Tuesday I drove myself and another Geekcorps volunteer to Koulikoro. We were going to Radio Jamana Koulikoro to set up a new digital studio-editing system, train the station staff on its use, and get some photos of Geekcorps in action.

It was my first time driving out of Bamako. Of course I've been out of Bamako several times, but someone else has always been doing the driving. I was a bit nervous. The roads are narrow, just wide enough for two vehicles, and have no painted median; the edges of the pavement are irregular, and there is often a dropoff of several inches between the road and the dirt shoulder. People drive quite fast, especially the big trucks, which are frequently overloaded.

Luckily there wasn't much traffic, and it felt great to get out of town and see some wide open spaces. The 50 km trip flew by in long stretches of mango orchards, broken up by small villages where women sat in the shade of trees along the street, selling fruit and vegetables. As we slowed down for the speed bumps they would holler at us to come look at their papayas and mangoes.

In between towns, I saw herds of cattle kicking up clouds of dust. Remember how I said my English is going to hell as a result of learning French? I couldn't remember the word for the young cattle -- you know, calves. "Look at all the cows and ... cowlettes!" I said to myself.

Koulikoro is a funny little town. It's crowded along a main strip of gudron (paved road), with narrow side streets leading down to the river on the right, and narrow side streets leading up into the hills on the left. It's just on this side of a big dam, so many trucks pick up goods from the river in Koulikoro and take them to Bamako.

Of course, we didn't get started working right away. After we unloaded the equipment from the car, we had to take Josh's bags to the hotel, so we hopped on the back of two motos and putted off down main street. (Another first: My first moto ride in Mali.) At the hotel, we sat and drank Cokes in the shade and joked with each other about our names, as is customary. Josh's Bambara name is Diallo, and on the spot he decided to introduce me as Dolo -- a Dogon name. This provided no end of hilarious jokes, because Dogons are short. Get it? It's funny because I'm short too. For the rest of the day I was "kadomuso," Dogon woman. "Hey, kadomuso, can you pound some millet for us?" Ha ha ha!

I hadn't heard the short-Dogon thing before yesterday, but I had heard the two other standards of the cousinage de blague (joking cousins) in Mali: Slaves and bean-eaters. I.e., "your people were the slaves of my people, so you're my slave!" and "your people eat lots of beans!" The bean-eating joke has been pared down to its purest essence, my husband notes; a backstory is no longer necessary. One can just say, "Beans," and have everyone laughing.

Anyway, the Dogon thing was funny because Dogons are short! And I'm short! Get it?

Radio Jamana Koulikoro:

One of many narrow alleys leading to the river; the door on the right is the entry to the radio station.

View from the station window:

At our midday pause, we walked down to the famous Koulikoro beach with the director. The river is extremely low in the dry season. In the rainy season, this terrain will flood. You can pay 50 CFA to be ferried to the other side.

Koulikoro has a big business in sand.

In the hot season, flame trees start blooming. This picture doesn't do justice to the brilliant-orange blossoms, which really do look as if they are burning.

Old colonial building of the Office du Niger, which coordinated rice and cotton agriculture.

The town seemed strangely empty compared to Bamako.

We got a tour of an old boat that used to cruise up to Timbuktu; now it is sometimes used as a nightclub.

The man on the right is the boat's guard. He's using that small pole to fish in the space between the dock and the boat.

The cockpit (is that what you call that part of a boat?).

After our tour we went to the station director's house for lunch. (He'd invited us several times; several times I'd declined as politely as I could, explaining that I was, unfortunately, pressee and had to leave town; in the end he trumped my refusals by simply leading us back to his house and having his wife serve us. At that point there was no way to politely refuse.)

It was a typical Malian house, if a bit roomy, and wired for electricity. Made out of mud bricks, it had no front door, just an opening onto the street. In what a small covered room at the front, what we might call the foyer, the director's moto was parked. Behind that was an open courtyard where his wife cooked and did the washing. Behind that was the main part of the house, two small mud-brick rooms separated by curtains. We took off our shoes and went into the first room. It was cool and quiet and shady; an electric fan gave a nice breeze. On the walls were a few small family photos.

The director's wife brought our lunch -- rice and sauce -- in serving bowls. She also brought individual bowls and spoons, special for us non-African guests. (Malians eat from a communal bowl with their hands.) We drank from a communal aluminum cup of water and, later, Cokes from glass bottles. (Again, special for the guests.) For dessert we ate juicy slices of papaya.

At last I really had to leave. The drive back was much, much hotter than the morning ride. By the time I reached Bamako I was frazzled and exhausted, but I met a friend at a new patisserie, washed my face and brushed my hair, and let the sweet tea and cookies make me feel like myself again.