Bobby Boo’s Brutal But Beautiful Bus

(From Jan 28)

I probably spent a few days more than I should have here in Kayes upon my return from the states. I don’t really know why I was so nervous to go back to Dialafara.

As soon as I went to the “bus stop” (which is to say the side of the road where you just somehow have to know to go), I saw a kid I play soccer with waiting for the same bus. We started talking, and just like that, I knew it would all be ok.

The ride itself is what I shoud’ve been worried about.

At this point I’ve probably made that trip between Dialafara and Kayes about 40 times (20 round trips). 100 miles each time. Still having done the trip before never seems to make it all that much easier. That road is just terrible.

I try to settle in. I think I’ve found a comfortable position among all the bags of flour, rice, tea, beans, sugar, and of course tons of people.

About ten miles in my left foot goes completely numb. I shift my position as much as I can, only to find that another ten miles later, my right foot is now numb. I try to find a new position, but among all the sacks of rice my options are limited.

Now at mile 30, my knee begins to bother me to the point where I wonder if I’m going to make it. I generally assume I will most likely snap some tendon or ligament in my knee before I make it back to my site. Usually I just wake up pretty sore the next morning.

Right now though I’m in serious pain, and at this point I am actively rooting for the police checkpoint that I know comes at mile 50 and serves as my halfway point. I know it’s just over this hill and past that large baobab tree. 

No matter how many times I pass through that checkpoint I know I’m going to get hassled as I show them my strange laminated Peace Corps ID with its American and Malian flags gracing the front.

Eventually, the conversation turns friendly despite my limited Bambara. They try and guess where I’m from by looking at me. I tell them. Their response usually has something to do with Barack Obama. Then they’ll ask me if I have a wife. I don’t have one. Oh well we can give you a nice Malian girl. Not for free though. That’ll be at least misi fila (two cows). A ka ca. That’s too much. We both laugh and I continue on my way.

The police stop is just outside of the mining town of Sadiola where I get a Malian equivalent of a Jersey rest stop. I sit down to my favorite street food of beans and macaroni. I eat my weight in beans and never fail to be made fun of. Bean jokes are incredibly common in Mali. It is a common practice known as joking cousins, as Malian last names always mean something, and my last name (Coulibaly) gets to joke with pretty much everyone else.

I sit and wonder why we don’t have beans for sale on the street. For 500 francs (1 dollar) I get more than enough. Generally, I then decide that for about 60 cents I probably deserve a nice cold coke.

The driver honks his horn, and it’s time to continue the journey. It is 8 pm, about four hours since we left Kayes.

Luckilly, a few people have gotten off and I have gained a few very valuable inches of leg room. For some reason, today I seem to be on a moving van. At mile 60 we stop and seem to take this man’s entire life’s possessions off the roof of the van/bus. Buckets, bags of every kind, chairs, and even a motorcycle come down from the roof.

Of course this means every time someone has to jump up on top of the bus and untie the net and rope that holds everything tenously in place. Then, we have to somehow figure out who’s sack of rice belongs to who. We somehow figure it out, put the net back on and continue on.

No more than five miles later, we stop again. If they’re not moving, then they are at least bringing back goods to stock their entire stores. This particular man has 24 packages of soda bottles and hundreds of tea bags.

At least now I have plenty room although this is taking forever. Each stop seems to take at least half an hour. We are now no more than 15 miles from Dialafara although I know we still have several stops left.

It is now 1 am. It has been nine hours since we left and I am still not home. I am going to school in the morning. I’m starting to get annoyed and cursing under my breath.

But then, something strange happens. I look around. I’m sitting on the side of the road in front of a village of no more than a few hundred people. The moon is almost full and it is a star-filled, beautiful, and just incredibly serene and peaceful night.

I’m also cold although it cannot be any lower than 70. I find my hoodie and I start to smile. I know I’m going to miss all of this so much.

Isn’t this what I came for anyway?

I came here for the adventure. I came here for the challenge and the journey. I need to enjoy it all as much as I can. I keep reminding myself of all the great stuff about this place and how much I’m going to miss it all very, very soon.

Finally at about 3 am, 11 hours after leaving Kayes (less than 10 mph!), I’m finally in my village.

I even missed this stupid bamboo bed and two inch foam “matress.” I collapse and get about three hours of sleep before heading back to school.

Somehow the excitement of being back gives me a huge boost, and it turns out to be an amazing day. I must be doing something right because every single person seems to have noticed my absence and even knew how long I was gone. They all asked me how my family was back home.

So, here I am entering the final stetch of my Peace Corps service here in my little village of Dialafara, out in the middle of nowhere in Western Mali. And while I’m not real big on New Years resolutions, this year I have the perfect one.

I’ve decided that for this year, my resolution is to attempt as best I can, to cherish every crazy, wonderful, and beautifully chaotic moment of this wild journey I’m on.