Sometimes I forget I live in West Africa. I teach in English- or at least I speak English. My meals consist of food Ed or I cook, so are fairly American style. And my social circle is the missionary community- which is a culture all it’s own!
However, every once in a while a set of mini events will happen that reminds me- yes, indeed, I do live in Mali. Things don’t work the same way. And everything is a process.
Yesterday was the beginning of 24 hours of what I will call “strange events in my normal life.”
Monday- 5:24 pm
Ed and I ventured to the local supermarket to pick up a few supplies for dinner. We go to this supermarket at least 3 times a week, since it is just around the corner. We entered, were greeted as usual and then we picked up a basket… nothing too out of the ordinary so far. A Malian lady walks up and reaches for our basket. Thinking she said “give the lady the basket first” Ed hands her the basket and we reach down for a second one. She holds out her hand again and, although it is a bit odd that she wanted TWO baskets to shop, we hand her it as well.
Somehow it dawns on us, that no- she is not shopping- rather she wants to be OUR personal shopping helper. Well, that’s odd and uncomfortable, but since our language skills are close to nothing, we allow it. For the next 10 minutes we wander around the store grabbing things like honey, yogurt, and rice, turning around and placing it in one of the two baskets the lady is carrying for us. Talk about awkward.
After we mentally reviewed our list, we headed to the register where she proceeded to place all the items on the counter for us. I grab some change from my purse to tip her, but she takes off to put the baskets (remember there were two- not necessary) away before I can hand it to her. Strange.
Monday- 5:43pm
After we leave the grocery store we walk across the street to buy fruit (usually grocery stores don’t carry produce). While speaking with the fruit lady in my broken Bambara we suddenly hear a horn blast up the road. Wondering what it was, everyone- Me, the fruit lady, Ed, the random people sitting around- turn our heads in the direction of the sound. Coming down the road is a police on a moto followed by three cars with tinted windows. We all watch as they pass by- but no one seems to know who it was. Maybe the president? Maybe a rock star? I don’t think we will ever really know.
Monday 5:51pm
Ed and I continue back to the house after our shopping trip, and are greeted by a Malian on the side of the road. He points to Ed and calls out his name, then starts making a drumming motion. We smile and try to figure out what he is meaning. A few seconds later it dawns on us that it must be someone we once played drums with last spring. He recognized our whiteness, so we wanted to reciprocate the greeting. Ed reaches forward to give him a hand shake. As he walks forward the guy points to his bag where there is a black carved elephant sticking out. AH- we were onto his trick and since we didn’t want the monstrosity, we say “no thanks” and keep walking. Only in Mali do people remember you and immediately try to sell you something.
Tuesday-6:48am
We walk halfway to school every morning, then take a “van-bus-sotrama” the rest of the way. This morning as we rounded the final corner of our walk- which takes us through the gas station that sells ice cream at one of the pumps- we come upon 50 people sitting on the sides of the driveway with suitcases in hand. That’s strange. Usually there is nobody around this time in the morning beside people selling phone credit or fruit. We walk through the group and to the right we notice a man with a clip board looking very official. Our best guess? We happened upon a make-shift bus stop. To where are they going, I have no idea. But next time I need to head out of the city I will be sure to go to the nearest gas station and wait. And maybe get some ice cream.
However, every once in a while a set of mini events will happen that reminds me- yes, indeed, I do live in Mali. Things don’t work the same way. And everything is a process.
Yesterday was the beginning of 24 hours of what I will call “strange events in my normal life.”
Monday- 5:24 pm
Ed and I ventured to the local supermarket to pick up a few supplies for dinner. We go to this supermarket at least 3 times a week, since it is just around the corner. We entered, were greeted as usual and then we picked up a basket… nothing too out of the ordinary so far. A Malian lady walks up and reaches for our basket. Thinking she said “give the lady the basket first” Ed hands her the basket and we reach down for a second one. She holds out her hand again and, although it is a bit odd that she wanted TWO baskets to shop, we hand her it as well.
Somehow it dawns on us, that no- she is not shopping- rather she wants to be OUR personal shopping helper. Well, that’s odd and uncomfortable, but since our language skills are close to nothing, we allow it. For the next 10 minutes we wander around the store grabbing things like honey, yogurt, and rice, turning around and placing it in one of the two baskets the lady is carrying for us. Talk about awkward.
After we mentally reviewed our list, we headed to the register where she proceeded to place all the items on the counter for us. I grab some change from my purse to tip her, but she takes off to put the baskets (remember there were two- not necessary) away before I can hand it to her. Strange.
Monday- 5:43pm
After we leave the grocery store we walk across the street to buy fruit (usually grocery stores don’t carry produce). While speaking with the fruit lady in my broken Bambara we suddenly hear a horn blast up the road. Wondering what it was, everyone- Me, the fruit lady, Ed, the random people sitting around- turn our heads in the direction of the sound. Coming down the road is a police on a moto followed by three cars with tinted windows. We all watch as they pass by- but no one seems to know who it was. Maybe the president? Maybe a rock star? I don’t think we will ever really know.
Monday 5:51pm
Ed and I continue back to the house after our shopping trip, and are greeted by a Malian on the side of the road. He points to Ed and calls out his name, then starts making a drumming motion. We smile and try to figure out what he is meaning. A few seconds later it dawns on us that it must be someone we once played drums with last spring. He recognized our whiteness, so we wanted to reciprocate the greeting. Ed reaches forward to give him a hand shake. As he walks forward the guy points to his bag where there is a black carved elephant sticking out. AH- we were onto his trick and since we didn’t want the monstrosity, we say “no thanks” and keep walking. Only in Mali do people remember you and immediately try to sell you something.
Tuesday-6:48am
We walk halfway to school every morning, then take a “van-bus-sotrama” the rest of the way. This morning as we rounded the final corner of our walk- which takes us through the gas station that sells ice cream at one of the pumps- we come upon 50 people sitting on the sides of the driveway with suitcases in hand. That’s strange. Usually there is nobody around this time in the morning beside people selling phone credit or fruit. We walk through the group and to the right we notice a man with a clip board looking very official. Our best guess? We happened upon a make-shift bus stop. To where are they going, I have no idea. But next time I need to head out of the city I will be sure to go to the nearest gas station and wait. And maybe get some ice cream.
