in a world where it's getting harder to be truly free, I say, get the fuck out and enjoy yourself. duh.
I finally visited dogon country. we bounced through bush and sped across skinny spillways. we bring hardly anything because we're happy with the small things. we wait all day for beer and sodas to get cold and make boutique banquets. got to walk through places I'd only seen in pictures, through civilizations tucked into the guts of an ancient plateau, where only millet can survive and stoned is the way to go. the sangha market we rolled through was beautiful... stone floors and concessions, open and loud platforms for vendors. while owen jembe'd a crowd I found the best meat house I've seen in country. a dark and steamy room with vats of boiling and roasts of tender beef, dozens catering to and surrounding the comfortable butcher. we made bbq sandwiches with our leftover jar of mustard, frozen dablini for dessert. tired after the hike out, the children could tell and sat with us quietly within the whizz of market day. the old folks were nice too.
after living here a year I imagine how long I could sustain a backpacker's lifestyle. it certainly suits me, but I don't think it could give me what I want. so like all things it's bittersweet. as soon as I slip into a damp cavern and peer out to the bright life I'm panged with the disappointment that I won't give the time to really know this place. I assume to attain any further levels of understanding, some deeper sort of commitment would have to be made. and I know my time is coming, to mold my life in the fashion I see fit, but this doesn't involve here. I love so many things about this place - their different handling of objects, their relationship to subjects, the lawlessness and camaraderie - that typically raise questions regarding personal happiness. I could be happy here, but I'd rather be happy somewhere else.
the great things about peace corps are the human keepsakes, the people you get close to who will be there on the other side. maybe one day it'll be like doing mali but in the southwest US, or maybe on the road to colombia.
on my way back from sevare we stopped in segou for whiskey and jessies. then in bamako I picked up my dad and stepmother to head to site directly. we had a rare night in kita, only because I imagine that very seldom do volunteers get to see dads blasted on the special combination of strong local brew and golden tequila, and very seldom do parents get to see how our nightlife looks after being transplanted here. what a mess.
site was a blast. lots of good eating and laughing, dancing. my brain melted when my host dad jumped at my dad's invitation to get down. playing translator wasn't so bad, I learned a lot from all the obvious questions I tend to overlook after having become so comfortable. lots of stories about the old days and how things used to be, more mystery flaunted about the secrets these people keep. I've heard it and read it, there are things africans hold very close to the chest, and that vanish at the first sign of outsider intrigue.
and this is an appropriate climax, so now we do the falling action. I'm sure the best is yet to come, but this past month or two certainly marks a revolution in state and ideals. like fuck the melancholy, it's really good for nothing, except wallowing with other melancholies. empathy is a much better tool, and joy is the best.
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