Senou IS paved - Mali: Arrived

Summary: Dom flies to Bamako, Mali and meets up with the Peace Corps gang who will be his companions for his time there. Booze did flow, dance moves were thrown and a hangover was earned.

Soaking up the remaining moments of relative luxury on board the Dakar-Bamako flight, my window seat gave me a perfect view of the lush, green, hilly West country of Mali; a striking contrast to the dusty brown of Senegal. Despite being only a 90 minute flight, the courteous and well-presented cabin crew of Air Senegal were not only quick to get everyone seated, but also provided beverages and a small meal. As I tucked into the surprisingly tasty poulet, I wondered what it might have been like had I taken the more arduous route on the train. While I was no doubt missing the experience, I wasn't entirely sure that was a big loss; there would certainly be no A/C on that train and there were no goats in the cabin of this plane.

I was daydreaming when the landing announcement came over the loudspeaker and only picked it up half-way through the Ouolof version; the second of three. I'd joked with my father about not being sure if Bamako's Senou airport had paved runways and after a hard landing, I must admit, I looked out my window to check. Obviously belonging to a less-developed nation, Senou does indeed have paved runways and even a baggage track, but it also has something I've never seen in any airport in the world. After collecting your bag (mine arrived this time!), you are obliged to put them through an X-ray scanner! I suppose I can see a case for it, but it does seem a bit O.T.T. Perhaps Mauritania's Nouakchott airport (which restricts any import of alcohol) allows departing passengers to carry WMDs in their checked luggage and Mali got sick of it; T.I.A. Having passed that hurdle without being subjected to a bag search, I attempted to leave before I was yelled at in French by a hugely perturbed female security agent. Seeing in my eyes that her exclamation did not compute in my brain, she angrily motioned to the baggage tag on the suitcase of some woman whom she was harranging. Giving my tag to the taller, more docile, male security agent, I skirted past the cruel wench and entered into freedom - finally, Mali.

It was never firmly decided who would meet me at the airport and so I scanned the crowd for a sign with my name. From behind a crowd of awaiting Malians, she appeared. Standing at 5'7" with rich brunette hair that clearly contrasted her overly pale skin, I recognized her from a photo on Yuri's blog. "Are you Dom?" she asked, somewhat timidly. "I am. And you must be Kathy," I replied. Kathy had liaised with Satguru travel and had arranged transport to take us from the airport to the Peace Corps office in Bamako. On the 15 minte drive, we engaged in the typical meet & greet conversation interspersed with me cracking jokes at Yuri's expense. I also learned that she'd not been well and that her neck had been very stiff and sore. Here in Africa, that may mean something as simple as just having slept funny or it can be as serious as cerebral meningitis. This was so Yuri. I'd come nearly half-way around the world and Yuri had sent his ill girlfriend to come collect me! Still, I've come to expect such from him. He more than once has called me mere hours before arriving at Denver International Airport asking for a ride. Still, we're brothers and there isn't much I wouldn't do for him.

I still hadn't really come to terms with West Africa yet. People living in what in the States would be considered filthy conditions combined with a general lack of infrastructure still struck me as unusual and uncomfortable; it was obvious that Kathy was already well-adapted as she was wearing open-toed sandals whereas I had on my Salomon Gore-Tex trainers. Through the dark, Kathy directed the driver through the maze of Bamako streets; no streetlights nor streetnames here. I hadn't paid for my ticket from Dakar to Bamako as Satguru only takes cash. Thankfully, after some discussion and help from Yuri, they'd agreed to let me pay them on arrival. Paying the driver, we thanked him for the ride and headed inside the Peace Corps compound. In a back office with the A/C blasting, four female Peace Corps volunteers were hard at work researching grad schools and seeing if their projects had been posted online. I would learn a great deal about Peace Corps during my time here including much about the difficulties they encounter. From the native language of Bambura not having words to express certain key aspects to cultural differences in work ethic as well as financial constraints, Peace Corps volunteers are forced to be some of the most critical thinkers in Mali. I, concurrently, commend their diligence and worry about their mental health. One volunteer (or PCV), Kara, told me about a project she was trying to get off the ground to organize training for first responders. I was immediately intrigued as I'd completed EMT school some years previous. She told me that, due to not knowing how to swim, some emergency personnel had delayed in attempting to rescue some people in a flood and at least one of the victims had drowned. Kara was attempting to organize swimming lessons at a local hotel's pool. Naturally, the hotel wanted to be paid, but so did the first responders. And thus began the difficulties. Funding for Peace Corps projects isn't nearly as available as I had imagined. In FY2007, the Peace Corps budget was $319 million. That may seem like a large figure, but NASA's budget was over $17 billion. So, while finding funding for this project was not outside of the realm of sanity, organizing something as simple as swimming lessons takes serious effort and appeals for funding. Often, it's the volunteer's family and friends who donate to their project. Furthermore, projects frequently require the involvement of someone with some clout. It's relatively easy to ignore a PCV, and the first responders lacked a leader/champion. Kara had a contact, a former general in the Malian army who would be a good fit, but he would not get directly involved as he feared people would figure out that they could find him at the Peace Corps office and try to ask him for money. Kara wanted to climb a molehill, but as she said "had just had her mind blown" as she found a pretty big mountain, instead.

After a PCV from outside of Bamako, a loud, boisterous chap named Aaron burst into the office, everyone decided it would be a good night to party. It was obvious that after a few weeks in a village, contact with Westerners is a welcomed reprieve. A few of us headed to a local hotel where PCVs who come in for medical checkups and other business can stay with vouchers they receive every quarter. Kathy was kind enough to give me one of hers so I could stay the night there. Kathy, unfortunately, would not be staying in the large, 2 bedroom place as her neck pain had earned her a night in the medical office. Our departure the next morning for Mopti in order to start an 8-day riverboat trip was looking more and more like it would be without Kathy; a looming sentence that she was desperately trying to avoid. When we entered the room, Pete LaFrancoise was lounging on one of the beds which seemed to float amongst a sea of mattresses. Mike was sitting on the floor playing a game on his laptop. It was clear that this room had been well used for quite some time.

Over the next couple of hours, I answered all kinds of questions about who I was and about GlobalTrek:Africa as we tucked into the bottle of Absolut I’d donated to the cause as well as some of the local tipple. Something that claimed to be whisky, the label actually described the stuff as “elaborated”. This was the stuff that puts hair on your chest. In Aaron’s case, it’d gone further adding it to his outer shoulders as well as taking it off his head. For a minute, I wondered if drinking it would lead to blindness, but then I tucked in for a good induction swig. Choking back the swig, I knew that this was going to be a fun night in Bamako.

We started, as any good night should, with tequila shots. After that, details become hazy, but there was certainly plenty of Flag beer and plenty of dancing that attempted to look like salsa. We’d done a number on ourselves with the local booze and after a staggered walk back to the hotel, I crashed next to Aaron on a mattress and dreaded the 6:30am wakeup before the 7am arrival back at the Peace Corps office. Ultimately, I made it, granted a couple of minutes late, but I’m happy to blame that on the short delay caused by standing in a pile of vomit that Aaron kindly left for me prior to his early morning departure. Just more than slightly hung over, I passed through security at the Peace Corps office where Josh said he was just calling people to find out where I was. After bringing my bag to the SUV that would take a group of us up to Sevaré, I grabbed a space on a couch, tossed back 600mg of ibuprofen and a good couple glasses of water and tried not to go back to sleep.

The journey to Sevaré took just over 8 hours. We’d stopped a few times to check in with a couple PCVs in towns along the way and also for lunch where I had my first experience with riz sauce. Simple rice with a peanut sauce and, if you can handle it, some spicy sauce called faranto, lunch in Mali can be very basic. Getting out of the air conditioned SUV at the Peace Corps office in Sevaré, I was soon hot, sweaty and disoriented and headed inside where a pretty decent library of reading material proved that PCVs have plenty of time on their hands. I grabbed a copy of “The Kite Runner” and went outside to try to catch one of the couple of lizards I’d seen scampering around the compound. We were soon met by Sara who was stationed in Sevaré. A wonderfully cheery girl, she spoke French without even trying to feign an accent and was most welcoming. We would spend the night at Sara’s house and in the morning, head off for our boat trip – sadly, without Kathy.