One week to go...

I’m back from my last trip to the bush for the summer. It’s hard to believe how fast the time has gone in hindsight, and yet how slow on a day to day basis. But anyhow.

We left with a full car Sunday morning: me, Ramata, Minkailou to Tongo-Tongo and Abbie, her two Adamas, and her girl Fatimata to Bunu, plus all of our gear and a motorcycle strapped to the top. We dropped Abbie and her crew off at Konna first, a town on the highway from which she would take a donkey cart to the village itself. Then we set off for my part of town via our usual route. We arrived at around lunch time, relatively in one piece, though the rattling of the car knocked off pieces of the motorcycle here and there.

I didn’t even recognize the place when we pulled in. The same areas that were barren and sandy when I first went in June were now lush and green. It’s amazing how the rain transforms the landscape here. In the US, rain is always just a hassle or a drag, but here it really is what gives life. Anyhow, Tedie has gotten much more rain this year than Douentza, so they might actually have a good millet harvest, whereas here in Douentza, it’s shaping up to be pretty meager.

It was just a short trip out there, full of schmoozing up the village and getting some cultural stuff I can’t get in Douentza. For example, I got the names of all of the different kinds of calabashes and watched Ramata’s father a gourd open to prepare one. Ramata’s mother had this beautiful ceremonial one for weddings and the like, completely decorated with cowries and mirrors and tassels. Minkailou is very interested in plants, so we also collected a heap of plant specimens and got names for them, along with a few grasshopper specimens that have mysteriously disappeared now that I’m back in Douentza. Ah well.

I also did a few more recordings with the little old man. I got texts on how Dogon life was before the arrival of whites and I think even before the arrival of the Fulbe people, the history of the village, funeral rites, etc. After the recordings, I gave the man headphones and he listened in wonder to his own voice in his ears. This man is so old, I swear his face is almost too old to smile, but he was sitting there, this little half smile on his face. Afterwards he said something like, “I’ve seen something our grandparents have not seen.” Very cute.

We brought the motorcycle out so I could continue my lessons on harder terrain than what Douentza has to offer. The first afternoon, Minkailou and I went out for some training, learning how to go slowly and steadily in first gear and how to conquer sand that wants nothing more than to make you slip and fall over. Needless to say, I was absolutely terrified, but I didn’t hurt anyone or myself. On Wednesday, it was Mory’s market day, so Minkailou and I set off. The plan was for me to try driving, but halfway down an incredibly rocky hill, my nerves got the better of me and I made him take over.

The roads are just so bad out there. A lot of sand, huge rocks, now mud and streams in the rainy season. The motorcycle got really beaten up, actually. The brake kept hitting against rocks, which completely bent it out of shape. My desire to learn how to drive the motorcycle greatly diminished. Douentza is one thing, but middle of nowhere Bushland is another story completely.

The second night, it stormed hard. I awoke to a huge crack of lightning around 3 in the morning, and then it started to pour. There wasn’t quite as much roof crisis as the last time, but we still got some leaks and a lot of water in from under the door. We just take for granted that if you’re inside in your house, the rain won’t enter, but when your roof is made of branches and mud, essentially, it’s not completely water proof. Luckily my side of the house was pretty watertight so I could keep sleeping soundly, but Ramata got a bit rained on during the thick of it but refused to come share my tent with me. The rain let up, though, and I think she got some sleep too.

I think I connected better with the village this time. I could communicate a bit better, I gave some gifts to key people (the chief and his son, the school director, Ramata’s father), and I sang my Tommo-So cow song for Ramata’s family, who were thrilled. They told me that when I come back, the village will dance for me. This is a good sign. The morning I left, I gave some little toys to the kids—little balls, silly putty, and most exciting of all, bubbles. They had never seen anything like it. The kids would shriek with glee as they chased the bubbles, trying to catch them to no avail. It was quite fun.

I will miss the people of the village quite a bit, since I won’t see them for 2 months. I hope they don’t forget me in my absence. I really want to have my work be useful to them in some way, so I plan to make copies of the recordings I made and leave a CD player to create a sort of library of stories and histories of the village, along with a dictionary, of course. And while I’m at home, I’m going to train myself to switch into an alphabet that’s more accessible for the people, rather than strict IPA. But all in all, I’m feeling positive about everything.

In less than a week, we’re headed to Bamako to fly out. I can’t believe it. This week I’m going to spend packing and preparing for my presentation in Leiden. Lord only knows what I’m going to say there. Jeff wants me to talk about general semantic stuff, like with the pour verbs, but I don’t know anything about semantics. Oh well, it will all work out in the end. I’m very much looking forward to my month at home.