Maybe you missed me?

I'm back! Actually, I could have written a post on March 5th and not let even one post-less day pass, but I was too busy throwing confetti into a fan. And I could have written yesterday, except not really because after a day of traveling the most I can say or write is "blebleblah," which is a word I know how to say in Pulaar. Or used to know, until I forgot. I've written it down somewhere.

Unfortunately, I've got lots of other important computer-related tasks I should be accomplishing before I write any more here, so this is more of a hello, goodbye.

Interesting possible-fact:

There are a ton of varieties of Pulaar, some so different from each other that one Fula can't understand another. That is not the possible-fact, that is an actual fact. I will get to the possible fact later. These varieties are annoying because someone will ask me "where are you from?" and I'll have no clue that's what they're asking and I'll slump my shoulders and agree that yes, I don't hear Pulaar yet.

Anyway, so another volunteer's host dad was talking about these different Pulaars and how even the words for mother and father are different, which is interesting because in the anthropology textbook I've been reading (please, keep your judgements to yourself...I wish I could blame the limited selection of books at the school's library, but...I'm just the sort of kid who reads textbooks in her spare time) it says that similarity in the names for family members and body parts are how you can identify the similarity in origins between languages. But "neene" and "daa" sound nothing alike, and those are just two of the different words for mother.

However, and this is the possible-fact because it is only according to someone's host dad, who is an actual Fula but not a researcher of the Fulas, the several words for milk (fresh, soured, etc) and the word for "cow," are exactly the same among all the different varieties of Pulaar. So I could go to Burkina Faso and find a Fula, who I would recognize by all of the cattle roaming around him, and although I would not be able to ask where his mother is or how his father is doing, I could talk about cows.

I find this absolutely fascinating, and I only wish I knew for certain it was true.

Textbooks!

I love reading the front covers of old textbooks, the part where students fill in their name, year, and the book's condition. I like to read the names and imagine where the people are now, what they did with their lives, whether or not they remember their middle school pre-algebra class. But mostly I just like reading the names.

Holt Pre-Algebra © 1986: Mount Logan Middle School

875 North, 200 East
Logan, Utah 84321

801 752-4755

Book No. 10

Issued to:                      Year Used:                            Condition
                                                                          Issued      Returned

Leslee Gorn                    1985                            New           Fair

Kimberly Holdaway           87                               Fair           Fair

Shane Harris                   87-88                           good           Fair

Brock Hansen                 88-89                           Fair           crappy

Sarah Johnson                90-91                            fair             Poor

Trina DeSpain                91-92                           Poor            Poor

Lyrtis Earl                      92-93                          Bad             Worse



Also, according to another algebra book that I found, Modern Elementary Algebra, “Steve Smith stinks”

Not really a poem

The following is going to look like a poem because I've separated short phrases by lines. However, this is because it looks prettier than connecting them with a series of commas and/or semi-colons. This non-poem is attempting to describe the scene at my compound several weeks ago (but only last week at the time I originally typed this up) when the sun had just set and everyone but me was moving around each other, but absorbed in individual tasks.

Sellu halfway finished praying

Amadou swinging a basket of coals

Fatou strapping Musa to her back

Hawa breast-feeding Sarjo

Bubacarr fetching water

Neene tying up the goats

And Rugi on her back, balancing a dalasi on her lips.

Two uses for socks

Fatou is preparing to apply henna to my foot, which is a gloopy, Play-Do-ish texture that's smeared on the skin and left there for several hours.

Fatou: Binta, bring the tape and the kawasi.

Me: I do not know kawasi.

Fatou, pausing to think how to explain: …When you play football, you put on kawasi and shoes.

Socks!