Weaponing up my life

Gun smith in Sevare

Den seneste uge, har jeg set flere våben, end jeg tilsammen har set i mit 26-årige liv. Det startede med et besøg hos FN’s fredsbevarende styrker, hvor jeg blev lukket ind i en isoleret hvid container, med deres nyeste våben sending. De er tungere end man lige tror sådan nogle shotguns og rifler. Lidt som havde man omformet en støbejerns pande til våben.

Det næste blev en lokal våbensmed i Sevare. Langs højre væg af det lille rum, med jordstamppet gulv, stod dusinvis af håndlavede rifler. Midt på gulvet sad en man og filede i den ene ende af et riffelløb, imens han holdt den anden ende fast mellem tærerne. Han tilbød mig at lave en specialdesignet riffel, men da jeg forsøgte at lade en af de fremviste rifler, konstaterede vi, at jeg i virkeligheden ikke var stærk nok til at have en riffel. Lidt en lettelse i virkeligheden.

Around Sevare

Min hud føles tynd og fin som pergament. Den tørrer aircondition luft gør huden tør og sprød. Det er det evigt tilbagevendende dilemma: vil jeg vågne dampende og klam, med svedig og fedtet hud, eller svalende og tilpas, men med pergament hud og begyndende hoste. Åh den riges mange dilemmaer i Afrika.

Jeg har nu været i Mali i en måned. Landet kryber sig langsomt ind under huden på mig. Gid det franske sprog gjorde det samme! Opløftende er det dog alligevel, at mit arabiske ikke virker til at have i sinde at forsvinde. Faktisk vil jeg vove at påstå, at mit arabiske er bedre end mit franske! Hvilket måske ikke er så overraskende, men alligevel kommer det bag på mig.

My colleague and me

My colleagues

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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I’ve seen more weapons the last week, than I have seen in my 26 years of life. It started out with a visit to the UN peacekeepers, where I was let into an isolated white container, with their newest weapon delivery. They are heavier than you might think those shotguns and rifles.

The next was a local gun smith in Sevare. Along the right wall of the small room, stood dozens of handmade rifles. A man sitting on the floor, in the middle of the room, was shaping one end of a rifle barrel, while he held the other end between his toes. He offered me to make a custom-made rifle, but when I tried one of the presented rifles, we found that I was actually not strong enough to have a rifle. Which was kind of a relief actually.

My skin feels thin and fine as parchment. The dry air-conditioned air makes my skin dry and crisp. It is the ever returning dilemma: do I want to wake up steamy and damp, with sweaty and oily skin, or soothing and comfortable, but with parchment skin and a starting cough. Oh the many dilemmas of the upperclass in Africa.

I have now been in Mali for a month. The country is slowly creeping under my skin. If only the French language did the same! It is however uplifting, that my Arabic language does not appear to have any plans to disappear. In fact I would almost claim that my Arabic is better than my French! Which is perhaps not so surprising, yet it surprises me.