AC/DC and a Lesson for Life

January 27, 2006

What’s the difference between noise and music? It’s an age old question.

According to my students, noise starts at the precise moment that the music stops. For my dad, that moment was when I turned on AC/DC. For him, the music ended right there.

I used to have this paper route. It was an afternoon route five days a week. On the weekend, however, it was a morning route. The Sunday papers were super heavy. There were always lots of inserts and ads. The paper came in three sections; the comics (and ads), the “Sound Life” section, and the front page. These sections had to be put together before the paper could be delivered so I woke up extra early on Sunday.

Sundays were a big day in my house. You see, my father was a minister. Sunday was the reason for the rest of the week. Everything he did from Monday to Saturday revolved around making Sunday the perfect day. I was free to roam about the rest of the week, but by God, Sunday will go right!

I would get up before the sun. It’s always a refreshing burst to splash into cold dark day. I would get the hand truck out of the garage and drag it down the block to where they delivered my papers. I would load seventy five newspapers, spread out over half a dozen bundles onto the hand truck and cart them home.

I was allowed to put them together inside the house as long as I was really quiet. My father was a very light sleeper. Everything woke him up and he was less then pleasant when he had been woken up; especially on Sunday.

At 5:30 I could be found dragging those bundles off of the hand truck and into the living room. There I would sit and assemble my papers. This process was greatly aided by the addition of AC/DC. I could plug the head phones in, crank the AC/DC, and put those rags together in no time. Life was beautiful at the ripe old age of fourteen. One particularly beautiful morning started out just so. Everything was going gangbusters.

My dad was into his stereo. He admired it, though he rarely played it. He always liked to have the cutting edge. There were buttons and switches for everything. Playing a cassette or an album was a major ordeal as you had to push all the right buttons to make it work. His equipment was top of the line. The unwritten rule was that we could use it, but we had to leave no trace of ever having touched it. His stereo was precious material.

I plugged the headphones in, cranked the volume way past eleven, pressed the play button on the tape deck, and ran back to my seat to let the concert begin. I was one of those strange kids that got great joy out of going deaf at rock concerts; I stood as close to the speakers as I possibly could. The headphones couldn’t be too loud.

I was in heaven; listening to some great tunes, stuffing papers, getting jazzed for walking my route on this way too cold morning. I saw something out of the corner of my eye. My eyes played tricks on me sometimes so I didn’t really believe it at first. Then I saw it again! I turned my head and there was my dad. His hair was standing straight up and he was yelling something awful. I didn’t have the slightest idea what he was saying. There was no way I could hear him over the thunder of the music. I took off the head phones, but the music didn’t stop!

I had forgotten to press the button that turned off the speakers in the living room. The windows were rattling! Man was he mad!

After that he always had an aversion to AC/DC.

MJR

Snowballs and Midday Showers

January 25, 2006

A year ago I was suffering through another New York winter. It was cold and snowy. Six months ago I was finishing up a cross country trip. Now I’m sitting in my living room in Africa.

I miss the snow. Snow is a lot of fun until it turns black. I remember one night when it started to snow and by the next morning we had three feet on the ground. It was the first time they had cancelled school in like fifteen years. I woke up that morning, looked outside and thought, “Holy cow! I hope there’s no school today!” Instead of working we hiked in the woods, threw snowballs, and built snowmen.

We had a couple of serious rainstorms on our trip across country. We were in the south. The rain came down in great sheets that slowed traffic to a crawl for miles at a time. The windshield wipers couldn’t work fast enough. Just when I started to think that maybe we should pull over and wait it out it, it let up. It was exhilarating; the surprise of the rain, the intensity of its fall, and the suddenness of its end. I felt like I needed a cigarette.

The weather here holds no surprises. Clouds gather, but no rain falls unless it’s the rainy season. Outside of the rainy season, there is the cool season, the Harmatan season, and the ohmygod it couldn’t possibly get any hotter season. If we are not in the rainy season there is no rain. Every day is sunny, blue sky, wispy clouds. It’s a little boring. I miss the surprise of opening the curtains and seeing snow or the sudden clap of thunder that announces an afternoon shower.

MJR

Firing up the Grindstone

January 13, 2006

Ah the end of the week. I love Friday! Things went pretty well, although I feel as if I have about a million things left to do.

I am going to start my online French course tomorrow. I have looked through the books, but now I have to log in and actually do the work. It’s going to be a lot of work. I am feeling like I have a grasp of French though. Traveling through Francophone Africa will do that to a person I guess. There aren’t really a lot of places here on the mine to practice. I have learned that most of the villagers speak only Bombara. When I went to the market and spoke French they just shrugged their shoulders and reverted to sign language.

I have a new student. She is a third grader from Namibia. She is very quiet. It’s quite challenging to get a new student up and running when they won’t say more than two words at a time. I now have seven students, but that will change the first week of February when one of my second grade boys leaves for good. I’m bummed to see him go. He is very bright and energetic as well as upbeat. Such is the life on a mine. People come and go with regularity. This provides a challenge for friendships as well as teaching.

January 20, 2006

Here we are one week later. I stopped writing and never sat down again. We have been really busy.

I embarked on my online course. It took a little meandering through web pages before I was finally set to go. Now I have to actually do the work. Fortunately, I am motivated to learn French, otherwise the class might be really hard! The logistics of trying to get something like that going is almost prohibitive. I am feeling more empathy towards the mine everyday (don’t worry I don’t actually feel that much empathy for the second largest mining company in the world). Speaking of the mine, Linda sent me a great link to information about our mine relocating villages. I have included the link here:

http://www.anglogoldashanti.com/subwebs/InformationForInvestors/ReportToSociety03/com_eastwestafrica.htm

We played volleyball on Saturday and took a great walk through the bush on Sunday. We drove the car out to a road, drove about three miles in, and parked. Then we all went for a walk to check it out. The weather right now is beyond fantastic. It has even gotten down into the sixties (we actually had to put on sweaters!). It’s terrific weather for walks and outdoor activities in general.

To facilitate our need for the outdoors we bought some lengths of bamboo fencing. Our backyard is bordered on one side by a road. There is a short cyclone fence there and some scraggly, thorny bushes. The kids of the neighborhood love to stand and watch whatever is happening. I thought about selling popcorn, maybe charging admission, but decided instead to close the viewing window. It didn’t help. The two boys across the street (students of mine) decided that the bamboo was an invitation to spy. I have had to have a few words with them to settle the issue. I’m a little tired of living in a fishbowl.

Monday we went back to work with a vengeance. Conferences after school Monday, volleyball on Tuesday, teaching in the village Wednesday, and French lessons on Thursday made the week go by quick. Today we are off for Malian Army Day. We are looking forward to some down time. Tomorrow we set to work on a sandbox for the little man.

The charter company has agreed to buy me a new drum. I ordered one from my friend in Bamako. He gave me a great deal. I should have it by Monday or Tuesday.

We are feeling a lot better about our place here. We have decided that if we can live here we can live anywhere. Small town America has nothing on bored people on a Gold Mine. To test the theory we have decided to move from here to Snowville, Utah. If that doesn’t kill us nothing will.
MJR

On Your Mark, Get Set, Go!

January 11, 2006

We finally made it to Kayes. We had yesterday off; we spent most of it getting back into the swing of things. When Carrie bumped into Morne, our plans changed.

He was smiling really big and wearing a new shirt. Carrie asked him what was up; he told her he was going to Kayes to see the bivouac for the Dakar Rally. He had just come from the meeting where he got tickets for the pits and an official shirt. She signed us up immediately.

We left the village around 4, arriving in Dakar around 5:30. We had to be escorted by the gendarme as there has been some trouble on that road in the last few weeks. We were quite the spectacle I’m sure as we drove into Kayes; the gendarme in front and six white Land Rovers following behind. The bivouac was at the airport outside of town.

We arrived just in time to see the American team roll in in their Hummer. We called out to them and they pulled a u-turn to come back and talk. They were the maintenance guys. The race car did an endo into camel grass the day before, lost an hour, and dropped out of the race. They were super friendly (especially to Carrie) and gave us team shirts. We all commented how nice it was to talk to Americans after being surrounded by foreigners for so long. I invited them up to the mine since their car was done, but they declined.

Once inside the gate we were awestruck. There were motorcycles, ATV’s, rally cars, maintenance trucks, racing trucks, airplanes, and helicopters as far as the eye could see. There were cars up on jacks, drivers getting massages, motorcycles being torn apart, and TV crews running here and there. Speckled in with all of this were little clumps of tents, spectators, and race officials. It was amazing.







We wandered through everything, taking pictures until it was too dark to see. We counted fourteen helicopters and at least that many airplanes and countless tired people. We had a great dinner of New York steak and potatoes while we watched highlights of the day on the big screen. It was very exciting, except I was a little bummed that I know so little about the whole thing. Last year the bivouac was at the airstrip at the mine. There is talk that it may be there again next year. Hopefully by then I will know more and can actually keep up with the conversation.
MJR

Back to the Grind

January 10, 2006

Today is Tabaski, a Muslim holiday. We have the day off. We arrived back in Sadiola on Friday, held school Monday, and now we have the day off.

It’s kind of funny actually (in a sick sort of way), when we arrived here there were tons of goats in the mine village. They were everywhere, bleating, bleating, bleating. Of course they had been purchased for the big feast so today they are bleeding, bleeding, bleeding.

I got to watch part of the Paris to Dakar race on TV the other day. Intense! They race cars, motorcycles, and heavy trucks across the desert in a huge rally. Last year they passed right through Sadiola. This year they started in Lisbon and they are passing through Kayes. A group of folks have put together transportation to go down there tonight and check it out. I’m psyched. It will be really cool to see the vehicles up close.

When we left for break, I put the school vehicle in the shop for some minor repairs. When we returned it was still there as no work had been done. I had to call the head mechanic and tell him to release the rig to Mohammed so he could come and pick us up. Saturday we went into the village to do some shopping. We returned after dark. As we pulled up to the guard gate, the car died. Carrie restarted it, but when she turned the lights on, smoke started pouring out of the dash. The guards made us get out and wait for the mechanic to show. Of course nothing happened when the mechanic fired it up.

Now it’s at home with the dash removed and the bare wire disconnected (it’s only the headlights). I told Mohammed the car was out of commission and he said, “Can you fix it Mr. Mark? If we take it back to the shop we will never get it back.” Now I just have to scrounge up the parts to make the repair. It’s amazing how the simplest tasks become complicated. There is no Big A Auto Parts to run to for everything I need. I have to turn to my friends at the mine for the pieces I need. It also helps drive home the idea that if you want anything done out here, you have to do it yourself. Of course that would be easier if I had any tools at all.

Oh well, the weather is awesome, almost cold. We had a low of 69 today! If it were like that all the time, this place would really be awesome. Unfortunately it will be hotter than the hinges of Hades in no time; all the more reason to enjoy this beautiful weather now.
MJR

Bring Out the Big Guns

January 7, 2006

We are now back home. Our travels have engrained the idea that Sadiola is indeed home. We can unpack our suitcases, play our own CD’s, and play with our own toys. If that’s not home, I don’t know what is.

Ile De Goree was amazing. The island is tiny; less then a half mile from one end to the other and maybe a quarter mile across. On Monday, since the museum was closed, we walked to the castle. This is a fortification that was built way back, but was used up through World War II. It is the end of the island where they filmed “The Guns of Navarone.” There were artisans all along the way selling original pieces. This was refreshing to see as most of the art we have looked at has been the same pieces sold throughout the country. The art from the island is truly unique. We walked down this concrete tunnel and ended up underneath the turret for the big guns used for WWII. There we met a fellow named Samba.

Samba lives in the space under the guns. He led us up through the turret into the park. We walked along the perimeter, surrounded by various pieces of art along the way. According to him, there are about twenty-five artists that live in the park. They occupy bunkers, turrets, catacombs, the infirmary, anyplace there is room for themselves and their art. We took it all in, purchased a few pieces here and there, and blazed a trail to check out the rest of the village.

What a beautiful place. It’s only an hour away from Dakar; from the castle there are striking views of the skyline, but since there are no cars, it is peaceful and clean. After the last ferry leaves, the locals strike up the drums and the village really comes to life.









It’s weird that the allure of the place (at least according to official literature) is slavery. As a person disembarks from the ferry and walks up the beach one of the first things they see is one of those cheesy photo boards that have a picture but no heads.


The House of Slaves Museum, however is quite interesting. All of the signs and tours are in French so it was difficult to interpret, but the dark cells, tiny windows, and door to the sea spoke volumes for themselves. There were displays of the manacles used, what a slave ship looked like, as well as the original signs that hung above each door. I didn’t feel comfortable taking pictures; it almost seemed like sacrilege to do so. It was extremely moving.

We left the museum and went straight to the ferry dock. We arrived in Dakar quite early for our flight. This gave us ample time to run some errands and eat lunch. After haggling with the cab driver we made it to the airport with time to spare. The ticket agent made me check the Djembe as baggage. I was convinced it would be broken by the time we arrived in Bamako, but it made it through just fine.

We got to go shopping in Bamako. We also got to hook up with the teachers there again. Our hosts were Bob and Rachel. They have a son who is slightly older then Zachary so it worked out well. We took care of business until Friday when we had to catch the small plane to Sadiola. Upon arrival they opened the cargo hold and the drum rolled off the top of the stack, smashing the bottom as it hit the ground. Fortunately I didn’t discover it until we arrived home as it was very depressing. Mohammed was there to pick us up. He was upbeat and excited as always.

It’s good to be home. There are warm smiles and cool breezes. We opened Christmas presents and slept in our own beds. Today we walked around to see how things had changed while we were gone (they didn’t). We start work again Monday, a fact we are both trying to ignore. For now the weather is fine, there are mangoes on the tree and we are still on vacation.
MJR

Like a Trip to the Past

January 1, 2006

Forget New Years, I broke all of my holiday resolutions already. I always drag along that book on vacation. You know that book; it’s the one you bought six months ago because it looked really interesting and you haven’t opened it since. It’s there in my bag, right next to the unit plan I swore I was going to look over. Yet here it is, the last five days of my five week vacation and I haven’t looked at either one. I swear though that tomorrow will be the day I begin that rigorous exercise routine I promised to embark on as soon as we left home. Ah, well, there’s always next holiday.

We finally extricated ourselves from pretensionville. That place is nuts! I had the bill tallied this morning at which time I learned that they only accept cash as payment! Of course there is no bank machine and I have all but 6,000 cfa (about ten bucks) to cover our bill for four days accommodation. The dude told me I could eat breakfast, but then I needed to get in a cab and pay 2,000 cfa to ride to the ATM to get enough cash to pay the bill. Did I mention that the toilet didn’t fill on its own? In order to flush you had to fill a bucket with the hand held shower head. There was no way to set it up to fill on its own and the water pressure was so weak it took twenty minutes to fill the bucket. We waited over three hours for our meals and they moved us out of our room so they could move us back and now they’re pissing about ten bucks on a two hundred dollar bill. Fortunately, mere seconds before I went sideways, the French manager lady showed up and resolved the situation. I am so glad to be out of there!

Tonight we are on Ile De Goree. The tourist info says it was the major port for exporting slaves; Lonely Planet, however, suggests that this is not really true. Apparently there is some question about how many slaves actually passed over this island. I may never figure out the answer since we leave the day after tomorrow and tomorrow the museum is closed. The island is pretty cool though. You have to take a ferry to get here and there are no cars. The streets are cobblestone, the buildings right out of the eighteenth century. Walking around I feel like I need to be wearing breeches and a powdered wig (now that’s a pretty picture!).



Vacation is coming to an end. I’m happy and sad all at the same time. I learned a ton about Mali, music, and traveling in Africa. There were quite a few Peace Corps volunteers staying at pretensionville and I had some good conversations about the state of West Africa. Everybody seems to be of the mind that the region has no resources and therefore cannot afford to invest in itself. I’m not convinced I buy this argument. The governments are not bankrupt; Bamako and Dakar both display some serious wealth. It seems to me that if a country doesn’t work to help itself and its people, there’s not much else to be done. I am troubled by the fact that I don’t see any long term investment by the government. I understand that resources are limited, but that doesn’t absolve the government of providing basic care to its populace. It could begin with education about hygiene and the importance of proper disposal of garbage.
MJR

Time To Go

December 31, 2005

It’s our last day at the beach. They forgot our breakfast order again this morning and our parrot friend was still there. Things here are so strange.

We had to get up as we needed to change rooms. When we reserved the space we were told that the room was booked for New Year’s so we knew it was coming. We packed our stuff and dragged it all down the stairs, across the courtyard, through the street, and deposited it in the main office. We were stoked actually because they were going to switch us to a room in the main building rather then the annex. The performance space is right next to our old room so we knew it would be loud late. While we waited for breakfast, the woman came and told us that she would have to put us in a room in the annex as the main building was booked. After breakfast she came back and told us that we would be going back into our old room. This time she got the staff to move our stuff.

Carrie batiked while we played, and then we headed off to the beach to “play in the foamy stuff”. We played and played and swam and played. After that we drank beer, played, swam, and ate lunch. The restaurant we have eaten at both days serves one thing for lunch; fish and rice. Today I got the head half of the fish. It’s always a little strange to eat food that’s staring back at you, but it was really good! The fish here is awesome. We have to eat our fill as fresh fish is unheard of in Sadiola.
We got in another Atlantic sunset. I’m sure we will see at least one more of those before our holiday comes to a close. Tomorrow we head to Dakar. We have to stop by a shipping company that has our immunization cards and then catch a ferry to Goree Island where we spend the next two nights before we fly back to Bamako. It’s all very surreal; here we are relaxing in Africa, preparing to go home to Africa.

MJR

Polly Wants a Cracker!!!

December 30, 2005

Okay, so I guess we are officially pretentious. We worked our way into several workshops. Carrie did dancing and batik and I sat in on a drum class. The drumming and dancing are actually set up for the American cultural exchange group, but we befriended the leaders and got “permission” to join them. The batik class was a one on one deal that Carrie worked out with the instructor.

It’s sort of amazing that we had the energy to do anything. Zachary’s illness kept him up most of the night. It wouldn’t have been so bad if it weren’t for the screaming fits every hour or so. The first screaming fit was accompanied by a tidy little upchuck all over the front of mommy. A fun filled, roller coaster ride of joy all the way until morning! He seems much better now, so hopefully tonight will be more like the Ferris Wheel of dreams.

After our first dinner here we have chosen to eat elsewhere. They have this awesome multilayered porch that overlooks the ocean. We asked the server if we could eat dinner there. He said “Oui, ce bon!” Carrie took a walk with Z and he asked her what her room number was. After the sunset, Carrie hunted him down for another beer and he asked her what her room number was. On my way to the bathroom I bumped into him; he informed me that our food would be up shortly, and he wanted to know our room number. After one and a half hours of waiting we moved to the dining room where he informed us that he forgot to turn in our order and he also needed our room number. There is a caged parrot near the dining area. On the second morning we discovered that he had expired. Closer examination revealed that his food dish and water dish were both empty. Apparently they forgot his food order too. His decaying carcass is still on display three days later. I told the waitress that I thought the bird was sick; she told me he was dead. I wish they would share whatever it is they’ve been smoking!

MJR

Is Bilbo There?

December 29, 2005
This place is a trip. We are at our hotel in Toubab Dialao (too-bob juh-lauo). It is an artisans community. Our accommodations are quite unique. There are tile mosaics everywhere, along with spires, arches, and narrow, twisting, causeways. It’s like something out of Tolkien.




It would be a pretentious Tolkien though. Everyone here is, after all, an artisan. There are classes in dance and classes in batik and classes in drumming and classes in pottery. Had they given us a schedule or some suggestions on how to get into these classes when we arrived, it would have been great. Instead, we have to ask the artsy tourists that are here, most of whom are a little too cool for words. We are trying to blend, but we’re having some trouble.

There is a large group of American teachers here as part of a cultural exchange program. They are participating in workshops to help them understand the culture of Senegal through music. They are staying here for a week and then they are off to Dakar for a few days before going home. I’m not sure it’s a good immersion in the culture, but they feel that it is so I guess that’s all that matters. You can tell these folks right away as they don’t say bon jour or ca ba, they say hi and good morning.

We are tired, Zachary is sick. I have truly enjoyed this time off, but I am ready to be done and go home. Every native that approaches me raises my suspicions. It is impossible to get into a conversation with anyone as eventually they will try to sell me something and they never take no for an answer. It would be fun to sit and shoot the shit with a stranger and maybe make a new friend, but it is increasingly apparent that this is not to be. That sucks. I’m tired of warding off unwanted interlopers. I’m tired of negotiating the price of everything. I’m tired of living in hotels. It’s ironic that in a month or so I will be pining away for the next break.
MJR

Goodbye Paradise

December 28, 2005

Today we are leaving our oasis at St Louis. We had a very relaxing time and now we are moving to another beach south of Dakar. We have a long car ride before we get there. It was hard to vacate our tranquil little bungalow by the ocean, but we needed to move on.

I bought a Djembe from a fellow named Mamdou. I sat with him each day on the beach and played. He taught me rhythms and I did my best to keep up. Not bad considering he speaks little English and I speak little French. After two days my hands were killing me. After five days I could barely hold a cocktail so I decided to take a break.

Mamadou runs a little shop on the beach. There are three other fellows that work their shops as well. Every day they bugged us to buy stuff. Every day I told them no. You would think that after two or three days they would get the hint and leave me alone, but that is not the West African way. By our last day I did not even want to go to the beach because I didn’t want to be accosted.

The waves were tremendous. The ocean was green and refreshing. We played in the sand and the surf every day. When we arrived, Zachary wanted nothing to do with the water; by the time we left we had to drag him out. It is a beautiful thing to awaken to the sound of the surf. I could easily while away my days staring at the sea.
We spent a day at a park called Djoudj. It is a bird sanctuary. After paying the cab driver, the park fees, and boat fees, we had only to verify our citizenship before embarking on a pirogue ride on the lake. We saw cormorants, ducks, herons, egrets, crocodiles, monitor lizards, monkeys, and a huge pelican rookery. Of course the tour was completely in French so we understood nothing, but the dialogue we made up was quite entertaining.







Yesterday we took a tour of St Louis via horse cart. The town rests mostly on an island in the Senegal River. It is a French colonial town and as such it looks like a dilapidated version of the French Quarter. I quickly learned that, even if one was born in Missoura, they are not allowed to call it Saint Lewis (it is San Louee!). In its prime it must have been quite the spectacle. Now the buildings are crumbling and much of the luster has been lost. We found some cool bars and wandered the streets, dodging vendors and admiring the beauty of the citizens. The town’s big claim to fame today is its annual jazz festival in May.


















It is also home to a huge fishing industry. The pirogues leave every evening and return every morning with truckloads of fish. This is sorted, iced, smoked, dried, and loaded into trucks right there in the street. At this time of day it’s next to impossible to get through this area with all of the activity. At any time, the smell is unbearable. The loaded trucks head in all directions, delivering the catch to every nook and cranny of Senegal.
We will spend New Years at the beach in Toubab Dialao. Afterwards we spend two nights on the Ile De Goree. This was the major export point for the slave trade, as well as the location of the cliffs for the movie “The Guns of Navarone”. It should be quite fascinating, although I imagine it will also be somewhat overwhelming.
MJR

I Love the Beach

December 23, 2005

The crabs are the color of the sand. They skitter around in the surf and burrow into the beach for protection. They’re everywhere. If you sit long enough in one place they will pop up out of holes next to you and look at you with these big eyes and then; poof, they’re gone in the sand. Sometimes we chase them just to see them run. They run really fast. It’s solid entertainment.

There is a fair amount of litter on the beach, but the water is green and clear and very refreshing. We head for the beach after breakfast, play in the sand until ten when I take my drum lesson, and then into the waves for body surfing. After that it’s lunch, nap, and play in the sand some more.

Zachary loves the sand. We have built castles and mosques and tunnels and slides. We build them so that he can tear them down. At first he was pretty nervous about the waves, but he has grown more comfortable and will now play in the surf a little. If I hold him, we can go out into the waves and let them splash us. He laughs like to die.

The one frustration we have is with the vendors. They hound you like there’s no tomorrow. Everyone is very friendly, but for every ten people you greet, nine of them want to sell you something. One fellow even told Carrie that she was not a proper traveler because she was not buying anything. It is not that we are opposed to buying things, but much of what they sell are trinkets and statues and things we don’t really need. Hopefully, now that we have been here a few days, they will leave us alone.

This place is starting to fill up. When we got here there were only a few folks here. Now there are several families and many children. Zman has been trying to interact although it’s challenging as they all speak French. There are two little girls about his age who have taken to him and they run and dance together. As the only Americans we are definitely oddities. We have met people from all over the world, but no Americans. That’s not a bad thing, even if it is somewhat isolating. My French is still very poor so I have to rely on hand gestures and smiles to communicate.

I talked to my sister this morning. It always feels good to do. She knows me and we can communicate without really saying much. It helps to ground me. It also makes me a little homesick. Neither of us has ever spent a holiday so far from home and family. It helps that we are in such a beautiful spot. Of course it also makes me glad I am not there to experience the cold and rain and transit strikes and general holiday mayhem. Those things I do not particularly miss. We have been teaching Z Christmas Carols. He especially likes Jingle Bells and sings it over and over and over and over. If I close my eyes then, I can almost picture myself in the mall…
MJR

To Have and Have Not

December 21, 2005

One of the things we observed while hanging out in Bamako was the severe difference between rich and poor. There is no real middle class here. People either have or have not. The amount of young people we saw hanging out in upscale clubs was astonishing. A shot of whiskey costs eight bucks and right outside, boys are begging for change, leaning on the donkey cart they rode in on.

Apparently, one has to pay for school up through the seventh grade. After that it’s free. What family can afford to send more than one or two of their kids to school? In a land where a man can marry four wives and having ten kids per spouse is commonplace, there are a lot of uneducated youth. This is a general rule and the amount one has to pay varies from village to village. But the logic of it still evades me; it seems a little backwards.

WorldVision is an organization that has built many schools, hospitals, and wells throughout the country. They have made great strides in providing education on a myriad of issues. There are billboards throughout Mali espousing the virtues of education, good health, and safe sex. There is an equal number of signs admonishing the evils of female circumcision and child labor. I do not know much about the organization as a whole, but Malians I have met who are familiar with their work do nothing but sing their praises. I shall have to do more research.

Let’s talk about female circumcision. Mali is one of the last strongholds of this practice. Apparently it is perpetuated by the women; or so say the men who have been willing to discuss it. It is not a conversation that men participate in here. Young girls who are not circumcised are chastised by their peers and practically thrown out of the village. To be uncut is to be unclean, or so they would have us believe. It’s frightening. Women here work really hard. Everywhere they can be seen cooking, cleaning, farming, carrying goods on their heads, crushing the millet, separating the chaff, and watching the kids. All of these activities are done usually with a baby strapped to their backs and five more running around. For the most part the men sit and watch and expect their dinner to be ready at the correct time. Few women speak French as few women are educated. To some degree this situation is changing as more opportunities for education crop up. Studies indicate that the educated woman is less likely to participate in the mutilation that is circumcision, yet up to 50% of girls get circumcised these days. It is one of those conversations that needs to happen, but no one wants to participate. It is great to see billboards railing against the practice. It seems like a step in the right direction.

Bamako is a weird place. There are Mercedes driving down the road next to donkey carts. The road is dirt and the sewer runs in an open trench next to it. Chickens, goats, and cows roam freely through half finished buildings while right next door is a beautiful mansion. It is an uncomfortable dichotomy. It is the capitol of Mali and the largest city. Why doesn’t the government take care of its own people? I know resources are thin, but the presidential palace is a blight on the horizon of such a poverty filled city. USAid has set up an office there. They have an annual budget of fifteen million dollars to help Mali. Eleven million of that amount goes towards staffing and office expenses. How can the people be helped if this is the kind of “aid” they can expect? I am sad and confused and more than a little disgusted.
MJR

Life is Hard

December 21, 2005

Last night I watched the sun set on the Atlantic. We marveled at the idea that although we have seen many sun sets, we have never watched it set over the Atlantic. We are in Africa! Sometimes I forget that. It seems so strange still, like a wild dream that could not possibly have come true. I never would have believed that I would end up here.

Yet when I pinch myself, it hurts, so this must be real. We have our own bungalow on the Barbary Coast. There is a beautiful pool, a great staff, and the ocean just footsteps away. We started our day playing in the sand and the surf. I am now sunburned and we both have skid marks where the waves pounded us into the sand and dragged us like rag dolls into the beach. Is there anything better then that?

















A fellow approached and convinced me to learn how to play the Djembe. He will give me one hour lessons for the next few days. Ultimately, he wants me to buy a drum, but meanwhile I had a great time this morning banging on the goat skin, watching the waves break behind Carrie and Zman as they danced in the sand. Tomorrow morning I will do it again.

Senegal is much better off than Mali. The villages we saw on the drive here were not of mud and sticks, but concrete and wood. There are still a lot of beggars and vendors and the people are definitely poor, but there is a little more to go around here. There is also more thievery and higher costs, but that is the price of modernity.

Sometime in the next few days we will go to the bird sanctuary. We are in one of the main flight lines for migrating birds. Thousands of different birds winter here. There are flocks of Flamingoes, Pelicans, and song birds, all hanging out a short distance away. We have been told that it is quite spectacular.

We will be here a week in Saint Louis. The town is a French colonial village that was first settled in the late eighteenth century. The city is an island in the Senegal River, just a few short kilometers from its confluence with the ocean. There is a spit of land separating the ocean from the river and we are on the end of that spit. We are away from the village and fairly isolated. It feels safe. The bird noises are crazy and the pulse of the ocean permeates the day. Occasionally, dual prop planes fly low overhead preparing to land. It is still on oddity to hear an airplane and I watch each one as it descends.

Hopefully our plane tickets for the trip home will arrive soon or else we may be stuck here (shucks). I have already forgotten about time. I had to turn on the computer to figure out what day it is. Only four more days until Christmas; the rest of the world is freezing, covered in blankets of snow and I am sunburned and contemplating a swim to cool down. It’s a tough life this ex-pat thing.
MJR

Mama Said There'd Be Days Like This

December 18, 2005

Boy am I tired, what a day! It started out great, got testy in the middle, jumped right into super complicated, and now we are resting comfortably.

We spent the night at our friends’ house in Bamako. Ray and Jerry are teachers at the Bamako school, but they are originally from Oregon. They were super gracious. They gave their cook Friday off so that she could come in on Saturday to cook for us. We had a fantastic meal of beef skewers, rice and vegetables with fresh Basil, and fresh fruit salad with mint leaves for dessert. We even got to have fresh lettuce salad! Two other folks from the school showed up to join us. We ended the evening soon after Paul and Linda left for the airport.

This morning we had real coffee on the porch, chatted about life for awhile, and then headed out to breakfast. Good stuff! After breakfast we packed and headed to the airport for our flight to Dakar.

The Bamako airport is very small. We entered and went to the Air Kenya desk. I presented the e tickets we had gotten from the travel agent and was immediately told that they were not tickets, just reservations. We weren’t getting on the plane. As it turns out, Air Kenya doesn’t have e tickets, they only accept hard copies. I immediately called the travel agent. Except it’s Sunday and there’s no answer. I did what any self respecting teacher would do; I called the school secretary for help. She gave me the name of the owner of the company along with suggestions about how to find his cell number. The one that worked was the suggestion to talk to the Air France office, as they all know this guy. After some persuasion, the agent managed to find his number.

So here we are; our plane leaves at 1:05 and it is now past twelve. I am not a happy camper and I am getting more stressed by the minute. Worst case scenario is that we have to go back to Ray and Jerry’s and get on a plane tomorrow. Not too bad, but goddammit I want to go to Dakar! I get a hold of the guy and he promises to get back to me. Ain’t that great? I called the secretary again. She suggested that we just go ahead and purchase tickets at the window and we’ll get the thing sorted out later. That sounded lekker, so I talked to the Air Kenya guy. He informed me that it was not possible to purchase tickets for Air Kenya at the airport. They have no way to accept payment of any kind. He sent me to Air France. She told me that the office was closed until 5:30 or we could talk to Air Senegal when they arrive at three. Shit! What kind of an airline doesn’t sell tickets at the airport? We agree to wait around for fifteen minutes and then call the agent back. That’s when the phone rang.

It’s now pushing twelve thirty and I am wound up. Fortunately, I kept my cool. The agent tells me that there several things that happened and he is very sorry (Ahh, I love those words). He tells me to go back inside and talk to the (English speaking) manager and he will put us on the plane. I ended up having the manager call the agent. After a heated discussion, we were allowed on the plane, but no seat for Zachary. We checked in at 1:00. Talk about relief.

Now I consider our family to be fairly experienced travelers, but apparently we still have some things to learn. The flight was less then two hours. The food was good and so was the visibility. We were heading for the beach for a little R&R. Nothing to do but lie in the sun, swim in the ocean, and drink beer. Then we arrived at the man who wanted to see our immunization card. We had to get a mess of shots when we came to Mali. We each have a little book that lists all of them. They are tucked neatly in their place in the file folder in the second drawer of the sideboard; right where we left them. Apparently we are supposed to carry them with us wherever we travel. Now we are in Dakar; it’s eighty five degrees, there is no air conditioning, and we are crammed into a little room with fifteen other people. The man with the uniform has our passports; we have not let him out of our sight since he took them. I tried to tell him that we worked for the embassy, but he didn’t seem too impressed…

One by one they called people into the office. It’s a tiny, windowless box in the back of the airport. If you cannot prove that you have had a Yellow Fever shot, then you must buy one for $10. We had that shot; we wouldn’t have been able to enter Mali if we hadn’t, but we don’t have the paperwork to prove it. I can have them faxed here, but that’s gonna take time. We’re so close to the water. I saw it flying in. The plane swung out over the Atlantic before it landed. For a brief moment I could see nothing but water. Man, do I miss the water. It’s right there, through those doors, but that man has my passport…

I thought I was going to pass out, it was so hot. Finally we got called in. We explained to the man in English and French, ticking off the shots we got to come here. We must have said the word “teachers” at least five times. He sent us back out to the waiting area. Fuck! I’d rather spend the night in Bamako then the Dakar airport. Hell, I would rather spend the night in the Lake Forest holding cell then the Dakar airport. This sucks! Five sweltering minutes passed before he took us aside, admonished us for not carrying the paperwork, and sent us on our way free of charge.

Sweet! Now we only had to go through Customs, Baggage Claim, Security, and the crowds outside before we could get to our hotel. Indeed, that is where we are now. It’s a peaceful place with a pool and a balcony. I can even smell the ocean from here…
Carrie says, “AHH!”
MJR

Dogon Country

December 16, 2005

My kidneys will never be the same…

We ate lunch in Bandiagara (Bon-ja-gara). After that we set off for Sanga, a short thirty mile trip. The road to Sanga, however is really not much of a road. It’s one lane and dirt with rocks and holes and washouts about every six inches. We bounced and jostled down that road for two and a half hours before reaching our destination.

The surrounding countryside is amazing. The Dogons raise onions as their primary crop. There are many river valleys that wind through the escarpment. Several of these rivers have been dammed, creating good sized reservoirs for watering their crops. The fields themselves are terraced and well marked. We learned that there are individual fields as well as community fields. Men and women work to water, harvest, and replant these fields. We also encountered men weaving cotton thread into blankets and garments.

The Dogon villages are equally as amazing. They are tidy, organized, well kept little hamlets. Garbage is piled outside of the village and burned. Since the area is so rocky, there are many quarries and likewise many rock walls and buildings. There were very few dilapidated structures as the village seems to work together to maintain itself. This differs from other villages where the inhabitants seem to be on their own; if the resident of a structure can’t afford to rebuild, then the structure doesn’t get rebuilt. Overall we were very impressed with the Dogon and their way of life.

They originally lived throughout Mali, but retreated from the onslaught of Islam. They ran to the Bandiagara Escarpment, chased out the Tellems, and took up residence. The Tellems were cliff dwellers. Their homes were high up in the cliff walls. They hunted game and gathered food from the surrounding woods. After some time they built structures at the base of the cliffs and lived there as well. The Dogon have taken over the villages at the bottom of the cliffs, using the higher structures as burial sites. They have logged the entire valley and wiped out all of the game.

There are ten villages, each controlled by its own chief. All of the villages pay taxes and are controlled by the main village of Sanga. The leader of Sanga is elected by eligible men throughout the community. Most of the people are Muslim now, but there are a fair number of animists as well. This is a pagan faith which uses sacrifice, divination, and mysticism. The oldest member of the tribe is called the Hogan. He lives in a special house and is not permitted to bathe as they believe that the sacred snake will cleanse him when necessary.









On our second day there we embarked on a journey down an even worse road then the first one. This was barely a track that wound down the side of the thousand foot cliff to the valley below. We made our way to the village of Tireli where we were treated to a Mask Dance. Usually performed at funerals, this dance involves thirty men in traditional dress and the most incredible hand made masks. It was extraordinarily beautiful, but ethically challenging. You see, we purchased the privilege of the dance for $250. Our guides defended the practice, quoting the influx of the almighty tourist dollar. It seems like prostitution though; selling ones culture for a fixed price. If that’s true, then we enabled them to take one step closer to the devil. How do traditional cultures maintain their identity while entering the twenty – first century?
















We ate a larrapin lunch and headed back up the hill, stopping once to check out the sacred crocodiles at another village. Our local guide, Gol – Fils was a fountain of information and provided us with answers to all of our questions. Like most Malians, he speaks five languages.
















If I had a choice about where I wanted to live in Mali, I would choose Sanga. It is truly a community. They have irrigation systems, magnificent art, sanitation systems, and a true sense of community. They have long worked together to provide for their entire population. They are currently working to tar the road from Bandiagara to Sanga so they can attract more tourist dollars to their area. We are all saddened by this news as we have an understanding of what tourists can do to a culture. I hope that the Dogon can maintain their pride, their heritage, and their culture, while welcoming in the outside world.