window down but refused to move. So he just sat huddled in his windbreaker for 15 hours. It was quite a sight. When we got back, our room was locked despite our attempts to ask them to leave it open for us, meaning that we had to sleep in the courtyard on the ground until the first call to prayer woke the family up. At that point, the day was so frustrating, it was just funny. We laughed it off and passed out.
Now, we are thoroughly exhausted. And rightfully so. TONS of work to do this week now that everything has developed while we were gone. A bit of a time crunch, but we’re going to make it work. 8 days left and counting. In the words of the infamous Tim Gunn, “DESIGNERS, MAKE IT WORK!!!”
I need to pass out.
X Adama X
Marriage! (Not mine!)
Everyone! I'm back again after another week's journey. This time though, an actual journey. Katie and I went to Dogon Country for the last six days. I don't know how to describe it just yet, so while I write about it, Google Image Search "Dogon Country" and look at my life for the past week. That post is coming soon. Until then, here is a post I wrote today about Niang's wedding before I leave.
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One of the most important days so far in Mali has been attending Niang’s wedding (konyo). In a lot of ways, Malian weddings are like weddings in the states. The families come, the ceremony happens, and then everyone eats. Then again, there are also the subtle and amazing differences that make it memorable as being truly Malian. The entire day starts at approximately 8AM with a cortege from the groom’s house to the bride’s to pick her and her family up. Bear in mind this cortege is a strange and impressive assortment of motos, sotromas (public transport) that have been rented for the day, and cars, so the cortege basically shuts down traffic patterns everywhere it goes. I got to ride with the other interns, but this was an honor since there were so many people in attendance, so all five of us got crammed into the backseat of a station wagon. It was strange to see the people look at us so strangely as we passed them, as if toubabs should always have their own cars or at least ride civilly. Not.
From Maasi’s (Niang’s bride-to-be), the entire family went straight to the mayor’s office in Korofina to get the papers signed. It is important to note that technically, Maasi and Niang are already married in the religious sense. That’s a boring ceremony that only the man is present for and no one cares about, just like the legal ceremony in the states. So this is the fun second part of the wedding. And when I say fun I mean when you get out of the car, five griots (ritual praise singers) flock to you and start crooning about your greatness with delight. They also expect money, so you have to make your griot selection carefully. Also, as one of us found out, not all the griots in presence are actually supposed to be there. And if you pay one of them, watch out – the entire marriage entourage will chide you. Regardless, it’s worth it to get griot-ed.
When I say fun, I also mean that people are wearing the most ridiculous and sometimes hideous outfits you can imagine. I distinctly remember one woman who looked like a Dr. Seuss-ian valedictorian and Fifi was wearing an electric orange/blue ditty that looked like the flight attendant uniform for the future (except it covers your knees). Same with her sister Oumou, but in hot pink and blue. And every woman in the marriage family is wearing pearls in her hair with cheap glitter and hideous extensions that look like an animal that hasn’t quite died yet. But all the same, the final look is still stunning.
As the papers are being signed, all is quiet and the brides are all crying. I said brides because almost every civil ceremony here happens in tandem with a few other couples. So the mayor just goes down the line, one teary-eyed bride to the next. And when the papers are all signed, the griots attack. And the families attack with shredded paper confetti. And basically, all hell breaks loose. It’s amazing.
At this point, lives are at risk, so it’s time to return home. And the fun doesn’t stop there, either. Back at home, the bon (house servant) has been helping to set up the festivities: amazing Senegalese dancers with ridiculous grins and even more outrageous dance moves, a line-up of griots waiting to narrate the dances in chorus, a flock of drummers with their tam-tams in one hand and cigarettes drooping as they thwap. And fruity ice pops. So basically, it was a good scene. After the festivities die down a little, the family brings out a ludicrous amount of riz graisse (fried rice, kind of), which is the traditional way to get back the calories you lost running away from the griots so far. Everyone shares, everyone talks, and then thing slowly disperse. And it’s over – they’re married.
The fun part happens after the marriage. No, not that. Well, kind of that. After the ceremony, the bride and groom observe what’s called the konyoso (“marriage house”). The bride must veil herself to all but her husband for a week and live inside a tiny white mosquito net tent that is her marriage house. She cannot leave except to go to the bathroom, which actually happens a lot since the marriage counselor is constantly preparing foods that give her diarrhea to weaken her in front of her new husband during the konyoso. During this period, the bride is basically supposed to wait for her husband to come make babies with her intermittently throughout the day and sometimes, even with the help of a special sex teacher called a manyamaka. This is the strangest tradition so far, so I’ll elaborate here. There is literally an old woman in the room during the honeymoon to tell the newlyweds how to have sex. Like she gives them a play-by-play guidebook to having sex and then referees from the sidelines. This is supposed to be a training period for the couple more so than a period of intense sex, but still, it’s hard to imagine doing that (either watching or being watched).
And that’s the marriage. Life goes back to normal, except the groom’s friends come over to play cards while he is in konyoso and the manyamaka is running around preparing food for the bride. The end. They’re married. Yay!
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One of the most important days so far in Mali has been attending Niang’s wedding (konyo). In a lot of ways, Malian weddings are like weddings in the states. The families come, the ceremony happens, and then everyone eats. Then again, there are also the subtle and amazing differences that make it memorable as being truly Malian. The entire day starts at approximately 8AM with a cortege from the groom’s house to the bride’s to pick her and her family up. Bear in mind this cortege is a strange and impressive assortment of motos, sotromas (public transport) that have been rented for the day, and cars, so the cortege basically shuts down traffic patterns everywhere it goes. I got to ride with the other interns, but this was an honor since there were so many people in attendance, so all five of us got crammed into the backseat of a station wagon. It was strange to see the people look at us so strangely as we passed them, as if toubabs should always have their own cars or at least ride civilly. Not.
From Maasi’s (Niang’s bride-to-be), the entire family went straight to the mayor’s office in Korofina to get the papers signed. It is important to note that technically, Maasi and Niang are already married in the religious sense. That’s a boring ceremony that only the man is present for and no one cares about, just like the legal ceremony in the states. So this is the fun second part of the wedding. And when I say fun I mean when you get out of the car, five griots (ritual praise singers) flock to you and start crooning about your greatness with delight. They also expect money, so you have to make your griot selection carefully. Also, as one of us found out, not all the griots in presence are actually supposed to be there. And if you pay one of them, watch out – the entire marriage entourage will chide you. Regardless, it’s worth it to get griot-ed.
When I say fun, I also mean that people are wearing the most ridiculous and sometimes hideous outfits you can imagine. I distinctly remember one woman who looked like a Dr. Seuss-ian valedictorian and Fifi was wearing an electric orange/blue ditty that looked like the flight attendant uniform for the future (except it covers your knees). Same with her sister Oumou, but in hot pink and blue. And every woman in the marriage family is wearing pearls in her hair with cheap glitter and hideous extensions that look like an animal that hasn’t quite died yet. But all the same, the final look is still stunning.
As the papers are being signed, all is quiet and the brides are all crying. I said brides because almost every civil ceremony here happens in tandem with a few other couples. So the mayor just goes down the line, one teary-eyed bride to the next. And when the papers are all signed, the griots attack. And the families attack with shredded paper confetti. And basically, all hell breaks loose. It’s amazing.
At this point, lives are at risk, so it’s time to return home. And the fun doesn’t stop there, either. Back at home, the bon (house servant) has been helping to set up the festivities: amazing Senegalese dancers with ridiculous grins and even more outrageous dance moves, a line-up of griots waiting to narrate the dances in chorus, a flock of drummers with their tam-tams in one hand and cigarettes drooping as they thwap. And fruity ice pops. So basically, it was a good scene. After the festivities die down a little, the family brings out a ludicrous amount of riz graisse (fried rice, kind of), which is the traditional way to get back the calories you lost running away from the griots so far. Everyone shares, everyone talks, and then thing slowly disperse. And it’s over – they’re married.
The fun part happens after the marriage. No, not that. Well, kind of that. After the ceremony, the bride and groom observe what’s called the konyoso (“marriage house”). The bride must veil herself to all but her husband for a week and live inside a tiny white mosquito net tent that is her marriage house. She cannot leave except to go to the bathroom, which actually happens a lot since the marriage counselor is constantly preparing foods that give her diarrhea to weaken her in front of her new husband during the konyoso. During this period, the bride is basically supposed to wait for her husband to come make babies with her intermittently throughout the day and sometimes, even with the help of a special sex teacher called a manyamaka. This is the strangest tradition so far, so I’ll elaborate here. There is literally an old woman in the room during the honeymoon to tell the newlyweds how to have sex. Like she gives them a play-by-play guidebook to having sex and then referees from the sidelines. This is supposed to be a training period for the couple more so than a period of intense sex, but still, it’s hard to imagine doing that (either watching or being watched).
And that’s the marriage. Life goes back to normal, except the groom’s friends come over to play cards while he is in konyoso and the manyamaka is running around preparing food for the bride. The end. They’re married. Yay!
Monday, July 14, 2008
Catch-up!
OK, everyone. So first of all, I want to state loudly and clearly that I am alive. Sorry for not posting more this week – it’s been a busy one. I will do my best to catch people up and in order to avoid one humongous post, I am going to split it up over a few. Here goes!
Work
Work has been good. We have gotten tons done. I changed my plane ticket to come back the 31st for a prior engagement in early August and no sooner had I done it than work picked up and we finally started to get stuff done. We’ve met with the Sante Diabete program representatives about scaling our program up to work with them and include diabetes education/treatment. And we’ve met with the artists to get our new education cards made and laminated. And before we could do that, we met with the CHAG and tons of other important doctors to narrow down our list of diseases to add to our program to a mere ten. It’s now just a race against time to get our list of things done before we leave. I hate having the time crunch now and feeling like we wasted a month, but maybe it had to happen this way. In any event, we are getting work done and feeling good about it. I finally feel like I am getting stuff done.
And along those lines, I also feel much more comfortable in Sikoroni. My Bambara has improved so I can have many basic conversations in Bambara and hence, defend myself against children and win them over with my language skills. I can buy food for myself and bargain down prices. I can go where I want in town and do whatever I want without Caitlin, mostly (though she’s much better at everything and helps with saving money). However, the point is, Cari asked me if I would come stay for a year and I immediately said no whereas everyone else said yes. And I realized that even though I was unhappy before, I’m not now. And it’s OK that that changed. I COULD live here for a year if I wanted. It just so happens that I don’t. But I know that I could if I needed to and that’s good enough closure for me.
Now the big plan is to take a brief vacation with Katie and go up to Dogon Country in the north for a week while all our work is taking care of itself (e.g. cards getting made, supplies being bought). We are planning on a day up to Mopti by bus (a long and grueling trip), a day to find a guide in Mopti and explore, then two days in Pays Dogon with homestays, and a day to get back to Bamako for work. It’s going to be swell. Then Caitlin leaves two days after we get back to go home for a few months and Katie and I leave shortly thereafter. And then it’s over. It’s kind of sad to know that it’s so close, even though I was unhappy for so long. But I’ve come to like and love this place. X Adama X
And along those lines, I also feel much more comfortable in Sikoroni. My Bambara has improved so I can have many basic conversations in Bambara and hence, defend myself against children and win them over with my language skills. I can buy food for myself and bargain down prices. I can go where I want in town and do whatever I want without Caitlin, mostly (though she’s much better at everything and helps with saving money). However, the point is, Cari asked me if I would come stay for a year and I immediately said no whereas everyone else said yes. And I realized that even though I was unhappy before, I’m not now. And it’s OK that that changed. I COULD live here for a year if I wanted. It just so happens that I don’t. But I know that I could if I needed to and that’s good enough closure for me.
Now the big plan is to take a brief vacation with Katie and go up to Dogon Country in the north for a week while all our work is taking care of itself (e.g. cards getting made, supplies being bought). We are planning on a day up to Mopti by bus (a long and grueling trip), a day to find a guide in Mopti and explore, then two days in Pays Dogon with homestays, and a day to get back to Bamako for work. It’s going to be swell. Then Caitlin leaves two days after we get back to go home for a few months and Katie and I leave shortly thereafter. And then it’s over. It’s kind of sad to know that it’s so close, even though I was unhappy for so long. But I’ve come to like and love this place. X Adama X
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