The Curse of Les Bleus

We have arrived in Toubaniso, our training center, and it is about as African as you would expect. I'd post some photos, but something is wrong my camera and the ability to take normal photos (the fault of Scott Russell, perhaps?). I share my hut with two other guys on my trip, and we all passed out in our mosquito nets around 230 with the humidity and sounds of Africa outside our screen door.

And why so late, you may wonder? It seems as though the problems that have affected the national soccer team of France has also affected the major air carrier of the same country . After a fairly uneventful and uncomfortable flight from New York (complete with crying baby and "traditional" airline food) we arrived at the Paris airport. A few notes on the Paris airport:

You do not need to take off your shoes to go through security (nor are they as "attentive" as TSA). The only currency exchange in our international terminal was closed, the only place for food was hard to find, and video game fanatics will be pleased to know there are video game stations at random intervals yet no place to get information about what is going on.

After choosing a nice spot on the ground under a row of chairs to pass out, I slept for a few hours until we were informed of our gate and time change. The entire group picked up our gear, walked to our new gate, and proceeded to go back to sleep on the ground. We then slept there until it was finally time to board the plane, two and half hours late with no explanation as to why.

Approaching the gate with what we thought was the plane, we were then instructed to exit down the stairs onto the tarmac, get onto a waiting bus, and were moved across the airport to another terminal, walked up another flight of stairs, and proceeded to load into a new plane the resembled the plane at the gate we had just left. All with no explanation. We left three hours late. Merci Les Bleus.

Flight was fine, got to Bamako, fought to get our luggage, and drove through the capital at night to get to the training center. As was apparent from what we were told, "Bamako is the capital of random ass statues."

We moved into our huts, had a brief snack with our trainers, learned how to use our left hand as toiled paper, and passed out. Happy Fourth of July, African style.