Men. Ugh.

If Peace Corps has taught me anything, it is not to generalize. MOST Malian men I can’t stand. SOME however are my good friends. And I have learned to deal with harassment by joking right back. The pharmacist (I have two nasty ear infections) was hitting on me saying we should talk. As I was standing in front of the pharmacy, a young road worker grabbed my arm and so I yelled after him “He! Wo manna boori!” The men sitting around actually agreed with me that this sort of conduct is unacceptable. The Pharmacist goes, yes, you see I didn’t even shake your hand. But then when goes to give me my change, it was short 40F. “Won’t you come back for it?” Ha. Abada! At the hospital I was working on the chart of systematic treatments amidst "Competent" (radio animator) singing love songs to me and the Chef asking if I’d go to the alfaga so I can marry a koyraboro. "Or is it that you don’t like black people?" Gah. The sarcastic “Yes, I’m so racist I decided to work in Africa for three years” is usually lost on them—but I did get a good laugh outta me slyly implying I have a koyraboro I like. The Chef goes, “Well yeah, you already tie a musor on your head.” To which I respond, “Ay si tuubi wullah!” But I won’t be converting!

Dijo actually came to help with baby weighing this morning. No new malnourished cases (I know they exist they just don’t come to the hospital). I burned my beans for dinner and was frustrated the Sudafed and other components of my drug cocktail kept me awake.