GO FEEDBACK:Patricia Mulkeen from Sligo had an unforgettable three weeks teaching English in the west African country
SLEEK businessmen with shiny pates, little girls with curly plaits and women in exquisitely tailored two-pieces and headpieces board the flight in Paris. With more than a little trepidation I board, too. Five hours later we all emerge, somewhat scruffy but all the more excited at having arrived in balmy Bamako, in Mali.
I am here for three weeks of development work, helping guides in the Pays Dogon of Mali improve their English. The night air kisses each passenger a welcome as we descend the steps of the aircraft. That's before the mosquitoes begin hovering in anticipation of fresh blood.
The following morning my colleague, friend and indispensable guide, Dao, backpack hoisted heroically on his shoulders like an African Atlas, steps confidently towards the bus that is to take us on an eight-hour trip up-country to Sévaré. The first rains of the day swamp muddy potholed streets.
We are joined on the bus by a beturbaned and bespectacled Tuareg, a skullcapped sage, a gaggle of riotously attired women with babies on their backs, and a young executive. Three young men on a shaky platform try to heave a motorbike on to the storage area on the roof of the bus.
The bus finally pulls away, minus the motorbike, and an amicable atmosphere develops. Buns, mangoes, peanuts, soft drinks, bush raisins, boiled eggs and bananas are passed down the aisle over buckets and bags as the bus lumbers along.
What we thought would be an eight-hour trip ends up taking 12. We arrive in Sévaré and I lie exhausted in my room, images of the day whirring in my brain like a mosquito on speed. And, yes, they seem to have followed me here from Bamako, gathering in numbers as they went.
The next day I head to Mali's ancient heart, the Pays Dogon, accompanied by Dao. The advantages of clan life become apparent as he calls on cousins and uncles from all quarters to help us reach Sangha, our final destination, where I will spend 10 days teaching.
I am warmly greeted by Séku Dolo, chief guide and expert on Dogon culture and society. He draws forth a bottle of Irish whiskey, and we drink to the success of our impending teaching. In what we all feel is an auspicious start, I teach them the Irish toast Sláinte and they teach me Ouee.
Over the coming days the timeless pace of village life slows me down as each evening I partake of a beer in Dao and Séku's company. A path passes in front of where we sit. The old sage, hoe slung over his shoulders, returns from his millet fields, young girls, already practised in the elegant gait and poise of all African women, regally carry water or wood homewards on their heads, supermodels all. Young men are anxiously cool and modern in their sunglasses yet mindful to engage with all, never omitting the traditional greeting on even the most casual meeting.
The Dogon show the greatest courtesy, graciousness and civility in all their encounters. A prolonged greeting accompanies all social encounters. I learn this ritual greeting by heart and practise it daily with the guides, to their delight, and am delighted myself when, on meeting elders in the village, I am able to surprise them with my few words.
Dao has taught himself English but, until our classes, had never read or written English. I ruminate on our western preoccupation with the written word.
It isn't all work, of course. One day we embark on a hike across the plateau to view caves. Some of the oldest artefacts, pottery shards and textile remnants in all of Africa have been found here.
Traditional Dogon society counts a five-day week, one for each market day. The largest market takes place in Sangha, and, once again, considerate Dao takes me along.
We also take time to visit Ireli, a Unesco World Heritage site that is among the prettiest of Dogon villages. A kind donation by my parents of medical supplies for the local clinic is greeted with an invitation to a thank-you ceremony by the village chief.
Two weeks later I am back on the brave but battered bus to Bamako. As its jostle and rumble take me closer to leaving, a little chip off my soul lands somewhere, I don't know where, in this red-earth land.
I will miss Mali and the Pays Dogon and all it has laid out before me like a cultural banquet.
When I see my father I will think of the sages of Sangha, a fox on the night road will remind me of faith in the future, my mother's laughter with her friends an echo of the indomitable Dogon women. The caves of my mind will store always these memories of Mali, magnificent Mali.
Go there:Air France (www.airfrance. ie) flies from Dublin to Bamako via Paris.