Burkina Faso has many faces, and we have seen a few of them in the last few days.
Our Thanksgiving dinner was at a nice restaurant called Le Verdoyant, which was indeed unbelievably popular (the only place I’ve seen so far where reservations are a good idea). There, we stuffed ourselves with lasagna and pineapple and ham pizza that were delicious, even by American standards. By that, I only mean that sometimes here, things taste so delicious because you haven’t had a pizza in months, but really it’s not that good, but this was legitimately tasty.
After doing some research online, we realized that the bus company we had reserved with to go to Ghana might not be such a good idea, as the buses are old and apparently have the highest incidence of crashes. We decided that we would prefer to get to Ghana alive, if possible, so we pushed back our departure one more day and went to change our bus tickets to the STC bus line, leaving Monday morning. After picking up our visas, we went out for Indian food for lunch.
I would not have expected a fine Indian restaurant in the heart of Ouagadougou, but it was there, and it had delicious cocktails as well. Over lunch, we discussed what to do with our extra time in Burkina. The night before, the taxi driver had talked to us about a safari park called Nazinga and gave us his card, in case we needed anything. After looking it up online, we decided it would be a nice day trip, so we called up Sylvain, the driver, and arranged to go the following day.
After going to India for lunch, we took a trip to the American bar life for dinner. We read about a bar not far from our hotel called the Cactus Bar, reputed to serve burgers and play Western music. It turned out to not actually serve burgers of its own, but you could order from the restaurant downstairs, and it played hip hop. But close enough. We were the only people up there, because apparently we’re square enough to hit the town before ten o’ clock, but we had a couple beers, shot a couple games of pool, and got take-out from downstairs brought up to us wrapped in aluminum foil. To continue the classiness, we went downstairs, where they had a legitimate bowling alley, playing Best of the 90s and everything, except instead of having a big Budweiser sign they had a Castel one. Just in case we forgot we were in Africa. We contemplated going out clubbing, but just went to bed instead.
5:30 the next morning, we awoke to the airy tone of my cell phone alarm, and got dressed and ready for our safari in the dark. We were down in the lobby at 6:00, our scheduled departure time, but I forgot that we were in Africa and nothing is actually on time. The driver showed up around 6:45, and we got underway. On our way out of Ouaga, we stopped at a gas station to fill up, and I went into their minimart to buy water. Again, I was amazed by how modern Ouaga is: prices marked on coolers, clean, stocked, computer and scanner to check out… just like the US.
The drive to Nazinga took about 3 hours. The first half was on the freeway up to a town called Po, and from there it was dirt road. After a little nap, Kevin and I played Scrabble all the way up to the park entrance. The park itself is a very large (about 400 sq. miles) area of protected forest and savannah with man-made watering holes, though they also offer hunting safaris there. Once inside the park’s front gate, there was still about 30 kilometers to go to get to the center camp of the park.
At the gate, we had picked up some local student needing to get to the center. About two or three kilometers in, we spotted a couple of elephants off to our right. The driver stopped, and the rest of us (Kevin, the student, and I) scrambled up on top of the 4x4 to get a better view. Unfortunately, the animals were largely obscured by trees, so we kept going with us still on the roof. Let me tell you, the top of a 4x4 is exceedingly uncomfortable, with the metal bars of the baggage rack digging into your butt as the vehicle bumped along disintegrating dirt road. From up there, however, we spotted a couple of monkeys, some baboons, and a couple of antelope before we even got to the heart of the park and picked up our guide. At one point, the road crossed a watering hole, and there were probably more than ten elephants there cooling off, including one big male making quite a presentation of himself (not for the kids to see).
Finally, we made it to the center, where their little collection of cabins overlooks another watering hole, this one also with seven elephants splashing away in it. Before getting back in the car with our guide, we walked down a little path to an observatory they had built looking out over the watering hole, and we observed the elephants for a while from there.
By this point, it was almost 11:30, not the best time of day to see animals, but we had no choice. We piled back into the 4x4 with our guide and took off on more little paths through the brush. We had terrific luck that day. Not far from camp, we saw a troop of probably thirty elephants, as well as various kinds of antelope (bushbucks, duikers, waterbucks, etc.) and many, many species of bird (eagles, wild guinea fowl, Abyssinian rollers, red-throated bee-eaters, parakeets, to name a few).
We ate lunch with our driver in their screened restaurant overlooking the watering hole. From there, we could see a few warthogs snuffling around in the reeds, as well as a few antelope and deer who had come to drink. Then around 2, we hit the road.
The park was in the process of doing controlled burnings to increase visibility, which I had somewhat mixed feelings about. On the way out, we drove past patch after patch of crackling, burning grass, and the sky was dark with all of the smoke. Around the smoke billows, dozens of birds of prey were circling, waiting for the little animals escaping the fire to run out into the open. The driver told us, though, that the burnings were good for the animals too, because in the open, they were safer from hyenas (which we didn’t see) that would ambush them from the grass. I guess controlled burning prevents raging uncontrolled brush fires, too.
Needless to say, it was an amazing trip. We played some more Scrabble on the way back until we ran out of gas a little ways out of Ouagadougou. It wasn’t a big deal, though, we just paid some guy on a bicycle to go up the road and buy a few liters for us. Around dinner time, we pulled back up to our hotel, completely coated in dirt and dust from the road that may not completely come off for days.
We went back to Le Verdoyant for dinner and got more pizza and lasagna, though this time it was like we were invisible, and the plethora of waiters were nearly impossible to wave down. No matter, the food was still delicious.
So from Italy, to India, to the US, to the savannah, Burkina Faso continues to impress me. It makes me wish I were stationed in Ouagadougou.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Ouagadougou, capital of my heart
Kevin and I are currently on our holiday vacation and have arrived safely in Ouagadougou, the capital of the fine country of Burkina Faso (formerly Upper Volta). Tuesday morning, we got up and waited at the side of the freeway for a bus going to Sevare. The bus system in Mali is mind-bogglingly inefficient. No one really knows what time the buses will show up or how many seats they will have open, so you just buy tickets and hope for the best. When the bus came, they had oversold the tickets and we ended up having to stand/sit on a water jug in the aisle, but as luck had it, we were stationed right next to these two white girls who ended up being Peace Corps volunteers from up around Gao. We chatted with them the whole way down, which was nice. So much Peace Corps in our life lately!
We got into Sevare around 2:00 and took our baggage to the Mankan Te Bed and Breakfast, a nice little place off the road to Bamako. As much as we craved a nap, I needed to get my bank business done before it closed and we needed to make reservations to get to Burkina, so we headed out for a long hot walk to the BNDA (Banque Nationale du Developpement Agricole). To my relief, my wire transfer got through just fine and I got the money I needed.
Minkailou and Seydou, neither of whom I had seen for over a month, came and met us there and we went to Mopti together to try to nail down our bus departure. Arriving at the bus station, we got another dose of bus efficiency. First, the people selling the tickets had all left to pray or something, then when they came back, it turned out that the bus that was supposed to leave the next day hadn't gotten in yet, even though the man had told Minkailou just three days ago that buses left Mon Wed Fri. They told us we could take a bus from Sevare to Koro, then get on a vehicle to Ouahigouya then change there to go to Ouaga, but after some consideration, we decided to live the high life and rent a car. In the end, despite the cost, I think it was the best option.
The taxi came and picked us up at our hotel at 9:00 on Wednesday morning. It was a slightly beat up (as most cars are here) Mercedes 190. We took off on the road to Bandiagara, after which we left the paved roads behind and bumped along a dirt road like the one heading to Borko. It was hot and I felt sort of car sick, but all in all, not as bad as a bus would have been.
It turns out that it is not just buses that are inefficient in Mali; the border crossing was equally amazing. We stopped at what I assumed was the border, where we had to show our passports to the police, who in turn wrote down all of our information in their little book. They couldn't even tell which one of us was Kevin and which was Laura (I'm thinking, "Well, the one that's a MAN is Kevin..."). But we got through without being shaken down for any bribes. Then, another fifteen minutes up the road, we stop at yet another border crossing, where again we get out and have to show our passports, and again the guy writes down our information. A little further up, the driver has to get out and show vehicle registration (as he did at the first border crossing) and then a third time he has to stop about another half a kilometer up, not to mention the toll stop. Kevin and I are thinking, "Why don't they just put all of the checks in the same place?" but that would clearly be far too easy.
Driving into Burkina was impressive. The roads are well-paved with electricity lines running for kilometers alongside of them, and even the somewhat small towns we passed through had stoplights. Certainly a change from Mali. After 7 hours in the Boss Mobile, we rolled in to Ouagadougou around 4 and pulled up at our hotel.
I had made reservations, but they got the date wrong, as well as my phone number to call me. For a couple minutes, I thought we were going to have a real problem, but they shifted some stuff around and fit us in. The hotel is pretty nice, with a beautiful pool in a shady courtyard surrounded by African animal carvings. There is even wireless internet, though a lot of pages won't load on it for some reason (which explains why I am currently in a cyber cafe).
This morning we got up and went out to get our Ghanaian visas. Ouagadougou feel much more developed than Bamako. Nice roads, taller buildings, less trash, and things run more efficiently. We got our passport photos done no problem, then headed to the embassy. There, as opposed to filling out three different copies of the same form, they actually had carbon copies, and we got our business done quickly--should be ready for pick up tomorrow.
After getting back to the hotel, we both decided to get our hair cut at their salon. I was the first in the chair. The haircut probably took no more than 10 minutes, which speaks for the quality. Layers? Forget it. I was lucky that it ended up sort of evenly hacked off above the chin. Oh well, at least it's lighter. Kevin wanted his hair buzzed, which should not have been hard, but it ended up taking probably almost an hour. She tried going to town with the rasor first, but his hair just clogged it, so we suggested she cut it short and then buzz it, and even then it took much longer than buzzing should. It worked out in the end and it looks good, but Kevin said she kind of pulled some of his hair out in the process.
While waiting for him to be buzzed, I got a pedicure and watched the Last Legion dubbed in French on the TV. The girl was really overzealous with the pummice stone/nail file/foot buffer; basically anything that sanded off parts of your feet, she was a big fan of. I just had to tell her to stop when she pulled out the fourth sanding device. I prefer to keep some skin on my feet. That being said, my feet are extremely soft now.
After such adventures, we were starving and had some pizza, beer and ice cream at the hotel restaurant, then slept it off. We wanted to go swimming, but the water was too cold without the sun on it. We'll try again tomorrow.
Then this evening, in an effort to find the internet cafe noted in my guide book, we set out walking. We fortuitously ended up at the grocery store across from the big mosque, which puts any grocery store in Bamako to shame. So big. So much stuff. So clean. We could not for the life of us find the internet cafe, though. Where we thought it should be, there was just a surprising stretch of open space in the middle of the city with some weeds growing on it. We asked at the hotel, and I guess they razed that district. Ouaga development in progress, I guess.
After this, we are off to a restaurant which is apparently "unbelievably popular" and serves pizza and pasta. Never too much pizza.
We got into Sevare around 2:00 and took our baggage to the Mankan Te Bed and Breakfast, a nice little place off the road to Bamako. As much as we craved a nap, I needed to get my bank business done before it closed and we needed to make reservations to get to Burkina, so we headed out for a long hot walk to the BNDA (Banque Nationale du Developpement Agricole). To my relief, my wire transfer got through just fine and I got the money I needed.
Minkailou and Seydou, neither of whom I had seen for over a month, came and met us there and we went to Mopti together to try to nail down our bus departure. Arriving at the bus station, we got another dose of bus efficiency. First, the people selling the tickets had all left to pray or something, then when they came back, it turned out that the bus that was supposed to leave the next day hadn't gotten in yet, even though the man had told Minkailou just three days ago that buses left Mon Wed Fri. They told us we could take a bus from Sevare to Koro, then get on a vehicle to Ouahigouya then change there to go to Ouaga, but after some consideration, we decided to live the high life and rent a car. In the end, despite the cost, I think it was the best option.
The taxi came and picked us up at our hotel at 9:00 on Wednesday morning. It was a slightly beat up (as most cars are here) Mercedes 190. We took off on the road to Bandiagara, after which we left the paved roads behind and bumped along a dirt road like the one heading to Borko. It was hot and I felt sort of car sick, but all in all, not as bad as a bus would have been.
It turns out that it is not just buses that are inefficient in Mali; the border crossing was equally amazing. We stopped at what I assumed was the border, where we had to show our passports to the police, who in turn wrote down all of our information in their little book. They couldn't even tell which one of us was Kevin and which was Laura (I'm thinking, "Well, the one that's a MAN is Kevin..."). But we got through without being shaken down for any bribes. Then, another fifteen minutes up the road, we stop at yet another border crossing, where again we get out and have to show our passports, and again the guy writes down our information. A little further up, the driver has to get out and show vehicle registration (as he did at the first border crossing) and then a third time he has to stop about another half a kilometer up, not to mention the toll stop. Kevin and I are thinking, "Why don't they just put all of the checks in the same place?" but that would clearly be far too easy.
Driving into Burkina was impressive. The roads are well-paved with electricity lines running for kilometers alongside of them, and even the somewhat small towns we passed through had stoplights. Certainly a change from Mali. After 7 hours in the Boss Mobile, we rolled in to Ouagadougou around 4 and pulled up at our hotel.
I had made reservations, but they got the date wrong, as well as my phone number to call me. For a couple minutes, I thought we were going to have a real problem, but they shifted some stuff around and fit us in. The hotel is pretty nice, with a beautiful pool in a shady courtyard surrounded by African animal carvings. There is even wireless internet, though a lot of pages won't load on it for some reason (which explains why I am currently in a cyber cafe).
This morning we got up and went out to get our Ghanaian visas. Ouagadougou feel much more developed than Bamako. Nice roads, taller buildings, less trash, and things run more efficiently. We got our passport photos done no problem, then headed to the embassy. There, as opposed to filling out three different copies of the same form, they actually had carbon copies, and we got our business done quickly--should be ready for pick up tomorrow.
After getting back to the hotel, we both decided to get our hair cut at their salon. I was the first in the chair. The haircut probably took no more than 10 minutes, which speaks for the quality. Layers? Forget it. I was lucky that it ended up sort of evenly hacked off above the chin. Oh well, at least it's lighter. Kevin wanted his hair buzzed, which should not have been hard, but it ended up taking probably almost an hour. She tried going to town with the rasor first, but his hair just clogged it, so we suggested she cut it short and then buzz it, and even then it took much longer than buzzing should. It worked out in the end and it looks good, but Kevin said she kind of pulled some of his hair out in the process.
While waiting for him to be buzzed, I got a pedicure and watched the Last Legion dubbed in French on the TV. The girl was really overzealous with the pummice stone/nail file/foot buffer; basically anything that sanded off parts of your feet, she was a big fan of. I just had to tell her to stop when she pulled out the fourth sanding device. I prefer to keep some skin on my feet. That being said, my feet are extremely soft now.
After such adventures, we were starving and had some pizza, beer and ice cream at the hotel restaurant, then slept it off. We wanted to go swimming, but the water was too cold without the sun on it. We'll try again tomorrow.
Then this evening, in an effort to find the internet cafe noted in my guide book, we set out walking. We fortuitously ended up at the grocery store across from the big mosque, which puts any grocery store in Bamako to shame. So big. So much stuff. So clean. We could not for the life of us find the internet cafe, though. Where we thought it should be, there was just a surprising stretch of open space in the middle of the city with some weeds growing on it. We asked at the hotel, and I guess they razed that district. Ouaga development in progress, I guess.
After this, we are off to a restaurant which is apparently "unbelievably popular" and serves pizza and pasta. Never too much pizza.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
We are village trekkers
Kevin and I got back from the village yesterday afternoon. For being a 48 hour trip, it was quite eventful. Where to begin?
We got up with the sun on Thursday morning to set out. With the rainy season over, the direct route is now navigable by motorcycle. Unlike the route via Borko, however, the direct way doesn’t have a solid road and is full of sand and dry river beds and rocks, thus I cannot drive it. We commissioned Oumar and another motorcycle to take us to the base of the cliff, from where we would carry on by foot. The road getting there was certainly exciting. Instead of taking the freeway, you go out the backside of town and drive along a little dirt track, surrounded by fields and huge boulders as you go deeper into the valley. After about an hour, we arrived where the motorcycle could go no further. It was a little Borko-esque oasis, with a clear stream full of tiny minnows and palms and the echoes of abundant birdsong. There Oumar and company left us, and we started our trek.
The first part of the hike to the village is scaling the mountain. It is like using a Stair Master for an hour straight, but the views are amazing. On the way up, we came across a young man named Hamma carrying a huge basket of millet on his head. He was from Ambile, the village at the top of the cliff, but he took it upon himself to get us all the way to Tongo-Tongo. When we got to his village, he took us into his house and offered us food and water, all of which I perhaps impolitely refused, not wanting to get sick. As is usual in a village I haven’t been to before, all of the children gathered around to stare at us. Finally, we kept going and got to Tongo-Tongo after about another hour’s hike. Overall, from the base of the cliff to my village, it’s about 10 kilometers, so we got our exercise.
Like always, the villagers were very glad to see me and were quite curious to see Kevin. He even picked up a little bit of the elaborate greetings. Ramata’s mother brought us lunch when we got there, millet paste with hibiscus calyx sauce, the first time I’ve actually eaten the staple food in the village itself. Surprisingly, both Kevin and I found it to be quite tasty, though I certainly wouldn’t want to eat it at every meal like the villagers do.
When we arrived, M. le Maire informed me that it was the last day of the millet harvest, so if I wanted to see it at all, we would have to go then. Exhausted as I was from the 10 kilometer hike, I pulled myself together to walk another 4 kilometers round trip to see the field where they were harvesting. In the end, I’m glad I did. There were probably a dozen people in the field, all with little hand knives that they used like garden sheers, only the other blade was the thumb. I tried my hand at harvesting a spike or two, but mainly just succeeded in getting the fiber-glass-like hairs of the millet spike lodged in my thumb. I was told that the field I had farmed a little bit at the beginning of the summer had given a good harvest and I had been deemed good luck. After harvesting a bit, M. le Maire took me to where the heaped all of the harvested millet spikes and sorted them by kind to be tied into bundles and taken back to the village. I saw the little black and white dog sleeping there by the millet, and he actually looked cute. Little did I know…
Anyway, once back in the village, we just hung out and chatted for a little while. We made a can of chili I’d brought for dinner and ate it with some bread and Laughing Cow cheese. I was told that the women were planning on dancing for us that night, something I’d been wanting to see ever since I first got there. Around 8 o’ clock, Ramata’s mother came into my house, as she is wont to do, and brought us a pitcher of millet porridge, which I tried to politely refuse, since I know it has some unboiled water in it, but she insisted on leaving it for us and told us that they were indeed going to dance. In an effort not to be rude, I boiled the porridge to kill off whatever might have been in it, and Kevin and I both ate a bit, though I can’t say as it was exactly good.
At about 9, the dance was preparing in our courtyard. A couple young women had stretched a mat out under the hanger with a big hollow calabash on it to be used as the drum. The celebration started slowly, Ramata’s mother and a dozen girls singing call and response songs in Tommo-So to the pounding beat of the calabash. At intervals, everyone would start clapping a rhythm and someone would go into the middle of the circle to dance, hands extended in front and butt extended in back, stomping a syncopated rhythm with the feet. Eventually the music picked up and they brought out the beautiful calabash covered in cowry shells to use as a percussion instrument. I was pulled into the circle to dance a couple of times, though I was basically just randomly stomping around and probably looked ridiculous. They eventually gave Kevin and I some chairs to sit down and watch the dance unfold under a million stars, punctuated by the occasional meteor. The dance participants slowly changed from mostly girls of 11 or 12 to the older women who would enter the circle and dance with much zeal. Ramata’s grandmother was an interesting spectacle. She would periodically go into the circle and drop on her knees or dance around, her shirt falling off of her shoulders until someone gently removed her to the sidelines. The whole occasion was filled with things I didn’t understand, people throwing down shawls in front of other people, women dropping to their knees and touching someone’s feet, twos and threes of women coming in and dancing determined by some system I didn’t understand. The only thing keeping me from totally enjoying it was the fact that I had gotten up at 6 am and walked 14 kilometers that day, yet the dance went on until past midnight, when Kevin and I excused ourselves for bed.
The next day before lunch, Bureima took Kevin and I over to the next village of Entaga, where we had our fortunes read by a man with bushy hair and one skewed eye named Binna Mousa. He reads fortunes in the traditional way of spreading out cowry shells and reading their alignment. We were ushered across his courtyard, carpeted by broken millet stems, into his little mud house, where I sat on a beautifully carved Dogon stool. Our fortunes were entirely positive and largely work related, or so we gleaned from the game of telephone that was the translation of the fortune. Binna Moussa told Bureima in Tommo-So, Bureima told me in broken French, then I translated the broken French into English. Basically, Kevin and I will both be successful in our work, as will Kevin’s sister. There will be no problems and people will travel around in my name. However, in order to make this come true, there are specific offerings we have to make: Kevin must give one white cola nut to an old man or woman, and I have to give seven tamarind fruits to a beggar child. Then we will be “bosses”.
Ramata’s mother made us delicious beans for lunch, then we headed into the village and out into the fields to look around. I showed Kevin the animist fetish, like a giant mud finger pointing to the sky, out behind the village. By the toguna, the round pagoda-like place where the men sit and discuss, they had slaughtered a sheep and the really old guy was hacking at the carcass with an ax. Later we sat down on the rock that was probably covered in sheep’s blood, but so it goes.
We went up the big hill that gives cell phone service and placed Scrabble in the shade of a rocky overhang. In the distance, the towering cliffs around Douentza jutted faintly above the horizon. We made our way back to the village as the sun set. After a dinner of more beans, we sat out under the stars with Ramata’s mother, and for the first time since I got here, my Tommo-So was good enough to actually carry on a decent conversation. She said it was getting cold here, but I told her it was very cold where I am from, and that the water “sleeps” (is frozen) for three months straight. Confused, she asked, “Doesn’t the sun come out?” and I told her it does, so she asked “Doesn’t it have any strength?” and not knowing what to say, I just agreed that it had no strength. Then she asked if all of the water in Bamako (the Niger River) went all the way to the United States. I told her no, we have a lot of water, but it’s not the same water. Then she told me about her children, about Ramata’s older sister who died and how beautiful she was, how Ramata would get married when she was done with school… I look forward to my Tommo-So getting even better and being able to really chat.
Our second night’s sleep was awful. While the first night we were there, the night air was cool and refreshing, the second night was stuffy and awful. On top of that, the once cute little dog chose the spot in front of my door to stand and bark incessantly around 3 in the morning. I wanted to go out and throw a rock at it, or shoot it or something (though I am generally against violence towards animals), but I was afraid of it. We woke up haggard at 6:30 and got ready for the return trip.
The walk to Ambile seemed a lot shorter, since we weren’t already exhausted from the climb. On the way, we passed then fell behind then passed a man from Anji carrying a chicken on his bicycle who was also going to Douentza. On our way down the cliff, we got lost. We were following a little dirt trail, but suddenly it turned into a sheep path and we were on a rocky field with a little stone house and no sign of the right road. After clambering up onto rocks in hopes of looking down onto the path, we finally retraced our steps through what I think was a cemetery, until we found where we had gone wrong. Finding the route down the cliff was all about finding the man-made rock piles, very barely distinguishable from natural piles, that indicated where one should climb down.
With aching knees and sweaty backs, we made it down to the bottom a little after 11, and we waited by the stream and played Scrabble until our rendez-vous with the motorcycles at noon. While waiting, a local farmer picked a couple of guavas and gave them to me, one of which was sour and unripe and the other of which was the most delicious guava I’ve ever tasted.
The roads were rather crowded on the way back with people going to Douentza for the market. Women walk the whole way from the village to Douentza with huge sacks of grain on their heads, and I have no idea how the make it down the cliff like that. It makes you feel like a wuss for being tired from your backpack.
We got up with the sun on Thursday morning to set out. With the rainy season over, the direct route is now navigable by motorcycle. Unlike the route via Borko, however, the direct way doesn’t have a solid road and is full of sand and dry river beds and rocks, thus I cannot drive it. We commissioned Oumar and another motorcycle to take us to the base of the cliff, from where we would carry on by foot. The road getting there was certainly exciting. Instead of taking the freeway, you go out the backside of town and drive along a little dirt track, surrounded by fields and huge boulders as you go deeper into the valley. After about an hour, we arrived where the motorcycle could go no further. It was a little Borko-esque oasis, with a clear stream full of tiny minnows and palms and the echoes of abundant birdsong. There Oumar and company left us, and we started our trek.
The first part of the hike to the village is scaling the mountain. It is like using a Stair Master for an hour straight, but the views are amazing. On the way up, we came across a young man named Hamma carrying a huge basket of millet on his head. He was from Ambile, the village at the top of the cliff, but he took it upon himself to get us all the way to Tongo-Tongo. When we got to his village, he took us into his house and offered us food and water, all of which I perhaps impolitely refused, not wanting to get sick. As is usual in a village I haven’t been to before, all of the children gathered around to stare at us. Finally, we kept going and got to Tongo-Tongo after about another hour’s hike. Overall, from the base of the cliff to my village, it’s about 10 kilometers, so we got our exercise.
Like always, the villagers were very glad to see me and were quite curious to see Kevin. He even picked up a little bit of the elaborate greetings. Ramata’s mother brought us lunch when we got there, millet paste with hibiscus calyx sauce, the first time I’ve actually eaten the staple food in the village itself. Surprisingly, both Kevin and I found it to be quite tasty, though I certainly wouldn’t want to eat it at every meal like the villagers do.
When we arrived, M. le Maire informed me that it was the last day of the millet harvest, so if I wanted to see it at all, we would have to go then. Exhausted as I was from the 10 kilometer hike, I pulled myself together to walk another 4 kilometers round trip to see the field where they were harvesting. In the end, I’m glad I did. There were probably a dozen people in the field, all with little hand knives that they used like garden sheers, only the other blade was the thumb. I tried my hand at harvesting a spike or two, but mainly just succeeded in getting the fiber-glass-like hairs of the millet spike lodged in my thumb. I was told that the field I had farmed a little bit at the beginning of the summer had given a good harvest and I had been deemed good luck. After harvesting a bit, M. le Maire took me to where the heaped all of the harvested millet spikes and sorted them by kind to be tied into bundles and taken back to the village. I saw the little black and white dog sleeping there by the millet, and he actually looked cute. Little did I know…
Anyway, once back in the village, we just hung out and chatted for a little while. We made a can of chili I’d brought for dinner and ate it with some bread and Laughing Cow cheese. I was told that the women were planning on dancing for us that night, something I’d been wanting to see ever since I first got there. Around 8 o’ clock, Ramata’s mother came into my house, as she is wont to do, and brought us a pitcher of millet porridge, which I tried to politely refuse, since I know it has some unboiled water in it, but she insisted on leaving it for us and told us that they were indeed going to dance. In an effort not to be rude, I boiled the porridge to kill off whatever might have been in it, and Kevin and I both ate a bit, though I can’t say as it was exactly good.
At about 9, the dance was preparing in our courtyard. A couple young women had stretched a mat out under the hanger with a big hollow calabash on it to be used as the drum. The celebration started slowly, Ramata’s mother and a dozen girls singing call and response songs in Tommo-So to the pounding beat of the calabash. At intervals, everyone would start clapping a rhythm and someone would go into the middle of the circle to dance, hands extended in front and butt extended in back, stomping a syncopated rhythm with the feet. Eventually the music picked up and they brought out the beautiful calabash covered in cowry shells to use as a percussion instrument. I was pulled into the circle to dance a couple of times, though I was basically just randomly stomping around and probably looked ridiculous. They eventually gave Kevin and I some chairs to sit down and watch the dance unfold under a million stars, punctuated by the occasional meteor. The dance participants slowly changed from mostly girls of 11 or 12 to the older women who would enter the circle and dance with much zeal. Ramata’s grandmother was an interesting spectacle. She would periodically go into the circle and drop on her knees or dance around, her shirt falling off of her shoulders until someone gently removed her to the sidelines. The whole occasion was filled with things I didn’t understand, people throwing down shawls in front of other people, women dropping to their knees and touching someone’s feet, twos and threes of women coming in and dancing determined by some system I didn’t understand. The only thing keeping me from totally enjoying it was the fact that I had gotten up at 6 am and walked 14 kilometers that day, yet the dance went on until past midnight, when Kevin and I excused ourselves for bed.
The next day before lunch, Bureima took Kevin and I over to the next village of Entaga, where we had our fortunes read by a man with bushy hair and one skewed eye named Binna Mousa. He reads fortunes in the traditional way of spreading out cowry shells and reading their alignment. We were ushered across his courtyard, carpeted by broken millet stems, into his little mud house, where I sat on a beautifully carved Dogon stool. Our fortunes were entirely positive and largely work related, or so we gleaned from the game of telephone that was the translation of the fortune. Binna Moussa told Bureima in Tommo-So, Bureima told me in broken French, then I translated the broken French into English. Basically, Kevin and I will both be successful in our work, as will Kevin’s sister. There will be no problems and people will travel around in my name. However, in order to make this come true, there are specific offerings we have to make: Kevin must give one white cola nut to an old man or woman, and I have to give seven tamarind fruits to a beggar child. Then we will be “bosses”.
Ramata’s mother made us delicious beans for lunch, then we headed into the village and out into the fields to look around. I showed Kevin the animist fetish, like a giant mud finger pointing to the sky, out behind the village. By the toguna, the round pagoda-like place where the men sit and discuss, they had slaughtered a sheep and the really old guy was hacking at the carcass with an ax. Later we sat down on the rock that was probably covered in sheep’s blood, but so it goes.
We went up the big hill that gives cell phone service and placed Scrabble in the shade of a rocky overhang. In the distance, the towering cliffs around Douentza jutted faintly above the horizon. We made our way back to the village as the sun set. After a dinner of more beans, we sat out under the stars with Ramata’s mother, and for the first time since I got here, my Tommo-So was good enough to actually carry on a decent conversation. She said it was getting cold here, but I told her it was very cold where I am from, and that the water “sleeps” (is frozen) for three months straight. Confused, she asked, “Doesn’t the sun come out?” and I told her it does, so she asked “Doesn’t it have any strength?” and not knowing what to say, I just agreed that it had no strength. Then she asked if all of the water in Bamako (the Niger River) went all the way to the United States. I told her no, we have a lot of water, but it’s not the same water. Then she told me about her children, about Ramata’s older sister who died and how beautiful she was, how Ramata would get married when she was done with school… I look forward to my Tommo-So getting even better and being able to really chat.
Our second night’s sleep was awful. While the first night we were there, the night air was cool and refreshing, the second night was stuffy and awful. On top of that, the once cute little dog chose the spot in front of my door to stand and bark incessantly around 3 in the morning. I wanted to go out and throw a rock at it, or shoot it or something (though I am generally against violence towards animals), but I was afraid of it. We woke up haggard at 6:30 and got ready for the return trip.
The walk to Ambile seemed a lot shorter, since we weren’t already exhausted from the climb. On the way, we passed then fell behind then passed a man from Anji carrying a chicken on his bicycle who was also going to Douentza. On our way down the cliff, we got lost. We were following a little dirt trail, but suddenly it turned into a sheep path and we were on a rocky field with a little stone house and no sign of the right road. After clambering up onto rocks in hopes of looking down onto the path, we finally retraced our steps through what I think was a cemetery, until we found where we had gone wrong. Finding the route down the cliff was all about finding the man-made rock piles, very barely distinguishable from natural piles, that indicated where one should climb down.
With aching knees and sweaty backs, we made it down to the bottom a little after 11, and we waited by the stream and played Scrabble until our rendez-vous with the motorcycles at noon. While waiting, a local farmer picked a couple of guavas and gave them to me, one of which was sour and unripe and the other of which was the most delicious guava I’ve ever tasted.
The roads were rather crowded on the way back with people going to Douentza for the market. Women walk the whole way from the village to Douentza with huge sacks of grain on their heads, and I have no idea how the make it down the cliff like that. It makes you feel like a wuss for being tired from your backpack.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
A village for two and some linguistics
Tomorrow, Kevin and I are off to the village for a couple nights. It’s been a while since I’ve been there, so I need to greet the people. I’ve prepared the dictionary sections I couldn’t really do here to get them done there with photos (guns, jewelry). Time for some millet beer, some Bug Hut 2, and a whole bunch of greetings.
Things are okay in town. I got some more elicitation done with M. Guindo, who was kind enough to send us a gigantic bag full of peanuts. I’ve been thinking a lot about tone lately, and have discovered some things. First, it seems that to explain the tone classes of verbs, there must be a specified low tone that links to the first mora and the high tone to the second (which then spreads). It would otherwise seem odd to have the H link to the first mora in some cases and the second in others. Then you would have to specify some empty slot that just gets filled in as L on the surface. Seems weird. Also, I’ve noticed that in nouns with a LH tone contour, the H links to the last mora, so if you have a heavy (bimoraic) final syllable, you will get a rising tone on it. For instance: /tòndòó/ ‘water jar’. I used to think the whole final syllable was H, but it’s not.
Besides that, I’m finally sorting out all of these infinitives/verbal nouns that have been plaguing me. It seems that /stem + -dim/ is an infinitive, as in:
/núyɔ́-dìm m̀bɛ́-gó wɔ̀-m/ ‘I like to sing’
sing-Inf like-GO be-1sgS (Still don’t know what the GO is)
And then there are two gerundive forms that can be used in the same context as above, but also can be possessed. These change the final vowel of the stem to /i/ and add either /-lé/ or /-yé/. The prior form changes the tone to all H, while the latter has a LH contour. For instance:
/jòbù jɔ́bí-lé wómɔ̀ síɛ́-ǹ/
running run-Ger his good-Copula
‘his running is good’
or
/jòbù jɔ̀bí-yé wómɔ̀ síɛ́-ǹ/
running run-Ger his good-Copula
‘his running is good’
Here we also see the common pattern in Dogon of having a verb with a cognate noun, so you run a run, sing a song, write a writing, etc. Most of the time, the infinitive and the gerunds can be used in the same contexts. As in English, we can say “To run is good” or “Running is good”, but where the two separate is that the gerund can be used as a noun and thus can be possessed (His running is good) but the infinitive cannot (*His to run is good). Perhaps my two gerund forms will end up being different in the end as well, but for now they seem entirely interchangeable.
We finally met Peace Corps Dave, which was great. We went out and got a few beers on Monday night after running into him at the internet, then he came over to our house for lunch the next day. After eating, we went and checked out the Peace Corps house, and I got to borrow some books, including a Fulfulde textbook, which should be very helpful. It was great to make friends with another American in the area.
In other news, Oumar was apparently arrested for a couple hours for hitting a kid and his mom. That’s the story other people have told me. We went to try to visit him in jail, but apparently he’d been released. I saw him later, he said he’d only been held for a couple hours, and that what really happened was that he was at work plastering a wall and some kid was messing it up, so he kind of flung the kid aside, then his mom got angry and was threatening to beat him with her huge wooden pestle, so he pushed her too. The truth is probably somewhere in between. I was pretty worried for a little while there, since Oumar makes everything run so smoothly for me here, I don’t know what I’d do if he got legitimately arrested. Plus, he’s my friend, so that would suck. But it seems that all’s well that ends well, and everything is back to normal now.
Things are okay in town. I got some more elicitation done with M. Guindo, who was kind enough to send us a gigantic bag full of peanuts. I’ve been thinking a lot about tone lately, and have discovered some things. First, it seems that to explain the tone classes of verbs, there must be a specified low tone that links to the first mora and the high tone to the second (which then spreads). It would otherwise seem odd to have the H link to the first mora in some cases and the second in others. Then you would have to specify some empty slot that just gets filled in as L on the surface. Seems weird. Also, I’ve noticed that in nouns with a LH tone contour, the H links to the last mora, so if you have a heavy (bimoraic) final syllable, you will get a rising tone on it. For instance: /tòndòó/ ‘water jar’. I used to think the whole final syllable was H, but it’s not.
Besides that, I’m finally sorting out all of these infinitives/verbal nouns that have been plaguing me. It seems that /stem + -dim/ is an infinitive, as in:
/núyɔ́-dìm m̀bɛ́-gó wɔ̀-m/ ‘I like to sing’
sing-Inf like-GO be-1sgS (Still don’t know what the GO is)
And then there are two gerundive forms that can be used in the same context as above, but also can be possessed. These change the final vowel of the stem to /i/ and add either /-lé/ or /-yé/. The prior form changes the tone to all H, while the latter has a LH contour. For instance:
/jòbù jɔ́bí-lé wómɔ̀ síɛ́-ǹ/
running run-Ger his good-Copula
‘his running is good’
or
/jòbù jɔ̀bí-yé wómɔ̀ síɛ́-ǹ/
running run-Ger his good-Copula
‘his running is good’
Here we also see the common pattern in Dogon of having a verb with a cognate noun, so you run a run, sing a song, write a writing, etc. Most of the time, the infinitive and the gerunds can be used in the same contexts. As in English, we can say “To run is good” or “Running is good”, but where the two separate is that the gerund can be used as a noun and thus can be possessed (His running is good) but the infinitive cannot (*His to run is good). Perhaps my two gerund forms will end up being different in the end as well, but for now they seem entirely interchangeable.
We finally met Peace Corps Dave, which was great. We went out and got a few beers on Monday night after running into him at the internet, then he came over to our house for lunch the next day. After eating, we went and checked out the Peace Corps house, and I got to borrow some books, including a Fulfulde textbook, which should be very helpful. It was great to make friends with another American in the area.
In other news, Oumar was apparently arrested for a couple hours for hitting a kid and his mom. That’s the story other people have told me. We went to try to visit him in jail, but apparently he’d been released. I saw him later, he said he’d only been held for a couple hours, and that what really happened was that he was at work plastering a wall and some kid was messing it up, so he kind of flung the kid aside, then his mom got angry and was threatening to beat him with her huge wooden pestle, so he pushed her too. The truth is probably somewhere in between. I was pretty worried for a little while there, since Oumar makes everything run so smoothly for me here, I don’t know what I’d do if he got legitimately arrested. Plus, he’s my friend, so that would suck. But it seems that all’s well that ends well, and everything is back to normal now.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Crocodiles
This weekend, Kevin and I went on an adventure. And by that, I mean that the two of us helmeted up and took off on the motorcycle to the village of Borko, tucked into one of the hills on the long way to my village. Borko is a little terrestrial paradise. Unlike the arid land around it, there are several natural springs there, so it stays green all year long. In those streams lies Borko’s biggest claim to fame: crocodiles.
Now, before I went, I wasn’t certain what these reptiles were going to be. They call them “caimans” in the local French, and I thought they might just be Nile monitor lizards, but I assumed that would be interesting anyway.
The whole trip was like an exam of everything I have learned since I got here: driving the motorcycle, finding a village, greeting the chief, navigating in Tommo-So, and I passed on all accounts, I think. The first half of our time there, I didn’t speak any French at all. Borko is actually in the Najamba zone, but the language is closely related and a lot of people speak/understand Tommo-So, since it’s the next zone over.
Anyhow, we pulled up to the village around 11 AM and parked the motorcycle under a tree a little walk from the village itself. Walking up, all of the people saw us and smiled, then I would greet them in Tommo-So and they would give a little “Eh!” of surprise as their faces lit up. Half the time, the greetings were an incomprehensible mixture of Najamba and Tommo and I probably botched a lot of it, but it’s the thought that counts.
We came up to the first village and I asked some kids where the chief was. Tromping through a harvested millet field, we arrived in their streets, and I conversed with this man for a while about where I was from, what we’d come to do, where the chief had went, etc. Turns out, the chief had gone to the fields, but he showed me his three wives (“the red (=light-skinned) one, the dark one, and the other one”) and they gave Kevin and I both big handfuls of peanuts.
Somehow, throughout the course of this, it became clear that we were in the wrong village. Borko is comprised of three little villages, and we needed to walk up to the next one to see the crocs, which we did. There, we gave the chief a bag of kola nuts and 1000 CFA as a gesture of goodwill, then negotiated with the actual village guide (who spoke to me only in French and was much less friendly than everyone else—perhaps a by-product of too much tourism?) to show us the crocodiles for another 5500 CFA ($11).
That covered the cost of the hunks of raw goat meat we picked up with the butcher to feed to the crocodiles. Having done that, the guide ushered us through a little bamboo gate to an open area, where already one large crocodile was sun-bathing, some little water plants stuck to its scaly head. I was startled. Here I was expecting monitor lizards, and three feet in front of me is a legitimate crocodile or alligator or something of the sort.
The guide started clucking and grunting; out of the bushes, one, then two, then three more crocodiles scrambled in for the feast. Two of the them were rather small, probably about 2-3 feet long, but the other two were probably closer to 5 feet. I thought at one point one of them was going to bite my foot off, since it was getting a little close and curious for comfort, but I stepped back and it became more interested in the meat the guide was throwing into their jaws.
These animals are the village’s totem. The guide told me that back in the war with the Mande several hundred years ago, when the Dogon were driven up into the cliffs for safety, the crocodiles helped them cross the river, and ever since then, they’ve been their totem. They don’t hurt the crocodiles—doing so would be hurting the village. In fact, he told me that if anyone killed a crocodile, he would be killed. He also said the crocodiles slept with people at night, but I’m not certain what he meant by that. Finally, if they find a dead one, they bury it as if it were a human.
So because they are so protected and just get fed meat all the time, they are rather tame. We even got to touch one! I wasn’t sure I was going to leave with both my hands, but I did, and the whole experience was rather magical.
Now, before I went, I wasn’t certain what these reptiles were going to be. They call them “caimans” in the local French, and I thought they might just be Nile monitor lizards, but I assumed that would be interesting anyway.
The whole trip was like an exam of everything I have learned since I got here: driving the motorcycle, finding a village, greeting the chief, navigating in Tommo-So, and I passed on all accounts, I think. The first half of our time there, I didn’t speak any French at all. Borko is actually in the Najamba zone, but the language is closely related and a lot of people speak/understand Tommo-So, since it’s the next zone over.
Anyhow, we pulled up to the village around 11 AM and parked the motorcycle under a tree a little walk from the village itself. Walking up, all of the people saw us and smiled, then I would greet them in Tommo-So and they would give a little “Eh!” of surprise as their faces lit up. Half the time, the greetings were an incomprehensible mixture of Najamba and Tommo and I probably botched a lot of it, but it’s the thought that counts.
We came up to the first village and I asked some kids where the chief was. Tromping through a harvested millet field, we arrived in their streets, and I conversed with this man for a while about where I was from, what we’d come to do, where the chief had went, etc. Turns out, the chief had gone to the fields, but he showed me his three wives (“the red (=light-skinned) one, the dark one, and the other one”) and they gave Kevin and I both big handfuls of peanuts.
Somehow, throughout the course of this, it became clear that we were in the wrong village. Borko is comprised of three little villages, and we needed to walk up to the next one to see the crocs, which we did. There, we gave the chief a bag of kola nuts and 1000 CFA as a gesture of goodwill, then negotiated with the actual village guide (who spoke to me only in French and was much less friendly than everyone else—perhaps a by-product of too much tourism?) to show us the crocodiles for another 5500 CFA ($11).
That covered the cost of the hunks of raw goat meat we picked up with the butcher to feed to the crocodiles. Having done that, the guide ushered us through a little bamboo gate to an open area, where already one large crocodile was sun-bathing, some little water plants stuck to its scaly head. I was startled. Here I was expecting monitor lizards, and three feet in front of me is a legitimate crocodile or alligator or something of the sort.
The guide started clucking and grunting; out of the bushes, one, then two, then three more crocodiles scrambled in for the feast. Two of the them were rather small, probably about 2-3 feet long, but the other two were probably closer to 5 feet. I thought at one point one of them was going to bite my foot off, since it was getting a little close and curious for comfort, but I stepped back and it became more interested in the meat the guide was throwing into their jaws.
These animals are the village’s totem. The guide told me that back in the war with the Mande several hundred years ago, when the Dogon were driven up into the cliffs for safety, the crocodiles helped them cross the river, and ever since then, they’ve been their totem. They don’t hurt the crocodiles—doing so would be hurting the village. In fact, he told me that if anyone killed a crocodile, he would be killed. He also said the crocodiles slept with people at night, but I’m not certain what he meant by that. Finally, if they find a dead one, they bury it as if it were a human.
So because they are so protected and just get fed meat all the time, they are rather tame. We even got to touch one! I wasn’t sure I was going to leave with both my hands, but I did, and the whole experience was rather magical.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Douentza routine and tiny animals
Nothing much new to report here. I continue to do a couple hours of work in the morning, slowly checking those words off of my list. Recent additions have been in the lexical domains of sleeping, pointed objects, hanging, and vehicles. All very exciting.
I saw a tiny baby goat being carried by a tiny child this morning. That was a whole bunch of cute. Part of me wants a baby goat as a pet here, but I know it will just cry all the time and then someone, if not me, will eat it. So it probably isn’t that great of an idea. Best just admire the baby goats of others.
Kevin and I watched Office Space last night, which is quite a different world from Mali. We’ll probably head out on Burkina Faso and Ghana adventuring in a couple of weeks.
I saw a tiny baby goat being carried by a tiny child this morning. That was a whole bunch of cute. Part of me wants a baby goat as a pet here, but I know it will just cry all the time and then someone, if not me, will eat it. So it probably isn’t that great of an idea. Best just admire the baby goats of others.
Kevin and I watched Office Space last night, which is quite a different world from Mali. We’ll probably head out on Burkina Faso and Ghana adventuring in a couple of weeks.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Birthdays in Africa
Yesterday was Kevin’s birthday. Certainly the first birthday (of anyone’s) I’ve celebrated in Africa! While there was no birthday cake to be found, we did have a good day, I think. I got him a traditional African board game that is akin to mankala (it’s called Wali here) played by dropping little seeds or beans into various holes around the board, which we have now been playing to determine who will be the ultimate Bean Master. We’re even.
After lunch, we played some Scrabble, then took a little motorcycle ride up the road. We went up past Petaka and turned off the road where there was a good photo opportunity for Gandamine (spelling?), these big fingers of rock that jut up beside a large cliff. Being late afternoon, the light was really beautiful. It was also his first chance to really get out into the open and see big herds of goats and horned cows and all the other pretty things the Malian countryside has to offer. Then after dinner, we celebrated with the neighbors over a couple beers.
This morning, M. Guindo, Ramata’s old lodger, came over and I got a little bit of work done. I have to keep forging forward, after all.
I did find some guavas in the market on Sunday, though. And I successfully navigated the market with just Kevin and I—only toobobs. I realize now that very seldom if ever did I go to the market by myself without a Malian friend. Now I can use my little bits of Fulfulde or Tommo-So enough to give myself some street cred and avoid excessive toobob prices. Like with the guava lady, she looked like she was Dogon, so I greeted her with a generic Dogon greeting “poh”, which she replied to in Jamsay and I continued in Tommo-So. That’s the thing with Dogon greetings. The words are different, but the general structure is the same, so you can go back and forth in two languages. It would be like:
A: Hello.
B: Bonjour, ca va?
A: I’m fine.
B: La famille va bien?
A : They’re fine. How are you?
B: Ca va bien.
But everyone knows what’s going on. Also I can ask how much something is, but I don’t really know my numbers that well, so I’m at the mercy of whoever’s selling to give me correct change. By asking “how much” in a native language, though, they assume I know what’s up, so they always give me the right change. But that’s my little secret that I wouldn’t know the difference.
After lunch, we played some Scrabble, then took a little motorcycle ride up the road. We went up past Petaka and turned off the road where there was a good photo opportunity for Gandamine (spelling?), these big fingers of rock that jut up beside a large cliff. Being late afternoon, the light was really beautiful. It was also his first chance to really get out into the open and see big herds of goats and horned cows and all the other pretty things the Malian countryside has to offer. Then after dinner, we celebrated with the neighbors over a couple beers.
This morning, M. Guindo, Ramata’s old lodger, came over and I got a little bit of work done. I have to keep forging forward, after all.
I did find some guavas in the market on Sunday, though. And I successfully navigated the market with just Kevin and I—only toobobs. I realize now that very seldom if ever did I go to the market by myself without a Malian friend. Now I can use my little bits of Fulfulde or Tommo-So enough to give myself some street cred and avoid excessive toobob prices. Like with the guava lady, she looked like she was Dogon, so I greeted her with a generic Dogon greeting “poh”, which she replied to in Jamsay and I continued in Tommo-So. That’s the thing with Dogon greetings. The words are different, but the general structure is the same, so you can go back and forth in two languages. It would be like:
A: Hello.
B: Bonjour, ca va?
A: I’m fine.
B: La famille va bien?
A : They’re fine. How are you?
B: Ca va bien.
But everyone knows what’s going on. Also I can ask how much something is, but I don’t really know my numbers that well, so I’m at the mercy of whoever’s selling to give me correct change. By asking “how much” in a native language, though, they assume I know what’s up, so they always give me the right change. But that’s my little secret that I wouldn’t know the difference.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Together in Douentza
Kevin and I are successfully to Douentza. The rest of Bamako passed uneventfully, and early Thursday morning, we got up to catch the bus. Unfortunately, Kevin got slightly Africa-ed and didn’t feel well for all of the 14 hour bus ride. Not the best way to move out of the capitol, but in the end, we made it around 11:30 at night.
The weather has cooled off a lot here. Not to say that it’s cool, per se, but it is quite pleasant out generally, and much less humid than Bamako. I think so far Kevin is adjusting nicely—Douentza isn’t luxury, but we get by. It’s rather surreal having him here. Sometimes it feels like Mali must just be some fantasy world I make up in my head, or rather that the US and my life there is when I’m here, so to bring the two together is proof that they both really exist, which is mind-boggling.
We’ve been playing a lot of Scrabble, and he’s started teaching me some Sanskrit, which is full of grammatical paradigms, just how I like it. I suppose one could argue that I shouldn’t be filling my head with other languages when my job is to get Tommo-So down, but I’m a language glutton, what can I say. I sent a message off to Tongo-Tongo today, so we’ll see if M. le Maire comes into town anytime soon. In the meantime, I continue to make progress on my grammar.
After dumping a bunch of money into repairing the motorcycle today, it’s ready for a spin outside of town. We’re going to take off after this and admire the scenery a bit.
That’s all for now. I apologize for the diminished number of posts.
The weather has cooled off a lot here. Not to say that it’s cool, per se, but it is quite pleasant out generally, and much less humid than Bamako. I think so far Kevin is adjusting nicely—Douentza isn’t luxury, but we get by. It’s rather surreal having him here. Sometimes it feels like Mali must just be some fantasy world I make up in my head, or rather that the US and my life there is when I’m here, so to bring the two together is proof that they both really exist, which is mind-boggling.
We’ve been playing a lot of Scrabble, and he’s started teaching me some Sanskrit, which is full of grammatical paradigms, just how I like it. I suppose one could argue that I shouldn’t be filling my head with other languages when my job is to get Tommo-So down, but I’m a language glutton, what can I say. I sent a message off to Tongo-Tongo today, so we’ll see if M. le Maire comes into town anytime soon. In the meantime, I continue to make progress on my grammar.
After dumping a bunch of money into repairing the motorcycle today, it’s ready for a spin outside of town. We’re going to take off after this and admire the scenery a bit.
That’s all for now. I apologize for the diminished number of posts.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Excitement in Bamako
I'm sorry it's been a while since I've posted. There's a lot to catch you up on, I guess!
Saturday, I moved to the Hotel Djenne, a charming little hotel packed full of Malian art and artifacts in a more happening part of town. I even managed to get wireless internet here (so I have no excuse for not posting). Saturday night, Salif stayed up with me until 2 AM, when I had to go to the airport to get Kevin. Upon arriving there, we learned that the flight wouldn't be in until 20 to 4, so we just settled in and waited it out. Sure enough, we heard the plane land right around then, and a half an hour later, Kevin actually emerged from the Bamako airport. It was amazing and surreal.
Sunday felt like it didn't exist. Kevin and I were both so exhausted from being up until 5 that all we did was sleep and go out to eat.
Monday, we met my friend Rosemary and her husband for lunch and then got passport photos taken to try to start the Burkina visa process. We made our way over the embassy (on the other side of town) just to find out that, in fact, they only process visa requests until noon. At night, we went over to a restaurant called Akwaba at about 9 and were the first ones there. They had a delicious spicy chicken, though.
Yesterday was a big day. We got ourselves out the door to go back to the Burkina embassy and started our visa process. I had intended to go to the American embassy afterwards to cash a check, but didn't have foresight enough to realize that a visa process meant that they were going to hold onto our passports. So the American embassy was out of the question.
We headed back to our side of town and went to a restaurant called the Broadway Cafe, which has all sorts of very good American food. I had a milkshake and a burrito (not Patty's, for those of you who know what that is, but recognizably a burrito nonetheless), and Kevin had the biggest double-cheeseburger the world has ever seen. They even had pancakes and bacon and all sorts of other good stuff on the menu. Will definitely go back.
Election buzz was in the air yesterday. People are so pumped about Obama here, and you instantly make friends if you show your support. In the evening, the embassy hosted an election party at the Radisson (which is very swank, by the way). The party itself wasn't that exciting--it only went to 11 Malian time, 6 EST, so no results. I met another Fulbrighter and we got a drink in the Radisson's posh bar, so all in all enjoyable.
Kevin and I took advantage of the wireless internet to obsessively pour over the election maps until the coast seemed clear and I fell asleep at 4 AM. I haven't been outside yet today, but I'm sure Mali's going to be excited.
Needless to say, it's been very nice having Kevin here, especially to share the elections with. We've just been taking it easy--getting over airport exhaustion, not pushing the culture shock process any faster than it needs to be, and just catching up after a month apart. We're off to the National Museum today and then up to Douentza tomorrow morning. More from there.
Saturday, I moved to the Hotel Djenne, a charming little hotel packed full of Malian art and artifacts in a more happening part of town. I even managed to get wireless internet here (so I have no excuse for not posting). Saturday night, Salif stayed up with me until 2 AM, when I had to go to the airport to get Kevin. Upon arriving there, we learned that the flight wouldn't be in until 20 to 4, so we just settled in and waited it out. Sure enough, we heard the plane land right around then, and a half an hour later, Kevin actually emerged from the Bamako airport. It was amazing and surreal.
Sunday felt like it didn't exist. Kevin and I were both so exhausted from being up until 5 that all we did was sleep and go out to eat.
Monday, we met my friend Rosemary and her husband for lunch and then got passport photos taken to try to start the Burkina visa process. We made our way over the embassy (on the other side of town) just to find out that, in fact, they only process visa requests until noon. At night, we went over to a restaurant called Akwaba at about 9 and were the first ones there. They had a delicious spicy chicken, though.
Yesterday was a big day. We got ourselves out the door to go back to the Burkina embassy and started our visa process. I had intended to go to the American embassy afterwards to cash a check, but didn't have foresight enough to realize that a visa process meant that they were going to hold onto our passports. So the American embassy was out of the question.
We headed back to our side of town and went to a restaurant called the Broadway Cafe, which has all sorts of very good American food. I had a milkshake and a burrito (not Patty's, for those of you who know what that is, but recognizably a burrito nonetheless), and Kevin had the biggest double-cheeseburger the world has ever seen. They even had pancakes and bacon and all sorts of other good stuff on the menu. Will definitely go back.
Election buzz was in the air yesterday. People are so pumped about Obama here, and you instantly make friends if you show your support. In the evening, the embassy hosted an election party at the Radisson (which is very swank, by the way). The party itself wasn't that exciting--it only went to 11 Malian time, 6 EST, so no results. I met another Fulbrighter and we got a drink in the Radisson's posh bar, so all in all enjoyable.
Kevin and I took advantage of the wireless internet to obsessively pour over the election maps until the coast seemed clear and I fell asleep at 4 AM. I haven't been outside yet today, but I'm sure Mali's going to be excited.
Needless to say, it's been very nice having Kevin here, especially to share the elections with. We've just been taking it easy--getting over airport exhaustion, not pushing the culture shock process any faster than it needs to be, and just catching up after a month apart. We're off to the National Museum today and then up to Douentza tomorrow morning. More from there.
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