In [sic] Brousse

I'll try to keep this post short and sweet so you can get to the good stuff: the pics!

I've spent the last two weeks roadtripping to the country equally for work and pleasure. Being in brusque "brousse" is kind of like roughing it, or camping even, since there's not always running water, electricity, or a trou even. What was supposed to be my second sojourn "en brousse"* in Zantiébougou, turned into an extended stay in the well-equipped Bougouni team's house, and it was there that I had yet another hilarious misadventure.

* I have since learned that when peole were talking about going to the country or the bush, they were saying "brousse" as opposed to "brusque", like I originally thought. A linguistic, hilarious misunderstanding on my part.

Last Thursday, I decided to take advantage of the clear village air and go for a run through the countryside after a particularly long day surveying shea butter co-op members under the hot sun thinking it would re-energize me before this pre-holiday feast the NGO in Bougouni was organizing. I set off down a road that looked straight with the idea that I would just run straight for 20 minutes, then turn around and run straight back. The narrow village roads started to meander, so I tried my best to make some mental "cairns" (re: a crooked tree, a giant rut in the road, a particularly giant pile of donkey poop etc.) to remember how to get back. I did right by myself until I was about 3/4 of the way back and took a wrong turn. I ran in circles a couple times to try to retrace my steps to get back on track and on my third passing a group of kids started chanting "Toubabu, perdu! Toubabu, perdu!" (White person is lost! It loses the lovely rhyming couplet in translation sadly) at me.

Embarrassed, I realised that finding my way back was harder than following Allan Kane's scrambling directions and just ran until I saw something recognizable enough that I could stand in front of and wait for a pick up...and to think that I momentarily pondered not bringing my third (I'm hard on phones apparently) unlocked Nokia. I eventually got a hold of a colleague and told her I was standing in front of a hill, a cellphone tower and a building with "Kremlin City" of all things written on it. She then dispatched the watchman to pick me up with his moto. As we rode back to the house, which took a remarkably long time, I couldn't help but feel a little proud of myself that I had gone all that distance on foot. There's a good side to almost everything.

Obviously, my misadventure became the joke of the night and everyone laughed at me while dined on this dish I actually love called "ouijila", that consists of seasoned dough balls that are dipped into a tasty red sauce. Seriously, it's a big deal that I found local some food that I like, I could probably write a blog post just on the food here...it takes some getting used to and it's definitely tremendo-meatatarian.

On Friday night, while I sipped whiskey and played crib around a fire just days before the winter solstice (trip-out), I told my gang  about my running "misstep" and the kids chanting "Toubabu, perdu" at me and this snow-balled into an even bigger joke, that now includes a song. I should invest in a compass...

Below are some pics of my countryside adventures. I'll post some pics of Bamako when I have more. I've only just begun to explore this massive, crowded, complicated but amazing city. In the meantime, enjoy "In Brousse!"

On the way out of the city,  I "reversed window-shopped"(!?) some shoes.

First time out of Bamako!

To Ouellessébougou to celebrate Lisa's 24th.

On the way to downtown Zantiébougou.

Downtown Zantiébougou, it's bumpin'.

The Bani.

Bridge over the Bani.

The hills around Siby.

Ranch house where we stayed.

Crib in the morning. One day, I will have played crib on every continent.

On my first hike in Africa, just outside of Siby.

The gang in front of the most epic of rock windows.

View from the window overlooking a plateau.

We made it to the waterfall.

Wicked sandal tan or layers upon layers of dirt?

We're watching the little fish nibble our feet, it tickled!

Swimming in December, believe it.

Can't get enough of African sunsets.

Well on my way to becoming a tremendo-meatatarian: here, dinner is sheep liver and ribs from a street stall. 

Hilarious Misunderstandings and Misadventures

My son IS hot

Perhaps it's the heat or the anti-malarials, but I find this comic so very hilarious and worthy of risking redundancy.

Further to my email, which was clearly sent too soon, and my last blog post which was published in haste, this has been a little over a week of mostly, but occasionally not so, hilarious misunderstandings and misadventures.

Marriages and Misunderstandings: 
In my last post, I despaired that I had received no new marriage proposals that week which was kind of surprising to me, because I had just changed families and was sure that there were some lurking around the corners of my Peul Palace. There was no need to despair. Indeed, later that evening as I ran laps unchaperoned around a dusty soccor field, a man saddled up next to me, told me that he thought I was beautiful and that I would be his wife. He then asked me if I agreed with that, and I said no. Then he said again, "I want you to be my wife, do you agree?". Again, I said "no, I don't agree." This happened once more as I tried desperately to make my lame lungs work better to pick up speed to ditch this cassanova. Eventually, he dropped off and I didn't see him again. Definitely the boldest proposal so far, and slightly hilarious.

Last week, my older and younger brother fought in the yard over tea about who was going to marry me right in front of me.

I told them, "fellas please, one at a time!."

No, I didn't. I told them to eat their hearts out, because  I have a imaginary fiancé waiting for me back home. The little one was crestfallen.

That brings my total to: 8 but I'm sure that my village adventure this week will invite some more.

I'm trying to see past the tip of the iceberg to understand the greater cultural and contextual implications that lie below the surface, as my intercultural sensitivity teacher advised I should, with this marriage proposal business, but it's hard for me not to feel a little uncomfortable when some man I hardly know at all talks about making me his wife. I also find it difficult to talk about my "fiancé" with a straight face, because I seriously revel in my own "immaturity" sometimes since to me it's a conscious choice.

Anyway, an exchange with my maman's cousin did help me understand a little bit. After first asking me to get him a Canadian visa (because, being pasty means that you're an immigration counsellor here), he told me that he would help me find a Malian husband ( because that's the game that's played here).

I said no, nay, never, and he looked at me totally perplexed. "Then why did you come to Mali, if you don't want to find a husband?"

I explained to him that I came with a temporary work visa, and his MIND WAS OFFICIALLY BLOWN. He sincerely had no idea that a woman would want to come to Mali for any reason other than to find someone to marry.

 Economic nonsense:
On a slightly more banal front, I encountered my first experience with the "double economy" as it's occasionally called here. Having been warned that although I am in Africa, there are some things that will be quite expensive if there is little demand for it. As an insatiable adventurer who uproots herself  somewhat frequently, I did not think to bring anything for the walls of my office and room before I left, figuring they would either already be decorated or it wouldn't bother me if they were bare. Well, it did end up bothering me that the walls were bare and I also miss your faces and want to look at them, so I asked my local friend to help me get some photos printed. It ended up costing over $1 a photo for some less than quality prints. Fortunately, it cost next to nothing to get some regular paper prints made of the 3 loves of my life: Leonard, Bob and Neil for my room. In the end I spent over $25 (that's akin to "ballin'" here), but it was worth it in the fight to stave off homesickness.

The Case of the Cursed Panties:
Last Monday after I sent my email chronicling some of the misunderstandings I've encountered with right hands, left hands and dirty hands, I experienced my most hilarious misunderstanding of all. This was not covered in my predeparture training, nor was it raised as an issue with my previous family, nor did my Ivorian-Canadian colleague warn me of this cultural trespass, so it caught me completely unawares.

My crime:
I gave my laundry, all of my laundry (re: underwears included) to the maids along with the rest of the family last Monday morning.

Later that night, when everything was hanging up to dry in the yard, my maman says to me with great concern:

"Hey, did you give your "bas"** (underwear) to the maids to wash?"

Confused, I replied "yes", shoulders shrugged, brow furrowed.

"Il faut pas faire ça ici! Tu ne savais pas ça?" (You must not do that here! Didn't you know?)

I said no I didn't know that and asked her why I shouldn't give my underwear to the maid to wash. She then explained that people could see my underwear, take it from the line and "work on it" to make it so that I would bleed all the time. She continued by kindly telling me that there were people in the neighborhood that were not happy that I was there, and that they could come in the yard and take my panties and essentially curse them. Naturally, this did not help my occasional paranoic tendencies - the people in my neighborhood not liking me part, not the cursing my panties part - but I also found it tremendously hilarious.

I then asked her if socks, pajama bottoms and bras were ok to give to the maids, and she confirmed that they were, but I have since taken to washing my own panties. At any rate, it's the only chore that I have to do for the next 4 months, so I think I can deal.

**Side note: "bas" usually means "socks" in Canadian french, so I was initially even more confused as to why this was a problem.

Misadventures "en brusque Brousse":

Earlier this week my boss asked if my colleague and I wanted to go to the little village of Zantiébougou with him on the weekend. Seeing as he is the boss, we said we'd love to spend our Saturday in a tiny village listening to a meeting that happened almost entirely in Bambara. Still, we had fun getting there, and passed a nice day wandering around the village and meeting our colleague's enormous family. We gathered our things, said our goodbyes and at around 3pm, we hit the road home. Everything was going well....

Then the motor died.

This would be our view for the next 4 hours

Two hours in

It's not dark yet...

But it's getting there...

Hour 3.

We tried pushing the car to start it in second.....

That failed, so I took a moment to stargaze on top of the car.

We ended up in the tiniest of villages, appropriately named "Solo".

I got "cold" for the first time in Mali, so my boss lent me his blazer. Believe it or not, this look got us a ride.

After pushing the car to Solo, we tried to wave down a bus to take us to a bigger village called "Ouelessébougou" where our Canadian companions that work for Kilabo live so we could pass the night there, rather than sleeping in the car on the side of a road in a village where you couldn't buy water or find a "trou" (there, you make your own trou). Eventually we flagged down a truck that dropped us off there for the night, a little weary, desperately wanting a toothbrush, but not worse for wear.

We ended up spending the next day "en brusque" (roughing it) and didn't make it home until 9pm the next night. We enjoyed the change of pace the village offered, but when I finally saw the sights and smelled the smells of Bamako, I was overjoyed to be back in my new home. Alas, the place is stinky, swarmy, crowded, polluted but amazing and I love it all the same.

Tomorrow morning I leave for another backcountry sojourn to meet potential partners and promote inter-village synergy (like a boss!), but this time I will bring ample water, toothpaste and *gasp* a sweater, just in case. I learned my lesson.

Allah ka siradjia (May God bless the road I travel on).

Allah ka ngoumanyé (May God bring me home safely).

Keep Calm and Carry On

I've been trying to use the words of this somewhat recently rediscovered British war poster  to get me through my first few weeks in Mali. The heat, the insomnia, the goodbyes, the uncertainty that I'll be able to pick up where I left off with you when I get back, the adjusting to new customs, and the incredible change of scenery can be overwhelming, but I've been trying to deal with it all in stride.

In perfect honesty though, staying in that store room at the mercy of the first family probably would have been a dealbreaker for me. It's been a dream of mine to work in Africa for what feels like forever, but that experience was enough to make me want to put it on hold and try to come back on my own terms. It was hard enough for me to put a perfectly suitable (actually beyond that, I was havin' a time) life on hold for 6 months, but encountering such hostility on the other side definitely stalled my "integration" into life and work in Mali.

BUT, it's over, I have a fresh start. Seriously, if you hate your family, where else but Africa can you trade them in for a new one? I jest!! I am told it is actually exceedingly difficult to quit your family here. 

Nevertheless, I recognize that it is an incredible experience to live with a local family, since that is not always how it works for expats. Some stay tucked away in fortified compounds with other expats and don't really get to see how the other half lives. With this in mind, this past Sunday evening, after the most awkward and sleepless weekend with my captors first host family, I was blissfully introduced to my new family and my new room.

First the lowdown on the room:
Not only is the room massive, a palace for sure, but I get to sleep in a real bed (well, it's no bed that I left behind in Canada - I'm looking at you Andrew, but a marked improvement), instead of a wafer-thin mattress on a cement floor. The bed also means that my mosquito net can now be properly installed, so I'm no longer getting devoured by potentially-fatal-disease-carriers all night long. I just might avoid malaria after all!  In addition, the door actually closes all the way, and better yet, it locks! The pièce-de-résistence: there's even a fan. When I moved in, I felt like I was on top of the world. Totally double rainbow. Beyond... Anything.... Ever!
I stayed up late on Sunday night to install my things and knocked out for a blissful, uninterrupted 6.5 hours sleep-the most I've had to date!

Monday I decided that since I was getting a second chance of sorts, I should play "la bonne fille" (the good girl), and stop going to open-air bars to drink beer and smoke cigarettes every night to avoid being asked to finance NGOs and university educations and such by my previous family and returned home, mostly promptly, after work and began preparing my water for the week.

Since arriving in Bamako, I've been drinking about 4 litres of bottled water every day, that's two and half 1.5 litre bottles. Not only is my addiction to hydration becoming expensive, I feel like it's really, really, really bad for the environment. Waste removal is such a problem in developing countries, and pretty much every piece of plastic ever used here ends up on the streets, in the gutters, or being burned and turned into the toxic fumes that contribute to Bamako's "delightful" evening aroma.

So I bought some Aquatabs at a pharmacy that are nowhere near the same strength as the ones used in North America by USAID, but I figured they were worth a try. The package said to use 1 tablet for 20 litres of water, or 2 if the water was dirty. My family has pretty clear looking well water, but to be safe I used 2 tablets for 20 litres. I rinsed my used bottles with vinegar and filled them with the treated water then had supper with my family with that smug sense of self-accomplishment that eco-warriors get sometimes. We then stayed up watching the news and a charming Malian soap opera called "3 Wives, 1 Village" and drank tea that was sweetened with a mountain of sugar as it's done here. Seeing that they spoil me rotten, my maman gave me a serving of second supper around 10pm of couscous and a red sauce. I told her that I was full but she insisted, so I ate a little bit then went off to bed, a little bloated, but feeling like nothing could touch me. 

Well, my guts always manage to keep me grounded and I woke up at about 2am and proceeded to spend the rest of Monday night and into Tuesday afternoon in the bathroom with my first, of what I'm sure will be numerous, rounds of being truly (re: non-hyperbolically), violently ill. Having lived many years with the world's most sensitive stomach, I expected a digestive episode such as this (if not an infinity of them), but having successfully navigated my first 2.5 weeks without anything worse than a little heat rash, I have to admit that it got me down. Now I have to undertake the daunting task of figuring out what made me sick, although if it happens again before I finish my 20 litres of treated well water, I'll switch back to bottled water and try to manage the guilt that comes with feeling like every time I buy a case, somewhere in the ocean, a whale dies.

Anyway, it seemed like things were finally going well after enduring what felt like a mountain of setbacks and then I got sidelined once again by my temperamental digestive tract. I am still the same T though, an indomitable optimist, and as a Gemini, capable of analyzing every angle of a situation, so I bucked up and told myself that no, it is not that I am sucking at being in Africa; rather, if I was going to get sick, I actually managed to pick the best time and place to do it.

Let me explain this assertion, and in doing so, I will probably make those of you who are even just a little jealous that I'm enjoying sunshine, sandals and daily averages of about 35 degrees feel a little less so.

Toilets:
Having already amassed a few stamps in my passport, although none from the Great Continent prior to this, I knew that I would have to lower my standards of hygiene when travelling to a developing country. Even so, I was a little...let's say 'disenchanted' with the "facilities" here. People here affectionately call toilets "le trou" (the hole), and will even say "Je vais au trou" (I'm going to the hole) when they get up to go to the bathroom. More often than not, the "bathroom" is outside, the toilet is a hole in the floor (think about it...aiming takes skills) inside an open-air-cement-stall-type-thing, that may or may not have a door, and that is also where you "shower" (via a bucket, natch). I'm not complaining about the showers though, I gotta admit, it is kind of cool showering outside under the stars in November...that is definitely not something I can do at home.

Ok back to the toilets. If there are actual, sit-down toilets, they never have a lid, and toilet-paper? Forget about it. They don't believe it in it here, so it's definitely BYOTP wherever you go. In addition to filling my pockets and purse with TP reserves every morning, I've taken to stuffing each cup with a little bit too so that I'm never, ever caught unawares.

In light of this, I really did find the best possible place to have my first digestive episode. My family's bathroom is inside the house and does have a lidless toilet that usually flushes. If this had happened at the other family's place, I would have had to bring a headlamp and a blanket, and just camp out by the the stinky trou all night with the cockroaches and mosquitoes keeping me company.

In addition, the family were sweet but didn't let me feel too sorry for myself throughout it. In the morning when my maman woke up, I told her what was going on and she rushed out to by me some tonic (sans guilt trip! Buying me tonic would have certainly elicited one from the other family). My darling niece Fatmata reassured me constantly that "ça va passer" (it will pass). But after spending most of the day in my room, my maman came in to tell me that I had to suck it up, come out of my room to eat something, go for a little walk and be social. I did so and it was exactly what I needed.

In short, in a different place, surrounded by different people, this episode could have gone much, much worse. So this week I've been telling myself to keep calm and carry on, and to avoid any temptation to relax my hypervigilence surrounding hygiene. Back to "Purel-ing" my fruit before I peel it. Back to carrying soap with me everywhere and washing my hands obsessively even as certain locals roll their eyes at me.

All in all, despite an imperfect start in my new place, I feel safe there, I'm no longer waking up to mauled feet and hands and my room doesn't transform into an infrared sauna at night like my little oubliette did, so I'm actually, finally, clocking more than 4 hours of sleep most nights. I was starting to feel (and look) like a zombie with bad case of heat rash, but I believe that now I am indeed, finally, on the mend. I think I just might be able to do good work here after all. I'm going to post some pictures after I pick up some stuff to better personalize my new palace. Also, it's a pain in the cul to upload pics with this shoddy internet connection and I don't have the patience to do it today. I blame the anti-malarials. 

Now the lowdown on the family:
They are a delight to be around, and way more my style. The vibe in the house is relaxed, the maids actually seem like they're happy to be alive, there's even a little black kitty who lives in the store room (that's actually used to store things, not to house T) and sneaks in to steal eggs off the little floor stoves that they use here.
My host mom is old enough to be my mom, which pleases me. She spoils me rotten and then acts annoyed and accuses me of being une enfante gâtée (spoiled child). I find that charming

Her daughters, my "older sisters" are pleasant but appropriately ambivalent to my presence, which means I won't be so scrutinized as I was at the other place. My younger sister wants to take me dancing and shopping and asked me to translate the titles of her English-language rap songs into French the other night (that was kinda fun...how do you translate "pimp my ride"?). My older brother is a sweetheart but is mentally retarded and they don't really do "politically correct" in Mali, so in my few short days with them, he's been referred to as an "imbecile" by my boss, a "barbarian" by his mother and an "idiot" by his little sister. I have to try very, very hard not to...umm..."react" inappropriately when they do this.

There are grand-kids, nieces, nephews and babies to play with, including my darling Fatmata, an 8 year old with limitless energy who gets me out running at night and in doing so, I finally learned my numbers in Bambara by counting out my laps. 

The house is still in the lovely "Hippodrome" neighbourhood, and now my walk to work includes a long promenade along la "rue Nelson Mandela" with its bounty of boutiques to look at that make it Lonely-Planet-Guide-mention-worthy.

My maman named me after her maman, so I now go by "Awa Bah". I am told it is a good "Peul" name. Peuls are an ethnic minority that are supposed to have the most beautiful women, so my colleague joked that even as an adoptive Peul, I'd better watch out. That being said, I did not earn any new marriage proposals this week. They will come in good time though, it's how "the game" (did you just lose it? good.) is played here.

In addition, since I've been referring to my new room as a palace, and bragging about how I'm being spoiled by my new family, I've earned myself yet another nickname: "la Princesse Peul". I feel will leave this place with many, many names. Name tally to date: 4.


With that, I'll sign off this post by affirming that I'm going to keep on keeping on, I could not be in Africa after all. That would be bad. Things are on the up and up, I'm getting more settled with each day and if I get sick again, I'll remind myself that at least I don't have to camp out in the trou. I'll post on work next week because I already wrote about it this week in french here (there's pics if you're interested) and I have a Friday night in Bamako to enjoy!

I prefer this one.

Oubliette

Woo hoo! I can finally blog again. Our internet at the office is spotty and there's frequent power outages, but after a third visit from the repairman this week, it seems like we're back in business. 

So I finished my "integration week" on Saturday, which consisted of Bambara lessons, a lot of sitting around, Tabaski and no talk of mandates. There were lots of fun times with the other interns and the manager of the Mali Ka So Hostel, including watching live music at Le Diplomate, a typical Côte d'Ivoirian supper which included Guinness, a new nickname for me: "la marraine" (godmother), which accorded me the right to issue "fines" that were typically paid in rounds of Castel, the "Queen of beers." Far from preparing us for the realities of the living conditions of an average Malian, the hostel spoiled us with its proper showers, fans and sit-down toilets.

Saturday the director picked us up from the hostel and took us to the office first. There, he explained there were some "problems" with our host families and that he had only met them the night before. My Canadian colleagues' was impassable, so he would now be staying with a local colleague's family. He said my family seemed nice and the house was great and in a good neighbourhood very close to work. BUT, my room was small, very, very small, and that if he was saying it was small, I would probably not approve. He went so far as to call it a prison, but I think of it more as an 'oubliette':


Oubliette - (noun, french) a little place of forgetting. A small, windowless room where someone is locked away, forgotten, left to go mad.

There is one plus side to this situation:  my best marriage proposal to date came from my host-mom's 3 year old nephew. Malians have a tradition of joking called "cousinage" and one of these jokes is that grandmas are the "wives" of their grandsons, so this little guy told his grandma that she was no longer his wife and that I was going to be because I was prettier. That takes my tally up to 5.

Nevertheless, the director promised me that I would not have to spend the next five months in a prison, but since he already paid the family for 10 days of lodging, he would take his time and find me a good host family with a proper room. In addition, I've learned a little more about the work that I'm doing here, and it includes negotiating a 7 figure contract from the EU...not something that should be done while living in a dungeon I think. Yesterday he told me that he had found one with a room that is at least "4 times" bigger than my oubliette and that I'll move in this Sunday, inshallah (if God/Allah wills it so, as they say here). 

This incident has got me down a little since I'm still adjusting to the rhythm of life here and I miss you all terribly; however, if this little drama follows the typical hand I'm dealt, I am very hopeful that things will go up from here. Revisiting my first day in Europe where I was so nervous that I puked all over the Frankfurt airport and the entire time on the plane from there to Zurich and then was left to wander terrified around a train station in Basel this was after being shoved into the cargo part of the train by some unhelpful locals and screamed at by the conductor) for 4 hours, feeling like I was going to spend the night there.
With a first day in Europe like that, it could only go up from there, and it did. I ended up having the most terrific time. Ever the optimist and in light of that experience, I’m banking on a sea change here in Mali.

I am crossing my fingers for a joyous introduction to my new family on Sunday and by the end of next week, the director promises to have our mandates finalized so I will write about that then, Allah and internet willing!

Happy Tabaski!

Today we  celebrated la fête du mouton, or Tabaski, or what I've been calling the sheep festival with the family of one of my Malian colleagues, Khady.

In preparation for Tabaski, there were hundreds of sheep rounded up at the market to be brought home for the feast. I tried to get a picture of all the sheeps hanging out in the market, oblivious that they were about to become a lot of people's dinners, but we only passed by in taxis and with the way les taximan drive here, it would have been a blur or white fur, red sand and wood stalls.

Khady stopped by our hostel and helped us get a taxi (re: negotiated a fair price for us toubabu) and showed the way by cruising through the refreshingly empty streets on her moto. I feel like I actually got to see the city today since I wasn't clutching the passenger handle on the verge of cardiac arrest while we rode. On the way we passed closed boutiques, empty street stalls and a soccor field that was full of mostly men and boys uniting for an extra, holiday prayer.

 Here we are in our adoptive family's neighbourhood. Tires take a beating, natch.

 Oh Hai! (He has no idea what is about to go down).

The men pray before cutting the sheep's throat. The  head of the famiily seemed happy that I wanted to take a picture.

I turned my camera off right before the act, and he told me I should photograph the next one, because that is how it's done in the Muslim world and it is important to them, so I took a picture of the next sheep meeting his maker at my host's urging.

In short, the next photos may offend vegetarians, vegans, pescetarians, flexetarians and basically anyone besides tremendo-meatarians, but it was an important part of the experience.

They pour water on the wound to make sure all the blood is gone.

Now that the sheep are dead, the men's work is done for the day (besides prayer) and the women's work begins and continues throughout the entire day. Here we're cleaning the fat from the meat.

Skewering sheep livers.

Our first mouton dish of the day.

Lunch was pasta mixed with sheep and vegetables that you eat with your hands.

The ladies dismissed us after lunch and we spent the rest of the afternoon talking with the men and playing with the kids.

The two in the back were particularly fun. 

Late in the afternoon, when the heat was its most stifling, we moved outside for a "porch party."

For supper, they gave us an entire leg to split three-ways, a massive tray of bleach-water-rinsed salad and french fries. Evidently, we were really excited about the latter. 

 In sum, the three of us were treated with the exceptional hospitality that Mali is famous for. This invitation turned into other invitations, this visit turned into a visit at a neighbor's which turned into more invitations for dinner, rides, nights out in Bamako, possible post-mandate escort to Timbuktu and as always, marriage proposals.

Marriage proposals to date: 2

Hey, That's no Way to Say Goodbye

I hate goodbyes. They're always hard, even if it's just for a little while, and for happy reasons. Last week was one of goodbyes to the people (and furbaby) I love, the little creature comforts of home and to the life I know in Canada. When I first found out that I was going to work in Mali, I was thrilled, but it was tempered by the dread of letting go of the things I had come to cherish in Calgary. Having left the coast only six months ago, I was still in the honeymoon period of my life back in Alberta. Although, I think the beautiful fall we were having might have made things seem sunnier than the harsh reality of staring down a long, dark and cold Albertan winter. This hesitation slowly gave way to excitement for new things: new food, new friends, new work, new sights, sounds, and as always with developing countries, smells.

Still, when the time came to say goodbye, I felt like I was on the verge of leaving an angel's share in Canada. I did not, and still don't know exactly what the work is that I'll be doing in this country, what my living arrangements will be like and how I'll get along with my adoptive Malien family. So this Friday, as soon as the seatbelt sign in the airplane turned off, I turned to music to console myself and the universe (or the music gods, or Steve Jobs?) responded in the most appropriate way. I set my ipod to shuffle and out of the over 7000 songs, it chose a tune by one of the loves of my life, Leonard Cohen, to play first. A poet for the ages, the words of his song "Hey, That's no Way to Say Goodbye" offered me some peace. Have a taste:

I'm not looking for another as I wander in my time,
walk me to the corner, our steps will always rhyme
you know my love goes with you as your love stays with me,
it's just the way it changes, like the shoreline and the sea,
but let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't untie,
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye.


The flights were long, delayed, longer, then delayed again, but finally in the wee hours of Sunday morning, I arrived on Malien soil. Sédou, the director of the organization I'm working for, picked us up from the airport and drove us to the hostel where we will stay for our "integration week". Sleep was almost an exercise in futility, as roosters were crowing, the heat was stifling, and the sun was rising by the time I finally knocked out for 5 short hours of much needed rest (T does not sleep in airplanes, and only barely in Moroccan hotels while transiting). After a lovely lunch time breakfast, Sédou picked us up again and drove us around Bamako. The streets were crowded (on dirait la foule), dirty, polluted, but alive with relaxed-looking people and, curiously, sheep. I am told that this Wednesday is the annual "Sheep Festival", so women were getting their hair done, and sheep were being collected, herded and even transported in the back seat of a car to be ready for the occasion.

Tomorrow I will visit the office where I will be working, meet the colleagues that I will be working with and hopefully get a clearer vision of my mandate. In the meantime, I have to work on something that is almost has hard as saying goodbye for me, and that's getting a good night's rest. But first, I am told by my Canadian colleague that on fait la fête de la bière (we drink a little Malien beer and be merry)! Pics next post :)

One More Cup of Coffee Before I Go

So I'm sitting here in my room, totally jacked on caffeine and putting off packing for yet another night.
This whole Mali, Africa internship happened so fast that I'm having a hard time wrapping my mind around where to even begin preparing for 6 months abroad.
Whats more, when I think about the timing of this opportunity and how everything kind of needed to happen exactly as it did, my head spins. I had to not find a job on the coast, or overseas right after graduating, so that I could move to Calgary, make enough coin to go volunteer in Haiti, and in doing so, I made my application stronger. Then on the coattails of an amazing summer, I had to not have my government contract extended, so that I'd be free to apply on this internship which was referred to me by an organization offering a different internship that I applied for earlier in the year, but did not even get an interview. Everything just kind of clicked, and all in good time...groovy!

In all honesty, I'm already about 3/4 packed, I have a subletter, catsitters, carsitter, banjositter, sweatersitter, automatic loan payments set up, been vaccinated, had training and had crucial, albeit far too brief, visits.

I'm incomprehensibly excited, nervous, curious, terrified, a tiny bit sad, but 98% thrilled that I leave in 4 days. It is the longest I will have ever been gone, and the farthest away. At the same time, it is only 6 short months, (5 as a worker, then an extra month as a wanderer), and I know that the time will fly. I'm looking forward to learning, exploring, changing, and experiencing it all: the wonderment of being in a new land with people who don't do things like at home; the at times, crippling loneliness that comes from being surrounded by the unfamiliar; the devastation of missing loved ones and knowing that they are so very far away; but most importantly, the excitement of new friends, food, habits, hobbies and horizons.

Time to use what's left of this caffeine rush and do something productive.