Death

Hippos spotted: 0 People bitten in half: 0 Pairs of pants soiled: 1

Okay, so.  My pre-service training is rapidly drawing to a close.  My last few weeks in my training village were great, and I had few interesting experiences.  The first beeing that I pooped my pants.  This was a major stepping stone in my Peace Corps service, and I feel very accomplished now.  No, actually, I was really quite sick, and it wasn't too fun for a day or two.  I had a really bad cold, and then pretty excessive diarrhea on top of it, plus that week was really hot.  The average temperature in my nice, shady room at midday while I napped was just over 100F, so the days I was sick were kinda rough.  But, on the flip side, I personally think I am adjusting well to the heat.  I discovered that putting a plastic "prayer" mat on my bed, and sleeping directly on that is far superior than any sheet.  I think because the prayer mat allows the sweat to drain through it, or it will evaporate so when you roll around in bed it is less likely that you will roll over into a swamp.  The pillow is a tricky endevour though.  I currently wrap it in a sheet, so there are four or five layers of cloth between me and the pillow.  It helps, but still my pillow can literally be wrung out when I wake up in the morning.

I've also spearheaded a moustache movement in our stage.  We are getting shirts made that say "Moustage" on them with a nice moustache decal on the front.  This is because, at my and my friend Regis' prompting, all of the men in our stage (minus a 2 or 3 weenies) will be sporting their finest moustaches at the swear-in ceremony at the presidential palace.  It will probably be mankinds' finest hour, so far.  It will be a fine time for us, and it won't be too ridiculous as moustaches are completely normal and accepted in Mali, instead of being the sign of a child molester as they are in America.  Also, the swear-in clothing I had made is wonderful.  In true Ethan style, it is fairly ridiculous, but my language teachers thought it will be great for "swear-in."

This next bit it farily depressing, but still a wonderful cultural experience.  One of the last days in my training village, I attended the funeral of an infant.  Our language teacher informed us a child had died, and he said it would mean a lot if we went to the funeral... So we did.  We showed up at the family's housing compound and the women and men split up.  We offered some blessings, and then sat while the older men said some prayers.  After a little while, the men brought the body out wrapped in a mat with some Islamic symblos on it.  The laid it on the ground and then the Muslim men in the group (most of them) prayed over it for a bit.  Then the men went to the cemetary and buried the body.  Being a man, I went along.  They placed the body in a narrow grave and then stacked some mud bricks on top.  Then Imam said some stuff in Arabic, and then they shoveled dirt over it.  They placed a mud brick at the head, as a head stone, and then cut a bough off a bush, and laid it on top of the grave lengthwise.  Then we went back to the compound for some more praying, and then it was over.  Apparently, the women's side of the service was a bit more wild for the following reasons.  Number 1, the father was sick in Bamako.  The father is supposed to be the person who lets people know that the child died.  Since he was not there, no one took it upon themselves to do this, and so no body let the mother know that her child had died as the mother was out in the fields working.  While the men were busy burying the baby the mother returned.  She poked her head in the door, and they told her what had happened.  She collapsed in a heap and started weeping and yelling.  The family quickly ran out and reprimanded her, picked her up, and ushered her out of public view.  It is okay for the mother to cry silently at a child's death, but anything beyond that is culturally unacceptable.  A child's death is sad, but not seen as a big deal in Mali.  If an older person dies, then funeral happens usually within 24 hours, but the festivities will last for many days.  I was thoroughly shocked at this funeral, but I have accepted it for what it is.  Also, I got preturbed at the child who started beating the crap out of a dog during the funeral.  Usually, when I see excessive animal abuse going on I'll yell at the kid, and chase him down, or throw a rock at him/her, but seeing as I was in the middle of a service I didn't think this would be acceptable.  So, I just watched as this dog kept trying to crawl into the kids lap, and roll over on its back, completlely submitting, and the kid just kept smacking with an underripe mango, which are quite firm.  Anyways, the day ended well when we made egg sandwiches and mango salsa. Delicious!!!

The next day we had a going away party, and the chief of the village had a grandchild.  So, the census almost worked out, except late in the day a kid drowned in the canal, but we didn't attend this funeral, if it even happened.  Anyways, we got back to the training compound a few days ago, and as I was writing this I got my birthday package from my parents!!!  Yay!  That's it for now. 

 This picture is one of million Barack Obama merchandise examples.

 My two awesome language teachers: Labassy on the right, and Claudine on the left.

 My host sister, Kadiatou, on the left, and host mom, Awa, on the right.

 My training village group: Claudine, Mario, Thera, Laura, Labassy, Me, Matt, Judy, Rob (L to R)

 Rob and Thera making some choice Mango salsa.

My host family (and a few random people who happened to be nearby when I got out the camera). My host dad, Dramane, is the guy on the right with the blue shirt.  The guy I talked to the most is in the white jersey holding the kid in the green shirt.  The kid is not his, but is terrified of me.  The kid's name is Amadou, and the guy is Douda.  Douda is a rad, smart guy.  He wants to be a lawyer, but is trying to save up as school is pricey.  The older woman on the left is Mase, Dramane's mother.  His wife is Awa in the middle.  The only kid that is his in this picture is the girl in the red shirt, Kadiatou.  Kadiatou is a pistol.  She is a piece of work, but is probably one of the happiest people I have ever met.