So I just...sit here?

In a recent e-mail conversation with a friend back in the US I nearly allowed myself to send off a sweeping generalization that was about as negative as it can get.  We’re all friends here so I’ll let you in on the secret, but before I do, in exchange for my barefaced honesty I insist that you read this entire post.  What I about said with little explanation was, drum roll… I don’t like Malians.

After discussing this with my much more level headed girlfriend I realized that was just a tad oversimplified.  My goal here is to explain that frustrating path to enlightenment proving that, in fact, I don’t dislike an entire human population.

My last few posts have highlighted the difficulties I’ve encountered living in Mali.  While I have an endless supply of these trying tales I think you get the picture, no need to beat a dead goat.  Now that I’m here, at the end of my rope, at my wits end, just about to snap, the easy out would be to discard all of Mali’s inhabitants as bad people, therefore justifying my struggles and erasing my shortcomings.  Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way.

Upon closer inspection I have come to these conclusions.  Bamako has approximately two million citizens and according to the all-knowing Wikipedia is the fastest growing city in Africa, sixth fastest in the world.  99.6 percent of this two million, according to a study I just made up, are of African descent.  An overwhelming majority of that number has little to no outside contact with the rest of the world as we know it.  To be honest, the most attended geography lesson here occurs once every four years during the World Cup. 

What does this mean?  First of all, it’s easy for any single member of a large group of people to blend into the majority and fall victim to the mob mentality.  It’s easier to go with the flow, a universal truth.  Friends of mine who live in smaller villages have had very different experiences than me.  They’re able to spend some time with most of the people that they’ll deal with on a daily basis.  Kids don’t see an odd white stranger walking by, they know their name, their family and probably have had some first hand interaction with them.  The novelty is gone along with any desire to harass and taunt.  This suggests that the mob mentality is alive and well in Bamako.

Secondly, most Malians rarely bump into, let alone converse with, a white western man.  That rate of occurrence is slightly higher than Americans who have reported alien encounters, citation from study referenced above.   Taking this regrettably weak comparison, would it be fair to expect an American who stumbles across an alien to inherently understand and exhibit all of the cultural norms to make that Martian feel at home? 

Now, it’s only fair to discuss the very real flip side of this whole ordeal.   There are many things about the Malian culture that I have the utmost respect for.  At the top of that list is the respect they show for their elders.  The best example of this is when an older Malian man enters an area where many other Malian men and boys are sitting.  Like clockwork, one of the older men, who will undoubtedly have one of the better quality seats, will stand up and offer their chair.  Before that man can turn around one of the teenage boys sitting near him will have gotten up and be replacing his chair with theirs.  Finally, this seat less teenage boy will pick out one of the smaller boys and smack them across the back of the head and tell them to give up their seat.  It’s the circle of life. 

Malians also take time to spend with their friends and family.  One could argue that this is because they don’t have TVs and laptops to steal their attention.  This may be true, but the fact is that they don’t have them now, and whether they know it or not, they don’t act as if they’re missing anything.  Malians have perfected the art of sitting together.  Talk if you wish, but just sitting will suffice as quality time.

sitting...

One final admiration for their culture is that the idea of imposing doesn’t seem to exist.  This took some getting used to when I was the imposed and not the one doing the imposing.   For example, when I got back to my apartment today three guys were huddled around a meager bowl of rice and some random sauce.  It wasn’t much but they didn’t think twice to invite me to eat.  I kindly turned them down but even if I had accepted their offer they’d gladly share what little they had.  On this same topic a Malian house call is as welcomed and nearly as frequent as an American teenage girl texting her friends, LOL.   Plus, there is no pre call to get an ok for the drop by, you just drop by, and if no one answers the door you drop in, maybe sit around for a while, it’s no big deal. 

So to put some more rational thought, sans emotion, behind my opening point; there are aspects of Malian culture that have been very difficult to accept and given my American background coupled with a slightly stubborn personality I believe there are some aspects that I will probably never adopt as natural.   And for the first time I’m ok with that.

I’m going to finish this one with a call to action.  One of the more annoying aspects of living in the big city is that I am constantly the recipient of a ruthless scream of “Toubob!” from onlookers as I bike by.  Over the last week I’ve been counting and have figured that I receive an average of 15 of these a day.  For you first time readers out there Toubob roughly translates to white person.  All Asian American volunteers are affectionately called Chinois and little kids practice their Kung Fu on them.

For the next month or so I am going to have a goal of stopping at least once a day when I hear that lovely Toubob catcall.  I’ll have a short conversation with the group of kids, teenagers and sometimes adults.  I’ll introduce myself, learn their names and after reiterating my name I’ll tell them that they can call me by my name so they don’t have to scream Toubob anymore when I drive by. 

On any given day I drive by hundreds of different people so I’m not expecting to never again hear Toubob as I drive by, but I will track the change and put weekly updates here on the blog so get excited!

Is The Grass Always Greener?

Eighteen months ago I was anxious to the point of a nervous breakdown.  Soon I’d be leaving for Mali and my great African experience could finally begin but I couldn’t help but feel claustrophobic stuck in the center of the US.  I was working, coaching and spending quality time with my family but these were all selfish obligations that were stealing precious moments that could be spent with people who really needed me. 

I can vividly remember a brisk day in the spring before my departure when my dad and I were out playing tennis.  The summer hadn’t gotten around to stealing that frosty bite from the air that slurs your speech, but in Nebraska, that’s still outdoors weather.   After hitting around for a bit I met my dad at the net and told him that no matter how hard I try, my thoughts are consumed by the belief that I could be doing something “more important” with my time.  The very metaphorical greener pastures of Africa were calling and effectively drowning out every meaningful experience I was having.

Eighteen months later and here I am, coincidentally recovering from an eerily karmic near nervous breakdown, sitting in my apartment in Mali counting down the days to a trip back to the US for the holidays.  The greener pastures are once again calling, but somehow they hopped back across the Atlantic. 

Wait a second; let’s break this down.   In the US, I was guilt ridden, had more amenities then I knew what to do with and couldn’t help but feel like I single handedly was causing 3^rd world poverty every time I started my car or sat in air conditioning.  Now, I’m living in said 3^rd world country, frustrated with how difficult it is to get any work done, admittedly missing some creature comforts and now I yearn for the overwatered green lawns of the US. 

Where is the balance?  This cycle can’t continue or my sanity won’t.

Let’s go back to the source:  The infinite search for greener pastures.  How about we just put that myth to bed right now, because most of the soccer fields here are dirt and the lawns back home are chemically induced, over-watered and comically green.  Here’s the kicker, kids swarm to the rocky dirt soccer fields here with the same passion that western kids flock to the finely manicured fields in their hometowns.   What gives?

I’ve realized, it’s not a green (or brown) oasis they’re chasing, it’s the idea of what they can do there that is universally alluring. 

Now, is it possible to translate that to life after recess?  Probably not, but what else have I got to do?

It’s taken me over a year but I’ve finally been able to pick out some of the “greener” aspects of living at such opposite ends of the spectrum. 

Let’s start with Mali.  The biggest green patch here, that can potentially rival all of the stadiums in the US, is the gift of time.  Time, you remember, that thing that babies wallow in yet immaturely squander because they don’t realize how soon their schedules are going to fill up with preschool and play dates followed by kindergarten, piano lessons, soccer practice and summer camps.  No need to go further because by middle school free time is a concept too distant to comprehend.   Yet in Mali, there is time to read, to take walks, to spend an afternoon in the park (not a typo, I’ve only found one), etc.

It’s taken me a year to figure out how to productively fill my own days and weeks with personal activities I find mentally stimulating.  A skill that I believe will prove valuable.

Now, back to the motherland.  The American media machine scares me and is what I believe leaves a bad taste in my mouth every time I'm Stateside.  If the American media machine were a Goonie it’d be a combination of Data’s mind boggling inventions and Sloth’s brut force and boyish good looks. (I forgot that Josh Brolin was Mikey’s older brother Brand).

Considering this monsters force it’s far too easy to get caught up in Lady Gaga’s trendy fashions or worry about what’s going to happen next week on Glee.  It too often effectively replaces individual thought instead of posing as what it really is, a mere suggestion.

But the truth is in America I am still a human living on this earth capable of making my own decisions.  Yes, there are more of them and I need to be a little more informed when attempting to make the most responsible choices.  So if I want my pumpkin spice latte then I should be willing to spend a few minutes figuring out where this coffee is imported from and if this cup I’m drinking out of is biodegradable.

Let’s see, my grand conclusion… 

Greener pastures are a state of mind not an illusive magical problem free sanctuary.  For me that pot o' gold is being ok with who I am, where I am, what I’m trying to do and going from there. 

This isn’t easy. 

I am who I am at this present moment and there is no reason to feel neither pride nor guilt in the face of this fact.  There are decisions to be made today and sitting around feeling proud of my past accomplishments won’t alleviate them any more than guilt over previous failures should hamper them.

It’s a difficult thing but we should all heed the advice of the great philosopher Garth Algar from Wayne’s World and try everyday to “LIVE IN THE NOW!!”

Lost in the Shuffle

Disclaimer:   The words here are my personal thoughts and observations.  They in no way represent the beliefs or policies of the Peace Corps. 

A little background that will be relevant for this post:  my service here is assisting the Malian Tennis Federation.  I’m going to avoid trying to define that because that definition has proved to be an ever evolving entity that I've yet to grasp. 

A few months ago I went to Senegal for a boys and girls West African tennis tournament.  Not surprisingly, the results by country closely mirrored that of their respective GDPs. 

The day before the tournament started I was walking around and saw a kid practicing that was almost half the size as some of the other kids in the youngest division.  He was like a mini Nadal out there playing every point with the intensity of a Wimledon final.  I just figured he was someone’s kid and didn’t think much more of it. 

The next day the matches were posted: First round, boys 12 and under, Mali v Mauritania.  Perfect, as I watch my guy maybe that kid will be watching his older brother play and I can ask him a few questions.  The two kids from Mali playing in the 12 and unders were a couple of the smallest kids in the draw; that is until I was wrong about the kid from Mauritania being someone’s little brother. 

Long story short, the kid was beyond impressive and he was only 10 years old.  Not only did he have the skills and the racket head speed he was a natural out there.  He knew how to move, how to anticipate and in tight moments he was visibly more excited for the fight which is a rare quality at any age.  Plus, he’s a lefty; he truly was a tiny Nadal.

Ok, where are we going with this?

Fast forward to the end of the tournament.  The director of the ITF (International Tennis Federation) for West Africa was handing out a few teaching materials to all of the coaches and I stepped into his room to say goodbye as the coach from Mauritania was coming in. 

Our paths were about to cross and we started that uncomfortable ‘who’s going which way’ dance, only I realize that he’s trying to get in my way.  The Mauritanian coach is about a foot shorter than me and was extremely soft spoken and modest throughout the tournament so this human roadblock move was very unexpected.  He tells me in French that he wants Peace Corps to send a tennis coach to Mauritania.  I try to tell him that the Peace Corps has recently suspended their program in Mauritania due to some security concerns (in broken French).  I tell him that I will talk to my office in Bamako and let them know of his request. 

I step aside as he makes his way to the ITF director and before I take my first step to the door this tiny man grabs me firmly just above my elbow and pulls me towards the director seated across the room.   The roadblock move was a shock, the grab and pull is like an out of body experience.  He demands that the director translate to make sure that I understand.  The problem wasn’t that I didn’t understand him rather I welcomed our language barrier because my French isn’t good enough to explain how unlikely it is that if/when the Peace Corps reopens their program in Mauritania that they’ll have another tennis coach ready to go. 

The Moroccan ITF director kindly explained that I understood and that I’ll do whatever I can.  I smiled awkwardly, as I often do in uncomfortable situations, but there was something troublesome with how the interaction concluded.   The coach had a look on his face like that of a child who has received one too many empty promises.  He knows not to get his hopes up.  He has a player with all the potential in the world and he knows that without some outside help this kid will only go so far.  There’s nothing else I can do.  I walk away.

That’s the part you don’t think about before coming here, the times you can’t help.   I’ve been here a year and have had my fair share of hopes dashed.  Kids I thought I was really going to be able to help, but for one reason or another, things haven’t worked out and you just have to deal with it. 

Yes, one could argue that my interaction with them is an improvement in itself for these kids, but it isn’t as good as what I thought I was going to be able to do and I’m not in the mood to get cheered up so we’ll just leave that point lie.

My current hopes:  Rumor has it that we’ll be starting the Malian National Tennis Academy and I'll be the technical director.  I’ve even seen a budget and heard that the money actually exists.  If that day ever comes I’m excited about the tennis knowledge that I’ll be able to share with the first batch of kids and the coaches.  But, I’m more excited to have some kids on a regular basis and begin to teach them punctuality (which is very unpopular here), respect, responsibility, and a hard work ethic.   Qualities that will serve them much longer than their tennis games will. 

Ok, let’s wrap this up with a small tangent.

It’s not uncommon for returned volunteers to go back and as a part of their transition to grad school or the work force help with recruiting future Peace Corps volunteers.  It’d be unfortunate if my honesty here were to make me an unlikely candidate for that job.  But, I think it’s more of a disservice to perpetuate warm and fuzzy lies about dancing through wheat fields hand in hand with host country nationals at sunset.  Yes, there are euphoric surreal experiences but there are also times that are beyond frustrating and it’s important to mentally prepare for both.

I’m trying to find some value in this venting.  While it’s therapeutic for me I think there can also be some benefit for people living and working elsewhere.  To be honest I don’t know what that may be right now, maybe that’s where you can help me find some clarity. 

I know that my last few posts haven’t been overly positive.   The truth is if I needed to leave Mali, the Peace Corps could have me on a plane in 48 hours.  But, this is where I feel I need to be right now, as I trust that there is some value in the work that I’m failing to do. 

About all of his unsuccessful attempts to invent the light bulb Thomas Edison said, “I didn’t fail, I just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.”

At the end of all of this I will definitely have my 10,000 ways not to get work done and there will be some value in that.

Webster's Defines Job as...

If a problem falls in the desert, but there is no one around to worry about it, does it really exist?

Poverty, hunger, disease in 3^rd world countries, these are bad things right?  I recently heard a section of a speech from President Obama on BBC radio where he said something to the effect of “it’s time we start helping and urging these struggling countries to develop sustainable ways to support themselves instead of supporting a dependence on long term aid”, basically the idea where instead of giving a man some food you teach him to fish so everyday for the rest of his life he has a reason to go sit on a boat and drink beer.

Drunken fishing stories aside, yes Barack, most will agree that this is a great idea, but where nearly everyone will differ is with the how.   

Spoiler alert, I don’t have any genuine answers to the big "how" question and I'm not sure Barack does either.  To be honest, after experiencing a year of the development game I've come to the conclusion that anyone who gives you a definitive recipe for how to fix a struggling area is either lying or trying to impress someone.

So the best I can do for you is to sum up my first year as an optimistic Peace Corps volunteer who was ready to fix Africa but realized that the illusive "how" is more complex than simple good intentions.  After a few months in the lost-in-a-temporary-black-hole-of-despair stage I've now progressed to the realistically-hopeful-and-optimistically-jaded (no plug intended) for the small fraction of this life that I do understand.

Just over a year ago I got off the plane in Mali.  At this point I could write all about the expectations I had leading up to that moment and if you were to just imagine the exact opposite then you’d have a good understanding of my last 14 months.

Let’s break this down:

Misconception Number 1: I exit the plane and place my first foot on African soil, (Imagine an over dramatic inner dialogue voice with a slight echo) “People of Mali, at ease for I am here to solve all of your problems!” 

Lesson Learned: Shockingly, I soon find out that they have figured out how to live before I’ve been able to impart all of my wisdom on them.  As a matter of fact, I soon realize that the village style of living is more self-sufficient then the average American’s.  Small speed bump. 

Misconception Number 2:  (Same voice from above) “That’s ok, I realize you had to find a way to make do until I could arrive, but now I’m here, let’s get started with the Q&A.” 

What would you do if let’s say a friendly Chinese fellow arrived in your office and shortly after the awkward introduction started informing you of better ways to run your business?  Even if he's coming with the best of intentions, he's still Chinese, you're still American, cultural wise it's comparing apples to oranges, fried rice to fried chicken.  

Lesson Learned:  Most people are not going to jump at something just because it's new.  A lesson I learned the hard way when I lost a small fortune investing in Pepsi Clear.

Misconception Number 3:  (No longer standing high on pedestal, similar inner voice, remove echo)  “Ok, ok, I accept that you have certain ways you like to do things, but you must agree that there are some problems so let’s fix them.”

Lesson Learned:  Forget all the fixin' talk, wait a ridiculous amount of time, and finally piece together what I and my Malian colleagues collectively believe the problem to be.  For example, I see a leaky roof and start thinking of ways to patch it up whereas my Malian friends might just tell me to just find somewhere else to sit.

Misconception Number 4:  Six months in, initial expectations shattered along with good portion of ego, but I now have fit myself into a small niche where they have specifically asked for help and I know I am qualified to do so. “Here is my proposal for what we need to change and how we’re going to move forward.”  They love it and want to get started immediately.  Yes!  The time has come we’re really going to start making some improvements.  Six months later we’re just about to get going. 

Lesson learned:  Be patient.  And here I thought two years in Africa was excessive.

To sum up in the simplest terms, I was under the naive impression that this would be easy.  Yeah, the living conditions would be hard and the language barrier frustrating but the satisfaction of a job well done in a place that can really use the help would surely erase all of those mild discomforts.  Little did I know the main discomfort would be spending the first year attempting to redefine the word “job”. 

I’m not sure what the point is here and maybe that is the point.  It’s easy to feel lost.  Everything I thought I knew has either transformed or is not relevant to this daily life.  Sometimes I feel like that kid in the cartoon, confused, frustrated, scared. 

If I could go back in time and give the Tyson of 15 months ago some advice it'd be, "assume you know nothing, then slowly start from there."

Look, I just want some tomatoes!

I have lived in a few different countries and adjusting to other cultures is always a bit of a challenge but Mali has raised the bar to a level I never could have imagined. 

Reason numero uno.  I now believe that I understand why all the pretty celebrities in the US freak out on the paparazzi.  Let's take today for example.  I load up my bike and backpack with everything I think I'll need for the day, lock up my apartment and head out.  The people inside my apartment "courtyard" are used to me so we just go through the mindless greetings that are expected in Mali;  good morning, how'd you sleep, how's your family, how are your kids (even though they know I have none), how's your woman, may Allah bless your day, boom I'm out. 

That was relatively painless but I'm not even out of my apartment building yet.  The moment my front tire breaks the daylight outside I'm spotted by some kids playing nearby.  "Toubob, Toubob, Toubob!!" (white person).  A couple kids chase me for a while trying to grab the luggage rack on the back of my bike.  I shake them off and make it to the main road and after the deathly game of frogger I get across and am on my way.  While riding I'm surprised if I ever make it more than 50 yards without someone yelling Toubob at me, just to point out that yes, I am a white man, thanks for that info. 

Now I'm riding with all the cars and motos, we're moving pretty quickly so the jeering from the pedestrians gets muffled with the wind and traffic noises.  Probably every fifth moto that passes me yells Toubob as they go by; phew, thanks buddy, I forgot for a second there.  I try really hard to avoid responding to the calls of Toubob as I don't want to reinforce that behavior, but sometimes I can't resist and I yell Farafine (black person) back at them, then we both look at eachother for a while, they laugh at me and I leave. 

A few times I've walked around some neighborhoods with a few Malian friends of mine from the tennis club and as expected a minute doesn't go by before some kids give me the Toubob heckle and they kind of laugh along with them.  Then as we continue to walk and the verbal assault on me continues they start to realize how annoying it is and start to defend me.  I've come to the conclusion that people see me ride by once that day and yell and then their day continues, what they don't realize is that this treatment never stops for me.  I swear, if I ever see Brangelina in a vegan friendly restaurant I am going to ignore them as best I can!

So yes, some days I feel like freaking out in a way that would make Brittney look like Mother Theresa but the fact of the matter is that we American volunteers are novelties here and with a population that does not have many outlets to the world I'll cut them some slack.  Plus, the Malians are always good sports when I give it back.

The other issue that continues to upset me on a regular basis is MONEY!  More specifically, the amount of bills and change circulating in Mali are disproportionate to what's needed here.  Here's a quick breakdown of common items and what they roughly cost in cents/dollars:

500 cfa = 1 dollar

3 tomatoes:                       20 cents

1 onion:                            10 cents

1 cucumber:                     10 cents

1 egg:                               15 cents

5 bananas:                        50 cents

1 apple:                            45 cents

12" loaf of bread:              40 cents

1 can of houmous:             1.20 dollars
small bag of cashews:        1 dollar

1 bar of soap                    20 cents

bottle of beer:                   1 dollar



This is how this scenario plays out.  I go to the ATM to get some money, I take out about a hundred dollars but it all comes in the equivalent of 20 dollar bills.  Shit!  Now, let's take yesterday as an example.  Meg and I were going to have houmous for lunch so after a meeting I had in the morning I tried to find some cucumbers and tomatoes on my ride back.  Finding any vegetables during the day is a feat in itself and once I did I was ecstatic.  I pull over, pick out a nice cucumber, 3 tomatoes and I throw in a couple onions to round it off to 50 cents.  As I reach for my wallet the clouds roll in and it gets eerily dark because I think I only have big bills.  My wallet opens in slow motion like I'm slowly cracking a door I believe to be hiding a mass murderer.  Just as I peak my head around the axe hits me square between the eyes, it's a $20.  I hold it out with a stupid look on my face, I've been here a year and know what this means.  She laughs and just puts the veggies back down knowing that we don't need a verbal response here, that produce is going nowhere.

Fast forward to that evening.  If I've learned anything it's to have backup plans here and then a backup for that backup.  So on my way home I plan to go buy a few bigger things at an actual grocery store with a roof near my apartment.  I get there, pick out about 3 dollars worth of items and head to the cash register.  The clerk adds up the total and I hand him the 20 acting like it's no big deal.  He stares blankly at me and just says "no money".  I know for a fact that he has change, plus I can see it in the mirror behind him.  So I plead for some small bills but he says "no, take the food, pay me tomorrow".  Small consolation as I was planning on taking that change and getting some veggies.  Frustrated, I took my food and stood by my bike, staring out at nothing.  I ran out of options.  At that point I was upset with the entire country of Mali and knew that nothing good would come from any other interactions I might have so I went home to piece together dinner.

If anyone reading this knows why this lack of small bills exists I would be very interested to hear.  I'm assuming that by printing an equal amount of all bills more money can be printed without having to print a higher number of actual bills.  By the same logic, I would also assume that making coins costs more than bills once again resulting in a shortage.





An E True Maliwood Story. Trash: The Revolting Route Back to the Dinner Table

   Have you hugged your garbage man this week? If not, I suggest you go out and buy a nice card, maybe one of those that sing a happy little ditty when you open it, and wait by your curb this week to thank the man that keeps the veil over your eyes because we’re about to take a journey that is going to make you very grateful that that man exists.

   It’s a cozy September night in Bamako, rainy season is still going strong and judging by the intensifying breeze coming through my window another storm may be on the way. The sweat soaked nights of dry season are a distant memory and this cool air doesn’t allow me to read for long before I start to doze off. My eyes are getting heavy and just as I drift off a flicker of light catches my eye. Is this soft strobe light a dream? No, the realization and disappointment set in before the stench, this night of sleep is going to be ushered in by the pungent choking bouquet of burning trash outside my window. 

   There are a number of paths that our trash takes here and all of them happen right before our eyes. It was during this most recent attempt to gas me out of my apartment that I realized I was holding back some intense eye/nostril opening experiences.  So sit back and relax as we embark on this photographic trash trail.

Option A:  Trash Potpourri

The photo on the right was taken about 50 yards down the “road” from my apartment. Here you will notice some potpourri dishes similar to the ones sitting just outside my window. I believe the ones in the background have reached capacity. It truly is amazing what we as humans can adjust to. For example, in the beginning when the deadly aroma of burning trash wafted through my window I wasn’t sure if I should worry more about the blood coming out of my nose or the uncontrolable gag reflex that it was summoning, and now I'm in the final stages with Yankee Candle on a new fragrance.  One man's trash is truly another man's chance to capitalize on a lucrative new product.

Possibility Number 2:  Private Entrepreneurs

This is one of the four "trash recepticles" immediately below my window.  The one these two boys are going through inspired the candle scent 'burnt plastic on a hot night' which has recently caused a rather viscious bidding war.  I call these children entrepreneurs because they are just that.  The big ticket item is plastic bottles.  Small roadside shops, or even ladies with a cooler, will pay kids a pittance for these bottles as they will then wash them out and refill them with some incredibly sugary juices that they will sell for 10-20 cents.
So recycling in Mali was en vogue even before Cameron Diaz started Trippin'  (That MTV show in 2005 where she was taking eco-friendly trips with her closest friends.   Apparently there were no pilates instructors and they had to pack their own bags... It's truly amazing the strain these stars will put themselves under to help save mother earth!)

The Third Way:  Donkey Cart Rubbish Removal

This is actually pretty cool.  I'd say the closest thing there is here to a garbage truck that I've seen.  I believe that apartment complexes or individual houses will pay these guys a small amount to come collect their trash every now and then.  These two aren't actually in the garbage business but the elusive donkey garbage cart has proved too be too rare a phenomenon for me to catch on camera.

Which brings us to the dump.  From previous posts you may remember that there is a soccer field right in front of this particular garbage destination.  The difficult part here is determing which aspect of this photo is the most disturbing; all of the plastic that won't be biodegrading for quite some time or that one of my rare sources of protein happens to be dining on the city's refuse.  I'll let you chew on that dillema for a while.

Scenario E:  Rain Rain, Take it Away.

Growing up in the USA, I was never faced with the question, "what if no one came to pick up the trash?"  This photo was taken a block from my apartment and it is just one strip of the spiderweb of open sewers that handle Bamako's water/waste distribution needs. 

My Veggie Lady! 

Maybe a few hundred yards down the road is where we buy most of our vegetables.  The main players in this picture are Diarra, our veggie lady, Meg, notice the reusable cloth bag, and Shaka, the made up name I gave to that baby strapped to his mom's back.  What adds some spice to this scenario is the open sewer a solid 4 feet away from dinner.  This was taken at the height of rainy season so the sewer is normally about half full except during some of the harder rainstorms when most of them overflow and I'll let your imagination finish that sentence.  A number of friends have fallen victim to the extremely unfortunate slip or misguided step landing them knee deep in an excrement cocktail. 

Unfortunately these sewers don't run off into a magical land where trash and waste is turned into gum drops and peanut clusters, respectively.  The trash washes up somewhere and then it turns into another problem for whomever seems to have picked the wrong place to pitch their tent.

Hmmm.  First, I'm a little upset because it looks like he didn't read my first post because that urine is marigold at best meaning he could be a good 2 litres short of his needed water intake for the day.  And B, public water areas are used for many different reasons such as transport, washing clothes, cleaning pots and bathing so taking a wiz two feet from shore is a big slap in the face to everyone in the area.  Not to mention the fish that is caught and served directly at all the local restaurants.

MMMMM, fresh fish!

How I got here

This post is going to act as the prequel to my first post. It may have been presumptuous to jump into things without first sharing how I’ve arrived at these thoughts myself. So to give you some perspective, currently I am living in Bamako, Mali, West Africa as a Peace Corps Volunteer. Mali is one of the world’s poorest countries.

Let’s go back a few years. I was working for a tennis management company that placed me in some of the most beautiful resorts around the world. Short version, I was playing tennis in paradise with some very interesting people for a living. Shortly after joining this company I became a vegetarian and to be honest I couldn’t tell you why. I had all the stock answers that I had heard regurgitated a hundred times but there was no truth behind my conviction. Some people that I admired were veggies and I liked their reasons so I jumped on the bandwagon.

Life continued in this fashion for about three years and then I was posted in Abu Dhabi, just up the road from their more popular neighbor Dubai. While there my fellow associates were from all over the world but to focus on where I’m headed my main influences over the next 9 months were from the Philippines, India, Sri Lanka, Kenya and Somalia. Getting to know them first as fellow employees and soon as friends our conversations quickly went to their homes. They were interested in my life in the US and I even more so in theirs. I couldn’t help but feel dejected after learning of their struggles and a bit guilty of my now seemingly charmed life. As many of the important decisions of my life began this one started one day when I was whining about how it isn’t fair what some people have to deal with and a British guy I worked with at the hotel beautifully lived up to their upfront no bullshit stereotype by simply saying, “why don’t you do something about it instead of ruining my lunch with all this whining?” That afternoon I was on the Peace Corps website and my application was in a week later.

Returning home that summer to await my deployment details probably marks my all time high in annoyingness. I was always a bit of a pain in the ass when it came to others being wasteful and environmentally irresponsible with many decisions but now I had an invite to Africa for two years of volunteering to back up my self righteousness. I thank my parents for putting up with me as every meat based meal or extra lawn watering turned into a mini lecture, they found patience and humored me.

Let’s jump ahead six months into my time in Mali. It’s difficult to sum up what it’s like to live here as many volunteers agree that it’s nearly impossible to find the words to describe this experience. For a long time I didn’t even try to illustrate my thoughts and feelings because I didn’t have a clue myself. Imagine being overwhelmed with feelings both good and bad, guilty and grateful, eager yet petrified and you want to make some sense of it all, mull it over with the people back home that know you, but you don’t even know where to begin with a description. Those first six months were about as confusing as they get for me. I came here to help, but now I don’t know how, wonder why, and know that they don’t want the type of help that I thought they needed.

The slate was wiped clean. Over the following nine months leading up to today everything I thought I knew was torn to shreds. I had this cocky little “I have interesting environmental facts to make you feel bad about yourself” walk and then it felt so embarrassingly ridiculous that at times I have felt ashamed sitting with people here. What I was doing before, the way I thought things needed to be done to make life better for people here was, to sum it up in one word, naïve. In my defense, my intention was never to make people feel bad about themselves or the lives they led. The problem was that I was getting the beginning and ending of the story, I knew the issues and then I saw the final data and not knowing how to do anything about it made me frustrated so I would recite these stats as a reflex hoping that somehow it would magically make a change.

This brings us up to speed with the change of my blog title. One of the nagging realizations during all of this has been that after initially being overwhelmed with this new definition of poverty I couldn’t help but notice that most people here seem quite content with what they have. It was confusing and almost upsetting to see that they are just as happy, and in many cases happier, than many people I have spent time with in the US or in other first world countries I’ve lived in. I laugh with the adults, play sports with the kids, and get extremely upset with the children when they hold on to the back of my bike regardless of their financial status. They don’t want my pity. They’re still living their lives whether I feel sorry for them or not.

So what is my take on all of this now? What do I believe? What are the problems and how do we help? I don’t know.. I don't disbelieve what I said before and I now have my own convictions for wanting to be environmentally responsible with my decisions. Now I have a better perspective of how the decisions I make effect my friends here and all over the world in struggling areas. So while at times it may look bleak, it just takes seeing a kid who seemingly has nothing yet won't stop smiling to convince me that it's worth trying. I guess that's what I believe.