Roadside Goodbye

So I was told that Peace Corps was going to be hard. The official Peace Corps motto—“The hardest job you will ever love” Well yesterday may have been one of those days. I’ve shared about the frustrations I have at my service and the not so polite Malians but I don’t think I’ve shared enough about the amazing people I have encountered during my time in Mali. Yes, the good does outnumber the bad, its just easier to blow off steam I guess. One of the people who have made my service a lot more comforting is Mayamuna. She is my guard’s wife. My guard and his family (wife and two kids) live in the same concession as I do. It has been a great set up. They are like my unofficial host family. I can hang out in the afternoons and not feel bad about excusing myself to have some down time. Mayamuna and I talk about lazy Malian men, I ask her about polygamy, she asks about family planning. I watch her prepare dinner, she watches me try to wash my clothes and sometimes we just sit and its nice. For the pat couple of months, we’ve been eating dinner together as a family. I make my American/ Vietnamese meals and Mayamuna makes tho, which by the way, I really like and even have cravings for. We have tho and then move on to whatever I’ve made-pasta, chili, spring rolls, soups. The evening goes on with time spent watching the latest Brazilian soap opera import and then Malian news. I call it a night at around 9pm and go inside my house to clean up and read. Its nice, simple and comfortable.

Mussa told me a couple of months ago that he would be sending Mayamuna and the kids back to their village—Dogan Country, about a days bus ride from Sikasso. He wants the kids to learn to speak Dogan and be with their extended family. How can this be happening, but I want them to stay, this is what Im thinking inside my head knowing that its not up to me and it does not revolve around me. The thing I forget is Malians are just as mobile as anyone of us. They have places to go, things to do, changes to make. I guess I just thought –my naïve and selfishness—none of the Malians in my little world would leave. I will come back from work or Bamako or wherever and everything will be the same. The thing is, even as I call this a two year commitment, its still life and it changes.

Mayamuna and the kids left yesterday. It was such a heartbreak. Mussa went to get a car to take them to the bus station. Mayanuma, who by the way is also one of the most beautiful Malian women I know, is dressed in a bright pink complet, her hair newly braided and feet dyed in henna. Marium and Baba are decked out as well—each wearing a new pair of shoes and jackets.
The car pulls up, clinking and clanging on the dirt road rearing its truck about two inches from the front gate—perfect. The boys from across the road, Mussa’s tea drinking posse come right away ready to help load up the car. I am watching all of this from my front porch knowing that if I get too close to the scene, Im going to start crying—not that I wasn’t starting to already. Saying goodbye to someone in Mali is not easy mostly because you do not know when you are going to see that person again. I asked Mussa when Mayamuna and the kids were coming back, he just laughs, “Assetou, we’re Africans we don’t plan those things like you Americans.” Great. He counts off the months on his hand, “Aout, Septembre, Octobre, Novembre, Decembre, etc.” I watch and accept the truth, its gonna be a long time maybe even after I am done with my service.
Back to saying good bye, Malians will give you the left hand to shake if you are leaving to signify that it will be a long time before you see one another again. I got it from my host father during homestay and then again when I went visit a village outside of Sikasso. I was not going to let Mayamuna give me any hand but her right—we are going to see each other again.

We are at the first door of the gate, things are loaded and people are filing out. I hand each of the kids some change, tokens for a safe trip and to bye some sweets for the road. Then its Mayamuna, my best friend. We just sort of look at each other and smile, then laugh, just like we always do when we are not sure what to say to one another, this time its not because I don’t know the words in Bambara but because I know if I start to talk my voice will break. “Here,” I tell her, “ Namasa buru (banana bread, its her favorite), some sweets and wet naps to keep the kids a little clean, its gonna be a long ride.” All she says is “Ah Assetou.” And then I break. Its horrible. The women there tell us its going to be okay, “She’s gonna come right back.” “I know, I know, Im going to visit too.” I think its me crying but then look up and see that Mayamuna is crying too. Ahh. We even talked about how she was not going to cry so I couldn’t. In Malian culture one is not supposed to cry in front of others—it’s a taboo. You hold up that emotion until you are alone. If a mother loses a child, a relative gets in an accident, a friend goes away. You do not cry. I guess Im not that Malian, I just let it all come out. Her tears comes and get hidden away as quickly as they come, she cannot let Mussa see or the rest of the men. After a couple of minutes, everyone is tucked into the car. The truck it tied shut with some of the baggage hanging out. Marium and Baba are all smiles, they are in a car, they are going on a trip. Mayamuna has a stoic look and even from behind the tinted window, I know we are both trying to smile to each other, no words necessary just smiles.