As I wash my face and watch the water run down the drain, tinted brown by the relentless Malian dirt, I cannot help but ask myself if I could survive in a place like this. The dirt constantly seeps into your pores and the sweltering heat makes you long to do nothing, but still Malians work to make a living and put food on the table, whatever that table may be. I have seen men pushing carts through the streets loaded with everything from bottles of drinks, to potatoes, to rebar, women carrying products on their heads from eggs to gasoline and babies on their backs, children begging at every stopped vehicle or trying to sell some trinket, phone card, or box of tissues. I hear sirens blaring, car horns honking, and an endless din of voices of all types, but, in the midst of all this I see the bright colors of "buobuos", soccer games in dirt lots, smiling faces as friends tell jokes. I hear radios blaring tunes from as far away as the US and Nelly to as close to home as local musicians. There is dancing in the streets and laughter in the air. Malians might not have material things, but they do have democracy and above all, they have hope. I guess everything is just a matter of perspective.
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