The Perfect Path

The other day I decided it was too hot for hair. I also decided that I wasn’t about to let my host brother, Sory, make me bleed to death again.

So, I got up out of my hammock and walked to the barber. The barber is on the main road, which is to say the dirt thing connecting my town to Kayes.

Walking along the road that also divides Dialafara in half is always somewhat overwhelming, especially if you’re not ready for it. Everyone greets you, which is great except if you’re just not in the mood.

What really gets to me though is everyone asking me for things. Without exaggerating, all this happened on the ten minute walk from my house to the barber.

First, an older man, without even greeting me, told me that his head hurt. I asked him what was wrong, and he said he was sick and he wanted me to give him some medicine for it. I wasn’t that upset at first, but my guess is that he’s not asking his Malian friends in town. Also, if he’s really sick we have a clinic and pharmacy in town.

Anyway, I kept walking until another man stopped me and asked me if I was going home for Christmas. As with any conversation about the US, at some point it turns into a game of “How can you help me get there?” They say how hard it is to get a visa, can you help, etc.

As a continued my walk, another man I know pretty well, stopped and talked to me. He said that I should do a project at the school. Again, not in itself a bad thing, but his idea for a project is that I give the school money for them to get something, or even to buy computers.

My Bambara is actually a little better than people in my village think. After over a year here, I can understand a great deal. A lot of times though I pretend not to understand. Especially, if I know they’re just asking me for something unreasonable.

Once again, a man stopped to ask me about projects, although I didn’t understand what he wanted me to do. He wanted to buy chickens from Bamako and breed them, and then sell their eggs, since eggs are expensive in Dialafara. I started to talk to him about how you go about getting funding for projects, how you need community contributions, etc. When I finished talking he said, “Oh no! We don’t need any money! Just the chickens and the fencing.” At which point I asked him, “Well, don’t you need money for those things?” He had no response.

I think a lot of people see me, a white volunteer, and think I can just give them money which is not at all what Peace Corps is about. Even if you do apply to do a funded project, your community needs to contribute a certain percentage of the total project. The most important factor that Peace Corps stresses is sustainabilty. Can whatever project this is keep functioning long after the volunteer has left? It is never so simple as throwing money at something. That is a recipe for disaster.

Anyway, I finally arrived at the barber. Thankfully, he didn’t ask me for anything other than the price of the haircut, 300 CFA or about 60 cents. This was apparently my second time getting a “Sisqo” haircut.

Feeling much lighter I started walking back. I didn’t feel like dealing with that road again.

Instead, I took my favorite detour.

If you veer off the main road, there are paths that wind like a maze right through the heart of Dialafara. Back away from the road, the skinny paths are empty and quiet. I walk inches past houses (or huts) and greet women hard at work crushing peanuts for their sauce. Back here, occaisionally, an overly excited kid screams “Toubabu!” They even come running to shake my hand, and ask “Ca va?” They’re definitely not used to seeing me in this part of town.

I run into Mr. Traore. His son Kalifa has been the top student in his class for four years straight. Kalifa is now in Kayes for high school which is pretty impressive for a Malian. His father, is an incredibly kind and soft-spoken man. I ask him how he’s doing, and he does the same. I ask him about his son, who is doing well so far. An incredibly pleasant little conversation, and I continue walking with a huge smile on my face.

Now, I hear a stereo playing some pretty good Malian music. As I get closer, I see a former student, Mahady, dancing to the music with a smile even bigger than my own. Unfortunately, he recently flunked out of the 8th grade.

There are a million reason why kids in Mali don’t have the level neccessary to make it through the school system. Mostly kids get passed on from class to class without actually learning anything (especially French), until finally they get to a class where grades actually matter.

Mahady is a really nice kid though, and my guess is that he’ll be fine. After a quick talk with him, and then making him laugh after he asked me to dance, I’m on my way again.

Soon after, I run into Bakary, who gets of his moto to talk to me. He and I play soccer together every day, although since rainy season just ended, I haven’t seen him in a while. I tell him I’ve been running a little.

As I continue walking with another goofy smile on a my face, I realize that probably should have turned back there. I take the next left, and have to circle around a little bit to get back to my house. There really isn’t a whole lot of town to get lost in, and I probably ended up wasting a couple minutes at most. I can’t say I had huge plans anyway.

Finally back at my house, I think about how amazing it is that two paths through the same small town, can leave me feeling so incredibly different about the place I call home.

I didn’t know it was possible. I do know, though, I’ll be taking that path a lot more now.