i - How to Talk Donkey

"Ba! Ba! Ba!" goes the cry of three little boys flying past me as I make my way down the narrow dirt path to school. The oys, the oldest of which is probably no more than six, the youngest barely old enough to mouth the "Ba!" command of the other two, are riding on a two-wheeled cart harnessed to a donkey. Her offspring trots alongside in the brush. The cart hits a bump and its payload, a sack of mangoes, takes flight. The middle child sprawls out across the back, rescuing the fruit before it topples over the edge and is gone forever. A moment later, the cart rounds a bend and they're gone.



My morning commute to the collège in Cisséla could not be any more different from the two blocks I used to walk down Mt. Vernon Drive every day to get to school as a child. Approaching an aged patch of sidewalk, I would take special steps to avoid "stepping on a crack"; these days, special steps are taken to avoid unreasonably large piles of cow manure. I used to wait at the stoplight on Tremont Ave until it was safe to cross Tates Creek Road; now, I wait as I give a moto the right of way to cross the rickety wooden bridge spanning a dried-out ravine - I'm not overly confident in its ability to support the both of use at once. Just before I reach the school, I cross the only bit of asphalt within miles and miles of my village - it's the First National Road, running all the way from Conakry to Kankan, and it sees less traffic in a day than does the intersection of Tremont and Tates Creek from 8:00 to 8:05 in the morning.

The walk from my hut to the school is about a mile and a quarter (or roughly two kilometers for those progressive, metric-minded types), the first bit of which takes me through my compound and the heart of the village. The salutations commence as I remove the key from my front door and only taper off as I ascend the hill on the far side of the village. The women in my quarter are greeted with the standard Malinké, "i ni sooma," the men with the French, "Bonjour, vous avez bien dormi?" The village elder receives my handshake and occasionally allows me to carry his chair to the shady spot across the street as he slowly shuffles along behind.

As I mount the hill and leave the village, Woodland Terrace (or so I've dubbed it), the newest Cissélan suburb, comes into view. Previously devoid of inhabitants, this fertile stretch of land has sprouted ten new, thatched-roof, mud huts in the last month. Next on the builders' docket are a Chili's and a Starbucks, respectively. Only kidding. Probably just some more mud huts. From time to time, the brick makers and roof weavers will be out working and we'll exchange pleasantries as I pass through.

A few minutes further along the trail, I arrive at the aforementioned bridge which, upon arrival of the heavy rains, hopefully won't be washed away. Without the benefit of the bridge, the next closest route to the school is nearly three times as long. Also - don't ask me how the three little boys, two donkeys, and cart managed to negotiate the bridge. My best guess? Magic.

On the far side of the bridge, I'm treated to a walk through a wild mango grove before reaching the road and, finally, the school. The mango tree, one of the largest in the region, towers over its scrubby counterparts. In the offseason, it has the semblance of a soft, pillowy cloud. Upon arrival of the fruit at the end of the dry season, however, it shows its true willowy self: the mangoes droop from stems two and three feet long, giving the tree a sad (or should I go French on you and say... tree-ste?), weeping appearance. But look out! Those "tears" will drop and when those puppies are falling from 100ft (or 30m) at an acceleration of 32.2 feet per second per second (or 9,8 meters per second per second)... well, you don't have to do the math to know that'll leave a mark.

Having successfully traversed the mango mine field, I safely arrive at school. If the day is not yet screamingly hot, I can breath a sigh of relief, knowing the heavy sweating won't start until the walk home. But if it is already screamingly hot and I am already sweating profusely, well... who am I kidding? This is Africa! And that's exactly what happens every day. So I roll up my sleeves, wipe off my forehead, and move on with the day. Ba! Hunter, Ba!