Shita, age 7.
Shita is one of my host sisters. She insanely cute, always smiles huge when she comes home from school and sees me sitting with her mothers. She loves to wear my sunglasses and always carries my backpack wherever we go anywhere. We can't communicate that well, but this little girl has my back more than most and has made me smile quite a bit this past week.
As I might have mentioned before, there are a group of children that like to stand about 75 feet from where I sit at the entrance of my house and just stare. They don't talk, they don't even sit, just stand there and gawk. I'll smile, occasionally wave and sometimes even call them over in which they run for the high heavens. It was cute at first, now, it's more annoying. I'm their spectacle at the zoo and my family can now tell I've grown tired of their glares. Last week, Shita, was walking into the concession and saw them standing there. She started yelling at them, pointing at me, throwing words out like "our family", "go away", and "stop looking." The boys, a couple years older than her, started laughing and completely ignored her. She pouted, looked at me in which I was smiling adoringly at her for her efforts, smiled a devilish grin back, picked up a couple little pebbles and pelted the kids. They ran and she followed them with stones all the way down the road screaming the whole way. The kids haven't been back since and my host moms praised her when she came back and she even got an extra sardine for dinner that night. I laughed so hard my stomach hurt.
A couple days ago, I was walking home from the school and saw Shita along the way. She instantly ran up to me, grabbed my backpack and we set off on the road home. We were making small talk, as I don't understand Maniakan (her first language) and she doesn't understand Bambara (the language I pathetically try to speak). The conversation went like this:
Me: So, Shita, how old are you? 20? 30? (which as a side note, is not as funny in Mali as it is to American children)
Shita: No.
Me: Oh. So how old are you?
Shita (casually): I don't know.
Me: Does your mom know?
Shita: Nope!
Me: Well, I think we should give you an age.
Shita: I want to be your age.
Me: No. Let's give you seven years.
Shita: Yes, I like the number seven. I am seven years old.
She smiled at me, grabbed my hand and I walked home with my seven year old sister.
Last week, at about 3:30a, I woke up with a start because it sounded like a flock of birds were pecking at my tin roof. It was loud, it was annoying, and left me laying in fear thinking the apocalypse was happening. After a few minutes of panic, I ventured outside to witness the end of the world. Then, it hit me. Literally. The rain hit my face and here I was, in the middle of a month that hasn't seen more than .05 mm of rainfall total in over 3 decades, enjoying a short rainfall. So I did what I thought was appropriate in my moment of fear. I ran back into the house, closed all the windows, lept into bed, tucked my mosquito net in and waited for the world to end. Apparently, I overreacted.
Off to village tomorrow, will be back next week with some more stories hopefully.
Peace, Love, Mali.
As I might have mentioned before, there are a group of children that like to stand about 75 feet from where I sit at the entrance of my house and just stare. They don't talk, they don't even sit, just stand there and gawk. I'll smile, occasionally wave and sometimes even call them over in which they run for the high heavens. It was cute at first, now, it's more annoying. I'm their spectacle at the zoo and my family can now tell I've grown tired of their glares. Last week, Shita, was walking into the concession and saw them standing there. She started yelling at them, pointing at me, throwing words out like "our family", "go away", and "stop looking." The boys, a couple years older than her, started laughing and completely ignored her. She pouted, looked at me in which I was smiling adoringly at her for her efforts, smiled a devilish grin back, picked up a couple little pebbles and pelted the kids. They ran and she followed them with stones all the way down the road screaming the whole way. The kids haven't been back since and my host moms praised her when she came back and she even got an extra sardine for dinner that night. I laughed so hard my stomach hurt.
A couple days ago, I was walking home from the school and saw Shita along the way. She instantly ran up to me, grabbed my backpack and we set off on the road home. We were making small talk, as I don't understand Maniakan (her first language) and she doesn't understand Bambara (the language I pathetically try to speak). The conversation went like this:
Me: So, Shita, how old are you? 20? 30? (which as a side note, is not as funny in Mali as it is to American children)
Shita: No.
Me: Oh. So how old are you?
Shita (casually): I don't know.
Me: Does your mom know?
Shita: Nope!
Me: Well, I think we should give you an age.
Shita: I want to be your age.
Me: No. Let's give you seven years.
Shita: Yes, I like the number seven. I am seven years old.
She smiled at me, grabbed my hand and I walked home with my seven year old sister.
Last week, at about 3:30a, I woke up with a start because it sounded like a flock of birds were pecking at my tin roof. It was loud, it was annoying, and left me laying in fear thinking the apocalypse was happening. After a few minutes of panic, I ventured outside to witness the end of the world. Then, it hit me. Literally. The rain hit my face and here I was, in the middle of a month that hasn't seen more than .05 mm of rainfall total in over 3 decades, enjoying a short rainfall. So I did what I thought was appropriate in my moment of fear. I ran back into the house, closed all the windows, lept into bed, tucked my mosquito net in and waited for the world to end. Apparently, I overreacted.
Off to village tomorrow, will be back next week with some more stories hopefully.
Peace, Love, Mali.
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