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
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
posted by Bronx to Timbuktu at 3:32 PM
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