So Wrong

I was conflicted about blogging this but have been since persuaded.

Now clearly my initial reaction when seeing something like this is "take a photo".  I find this sort of thing hilarious-- and to be clear, not hilarious like "haha, that racial group looks so funny" but rather hilarious like "I cannot believe that these sorts of images still exist".

I guess I could easily think about this sign in a different way and be super offended, or disgusted, but frankly my reaction is to find it sadly humorous.  Who are the people who designed this sign and when were they born?  Had they ever seen Asian or Black people?  Did they not learn that it's not okay to caricature racial features?  Also who is enticed to enter this establishment after seeing that sign?  What sort of person is a regular at this place?  Is it full of people ironically amused by the absurdity of it or full of neo-nazis?

Also, this sign is on a major street in a capital city swarming with tourists.  For some reason that makes it particularly egregious to me, though perhaps it shouldn't matter.

Anyway, every once in a while I feel like Europe is light-years ahead of the US in social awareness and fraternity but then I see something like this and can be thankful that I'm reasonably sure this would not fly chez moi (at least not in a capital city).

Goddammit Mali!

I wasn't really reading the news during my Thanksgiving break but I came back to the office today to hear a little tale about 6 people kidnapped in Mali.

Normally this kidnapping business happens in the North where the term "Mali" is used on maps but I don't think anyone is fooled into believing that the Malian government has any control over that part of the country.  However this time, the terrorists dipped too low for comfort and BAM, my beloved little Mopti has now become a "red zone" and all ex-patriot staff in the city have been removed to Bamako.

Flashback to Niger and my discussion with the UN security chief which essentially amounted to the idea that "terrorists can't swim".  Traditionally the shenanigans of AQIM occur north of the Niger River and everyone thought they'd never cross.  The logic was that it would take too long to escape back to the safe haven of the desert, despite the fact that you could easily swim across the river.  Then AQIM struck in Niamey, on the wrong side of the river in Niger, which was a game changer.  Now they have done the same thing in Mali.

Poor Mopti x 10000.

It's too early to say what this means.  However, as the Bamako Director told me this morning, the easy decision is to pull out all your staff, the hard decision is to put them back in.

Port by the Port

The camera made an appearance in Lisbon:


Drinking port by the port

A photo of the castle I was trying to get to... back downhill to try the ascent again.

 Some roofs (rooves?)

Spit of Shrimp

On the menu at a restaurant in Lisbon was "spit of shrimp" which made me laugh as I rifled to the french translation to see that they were talking about "brochettes de crevettes". Easy mistake, spit/skewer, same idea, different scale. Still gross to have saliva implied anywhere on a menu.

At the end of the meal I thought I'd be nice and show the waiter and his response was "I'm quite sure that spit is correct, you must be thinking of the word SPLIT." Right.

Public Condoms

So totally immature to find this as funny as I did, but anyway...

There was a really chatty Portuguese man sitting next to me on the plane to New York and he covered a vast number of subject areas including Portuguese government policy, secret sleeping places for flight attendants on airplanes, the different wine regions of Portugal, how to evade speeding tickets in Lisbon etc.

I wasn't always totally listening but when we got to real estate he started talking about:

Public Condoms.

Grossest English mistake ever.

Totally understandable though- condominium, condo, just an extra letter there on the abbreviation. But anyway, we laughed about that for the rest of the ride.

No luggage :(

One of the first off the plane, definitely the first through customs, the first standing at the baggage carousel, standing in the place where the bags first drop...

But no bags for me.

While apparently carrying 50 kitchen timers (a key ingredient in bomb making) to Mali was not a problem, carrying my dirty laundry home was.

When I went to the luggage claim desk the woman had my name on a post-it and just casually mentioned that they wouldn't put my luggage on the plane due to security concerns.

Thing is, my luggage was in the Lisbon airport for 30 HOURS! That's not enough time to rifle through my dirty underwear and get on with things?

Recap

Leaving for the airport now and can't believe I didn't relate this story from last trip:

On the way to the airport, my taxi ran out of gas. Yup, this guy's job is pretty much to keep gas in his cab and know where places are, and he failed on half of it. We pushed the cab to a gas station together and filled it up.

On the drive he also asked me to translate Katie Perry lyrics for him which are surprisingly good tools for English vocabulary. Hot/Cold, Yes/No, In/Out, Up/Down etc.

My last name

When I left Mali the first time the customs man asked me my name and when I replied said, "no, your Malian name". All Peace Corps people get Malian names apparently so he felt that I needed one also and dubbed me Fanta Sissako which was fine by me because it sorta sounds like Fantastico!

In Mopti however, I was told that my surname would not do, I was much better off being Fanta Diallo-- which is a Peuhl name. So for the last week or so I've been Fanta Diallo. I never offer up this name first, only when directly asked but my coworkers are really into introducing me as Madame Diallo.

But today I underwent another name change. Apparently now I'm Fanta Coulibaly because the guy who delivered my pizza said that Sissako's are too small and Diallo's are no good.

Every time I change my name, my network changes. There are "joking cousins" in Mali which essentially means you are besties with strangers based on your last name. When I was a Diallo my joking cousins were Toures and Dembeles. As a Coulibaly apparently my joking cousins are Fofanas. It's way easier to be a Frye.

Guts

It has just occurred to me that I have probably been inadvertently ingesting so many mosquito guts.

I tend to be a swatter but I don't actually squish mosquitoes with my bare hands but apparently I'm the only one. That means that pretty much every hand I have shaken in the last week (appx. 307) has probably killed a mosquito within minutes of touching me.

Also most bathrooms don't have soap.

Mosquitoes

It's my last night in Mali- even the last few hours of my last night in Mali and all I want is to remember what it's like to not have toxic chemicals all over my skin. I just took a shower and am trying really hard not to cover myself in Deet but man are the mosquitoes insane. They cannot be deterred by a fan or a mostly clothed body.

I'm pretty cavalier about malaria which will obviously be a problem eventually. A Canadian girl I know here got malaria and typhoid at the same time. I was relating this story to a driver who was like "yeah, that's normal". Apparently he has had malaria like 10 times. So my time is coming I suppose, but I just can't get myself to take prophylaxis. I'm not super into putting pills into my body, and I'm particularly opposed to super expensive ones that give me crazy dreams.

You're Beautiful

You know that lovely James Blunt Song "You're Beautiful" about him falling in love with someone on a subway and lamenting that they'd never be together? Well apparently I've only ever heard the sweet censored version for american radio because yesterday in the car in Mali I heard the uncensored version and it was ruined! Apparently they don't censor music in English in Mali. Go Figure.

Anyway, there's a part where he says "I'm flying high" like he is feeling so in love that it lifts him up! Except what he actually says is "I'm f'ing high" meaning he is on drugs. What? Lame. Anyway, I said "WHAT" when I heard it and then had to awkwardly explain to the driver what the F word is and why I was surprised to hear it in such a soft song.

Lopilopilo

By an egregious oversight on my part, I did not blog about my favorite moment in Mali last trip. However, thankfully a really fat German tourist reminded me as he sung "Lopilopilo" in the garden outside a restaurant. I almost peed myself.

At my last hotel one night a man with a guitar came and serenaded us and it was the best thing ever. See poorly lit video:

I bought his CD but he doesn't cackle nearly as delightfully in the studio version. Will post that when I get home.

DISCLAIMER: You will have this song stuck in your head for the rest of your life.

Scenes on the Road

So normally I get between Bamako and Mopti by this terrifying little 16 seat plane and while not pleasant, is at least fast. However, all 16 of these precious seats were booked for my return this trip which meant I had to go 7 hours by car.

The trip started at 5am.

I actually really like road trips, especially on roads I've never been on. I get a kick out of happy little scenes including "small child on a large bike" "man in parka in 100 degree weather" "yet another child with a tie-dye Obama shirt" "Absurd amount of people/cargo on a small motorcycle". However this time I had a real favorite-- "extremely dignified old man dressed in robes, with perfect posture, riding really slowly on a motorcycle."

Unfortunately I couldn't get pictures of any of these scenes because in contrast to the dignified old men, we were going absurdly fast.

Quoi

Malians say quoi like it's going out of style. I guess it's the equivalent of "okay" "right" "like" or any other superfluous words in English we add to the end of things.

Yesterday I made myself a personal challenge of appropriately inserting the word "quoi" at the end of three sentences during a conversation. The way I tested it was whether or not my friend looked at my funny after I said it and if he didn't, I stopped whatever I was saying to cheer, point out my victory, and count it. My winning phrase was "T'as envie d'encore du the quoi".

Splat

I have this theory that when cars are going fast there are wind current around them that essentially lift birds out of the way so that you don't really need to worry about hitting them. This theory was proven wrong today, twice. Yup, on my trip back from Mopti we killed two birds. The first one was a giant thud on the windshield and white feathers everywhere and the second one, hours later, splatted on the grill. The drivers reactions were "euh" and "bof" respectively.

Stranger Danger vs. Stranger Friend

My Malian friend (of the unpaid variety) was relating the tales of his recent travels to me the other night. It was his first time traveling outside of West Africa despite the fact that his understanding and insight belies his life experience. He went to Dubai and was full of tales of events and when he got to reflections he brought up something we had talked about in the past- interactions with strangers. He essentially related how he didn't fully understand what I meant about other cultures being a bit more private when it comes to people they don't know until he was standing in an elevator in disbelief as the only other person in the elevator didn't talk to him.

Of course I almost never talk to people in elevators and when I do I mentally congratulate myself on what a nice person I am. So it got me thinking about why. A generous assessment of my own behavior goes like this: "I don't want to bother people, they've got stuff on their minds, places to go etc." However, perhaps a more honest assessment is "I've got stuff on my mind, places to go etc. and can't be bothered."

But I was also thinking about being programmed from a young age not to talk to strangers. You know, there is always that 1 in a million chance that you tell a stranger your name and they become a stalker or try to kidnap you after being entranced by your smile you so naively displayed. Stranger Danger!

But really, how dangerous are strangers? According to Malians- not at all. And I'm starting to sympathize with this view. In fact, it's sort of nice to be in a place where there is so much blind trust. I have been in several situations which would (and after reading this blog probably did) cause my mother heart palpitations. But it all worked out. Strange taxis late at night. Weird guides following me around. All these things are probably not the safest in the US model but they all worked out. They might not always work out but I sort of like working with the model of "innocent until proven guilty" or rather "good intentioned until proven otherwise".

I know Anny reading this is saying in her head "oh great, the last thing Laura will have written before being abducted is some shit about trusting people". So I'll try really hard not to get abducted until I'm able to post at least one more thing :)

Scary White Lady

Yesterday there was a midwife training in the office and some of them have kids they brought so there was a little naked boy (maybe 3 years old) wandering around the office. I bent down to say hello to him and he took one look at me and screamed and ran away. Thereafter, every time I walked by, his mother would cover his eyes so he didn't have to look at me and be scared.

Glad that my effect on rural children knows no bounds.

Too Much Food

The amount of food I am being given here is astounding. I've been eating at the office every day and am just brought a plate of something every day at noon. These are already pretty large plates but then they are piled as high as possible with so much rice/cous cous/millet with a giant helping of some sort of stew on top. Each plate could feed a small family. Granted the ladies I work with are big ladies, but I can't imagine physically fitting all that food in my body at one time!

As a kicker, the child health program in the building just finished a training on how to make special food for malnurished children (so super caloric stuff) and they poured me the biggest mug of it ever and stood around while I drank it.

I might explode.

Things I Know Nothing About

European Economic Policy.

This became evident when I joined a group of expats in Mopti (perhaps THE group of expats in Mopti) for dinner and drinks at my hotel. They were Italian, French, and Portuguese and had a riveting debate about the economic policies of the Northern European countries versus the Southern European countries-- the comparative spending patterns, the attitudes toward regulation, and historic taxing structures, the relative proclivities for minimizing inflation... I mostly sat there and nodded.

Reservations Fail

So this trip was a little last minute and we haven't had internet in my office for a week which throws everything off and the person who usually takes care of my travel reservations was overwhelmed so I did them myself... all of this is to say there are a lot of excuses for my mega fail, none of which are particularly compelling.

So in order to get a reasonably priced ticket, I had to agree to a terrible itinerary that sends me on TAP airlines and had terrible timing and weird layovers (weird like 16 hours in Lisbon on the way there and 30 hours on the way back). So I left NY Saturday night, arrived in Lisbon Sunday morning, took a day room all day Sunday to sleep and then left for Mali Sunday night and arrived in Mali at 2am on Monday. Now in my mind I made a hotel reservation for Sunday in Lisbon and Monday in Mali and I was all set... except the problem with that is that 2am on Monday is effectively Sunday. FAIL.

So I get to the airport and at about 2:30 I'm outside in the mass of people trying to help me with my baggage, sell me CDs, and offer their services as guides (apparently they never sleep). No driver with a little sign with my name on it. I hang out for a bit and stave off the first few extremely persistent guides but it became clear I needed an ally so I grabbed one to help me look for the driver. No driver (because he was scheduled to pick me up the next night, when I actually had a room reserved). So eventually I took a cab to the hotel with the guide. It was so late, all travel no-nos out the door. It ended up being fine, as most sketchy situations in Mali do.

I arrived at the hotel and the night guard was there and said they were totally full and didn't have space for me. This was 3am. We went up to the terrace to try to call the management to see what to do but it became clear that he has a phone, but no credit and can't read the numbers that are programmed in. So I went through his phone looking for the right number and then used my phone to call and after about 30 tries, we got a hold of someone. At this point my scheduling error becomes clear. Devastation. I ended up going down the street to their sister hotel and got to spend the hours of 4am-8am sleeping there before I had to get up for my first meeting. Not the best way to start a trip.

Two Dead Cockroaches

Woke up in my hotel and there were two giant dead cockroaches on their back in my room. Wasn't really sure what to do. Perhaps the appropriate thing would have been to pick them up with a tissue and throw them out, but let's be real, I wasn't going near them. The cleaning lady was in the hall and I called to her and showed her the cockroaches and she looked at me quizzically and said "so you're saying you're ready for me to make up your room today?" Yeah. And gross.

But on the upside, now I know the french word for cockroach which I will remember because it resembles a friends old AIM screenname.

Taxi Tales

Well a trip just wouldn’t be complete without a weird taxi experience. I was spending time with friends (the unpaid variety) and it got to be 21h and we scrambled to get me a taxi before they all go home to sleep for the night. (Ah the luxury of New York and the omnipresence of taxis…). One came speeding down the road and nearly hit us when we flagged him down. Then there was an intense exchange regarding where I wanted to go and how much I would pay, brokered by my Malian friend. Eventually an agreement was made, even though it seemed pretty clear that the driver didn’t know where my hotel was, nor did he speak any French. Eh- it was late, I needed to get home, what can a girl do?

Thus started the series of weird occurrences:

#1 He mysteriously lit a match under the steering wheel before we started driving

#2 My door didn’t close and rattled intensely and every so often he reached over to physically hold it shut

#3 He picked up a random guy from the side of the road to accompany us- when I asked who it was he said “like a brother”

#4 We stopped for gas along the way because apparently his tank was empty

#5 He did the match lighting thing again and it became clear that the match was to illuminate the exposed wires under the dash so that he could choose the appropriate ones to hot wire the car

But whatever, I got home safely.

I wonder if there is a tipping point of how many weird things need to occur before the situation is truly unsafe? After how many oddities do I take action? Apparently 5 weird things is within my comfort zone.

I’m American and We Hug: The Philosophy

There is this idea that to be culturally competent (or whatever the current phrase is for not being a terrible foreigner) you have to follow the old adage "when in Rome, do what the Romans do." Now if the alternative is to barrel around, oblivious to your surroundings, offending everyone in sight, by all means, follow this adage. However, I think travelers can be a little more nuanced in their comportment and feel okay about it.

The fact of the matter is, I am not Roman. I come into a situation with a background, a culture (however indefinitely defined), and a way of seeing the world. And here's the secret:

NO ONE IN ROME (read: Africa) EXPECTS THE NON-ROMAN (read: white chick) TO DO EXACTLY AS THEY DO.

Nobody on this planet still thinks their culture is the only way that people live. And don't flatter yourself by thinking that people don't know that you're different. If the situation warrants it, people can handle the occasional "I'm actually not going to do that thing because it conflicts with my culture/values/beliefs". Respect them. Respect yourself. Find an in-between version of you that adapts and is flexible but maintains your essence (admittedly, essence is a terrible word but you know what I mean).

To be clear, I do not advocate careless attitudes, inconsiderate statements, or reckless behavior. So where is the line? I’ve been carefully defining this line through the last 5 years of travel and will admit it has moved significantly.

In Morocco I fasted out of respect during the first week of Ramadan when living with a family (I couldn’t bear the thought of my host-mom cooking me food she couldn’t eat herself). However, I didn't feel like I needed to do it once I was living on my own. I am not a Muslim, and nobody thought I was.

It was also no news to anyone that I came from a more permissive culture with regards to romantic relationships so while I didn't advertise the fact that the man I was living with was not (at the time) my husband, I also didn't make him live in a separate apartment so as not to make anyone uncomfortable (and believe me, this was suggested by some foreigners).

I have put some rather repulsive foods in my body for fear of offending the person offering. In general, I stick to this tenant because putting food in your body rarely jeopardizes your core beliefs or cause major harm. However, even on that front, I'm backing up that line. After an incredible bout of food poisoning in Ethiopia, I was forced to tell someone “I can’t drink that because it has local water that my body is not used to” and the person understood. He did not storm off in a rage due to my ungraciousness; he was not offended to his core. He just shrugged and drank more himself.

There is always the question of local dress. While traveling in north or sub-saharan Africa, yes, I try to be conservative. My West African friend asked me “is this how you dress at home?” to which I honestly replied “nope” and he said, “Right, you just do it to not shock anyone”. Yup- exactly. He gets it. And frankly, showing some leg is not essential to my being so that’s one I’m going to adapt on. However, on the other extreme I see some Western ladies who fully adopt West African clothing. They have entire ensembles made complete with a pagne to wrap around their hair that they wear casually to meetings. Now this is certainly “doing what the Romans do” but something about it personally makes me a bit uneasy. It seems to smell faintly of co-opting someone else’s culture. Again, no one thinks they dress that way at home, so it almost feels like they are playing dress-up with someone else’s culture as their costume.

Interpreting how Roman to (pretend to) be is a tricky bit. While a lot of ex-pats use versions of their names that are locally pronounceable (Roman-light) some of them completely change their name to something local (all-out-Roman). I got an email from a Canadian who works at an international NGO whose signature read the equivalent of “Annie dit Ayisha”. I knew a man in Morocco who changed his name from the equivalent of Joseph to Youssef. This seems a bit much for me. I am still Laura but if you want to call me Nora because it is easier, that’s fine, but I’m not going to start monogramming my towels with an N.

I probably started naively trying to be Roman in every possible way. Except that it is only possible to imitate the Romans in the ways you are cognizant of. There is a lot in what it means to be Roman that you won’t pick up on and thus can’t ‘be’. So maybe it’s just about accepting who you are and finding the version of that self that works in your present context, wherever that may be, and remembering that cultural exchange necessitates that you keep some of your own to share with somebody else… otherwise it’s cultural imitation.

I'm American and We Hug: The event

After a week of enjoying the company of my three West African friends, it was time for me to leave. I first said goodbye to the other Western girl and didn’t hesitate to give her a hug. That was the appropriate gesture in both of our cultures, neither of us would feel uncomfortable with it, and frankly, there weren’t many people around to risk offending. So we hugged.

One of the West African friends was delighted by this and sort of clapped and said “hug!” in English. So when it came time to say goodbye to each of the three friends, they gave me kisses on each cheek and I said “I’m American and we hug” and gave them each a nice hug. Now they were not accustomed to hugging so it was mechanically less smooth than one would have hoped with some awkward head and neck placement, so while not really a comfy exchange, definitely a meaningful one.

Yes, these were dudes. Yes, I was in Africa. Yes, I’m a married lady. And yes, I’m sure my guidebook would have told me that this was completely inappropriate behavior, but the thing is, it wasn’t. It was exactly the right thing to do in that moment.

Three Unpaid Friends.

I made three unpaid friends during my last trip to Mali. That's right, three people who were not taxi drivers, waiters, guides, or others who I was in some way paying. This may seem trite but is actually quite a feat for a young woman traveling by herself in Africa on business. Not only is pretty much all of my time spent working with middle aged doctors (who don't really offer a lot of potential in the way of friendship) but my down time is usually in hotels where the choice of friends are either 1. No one because there are no tourists presently in West Africa 2. Western business men prowling for prostitutes or 3. well, prostitutes. And don't get me wrong, I love prostitutes... thing is they have better things to be doing with their time than chatting with me.

Furthermore, during my down time there is a complicated set of social dynamics to navigate. I would love to tattoo across my forehead "Please interpret my friendliness in a platonic manner" with a caveat saying "I don't have as much money as you think I do" and "I promise I'm not as different as you think I am" to enter every situation with a clear understanding but unfortunately, my forehead isn't that big.

So often my meager friendship-making attempts result in blatant disinterest or way-too-much interest. Now don't feel sorry for me, I'm not exactly crying myself to sleep- I'm actually just working my ass off and skyping my friends at home.

However, the stars aligned in Mopti. There were exactly three other people staying at my hotel and they weren't western business men or prostitutes. They were young Malian and Burkinabe dudes there for an internship at the regional bank. As the internet was only functional in a very small part of the hotel, we all spent a whole lot of time in close proximity.

Now I have to admit, I was wary at first. Especially because in true form, within 2 seconds of chatting the most friendly of the three asked me for my phone number, email address, and facebook name. I defended with an honest "I don't usually share personal information" and secretly patted myself on my back for not copping out. So things went well with some casual chatting whenever the connection failed (so hourly) and I officially had unpaid acquaintances.

The friend upgrade was due to another auspicious occurrence. There was another young Western girl in town and together, we made two-- and two meant we felt safe, buffered, comfortable and consequently, way more friendly. So I invited her to meet my then acquaintances and with the power of two, we upped the ante and went to watch their soccer game. I would never have gotten in a taxi with three dudes I barely knew in Mali if it weren't for having a buffer- a girl I could clearly communicate with, who would find the same situations sketchy, and who would be a getaway partner if things went in a bad direction. I am of course a little ashamed of this caution, but it is so.

And after having cheered for their soccer team while drinking water from a bag with a goat tethered two feet behind me, an unpaid friendship was born... and I did eventually share my facebook name.

Antisocial

Sitting in the lounge in a set of recliners that are all facing each other around a coffee table. There are two Americans and one African guy educated in the US and they are all chatty chat chatting and I have decided to remain silent and let everyone assume I don’t understand English. I have a scarf on so I think it’s plausible. I’m just drained and too tired to make friends in the lounge. I will hide in my culturally ambiguous outfit and excuse myself from this conversation.

Taximan!

Taximan is what everyone calls taxi drivers. I like it because in this french-speaking country, their word for him consists of two words in English put together to create a word that is not used ever in English.

Hotel wildlife

Here's what lives at my hotel:

Mosquitoes

Lizards

Bats

I'm not even going to bother complaining about the omni-present mosquitoes who bite me through my clothes.

The lizards are awesome, they are always just chilling on the wall or on the patio- they are all different colors and generally just run away when I get close. We live a peaceful co-existence and I'm not sure if they eat mosquitoes but I'm going to assume they do.

But then there are the bats. Big, white, swooping bats. They come out at night (obvi) and are really into swooping not that far from me. I'll admit to being a little terrified. I waited for three full minutes for one to stop swooping down to try to drink from the pool before I dared to walk to the restaurant. Feel sorta bad about saying this but I sorta hope that chlorinated water kills them.

FYI- if you're picturing a Hilton with bats and lizards, you've got the wrong idea. The rooms all surround various open patios and the restaurant is en pleine aire, so it's not that weird that there are so many creatures. I just sorta wish the lizards would take over and kill the mosquitoes and bats.

Meetings meetings meetings

The format of meetings here makes me insane but I have slowly learned its benefit. The structure is set- there is no back and forth. You know how sometimes on television when the sitcom family has their little “family meeting” there is a banana or a candlestick that they pass around in order to give someone the right to speak? That is exactly how these meetings are run. Only one person has the right to speak and it is formally given to them by a meeting master. If you speak out of turn, you’re disdained.

So the presenter is allowed to present, with no elements of interaction at all with the audience. Then those with something to say (notice I didn’t say questions, rarely are the things they say questions) will raise their hand and their names will be written down in a list and then in that exact order they will be allowed to speak. If they do ask a direct question to the presenter (again rare, it’s mostly “commentary”) the presenter is not allowed to answer, but rather must write down the question so that when it becomes time for the designated “response time” they can answer it… or not, as it turns out.

So this “let’s have a conversation” and “Stop me at any time if there is something you don’t understand” stuff is just ridiculous here. I know, I tried it and it failed pitifully. Once you relinquish your imaginary banana, you can’t get it back until it is formally given to you. I tried to present one step of our procedures and then a list of questions to the audience specifically relating to that step and it just spiraled out of control—I couldn’t get the microphone back to finish my presentation. No words that followed my presentation related at all to the step I presented, or to the questions I specifically asked. You have to really say everything before you give up that imaginary banana or it’s all over.

Now here’s the silver lining. People respond to your presentation and it takes so long to get back to you that you really only have to reply to stuff you want to reply to. They will not get another chance to remind you to respond to their point- their banana time is over. So when someone has a particularly difficult comment or question, you can really just ignore it. And weirdly, everyone seems okay with this. As long as something is said, it’s over. Even if there isn’t really resolution. This kills me.

The wind began to switch, the house to pitch

Apparently I have never truly experienced wind until today. I was in a meeting, in a fully enclosed room, but the wind outside was so violent that the haze of dust inside the room, seeping between the windows, was as thick as fog. The meeting was over but everyone decided we should wait out the wind before trying to leave the building. It’s really incredible, the force. Imagine a tornado in a place covered in sand--- that is what it feels like.

Poor Mopti

I arrived in Mopti today and have never been greeted in such a welcoming fashion. When I settled in and then went to the hotel restaurant for lunch, it became clear why… there is nobody here. I talked to the waiter who sadly shared that due to the “insecurities” there are no tourists anymore. However, the hotel is fully staffed. I guess it’s nice that they haven’t let anyone go despite the fact that there is no work, but it is off-putting when there are so many people standing around, waiting to do something. There are about 50 rooms in this hotel and my colleague and I are the only two guests. There are six waiters, and they all hang around while we eat. When we got back to the hotel, the receptionist had our keys in his hand, ready to hand to us. He was clearly waiting for us to come back and I’m not sure what else he could possibly do while his only two guests were away at a meeting. It’s really, really sad.

In fact, our partner, a woman from another agency based in New York was supposed to accompany us here to Mopti and backed out due to security concerns. I’m always so conflicted about these security reports. They can be terrifying with the language they use but it all needs to be contextualized. They paint areas with broad strokes as “safe” or “dangerous” without taking into consideration the geographical differences and it seems like once some place gets labeled dangerous, it can never return to safe again. If I ever get nervous, I just read what they write about Morocco, a place where I lived and felt totally safe, and I use it as a comparison.

The AQIM kidnapping in Niamey, Niger in 2010 was real and it was scary. I’m not sure it was a random thing, I’m not sure the full story will ever come out, but either way, it was a game changer in the region. But here’s the thing- Mopti feels safe. It is a city. It is not in the middle of nowhere. It relies heavily on tourists. I feel even safer in villages where I am so openly welcomed.

I’m of course angry at AQIM for f’ing it up for so many people’s livelihood by doing the kidnappings, but I’m also frustrated at the governments who ban entire areas of a country without considering the nuances of safety. I get that they want to be conservative and never want something to happen that they could have prevented, but these warnings cripple economies. It’s not clear to me that these actions don’t produce the opposite effect—strengthening terrorist organizations as there are more and more out of work people due to the lack of tourism. I know that’s a bold statement and possibly a big leap, but that’s all I can think of when I’m at dinner being served b y six men as one of two guests in a hotel.

90 degrees at 10pm... does not bode well

Successfully executed the last-minute rendez-vous in Paris for lunch, less successful on the choice of restaurant but we can't win them all.

The plane from Paris took off ONE HOUR LATE because we were waiting for a passenger. There must have been some high-rollers on that plane. New life goal: be important enough for a plane to wait for you for one hour.

Got off the plane and stepped out into 90 degree weather at 10 pm. Bad sign.

Giant sign at the baggage claim that said "List of missing bags for Air France" under which there was a list of about 100 names, printed too small to actually read. It was also on the inside of the baggage conveyor belt necessitating leaning over the moving part to get a closer look. Stared at it in a precarious overhanging position for about 10 minutes until I noticed that the date was for last week... and then my bag came.

Driver wasn't there to meet me so I had to play the fun game of being swarmed by potential drivers, porters, and guides outside the airport. Thankfully everyone was super helpful if not needed. Got phone credit, a ride home, and an offer to take a tour with "Moussa le Magnifique" within the span of 10 minutes.

Too exhausted to do anything other than crank up the AC and crawl under the mosquito net at the hotel and slept a solid 8 hours :) All better now.

No Internet?

As some of you astute readers may have noticed, all my blog entries from my 10 day trip to Ethiopia all were posted at the same time. This is because internet was crap the whole time I was there. Apparently the national telecom company has changed and that combined with the rainy season wiping out electricity every afternoon meant that connections were hard to come by.

Sometimes I find the lack of internet when I travel relaxing. It's an 'ignorance is bliss' sort of thing with regard to work. Can't be stressed out about stuff I don't know is happening.

However, in this particular case it got a bit sticky-- namely when I went to go pay for my hotel.

Now it never occurred to me before, but you can't pay with credit cards when there is no internet... no way to validate the card. And of course this paying-of-hotel-bills tends to fall at the end of a trip when all your cash is spent. The receptionist suggested I take money from the ATM to pay but I'm not sure she realized 1) I don't keep over a thousand dollars in my personal checking 2) The highest amount you are allowed to take out of an Ethiopian ATM is the equivalent of $200- and that's after you click the "other amount" button because the given options only go up to $100.

It was about noon at the hotel which meant it was 5am in New York so getting money wired from my office was not going to happen. I started wondering if they had a room full of dishes I could wash before my flight and we could call it even?

Thankfully, the manager thought to go the bank and have me take out a cash advance against my credit card which apparently you can do with no internet. So I got a giant, embarrassing stack of small bills from the bank to pay the hotel, and an enormous service fee to pay when I got home...

MOVIE

Last night was a rare occasion when the rabbit ears on the TV in my room seemed to get a signal so while I ate dinner I watched a Turkish movie, dubbed in Arabic. I understood about 10% but here’s the synopsis according to my understanding: A mute mentally retarded person who likes to dance gets a girl pregnant which upsets the town so he and the girl and baby go to live in a mineshaft.

Paid Friends

So as I’m sure I have mentioned in the past, when I travel, my only friends are people who are paid to be around me, namely my drivers, hotel receptionists, and waiters. However, since security guards of hotels I am not staying in are not technically paid to be around me, I’m going to consider them a special kind of friend. I love the security guards at the Sheraton. The Sheraton is a castle. It is where all the African Union stuff goes down. And the security guards are the most informed dudes on earth. They see every VIP who goes by and knows what’s going on. I hung out with them for half an hour while I waited for my driver (paid friend) and they caught me up on the situation in Sudan. Also Hillary had just been to Addis so I got the usual outpouring of love that the Clintons inspire in all people in every country (except for half of the people in the US).

Road Trip

Yesterday was a bad day for dogs and 16 wheelers in Ethiopia.

The guesthouse manager arranged a driver to take me to a site about 2 hours outside of Addis. He specifically prided himself on telling me that he found an old man to drive me. My first thought, how is his vision? But now I get it. He got me a seasoned man instead of a hotshot driver and for that I was thankful. There was still the occasional game of chicken when passing giant caravans but I felt confident that my driver was actually considering whether or not he would win. It was also the first time in Ethiopia that I had been in a car capable of breaking 30 mph.

Anyway, on the way there we passed two different overturned 16 wheelers. We stopped to ask if anyone had been killed because apparently that’s what you do. No deaths, and in fact the guys who owned the trucks were sleeping on a blanket next to them, ostensibly waiting for a giant tow truck (note: passed them 8 hours later on the way home, still waiting). As for the dogs, I saw one splattered on the way to the site and then on the way back, saw it again and mentioned “I’m surprised no one has cleaned that off the road yet” to which the driver replied “nope, that’s a different dead dog on this road”. Yikes.

Accident and Accident Prime.

On our way back from another site visit, we hit a wall of traffic. Now instead of waiting in line with the traffic, we started to try to figure out how to beat the crowd. And we weren’t the only ones. We actually got beeped at for not going full speed on the shoulder and then we were passed ON THE RIGHT by a car that was totally off-roading. I wonder how many accidents occur because people are trying to get around other accidents?

Isthmus

The shampoo at my guesthouse is the color and consistency of DEP hair gel which I last used as ocean water in a diorama of an isthmus in 6^th grade.

Museums are better with signs

While the laminated world maps in Addis are plentiful, the general every day signs are totally absent. This was particularly fun in the ethnographic museum I visited. The lack of signage began with trying to find the museum. It was deep into the far reaches of the University campus, yet appeared to be totally unlabeled. I just had to ask someone at every intersection which way to the museum. Now it’s possible there were signs in Amharic that I couldn’t read, but honestly, I didn’t see any.

Once inside, there were all these unlabeled artifacts screaming “I look interesting, guess what I am and why I’m significant”, but then would never tell you. There were signs later on with long descriptions of various ethnic groups. They would all start super boring with an explanation of exactly how many people are in this group, the boundaries of where they are… but then once in a while, squished in the middle of the page would be this fantastic fact like “[insert awesome fact that is breathtaking but apparently not memorable enough to retain long enough to write in a blog]”. Anyway, it made me feel like I needed to read every word written to watch out for those little gems.

At the top floor of the museum, I met Marvin. He proved himself super useful in explaining a painting on farmers to me (I really don’t know anything about farming) so I didn’t shoo him off when he asked if he could join me as I strolled through (unlabeled) exhibits. He started by asking me my name and what it meant: nothing, it’s just a name. He didn’t believe me. Then he proceeded to explain to me that his name was Marvin which meant Marvelous, Astute, Responsible, Victorious, Innovative, and Noble. Apparently he has a motivational name that was given to him in an English class (now do I thank the Jehovah’s Witnesses or the Mormons for this?). Then he wanted to get down to business, how exactly did I feel about the book “the Laws of Attraction”? He was baffled that I’d never read it – he gave me the kind of look you’d give someone who had been living a full life without ever bothering to try sleeping lying down. In fact, it’s probably how I look at people who have never kept a personal budget. It got worse when he summarized the book for me and I shared that I didn’t buy the basic premise. Devastation! Sometimes I try to entertain people when traveling and fake common interest “I love Angelina too!” or “Yes Bryan Adams is a genius” but frankly I didn’t feel compelled to do this for my motivated friend since this conversation meant I couldn’t actually look at anything in the museum for which I’d paid 30 cents entry.

I must revise my earlier statement, there are signs. There are a few street signs. They, however, do not correspond at all to what the streets are actually called so aren’t really that useful. My hotel is on “meskel flower road” because the oldest building on it is the Meskel Flower Hotel (which is tiny and not otherwise notable). Most of my appointments are on “Bole Road” (so named because it runs through the neighborhood of Bole) or “Fake Bole Road” which runs parallel to Bole road. I had an awesome ‘dumb foreigner’ moment when I asked “what is the name of the road that goes to Ambo?” Answer: Ambo road. On the way home, I’m assuming it turns into Addis road. Brilliant.

The national museum was the next stop. Again, lack of signage. We walked in what looked like the main entrance and ended up being an art gallery. We figured if we just kept walking through it, we’d get to the museum entrance but eventually hit a dead end and tried again. The real entrance was on the side of the building. This museum was better funded and had a little movie playing on repeat about how all people come from Africa with an explanation of the latest skull discoveries. It was pretty sweet except that the volume was so loud that the rest of the visit was punctuated by glorious music and a resounding voice declaring “LIFE BEGAN IN AFRICA”.

I did the first floor with old pottery and then the second floor with artwork and hit the souvenir shop without having yet seen the actual main attraction… a little skeleton called Lucy. Turns out, she is in the basement, and not just the basement, the farthest depths of the basement. I bet 90% of museum visitors never find her. The entire basement has collections of skeletons and I kept reading all the labels (provided by Japan) and wondering “wait, so is this her?” I bet what happened is that a Japanese person came to an unlabeled museum and went nuts and then donated all his money to have it remedied

Questions for Addis

How lucrative, really, is the market for laminated world maps? Is there anyone who owns more than one? Do they wear out? Are they collectors’ items? Why is every teenage boy selling them? Chinese surplus?

We All Look The Same

After an insane-o flight I walked like a zombie through customs into an unmarked line that seemed as good as any other. As I passed, some young West African guy asked if he could borrow my pen to fill out his customs form. He was taking a really long time and I was watching this unlabeled line get longer and longer so I told him to keep it and walked away. About ten minutes later I watched the kid scope the line and then hand my pen to the only other white lady around. She happened to be 50 years old, blond, and wearing a trench coat.

Are you here for tourism or adoption?

Those were the two options a guy on the street gave me. Neither?

What I love about conference in sub-saharan Africa

Disclaimer: n=2

· Ladies in Fancy Matching Dresses: Typically they are young and beautiful and the matching dresses change every day. They are ostensibly present to provide directions to the bathroom or hand out revised schedules however sometimes their duties include standing beautifully in full view of all participants.

· The first-timers. Another staple of conferences is the random participant who has never attended a conference before and is THRILLED to be involved, if not totally cognizant of the conference do’s and don’ts. My favorite moves beyond the classic talking at full volume and letting your cell phone ring (“when I get older I will be stronger…”), are the really loud snorer and the new-to-me, person who scrolls through all their photos with the little beeping noise on for every button they press. I think these people serve a vital role; they keep people like me awake and give all the angry people staring at them some common ground in an otherwise potentially divisive environment. Maybe they are plants…

· Formal McFormalson. The formality at these conferences is really quite impressive and never fails to remind me how incredibly American I am. I’m looking at my watch after thirty seconds and wondering how many more VIPs need to be welcomed by name, title, and full biography. Honorable chairperson, Distinguished panelists, Madame the [some high role] of [some important thing], Assorted Dignitaries… At a conference in Ghana there was this sneaky trick that I wrote down where the 8^th person to speak skipped all the formality and said “all protocols observed”. No one at this conference took the short cut until the second day when an American dude (surprise) said “I hope you’ll forgive me if I skip formalities and jump right to content”. Laura: YES!! Everyone else: WHAT???

Literally 1.5 hours into the conference some dignitary actually formally declared the conference “opened”. I guess I didn’t realize the similarities between a conference on supply chains and the freaking Olympics! Both require extensive opening ceremonies.

· The mike-hogs. Now these are not unique to SSA conferences, they are found the world over. I think it’s just that people are actually polite enough to tolerate them in SSA. Now I was jazzed about the UN microphones too, but sadly had nothing useful to contribute. That didn’t stop others. They would turn on their mike and then agree with every point, one by one, that the speaker made. There’s always also that person who takes a general conversation about big ideas and makes it about their particular situation. “We should be vigilant about the product quality of reproductive health supplies” “I have a friend who got pregnant on the pill”. What??

Okay I’m done generalizing, now I’ll talk about this conference in particular.

· UN Badass. So one thing that was sorta awesome was that we were in the UN conference center which means we had those sweet individual microphones and simultaneous translation. When I hit the post lunch sleepy time I decided to amuse myself by trying to simultaneously listen to the English speaker and the French translation. I am always amazed that people are able to literally hear in one language and speak in another at the same time. I am still amazed, but a little less so when I noticed how often the French translation contained “et cetera” and “et d’autres choses” in place of the actual information spoken.

· No signs rule. I was pretty excited to arrive at the UN Conference center and only slightly less jazzed when I arrived at the third entrance and was actually allowed to enter. I did the metal detector, the passport check, all feeling quite important. Then once I had my little badge, I thought, what next? Apparently my conference was a ten-minute, un-marked, windy walk from the registration barracks. The whole group of us had to walk into each building and ask “is this the conference” and then be shooed forward. Could have used a fancy lady in a dress (with knowledge) then.

· Djiboutians. At this conference there was a group of three guys and their mother who were from that sweet little country that still makes me smirk due to the word “booty”. This was a conference largely of ministry of health officials and OBGYNS but these guys were street outreach workers who may or may not have actually been part of a formal organization, their mother spoke only a local dialect so mostly sat there bored for three days. They sat behind me the first day and we became besties once they realized that I speak French. First move, the group photo, clearly. In the afternoon they came up to me to say “other people didn’t understand the picture?!” I understand it perfectly. Must document all interactions with weird other people, makes perfect sense.

· THERE WERE M-FING ASHTRAYS IN THE BATHROOM STALLS! Yeah, think about how addicted to cigarettes you’d have to be to want to smoke while taking a dump in a public restroom at the UN?

· Talking heads. It really depletes the gravitas of the super fancy speech when it is being made from a set of panelists with chairs that are so low that only their foreheads really show above the podium.

Sleeping with Strangers

I’m not sure there is anything socially weirder than sleeping in a room of strangers. Yeah, we did it at summer camp and even at youth hostels but in those situations, the fact that you were technically strangers was tempered by a common interest and age. Not so with the business class sleeping lounge. Here a random bunch of adults whose only commonality is tiredness, join together to fall fast asleep on top of a chaise longue which typically has a built-in pillow that is at just the wrong angle and height.

When you are asleep, you are at your most vulnerable. What if I talk in my sleep? Snore? Flip flop around and end up in a compromising position? These are my fears. I suppose other rational ones include being murdered or having all your stuff stolen but you are annoying supposed to buy into the idea that murderers and crooks don’t fly business class… All fears aside, it’s more that the whole situation is supremely awkward.

In Frankfurt, a man across from me was snoring like I have never heard outside of cartoons. I used earplugs for the first time in my life. But dude’s asleep, what can ya do? Well the lady next to me got out of bed and woke him up. WHAT?? Waking up a sleeping stranger is the worst! What method do you use? Noise or movement? Given the proximity of other sleeping strangers, movement is the only option. But then where do you touch? What do you say when they awaken? In what language? Yikes. This woman didn’t seem to wrestle with any of these questions. She bounded over to the man and shook his shoulder until he woke up and told him in English that he was snoring. Turns out they were both ‘Mericun so it worked out… and the snoring stopped for about 20 minutes.

My turn came. The alarm clock of a man in the corner of the room went off and woke me up but apparently not anyone else. My first instinct was to roll-over and reinsert my earplugs but then I remembered that we are in an airport. If there’s one place where oversleeping can be catastrophic, it’s here (okay, also on the battlefield, before a wedding/final exam/surgical procedure… but catastrophic none the less). Plus the reason that I kept waking up every half hour despite my trusty alarm clock set next to me was that I was paranoid of befalling the same fate. Flight missing is a level of stress I never intend to experience. So I got up, took a deep breath, and gave the guy’s hand a shake. No luck. And then the worst thing happened—his alarm timed out and shut off and I honestly thought “he’s not going to believe me!” but it was too late and I’d already committed. If I backed out now and he randomly woke up I’d be a creepy lady standing over him while he was sleeping… essentially creating for myself the worst (g-rated) case scenario in a room of sleeping adult strangers. I went for his shoulder and shook him and he startled and I told him his alarm went off and because he was also ‘Mericun and could tell time he both understood and believed me. I bounced back to my recliner, emotionally exhausted and fell asleep. Mitzvah for the day, check.

Side note: why are all the people sleeping in the Frankfurt Lounge American? Is there something we don’t know? Did news of a business-class lounge bedbug outbreak spread all over Europe but since we don’t watch the BBC we are ignorant and just asking for infestation?

Anyway, sleeping in a room with strangers is creepy and having to wake one up is worse.

Business Class Imposter

I am a bit of a business class imposter. I am simply not bougie enough. I can dress the part and I’ve been doing it for long enough now that I don’t have to ask dumb questions (“is this free?” “what’s this towel for?”) but the area where it really becomes evident that I am a fraud comes with my pathological strategizing to maximize the consumption of free stuff.

You know how in college, in reaction to suddenly being far from your parents who magically took care of life’s subtle costs (toilet paper, ketchup, laundry detergent) the sticker shock of real life sends you into a mode wherein you quest for (often to comical extents) “free stuff”? The pursuit of “free stuff” was a huge driving force in my undergraduate years – esoteric lecture on something I’ve never heard of? Will there be free pizza? I wasn’t really planning on going into town but someone else is driving so it won’t cost me T fare? I’m in. I think this behavior, if not terribly refined, is pretty socially acceptable in college. The problem is, I never grew out of it. In fact it has morphed into a stage where I literally feel guilty not taking advantage of something free. (this is disastrous at an open bar).

This behavior is probably exacerbated by the fact that I live in the most expensive city in the world (okay, 27th, picky!) and I have a partner who literally sets a timer when he gets off the subway so he can get back in time to get a free transfer by bus.

The way I see it, there are different levels of severity when it comes to free-stuff-consumption. The most mild cases consist of the attitude “wow, I appreciate this free thing that I actually needed anyway”. The next level down seems to be “didn’t really need this but I guess I’ll take it, since it’s free”. My situation is more like “how can I rearrange my life to maximally take advantage of all free things, needed, wanted, or never heard of”. I am not a passive appreciator of free things; I am a strategic and proactive consumer. When I’m traveling business class, I feel like I owe it to Laura-One-Year-Ago-Who-Travelled-Economy to really take advantage of every courtesy. Some forms of this behavior are benign, like how I always accept a hot towel or take home the goody bag despite my lifetime supply of earplugs and grippy socks at home. However, I am not beyond depriving myself of sleep so I can see as many free movies as possible.

I’m currently in the Lufthansa business class lounge. I’ve had a decaf latte, a diet coke, a tonic with lime (I mean, the limes were already sliced, it would be criminal not to find some beverage with which to consume them). I’ve tried each of the three types of finger sandwiches and am contemplating a glass of white wine (which unlike the wine I normally drink, does not come in a box). In front of me is an absurd selection of empty dishes, glasses, mugs, and bowls. You see, I’m far too classy to reuse my plate or glass at this type of buffet, just not classy enough to not feel like it is my personal duty to eat and drink every free thing on the buffet (albeit little by little so I don’t blow my cover).

Now a little pre-take-off gluttony would not be so bad if it didn’t continue and even get worse on the plane. There I have two compounding neuroses 1) an inability to turn down something free and 2) a deep-seated but admittedly-insane belief that it hurts people’s feelings if I do not partake in what they are offering. I mean, the flight attendant already poured the champagne into flutes! I would be rude not to acknowledge her effort by having one! Plus it’s free champagne! Importantly, I’m not saving myself money because I would never have bought champagne on a plane nor paid to see a Vin Diesel movie. I am not a poor person. I am not 18. I do, presumably, have will power. WTF?

To be clear, I am never as gauche as to pocket consumables for later; there are no little jelly packets in my pockets nor rolls wrapped up in napkins in my bag. Also, I once stopped myself from having a Carlsburg on tap in the lounge in Frankfurt because it was 5:30am. Small victories.

I'm not French

Never has not being French been such an advantage to me. While yes it means that there are idioms I don’t understand here and makes my professional life a little harder, it makes my social life (by the most generous definition- as in people I talk to, ever) much easier. All the Obama lovers instantly like me. Once they know I’m not French, the instant topic of conversation turns to what people don't like about French people. Amazing.

Every day I ask a cab driver to teach me how to say something in Bamabara or Peuhl. Today I learned "Neh-tay-too-ba-boo-yay". Guess what that means?

Who Needs Electricity Anyway

For the second night in a row there is a 'coupure generale'. Basically most of Bamako is without power. Certainly everyone within eyesight of my hotel. It was sorta exciting yesterday but tonight I'm over it.

Yesterday the power went out at like 8pm (conveniently just after the sun went all the way down) and stayed out until 1am. So the major problems with this are:

a) Every device that makes my room inhabitable requires power (fan, air con...). I basically sat in a pool of my own sweat for hours (and taking a shower in the dark is really really scary).

b) The mosquitoes have the upper hand because they find you by smell, you can only kill them with the help of light.

c) I had just fallen asleep when suddenly every single electrical thing in my room turned on at once which put me in a little bit of a foggy panic.

So today I was mid- bite into my dinner when the electricity went out and it was absolutely pitch dark. I mean it's better than me being in the pool when the power goes out or being out in the street, but mid bite is just really annoying. It took me a while to find my phone which I used as a light to find my mini-flashlight (which requires that I hold down the button for it to stay on). I realized my best bet was to turn my computer on and eat my dinner by the light of my screen. For those who this happens to in the future, make sure you know a good site with a mostly white background... Now I have 45 minutes of battery left on my computer so I have to be a little strategic (AKA no more blogging).

The Fear Shame Shift

Fear is so annoying. I don't travel in the safest parts of the world but I also hate when people assume that these places are automatically frightening. However, once in a while during trips it occurs to me that maybe I AM in an unsafe situation... maybe something COULD happen to me. Which is then immediately followed by self-loathing for not trusting people just because I'm in a different cultural context... but then the fear comes back a little and I start planning what I would do just in case...

I really hate this but it is a distinct part of my travel. Perhaps it needs a good name, one more eloquent than those "shit, I guess I really AM in Africa" or "worst case scenario is looking pretty bad right now".

So I've had this twice in the last two days and both times involved being alone in a taxi with a driver in a city I didn't know at all. The first time, the driver was just really shifty. He was doing what I imagine was driving in circles which makes no sense here because the fare is flat. It doesn't help that I have no sense of the Bamako geography. Usually in these situations I take comfort in my phone where I always have the embassy programmed in, except this time my phone was out of credit. I went through how long it would take someone to know I was missing (a really long time). Eventually he let an old lady in the cab too and then I exhaled and felt totally safe... and then cursed myself for being scared.

But on my way home tonight the driver went in what I am sure is the opposite direction from my hotel and then turned down a dirt road. Alarm bells started going off. This time I had my phone but also had a fresh layer of shame for having overreacted (even if just in my mind) during the last taxi ride. I spent the whole ride home (where I got eventually) alternating between fear and shame.

I wish I truly was a fearless traveler... instead I have all the fears but just feel to ashamed to let them dictate my behavior... sounds healthy, huh?

Flying/shoving/intellectualizing etc.

Well I'm back on the road (in the air) . After a crazy November with a four-stop trip I relaxed in New York for a couple months but the business trip has been calling my name so Mali it is.

I was sitting on the Paris-->Bamako flight (decidedly NOT in business class) and realized just how incredibly steeped in culture things like airplane behavior really are. I was truly amazed at how the man next to me acted, and mostly in an 'anthropologically curious' sort of way but definitely there was a bit of 'super annoyed person in uncomfortably close proximity' layered on top.

I took the overnight NYC to Paris flight which is just full of business people who travel all the time. Everyone had their routines. Everyone knew whether they wanted the express dinner or to be woken up for breakfast. On auto-pilot everyone immediately reclined their chairs the moment the plane leveled off after take off. It was a well-oiled machine of professional travelers.

The aforementioned Paris-->Bamako flight was another story. Now the thing about flights to and from Africa is that a lot of the people on the plane are first-time plane travelers. They also tend to be people coming from places where public transportation accords you much less personal space than I am used to.

If anyone who abides by 'see something say something' was on my plane, they would have called the police 10 times minimum. There was so much seemingly sketchy stuff going on. The guy next to me had a metal suitcase that was wider than his seat that he insisted on keeping on his lap. For the first hour he got up to talk to other people in various locations throughout the plane every 10 minutes or so (which necessitated me getting out of my aisle seat to let him pass). There were a lot of exchanges of small brown packages. What's inside? Who knows? Then the guy next to me just stared in front of him for the rest of the trip. There were personal screens with all sorts of entertainment. There were free headphones with a wide selection of music. There was a pillow and a blanket if one wanted to sleep. But this guy just wanted to stare. So creepy.

But that's the thing- creepy is culturally bound. He didn't make sense on the NY--> Paris flight I just took, but he made perfect sense here. Everyone else was doing the same set of bizarre activities. So I'm the bizarre one in this case.

I'm pretty good at intellectualizing things that annoy me and putting them in my "oh, how interesting" category other than my "grrrr" category. However, disembarking the plane was a bit of a test. I had to tell myself things like "maybe that guy comes from a village where the bus only stops for a few moments at every stop so if you aren't the first person out you can't go home" or "maybe that man is on a plane for the first time and is rushing home to see his dying grandmother" or "maybe he's used to being around people who don't bruise easily". But there is really only so much I can tell myself and I got to the end after the two men on the inside seats actually stepped over me before the plane had finished taxiing, worried that i wasn't going to get out quickly and then proceeded to hit me on the head with both pieces of overhead luggage.

But you know what? I got through customs first bc my inner traveler knew to have a pen, my boarding pass, and my passport handy to quickly fill out the customs card :) So take that iron-elbows! (and I leave the option open that your iron elbows are an adaptation born of necessity).

My 80 year old Malian Boyfriend

During business travel in foreign lands it can be really hard to make friends. There are a lot of dinners by yourself and a lot of evenings spent alone in your hotel room with your lap top. That's why I'm so friendly to cab drivers and hotel staff- they are the people I have access to and can talk to. However, one mustn't be too nice when female and traveling alone...

So the porter at my hotel was a really sweet old man. And I mean OLD. I asked his name and thanked him when he brought my things to my room. I said goodmorning to him in the morning and good night in the evening. Pretty standard stuff. And then the gifts came...

First he handed me a package with a necklace in it. Upon further inspection it had his email address inside (I cannot imagine where he gets email access...). I tried to refuse it but no luck, and decided to curtail my greetings for the time being.

Then came the flowers. At first I convinced myself that it could have been a coincidence. Maybe someone stepped on a flower and walked around and it came off their shoe outside my door? Totally plausible... one time. Second time, not so much.

At this point I resorted to the phrase "My husband wouldn't like that". I hate it a little. It makes it seem like there is some possessive man who tells me what to do all the time. It sounds like I'm scared of my husband and that he is some Neanderthal who protects my honor. It also sounds like having a normal interaction with a member of the opposite sex is not allowed within marriage. However, it also works. So dropped that bomb like mad. Gifts "husband wouldn't like that". Ask for email address "husband wouldn't like that". Maybe it's a cop out and I should say "the way you are treating me makes me uncomfortable and I"m sorry if it's a cultural misunderstanding or I am in any way misinterpreting your attention but I'd appreciate if you would stop doing that". But I'm going to stick with the phrase. Easy and effective.

I made a total error at the Western Union where I went with my coworker and told the guy which hotel we were in (which honestly, there are only two in the town so he could have figured it out) but then the BOLD man called our hotel and asked for my coworker to 'chat'. She's better than me and didn't worry about hurting feelings and just hung up on him. Maybe I'll learn that one too.

Niger Adventure

The purpose of my trip was to find a partner for a project we are planning to undertake and after meeting with everyone on my list, a random organization came to light and we went to meet them. They seemed perfect but we needed to see their project in person and my coworker's flight was leaving that night. So that left me and the project coordinator insisted that we had to leave immediately to get out to the site in time. So without much thought I grabbed a change of clothes and then headed off in a 4x4 with two strangers from an organization I had just learned about that morning.

It didn't occur to me that this might not be the safest situation in the world until I was still in the car with them 9 hours later, driving in the dark, with no cell phone reception thinking "hmm, could I get out of this situation if I needed to?" Answer "probably not". I got a little paranoid and tried to start remembering the occasional city signs we passed which was no easy feat since they were usually covered in dust and illegible. Looking for landmarks in the desert was a no go either. Were we getting closer or farther away from that part of the country that is absolutely off-limits to foreigners?

Thankfully we made it to the destination which was the coordinators home and I started to feel safe again. Aren't homes nice? That lasted about an hour until we went to sleep outside on the porch and every car that went by scared the crap out of me. I literally slept with my flashlight and knife. I'm a little embarassed of this, but still.

The next morning was brilliant. My hostess made us breakfast and we chatted about families and life and all sorts of warm and friendly things. I felt so enveloped in protection- like a warm coat of comfort and safety had been wrapped around me in the night and I awoke totally sheltered from my earlier fear. We proceeded to have a lovely day visiting the nicest people throughout the desert. People who were warm, genuine, and curious. I realized that I always feel most at home in villages. It's the cities and the hotels that make my mind imagine crazy things. Sitting with an old lady on the ground in a village feels like about the safest place on earth. I felt like if someone so much as looked at me wrong the village would rise up and defend me. I felt absolutely ridiculous and a bit ashamed for having been scared the night before.

The trip went smashingly. Objectives achieved. I felt really good about starting up a project which would entail me visiting every three months. Subsequently the project fell through and I was truly disappointed. However subsequent to that two young French men were abducted in the capital city by Al-Qaeda of the Islamic Maghreb, brought north to the border and killed during the rescue mission. At first this was just shocking- the capital? That's the one place that's supposed to be safe! Pulled out of a bar? I know that bar! But then I just got really sad. What this means for foreign aid is basically that no one is going to touch Niger with a 10 foot pole. It means those lovely ladies in the village I visited are not going to be the recipients of any new health programs any time soon. It also means that I'm not going back to Niger.