The color of the turban I chose reflects the naivety I possessed regarding the situation.

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When I was first asked to accompany the second team to the North-East desert region of Mali (500 km PAST Timbuktu), I was thrilled.  Sure, I had read about the State department warnings of the region insinuating Al Qaeda activity, and also was privy to many stories of NGO car high-jackings through the expat grapevine in Bamako.  Just months ago, I forwarded a BBC story about four French tourists being taken hostage in the area to my Peace Corps friends, and yet, despite all this, I leaped with both feet forward without thinking, thrilled at the possibility of exploring and working in the desert abyss.
Just as naïve as I had been when I joined the Peace Corps 5 years ago in Senegal, when I packed white sundresses hoping to look like Kim Basinger from “Out of Africa,” this time I chose a white turban to wear out in the desert, subconsciously hoping to reenact scenes from “Lawrence of Arabia”.  I should have known that within minutes of entering the desert winds, my turban would turn the color of the Sahara.
Furthermore, there were several red flags just days preceding the trip.   My supervisor decided to leave our NGO car at the military base in the nearest town for protection, instead renting an old crickety SUV for the desert to pass by unnoticed by the “bandits.”
All wrapped up like a mummy, I dove into the desert Sunday morning immediately tackling sand dunes, dust storms, and extreme heat within minutes.  Our destination was a village that would take 5 hours to get too, given we were riding over sand dunes rather than paved roads.  We stopped at a village two hours in, to relax and eat, when the situation turned for the worse.  We were stopped by  the mayor who alerted our team that they should leave me there.  It was unsafe for me to go any further given recent reports of a car jacking nearby and my visibility and attraction as a foreign hostage.
A split decision was made, and I was told that I was going to stay in the village on my own for four days, at a friend’s home, while the rest of the team went on.   Before they left in a flurry, my colleague looked at me with eyes wide open and whispered in English, “Don’t go anywhere. Stay in this compound.  We’ll be back in four days.  Be careful.”
Fear finally struck me.  And with that fear, came action (also known as adrenaline).  Within minutes of the team leaving, I was on the phone (Thank God there was one in town) with staff in Bamako.  With visions of what could happen to me the following four days, I could not risk my safety an longer.  Normally, very laid back and easy going, this time I insisted on hiring a vehicle to come get me, ASAP, whatever the cost.
When the driver arrived 10 hours later, he looked at me and told me to put on long sleeves and to wrap my turban around my head….he was not kidding around.  No signs of my white skin were to be exposed.
So hear I am evacuated to the nearest town, safe and sound, breathing a HUGE sigh of relief that I am out of harm’s way.
In other news, I have SO much to write about, I don’t even know how to begin.  I have had the most amazing three weeks of work of my entire life.  I am still trying to sort out the photos, the days, the villages, the stories, and the messages that I took from this field experience.  When I get back home this weekend, I promise to begin writing.  One thing is for sure, I have definitely seen the real Mali, the good and the bad.