There's a rustling, a shuffling, and scratching, and a squeaking, and I lift myself upright in my bed and look at the ground outside my window to find Ratt Murdoch happily feasting on my old fish bones. Ratt Murdoch is a good neighbor, one whose company I've enjoyed through my screened bedroom window almost since the day I moved into my new apartment in Bamako. He makes some noise, but it's enough to let me know he's there, and not too much to be a bother. Unlike the lizards who frequent the walls outside my house, he's not as skittish and frightened off by sounds, so I can usually get a good long look at him, watching him scamper around digging for food or exploring my seven square feet of backyard, without him running away. A few nights ago, I hosted a fish chowder dinner for some of my co-workers and there was enough leftover for me to give to one of my (Homo sapien) neighbors who often cooks for me. Left with a pile of fish bones, I decided that those would be equally appreciated by one of my other (Rattus norvegicus) neighbors, who I named after the alter ego of the superhero Daredevil (The Man Without Fear!). Now, some of you might know that for quite a while last year, in between coming home from the Peace Corps and going WWOOFing in Europe, I adopted a pair of rat brothers who were adorable, affectionate, intelligent, and playful little pals. Aside from an avid propensity towards defecation wherever they chose, they were fantastic pets and proved themselves wholly unworthy of the stigma our society has so unfairly cast upon them. So when I discovered the young little Mr. Murdoch outside my window, I developed an immediate sympathy and affection towards him, and while I have no intention of actually adopting a possibly feral rodent off the street, I have no problem encouraging him to stop by once in a while to say hi, and letting him eagerly dispose of some of my organic garbage too. Besides, since I'm living in an urban environment this time, keeping a pet seems like more trouble than it's worth, and I already fulfilled one of my greatest life-long dreams of owning a pet monkey the last time I was in Mali living en brousse, so I'm happy to just have a frequent visitor who isn't too dependent on me this time around.
Yes, things are certainly different from the way they were the last time I was doing PC Mali. I've moved from the country to the city; I've got utilities, regular contact other Americans/Westerners, and a 9-5, five-days-a-week job (for the first time since 2007!). It's good, it's bad, and it's looney. For the benefit of those of you who have not read my old PC Mali articles or just don't remember everything I've written about over the last three and a half years (I don't even remember some of my Niantanso friends' names, so don't feel too bad), here's a little point-by-point comparison of the old life to the new.
First off, the most basic differences. In Niantanso, my 2000 resident urban farming village, three hours from the nearest large town, people didn't have any qualms about a) naked children running around all over creation with their five-year-old siblings looking after them, b) publicly picking their nose or spitting indoors, c) coming by my house at all hours of the day or night if they had any suspicion at all that I might be around and incessantly knocking and calling my name so they could say hi or just get a good White Person sighting, until I would cave in and answer, whether I was sleeping or just ignoring them and trying to get some peace and quiet, d) asking me if I brought them presents every time I come in from town or telling me (not asking me, mind you) that I should give them my money/clothes/watch/food/etc. because I'm stinkin' rich and they have no money at all. In Sikoroni, the peri-urban neighborhood that is one of the poorest areas in Bamako, just outside one of the most cosmopolitan, a) many more, but not quite all, the children wear clothes, b) it's probably not a whole lot more sanitary here, but you don't see kids using the outer wall of my house as a urinal, c) I live in an enclosed apartment compound so people don't really come in without a reason, and kids seem to have better things to do with their time than "visit" me, and d) people seem to be more used to folks like me around here, and don't have the same expectations of me.
In Niantanso, the nearest cellular service was a 15km bike ride on a forest trail which I took once a week, and the nearest electricity and running water were 40km, which I only saw maybe five days a month on average. In Sikoroni, there is cell service, electricity, and while I have no running water, I do have an indoor latrine and I can just get the kid who goes up and down the street all day selling water for ¢10 per 20L jug to fill me up. In Niantanso, my house was made of mud bricks, and had a thatched grass and bamboo roof, which meant that the insect-to-human ratio in my house outnumbered me several thousand to one. In Sikoroni, I get cement walls, tile floors, and screen windows that close properly.
So have I moved up in the world? Well, in Niantanso, I was friendly with at least half the town, partly because I was so novel and exciting, even late into my service, and partly because everyone knew everyone anyway, so of course I was part of that. In Sikoroni, well, it's a lot more like living your city. In Niantanso, the village was surrounded by literally endless trails that wound through forests and fields, over and around hills and cliffs, past other villages, and one of the most relaxing things to do on a slow day was just to get lost in the woods or on a hilltop, or gather wild fruit, or go bouldering. In Sikoroni, it's all urban, you have to be constantly watching out for passing motor scooters in the road, and while there is a hill, there's nary a decent tree on it and nothing but slums of small cement houses as far as the eye can see. In Niantanso, my 6am wakeup every morning was the gentle and rustic cockadoodledoo of the roosters, braying of donkeys, and rhythmic thumping of women pounding millet. In Sikoroni, it's motorcycles, trucks, the main gate to my compound swinging and crashing open and shut, all reverberated and amplified by the walls of our courtyard so it's like trying to sleep through the motor pit at the Indy 500 Speedway. In Niantanso, I was literally unable to spend more than a third of my $280/month stipend at site every month even if I tried since there's little more than food and the occasional new t-shirt or soap bar to buy, which meant that when I went into town or took vacation time, I had more than enough cash to throw around. In Sikoroni, being a Bamako volunteer, I make slightly more money but have a lot more places and opportunities to spend it, and people to encourage me to spend it with them, and instead of being filthy rich, I'm finding myself having to budget my expenses just to keep my bank account in check.
I could go on, but another advantage of being in the city is that I can update my blog more often and not burden you with half an hour of reading material with every posting. As far as conclusions for this one though, I honestly haven't made up my mind yet. Bamako is easier, the bush is simpler. I certainly had no desire to go back to living in the village for my second time out, though. I may miss the magic, culture, and freedom of the Wild West, but it's the same Mali. I still get to speak Bambara, I still get my favorite local cuisine – though they make it better out in Malinke country – and I'm still getting to do some feel-good local aid work, which I'll get into next time. For now, I hear some more rustling outside my window…it looks like Ratt Murdoch has a friend! Well hello there, Ratisyahu, Hassidic Rodent Superstar…
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