This last month I’ve managed to get into the field quite a bit, which always makes me happy. Last Thursday I woke up outside under a mosquito net nicely hung from a tree branch at 4 am in Maourolo. I was up to eat some canned saradines, stale bread and drink a little water before sunrise. To my dismay when I went to filter the water I had no success. I drink pump water but try to avoid well water as it is often not great for my digestive system. My trusty pump was not working. I did all the checks to see what could be wrong and found nothing until I looked at the intake hose. My furry house guests the mice had chewed it to crap and we all know how well a hose with 600 holes in it holds water. I decided to leave the water after all the sun would go down in 14 hours and then I could drink again so no problem.
The morning went well I got everything done that I needed to. We even cranked out a few kilos jatropha oil and I saw that everyone had learned well from the training I gave them three months earlier. At one o’clock it was time to hit the road for home. Due to a funding squeeze I had to come back from the field by bicycle. Job decided to take pity on me and show me a short cut so at 1pm we hit the road. The roads in rural Mali are pretty fun, if they were a little less sandy and a little more hilly they could be mountain bike paths. Now just before leaving I filled up my water bottle with some well water because well a small chance of giardia is better than death by dehydration. And really it’s not like it would be the first time my intestine came to be the home of uninvited creatures, but I didn’t want to break my fast.

Well after and hour of beautiful riding my lips are parched and my throat is throbbing. My head is aching. Nothing in the body seems to work without water. This last month I’ve been pretty thirsty many days but this was the worst and I was getting worried I would pass out. At this point I decided to declare household war on the mice as I blamed them for my problem, which is always a good tactic blame others. Why are we afraid to take responsibility ourselves? I told Job to stop and we drank my water. I had given in on the fast. Don’t worry the Koran says anyone on a journey or in sickness doesn’t have to fast for Ramadan. I think that the travelling I was doing qualified as a journey and made me less resolute in continuing. Which is a funny justification for me as it is the first time I’ve used the Koran as a justification or motivation for anything. Anyway after two hours of biking we hit the big dirt road and from there we were flying, wind at our backs to the market in Yasso. From there I am sure to find transport to the highway where it is easy to get back to Sevare. Upon arrival in Yasso I’m still incredibly thirsty as one cup of water over the last 16 hours just didn’t do it for me. Luckily there children wandering around selling little plastic bags of tap water they claim to be chilled but really they were chilled a few hours ago when they were in a fridge kilomoters away. Temperature is of no importance when you’re really thirsty. The market is quite a beautiful place. Smells of all descriptions and a rainbow of colours as the sounds of bargaining fill the air. Everything is so alive and so raw. Real like the world always is until you try to sterilize and homogonize it in overwrapped packages crammed together and perfectly aligned parallel shelves over a smooth white floor and under smooth phosphorescent light. Whatever grocery stores aren’t that bad, although I have a friend who calls them food jails, I wonder what he’d call the market.

After a little haggling I get in an old mini bus with about 25 women who have loaded up on cheap peanuts in the village they will bring back to the city. You quickly see which gender is more into commerce as me and the driver are the only men around. It takes us about 45 minutes to navigate the 20 km of road left as we pass horse drawn carriages carrying dozens of 100 kg bags of peanuts stacked 15 feet high.

At the highway I sit down and pull out a book. After an hour no bus. Another thirty minutes, no bus but children. Hundreds of them. School must be out. One by one they pass slowly staring at me until one stops. Then another, and another until there are about 40 standing staring at me spell bound. I try to do my best to look friendly and smile but their expression is changeless. They have that glazed over confused look that kids have when they watch tv. No response to my call outs in French, I guess they don’t learn much in school. I try Bambara, a couple start to giggle. I remember I’m still in Bobo country and I bust out all of my four Bobo words. More giggles. Two girls come up to me but then turn and run away. Finally one boy makes the five meter voyage from where he and his gaggle of friends are staring to shake my hand. After the others see he hasn’t been eaten or beaten they run up and I’m more popular than George Bush at a Texas oil convention. I’m the new town rock star. Everyone wants to shake my hand and “Ca va?” After being asked 40 times “ca va?” and answering “oui est toi” I am left with a dirty hand and a circle of 40 children totally surrounding me as I continue to sit. They all stare in silence, nothing to say I guess. It’s really odd to have this type of experience where people just sit looking at you, maybe I know what it’s like to be in a zoo without the cages.
I start asking for names and that breaks the ice. After some small talk I suddenly hear the blasting horn of a bus. I need to see which way it’s going because I’ve been waiting a long time and don’t want to miss it. I stand up to see and as I do all 40 children spontaneously start screaming and running in all directions that are away from me. It’s as if the boogie man has just appeared from under their beds. Maybe I’m an ogre and didn’t even know it. The bus was going the wrong way which was good because in their panic the kids had ran onto the highway where a bus going my way would have been. I wonder what they’ve been told about white people to make them so scared of me. Maybe it’s just something new, or maybe I’m really mean looking. Now the mood has changed and everyone pensively continued to stare but from a distance. After another five minutes they got bored as I continued to sit and read. I would have been happy at chat but they were so shocked that they couldn’t even return my smiles or answer my questions even when they did understand.

Finally my bus came by and three hours later I was home. I made friends with a military guy on the ride who was proud to tell me he protect American citizens during the Tuareg rebellion in 94. I got myself a nice fried egg sandwich and a cup of tea and went to bed setting the alarm for four am. I’m not sure how many dinner conversations I caused that day but I hope no one had a delayed heart attack.
Since then I’ve been back on the fasting bandwagon. I think I’ve actually made it over the worst of it. Now I feel good. I can deal with the fast and I’m feeling the groove. We’re 20 days in with maybe 9 more to go depending on when we see the new moon.

The last couple weeks have held lots of bustling around Mali. Last week I went to a far away village that has just recently become accessible with the lowering water level. To get there we had to take a taxi, then a boat for 16 hours and finally a donkey cart for an hour. To my surprise the village, Dia, was wealthy with an ambulance, water tower, it’s own FM radio station and telephones. Usually communities that are far away from markets, roads and other people are more impoverished but this village is different. The mayor is the ex-Ambassador to Germany. Dia has produced Imams who live in Saudia Arabia and Paris and usually the government has a Minister from the town, right now it’s the Minister of Culture. Incredible for a such a small place. It provided a good example of what people who go away and send back money and eventually return with expertise can do to develop a community. Although I can’t help but think that everyone living away and sending money must create a hollow community. Where am I living again?
The boat ride was pretty exciting with about 100 people crammed onto a boat that was completely overloaded with motor bikes and World Food Program boxes of rapeseed oil. We had prime seating on some bananas right next to the motor which was insanely loud. Half way through the night I realized my neighbour the sheep had the best spot in town with a nice bed of straw and all the room in the world.

It is the holy month of Ramadan and I am fasting with millions of Muslims and Malians around the world. I’m noticeably thinner after the first two weeks and wondering if I’ll disappear before the month is over. Ramadan appears to have different meaning to each individual but by and large it is about purification, repentance and increasing spiritual connections. I’ve been reading the Koran to get my head around things. In part I am doing it to culturally integrate and try to understand the struggles of the hungry and thirsty. Although it is good to take time for spiritual things and remember to do my own version of praying. Not eating from sun up to sun down has not been too difficult but not drinking can be very difficult in the heat. Last week I had to visit a village called Fatoma and went by bike 9 km. Then I spent the better part of the day visiting different partners working out little problems. In the early afternoon I biked the 9 km back with the intense Sahelian sun beating down on me. I thought I was going to pass out. My thought process stopped and all that mattered was getting some water. I spent the next couple hours sitting staring at my watch waiting with increasing impatience for sundown and “se preparer a couper.” It is no wonder the hungry have trouble planning for the future.

Breaking the fast has been my favourite part of the day everyday for the last two weeks. There is a sense of community and solidarity. Wherever you happen to be at sundown you sit with others who have been preparing ginger juice, tea and dates. People sitting on little chairs and benches circled around a tea pot laughing as the sky lights up with hues of pink as the sun bids us farewell. Usually everyone brings something in addition to the tea so a picnic breaks out. It’s watermelon season so there’s always at least ten kilograms of juicy pink watermelon for sharing within a one minute walk. Then again around 4:30 am I sit in my concession with two high school teachers sipping water and munching on bread. It provides a nice rhythm to the day.

I love seeing everyone come together to pray after breaking the fast. It is truly a show of community. This has left me feeling renewed and energized. I feel like I am truly moving to the funky beat of the world’s drummer and in tune with everything around me. Makes a guy pretty happy.

The peanuts have all been harvested and are being dried and put into bags in the concession. Looks like I should have about a tonne. Now the question is what I’m going to do with them. The house has been buzzing with women ripping the peanuts off the plants for the last two weeks. Late at night I’ll sit and work with them as we all make fun of my Barbara and listen to the radio.

I am feeling the challenges of trying to be many things at once. Here I am known as Levy, Hamadji Diallo and sometime Kwesi Piecie depending on who I am hanging out with. I am trying to work at a high level influencing strategy of a large development project but living with the Malian everyman. Working within systems of hierarchy and trying to bring them down at the same time. In social life the same people I am trying to work with as equals are my “big brothers” and culturally superior to me. I guess in life we all play many roles as mothers are also children and bosses also friends. It provides a kind of richness. I find the extreme diversity of my world beautiful and overwhelming at the same time. Some days I am able to sit with the head of the UNDP in Mali others with villagers who have never been 10 km away from home. I usually eat rice with my hands from a communal pot with Luc or other neighbours while a month ago I was eating sushi in Yorkville in Toronto. The world truly is vast and I am trying to take pieces from everyone I’ve met and create my own little patchwork quilt of wisdom that hopefully comes together to be something whole.
Here is a quote that I have been thinking about lately “At the deepest level, we help by what we are, not what we know or even what we do.” Jump in a pile of golden fall leaves for me and I’ll stare at the full moon for you.

After six years in France Ousmane came back to Mali in August. I meet him on a bus ride out of Bamako. Wearing blue jeans and a nice black leather jacket with a laptop bag he didn’t fit in with the average passenger. Luckily he sat beside me and unlike in Canada you talk to your neighbour and I got to learn about him. He studied Hotelerie and worked at the Four Seasons in Paris for a long time but wanted to come back home. He said the it was important to “bring back what you have learned.” Feeling an obligation to his family he has returned to help manage one of Mali’s transportation companies. He’s got a business education but said that “it works in Europe but in Mali I won’t apply any of it.” It was great to see him stare out the window at the passing scenery like an excited child exploring the world for the first time. He pointed out every building that was new since he left home and marvelled at all the new cell phone towers. Ready to “start punching the pistons” of Mali’s economy Ousmane decided it was time to trade in a job with a big pay check for a job he feels has a big purpose. His life in Paris was good but he wants to make sure the life of everyone in his country is good. He’s rejoining millions in West Africa who are working for the same thing.