Camels, Scorpions, and Termites, Oh My!

As the title would indicate, a couple of exciting things have happened to me in Toumou the last few weeks.  All ended in much flailing of arms and the unsuppressed giggles of the Malians of my village and a reminder on my part that this is, indeed, an adventure…just incase I forgot and thought things were normal or something.

First off, I have begun a regular study of French with a tutor in my village who works diligently to polish my lack-luster skills in French in the balmy afternoons under a millet-stalk hanger in his concession.  Not exciting—unless a damn camel walks into your classroom.  As we sat conversing, Draman suddenly told me rather vehemently to go, go, go, look, look, look at word unknown outside his house. I walked over, not expecting much, only to see a huge camel come traipsing along beside my house and up the road, his rider swaying rhythmically atop his vehicle in a purple turban and uncharacteristically light skin for my little part of Mali.  If this wasn’t good enough, they sauntered casually right into the house and up to our class.  The camel looked down at us haughtily, through thick black eyelashes and over a ringed and leashed nostril from 10 feet in the air, and then seemed to tip precariously forward and crash onto his front two knees to the ground.  His sandy colored rider leaned back, awaiting the next crash backwards, where the camel finally rested and the rider hopped off quickly.  He had to pee.  Guess I’d hop off too. 

In the mean time, I’m freaking out, running around this beast, mouth ajar, hands flailing, Malians giggling at the spectacle (and probably the camel too) with dares to me of jumping on.  Not.  Even. A. Chance.

Next incident.  I decide one night that I will delve into my classical guitar book which has been resting complacently against my wall since my arrival in Toumou, just awaiting my much needed attention.  I tug at the book—and the pages on the back crumble into holy pieces.  Holy.  Literally.  Like, holes.  Termites. Stupid, stupid termites.  They ate my book!  Little did I know that this was forshadowing of a future event in which I would witness the unceremonious eating of a termite mother at my homologue’s house.  As I sat under a rather wimpy mango tree, making tea for the men working on Youssouf’s new wife’s future house, the men working began a frantic dig-toss-dig-toss of a termite colony’s house under the future people house’s foundation.  Chickens began to peck greedily at the disheveled pile, scoring a protein rich breakfast out of the clayey holes.  I noticed over near the former insect home that an old man is gingerly holding a white, mucusey looking mass between his callused index finger and thumb, cleaning it carefully.  And then…slurp. Yes slurp.  He ate it.  I screamed, loudly, my scream answered by an eruption of laughter by the workers and ladies making lunch.  He ate the mother! Protein he said! Protein my ass, that’s gross.

The last event occurred on a dark evening, under my thatch covered cooking hut where I often read after I make and eat dinner.  As I poured transfixed over a Neil Gaiman paperback upon my mat on the floor, I hear a little swish from the roof followed by barely audible tap and rustle on the mat next to me.  I picked up my lamp and gazed uninterested around the cement floor, saw nothing, and reverted to my book, slightly disquieted, but blaming my anxiety on the jittery effects of mefloquinn (see my first blog!).  After a few minutes, still unnerved, I glanced around again to see a little hook shaped being under my chair two feet away. Leaf—no, scorpion—yes. Big scorpion.  Big, big scorpion.  Here’s the part where I make a bafoon of myself again and run over to my homologue’s house, and explain frantically, not knowing the word for scorpion “Thing, bug, house, floor, fell, going to kill me!” My homologue manages to unvelcro himself from the t.v. as Mali was currently playing Cote D’Ivoire in a big soccer game and everyone is all kinds of excited about it.  He barely avoids running to my house in his need to get back to the game and we search frantically for the little beastie. Alas, he had hidden himself, in my hut, and did not want to be found, but rather to wait and torture me with his haunting presence.  Very, very half-heartedly, I tell Youssouf to go ahead and go back to the game…guess we’ll look tomorrow. He shuffles out with apologies and promises of strong insect killer in the morning.  I stood in the middle of my round hut, with my lamp, for a full fifteen minutes, gazing around horrified—he could be anywhere! Like an invisible axe-murder, laying in wait, ready to attack.  I finally spot him on the wall, run back out, flailing again, to another neighbors house, who, without any fear, whips off his sandle and splats him against the wall, then picks him up and carries him out for the kids to look at.  Phew. Crisis averted.  That got two days of giggles.

Otherwise, I must admit, I’m pleasantly surprised to find myself encountering more moments of what feels like, what I can only describe as…normal.  I’m getting it, dooni dooni as Malians say. I started a ‘garden’ if you can call it that.  I bought a little shovel and dug a bunch of holes in my yard, and much to my surprise, this has gotten me more street cred than anything else I’ve done so far.  Malians are farmers and they like hard work and by-golly I did some, even if there are only holes to show for it.  I’m getting water, making tea, diggin’ holes, playin’ blues on my guitar, reading books, talking about the miracle tree Moringa (which the Peace Corps is all kinds of excited about), and even making a couple of friends.  I have to admit, it’s getting better…its getting better all the time.  Oh wait, I didn’t create that line.  Still apt.

I’ll be in Toumou for a couple of weeks, gonna try to stick it out until mid March!  Can’t wait to get back and read aaaalllll about Republican political slaughterings! Oh wait, yes I can.