Three Views of Bamako

This past Sunday, after the usual breakfast of French bread and tea, my classmate, India, and I walked up to the top of the nearby hill that serves as the backdrop from our balcony view. It was a leisurely afternoon stroll, an exploration of one’s backyard. We live on the edge of town and are relieved from the pollution and noise that plague most of Bamako. Still, like most neighborhoods with cement buildings and open courtyards, we’re used to a certain amount of sound. So we were amazed at how quickly the city hushed as we followed the thin trail through knee-high grasses.

We stumbled upon a few farmers, terracing the steep hill, but mostly it was just us and the grasshoppers, dragonflies, and lizards. From the very top, all of Bamako sprawled out in front of us, with the Niger River in the distance and the one skyscraper (a bank) barely protruding above the horizon. Sometimes I feel like I’m exploring Mali through someone else’s eyes, like I’m in the Matrix or in The Truman Show; I guess the landscape is so foreign that I’m having a difficult time grasping it. I think one reason is that nothing is more than two stories tall and my concept of perspective and depth perception is somewhat skewed. Looking out over the city, my neighborhood looked impossibly close, like a model train set, and then suddenly everything else seems very far away.

Later that evening, I ended up on our roof, flat like all the houses in Bamako. I had spied lightning in the distance and wanted to watch the storms roll across the city, bringing a much needed, if only brief, relief to the heat and humidity.

Bamako’s population of one million citizens does not cast the same amount of light pollution as comparable cities in America; rather, the indications of nocturnal human activity are limited to fluorescent pinpoints of courtyard lights and an occasional yellow glow, spinning around in tiny circles. This latter phenomenon is the result of a tea making practice here in Mali. A small kettle is balanced on an outdoor stove that is stoked with bits of charcoal. In order to accelerate the heat and flames, the stove is gripped and whipped around in large arm circles. The effect at night is always unexpectedly magical, somewhat like fireflies in the summer.

As I sat on some scrap wood, I couldn’t hear any thunder, just the murmurings of Djoumanzana (our district in Bamako). Crying babies, moped motors, radios, a far off dance-party, and drawn-out calls from the mosques loudspeakers, reminding Muslims to pray. The rain didn’t arrive until hours later, but for a short time, I was content enough, alone on the roof.

Every city has a pulse, an internal rhythm of its inhabitants as they move about their daily activities. For example, Seattle has its brisk caffeinated clip that is contra posed by a steady early morning rain. Bamako, when viewed from my earlier vantages looked vast and quiet. Standing in the heart of downtown, however, is to be surrounded by a frenzied beat, a whirling of human noise, bright colors, and the pollution-induced coughs.

Recently, we were sent to explore the city in small groups equipped only with our limited language skills and a map that was drawn by a blind kid during the minimalism art movement. Because street signs are nonexistent, we eventually abandoned our “map” and resorted to just asking random pedestrians. Even though we could barely understand their directions, their vague hand gestures were enough to tell us if were headed in the right direction (their laughter told us when we were completely lost). We quickly learned that it was inappropriate to just flat-out ask “Ou est l’embassade d’Etats-Unis?” (Where is the American Embassy?). Malian society has an extensive greeting protocol and at the very least, a “Bonjour, ca va?” (Hello, how are you?) must precede any other questions.

Children are very confident about just walking up and demanding a handshake with this greeting; adults on the other hand that approach us out the blue deserve a bit more hesitation. “My brother, my friend, how are you?” they cajole before displaying their wares for sale. They’ll go so far as thrust a too-small ring on your finger so that once stuck in place, you’re forced to purchase this new jewelry. The trickiest are the ones that offer a helping hand, accompanying us to our destination or calling a taxi, and then demanding payment for their unadvertised services. Sometimes I feel cold-hearted as I walk quickly by these hustlers and my more compassionate classmates pause to politely listen. Then again, I’ve still got money after these interactions.

Bamako is intense and over-stimulates every sense. Masses of human bodies, wrapped in bold colors and patterns, crowd the narrow sidewalks. Cars, mopeds and vaches (van-like public transportation that costs about 30 cents) rush down roads that lack lane markers and stop lights. Their high-pitched honks are cute but their exhaust fumes are debilitating. Whenever we return from the city, we’ve all contracted emphysema and produce mucus that looks like we’ve been working as coal miners. The smell of the city was one of the first things I noticed when I disembarked our plane: like burnt plastic, but more earthy. From the market stalls, roasted peanuts, sizzling goat meat, sun-baked fish, and open sewers add to this olfactory canvas. Your arms are sweaty and stick a millisecond too long whenever your brush against other shoppers. Your feet are hot and dry from all the dust and looks well tanned until you realize it’s just the dirt. This is a place of constant movement, where standing still is not recommended unless you mean to attract a group of suspiciously gregarious men. Our French teacher, Isabelle, applauded us are we returned home an hour late, as if we were weary soldiers, dragging ourselves from the frontlines of a war zone.

Honestly, as much as I love going into the city, it is an exhausting experience. We’ll be in homestays for the month of November and I’m not sure if I can handle a month of living downtown. However, I’m also recognizing the exponential rate at which we are adapting to our new environment. I’ve reached the point in this semester where I’m realizing that it’s not just a weeklong trip, that it will be easier to embrace my environment rather than hide from it in my bedroom with a CD player and magazine. Yes the city is beautiful when viewed from afar, but there’s only so much time you can spend on a roof before you need to get down and walk in its streets. At some point, you have to stop listening to a city’s beats and start playing them.

Keeping my Hands Busy

Since I'm still walking around Mali in a daze, just absorbing this new environment, I haven't spent too much time working on any major art projects. I did do a few small sculptures made from our water bottles, of which we have plenty. They're so pristine and perfect and completely out of character of anything here. But I think that's why I made them; in a city with open sewers and no trash collection services, I needed to create something clean and elegant.

My Malian professor, Sekou, asked a good question as I was sitting on the balcony sewing these together: What are you going to use them for?

It's a question I always ask my self and it's even more relevant here where there are few formal gallery and museum venues for more conceptual/abstract art. In Mali, there's always a function or purpose for their art and I hope I can find mine here as well.

Questions from Mom

I recently received a long list of questions from my mom and thought that they'd be worth sharing on the blog. Enjoy!

1. What time do you get up? My roomate’s alarm goes off at 8:30am and I roll out of my tent around 8:45. Yes, I’m sleeping in a tent because it’s more fun than a mosquito net.


2. What is your morning routine?
As I’ve mentioned before, time in Mali is somewhat fluid. Mornings occur in the following order, but are not necessarily limited to any specific time: get up, breakfast with tea and bread, split into our two French classes (in the advanced group, we’re discussing Malian society through local proverbs), meet up on the roof of our house for three hours of dance and drumming, quick shower, and late lunch.

3. Who do you live with and what do they do?
We’re all living together in our program coordinator’s house, which is luxurious by Malian standards (electricity, flush toilets, ceiling fans, refridgerator) but minimal by US standards (no oven or microwave, no internet, no AC or central heating, no real delineation between shower and toilet). We’re split up two to a room with most of us on the second floor of the house. We usually hang out in the outdoor hallway or dining room/living room/classroom. I’m rooming with Emily who is a sophomore from Carleton College in Minnesota and is majoring in Biology and Studio Arts. Combined with the facts that she’s very outdoorsy (crunchy) and has similar sleeping patterns as me (early riser), we’re a good match.






4. Have you eaten at any restaurants in town?
I’ve really only visited a couple: Le Relax is a popular hangout for Ex-pats and Peace Corps Volunteers and is one of the few places where you can get a burger and fries. Because it somewhat isolates you from the local population, I only go there when there is dire need of American food. The second, who’s name escapes me right now, was as Chinese restaurant discovered as we were wandering (getting lost) in downtown Bamako. Of course, it’s a somewhat diluted Chinese-Malian cuisine, but I appreciated the effort towards diversifying the usually starchy and bland food here.

5. Do you speak French all the time?
Not all the time. Because we spend most of our time with the other students, our conversations are mostly in English. Right now, my French is used during class or transactions in the markets and the buses. It takes a great deal of effort to have a concentrated conversation and my endurance lasts about 30 minutes before my brain kinda shuts down. We’re also learning a bit of Bambara, the local dialect often preferred over French. It’s more culturally sensitive to use Bambara than the language of the colonizing nation.

6. Have you gotten sick yet?
Almost immediately upon arrival, people started getting sick. What’s strange is that it wasn’t diarrhea or one of the many tropical diseases, but your typical head cold. Everyone in the group and our three professors got ill and in varying stages. When my throat started itching, I could look at a classmate and know that in another 24 hours it would be difficult to swallow. Fortunately, all of that’s seem to pass and we’re all relatively healthy. Tired often from the heat, limited food, and pace, but it could be much worse. Even the mosquitoes lack the voracity of what I’ve experienced backpacking in the States.

7. Did you pack well?
In general, I have everything I need, but here’s some more luxury items I would bring next time: computer and iPod (sigh, I miss them dearly and many other students brought theirs), tons more snacks, gum, chocolate, gummi bears, powdered energy drink mix, ice cube tray, spices, more magazines and books, extra boxers and t-shirts (the limiting factor of my laundry), and more toilet paper (oddly, not provided by the house).
Items that I could have left at home: about half the amount of sunscreen and bug spray and all of my socks.

8. Who are you enjoying in the group?
Everyone. It’s amazing how well we get together and the varying degrees of our friendships; I’ll talk over morning tea with Emily, go for a hike with India, got to a club with Jake and Kunal, be bitchy with Jamilia, silly with Erica, and always in agreement with Monica. We’ve also inherited four other members: Jazz, a recent college graduate who is on a Watson scholarship comparing traditional dance in Africa, India and Brazil for a year, Cam, an enthusiastic high school senior and family friend of Michelle, and then our new little sisters, Michelle’s daughters Ami and Asi, age 12 and 10.


(Jamila)


(Jake and Kunal)


(Erica)


(Cam and Sekou, our sleeping Malian professor)

9. What do you eat?
Food is fairly predictable and brought by a local family. Breakfast, as I’ve noted many times, consists of dry French bread and tea loaded with sweetened condensed milk, a milky syrup called Jago. I initially tried the bitter Nescafe coffee, but my Starbucks influenced palette couldn’t stoop to such a level. We play variations on this breakfast theme, adding peanut butter or granola I keep stashed in my suitcase. If we’re really lucky, we’ll scramble some eggs from the market (but since there’s not refrigeration, the yolk is about as pale as the white).

Lunch and Dinner are essentially the same; salad, a grain dish, sauce, and meat. The salad is always lettuce, onions, cucumbers, and tomatoes. Sometimes we’ll have a yellow dressing that is served in a plastic soda container, though recently it’s gone missing. The grains is any one of the following: rice, couscous, millet, or pasta. I’d say there’s a 50-50 chance when lifting off the lid you’ll find about 10 lbs of cooked rice. Sauces are peanut or vegetable based and always has these fiery red peppers that we squish with our fork to release their juice (entire consumption though require near-hospitalization). Meat is more of a dinner dish and we’ve had everything from chicken thighs that resemble bat wings to fish with eyes still intact. Of course, our meals are decadent compared to our neighbors. But I certainly appreciate the diversity and abundance of food back in the states.

10. Are you getting lots of e-mails?
Yes! Thank you to all who’ve taken the time to write me. It turns out that the initial mailing address is somewhat worthless because there’s no mail delivery system where I live. So e-mail will be the best way to stay in contact.

11. Do you feel safe?
While I’ve never ventured out alone through Bamako, I’ve also felt uneasy about a situation. Annoyed by hustlers in downtown Bamako, sure, but nothing more. Mostly, I have a sense that the locals are watching out for us, especially in our specific neighborhood.

For example, a few of us were returning home via taxi after an afternoon at the cyber café. This was the first time that we’d traveled without our program coordinator or any other person fluent in French/Bambara. The driver pulled up about 100 yds short of our house and while we were trying to point this out, some local street vendors shouted and waved the taxi driver forward. Even though we’d never had any sort of conversation with these merchants, I guess we’re well known in the neighborhood (we kinda stick out).

12. Do you interact much with the locals?
Yes and no. Just the act of us walking down the street to buy a Fanta causes little kids to shift there attention to these crazy toubabous and their parents to extend a civil “ca va?” And we do have a causal friendship with our dance and drumming teachers, as well as the 20 or so random locals that hang out in our courtyard. But I’m not yet sitting and carrying out extensive conversations. My French is limited and many of the locals we’ve met speak only Bambara. Hand-gestures and an easy laugh go a long way in communication.

13. Are you ready to dance you when you come home?
Of course! I’ve honestly thought about this question since it’s become such an important daily routine. I feel incredibly healthy, my posture’s improved, and there’s a greater sense of mental clarity after a particularly good routine. But African dance in Africa is different than African dance in Ann Arbor; I’ll miss the live music, cement floor, and kids peeking through the windows.

Got any more questions? Send ‘em to mtliang@umich.edu and I’ll post a reply here on the blog!

Translation Missteps

During a recent dance class, we were struggling with a new step until Jazz started calling out the weigh shifts. “Ball Change! Ball change!” she’d shout in time with the drums. Our Malian dance teacher picked up on this and started calling it out as well. All the Malians started laughing, which we assumed was because he couldn’t pronounce fast enough and would say it on the wrong beats. Later, we learned that his mispronunciation was commanding us “To fart! To fart!” in the local dialect.

Mmmmm food.

Last week, while I was taking a nap, several classmates left to visit perhaps the only supermarket in Bamako As they unloaded their wheels of cheese. jars of nutella, and boxes of cereal, I couldn’t help but feel like a kid at Christmas time with an empty stocking.

I’ve consciously tried to avoid playing the game “what food do you miss the most” because really, at this early on in the semester, it’s just culinary masochism. And fortunately, our meals are more than satisfying. We even have fresh salad for lunch every day. However, I’ve eaten tomatoes, onions, and cucumbers for nearly 14 consecutive days and if I extrapolate this pattern for three months, well I think it’s okay to start craving a little diversity.

Despite my initial intentions, we’ve started talking about our favorite meals, restaurants, desserts, etc while scooping another helping of rice at breakfast, lunch and dinner. Tacos! Pizza! Cheese burger! Fresh strawberries! Tator tots! Ben and Jerry’s ice cream! Chicken ceaser salad! Chocaolate! Cosmopolitans! It’s almost as if the process of talking about these unattainable food can somehow transform my mouthful of couscous into cheesecake. No miracles yet, but we’ll keep trying…

A few more pics

Okay, I have to run because the groups leaving the cyber-cafe, but here are a few more pictures from a birthday/dance party we went to last night. I'll write more as I can. Thanks for all your notes!!

A typical afternoon drive in Mali

Do you remember 2nd grade field trips to the zoo? The kind where your teacher gives each parent volunteer a detailed packet that includes, but is not limited to an itinerary, map, and list of each kid’s allergies. You’d climb into someone’s suburban or minivan and proceed to watch some Disney film to past the time all while seated comfortably in pilot seats. Well, let me be the first to tell you that field trips in Mali bear no resemblance to those elementary school forays (surprising, I know). Allow me to elaborate:

Our Malian culture and history lectures have thus far been focused on the Sunjata epic that explains the origin of the Malian empire in West Africa. The story has near Biblical importance as it lays out a code-of-conduct for Malian society. It was decided that we would visit the historic village of Kangaba where the sacred texts of this story are kept and recited every seven years by griots (oral historians). What was only supposed to be a two hour drive from Bamako ended up lasting four and a half hours and forcing us to spend the night in this rural village. It’s your typical story of driving in Africa, one that was painful at the time, but funny and memorable while looking back.

To better explain why it took so long, I first have to make clear that we are in the midst of the rainy season here in Mali. This is great because it keeps the temperatures relatively cool (80’s) and the dust down, but it also means that red dirt roads get completely destroyed. And I use the word “road” very loosely because 1) the highway that we took wasn’t paved, 2) they’re pocked not with potholes, but rather small craters, and 3) when water is added, they become the consistency and color of baby poo. As someone from the motor city, I can confidently say that I’ve never seen such roads in disrepair. Because each driver avoids the gaping holes and pools of water, the “two-lane road” is reduced to a winding single track with deep ruts. Streams and rice fields spill over as if the road didn’t even exist. It’s not an exaggeration when I say we often drove through rivers deep enough to have water splash up through the cracks in the van’s floorboards.


The vehicle itself was probably the single cause of discomfort on the trip. 19 of use were crammed in an 18 person van and each seat was about 80% the width of your butt. No matter where you sat, you were in pain. Window seats had good views and ventilation, but the plexiglass rattled like a machine gun and your shoulder was constantly being dislocated as the van thrashed around. Personal space simply did not exist and your legs reached a level of pain so great that you mentally reached a level of disassociation from your body.

Perhaps the hardest part was that we didn’t know how much longer it would last. We stopped for a bathroom break along the road (and by bathroom, I mean the ditch along the road) and asked for directions. We were told 3 more km and our hopes soared at this good news and then crashed as we realized it was really 33 km and another hour and a half.

Through it all, everyone’s attitude was amazing. We were stuck together for an undeterminable amount of time so we might as well be laughing about the situation. Singing and telling jokes with horrible puns passed the time quickly as did waving to all the children that we passed on the road (lots of little kids herding goats and donkeys).

We finally reached Kangaba around dusk and as local custom demands, we met with the local mayor. Part way through his welcome, we were interrupted by his cell phone and it was only slightly jarring to hear a ring tone in what we thought was a rural community. He told us it was too dark to visit the sacred sites and too late to hire a griot to act as a guide. Fortunately, the village had a “hotel” and we were able to get rooms for the night (remember, we had only packed for an afternoon trip and all had awful morning breath by the next day, among other things).


We ended up seeing the places we had read about in our books, something we rarely are able to do in school, but honestly, we were a little too tired and a little too rushed to enjoy it. Plus, the prospect of the return 4.5 hour drive weighed heavily on all our minds. The drive was just as uncomfortable as the first half, but at least we were mentally prepared for it. We realized in the days that followed that our pain threshold for Malian driving had significantly increased and that the group bonded through such an experience. It almost seemed like the drive itself was the lesson…either that, or we were being filmed for Punked or Candid Camera. I have video of a lot of the trip and I look forward to sharing our increased stages of travel delirium.

Slices of Life in Mali

(the view from a hill above our house)


(street level in Djoumanzana, Bamako)

These are a few of the everyday details that may go ignored after three months in Mali but are nonetheless apparent this week through with my still-American perspective:

1. You’re barefoot all the time. Anytime you enter a house, you leave your shoes/sandals at the door. Consequently, you add another sensory layer by feeling the ground beneath your feet. Smooth concrete tells me I’m at dance class and cold, wet, tiles reminds me that I’m in bathroom. We recently purchased small rugs, doormats really, for each room and I nearly cried at the luxurious soft feeling of carpeting. Even though I’ve walked on carpet my entire life, I’ve never really noticed it’s wonderful texture.

2. You drink A LOT of water. Africa is hot and air-conditioning is non-existent. One way to keep ourselves cool is to put our sweat glands on overdrive. Even though we may drink around a gallon of water a day, we never seem to have to urinate. Our liquids come in various forms; from 1.5 liters of Tombouctou purified water to hot tea with sweeten condensed milk. One benefit of all this sweat, particularly from the buckets I release in dance class, is that my skin remains healthy and my pores dirt-free.

3. The fluorescent lights have seizures every time you turn them on. Maybe Mali uses a different type of electricity, but the lights require some sort of spark that is initiated by the light switch. And it may take thirty seconds of sparking for the gas in the lights to actually catch. There are two bathrooms on the second floor, one of which is notoriously slow for lighting. In choosing between the two, it’s a tough choice because despite it’s lazy lighting, this one has a mirror and toilet seats that are attached, of which the second is lacking. I usually go for the one with the toilet seat and try to ignore the strobe lights that bring me close to a psychotic episode. (I have to clarify that these are not complaints, rather humorous observations. I am surprisingly comfortable here in Mali).

4. Whenever we walk down the street, the local children run over to shout at us “Toubabou, toubabou!” and we reply, “Farafin, farafin!” This roughly translates to foreigner and black person, but this greeting has no basis in racism. Rather, it’s just children pointing out the extremely obvious; everything from our skin color to our clothes to our language, everything screams tourist, or at least someone who’s not from the area. Our reply is on their same level of obvious-ness and gets a lot of grins. The children make this place so less intimidating because they are quick to laugh and shout a mis-pronounced bonjour. They’ll come right up with a “ca va” and demand a high-five that can quickly turn into holding hands for the duration of the walk. As cute as that sounds, we know how dirty the kids’ hands are and pat their heads affectionately instead.

5) One of our morning rituals is Bambara lessons with our Malian professor Sekou during breakfast. We begin each meal with a local proverb and I love starting my day with this flip-calendar of wise sayings. Our first proverb was:
“D))ni d))ni k)n)nin bE nhyaga da” or “Little by little the small bird makes his nest.” To me, it speaks of patience, of working hard for something that doesn’t seem apparent at the beginning. Our first week here in Mali has been overwhelming at times. But it’s also been an amazing example of the human ability to adapt to new surroundings. In only seven days, we can now navigate the winding paths to dance class, we can quickly convert CFA to dollar in our heads, we can shrink our physical bodies to make room on a sotrama, most importantly, we can laugh together as we fumble to make Mali our new home.

I'm so happy to be here I could dance...oh wait, I am

There is so much to write about, but I’ve found that it’s easier to begin an update if I just describe my immediate environment. As always, I’ve got a drink next to me, peach tea with a sweetened condensed milk called Jago. We always have a full thermos of hot water in our dining room (which doubles as a classroom during the day) and despite the heat, we end up drinking lots of tea and coffee. Four of my classmates are practicing the guitar with a local Malian musician. We’re all sitting in the outdoor corridor of our house, a second floor balcony that in the daytime, would overlook the cement houses of our neighborhood and a backdrop of surprisingly green hills. Tonight though, we just hear crickets, a bass line from someone’s radio, and the occasional crying baby.

We’ve been in Mali for three days now, but time is a fluid and elusive concept. It’s pointless to wear a watch because nothing ever happens on time. We may have events planned for the day, but they happen as they happen. There are routines and patterns for the day, like meals being brought by a local family, balanced in three aluminum pots on their head, but for the most part, it’s best to ignore any expectations of promptness. (And I love this)

This culture is richer than I could ever imagine. I’m in somewhat of a mental fog right now. Every nuance of this place is so new and exciting that my brain is on overdrive as I try to absorb it all. I’m not even attempting to process the experiences yet; my senses seem raw from working so hard and it’s no surprise that we’re exhausted by night. As I write all this, I think that these posts will be a good way for me to reflect and understand this experience, but I’m sure I’ll draw upon these next three months for the rest of my life.

I’m not going to even attempt a chronological narrative of the past few days because it would require the length of novel. I’ll try to describe a particular experience or observation in each update and hopefully by the end of the semester, you’ll have a good understanding of life in Mali.

Every morning around 10:00, we walk fifteen minutes from our family compound to a one-room schoolhouse that has been converted into a dance studio. We walk in flip-flops along red dirt roads and alleys, passing by family courtyards and kids calling out “toubabou!” which means “foreigner.” We are of course a novelty in the community, but there is no sense of intimidation, only mild amusement.

We are greeted at the school by our instructors; three dancers that have been part of the National Ballet Company and three musicians to play the drums. Shoes and sandals are never worn indoors and we leave them outside and walk barefoot across the concrete floor (we're quickly building up our calluses). Local children peek through the windows, but are quickly shooed away by the adults. Michelle, our program director and instructor, leads us all in warm-ups that resembles yoga poses, but is moves in time with the drums. We already have sweat dripping off of our noses by the time we begin and by the end of the entire lesson, we’ll have consumed an entire 1.5 liter bottle of water to replace all the fluids we’ve lost. I feel somewhat amphibious.

I have never been part of a culture where music and rhythm has been so infused with everyday life. It seems like every Mali citizen is born with the ability to dance and move there hips. Americans, on the other hand, prefer to drape ourselves in self-consciousness. That was the first lesson of dance class, at least for me personally. I had to stop caring about how crazy I looked before I could learn any steps. And honestly, it wasn't too difficult to do because if I didn't try to dance, then I'd be the one to stick out. I kinda knew that I would enjoy this opportunity to dance, but I never anticipated how much I love our two hour sessions.

Dancing has, hands-down, been the most intense workout I've ever experienced. It requires endurance, flexibility, physical strength, and above all, mental prowess. It's not like running where you can zone out for miles on the road; here, your mind is working rapidly to process the visual cues of the leaders' steps and turn that into physical movement that has to be in time with the drums. I have so much respect now for dancers, as well as patience for our teachers. We're quickly making progress and I can only imagine what three months of this will do (we all have hopes of being absolutely ripped by December). And one of the best parts of dancing is the elation that occurs after the workout. I don't think I've felt so healthy and mentally clear in a long time. Perhaps it's all the sweat, but we feel purged and cleansed and I can think of no better way to start my day.

Well, maybe with some coffee and the NYT. But that's a few months off. And I can't play that game just yet (the "what are you craving/missing right now?" game).

I am ecstatic to be here and this experience has already exceeded all expectations.

My bags are packed, I'm ready to go...for real this time.

I feel like I have to write something profound, but honestly, I’m so exhausted that we may have to try a semi-coherent stream-of-consciousness writing style. I think my creativity may have been shaved off with the rest of my hair this morning:


I cannot believe all the little details and loose ends that have filled these past few days. Both my mom and I sleep with a pen and pad of paper next to our beds because we keep remembering more things to do: make reservations for the youth hostel in Paris, bring a roll of toilet paper, let the credit card company know I’ll be out of the country, grab extra batteries for my CD player, etc, etc. It’s somewhat maddening. And even now that I’m all done, I can’t help but wonder, did I forget anything?

I can list off some successes though: for the first time ever, my luggage was under the weight restriction on my first try: 48.5 lbs and 49.5 lbs for my checked luggage and 23.5 lbs for my carry-on. Somewhere in my history of traveling, I’ve finally learned how to streamline my packing.

My mom and I have also had great luck collecting used soccer equipment for the Malian youth: 50 pairs of shoes, 30 socks, 30 jerseys, 20 shorts, 10 shin guards, a few goalie gloves and 30 soccer balls! Obviously, that didn’t all fit into my suitcases, so we have to ship most of it across the Atlantic. I can’t wait to see the kid’s eyes light up as we unpack enough equipment to form a complete soccer team.

I realized that I’ve been planning and preparing for this trip since last November and I AM READY. I had a fantastic weekend in Ann Arbor, catching up with old friends (and really realizing how much we’re going to miss each other), but honestly, I got so tired of talking about how excited I was to go to Mali. I just want to go so that I have actual stories to tell.

My mind is drawing blanks, but maybe that means I’ve done all that I can for right now (that’s a good thing). Tomorrow, all I have to do is just walk on the plane…

I’ll write when I can. Get excited!!

Procrastination

Okay. Okay. Okay.

I know I'm overdue for a lengthy blog post. I do want to share my reflections on packing and leaving, but since it's still hard to imagine going to Africa as of Wednesday, I guess I keep putting off these thoughts. I bet I'll be struck with insomnia tomorrow night and end up writing until 3am. So we'll have to wait until then.

Meanwhile, my sister Anna and I continue our tradition of taking photographs while jumping. I can only imagine the confusion this will cause in Mali.






Anna! Get in the car!

I'm feeling particularly pensive right now. I think I'm just going to sit here and enjoy the memories of this past weekend on my own for the night. I'll share them later.