Random Tidbit

Just a short post, I promise I'm working on a long boring one. It is the start of hot season. So far it has only got to 100 degrees inside my house once. I don't count all the times it has been 99.9, or 99.7. That is not 100! By the way I love my little thermometer, thanks Mom and Dad. I have no idea how hot it is in the sun. I wouldn't want my little thermometer to melt, or burst into flames. A lot of times when I am walking down the street in the heat of the afternoon, with no shade in site, I'm not sure if I'm going to melt or burst into flames. Then I wonder if both are possible at the same time. Cooking dinner, even if it is a tuna sandwich makes sweat drip off my face. More physical things, like doing laundry (which I do in a bucket by hand) causes rivers out of every pore. I really didn't know I could sweat that much. The things you learn about yourself when you join the Peace Corps. But my absolute favorite (read in lots of sarcasm) thing, is back-of-the-knee sweat. What pray tell is back-of-the-knee sweat. Well if you are brave enough to keep reading you will find out. When I have parked myself under a good strong ceiling fan in a standard Malian, a.k.a. butt floss chair I can be mostly sweat free. The butt floss chair is something close to a hammock made out of cloths line with a chair frame thrown in the middle. What they lack in comfort they make up for in air flow. In a regular chair butt sweat can be so bad it looks, and feels like you have wet your pants. That is all you can think about and the more subtle back-of-the-knee sweat goes unnoticed. Sorry, was that too much? I have no concept of gross anymore. So when I sitting enjoy the invention of ceiling fans, feeling bad for all the volunteers who live in houses and/or towns without electricity; or maybe I'm trying to conjugate some verb in french; or trying to figure out what language is being spoken, and are they talking to me or just near me; or maybe I'm reading a book. These are the times that back-of-the-knee sweat strikes. When I am quiet, relaxed, or just haven't moved my legs in 10 minutes. That is all it takes for the 3 square inches where the bottom of my thigh and the top of my calf are touching to produce a surprising amount of sweat. (nerd note: your leg has to be bent more than 90 degrees) In this small little pocket at the back of my knee enough sweat is produced, and when the hydrostatic pressure is great enough, the sweat escapes, bursts free, and runs all the way to my ankle. Yes, ankle! Or if I am laying down, yep, all the way to the other end of my leg. Maybe this doesn't sound like much to be complaining about in the land of starving children, scorpions, spitting cobras, sand storms and everything else Mali has to offer. But every time it happens it freaks me right out. It's like not noticing you have burst into tears or wet your pants until you feel the liquid running down you. My first thought is always, "where did this water come from, and how did it get here?" But it's not water, no, it is back-of-the-knee sweat. It's not a silent killer, or anywhere as uncomfortable as heat rash, but it is something I had never experienced before. I'm not sure my life is any richer/fuller or I'm a more interesting/better person now that I have experienced back-of-the-knee sweat. And thanks to the magic of the internet now you have just wasted how long reading about it? Best not to think about that. On a more positive note; with the searing heat that causes back-of-the-knees sweat, come mangoes. They are amazing! Every day they become more plentiful, bigger, tastier, and cheaper. And according to the Malians, they aren't even good yet. These giant, juicy, delicious buttery fruit are going to get me thru hot season. Well that trip to Morocco is going to help too. But I'm rambling. I think I'll go make a mango and laughing cow cheese sandwich before my back-of-the-knee sweat gets the best of me. More later.

They Were Riding Six Wire Horses

If I was a poet I would write this to the tune of "Comin' Round the Mountain", but we all know that I'm an engineer not a poet.  So this will be a dry technical description of my bike trip in Dogon country.  First to explain the title.  In most, if not all, the local languages the word for bike literally translates as wire horse.  So Rabayah and I took our wire horses and put them on top of a bashee, along with about a ton of fresh fish, and went to Bandiagara.  There we met 2 other volunteers, toured the traditional medicine center, and did a little grocery shopping.  So I guess we were actually only riding 4 wire horses.  But anyway..  We started the trip with a nice 5 km ride to the other 2 volunteers' site (which the government prefers I don't name).  Here we met the chief, gave him the traditional gift of kola nuts, and spent the next day working on building a concrete cistern.  To built this cistern we needed sand, and a lot of it.  To aquire this said sand we enlisted the help of the local donkey cart, and a boy about 10 years old to help us.  This boy (I think his name was Surlyman, or that's what it sounded like anyway) harnessed up the donkeys, took us to the dry creek bed where he found the best sand, loaded it up and drove it back up into town before I could correctly pronounce his name.  But I got to ride a donkey cart, and that makes me happy.  As a side note we were passed by a very pregnant woman carrying a load of wood on her head.  Donkey carts are a novel form of transport, but not very fast.  And Malian women are tough.  But enough about concrete cistern making.  

The next day we started out on the bike trip after a nice hearty breakfast of rice and onion sauce.  Dogons are known for their onion farming.  When we passed a large field of them Joe 

and Rabayah went to take pictures.  Ashley started laughing when she overheard Joe accidently tell the women working the fields that Rabayah was his child.  He meant to say friend, but and e became an i or something along those lines and friend was turned into child.  Ah, fun with language.  Since this was a casual trip we had a nice long lunch and napped under a tree.  After that it was back to biking into the breeze as Joe called.  It was closer to a minor hurricane or at least a Wyoming style breeze.  We did make it the 30 km to another volunteers site where we spent the night.  Of course we had to meet the chief and I think every other man in the village too.  Not complaining, just saying, it was a lot of fun, and included seeing the man running the local loom.  The loom is simple (made of twigs) and makes a strip of cloth about 4 inches wide.  These strips are then sewn together and dyed with indigo to make Dogon fabric.  On our village tour we also passed by the mud mosque (3 or 4 times) which was complete with an ostrich egg on each minerette.  

Day 2 of the trip was not as casual as the first since we had 50 km to cover and straight into the 'breeze' the whole way.  The thermometer on Ashley's backpack said it was 100 degrees.  More then once Rabayah ask to be left on the side of road.  Needless to say, it was not an easy ride, but it was interesting and we saw some great sites.  We also managed to make it to Borko just minutes before it got dark.  Borko is an oasis complete with springs (somewhere between 2 and 30).  The first person we meet offered to let us stay at his house and fed us 3 great meals.  In the morning we saw the sacred crocidiles, fed them a chicken and even touched them; visited one of the many springs and wandered in the expansive gardens made possible by all the springs.  

Before I paint too rosie a picture of the serene time we had in this beautiful town here are two pictures of us at the sign in town.  This one is where we have literally beat the children off with a stick so they aren't in the picture.

  Don't worry, we didn't hit them hard, as always just having a stick works well, and is standard Malian discipline.  I promise no one was harmed or even really scared in taking this picture.  Here we let the kids do what they want, and be the midget mob scene they are; overwhelming us and the Borko sign.  

Since our work as Peace Corps volunteers was obvisouly done, we once again loaded our wire horses onto a bashee, this time full of onion and garlic, and went home.  If you are not yet in a coma from my great engineering style story telling all the pictures from the trip can be seen here:  http://picasaweb.google.com/saprilrain/BorkoBikeTrip#

What's This All About

I'm starting to have a routine and sometimes I actually know what is going on. So I thought I would try and summarize what I do.
My day starts with the morning call to prayer. Usually I sleep though this 4 a.m. wake up call. I am a little confused why the call to prayer for an event that takes places at sunrise (approximately 6:30 a.m.) happens so far in advance. But I have learned to be OK with a lot of things that confuse me, and this is a minor one. After a breakfast of bread from the bakery a block from my house, I head to 'work'.
Work involves me sitting in what we would consider an empty office; a desk, a table, two chairs, a mostly empty bookcase. Sometimes people stop in; fun when I'm the only one there. I can tell my language skills have improved at least a little. Now I usually know what people are asking for, and can sometimes even point them in the right direction. A month and half ago I just smiled and looked at them really confused (because I was really confused). Oh, I forgot to mention, this is the public works office/city hall. The marriage ceremonies are a fun. A lot of my time is spent just hanging out. Usually Amadou is there, and we have great discussions; about politics, pollution, the price of rice, religion, geography, disease, polygamy, all sorts of things. It is great French practice for me. He is incredibly patient because our discussions always involve a dictionary, and sometimes drawing pictures, or acting things out. We have to draw fewer pictures now to understand each other, but I still have to look up a lot of words. Occasionally my dealer stops in, no not drugs, plantains. I have a serious addiction and she knows it. She shows up with a tray full at least once a week.
After a few hours of this 'work', I head to my host family's house for lunch. Lunch is rice and sauce eaten out of a common bowl. My host mom makes a great tega dega na (peanut butter sauce). The bowl sits on the floor in the middle of the room and we all sit around it eating with our hands. I get the one chair; everyone else sits on stools, tomato cans or the bed. My host family is a-typical because men and women eat out of the same bowl. After lunch we watch some television. The Belle-Mere (The Mother-in-Law), was a great Brazilian or Mexican soap opera dubbed in French. It was incredibly cheesy, and fantastically bad. At the end of the show when things were getting exciting I think there were over 20 of us packed in an 8'x12' room with wall to wall furniture. This leaves about 4'x8' to pack 20 some people into, very efficient and adds to the air of excitement.
After this action packed 30 minutes of television, I drink some tea. Tea drinking and making is a national pass time in Mali. The tea is made super strong, incredibly sweet, and sometimes with mint (my personal favorite). It is served in a shot glass, and has been poured back and forth between the tea pot and glass until it has a cappuccino like foam on top. It is standard to drink two glasses of tea, the second glass being the second brewing. This second glass is less strong, therefore less bitter, and I think better. My host dad calls it Malian whiskey, and I like Malian whiskey.
Around 3 or 4 p.m I make my way to my house. The walk home includes some form of being mobbed by children (from mild to so serious I might have to hit you, or at least act like it). My walk also involves a lot of greeting. Sounds easy enough right, hello, goodbye. No, it is an exchange that takes several minutes. Hello involves how's your family, how did you sleep, how are your friends (if they actually know your friends you might go thru them one by one), how's everyone in your town (really)? Goodbye is along the lines of why are you leaving so soon, tell your family hello, tell your friends hello. There might be questions in the middle of hello and goodbye. These cover what is your name, where are you from, where is your husband, do you have kids, would you like something to eat. And then there are blessings, they are fun. May Alah grant you what ever you want and/or may Alah remove what ever is wrong. This makes walking down the street a little time consuming, but never boring. I do this in Bambaran with a little French thrown in, but this can also go on in Peuhl or a few other less common languages. I'll work on Peuhl next (maybe), I'm still trying to get the Bambaran down.

Pictures and the Name Ninja

I think I have figured out a better way to post pictures; one that doesn't involve secret handshakes, long e-mail chains, or having to mortgage my kidney. Please let me know if this doesn't work. And if you didn't get the giant e-mail with the secret handshake code that lets you access my homestay pictures, please let me know that too.

http://picasaweb.google.com/home?tab=mq

I'm going to go with the whole 'a pictures worth a thousand words' thing and not write much.

The climbing porn pictures are to taunt all the climbers I know and hopefully sucker a few of them into visiting. I didn't take those pictures and haven't been there yet.

The Bandiagara b-day was a night of tubob (white person) fun with a bunch of Peace Corps people and some local aid workers. We had great food (kabobs, fries, salad and cake), good drinks, and bad dancing.

Swear in is when I took the oath and became an offical volunteer. The pictures shows what great clothes you can get made here. There is one picture in this group that does require a little back story. If your are bored with my rambling at this point just check out the pictures. If not, keep reading and I will explain what a name ninja is.

The Name Ninja

During training I lived in a town with a population of about 7,000 Malians and 8 Peace Corps trainees. The children here find us tubobs to be a bit of a spectical so there is shouting, crowding around and handshaking when they see you. Mark, a fellow trainee, lived as far away from the school as you can get and still be in the same town. He got to meet a lot of kids on his way to and from school every day. One girl did not have the standard reaction to him. Instead of jumping and shouting, she would come tiptoeing up, crouched like a cat buggler, with a finger to her lips like she had just shhhed you, (the pictures explains it better than I can) and in a whisper ask, "comment t'appelle tu?" ('what's your name') If Mark crouched down to meet her, she would get nose to nose with him. If he backed up, she backed up. If he moved forward, she moved forward. Never breaking eye contact of course. How do I know this you may ask yourself. Well by week 6 of our 8 weeks in this town, Mark could get her to follow him across town and into school, in the crouched position. They would then go around and ask all of us are names. And that is how I got to know Iassata Djarra, a.k.a. the Name Ninja.

Velo

I have a bike, finally. Our bikes were caught in customs, I guess, but mine arrived at my door Wednesday evening. A total surprise, brand new, shiny and....pink?!? I've never had a new fancy bike, and this is a nice Trek bike. But it is a girl's bike, a concept I don't really understand. Maybe after biking in a skirt I'll appreciate a "girl's" bike, I'll get back to you on that. Why pink, is my real question? Well, it is more white with pink and grey highlights. I'm already fairly noticeable as one of the few white people around, add in a white bike and a white helmet, and I look completely ridiculous. There is always a fair amount of staring, and surprise when I say hello in Bambaran from the people on the street. Now I have taken ridiculous to a whole new level. Today I couldn't help but laugh at how silly I must look, and I noticed I wasn't the only one laughing. I did convince Rabayah, the other PCV here with me, that we should use our new pink bikes to go the 12 K to the bank and better internet. I had to bribe her with my homemade ginger lime-aid, but it worked. Don't get me wrong, I love Mali public transport. Normally for this journey we would take a bashee. This involves packing 18 or so people (not counting kids sitting on laps) on benches in the back of a truck; get a push start; belch a lot of smoke; probably stop for gas, only enough for the trip; and trying to pay the 275 CFA somewhere in the middle of the trip when we are packed in so tight no one can reach there own pockets, and of course no one has exact change. So as much fun as that is, I decided we should try out or new pink bikes.
As is everything here, our trip was an adventure. It started with a herd of cows in the road, we let them have the right of way. In the middle of the trip we stopped for a lime-aid break, and I was, well, um, sort of in Rabayah's way when she got off the bike and well, she sort of fell down the shoulder of the road..but just a little. I fell horrible, but she was laughing as she rolled in slow motion, down the hill. Luckily she wasn't hurt, but the chain did come off her bike. While I was trying to put it back on two nice guys, both named Ibrahim, stopped and helped us. Hopefully I haven't scarred her for life so that she won't ever want to bike again. Here she is showing of her war wounds.

Maybe: the Bougs - But no

So I have had to try a different method for picture sharing . I sent out a giant email that will hopefully let you look at the ablum from my time at homestay. Now I will be looking for a different way to share pictures. In the mean time I give shutterfly an F-.

Broken Dreams

So my African dream has been crushed and I'm totally ok with it. Training is almost over and soon I will hopefully be a real true Peace Corps Volunteer. I know where I will be living and sort of what I will be doing. I told everyone when I left to come visit me in my mud hut in Mali, hopefully I was going to have chickens and maybe even goats. Well, sadly, no not sadly that is not to be. My site is a city of about 100,000 people. I have a second story apartment with 6, yes, 6 rooms, and the best part, I have a shower and a toliet, that flushes! After only 7 weeks of pooping down a hole and taking bucket baths in the open air. I am excited about having a bathroom. I am close to dogon country, in fact my host family is dogon. The boat trips to Timbuktu leave from here, there is climbing about 5 hours away, a very famous mosque 2 hours away. This city, which is remaining nameless at the recomendation of the Peace Corps blog watchers, is a tourist destination, and all Mali has to offer is close. So start planning those trips now! As a side note, it is a 10-12 hours bus ride from Bamako, but not bad really. And some people might be bothered by the grand mosque that is a block away and the call to prayer at 5 in the morning, but I sleep right thru it. The ceiling fan, yes I have 2 ceiling fans drown out all other noise. So while my fellow volunteers have their walls disolve in the night during a rain storm; have a spitting cobra in the rafters; or have to endure 56° C. (all those are true by the way) I will be either in the shower or sitting in my livingroom under a fan. I will actually work too, well hopefully my French won't prevent me from getting something done. I am working with the city on trash disposal and sewer improvements. There are a lot of aid agencies in town so maybe I can work my way into some side projects and get to meet a lot of people in the process. I've never been so happy to be disappointed!