Out of Range Again

The good news is we made it back to Mali. The bad news is that it is full on hot season, which means it is uncomfortable in Bamako. As we did last year, we planned to flee the country during a portion of this time. We are still going on our vacation, regardless of having been home recently,since we have been looking forward to it for a year.

We will be gone to Burkina Faso and Ghana for quite some while, during which you will not hear from us much (read: not at all). This radio silence does not necessarily mean we are in trouble, although we will try to get in some situations worth reporting for your reading pleasure. It probably just means that we are either having a great time or not near the internet. Knowing what we know of the rest of west Africa it is likely that both are the case.

Thank you for your mail

The fantastic cards keep pouring in. We had some seriously far-flung ones since last report. We also had quite a few first-timers getting on the wall, always nice. Time is running short, so get yours to us!

The Travelling Cambells continue to lap the planet, checking in twice from Ireland and Scotland. They also made it to Costa Rica, Italy and Denmark. A strange set of cards too, everything from a baby pig’s backside from Finland to a woman in California.










The Schiebels of Littleton, Colorado went all the way down to Patagonia and thought to send us one from there. We thank them and look forward to imposing on their hospitality again sometime soon.

Emily Doerr’s new job (which is not new by this point but we kind of live in a vacuum) sent her to Vegas, baby! What is says on the card stays on the card.

Janice Deering is doing well. She sent us two from the beaches Costa Rica, where she was kicking back. We’ve been meaning to get there for years ourselves, it looks incredible.

“Kevin Coughlan continues his hilarious postage onslaught with depictions of “Kick the Can with Dad,” Information Superhighway” and the “Wyoming Riding Mower.” These ones continue to remind us of how backwards we believed our town to be, until we came to Africa, of course.









Our buddies Zack and Shannon checked in twice from Jackson, Wyoming. We are surprised they are not sending us notes from all over the planet too, per their usual.

Louise Gignoux “decided to finally add to our collection" (others should take note). She was riding her jeep through Moab which she does when not shooshing down slopes in Jackson or summering in France. Easy livin’.

Amir Fouad, of Bridger Gondola fame, sent us one from the Matterhorn. On the back he reminds us to root against Algeria in the World Cup after they ousted his Egyptian squad. Fear not, being in a neighboring country and seeing a bit of their fans recently, this will not be a problem at all (especially as they play the U.S. of A.). At least he still has the US and Switzerland for whom to root, the perks of being a tri-citizen.

Not to be outdone by the Travelling Cambells in the bizarre department, Brother Brian in Scotland sent one with ridiculous public pronouncements by graffiti artists along with a bizarre card depicting a bagpipe playing pig, which is on some building in Edinburgh in lieu of a gargoyle, apparently. The coup de gras, however, was his “Sam and Mark in 40 years” card. Kudos.










Cousin Mikey and Sarah were apparently hanging out with the Kennedys, who have their own postcards. They will have less time for such high-jinx now that they have welcomed James McCarthy to their clan, although they will probably spend the summer on the Cape so maybe we are wrong.

Kallie and Katie Hannon were hanging out with aunt Cindy in New Hampshire but sent a postcard that said “Maine” on it. We think they are trying to start a debate between the couple composed of a New Hampshirite and a Mainer about which is better. This is one of our favorite topics.

Finally, our pals Nic and Jimmi got on the board in a big way. They sent us not one, not two, not three, but eight cards from South Africa. Impressive.

Trip Home

We have returned to Africa after an up and down few weeks in the States. The joy of seeing our families was tempered by the sadness of burying a father. While the graveside ceremony was something Frank would have bore begrudgingly, the Irish wake was an event in which he would have reveled. It seemed the entire town of Belfast, Maine came out to the pub for the memorial and a great time was had by all. While the memorial in Boston was much more subdued, it was no less of an honor to see all our friends come out to support us during difficult times and we thank them all from the bottom of our hearts.

Thanks to some fortuitous volcanic activity, the brothers Hannon were reunited for an extra week, which is the longest time that has happened in years.


There was a new Hannon to meet as well. Her name is Lila and she is wicked cute! There was a rumor that she was really fun to hold and play with but everybody had to be content just hearing the reports since Aunt Sam was a bit of a baby hog!!! We can’t wait to see her again when she will be starting to walk.



We also got to see Barb, who goes by Nana now, and John. We could go for walks in Acadia National Park from their front door, which was great and we will be doing quite a bit of that when we finally return.

We spent some time in Vermont and New Hampshire with Sam’s side of the family, too. The girls are growing like weeds. They are so big we can barely all fit on one couch anymore!

When we arrived in Vermont it was 80 degrees, freezing! It only got colder from then on out (later in the week we saw snow when we headed up to Killington) but the weather held long enough to play a family game of softball, Kids vs. Adults. The kids were named Creamers, but they really got creamed. Who knew old people could still hit, run and catch? It is funny how Mark and Sam are still on the kid’s team.

We saw some other old friends along the way. We look forward to seeing them all again and those that we missed next time around.

So, we are back in Mali for the home stretch. We are actually going on a vacation, which we had planned before all this, to Ghana next week. That will be a good bit of arduous overland travel. It should convince us to go get good jobs somewhere so we will have the money to fly from now on. After that it is our Close of Service (COS) conference and a few weeks to wrap up our work. Then we are finished with Peace Corps and whatever comes next, we shall see…

Sad News

Mark's father, Frank Hannon, passed away on Saint Patrick's Day. He was happy man who enjoyed life fully. He was sixty three years old.

We've returned to the States for the memorial services. While we are terribly saddened by the reason for our return, it is nice to see our families and friends once again. Bringing us home and the family together would please Frank greatly. One last gift.

He will be missed.

Francis Joseph Hannon, 1946-2010

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: