From the back of a truck

Including me and Jennifer, there are 23 people crammed into a covered pick-up truck making its way between the village of Sevare and Mopti in the center of Mali.

Thank goodness it’s only seven miles until we get off. We’re both squished on a hard wooden seat that lines the perimeter of the truck. Jennifer is practically sitting on an old man’s lap. The floor has one layer of tightly packed bags of something or other and the spare tire is in the middle of it all.

There’s a pantless baby boy sitting on his mother’s lap, who almost starts to cry when I smile at him. He is wearing a t-shirt and around his waist is a leather band studded with conch shells. I just don’t understand why his mother’s lap isn’t stained yellow. In fact, how does everyone stay so clean for the most part, but I’m drenched with sweat and my feet are about the same color as those around me.

Speaking of color, the tin can we’re in has so much of it. “I feel like we live in such a khaki world,” says Jennifer. “This country is all about color.”

The women wear brightly colored batik prints with matching headscarves. We admire their jewlery: beaded earrings, silver rings and stripped or patterned bangles. There’s a man with a long robe and a pointed hat that gives him a way as Fulani.

I’ve been reading National Geographic for years, seeing pictures of people that look that this on its pages. And for the low, low price of 60 cents (the cost of this ride in this shared taxi), I am rubbing shoulders with them–literally.

If it weren’t so freaking hot, it would be awesome.