Roads? Where we're going, we don't need roads...

...But it certainly would have made for a nicer journey out into the bush where I have just been visiting my future site of work.  Before then, I had been at my homestay village, doing the usual studying of language, hanging out with the locals, and drinking lots of tea.  Since the last post, I spent a week in Marako ("We're off on the road to Marako/These bush taxis are killing my spine.").  On one occasion, we were able to attend the wedding of a sibling of the host of one of the PCTs.  Malians really know how to throw a party, and starting at around 10 pm, the xylophones, drums and terrible sound system were broken out and the dancing commenced.  The two other PCTs in attendance and I danced and wathced other people dance, marvelling at how much better at it they appeared to be than ourselves.  Partway through the party, the festivities were violently disrupted by a frog attack — attack being a term used liberally.  Among their many cultural quirks, Malians as a whole are terrified of frogs, and I mean terrified.  There are a whole number of superstitions that exist, such as if a woman touches one, it will literally and actually jump into her *ahem* reproductive cavity.  Suffice it to say, when the frog started hopping around the dance floor, nobody was particularly interested in stopping it, preferring to shriek and run out of the way.  Well, one elderly gentleman had decided that this was enough and when the frog landed in front of him, he starred right at it.  The frog stared back at him, and he at it, and it at him, and finally he stuck his foot out and triumphantly stomped on its head.  He n proceeded to pick it up by the leg and fling it over the roof.  Immediately, everyone cheered, the music picked right back up again, and normalcy was restored.

Another fun adventure and "faux pas" learning experience was when my PCT friend and I decided to go for a run.  The first time we had done this, she had been wearing capri pants, but she decided that this time, it was too hot and shorts were the way to go.  Now, despite the fact that women often go completely topless around here without a second thought around their home concessions, showing legs is a big no-no.  So when my co-runner and I walked around to the front of the house where the family was waiting, everyone took one look at her exposed knees and started muttering and looking away... all except one boy who dropped his mouth open in complete shock, let out a high pitched yelp, and almost fell off the bench he was sitting upon.  To this day, anytime this boy sees her, or even doesn't see her but knows her door is open, he stares at my friend or into her room, probably hoping he'll somehow catch another glimpse of those oh-so-alluring kneecaps.

Sadly, at the end of the week, I had to say goodbye to my homestay family for a while, as last week, we left to spend a few days at our future sites where we will be living and working for 2 years.  The travel out there was difficult, to say the least.  We were escorted by our homologues, the people who live in our villages whose job it is to show us around, introduce us to people, and be our basic support system in the village.  We took a bus from Bamako, the capital, to the city of Kita, where we were supposed to get a bush taxi out to the village 2 hours away.  We missed the first transport, so we had to catch the second one, 7 hours later.  In the meantime, we killed the day by waiting at the station, since the taxi could leave at a moment's notice and we didn't want to miss it.  So yeah, 7 hours sitting around doing nothing.  Finally, when the taxi did come, the trip took an hour longer than it should have since we changed the tire 3 times, despite only having one spare.  But it was okay, because I was perfectly comfortable on my seat which was a giant bag of rice, since the bench was broken and even more uncomfortable than the rice bag, which gave pretty good support as we drove in and out of potholes and ditches along the 100km unpaved road into the bush.  I kept imagining the line from the end of "Back to the Future," which is where I get the title for this entry.

But I'm being too negative.  Once we got to village that night, I was allowed to sleep in my homologue's house while my own house was still being prepared.  The next day, I got a tour of the village, which is a 2000 person farming commune which makes it large enough to have both a dugutigi, or village chief, and a mayor who is appointed by the local government.  I was introduced to both these men, who had extensive talks concerning what exactly I would be doing in the town and how glad they were to have me.  Of course, my Bambara being still very elementary and the fact that they were speaking another dialect called Malinke meant I understood nothing, but I would soon get used to this. The next several days were spent eating, walking around, and hanging out with people who tried their best to include me in their conversations but gave up quickly after deciding that all I knew how to say was "America is very nice" since their accents were nearly impenetrable to my unaccustomed ear.  I did manage to get in a few good conversations with my homologue, and even more with his brother who knows a bit of English and seems much more friendly.  We talked about America and even touched on some political issues such as displacement of wealth and separation of Church and State.  However, I mostly sat quietly for most of the visit and watched the world go by.  Niantanso is basically a typical poor Malian farming commune.  They have pumps and wells for water, but some of the pumps are broken and the wells are made of mud bricks since they can't afford concrete, and mud is not exactly something you want to use to support your water supply unless you want to be drinking it too.  They are also building a CSCOM center, the NGO which builds medical centers for areas like mine which are large enough to support them and remote enough to need them over simple locally trained doctors.  With the sanitation expertise I will hopefully be accumulating in the coming weeks, it seems that I will have quite a bit of good work to be doing once I get to my site in September.

After a long, slow 4 days, I was picked up to go to Manantali, my local city for banking and mail pickup.  There is a "stage house" there for PCVs and it is about as nice a place as one can find in Mali.  There is a river with hippos and monkeys cavorting about, running water and electricity, and plenty of supermarkets with Western amenities for all the Europeans and South Africans working on the hydroelectric dam there.  In short, America is just a 35 km bike ride away.  I spent the night there hanging out with PCVs and other trainees before spending 2 days at the stage house in Kita, which seems like just as fun a place.  We spent 2 days hitting the town, watching disney movies, eating homemade fudge, and getting devoured by bedbugs.  We also got the chance to really see a Malian city for the first time, and it is definitely one of the stranger experiences so far.  Even the major cities here are like nothing I've ever seen.  They are really truly poor, and the only buildings made of solid concrete and look stable are owned by the wealthiest businesses and entrepreneurs.  The local market is usually run by old women selling produce and minor household items in wooden lean-to shacks lined up in rows.  Children amazed by the presence of "tubobs," or foreign white people, follow us around and keep trying to get us to shake our hands saying "Bonjour! Bon soir!" regardless of the time of day or where you are going.

Essentially what I learned this week, while I wasn't cheating and living in the little pockets of American life transplanted here by ex-pats and PCVs, was that Mali can continually amaze me by how different it is than anything I expected.  Everything looks and smells different.  Donkeys stroll through downtown with their owners and everyone greets you on the street.  I am going to take a long time getting used to this place, but I fully anticipate it being worthwhile.  Coming up, I have a solid 3 weeks in Marako with the Samake family, and then I swear in as an official Peace Corps Volunteer.  I'm not even thinking that far ahead.  As far as I'm concerned, I'm living life here a little bit at a time; it's not 2 years in Mali, it's tomorrow in Mali.

This will probably be my last post for a few weeks, so send me lots of love to come back to.  Also, if you want my new address, which is different from my old one, let me know and I'll send it to you.  Thanks for reading, and see you next time.