Scorpions, Snakes, and Dogs, Oh My!

Before we left for Mali, we were told that the most deadly creatures around were scorpions, snakes and wild dogs. After I heard this, it became a goal of mine to see each. I wasn't disappointed. I saw two scorpions, a snake, and probably too many wild dogs to count.

The first time I ran into a scorpion, I was working in the fields and I hit it with my tool by accident. I guess it was under the ground, and I dug it out. It wasn't injured and I was right inside it's sting-range. I moved before it did, and a second swing of my tool cut it in two. Second time, I was with my host family, on my last night in Karadie. We were sitting by the fire, going over memories, when a scorpion ran into the middle of us. All of a sudden, everyone was jumping to their feet, running around, screaming, grabbing the closest, longest object they could use as a weapon. This scorpion was smaller and faster than the other one I saw, and it ran for cover. My family went on a hunt for it, but I didn't they'd be able to catch it. Somehow they managed it, though.

The only snake I ever saw was just lying in the sun, next to the road. I don't even know if it was alive, and if it was, whether or not it was dangerous. It was way larger than snakes in Canada, but apparently, there are certain types of snakes in Mali that are dangerous, and some that aren't.

As far as wild dogs go... There were a lot of dogs. I walked between Karadie and Sirakorola regularly, and I would frequently walk by dogs in the middle of nowhere. I didn't stop and ask them if they had an owner, but I'm guessing they didn't.

They don't name their dogs or cats, in Mali. They're treated like barnyard animals. They have functions, they aren't pets, and they don't need names. There was one man, though, who got on real well with the dogs. He'd play with them and interact with them in ways very similar to how us Canadians would. I remember, when we first met him, he approached us while we were working. Many of the Canadians were feeling kind of put-off by the treatment of animals, specifically dogs, in Karadie, and when this guy showed up it was like a breath of fresh air to them.

To them, it seemed as though they had run into the first sane person since arriving in the village, but little did we know at the time, the village considered him insane.

Kind of funny, if you think about it. If you believe in something because it's the norm of your culture, you will always be considered sane, but if you believe in something because it's a personal value, whether or not you're sane depends on if your culture agrees with that value. A shifting reality is seen more in those that are considered sane.

When I came back from Africa, I had massive digestive difficulties from eating Canadian food. I didn't think I ever managed to adapt to the Malian food... It was always one of the most difficult challenges for me, and as time moved on, I could stomach the food less and less. My appetite was constantly diminishing, and food that before had been delicacies by comparison were losing their appeal to me. I was one of the only Canadians to be served French fries on a regular basis, and I was held in deep envy by many, but by the end of the program, oftentimes I couldn't finish a plate of them. When me and the family were reflecting on what we had learned from each other, my host father said that he had learned that "Canadians don't eat much".

And that speaks volumes. The Malians don't eat much, and it's not really a quantitative problem. They just don't need it. The Malians in the group regularly couldn't put down a full Canadian meal. I was eating considerably less than a Malian. And I was forcing every bite. I was never hungry. I stopped eating when I knew that I would vomit from taking another bite.

I had a lot to lose by leaving Mali, but every time I ate, I used that experience as a motivator to look forward to coming back to Canada.

The first time I ate food similar to what I'd have in Canada, I was actually still in Mali. I was at the hospital in Bamako, getting checked for Malaria (I was showing some symptoms, but they didn't turn out to be from Malaria) and afterward, we went to a restaurant that sold food for tourists (much of the time, locals can't afford to go to the hospital, so they target tourists in the hospital area). Most of the Canadians couldn't finish their plates, but upon the taste of North American style food, my appetite completely resurfaced, and between me and this other guy, we ate all of whatever the other's couldn't. Next day, the two of us were both down with food poisoning.

We thought the cause was bad food, but now that I have more perspective, I'm going to say that maybe our bodies just were no longer capable of handling food like that. I think this because, I had, and still am slightly, suffering side effects to the food I'm eating now which are similar to the side effects of the food I ate at the restaurant.

So, by the end of the program, I was in a weird limbo state, where my body could not handle Mali food, and it could not handle Canadian food, either.

The pain it caused me didn't stop my appetite from resurfacing, though. Even when I was suffering from food poisoning in Mali, I said that, had I the option to turn back time and not eat that food, I would still do it. The brief happiness I experienced from eating it was worth the pain of the day after.

Of course, as it usually turns out, contentment of the soul trumps contentment of the body. The day I left my host family, I cried like a baby. I remember thinking, "I would eat all the rice in the world for them".

I had linked the difference in quality of food so inseparably in my mind as a difference between Mali and Canada, that for a little while after returning to Canada, I would think, "Wow, this food is so great! It's so much better than that disgusting food I would eat... with my... family!!!!"

And then I would want to cry again. I wanted to be back with my host family, eating toh or rice, not eating fine Canadian cuisine.

I have developed an ability to tell the difference in quality of rice. Before, rice was rice to me, but after eating the Karadie rice for three months, going through Bamako and eating the rice there, I was like "Oh my god, this rice is incredible!" Still wouldn't eat any kind of rice voluntarily now, though.

Water goes through my system so fast now, too. I remember, when I first arrived in Karadie, I didn't pee for two days, because all the water I was drinking would come out of my system as sweat. When I finally went, it was out of a sense of worry, rather than need, and what came out was tiny trickle of bright yellow water. Similarly, I went three days before going number two, and what came out there was bright yellow, and the size and consistency of a billiard's ball. I remember thinking at the time "This isn't survival, it's just dying". Somehow, though, I did manage to survive.

All the Canadians had a huge complex about having water with them at all times, even at night, and in cold season, and cold season nights were COLD. The Malians figured the heat was making us sweat out our moisture, which caused us to drink more water, so when we were bundled up in our blankets by the fire, with our 1.5 litre water bottles in hand, they were confused as to why we still needed to drink that much.

And the reason was because, even if you weren't sweating, the air was so dry that it felt like dehydration was a substance in and of itself, that you took in with every breath. Nowadays, I just love breathing. Every breath is just such a delight that I completely overlooked before I went on my trip.

But now I feel like a wet sponge. My body's so used to retaining liquid, and maybe I'm still drinking more water than I should because I have a complex about it. I feel like I'm going to the bathroom every hour and putting out my daily average in Mali.