Planning a trip? Don’t go to Mali
Planning seems irrelevant in Mali—a country where departures can vary by a day or so (bush taxies won’t leave until all passengers have someone sitting on their lap), getting money from the bank may become a multi-day process (if you’re lucky enough to be near one), and miscommunications seem to be the norm (there are 50 living languages in Mali).
    Fortunately, I didn’t have much time to plan before going to Mali. I had actually never heard of this relatively obscure country in Africa before meeting Mary Graham in a New York City restaurant. Inspired by her unique philosophy for addressing poverty in the developing world, I resolved to accompany her on her next venture and assist her newly established non-profit, Practical Small Projects.

Arrival
Armed with six vaccinations, a box of malaria pills, and a stash of granola bars, I land in Mali’s capital, Bamako. I begin to worry… what if Mary forgot about me? Thankfully I see a familiar face. (Even if we only met briefly before!)
    With 72% of the population living on less than $1 a day and a 19% literacy rate, Mali fares poorly on the UN’s 2005 Human Development Index (174 out of 177). Mary knows Mali’s problems won’t be solved overnight, but realistic and self-sustaining projects make a meaningful and lasting impact. Practical Small Project’s strategy involves bringing solar experts to Mali, who teach locals how to fabricate, install, and repair solar panels. These are brought to schools and maternities in rural villages that have no power. While conflicts break out over scarce fuelwood, there is no shortage of sunshine.

Visiting Villages
We visit many rural villages for various reasons (meetings, repairs, taking measurements). I soon recognize the routine:
We roll into a quiet, seemingly empty village. Children start emerging from mud huts and fields. News of our arrival travels fast and soon there is a crowd of youngsters around us. Timid at first, the throng closes in. Some yell, “Tu babou.” (You white person.) Others notice my camera and yell, “Photo-tak!” (Take a photo?) I comply and show them the picture on the digital screen. This is great entertainment and I just can’t take enough photos to please the crowd. Then everybody wants to hold my hand. Adults are now watching the scene from the periphery. Some even come up to shake my hand. I don’t know if I’m a celebrity or the paparazzi!
    In one village we find a wedding celebration. Three women play drums. Someone sings. Women dance. The occasion is alive with sound and color. Confusion ensues when I tell Omar (our driver, who knows very little English) that I like the music. He tells the lead woman that I want to sing, prompting her to announce to the crowd, “The white girl is going to sing!” The excited crowd turns their attention to me—what am I to do? Fortunately my dancing is enough to satisfy.
    In another village we make a repair on the solar power system in a maternity. We have brought beds for the maternity, because as I am shocked to find out, they have none. I’ve never given birth myself, but from what I’ve heard, it’s no picnic even in a modern hospital. I can’t imagine the discomforts of giving birth on a cement floor. Especially before the solar panels were installed, when women would give birth in the dark if the baby decided to come at night.
    It is amazing to consider the impact of a simple lightbulb. The school in Banco, where PSP installed solar panels, has seen incredible improvement in student achievement. Before the installation, about 6 of the 35 students would pass the national exam every year. After the installation, all 35 students passed the test. As Mali gets dark around 6pm, the lights increase the amount of time for study. Chores necessary for livelihood take precedence during daylight hours.

Week of Miscommunications
I was told that if I go to Mali, I must visit Dogon Country. I have no objections, as I remember learning about these fascinating people in an architectural history class. Mary will go later, so Kouyate (one of the Malian solar technicians) accompanies me.
    I’ve picked up a little French, and Kouyate knows a few words in English, so we figure we’ll get along fine. Seven hours down the road on a hot, crowded bus with windows that don’t open, we have our first major miscommunication. The police stop the bus to check national I.D.’s (and my passport). They call off names, and people start leaving the bus. Soon I realize that I’m the only person left on the bus. Confused, I watch some intense discussion outside the bus, and then a few people get back on. Kouyate is livid. “The policemen are BAD,” he cries. “Very, very bad. There is problem with the passport. We are going to the policeman’s house.” WHAT!?! I can’t believe it. Why didn’t I get the chance to defend myself? What is wrong with my passport, and more importantly, what is the ‘policeman’s house’? Are we going to jail? “We are going to the policeman’s house,” he repeats, “We sleep. In the morning we leave.” I try in vain to get more information about our predicament, as we drive on towards our fate. After drilling Kouyate for half an hour about the situation, I realize that Kouyate confuses ‘we’ with ‘they’. WE in fact have no problem. It is the people who got left outside the bus that are heading to jail, for what reason I don’t have the energy to decipher. I am just glad to be riding on a hot bus with windows that don’t open towards our destination.
    Dogon country is just as beautiful as claimed. I only learn very basic information, as Kouyate tried to save me money by hiring a guide who doesn’t speak English. (I think it would have been well worth the extra money to be able to understand what the man is saying, but my logic doesn’t seem to translate.) I do learn that the caves high up in the cliffs were inhabited thousands of years ago by very small people, and the dwellings below these cliffs are currently inhabited by the Dogon, a group that still practices Animist traditions. I don’t need a guide to tell me that they live a very hard life. I see women and children carrying buckets of water from the plains below up the steep rock to their village.

In Conclusion
My trip was nothing like I expected, but now that I’m back in New York I realize that was the beauty of it. Planning is overrated.

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