The First Month of Freedom (10.9.08)

As the buzzing of flies gives way to the whining of mosquitoes I watch the stars slowly appear while swinging lazily in my hammock. I proceed to light the lantern that allows me to become engrossed in yet another novel only to be interrupted by Bacar, my ten-year-old neighbor who loves to hang out at my house. He wants to take some pictures with one of the most incredible devices his young, inquisitive eyes have seen, my camera. I think to myself, just wait until you see the laptop!

Bacar is a smart kid. I taught him how to play chess in under an hour and he helps me to learn Bambara and French. If he grew up in the States and attended a normal grade school he would probably be ushered into a gifted and talented program (if one existed), breeze through the few AP classes offered in high school, attend a prestigious university and continue on to the career of his choosing.

Bacar's future looks a little different from the one we may be used to, as he is not growing up in the world's wealthiest country, but the third poorest. Perhaps he will become a teacher in the school next to my house that was built by Japan. Maybe even one day the headmaster. He might make enough money to afford a couple wives and a moped. He will have a nicer house with more than one room, a tin roof instead of thatch, and even concrete floors. Along with 80% of Malians, the fields will occupy his time and energy during the rainy season.

While there is nothing wrong with this drastic difference in lifestyle (in many ways I find it better) a big problem becomes evident when people start getting sick or hurt. One of my neighbors was sitting in a hammock when the support snapped and caught her on the wrist. It quickly swelled up to twice its normal size, demanding professional attention. I asked, how far is the doctor? Too far. How much does an x-ray cost, or even some aspirin? Too much. I guess all that is left is to give the standard benediction: "Ala ka nogo ye ke (May God heal your pain)."

Despite many difficulties, village life is incredibly peaceful. It is always like a breath of fresh air to come home from a weekend in the loud, dirty, unfriendly city. A small Malian village is a place where everyone knows each other and it can take an hour to walk from one side to the other, as it is rude not to greet everyone in sight. I am slowly learning names and making friends but still don't have the language ability to take conversation much beyond the weather and discussing plans for the rest of the day. Little by little I continue to settle in, pick up a new phrase here and there, and get to know some of the nicest people I have had the privilege to meet.