Tonka Trucks and Big Rocks

October 30, 2005

I got to ride in a dump truck! Sounds like fun doesn’t it? You would think that I might have had enough of riding around in trucks. Each truck is very much like the next one. They’re loud, hot, bumpy, and unless they are brand spanking new, they have been hammered by countless others before. All of this is indeed true, but this was no ordinary dump truck. This was a CAT 777C; a monster of a dump truck.

As I approached the front bumper I couldn’t help but notice that the bottom of the bumper was just above eye level. The first step of the ladder is at least three feet in the air. Seven steps up the face of this gargantuan and I was standing on the “hood”. Three feet above my head was the lid of the bed. Six long strides across the front and I arrived at the cab. It’s a one person cab with a jump seat for a second. My driver spoke no English and I speak no Bombara so conversation was not to be had. I’m sure he thought I was a freak for wanting to ride along, but I don’t care because it was cool.

Not physically cool, I mean I’m still in Mali. There were buckets of sweat pouring off each of us as we drove our 100 ton payload to the top of the hill. The trucks are rated for 90 tons, but they run them heavy. It was slow, loud, hot, and bumpy. Driving one up and down the mine ten hours a day, seven out of every ten days would suck. Riding one up the hill, dumping the load, and riding back was awesome. Who needs the roller coaster anyway?

The dump truck ride was just the icing on the cake. I had mentioned to some folks at a party last night that I was interested in checking out one of the big rigs. Hennie suggested that we meet him today at the lip of the mine pit. He would be blasting a section around one and then I could go down in the pit for my ride. We stood next to him while he commenced the countdown into his walkie-talkie. After one, there was a slight pause and then five hundred holes loaded with fertilizer and wired electronically to a computer erupted simultaneously. The Earth moved and a section of the mine went up in a cloud of dust and smoke. It was amazing!

As with most of the miners I have met, Hennie is a career man. Probably somewhere in his fifties, he has been mining for twenty or thirty years. He speaks to me as if I should know what he’s talking about. It’s hard to keep up, but I find it all so fascinating that I hang on every word. In eight years of operation the Sadiola pit has produced six cubic meters of gold. Currently the most lucrative mine in AngloGold (the second largest mining company in the world), they must extract three grams of gold for every ton of Earth processed to remain profitable at the current price of ~$450 an ounce. It is projected that some of the rock contains as much as six grams per ton while the majority carries somewhere between 1.5 and 4 grams per ton.

Let’s put that into perspective: There are 28 grams in an ounce and sixteen ounces in a pound. This makes 448 grams in a pound. There are 2,000 pounds in a ton so that means there are 896,000 grams. For every ton of Earth there will be 895,997 grams of waste. This waste material is sorted for potential future profitability and stored at various locations around the site.
Today was an intense crash course in geology and the art of profitable mining. I still have difficulty understanding a great deal of it, but while I’m here the visual evidence is unmistakable; there is a big hole in the ground and lots of dirt surrounding it. Huge quantities of Earth are moved every hour of every day to extract miniscule amounts of gold. All of that dirt gets hauled in big ass dump trucks and I got to ride in one!

Sadiola Week in Review

October 28, 2005

Friday feels good! It has been a good week overall, although slightly challenging at times. It started out great, got a little rough, and now I need a nap. I am not entirely positive that I will get a nap this evening and I have some work to catch up on this weekend, but we have a day off next week to pull it together.

Sunday was the craft fair. There were all kinds of things for sale. There was a bunch of stuff “created” by ex-pat women who have nothing better to do with their time. They are the wives of employees who are looking for things to do to occupy their time. They are the same women who have come around to the school begging for jobs. They don’t seem to understand that with only twelve students, we don’t need a whole lot of help. There were also a lot of Malian goods including some really cool woodcarvings, metal work, leather goods, and clothing. We bought some fresh pastries and a couple of cocktails and window-shopped. We’re saving our purchases for vacation.

Monday afternoon we got a message that there were packages waiting for us at the office. We got really excited because we have been waiting for several packages from home for quite some time. By the time we got to the office, the receptionist had gone home for the day, but Stan was kind enough to find someone to let us in. Two big boxes and an envelope…all for the other teacher, what a disappointment. We fueled up and headed home. I was anxious to get to Reg’s house for his birthday party. He had a great braai (BBQ)! The food was amazing and the booze was plentiful. It made for a wonderful Monday, but a really challenging Tuesday.

Having recovered from Tuesday, I glided into Wednesday. Immediately after work we loaded into the car (In Sha Allah) and headed off to Sadiola Village. We were in search of Malian garb (boubous (boo-boos)). Saturday is the official farewell party for Stan, the CEO, and he has requested that it be a Malian themed night. Thus, everyone should wear Malian outfits. There has been a woman selling these clothes at the club for a few days but we were told that she was too expensive and we should go into the village to purchase these items for half of her price. We asked Mohammed to help us locate some good, cheap Malian clothing. Apparently he misunderstood what we wanted, because he brought us to the shop of the woman who had been at the club all week. As it turns out, it is the brothel that Carrie had visited earlier. Her clothes are actually Senegalese, but we got a good deal and even sprung for clothes for Mohammed.

As we left we encountered a fellow with a live chicken in his hand. Zachary got to pet it, which made him quite happy. He also tried to pet a donkey, but the donkey wanted no part of that action. Okay, time to go, but, oh shit, the front tire is flat. Great! I call Mohammed to help. He immediately takes over. I try to suggest several times that we should make sure the jack works before we use it, but no one is listening to the long haired Toubab. I had to fight to help out and finally had to stand back when the four guys working discovered that the jack would not go down. After successfully pushing the car off of the jack, we headed home.

Thursday Carrie got her Malian driver’s license and we picked up packages from the plane. This time it was presents from the boss who had shopped at the American Commissary in Bamako. What a joy to receive Oreo’s, Cup O’Noodles, graham crackers, and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. Just as we were finishing our Mac and Cheese dinner, my French tutor showed up for my first lesson. It was challenging, but it seems very close to the Spanish I studied in high school.

Now here we are at Friday. Zachary has the sniffles and we are all exhausted, ready for the weekend. Only five weeks left until break! Life here is pretty easy. It will perhaps get easier if we learn how to relax into the Malian mentality and take things as they come. We are working on that. We are closer now than we were when we arrived, but we still have a fair distance to go.
MJR

Drinks are on Me

October 22, 2005

Y’all know me. How into sports am I? I barely know a soccer ball from a basketball. My sports minded friends always laugh at the choices I make for the winning team. I am ignorant about whether the Lions are better than the Packers or the Mariners are better than the Mets. I have never really cared before and that attitude has certainly not changed.

Last weekend Reg convinced me to come cheer on his rugby team. They’re called Western Province and they played the Cheetahs. It was an interesting game. I asked a lot of questions and was disappointed when Western province lost. After that game, the Blue Bulls played the Lions. It was a much more aggressive game and the Blue Bulls won, much to my chagrin.

May I just take a moment to say that I think the name Blue Bulls is a ridiculous one. I mean, what the hell is a Blue Bull? I’ve heard of Babe the Big Blue Ox, but Blue Bulls? That sounds like an affliction I can do without! After two games and at least six beers, I was extremely vociferous about my objection to the name. Needless to say, Blue Bulls fans were unimpressed.

It turns out that the competition I had witnessed was merely the playoffs. This weekend was the Super Bowl of Rugby. The Currie Cup is serious, no messing around son, RUGBY: Cheetahs against the Blue Bulls. They played the game on the big screen at the club. Morne (Mornay) set up a pool. For 5,000 cfa (~$10) you could pick a winner and points. The winner won the pot and a case of beer.

Having witnessed the playoffs I felt qualified to pick the winner. I anteed up my 5,000, picked the Cheetahs (although it was clear they didn’t stand an ice cube’s chance in hell) and stated the final score. Having thus participated, I sat down and watched the game.

It’s a fascinating game! It moves very fast. There aren’t the breaks and time outs that there are in the NFL. There are two forty minute halves and a half time of maybe fifteen minutes. The clock never stops. Guys get tackled and mauled and play continues. Penalties get called, guys get ejected, and the clock never stops. Eighty minutes is what they get. Win, lose, or shut up!

At the end of the match the Cheetahs won. The final score was 29 – 25. Since I had selected Cheetahs 28 – 25, I won the pool. Having watched three games of Rugby in my life, I won nearly $250 and a case of beer in the mine rugby pool. How cool is that? The South Africans would say, “That’s lacker!” (read that; “that rocks!”) I distributed my case of beer to the rest of the spectators and proceeded to “Kak braat!” (Talk shit!) It was particularly amusing to hunt out those that had been so disdainful of my earlier opinions on the Blue Bulls and rub salt in their wounds. I exited the club by thanking everyone for giving me their money. I acknowledged that anytime they felt like giving me their money, they should feel free to call.

I think I’m starting to understand the allure of professional sports.

I had a good time today. I really like the game of rugby. It’s fast, it’s furious, and there’s plenty of carnage. It was fun to win the pool, especially as the one person in the bar who knew the least about the sport. I am sure that now I will get roped into many “meaningful” conversations about rugby, football, soccer, and sports in general, but hey, I can bullshit my way through anything, can’t I?
MJR

Life in the Big City

October 21, 2005

This week went by so fast! I got my two new students on Tuesday morning. By Tuesday afternoon it was apparent that the second grader was not capable of second grade work so I moved her down to first grade. She didn’t want to go. Every time she got a chance on Wednesday, she would slip back into my classroom, sit down and pull out a book. She kept telling me she didn’t want to go to Ms Amy’s class. By Thursday she had come to accept it and now she goes there without prompting.

On Wednesday Mohammed took me to the mine office so I could take my driving test. Everyone has to have a special permit to drive on mine property. The permit also allows us to use company vehicles. There are some things I have to remember when I am doing “official” things like that. First of all it always takes longer than I think it should. There are very few signs on office doors and no directories. Most of the people one encounters speak very little to no English. This means that you have to wander through this maze of corridors, searching for a person you have never met before. Upon finding that individual you will probably have to wait. Appointments are ridiculous as time has no meaning. We found the gentleman I needed after about ten minutes of searching. He could speak some English and he directed me to take him to the car. He insisted that I identify some parts of the engine although he only knew the names of these items in French. After several unsuccessful attempts at interpreting, I finally just started naming everything I saw. By the time I had worked through the intake and exhaust manifolds he seemed convinced that I knew something about the engine. What it is he wanted me to know, I will never know, but I do know that I passed that part of the test. A quick trip to the village later I was certified, qualified, and permitted to drive.

Yesterday after work the three of us loaded up into In Sha’Allah (the school Land Rover) and headed into Sadiola. I took Carrie to the bar I had been to earlier with Reg. She got to meet Colly and Zachary got to meet Colly’s little girl. She spoke not one word the entire time we were there, but she followed Zachary everywhere. They had a ball running here and there and laughing. They were quite the pair; Zachary naked from the waste down and white as a ghost, the little girl naked but for underwear and black as night. Carrie and I just sat on the porch, drank a beer, watched the kids, and chatted with Colly. Words cannot describe the pleasure in such a simple thing as that.

We loaded up and bounced through town, crawling along so as not to run over any goats, donkeys, bicycles, motorcycles, or small children. We ogled the “mall” and the wares for sale, waved to those that waved to us, and sweated like whores in church as we drove our car through Sadiola. On the way back home we detoured to the picnic place. It is a low walled structure with a thatched roof shelter, several barbeque pits, and a killer view of the mine and the valley it sits in. We whiled away some time there and finally headed back home, each of us creating our own little pool of sweat around our butts.

Today we are going to play volleyball with whoever happens to show up. Tomorrow I go to watch the rugby playoffs between the Blue Bulls and the Cheetahs. Sunday there is a craft fair and BBQ. All in all a busy weekend. Winter approaches, the rains are dwindling, the nights are cooler, and the bugs are fewer. We glide effortlessly into tomorrow, blissfully unaware of the greater world around us.
MJR

Happy Monday

October 17, 2005

So much is happening and it’s only Monday! Tomorrow I have two new students arriving; one fourth grade boy and one second grade girl. That doubles the number of girls and the number of fourth graders. Overall that is a good thing. I am excited about the possibilities. The two new kids are new to everyone, they are not returning from holiday. Tomorrow will be a brand new day (I even rearranged my room!). I will have the opportunity to remind my kids what it means to be a community and they will get exposure to kids they haven’t met yet. Who could ask for more in October?

They have been playing around with the power here. Everything is connected and powered by diesel generators. We lost power for about an hour this morning and when it came back on line, I had no outlets. That means no A/C, no computer, no music. It was a sweaty few hours until the five guys showed up to install a new breaker. FIVE GUYS! What the hell they needed five guys for I will never know, but they fixed the breaker and put me back in coolsville (not that I had ever wandered far).

I took Zachary to the market in our bike trailer. He loves to ride in that thing. We just went to pick up a few items for this curry recipe I wanted to try. Zman was in one of those moods. People would say hello and he would say NO! and look away. He refused to talk to anyone. I hate it when he is in those moods so the store trip was turning pretty annoying. The line was huge and I really just wanted to get out and get back home. Outside the door of the market there has been this fellow selling stuff. It’s pretty cool stuff; leather boxes, masks, chess sets, knives, swords, that kind of thing. He has been bugging me all week to buy some stuff and today after haggling with him, he gave me a good price and I took home our first Malian souvenirs.

We hadn’t been home for more than three minutes when the mechanic rolled up driving our newly repaired school vehicle. It’s a beaut, with a rack that's to die for. I haven’t figured out exactly what year it was made, but it looks to be about a ’55 Land Rover. No frills, no A/C, barely any brakes, and it’s all ours. They are still waiting on brake parts and until then we can drive it. We don’t need to drive it far, just far enough. Even if we take it nowhere, we now have the power to go somewhere. That makes all the difference.

The curry turned out great. I picked some tiny little peppers out of our yard. They look just like cayenne peppers only smaller. Holy cow do they pack a wallop! Those things are hot. Before we had figured out just how hot they were, Zachary got a hold of them. He has been running around half naked for potty training purposes and, well, he touched his butt with hot pepper hands. He didn’t cry, he just said,”my butt is burning.” Mama had to rush him off and hose him down. Having been in a similar position myself, I could empathize with his plight, but that didn’t keep me from snickering about it.

I have hot peppers, papayas, two lemon trees, and a brand new family of frogs in my yard. Can you believe that? We add lemon to everything; the beer, the rum, the tea, the curry, it rocks! When the dry season arrives and the plants shrivel up I will be sad. Until then I will have to keep drinking so as not to let any lemons go to waste.

Not a bad Monday. All the good things helped me to forget the fact that Mohammed accidentally threw away a key piece to the bread maker, I have absolutely no idea what we’re doing in PE tomorrow, and it’s really friggin hot here. If tomorrow is only half as good as today it will still be a really good day.

Our Son

Zachary is growing by leaps and bounds, becoming a “big boy” in so many ways. Who (other than the millions of parents who have done this before) knew that year three would hold so many significant growth markers? While parenting has been a challenging journey at every phase, we definitely chose to move our lives at a time already ripe with change. Maybe that is best, embrace a lot of change all at once. All these things would happen no matter where we live, right?
Regardless, Zachary is being a great sport. He is open to learning a lot, and fortunately for us, he’s not too picky an eater!

The recent milestones:

Toilet training – such an elusive milestone, seems to depend on the day
Letting go of the pacifier
One day he just brought it to Daddy and said he was done
Sleeping in a “big boy bed” coupled with learning to get out of bed by himself
…and ending up in Mommy and Daddy’s bed at 6:30 every morning!
End of “Sippy” cups
Feeding himself and not wearing a bib
Talking. Sure he did this before…
…but how do you learn to stop and let others speak sometimes?
Swimming (or at least floating) all by yourself
Zachary loves his life jacket
Taking off your clothes all “by self”
Putting on your own shoes all “by self”
Brushing teeth regularly
What will be next? The end of nap time?
Nooooooooooooooooo

From his body to his mind, there has been so much change in such a short time. These days he can; tell the story of the Three Little Pigs using puppets, expertly construct a tower of blocks, and use the word “employees” in casual conversation.
He is amazing (and exhausting) us each and every day.

What Happened? Why?

October 15, 2005

We went for an evening swim last night. There were a few fellows hanging out on the porch nearest the pool. It was extremely pleasant. Cool air temp and cool water and just the three of us swimming. Suddenly we saw a commotion on the porch. The three guys leapt up, knocking over their chairs. One fellow fled to the top of the stairs while another grabbed his chair and started banging it against the patio. I could just see a snake trying desperately to get away. The third guy grabbed the pool net and used the pipe end to crush the snake’s head. It was a cobra, about three feet long. It was beautiful. We were both sorry that they had to kill it.

MJR

A Ride in the Sun

I headed out for a bike ride this morning at about ten. Slathered in SPF 30 sunscreen with my head wrapped to further shield my face from the sun’s rays, I felt prepared. Turns out you really can’t be ‘prepared’ for the Mali sun. Now, everyone knows that I love the sun, that I feel underdressed without a tan. I’m from the land of Zonker and from the time of wearing only baby oil to welcome the sun. This is a different beast! I was only out 45 minutes and I still have distinct tan lines to prove it. Wow. Needless to say, I spend a lot of time in the shade here. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it is the only way to survive. We sit on the porch, we swim in the late afternoons (or with our hats and sunglasses on, and I bike ride fully covered…who would have imagined.

Although the sun was intense, I had a terrific solo ride in the countryside. It’s pretty amazing to be able to leave my concrete house here, hop on a bicycle, ride for twenty minutes, and find myself in a village of mud huts. Yet, that is exactly what I did. Within the first five minutes of my ride, I passed the security gate of the Mine, and found myself surrounded by nothing but tall grasses and the occasional large tree. The sun was bright and many a variety of beautiful bird calls could be heard. The air was thick with the smell of grass and manure. After a while I saw a sign to “Nouveau Farabakouta“ (“Nouveau” meaning the village was relocated to the new spot when the mining began at the original village site). Out of curiosity I followed in the direction indicated. I next rode among random groups (can they be called herds?) of cows, donkeys, goats, and chickens sharing the hard, red dirt road. Finally I saw the low thatched roofs signaling a village ahead, its entrance simply denoted by a weathered steel sign reading “10k.”

The scene was a bit like traveling back in time. Or perhaps traveling to a place that has not been much changed by time. Over one fence, there were two women grinding corn into meal. What a sight to see! Each woman held a long, thick, wooden pole between her hands. As I watched, they each rhythmically lifted up the pole, so that their hands were overhead, and then they forcefully brought it down into the wooden basin where the corn waited to be crushed. This is a large scale mortar and pestle. It was incredible to see the strength these women had. They kept at it, together, sharing the basin, controlling their own pole. Next door two men reclined on simple wooden plank benches under the shade of the thatched roof, chatting and watching the goats eat. They chewed on pieces of sugar cane. A few children took a break from rolling an old tire with a stick, and came out to see the stranger riding by, smiling and calling out pleasantly in Bambara. (I later learned they were saying “white lady”) A simple life these people live. A simple ride I had, just two miles down the rode, a world away.
CSN

I want to go, but not to Philly

October 12, 2005

Today is Wednesday. Yesterday was the half way point between getting here and getting out. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy it here. There is a certain attraction to being completely cut off from the rest of the world. I also look forward to getting out and doing, eating, seeing some of the things I have been missing.

It is with some glee that I read about Bush’s newest screw-ups, knowing that I am not entirely affected by them here. I understand that the price of gas has shot through the roof, but again this does not affect me. I haven’t driven a car in so long I am afraid I have forgotten how. Life here is simpler than that. I wake up, go to work, come home, take a nap, read, go swimming, eat dinner, read or watch TV, and go to bed. That is the short list of what there is to do here. I have read more books in the past eight weeks than I have read in the last eight months.

On the other hand, I want to go to a park. I want to go to a real restaurant, one where I have not already memorized the menu. I want a real steak with all the fixins. Ben and Jerry’s, vanilla lattes, and microbrews are things I miss. Going out and being anonymous is something else I miss. I want to be able to hang out and see no one that I know. All of that will happen in good time and I’ll probably miss the mine when I leave it.

It’s really good when I manage to get out though, even if it is for only a few hours. Last week Reg came back from holiday. When I saw him on Saturday I asked him about a bush bar that had a bartender who had driven a cab in Philadelphia. He said “Yeah, I’ll take you there tonight!” We climbed on his bike around eight and took off into the night. It was the first time I had been off the mine at night. We rode through the village with Reg pointing different things out. At the end of town he took a right and promptly got stuck in the mud.

After some grunting and heaving, the wheel broke free and we headed off. We took a left into the second alley, swerving to miss the donkey and the stoned guy peeing (it’s really dark there at night) we finally arrived at the bar. We sat in the courtyard and chatted with Coulli (coolly), the owner, and Mike, a Malian chemist. Coulli had indeed worked for ten years as a cab driver in Philly. He even showed me the stab wound to prove it. He has been back in Mali for four years. He would like to travel back to the states, but not to Philly, and not with the same name. I couldn’t tell whether he wanted to avoid the law or the American wife he had left there (he has a very strong accent).

When the lightening flashed we moved inside and continued our conversation. Mike works for the mine. He is Malian by birth but was named after a friend of his father’s named Michael Richards (no relation to me or Cozmo Kramer). We laughed at the comedy of a Malian named Mike. Both he and Coulli are very down on the Malian education system. In fact, Mike was quite excited when I informed him that as a Semos employee his child was eligible for the American School. Hopefully he will get her enrolled soon.

When the rain passed Reg and I donned our helmets and headed back home. It was quite an evening. I was exhausted, but exhilarated by the experience and the conversation. We have subsequently been eyeing motorcycles so as to be able to venture back to Coulli’s Place again.

MJR

Happy Birthday

October 8, 2005

Today is my father’s birthday. He would be seventy years old today. I say would be because he died in January. He had been sick for only six weeks when he succumbed to the cancer, but I had the chance to see him in that time and make my peace. Or at least try to make my peace. He was not a man at peace with his family. I don’t really miss him because I never really knew him. It wasn’t for lack of trying. He just had things going on that were more important than his family. That seems to be the way of many ministers. I think the thing that I miss the most is the idea that we would find our peace some day. I always hoped the day would come when he would realize all that he was missing. On that day he would begin to work on mending the fence. That kind of work is always easier with two people. Alas, that day will never come.

Blood is thick. His blood courses through my veins. I see him in me. I have inherited his temper, I have inherited his belligerence, and I have inherited his high cholesterol. I have not inherited his hairline, his belly, or his hands full of thumbs. Thank God for small favors. Our time here in the wilderness needs to focus on the small favors. There is not much else to do here save for reflecting. To reflect on the “shoulda, coulda, wouldas” is surely the road to depression. Our time in the wilderness needs to be a time of rebirth.

I know, having witnessed the birth of Zachary, that it is a painful, traumatic experience for momma. How must it be for the child? To leave the womb, so warm, so safe, indeed the only familiar thing, and be forced down this tiny little tunnel to an alien land has got to be hard. It’s no wonder babies cry upon entering this life. Is that what this is then? Are we in the birth canal? Are we being painfully squeezed through this narrow little tunnel to a new life? Maybe, but the difference here is in the knowing. Newborns are blissfully ignorant of what’s happening. They move with the moment and react to reality as it unfolds. We are not “blissfully ignorant”, but we can “move with the moment and react to reality as it unfolds”. Can’t we? I hope so.

It seems like part of the difference is the diameter of the tunnel. Our tunnel here, in the mine village, is partially a tunnel of our own making. It’s hot. Riding a bike or taking a walk or going outside is all that much more challenging because of the heat. It’s easy to stay inside with the air conditioning, but it restricts the size of the tunnel. There is so much to see here, so much that we have never seen before, but the lack of transportation makes it difficult to see. This too, makes the tunnel narrower. We are the only Americans in an ocean of foreigners; this restricts the size of the tunnel even further. Instead of dwelling on these things, I need to make this rebirthing process more positive. It seems that it is inherently uncomfortable, but altogether necessary.

Today I mourn the death of my father, not because I miss him or even because I knew him, but because I miss the possibilities of what might have been. He was not a bad man, just a poor father. Today is the first day of the rest of my life; what happens now is up to me, no, actually, it’s up to us. We as a family must move forward; through the wilderness, through our rebirth canal, and create a new life. It sounds cheesy, but it feels right. I need to resist my blood and trust my feelings, at least this once.

The Shining, Acid Beetles, and the Dry Season

October 7, 2005

It’s been seven weeks. Only eight more until break. Claustrophobic is a good word, but it doesn’t quite get to the heart of things. Tomorrow we are going to look at a scooter someone is selling. We are hopeful that it works out so as to get us out of each other’s hair.

It’s amazing, actually that we haven’t killed each other. I have pondered more than once the Jack Nicholson character from The Shining. We work together, we play together, we live together, we can’t get away from each other. It’s very challenging. I knew it would be, but reality is always so different from supposition. Wednesday I took a bike ride all by myself. I rode all the way to another mine village; one I hadn’t even known existed. It was a great ride. The solitude was invigorating.

We have gotten a ton of rain lately. Overall it’s been a wetter year than normal with October leaving its average in the dust. 50mm of rain have fallen in the first five days of the month. This has made for some beautifully cool mornings and afternoons. It meant that my bike ride was not the sweat fest I previously experienced.

Right now is acid beetle season. Acid beetles are about one inch long. They are black and skinny and they fly. Like moths, they are attracted to lights. They will fly blindly towards them. If they happen to stumble into a human on their way, they are likely to deposit a liquid that creates a chemical burn. If the burned area is not immediately rinsed, the burn will worsen and the fluid can be spread through contact. If the fluid or bug is ingested, it is usually fatal. Fortunately they are supposed to be out of season in two weeks.

We should also be seeing the end of the rainy season which means mosquitoes will be less of an issue. We have to focus on these positive things or we will go crazy.

Sex, Marriage, and Children

Sex
On Saturday I spent the morning with a French Canadian woman who has lived here for 3 years. She took me to Sadiola village where she was buying fabric. (There are some of the most fabulous tie-dye and batik patterns here, but I digress.) Nicole pointed out places she knew around the village as we headed for the home of one particular business woman. Upon entering the complex of thatch-roofed huts I took in all the activity I could see. One woman washing clothes in a basin, another taking a shower behind a 3 foot wall, and yet a third bathing a small child in a five gallon bucket. I wondered at the beautiful women living here who smiled warmly, skin glowing with perspiration as they set about their tasks. ( Trying to look, without looking like I am looking, is becoming an art form for me.)

As we wandered down the beaten dirt path between the two long, mud buildings, I noticed small doorways on either side roughly draped with tattered cloth. Small blue teapots set on worn metal trays sat outside and men’s voices came from inside these rooms. This is a brothel, a thriving one, with a ‘bush bar’ (no pun intended) in the back.

Turns out the women who work here are “illegal” Nigerian women. They stand out among the Malian people because they are wearing Western style clothes that “Malian women would not be seen in.” They reveal their assets subtly. They seem self-confident. What motivates them to make the trip to Mali? Is there more money? More work?

It is hard for me to imagine having sex on a thin, well used, mattress, on the floor of a mud hut Doesn’t sound sexy to me. It sounds dirty and diseased. This is the land where AIDS is rampant. But, perhaps some people don’t need sexy, just sex. Men who are here, away from home (away from wives and girlfriends), have needs and desires I’m sure. How else might these feelings be met? Seeing this place makes me even more pleased that I have come here with my partner, and he with me.

Marriage
Mohammed told me that his grandfather had four wives, each had many children. This has been the way of Africa in it’s past. His father has only one wife and she had only 3 children. Times are changing. And yet, Mohammed’s family has arranged for him to marry a girl in Sierra Leon. They have been eighbors for a long time. He tells me he must marry the next time he returns to his country. Therefore, he has decided not to go in December but to stay here and save more money first.
She is 16 years old, Mohammed is 29.

Children
Today the school custodian asked if he could receive an advance on his pay of 100,000 ‘cfa’. (An amount equivalent to $200.) He wants the money so that he can throw a party for the birth of his child due at the end of the month.

Turns out Keita is not married and has another child, from another woman, in another village. Interesting. Mohammed, translating for Keita who speaks Bambara, pauses to say “this is not what we want men to do in the Muslim faith but…these things happen”. “Indeed”, I say, “at least he is celebrating and taking part in the birth.” He intends to marry this mother. I wonder how much really changes with time.