Letters From Mali: Language Lessons and Flying Canoes
Print this Page- By Shawn Davis
- Country: Mali
- Dates of Service: 1996–1998
Katibougou, Mali
November 14, 1996
My Peace Corps training in the West African nation of Mali passed in a flurry of activity—and countless hours of training in two of Mali's several languages, Bambara and Fulani.
The families of the nearby village of Katibougou, a predominantly Bambara community, hosted us for the first three months of training. In order for us to practice our Fulani, it was necessary from time to time to visit one of Katibougou's minority Fulani families. In the middle of a small millet field on the outskirts of town on a stormy Thursday evening, we once again found our way to our friend and tutor.
From the moment we arrived at Samba Diko's compound, the 60-year-old's smile remained stretched across his wrinkled face. We removed our shoes and took our places on the straw mats laid out on the bare dirt floor of the courtyard. This was actually the second time we had visited, and he immediately started quizzing me on the parts of the body he had taught me the week before. All I could remember was the left and right armpit because of the laughs it had raised when he chose this as the first body part to teach me. Unfortunately, I think he was a bit disappointed in my skills.
After dinner, Samba decided to tell one of his favorite cow-herder stories, which quickly surpassed our level of Fulani. Luckily our professor was there to translate each and every one of his daring feats.
He told of a time when he led his herd of more than 100 cattle on a two-and-a-half-month journey from Douentza, not far from Timbuktu in northern Mali, clear across Burkina Faso and into Ghana. Among other obstacles he faced, Samba and his herd had to cross the expansive Niger River. "If you ever get tired swimming across the river with your cows," he said, "just grab onto one of their tails and float."
"Is America close to Ghana?" he asked, swinging the conversation back toward me. I explained that, no, it was very, very far away. "Did you have to cross a river to get from America to Mali?" "Yes, I crossed a very, very big river," I responded in my rudimentary Fulani. "Did you swim across?" he asked sincerely. "No, I took a lana ndiwoka." Lana ndiwika is "airplane" in Fulani, or literally translated: flying canoe. He said he knew of them but didn't approve.
All of this talk of hard work had evidently made Samba thirsty, and he beckoned to one of his wives to bring the dessert—fresh, whole cow's milk. So that we wouldn't catch one of those wormy diseases, the milk had been boiled and was still steaming hot when we filled our cups. I was sipping it ever so slowly until Samba told me I could no longer drink my milk. He explained that you weren't supposed to sip, but down it in one gulp!
I mustered all of the bravado and machismo I possessed, and accompanied by the cheers of the Diko family and my fellow Volunteers, I chugged my cup of frothy, scalding hot milk.
I think my linguistic weakness was instantly forgiven in the eyes of old Samba, who burst out with a high-pitched, raspy "Paiiy!"—the highest exclamation of approval in Fulani, whose delivery is just as important as the word itself.
After yet another cup of milk, I said good night and headed down the narrow red-dust path, through the fields of 15-foot-high millet, to my own hut, bed, mosquito net, and a night full of warm-milk-induced dreams.
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