It happened. “Shit’s finally getting real” and we all moved to the sites where we’ll be living for the next two years. We were a week behind schedule due to the security concerns, but everything is back up and running now. We all got to spend some time in the cities of Bougouni, Sikasso, and Koutiala. The Peace Corps was nice enough to deliver our luggage to these cities so we didn’t have to lug everything on public transportation.
My regional city is Koutiala, also known as the “City of White Gold” for its role in Mali’s cotton export, or Kooch-town as it was dubbed by a fellow volunteer and now resident. Getting from Bamako to Koutiala felt like a breeze this time because our bus didn’t get a flat tire. The trip was about three hours shorter than when we came for site visits. We were housed in a protestant mission as our Program Manager (PM) “installed” us one by one. The house was extremely western and we too full advantage of those perks, most notably the pool and oven. Installation basically meant driving us to our site with all of our luggage and introducing us to relevant officials such as the mayor, gendarmie, prefet, etc. This process happened one or two at a time, and being the volunteer furthest north (this isn’t saying much as I am still quite a ways south of Segou), I was installed last. It was a little ominous having the people we had hung out with for the past 11 weeks disappear one by one, but I appreciated getting a short break and exploring Koutiala.
Koutiala is a great little city. It’s a city by my new Malian standards of urban development, but that basically just because it has an ATM, a gas station with actual pumps, and a four story building (under construction). By US standards, it’s a small town. Regardless it’s a great size for us as it is small enough to be bike-able but large enough that there is plenty to do.
On Thursday it was finally my turn. Ryan (who lives about 12-15km from my village) and I loaded up our things as it started to rain. Malians claim that arriving in the rain is good luck, but I’m a little suspicious they just say that to make light of the situation. I kid, but superstitions are very strong and prevalent here. My village is about 55km north of Koutiala and about 10k off the paved road which runs between Koutiala and Segou. On the way, the driver suddenly pulls off the road and stops near a tree with a sheep tied to it. He calls the nearby man over, and after a bartering exchange that was too quick for me to follow, the sheep is suddenly pinned to the ground, legs tied, and hoisted onto the roof of our Landcruiser. My PM has just purchased a sheep. We take off towards Segou again with the sheep firmly secured on our roof next to my bike, propane tank, and lawn chair. My PM explains to me that she bought the sheep to slaughter for Seliba/Tabaski: the large post-Ramadan feast next month. She paid around 65k CFA down here (Sikasso region), and the same sheep would have run her about 20k CFA more had it been purchased near Bamako.
After some meetings with officials and installing Ryan, it is time to head to my village. The dirt road is usually in pretty bad shape but it’s even worse in the rain. We have a pretty rugged Toyota Landcruiser with a snorkel exhaust, but it’s still pretty tough to get through the head-cuts made by the water. All the while I’m sitting in back thinking “and I’m gonna have to bike this….” There is a village before mine where they mayor is and we are (amazingly) on time for the meeting. The mayor’s office is closed – not a surprise given the rain. No big deal: my PM calls the mayor’s cell phone (I have yet to see a landline outside of federal government buildings in Mali). He says he is away in Koutitala and can’t make the meeting. So we decide to drive to the lieutenant mayor’s house. He invites us into his common area where he is hanging out on a mat in plain clothes. He was planning to return to the office after lunch but then it started raining. He’s a really nice guy and gives me all kinds of blessings about doing good work to which I robotically reply, “Amiina”. I follow that series of with an “Allah ka dugawu mine” (may god hear our prayers,) which always impresses people to hear from a white guy. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the blessings, quite the contrary, but it’s just that they are said quicker than my language skills can process. For now I just have to listen for “Allah ka…” (may god…) and respond at the end of each sentence.
We climb back into the car. We begin to start the final stretch of the journey with only my village ahead, but hit a puddle too gnarly to cross. We can’t go around it without destroying someone’s cotton crop, and our driver thinks it is too deep for how loaded down the car is. We sit and wait while my PM makes a call. Soon after, my homologue (local counterpart) and a friend show up on his motorcycle. They can show us a back road which bypasses the village center completely and is in far better shape. Fairst we stop at our village’s gas station to fill up the motorcycle. A “gas station” in this case, and most Malian villages, is a small stand with old olive oil or wine bottles filled with gasoline. It is manned by a guy in a lawn chair outside of his house and looks pretty similar to a stereotypical lemonade stand. This back road is much easier and we arrive at my house. There I find no less than eight unrelated men, including the Dugutigi (village chief), there to help me unload my things. It goes quick and is much appreciated given the rain. They chuckle at my ridiculous-looking backpacking backpack with its foam hip belt and thousands of buckles. I get a little self-conscious when I realize that I paid for this bag what would amount to three to six months of salary for many of these farmers.
I notice in the corner, a dusty looking metal trunk that looks quite similar to my own. It contains the possessions left by an old volunteer in 2011. In addition to the foam mattress and buckets, I find a washboard, curtains, pillows, sheets, pots, and a US-made Teflon pan. Despite the fact that I am living in a completely different house, and the Peace Corps has not been active since the coup, the village has kept these items in storage and saved them to give to me now, in 2015. This is extremely comforting to me.
My PM goes through the standard protocols explaining my role in the village. This village has hosted at least two volunteers in the past (most recently 2011): they know the drill better than I do. This fact is something that my PM lingers on: at the end of every volunteer’s service they are asked if they feel they should be replaced. Three consecutive (minus the coup) is nothing to scoff at, and my PM says “clearly you guys are doing something right” – this comforts me. My PM tries to get going, she is planning on meeting people in Segou after this and I’m the eighth person she has installed this week, but two giant pots of rice, sauce, and goat meat suddenly appear and she is trapped. During the meal, our driver starts trying to jokingly sabotage me as he typically does. “Toh (a bland corn or millet based food) is his favorite food”, “he doesn’t like sugar in his tea, so don’t serve him any”, etc. Thankfully I am on alert and able to stamp them out immediately. We mention that we missed the mayor due to his trip to Koutiala, and the men all laugh and tell us they are pretty sure he is only two towns over but said Koutiala because he was afraid we’d make him come back if he revealed his real location. My PM finally manages to run for the car but not before the men hand her a live chicken to take home. She is about to get in the car when the driver snatches the chicken out of her hand and cleverly creates what looks like a diaper out of a plastic bag. “She duloki” (chicken shirt) he announces and everyone laughs.
As the Peace Corps vehicle pulls away, I start to get a slight sinking feeling in my stomach. This is it. I am now Sulemane Sogoba and this is my home for the next two years. I live 10k down a road that 4WD cars struggle with and I only have a bike. My language is good enough to shop and express basic actions, but I still can’t hold any lengthy “small talk” or chat other than describe what I did that day. My village is so small that I have to go a town over to buy bread. “Am I in over my head?!” But then I remember the trunk of old volunteers’ things which had been kept for years, and look around at my abnormally large, smiling welcome party. I’m surrounded by the world’s nicest people and I am in good hands.