How Much Does It Cost?

November 29, 2005

Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November. That means that tomorrow is payday! I love payday, even if there is nothing to spend money on here. I’ll pay my bills; the market, the club, Visa, and Mohammed. After that, the money is ours.

It’s almost like a dream that we get to live in this awesome house and pay nothing for the privilege. No water bill, no electric bill, no internet bill, no car insurance, I don’t even have to pay for petrol (that’s South African for gas). Does that rock or what?

It sure beats the hell out of New York. Rent was more then my paycheck, taxes were crazy, and car insurance was even worse. We drained savings just to buy food. All that and we still had to do our own dishes and laundry. Why did we live there again?

Friday the Niebancks arrive. We’ll pick them up at the airport in In Sha Allah and bring them back to our house. They get to see where we live! I am excited. It will be really fun to show this place to someone from our own world. I especially want to see their reaction when they see all these things for the first time. Their presence will help to drive this whole experience home. We have arranged a braai on the escarpment on Sunday (a first for us) and are working on getting up to the big hole on Saturday. We will go to the village, cruise the mall, and have a beer at Collie’s Place. We can swim at the pool, dinner at the club, and toodle around the neighborhood.

They are also bringing things from the States. Christmas gifts and various sundry items we cannot otherwise find here (like an oven thermometer and a carrot peeler). The best gifts they will bring are familiarity and conversation. Conversation with real live Americans! It’s hard to believe we have only been gone three months.

Perhaps we can convince them to put in a guest appearance on the blog so that we can hear about their experiences first hand. In case that doesn’t work I’ll take lots of pictures.
MJR

Ugly As A Mud Fence

November 27, 2005

It is amazing the things that can happen in a week, even an uneventful week like this one. Conversations, parent teacher conferences, outings, and subtleties all provide fodder for one’s mind.

Racism has finally reared its ugly head this week. There is one gentleman we quite enjoy. An older fellow, he has been very gracious to us and is enamored with Zachary. As it turns out, Zman holds a tremendous similarity in appearance to this man’s grandson. One night, comments were made, and his true colors came to bare. It saddens me. I am not one who tolerates racism, but I like this man, and I find that my views are in the minority.

As soon as the comment was made, the rest of my table mates nodded in agreement and proceeded to make their own contributions to the conversation. These contributions ranged from agreement to bad jokes that weren’t funny the first time I heard them as a child. It was suddenly apparent that our views were not the views of most of those around us. If we make those views plain, we risk ostracizing ourselves from everyone here. If we keep these views inside, we may explode. Our challenge is to find the happy medium; maintain our self integrity without pissing everybody off.

Conferences were interesting. I rarely get the opportunity to meet the men in my student’s lives. I know most of the mothers quite well, but the fathers don’t seem to come around much. Conferences are the one time I get to meet everyone. Some are quiet, not participating in the meeting at all, while others are very outspoken and help to provide valuable insight into their child’s performance. Always I learn something more about each family.

Friday night was quiet. I had a great conversation with a Namibian man named Morne (more – nay). As a child, he remembers hiding under his bed when the sirens went off. He would stay there until the bombing stopped and then he would crawl back up and go to sleep. In the eighth grade he and his classmates were provided with AK47’s. They were required to carry them everywhere. They were provided with ammo twice a week when they went to the shooting range. As a result of conscription, every male child has to spend at least two years in the military upon matriculation (graduation). This existence is so far removed from mine that I don’t even know how to relate. His stories are amazing. Namibia was liberated from the Germans by the South Africans during WWII. South Africa then claimed it as a province. As time wore on, communism continued to prevail in Angola (the neighbor to the north), so Namibia was recruited as a launching point for South African “freedom fighters”. This, in turn brought retaliation upon the Namibians. This war continued for quite some time, although it appears to be over for the time being. Namibia is now its own free state.

Saturday was another voyage to the Baobab Camp. It was Jannie’s birthday and we promised we’d come. It was a small gathering. I asked how many people live in the camp. I was told there were eight. This, of course, means eight ex-pats. They live inside their own fenced enclosure. Immediately outside this enclosure is another enclosure where the Malians live. There are a good many of them, although we could not get a straight answer about exactly how many. Apparently no one has ever asked before and their vagueness demonstrated that they couldn’t really care less. It was a fun party with lots of food, good music, and good darts.

We are learning. Every day is a new lesson. An Aussie I met last night told me that we would need to go home as we really needed contact with our own people. I laughed at the suggestion that I might actually miss American “culture”, but in the end I think he’s right. It’s hard to be surrounded by folks with such different ways of speaking, living, and viewing the world, especially when you are aware that there is no escape. We are all trapped in this fishbowl together for the next two years.
MJR

Here We Are

November 23, 2005

After a series of false starts, my brother finally left the country last week. He is now sitting in Kuwait, awaiting transfer orders to Tikrit. He’s an officer in the National Guard. He takes comfort in the fact that he will be in a “non – combat” zone.

I made a 2,000 mile detour on my cross country voyage in July to visit him and his family. They were all pretty upbeat, considering. It’s easy to not think about the future all the way up until it becomes the present. It was a great visit, even if it was a little tense and slightly sorrowful.

He is older then me by six years and he lives in Texas of all places. He has been there for a long time. There is no question that time and miles have created a distance between us, but we are still brothers. He agrees with George Bush and he believes in what he is doing. I’m afraid I don’t share his convictions. Our visits always pick up right where we left off. We have grown closer over the last decade, especially since the death of our father.

I am the youngest of all the relatives in my generation. My dad’s siblings were substantially older then him. My mother’s brother was very close in age to her. They alternated the birthing ritual. First, cousin Eric, next was my brother Bill, along came my sister Marjorie, followed by cousin Kris, and cousin Lisa, and finally me. This generally meant that I was excluded from all of the really fun stuff growing up. It also meant that I never got to know my older cousins. When I turned eighteen I started to get to know Kris. He lived in Dallas and I lived in Topeka. What a great guy! He was about twenty-three and living with cancer. He had already lost a leg to the disease. He came to my twentieth birthday party. He was upbeat, ready to party, emaciated, and as weak as an old man. A week later he was dead. I hardly got to know him at all.

I’m scared. I don’t want to lose my brother just as I am starting to really know him. I think about Kris. Our relationship had only just begun. I have often lamented the wasted years, promising myself that would never happen again, and now here it is happening again. I can’t imagine being in Bill’s position. He is half way across the world from his wife, three kids, and a grandchild, fighting a war that should never have been started.

Here at the mine we are the only Americans. I am half way across the world from my home, but I have my family and the only thing I am fighting is boredom. People sometimes ask about Iraq and the political climate of our home, but not much. For the most part they could care less. They are South African, Namibian, Australian, English, and French all living in the middle of nowhere. There is no point in dwelling on a war that doesn’t affect them in any way. It’s a quiet little hamlet here. I generally like the way that feels; being isolated from world events. Today I feel lost, selfish, and scared.

I cling to my brother’s optimism. I try to believe that there really are “non – combat” zones in Iraq. I think about his family. I curse George Bush. Then I relax back into the slow pace of life in the third world and try to forget there is a whole other world out there.
MJR

Another Day In Paradise

November 19, 2005

Saturday at last! We only have two weeks left and I am starting to feel the short timer’s disease hitting me. There has been a lot of activity on the mine this week. There have been visiting dignitaries, students leaving, and of course more ESL teaching at the local schools.

There was a workshop this week involving people from all over the world. There were Malian officials, French officials, American officials, and NGO’s like Doctors Without Borders. They were here to discuss the shutting down of the mine and the aftermath of that. There were busses and army guys and more activity then we are used to out here. It was a bummer because we avoided the club all week and volleyball was cancelled.

I had two of my three second graders take off this week as well. My fourth graders spent most of the week with Carrie for testing and I had several students sick. There were at least two days when it was just me and one student in the room. One day, Jules and I did a field trip to the store (it’s right across the street from the school). We made a shopping list and tried to purchase all our items for less then 5,000 cfa (~$10). We both had a good time and Jules got bragging rights on taking a field trip.

We learned the metric system this week. I just gotta say, that system rocks! Did you know that 1,000 ml of water weighs 1,000 g? How cool is that? There is actually logic to it. How long have I spent trying to learn cups and pints and quarts and ohmygod!

I had a Malian student walk past the school this week. He yelled, “Hello Mr Mark, how are you?” It was great! Amy was sick on Thursday so Carrie and I filled in for her. It was awesome. We work pretty well together. We were spontaneous and enthusiastic and we had a really good time. One of the students stopped me on the way out and asked me for a book. I immediately said yes, but I am not sure yet where I will get a book for him. I’ll come up with something. On Friday I worked with Nicole. She is the parent of one of my students. She volunteers her time one day a week for HEY. We worked pretty well together as well.

Last week we met Mohammed’s brother, Abdul. He is a very nice guy. He was staying at the hotel in Sadiola. We invited Mohammed to have him stay here in the guest house. He is very fluent in English and extremely nice. He has asked me to help him find a sponsor in the US. Everyone seems to believe that all they have to do is get to the states and they will be successful. We have been very cordial to him, even inviting them over for dinner one night. We were extremely surprised, however, when we came home from work one day and found him sprawled on the couch, watching TV. It was very odd.

The good news is that I have been allowed to access the blogging site. I can now post my own entries again! I think that is very cool as my sister is busy and has other things to do. It only took four emails and a detailed explanation of why I needed access.

The Great Escape

November 13, 2005

I found a catfish today that was smarter then my last boss. This fish actually managed to find his way out of a wet bag and jump back into the lake from whence he came.

What a weekend. Yesterday Zachary and I ventured off to the big city. We wandered through the market in Sadiola, chatting with the locals and trying to identify the various items for sale. Eventually we found ourselves at Collie’s Bar. His little girl, Aina recognized Zachary right away. She dragged him off to play. Zman was resistant at first, but soon informed me that we would be staying for awhile. So I sat and drank a few beers, chatted with Collie and watched the kids play.

We got home in time to go grocery shopping. The market (Super Marche) is open from 9-1 and 4-7 every day. We are challenged to arrive there before 1:00. Yesterday was no exception. We gave ourselves just enough time to race around the place, gather up our items and pay for them before the staff started helping us towards the door.

We got lunch from the club. Saturday is burger day. Yesterday was chicken burgers with pineapple and cheese and special sauce…very lakker! I picked them up while Carrie unpacked groceries. After lunch we all passed out. It felt great. I made some potato salad while Carrie made banana bread with fresh bananas from our neighbor’s trees. We tried to play volleyball, but the weekly game was cancelled.

Mohammed watched Zachary while Carrie, Reg, Ernie, and I piled into In Sha Allah and drove down to the Baobab camp. This is a small camp not far from here. It is a camp full of Aussies. They work every weekend but one; the second one of the month. There was supposed to be a big blowout party, but it was a little under attended. We had fun nonetheless. We played pool, met some new folks, and bumped into others we had not seen since we arrived here. It was just like a real date in a real city!

This morning we packed our stuff, piled into Wimpie’s rig and drove to the blue dam. There we met up with several others. We sat around and did nothing all day. There was fishing poles propped on rocks, homemade jerky, fresh banana bread, and plenty of beer. George cooked up a poikie (poy – key). It’s NOT STEW even though it looks and tastes a lot like stew. Reg grilled a couple of chickens and we all ate way too much. We wandered and explored and jumped in the water when we could no longer stand the heat. It was a beautiful day for a braai and we all enjoyed ourselves tremendously.

I even tried my hand at fishing. I’m okay at watching my pole and drinking beer, but I can’t seem to tie a hook or cast to save my life. I caught a bream while several others caught small catfish. We had set up a plastic bag in the water with a rock on it to hold the fish. The last catfish we nabbed, however, managed to work his way out of the bag onto the beach. Once he had cleared the plastic, the little devil stood up and ran back to the lake. I think I heard him chuckling as he jumped into the water. George, probably the oldest among us, made a noble leap after the escapee, but all he got was a skinned knee. Carrie and I were no help as we were cheering on the ingenious little bottom feeder.

We are completely exhausted. Tomorrow we go back to work. It is the week we have to give the ITBS tests. Yes, standardized testing even in the middle of nowhere. Don’t get me started on that topic…

HEY

November 10, 2005

We started our volunteer teaching today. We have each agreed to teach English one day a week to middle school students in the village. Today we accompanied Amy, the other American teacher. She taught there last year and was able to kind of show us the ropes. It was quite an experience.

The school is right in the middle of the village. It is completely walled in, with a gate at the corner. Inside there is one long classroom building, a separate restroom facility, and one other out building. There is also a rather large school yard with many trees for shade. The whole place is well used and well loved, but in pretty good shape nonetheless.

As the three of us entered the gate, several students darted in right behind. We walked through a small portion of the yard, being openly ogled the entire way, and stepped onto the porch of the classroom building. There are three rooms; one for seventh grade (seventh form), one for eighth grade (eighth form), and one for ninth grade (or form). We walked the length of the covered walkway, greeting students of all ages and entered the last room (ninth form).

We had been warned that there could be as many as one hundred students in any one class. The program is an after hours one called H.E.Y. The acronym is French and translates to; English Helps You. It is a program that was spearheaded by the mine specifically to teach the villagers English. It is available every night of the week at both the village school and the mine school (it’s located right outside the main gate of the mine village). There are Malians who regularly teach so we are mostly there to expose students to conversational English. The gentleman who is in charge of education for the mine is in charge of H.E.Y. (He has agreed to help me learn French!) Attendance is not mandatory, but there is an aptitude test at the end that should give students a leg up in entering university in Mali.

The school was built by the mine for the education of the children in the village. It is of the same construction as the villas we live in, although there is no electricity. There are half a dozen large windows in each classroom which open wide to allow a delicious cross breeze. Even so I imagine the place is unbearable during the hot season. There is a real slate blackboard and plenty of two seater desks. Aside from three small memos in French, the walls were bare. The floor was clean and the room was well lit.

I was nervous about entering that room. I am an alien here in more ways then one. While I have never met a mean Malian, I have never been asked to step into a classroom full of middle schoolers. As far as I’m concerned four middle schoolers in a room are intimidating, let alone one hundred. My biggest comfort was the fact that Carrie and Amy were there for support. I was relieved to discover that there were less then fifty students present. Over sixty signed up, but apparently absenteeism and tardiness are a big issue.

Youseff, the director of the program greeted the students, introduced us, and impressed upon them the value of being there every day, on time. Amy taught the lesson while Carrie and I helped out. It went remarkably well. The students were very stoic and maybe a little wary. Most seemed eager to participate, although few did. We introduced ourselves, played a game, and sang a song. Each time a student showed up late, Youseff shooed them away and informed them that they must be on time if they wished to participate. As a result we had quite a crowd gathered on the porch outside, peering in the windows and peeking through the open door. After about forty – five minutes we wrapped it up, moved to the class next door and did the whole thing all over again. The eighth graders were much more enthusiastic and had much more fun.

As part of the exercises, Amy asked each student to state their name and age. We had been told that age has a different meaning here. It seems that births are not always recorded. This leads to some confusion about how many years an individual has actually spent on this planet. Many of the numbers quoted by the students seemed a little off. I have never been a good judge of age, but that eleven year old in the back was at least six feet tall and had biceps the size of my thigh. If he’s pre – pubescent, I don’t want to meet him when he’s finished growing!

All in all a good day; I had a tremendous amount of fun. I look forward to getting a class of my own. Better yet, maybe Carrie and I can work it so we can teach together. I know I could learn a ton from her and I would love to see her in action. Perhaps, after break, we can open our schedules up a little to allow us to teach more than one night a week. In the meantime we have enough on our plates and only three weeks left until break. I can hardly wait.

All Hail The Great Oz

November 8, 2005

It is difficult to explain the trials of living on a mine. Everything we do here is controlled and regulated. If I don’t like the house that I am in, I cannot simply move to a different one. I must apply for a housing transfer, justify my position, and wait for something to open up. If the mine decides to deny my request, there is nothing more to be done.

Carrie’s parents have expressed the desire to visit us here. For that there is paper work to be filled out, reservations to be made, and ultimately permission to be asked for. If the mine decides they cannot come, then they cannot come. This is not a lifestyle that most people are familiar with. Asking permission for such things is not something we are accustomed to doing.

It is not that we are being watched and controlled all the time, or that the folks at the mine are not fair minded. Housing exchanges happen with some regularity and Carrie’s parents have been given the green light. It is more the idea that we must ask for these things rather than just do them. Behind that is the idea that our entire life is dictated by politics. If you are friendly with the right people, your request is more likely to go through. This also means that one must be gracious and thankful when they get what they want. These are not traits that I have easily adopted.

Our internet here is provided by the mine. We have a LAN connection which is wired into the main server. We have unlimited access, but there are several hundred folks who have the same access. There are certain times during the day that are very difficult as most of those folks are trying to use the system as well. We had to change our email because hotmail is not easily accessible and there is not enough available bandwidth to use voice over internet services such as SKYPE. This is primarily due to the server. There are also certain web sites we are not allowed to access. There is a firewall as well as software that prevent us from going to select sites.

One of the sites that has recently been deemed inappropriate is blogger.com. At this moment I am able to read our blog, but I am unable to post anything. The screen tells me that blogger.com is pornographic. I have emailed the necessary individuals, requesting access to the site, but there is no guarantee I will get what I want. If they decide that I don’t need to access that site, then I won’t be able to. As a result I will have to email my postings to someone else who can then paste them into the blog. Ultimately, there is nothing I can do about it. We are at the whim of those in charge. Raise your hand if you believe I am happy about that…

There is nothing to do but wait and hope. I thoroughly enjoy writing these entries. I have also come to believe that there are one or two folks out there who enjoy reading them. It is not only therapeutic for me; it helps me to feel connected with the outside world. Right now I am lost. I am completely helpless. I am forced to accept the decision of a third party. If I had no other reason for not continuing past my two year commitment, this would be enough.

MJR

Don't Ask Me, I Don't Know

November 1, 2005

It’s an interesting place, Mali. Life here is ancient. People have been living here for a long time. There was a period of several hundred years when it was an incredibly rich kingdom; the center of the Muslim world. There are pictures of kings in the thirteenth century with thrones of gold. The salt mines of the Sahara, along with the gold deposits, and the overland trade route through the desert to the East were all reasons for this high economic plateau. When Europeans discovered that they could sail around the tip of Africa and bring their own goods back from the East, the economy started to falter. Depletion of the gold reserves and the collapse of the slave trade eventually drove the economy off the deep end. Today Mali is one of the poorest nations on Earth. It has one of the highest infant mortality rates and one of the lowest life expectancy levels.

When we came, we both expected to see a desert. You know; no trees to speak of, no fertile ground, just hot, dry and dusty. That’s not the case. In fact the vegetation here is pretty lush. All around us are mangos, papayas, bananas, lemons, peanuts, potatoes, yams, rice, corn, squash, and various other plants I am unfamiliar with. For the most part, however, these food crops are grown only in small quantities. Subsistence farming seems to be the way here.

Indeed we are only about 45 miles from the Senegal River, yet there is no evidence of irrigation systems. Hennie has told me that ground water is a huge issue for the mine. There are several walls they dare not breach as they contain major deposits of water which would flow into the pit and make mining very difficult. Several folks we have spoken to have insisted that that the Malians have been taught how to farm more productively, but ultimately they fall back into their old patterns of life. Having visited several town sites of ancient peoples in North America, I have seen some of the systems they had in place thousands of years ago. It amazes me then that the Malians have not worked to establish the same types of systems.

We have asked more than a few expats about the fate of the mine village. They were all skeptical of its future. The general vibe seems to be that if the village is turned over to the Malian citizenry, they will have the buildings stripped down to nothing within a month. One person suggested that the place be turned into an agricultural school. Full time professors would train villagers in the ways of farming large tracts of land so as to feed more than just one family. He admits however that this will probably never happen. We have been regaled with stories from other locales; Locals in the Congo dug up the copper phone lines after the company left. The wire was transformed into jewelry and trinkets. Villagers in Mali tore down the houses of abandoned camps and built mud huts next to the ruined structures.

I think I could spend a lifetime asking why. It is apparent that those who have traveled throughout Africa from mine to mine are disdainful of the intellect of the indigenous people. Anecdotal evidence would suggest good cause for this disdain. There are always two sides to every situation, though. What’s missing for me is the viewpoint of the local. I want to know what their take is on this. The challenge there is the language. I do not speak Bombara and they generally do not speak English. There are too many unanswered questions, too many things that don’t add up. I think I will be searching for answers long after I leave Mali.

MJR

Addendum to Tonka Trucks

THEY LOAD ONE OF THOSE TRUCKS EVERY THREE MINUTES, TWENTY HOURS A DAY!!!