The Elusive West African Red Ass

One thing there is not a lot of in West Africa is genetic variation, at least not among domesticated animals. When you picture in your mind cows, goats, sheep, camels, dogs, horses and donkeys you can be confident that the same picture appears in the heads of everybody else in West Africa because they all look the same. All donkeys are grey with a black stripe across the shoulders, all horses are white with a dyed red tail and mane and with a Toureg rebel on top and all dogs look like Santa’s Little Helper, including ours:

(Hercules is wicked cute!)

Obviously, when you make a sweeping generalization like this one you immediately see contrary examples pop up. Yes, of course, there is occasional black horse and tan donkey but not often, virtually never. We have yet to see anything other than a variation on the S.L.H. theme when it comes to dogs. That is why it is so strange to occasionally come across the extremely rare and exotic West African red ass.


“Red donkeys? I don’t think they exist,” you say. While these shy and elusive creatures are rarely seen by the casual visitor, Sam and Mark just so happen to live next to the plastic and cardboard (they can’t afford tar-paper) shacks of the falitigi (donkey boss) trash collectors. Owing to the sheer numbers of donkeys observed, we occasionally spot a red one. Incredible but true, not unlike seeing an all black penguin in the Antarctic, a white buffalo in Janesville, Wisconsin, or a R.O.U.S. (Rodent of Unusual Size) in a fireswamp.


After each ludicrously long and horribly unhealthy day of trash collection, the falitigis return and unhitch their donkeys from their carts, allowing them to roam the neighborhood streets. Not far from our house, near the smoldering mountain of trash (Note: this is not an exaggeration. There really is a three story high mountain of trash burning constantly, raining ash down and wafting the smell of burning plastic into our house year round. Glamorous!) there is a portion of the road which has been repaired with the red earth for which Africa is so famous. These red rocks have been pulverized by heavy trucks and ground into such a fine powder that it covers our feet, gets on our clothes and into our lungs. Donkeys love to roll around in the dirt to cool off and stop the bugs from biting them, at least for a little while. Every once in a great while they use this unique spot. The result is a strange sight: bright red donkeys. Behold!

Bike Ride

It is probably true that pretty much all volunteers who are out en brousse think to themselves at some point or another, “I should ride into my regional capital (or banking town or whatever).” It is also likely that most of them actually do it once or more, depending on the distance and transport, etc. The Hannons are no different than any other volunteers. We often discussed how we should ride from Yelimane to the closest major town just to say we’d done it, if nothing else. There was a snag, however: the starting point of Yelimane is not exactly “close” to anywhere.

That being said we, two virtual amateurs at cycling, decided that we really needed to cross that long bike ride off "the list." So, during our last visit back to our old village, we brought our bikes on transport with idea of riding them on the return voyage to Kayes. There are a couple of issues with this idea worth mentioning here: 1) It’s hot, well over 100F (owing to the route’s position on the globe, there are also very few trees and, thus, virtually no shade), 2) fitness; Mark and Sam are out of shape, 3) there are few towns and villages along the way to get water (and none that people reading this would consider “safe drinking sources”), 4) oh yeah, almost forgot, its 160 kilometers (that’s 100 miles!), 5) see numbers one and four.

Like a lot of decisions we’ve made, we were going anyway, good idea or not.

So, at 5:30 we got up before dawn, bright eyed and bushy tailed, ready to start at six. The first problem arose, or should we say failed to rise. We got all ready to go, strapped on our bags, prepared our water bottles, ate a bite or two of bread and opened the door to say greet day but the day was not there to greet us. (Probably a telling sign of our forethought, or lack thereof, for this trip: it had not occurred to us that we were now 500km west of our normal sunrise.) For those of you who do not know, the closer you get to the equator, the less twilight there is preceding sunrise or sunset. It's not exactly like flicking a switch but nearly. We sat in the pitch black for a while, each of us thinking that the ride would go much better with an extra half an hour of sleep. At 6:20 there was barely enough light to see the road and walk to say goodbye to our friend, Ali, who was making bread but by 6:30 it was light and we were on our way.

We were making great time. Going about 25km between stops and only resting then because we knew it was a marathon, not a sprint. Spirits were high. No aches or pains yet. Our second stop was the derelict bus at 50km from Yelimane. This is a landmark that always held a morbid fascination for us. A skeleton on the edge of the Sahara, the ghost of transport gone awry, it stands sentinel over the road, as if to say, “abandon all hope, ye who enter here,” or maybe just “bring extra water.” At the very least it implies, “never take Diema Transport,” Sage advice.


Nearing the halfway point, we started to exhibit the snappiness with each other for which we are famous. Fortunately, we encountered something unexpected which put us in a good mood again: a herd of camels. While all the lions, antelopes, giraffes, etc. in the area are long gone, it was still uplifting to pass through a herd of, what we consider, exotic animals. It reminded us, if nothing else, that we were not in Kansas anymore.

We stopped for food in the big town of Djiagoumbera. There were no fruits, the meat at the local rotisserie not ready yet, the hard boiled eggs we bought were so rotten they looked like something out of a Dr. Suess story. Sam was much more annoyed by the lack of food but Mark was being blinded by sunscreen laden sweat dripping into his eyes and practically blinding him, so we were both a bit irritated. We moved grumpily on.

At the 100km mark we found a small baobab tree and sat in its shade eating peanuts and drinking water. We were still upbeat although clearly getting tired at this point. Our distance between breaks was shortening. This probably would have been a good distance for one day any other time. It was sweltering.

The village of Medina is at 107km. We needed some water as there was a long stretch ahead and we would get parched. We ask a little girl for water. She said the well was bad. No problem, we would treat the water with bleach. She frowned, saying, “no, it’s really bad.” (A little advice here: when a villager tells you twice their water is bad, they really mean it.) We gave her our bottle to fill anyway and she returned filled with what looked like slurry from the tunnel walls of the Big Dig project in Boston. We thanked her and moved on before they tried to feed us; we did not want to find out how they’d follow up that water.


The heat was getting unbearable. We couldn’t whether decide to curse Allah or thank Him for the headwind he had provided all day. While it slowed the trip down it certainly kept our core temperatures down as well. Things were rough after eight and a quarter hours of exercise, wind, sun and thirst. Sam proclaimed, “I’m about to lose my shit!” We took half an hour break to find her shit (it was apparently under the shade of a tree in the village of Goumera), which was fine with Mark since his neck was so stiff he could barely turn his head. We replaced the milky Medina water with something more potable and were on our way again, 28km to go. We rode the last real isolated stretch before the hustle and bustle of the main “highway" between Kayes and Bamako in the hottest part of the African afternoon.

At this point in the trip stops were necessary every 10 kilometers (6.4 miles) or so. Our energy reserves emptied long before. At the Kayes airport we pulled off and rested for a good long while in the shade of a lone acacia tree. We did not dare to bring our bikes too close, though. A big thorn in a tire after 140km and so close to our destination might have broke our spirits. We had no such concerns for our butts though, as at this point in the trip they were numb, and plopped down for a siesta.

Knowing it was almost over we pumped ourselves up for the last time. The last 15km to the bank of the Senegal River was clogged with tractor trailers and donkey carts. We were so close we barely noticed the traffic. The final 2km are downhill to the bridge and mericifully easy going. So easy, in fact, that we stopped and bought vegetables for dinner. Having made it through the ordeal and only a hop, skip and a jump from the comforts of the stage house, we lazily chatted with gateaux sellers and the ticket lady at Ghana transport. In no great hurry, we soaked in the sights, sounds and smells of the end of our ride.

The bike ride was a bit of a microcosm for Peace Corps. Before hand, we were nervous that we were getting in over our heads or that it would prove too much for us. Then, as it actually began it seemed easy, enjoyable even. This was going to be a piece of cake! It did not get uncomfortable until we were deep into it. Only then did we really start to examine how little we had come and see how long it truly was still to go. Past the halfway point the count-up switched to a count-down and we knew it could be done. As we neared the finish line there was a part of us that almost regretted it was over, no matter how tired we were of it. Back home (the stage house), showered, cold beer in hand, it was almost as if it had all been a dream. We felt accomplished about having done it. Would we do it again? Probably not, but we are both sure glad we "got 'er done!"
(Sampling our just rewards after an eleven hour bike ride: the Queen.)

Yelimane run

We headed up to Yelimane recently for a visit. Mark’s old counterpart up there, Kadja, had a baby so we went up to see him. Needless to say, he is a cutie. Kadja was calling Sam his mom and when we asked if that made Mark his dad, Kadja answered “no, of course not.” Her reasoning: Mark is already Ablo’s dad!


The baby’s name is Fassouri. He is a lucky kid, not just because he is from a loving family or because Ablo is his big brother but because he had a sweet nickname from the get-go. Why? He is named for his maternal grandfather, Fassouri Kanoute, who was the mayor of Yelimane at the time of his birth. Therefore, he is known around town as “the mayor.” Old women will stop what they are doing to ask, “and how is the mayor today?” or “well, Mr. mayor, it is an honor to see you.” It is great.

We saw Solo again. That is the kid who, for some reason known only to them, Cousin Mike(y) and Sarah decided was the cutest in Mali. Anyway, it was up to us to break it to Solo that they were not coming back to take him to America. As you can see from the photo, he didn’t take it well.
Yelimane, while remaining unchanged for virtually the last thousand years, has blown up in the past year. They’ve got it all there now. There is a new bank, an internet café, a new market, improved public restrooms for the market and transport station still under construction, a high school, another giant political party building, a huge hotel. Most notable is a veritable skyscraper of three whitewashed stories (it extends to a fourth story with the stairwell that empties onto the roof and appears to add another story). It can be seen for miles around. Yelimane is going to be as big as San Francisco in a few years and twice as sophisticated.

Our jatigi’s (host’s) family has blown up as well. In the year and a half since our Swear-In as volunteers they have produced ten new mouths without a single death. Mali has one of the highest fertility rates in the world. There have been four babies since our last visit alone! Statistics amazingly show that by the year 2015, 46% of the Malian population will be under the age of fifteen. If anyone is wondering what this population explosion will look like, we suggest a trip up to Yelimane for a sneak peek.

Don’t bother looking for the cat, however, unless you are an archeologist:

With Mogwai, comes much responsibility...

Like a gremlin in water, our postcard wall multiplies amazingly fast. We’ve consolidated them all onto one wall (except the original nine) and there they will stay until the we or the cows come home, whichever comes first.



Please note: we received many Christmas cards and truly like them so don’t be discouraged from sending those for other holidays (heck, you can slip in a $5 for old times sake), but this is a description of a postcard wall, so don’t be offended if it is not mentioned here. There is one exception: this card with cousin Mikey and Sarah’s nephews, but that is because we played an integral part in the uniform procurement.

We had some first time postcard senders this round, which is always nice.

Tara “Bright Eyes” Ferris and her hubby Shawn “Captain Moe” Ferris sent us a great card of the Eastern Shoshone Tribe on the Wind River Reservation around the turn of the twentieth century. It became one of the best cards ever when we turned it over and saw that Shawn had claimed it to be a family portrait (and the tribe grows!).

Our favorite retired ski bums finally checked in. The Sick Gnar McGnars of Raleigh, North Carolina sent us a postcard apparently before the beginning of this year’s basketball season. It reads: “Tarheels #1.”

Eric Arsenault from Bangor reminded us of the beauty of Vacationland, Maine and also threw in the popular reminder that Brian is an ass.

“Where’s Kim?” Kim Geiger, of Moribabougou fame, has relocated to Chicago. She mentioned having “good beers” with us when we return, she better not be messing with the honor of Castel, the Queen of Beers. For now, she gets to enjoy them with her recently returned and fiancé, Joel. Maybe those “good beers” will be served at the wedding.

Bev and Lloyd Kozak, of Calgary, are kind enough to stay in touch after so many years. The last time we saw them was in a McDonald’s in Beijing! We still need their well-wishes just as much as back then, maybe more.

Torey Trefz’s card finally arrived from Cleveland. He has been claiming for months that he has sent one from Aspen. Right. He even wrote, “I hope this one gets there.” Very clever. Sticking to his cover story at all costs!

PCV Jake Asher sent along some “Big Kisses from Ghana.” Not sure if those were for Sam or Mark, didn’t ask.

Our buddies Paul and Marie who were here in Bamako and have since taken off around the world sent us one from India, which they describe as infinitely better than Mali. We could have guessed that. Paul’s sister Sharon, whom they were visiting because she is stationed there for her job, sent along a card with Bhagawan Shri Satya Sai Baba. He is an Indian holy man who is acclaimed for his ability to predict and imitate the exact face that you will make when you see his postcard.

Others continue to add bricks to our wall.

Barb and John continued their Mount Desert Island theme with the Bear Island Headlight and Northeast Harbor. They are going to have to feed us chowder for a week because all the coastal scenes they have been sending are making us hungry.

Kelly Jones has settled down in Pittsburg, or at least she has moved there for now. Maybe someday her stuff from Mali will catch up with her (but we are not holding our breath).

Kevin Coughlin is a veritable hit parade of ludicrosity. He sent us cards depicting “Dutch’s (explanation: he was the good cop to Mark’s bad cop on the gondola) Low Impact Aerobics” -channel surfing with remote control- and solving the mystery of “Where Jerky Comes From” -road kill. Delicious.

Brian’s roommate Katherine seems to be something of a starlet. She is in L.A. quite a bit (more than the Traveling Campbells, who claim to live there, we suspect). The Catzilla card was truly bizarre.

The Traveling Campbells continue their unbelievable pace. They sent us a card from Key West and then they sent us one from the cruise ship that they were on in the Caribbean. Getting dizzy watching them cruise around the globe.


Andrew and Nicole Wallace continue to thrive in their culinary dreamland, France. They sent us a pretty creepy card made creepier (read: better) when they said on the back that it reminded them of us.


Speaking of creepy. Missy and Bryce sent a card from Canaan Valley West Virginia, nothing out of the ordinary there. Then, the next day, like some weird punch line came this postcard of a “Deluxe Cabin.” The very fact that this card is for sale is pretty wild, the fact that the word “deluxe“ is used is just plain awesome.


And then there was a gem from Kysa (Edsal) Crusco. Under any circumstances the “You” with the snow blower and “Me” frolicking in a bathing suit on a beach in Puerto Rico is a fantastic taunt (made even funnier by the fact that she is likely pushing her snowblower right now). The fact that she bought the postcard over ten years ago on a swim team training trip with Sam really takes the cake. Well done.

Well done to everybody. Keep up the good work and keep them coming. Each card we get makes us think about how soon we will see you all and it feels great.

Meetings

O.k. people. Let’s get back to Peace Corps goal #3 for a moment here. This is when we tell the folks back on the home front something about life here in Mali and how it differs from life in the states. Todays topic: meetings.

Unlike meetings in the U.S., most meetings here are not held to schedule another meeting. They are usually held to discuss who to invite to another meeting. This is an important point because before one speaks at a meeting one must formally recognize all the big wig types present. It goes something like this: “Bonjour monsieur le ministre, monsieur le prefere, monsieur le mayor, monsieur le president de conseiler du cercle, monsieur le guy in the absurdly large boubou, monsieur le buddy of the guy in the absurdly large boubou, etc…” You get the picture.

After the important people in their expensive boubous have been introduced and properly thanked and recognized, they get up and leave. Not sure if they do this because they know that the television cameras only film this opening ceremony or if the television cameras only film this opening ceremony because they know the ministers et al will be leaving right after. A real chicken or the egg mystery which we do not have the time in our service to solve. Sometimes their lackeys stay behind but usually not.

The television crews then typically swing through the room taking long, uncomfortable head shots of those involved. They often focus a quite a bit on the toubabs, a fact which has led to Mark and Sam having been on national T.V. here more times then they are in their family photo albums back home. In fact, Mark was on national t.v. just last monday. This would be impressive save for the fact that Mickey Mouse probably would not allow his name on the credits of this broadcast, it is that amateur. They are using media equipment that hasn’t been seen in the U.S. since the early eighties, in northern New England. Then they also leave.

There is typically a presentation of some sort, often a powerpoint presentation that is read word for word to the onlookers. This is frequently followed by a question and answer/observation period. In smaller villages this is not as effective as one might expect because speakers like to show their education level by presenting in French. Unfortunately, the villagers rarely have an equal level of schooling.

In the bigger cities the French thing is rarely a problem but the need to use a microphone as a flashy display. Alas, the audio quality often negates any understanding one might have gained by knowing the language. If it is a meeting in the countryside the poor audio quality matters little, since you can’t hear the speaker on the microphone over the noise of the generator needed to power said microphone. What is quite amusing at a meeting is the speakers' unfamiliarity with microphones in general, leading to a speaker talking to the group with a purely ornamental microphone infront of their face.

There are a couple of things that occur in a Malian meeting that would appall many of you, namely cell phones. We swear there must be a “Be sure your cell phone is ON AND LOUD” sign at the door. Neither of us have located it yet but it must be there!

While nodding off during an event that is not in a darkened theatre is the height of rudeness to most Americans, here it is just par for the course. “No!” you say, “it cannot be common to see a person sleeping in a high level meeting.” O.k., you are correct. It is common to see many people sleeping. Participants doze off until they are awoken by their cell phone playing a Celine Dion song loud enough to wake the dead, which they answer even louder. No problem there, you are in a Malian.

Oh, and this one is hard to get used to: the way to get someone’s attention (even if that person is a high Minister) is to snap your fingers at them. Use this move in a restaurant in the states and you get your food spit in. It is the only way to get called on here. And don’t forget to use the joking cousin trick, even in the most formal of settings, once called on. If a Traore speaks after a Diarra it is perfectly acceptable to preface the comments with, “thank you little Diarra , you may sit down now, my child” even if that Diarra is the presiding over the meeting.

"O.k. I can do that," you are thinking. Sounds easy, especially when one considers that the point of all the meetings we attend is the betterment of the community. You would think people would be eager to attend such events and you would be right. What you would not realize is that without the per diem handed out for attending these things would likely be empty. “You have to pay people to come and talk about improving their community?” you ask. Let’s just put it this way: we have been to meetings where someone made the mistake of handing out the money at lunch and its been us, the lady sweeping and the crickets for the afternoon session. We, on the other hand, are amused to death by this stuff and do it for fun. Oh, and we are Peace Corps volunteers who are always out saving the world for free anyway, right?

Incommunicado

So, why have we not been heard from lately? A combination of reasons (excuses really), but the one we will offer (because it comes with a ridiculous story) is that our computer was destroyed.


Get this: while Sam rode back from her workplace in Bamako one day she was struck at high speed by a motorcyclist. She was thrown from her bike a remarkably long distance. So far, in fact, one marvels at the fact that she was not seriously injured. How? One reason was Sam’s apparent bike surfing capabilities. Not unlike the wake surfing she did in Sierra Leone, she rode atop the skidding bike as long as possible until, like a wave, it all crashed down around her. She was thrown from the bike, skidding and rolling the rest of the way to a stop. She was shaken, with a tasty bit of road rash on her left arm and right palm. Miraculously, she received only bruises on her legs, no cuts (or even any rips to her pants)! Truly amazing for those who are familiar with Malian cloth (which is not exactly Carhart-type stuff or even cheesecloth-type stuff, for that matter). Another reason was that a goodly part of the collision was absorbed by our computer in the side-mounted saddlebag. There are certainly other reasons that she was not hurt badly that only Allah knows (we will certainly give him all due credit for the magic pants). She is unlikely to thank Him for the discomfort of having road debris cleaned out of her skin (which she did not appreciate) but in a place of such dubious sanitation that it has rarely been more necessary to thoroughly clean a wound (which she did appreciate).

Sam is now completely healed and even has a new bike to replace her broken one (courtesy of Kelly Jones leaving hers behind and is herself healed, great to hear!) which is why this incident is safe to report, as parents will always worry no matter the age their child.

The computer has been replaced, so our list of excuses dwindles...

2010

All this time we enjoyed joking about E.T.ing (early terminating of our service) on New Year’s Day 2010. That way we could say that we were in Peace Corps for 2008, 2009 and 2010. While it was sound reasoning, we had not anticipated that we would be too tired from celebrating to go through with it, nor did we think that at the end of the year we might want to stay. Much to our surprise, we actually have got some stuff to get done in the coming year. So, we will stay as volunteers a while longer yet.

So what happened during the last year? Let’s review a couple of the highlights of 2009:
-We lived in West Africa for the first (and likely last) complete year.
-We visited with rebels in Cote d’Ivoire.
-We consumed a lifetime worth of peanuts.
-We saw elephants, albino crocodiles, hippos, monkeys, baboons, and more in the wild.
-We fled from one escaped giant monitor lizard at the Dakar zoo.
-We hiked in the famous Dogon country.
-We moved from the desert to the big city.
-We compiled the biggest postcard wall in West Africa (and still growing!).
-We actually worked a little.
-We (Sam) were struck by motorcycles.
-We (Mark) witnessed African championship soccer games.
-We became an aunt and uncle for a fourth time.
-We said goodbye to old friends.
-We welcomed new friends.
-We really started to like Mali.

Tons of other great stuff (they added a huge mound of severed donkey heads to the lion exhibit at the Bamako zoo!) and not so great stuff (watched Thierry Henry dribble a soccer ball like it was a basketball, damn his heart) occurred during the course of this past year but we won’t bore you with every detail. Let us just say that it was a hell of a year, filled with trials and tribulations, of course, but also more rewarding moments than we deserve. They always seem to turn out that way.