Every Peace Corps Volunteer has a "transportation horror story," or indeed, several. "Horror" may be too strong a word, for these incidents are rarely (though occasionally) wounding or fatal. They certainly are frustrating! Due to how things are in the developing world, cars and engines are old, hardly running. They break down and no one comes to fix them. And Peace Corps volunteers mostly use public transportation, suffering these breakdowns. These incidents are frustrating. They test your patience like nothing else. In my time in Africa I was lucky to only experience one of these episodes. And, you guessed it, here it is: the time our van broke down but how I lived to tell the tale. And made a memory.
This particular day last February began with me biking 8 miles to my market town and going to look for a van headed south to the local Peace Corps hostel. I found one. The fare was equivalent to $6, quite a hefty fee to be honest, but I paid it, because sitting under a fan, getting online after a month off, and drinking something cold were all important factors in keeping me sane.
Our van was ike this, but way more busted up: this "bush taxi" is from Cameroon, a country doing a bit better than Mali economically: Cameroon is ranked 150 on the UN Human Development Index, while Mali is 175.
After waiting a few hours for the van to fill up (bush taxis never leave unless they're filled way past capacity), we were off! The time: 3 PM. This trip which I've done before usually takes about 3 hours. The distance is only around 50 miles. So you know I was surprised when about 1.5 hours into our trek the engine stops and our driver coasts to the side of the dirt road. We are lucky because there is a village. The driver pops the hood, looks around the engine, and walks off into the village. The other passengers and I wait a little while, then when he does not return unload ourselves. And the waiting begins.
We wait. And wait. And wait. And wait.
The driver comes and goes, trying new parts, fiddling around, resting. The passengers show little open impatience. They are used to things like this. I have enough water, and some beef jerky (thanks Dad!), and a great book, so I am pretty content. No cell phone reception, which is always worrisome. "We'll be going soon enough" I tell myself.
Nope.
Night falls around 7, and I am slightly concerned about the fate of our still inoperable vehicle. Also distressing is the fact that I have seen no other cars pass, cars which I would have paid to get on. But clearly that was not happening. So I walk into the village with a few others, to see if we can find a TV showing the Mali vs. Cote d'Ivoire soccer game. We find it, along with the entire male population of the village. I make a splash, being white and all, but people are more interested in the game. Which is fine with me!
The game ends close to 9. It's fully dark, I do not have unlimited water, no way to call anybody, and I am quite alone in a strange village. Thank god for all the language study I have been doing, because I am truly on my own. I begin thinking of contingency plans if we have to spend the night here at a stranger's house. This had never happened to me before, but I was pretty sure it would be acceptable, what with Malian hospitality being what it is. Still, it was not an option I was 100% comfortable with. So I'm prayin' on that car!
Still not going.
So, I wander around, find some of the passengers who have made a fire, and sit with them to wait it out. By this point I think word got out that a foreigner was in town, because many village kids started coming up to me at the fire. Mostly they just stared, but a few were brave enough to speak to me.
"Hey Toubab [Bambara for "white person"], what's your name?"
"Moussa Dembele," I reply. This is my Malian name, the same name as my village's chief, so the kid is quite surprised at this foreigner with a local name.
"Moussa Dembele! Where are you from?"
I say my village name.
"What do you do there?"
"Well, I am the village chief and I have four wives" I reply.
The kid is dumbfounded. He's looking at me with the strangest look, eyebrows raised, like, what is this thing, a ghost? How did it learn Bambara?
Meanwhile a bunch of other kids, maybe 20, have gathered at this point. I am so tired of waiting for the stupid van so I just start talking and making up stories about myself and joking and singing and dancing with the kids. We all loved it. I would be rather be silly and amused than bored and gloomy, you feel me?! This tomfoolery continues until around 11:30, when, thank the heavens, THE CAR STARTS WORKING! SEVEN HOURS IN THAT DAMN VILLAGE!
I walk with the other passengers towards the car and many of the kids follow. They question me: "When will you come back to our village?" "Will you remember us?" "Where are you really from?"
"Can we fly in your air car sometime?" (I told them I fly airplanes...).
I'm in the car, it's starting up, it's going, and the kids are chasing after, calling my name. "MOUSSA DEMBELE!" MOUSSAAAAAAA!"
The car breaks down shortly, and continues to do so, off and on, as we travel through the night. Many hours later, at 7 AM, exhausted, having slept only a few bumpy hours, I reach my destination, which is a mere 50 miles away from where we left. The trip, 3PM to 7AM, took 16 hours. Only in Africa.
I never made it back to that village and cannot even recall its name. But a few hours there talking and joking with kids who I would never see again greatly comforted my exhausted spirit. I wonder if some of those kids ever talk about the mysterious white stranger who spoke their language and who wanted to talk to them. Who did not mind looking silly. A benevolent apparition, come from a strange faraway place, come only for a brief moment and then quickly gone, into the night and the dark.
One of my favorite memories from Mali.
This particular day last February began with me biking 8 miles to my market town and going to look for a van headed south to the local Peace Corps hostel. I found one. The fare was equivalent to $6, quite a hefty fee to be honest, but I paid it, because sitting under a fan, getting online after a month off, and drinking something cold were all important factors in keeping me sane.
Our van was ike this, but way more busted up: this "bush taxi" is from Cameroon, a country doing a bit better than Mali economically: Cameroon is ranked 150 on the UN Human Development Index, while Mali is 175.
After waiting a few hours for the van to fill up (bush taxis never leave unless they're filled way past capacity), we were off! The time: 3 PM. This trip which I've done before usually takes about 3 hours. The distance is only around 50 miles. So you know I was surprised when about 1.5 hours into our trek the engine stops and our driver coasts to the side of the dirt road. We are lucky because there is a village. The driver pops the hood, looks around the engine, and walks off into the village. The other passengers and I wait a little while, then when he does not return unload ourselves. And the waiting begins.
We wait. And wait. And wait. And wait.
The driver comes and goes, trying new parts, fiddling around, resting. The passengers show little open impatience. They are used to things like this. I have enough water, and some beef jerky (thanks Dad!), and a great book, so I am pretty content. No cell phone reception, which is always worrisome. "We'll be going soon enough" I tell myself.
Nope.
Night falls around 7, and I am slightly concerned about the fate of our still inoperable vehicle. Also distressing is the fact that I have seen no other cars pass, cars which I would have paid to get on. But clearly that was not happening. So I walk into the village with a few others, to see if we can find a TV showing the Mali vs. Cote d'Ivoire soccer game. We find it, along with the entire male population of the village. I make a splash, being white and all, but people are more interested in the game. Which is fine with me!
The game ends close to 9. It's fully dark, I do not have unlimited water, no way to call anybody, and I am quite alone in a strange village. Thank god for all the language study I have been doing, because I am truly on my own. I begin thinking of contingency plans if we have to spend the night here at a stranger's house. This had never happened to me before, but I was pretty sure it would be acceptable, what with Malian hospitality being what it is. Still, it was not an option I was 100% comfortable with. So I'm prayin' on that car!
Still not going.
So, I wander around, find some of the passengers who have made a fire, and sit with them to wait it out. By this point I think word got out that a foreigner was in town, because many village kids started coming up to me at the fire. Mostly they just stared, but a few were brave enough to speak to me.
"Hey Toubab [Bambara for "white person"], what's your name?"
"Moussa Dembele," I reply. This is my Malian name, the same name as my village's chief, so the kid is quite surprised at this foreigner with a local name.
"Moussa Dembele! Where are you from?"
I say my village name.
"What do you do there?"
"Well, I am the village chief and I have four wives" I reply.
The kid is dumbfounded. He's looking at me with the strangest look, eyebrows raised, like, what is this thing, a ghost? How did it learn Bambara?
Meanwhile a bunch of other kids, maybe 20, have gathered at this point. I am so tired of waiting for the stupid van so I just start talking and making up stories about myself and joking and singing and dancing with the kids. We all loved it. I would be rather be silly and amused than bored and gloomy, you feel me?! This tomfoolery continues until around 11:30, when, thank the heavens, THE CAR STARTS WORKING! SEVEN HOURS IN THAT DAMN VILLAGE!
I walk with the other passengers towards the car and many of the kids follow. They question me: "When will you come back to our village?" "Will you remember us?" "Where are you really from?"
"Can we fly in your air car sometime?" (I told them I fly airplanes...).
I'm in the car, it's starting up, it's going, and the kids are chasing after, calling my name. "MOUSSA DEMBELE!" MOUSSAAAAAAA!"
The car breaks down shortly, and continues to do so, off and on, as we travel through the night. Many hours later, at 7 AM, exhausted, having slept only a few bumpy hours, I reach my destination, which is a mere 50 miles away from where we left. The trip, 3PM to 7AM, took 16 hours. Only in Africa.
I never made it back to that village and cannot even recall its name. But a few hours there talking and joking with kids who I would never see again greatly comforted my exhausted spirit. I wonder if some of those kids ever talk about the mysterious white stranger who spoke their language and who wanted to talk to them. Who did not mind looking silly. A benevolent apparition, come from a strange faraway place, come only for a brief moment and then quickly gone, into the night and the dark.
One of my favorite memories from Mali.
