Peace on Earth

So I finally pulled out my Christmas tunes on the old ipod .(Correction- new ipod, thanks to Uncle Jeff). If I was back in the states, I would have been listening to these for weeks now, taking time in the afternoon to brush up on the piano so that Grandpa’s version of “silent night” would ring loud and clear on Christmas night. I’m someone who lives for the Christmas spirit, but this year, I’ve been in denial a bit. I can wake up in the morning, not wanting to get out of bed because all I am thinking about is what our Christmas tree looks like this year, the smiling faces of my family, and how this will be the first year in my life that I will not curl up on the couch with my family before going to bed on Christmas eve to read aloud our ancient, heirloom book, “The night before Christmas”. I’m missing them, I’m missing all of you, and lately, I’ve really been missing my grandmother, “Nanie,” who is still present in all of my Christmas memories of childhood.
But then eventually, I get out of bed, go for a run, eat my porriage and arrive at work. I greet Irene, my fun-loving co-worker and friend Sali, my supervisor, Kassoum, and all the sick folks. I hang out with Irene as she gets ready, late as always. I play with her son, Noelle, who’s first birthday is coming this Christmas. He can almost say my name now (it comes out as “Tata”). I weigh pregnant women or some of the most adorable babies I’ve ever seen with their little winter caps. I ride my bike out into the villages to find lost patients. I rejoice when the mother of a severely malnourished child made the 23 kilometer journey to seek help in our office. After discovering that the child was not only malnourished, but dangerously dehydrated, I showed her how to make homemade Oral rehydration solution, which the child eagerly drank, much to the mother’s delight. And suddenly, I’m not thinking about Christmas anymore. It’s still summer isn’t it? The world I left has stopped for me. I’m distracted by the life I love here. And at night, after my run with Shaka, my dinner of macaroni or potatoes, my warm bucket bath, I almost fear going back into my hut alone, letting myself remember Christmas and everything back home.

But tonight, I’ve faced it. The Christmas carols are playing. I’m singing here, alone in my hut. And I’ve realized that I never really forgot the season after all. I feel myself there with you all, but even more so, I feel you all here with me. The love that you have for me, is never ever forgotten. It never leaves my heart. I want you all to remember that. Even if you don’t hear from me for a long time, we are still connected. Distance is abolished at Christmastime- we are all close right now- to each other and to Bethlehem. So why be alone? Night has fallen. I take out my guitar, and greet my sidekicks, who have proudly crafted a drum out of an old gorge and some animal skin. I teach them how to sing jingle bells- which with their limited English, was almost too hysterical for me to handle. I’m not alone here. I’m not outside of the loving care of a family.

So to answer Bandaid’s age old question “Do they know it’s Christmas time at all?”, the answer is, yes. They know. And in my village, the Christians and the Muslims celebrate it side by side. The zylophones will play just like on Tabaski, we’ll eat meat but this time- pig. As far as the spirit of giving- everyone here gives everything they have to their neighbors anyway, that there really is no difference. An NGO came to the village yesterday, as close as we are going to get to Santa Claus. They had come last year, to take pictures of the children, promising them gifts. Dozens of kids walked away with new sneakers. Beautiful Nike sneakers, all of them as big as boats. The surplus sizes that no one in the Western world wants anymore. I don’t even think Zach Scott could fit in them. So the past couple of days everyone has been trying to figure out what to do with the dozens of humungous shoes we have acquired.

I asked Denise, my homologue’s 5 year old ward, about Christmas. She is very excited because she just got her hair braided and she is traveling to Kati to see her mother. I asked her what she wanted for Christmas- the concept of getting gifts was foreign to her. She thought really hard and then her eyes lighted up as she told me “I want a piece of candy!” Similarly, my Christian neighbor, Dalfin, asked me for a packet of macaroni and some powdered milk. Now I didn’t come here to be Santa Clause- to just give stuff away and most of the villagers think. I sigh because I see how dependent they are- how they have this idea in their minds that their lives will never improve until some white person in a big NGO car comes to change things. I’m the first volunteer, but I’m not the first person to try to help Dombila. But I am not here to help Dombila as a village, I’m here to help the people of Dombila. And maybe one day, they will have the self-initiative, the understanding, and the pride in themselves to improve their village for the sake of their health, and that of the future generations. And many are working so hard to do this too. But many, many have given up on so many things.
So yeah, it’s been a little hard lately. But I knew the hard times were coming. I’m in limbo where I’m ready to do something, but can’t really effectively do it until after my month of training in Bamako in January. I still am having a great time in village, but especially with Christmas coming up, I feel like my ability to give right now is completely absent. Dad, I hope you don’t mind, but I want to share with everyone what you wrote to me, because it made all the difference.

“ It will never be easy. it will be lots of fun at times, sometimes sad and lonely, sometimes totally amazing.
But most often it is hard in someway. The easy times are for regeneration and centering. The hard times are for growth and learning and achieving. God has a way of preparing us for the hard and it that success that we feel full-filled from. When things don't go well, look elsewhere for opportunity. As I said on the phone, nurture relationships not just accomplishments. That is an investment that will never stop paying dividends. Even if you don't feel the connection or appreciation coming back, it is something that you can always give. And is that what it really about. Especially around this holiday, find hope and spread hope through others. December 25th comes with the same message of love no matter where you are on this globe.”

And I think that says it all. I’ve learned such a lesson about giving this Christmas. It’s not about driving a truck with surplus Nike shoes, throwing them at kids and driving away. It’s not about proving yourself, that you can change the world. It’s about the smile on your face, the time you take to sit down with your neighbor, the respect you show for the people around you. And don't any of you worry a second about me- I've got a great pig roast in a little Christian village with all of my Peace Corps friends to look forward to. My friends, all I can give you this Christmas is all my love. With all the love you’ve given me, I just pray you will understand it is right back at you. From all your friends here and the other forgotten corners of the world- Merry Christmas.

A baby on my back

So I have a baby. Her name is Fatima and I made her out of cardboard. She has two heads- one is a skinny crying face, the other is a big fat-cheeked smily one. My homologue and I were to do a skit about child weaning. Her chubby baby, Noelle, is the poster child for our program. And I’m the bad mother who let her child get malnourished. To prepare, I’ve been walking around village for the past few days, carrying this cardboard baby on my back just like the Malian women. It’s sick, sad face draws a playful concern from my neighbors. I take it to the doctor’s office, and the pharmasit refuses to give it medicine because she says its too ugly. I wait with the mothers for baby weighing, and they ask me who the father is. They laugh and scold me because my baby isn’t even 1 kilo. My neighbors even made an afternoon visit to the doctor’s office- we heard your baby’s sick, we came to give it blessings. So they begin the traditions “May God lessen the pain.” Amiina. “May god make it eaiser.” Amiina. “May God banish the sickness completely.” Amiina. I travel the village, they point and laugh at my back, and I tell them I am taking my baby to the doctor’s office to enroll him in the malnutrition program, and donni, donni, I begin to explain what we do there. I return home, and the neighbors see my baby’s cardboard leg is broken and give more blessings. After they are done, I am supposed to say, “May God answer these prayers.” Amiina. Then Shaka appears from behind his house. “Aminata!” Yes? “May God strike your baby dead!” “Shaka! May God strike you dead! May he send snakes to bite your feet so you can’t run” “Aminata- may God give you ugly babies, uglier than this one.” And so it started. I love how at this point, my Bambara is good enough where I can really rip on people, and understand when they rip on me. It’s true, Malians do two things better than anyone else in the world- drink tea and joke.

A Chicken Dinner

Warning: Isa and Caroline (my two young god-cousins, vegetarian and animal rights activists)- Don’t read this, you’ll never look at me the same. For Tabaski, I wanted to surpise my family with a big gift. I knew that they couldn’t afford a goat to slaughter, and for that matter, neither can I, but I thought I would treat them to a nice chicken dinner. Now in Mali, treating your family to a nice chicken dinner is a little different than calling up Mia’s or the Brewery and getting some nice grilled up chicken breasts. The family of course, must kill, pluck, gut, and roast the chicken themselves. I wasn’t really planning to be involved in all that. My only job was to get them the animal.
So I rode my bike the 7k to Dio on market day, Shaka running at my side. “One chicken won’t feed your family,” Shaka says, “You should buy two.” When we reached the town, we wandered the road until we found a vendor. Shaka approved- they were good and fat. I bought two, the total came to less than what would be $10. The vendor tied its feet together and I hung the chickens by their feet on my bicycle handle. This of course, was a first for me, but felt completely normal. I see people with live chickens hanging off their bikes all the time, with goats tied to the back of their motorcycles, people scattering chickens and frogs from their homes and bathrooms. Shaka decided to hang back with his older sister, so I got back on my bike to head home. Every so often, my tires would clip the wings of one of my chickens and they’d give a sickly yell. “Oh, sorry you guys.” I said. Yeah, you’re my dinner.
So about 1 or 2 k into the 7k trip, I popped a tire. Great. I spend the better part of the next hour walk/jogging my bike back by its handlebars, slushing around two wailing chikens, and being laughed at by women passing me with their wares in baskets on their heads and babies on their backs. Coming back to Dombila, I told my family that there was something wrong with my bike. I left it out of the complex. The tire is popped, I told them, and besides that there are some animals on it. Animals? My mother went to take a look. She seemed very concerned about the flat tire, but then I pointed out the two chickens hanging upside-down on the handle bar. Wait for it, wait for it. Ohhhhh. Chicken! Let’s go call dad to come slit their throats.

Journal entry- Tabaski troubles

ISA and CAROLINE- you might want to skip this one too. Well it’s the feast of Tabaski today, and though I’ve been looking forward to it as an opportunity for cultural integration, I’ve never felt like more of an outsider. Lately, the big joke in my family is “Aminata can’t do anything right!” They make fun of me for not being able to light my lantern or for not being able to change my bike tires- but really, they hardly give me a chance. Yeah it’s a funny joke but really, I feel like nothing I do is ever good enough. Especially today. Aside from this morning, when I got some beautiful pictures of the sunrise prayer, I can’t say I’ve enjoyed myself on the feast day. Pretty much all I’ve done today is sit around on my butt while women criticize me for not tying my pagne right, for the stain on my shirt, for my hair not being done correctly. And all day I’ve been force-fed every part of goat, sheep, and cow you can imagine- not to mention the fact that they were slaughtered right in front of my eyes. “Why don’t you like meat? Why don’t you eat it? Oh, well try this kind, try this kind. Come on, just try a little.” Alright, I tried a little. But I’m not going to suck the blood out of the bones like the rest of you. And my feeble efforts to tell them to wash their hands before they eat go unheard. This simple thing is such a big cultural barrier- they will not use soap. It brings bad luck. And they all wash in the same water, so they’re picking up even more germs. Even my homolouge and the most educated villagers refuse. And they laugh at me for being so dirty as to have a stain on my outfit. How the heck do they even notice? And why is it the one thing everyone keeps pointing out to me? I feel like I’m treated like a little child. No one can trust me to do anything by myself, everyone keeps pointing out my faults and talking to me like I’m deaf. They give me a long line of Tabaski blessings in which I graciously respond “Amiina” (Amen). And then they laugh at me because I don’t understand them. Alright, it is the first time a foriegner has shared their most sacred cultural feast. And I may not be doing everything right. But give me a break- it’s not easy. And they don’t understand.
So here, I’ve escaped in my hut for a precious few minutes before going to the big zylophone-dance place. All day music has been playing on the radio and people will say “Aminata, get up and dance.” And sometimes I do, and they get a kick out of it. It’s like I’m their little dancing monkey. Oh look the white girl is dancing, that’s so funny. So really, I’m not looking forward to the rest of the evening. I can’t blend in with the crowd. I can’t escape to go to bed at a decent hour without offending people. I’m Aminata. And as they like to say- I can’t do anything.

Awa's crime and punishment

Awa, my homolouges daughter, is around 20 years old, I think. She claims she’s 22, but everyone else says she’s either 16, 18, 20, 17- no one seems to know for sure- which is not uncommon for Malian women. After spending many months with her, I think she might have a slight learning disability. She’s nice enough, and does the cooking and cleaning for Irene’s household. She can be bothersome at times, talking to me like I’m a baby in really simple Bambara, but really she’s alright. However this past week, she has not been herself. Even since Irene yelled at her for hitting Denise, her little sister, she has basically shut down. She claims she is sick, and boy she looks it. She refuses to eat, refuses to work. Therefore, Irene has been cooking my lunches and with her work, sometimes I wait one, two, three hours for food. I try to help, yes, but they only entrust me with very simple tasks. Mashing onions. Then I’m done. Awa stays in her room, laying in bed, all day, except to go to the negen. And when Irene would usually shove her baby to Awa, she now gives him to me to watch. I’m concerned about Awa, and encourage her to see the doctor, which she does, but will not ask her mother for money to pay for medicine, so basically it is worthless.
So I spent another long afternoon sitting around Irene’s house thinking about what I haven’t done this week. Well we found a few more of the lost malnourished babies. I did some boring computer work for my supervisior, but was also able to teach him and some teenage boys how to enter the medical records in our “new” (ie 1998 PC). Alright. Donni, donni. I took out a piece of paper and began writing a letter to home, speaking of the “small accomplishments” that despite all the obstacles keep me going. Just then, a motorcycle pulled up. It was my homolouge’s brother, an English teacher who she had been anxious for me to meet. Really though, his English was no better than my Bambara, but we enjoyed some good conversation in over lunch. Irene stops eating and asks him to “Explain in to her in English.”
The man turns to me. “Awa is very bad. She doesn’t work.”
“I think she is sick.”
“No. She is not sick. She is hungry. She doesn’t eat. She doesn’t work. She is very bad. Her mother is mad.”
“I understand.” I do. She is probably sick, but she has had a bit of an attitude. Refusing to eat or do her usual work is not really admirable but let’s put things in perspective here. She’s somewhere between 16 and 22, she hardly has a 4th or 5th grade education, she is stuck at home all day watching over two small children and cooking. Her big plan, she once told me, is to start making biscuts and selling them at the health center. Then, she will save up enough money to buy a bicycle in which she can ride to go to school in Dio, about 5 miles away. So far, I haven’t seen any biscuts. But she usually takes pride in her cooking- my lunches, though rice and sauce everyday, are tasty enough. She usually as a smile on her face. Until lately.
“I have come to correct this,” the uncle says.
“I understand.” Oh, I thought naively, this is just like they taught us in cultural class. When two people are not getting along, a third party comes in to settle the disagreement. The uncle had ridden his motorcycle from Kati, and before lunch, he had a good stern talking with Awa in the presence of her mother.
Wait a minute.
“So it’s good now? It is corrected?” I asked.
“No! It is not good!”
“What are you going to do?”
“I am going to beat her!”
I look at Irene, who does not understand the English, but understands that he has just explained it to me. After lunch, we talked some more. I was thankful that though his English was sub-par, we could have a private conversation. I spoke carefully, telling him that this was not what we do in America and that I didn’t agree with it. Yet he insisted that this was the only way to get her to behave. I didn’t want to offend the Malian way, but I do not want to see my friend hurt and I do not think this will change her attitude. Now he’s in a predicament.
“I respect you,” he says, “and I want you to respect me. But I must do this. But then you will not respect me.”
“And I,” I said, “if I am the reason that your action is prevented, and Awa does not begin working again, Irene will loose respect for me.”
“This is true.”
So I talked to Awa, she barely listened through trembling tears while the rest of the CSCOM staff laughed at me for paying attention to her. Receiving no response from the girl that had already surrendered to her punishment, I asked her uncle, “If you would like me to leave, I understand.”
“No. I am going to leave,” he said.
And with that he gave Awa another stern talking to, and then pulled me aside. He expressed his respect for me, and his understanding of why I did not agree with his actions. He then invited me to his classroom to give a lesson one day in the future. We shook hands, he mounted his motorcycle, and was off. He’s really a good guy, I thought. Irene gave me a tender smile, and nodded her head in approval. I went back to my letter; it’s the little accomplishments.
My only concern after that was that Awa was not going to shape her act up, and that I was going to be the one to blame. But nevertheless, Awa was back to her old self the next day, which happened to be the feast of Tabaski. Her, I and Sali, the nurse’s assistant, a fun loving, pretty girl my age who has become a great friend, all went to the “donke yorro” (dance place) - which was a high school classroom transformed into a sort of dance club. Though I felt like the dorky exchange student, dancing by myself in the corner, I was happy to see Awa shakin her booty around the boys, with her goofy, drooling laugh. Things were going to be back to normal. And though I do not totally understand her emotional trouble, or am not totally convinced of their resolution, at least she returned to her character without having to be physically beat into it.

A few pictures from Tabaski

As unreliable transport got me to a computer about 4 hours later than I expected, and the sun is about to set in Bamako, my journal entries on the Muslim feast of Tabaski have yet to be entered on the computer. I do however have a few pictures to share of the event. Next Friday or Saturday check back for stories on goat slaughterings, me playing the traditional zylophone, and other such adventures. Until then, here are some pics. The one of the boys is my posse, the tallest one being Shaka. My sisters pounding millet, and the morning prayer.

Inside the hut

Upon Dad's request...







From bottom to top:
1. This is where I sleep, though I put the mosquito net down at night. And whoops, I left my underwear out hanging to dry. My host mom washes my clothes but its not really right to give someone your own underwear to wash, so I do that myself and it dries out of the view of the public eye.
2. My bookshelf and pictures of all you guys.
3. My desk and my "closet" (a large piece of plastic and some nails. I also have a small trunk where I keep shirts and stuff
4. Here is my kitchen/ storage area.
5. My kitchen counter table. It is covered in plastic. The big white thing is my water filter, and the small white box is my stove. I carry water in from the well in the large green bucket and dump it in periodically when I need water, then I treat it with bleach. The purple bucket is fresh peanut butter I buy at the market.

Now the home didn't come furnished mind you. All tables and shelves were handmade by carpenters in Kati, transported the 18 miles to Dombila by brush bus and donkey cart, compliments of my awesome host dad, Daramane

I spared you pictures of the "negen". Think hole-in-the-ground and there you go.
Not the fanciest of homes, but I like it. I actually don't spend too much time inside, but rather take out my chair or mat and sit under my hanger.

Thanksgiving Pictures

1. Dinner at the Ambassador's house!
2. Me and Chirs with his festive thanksgiving shirt fashioned by a Malian tailor
3. The regional group laughing over some pictures
4. My teammates Caroline, Dave, and Hunter

So Thankful

So Thanksgiving has arrived, and it still feels like mid-summer here. Until I really stop to think about it, things like apple cider, pumpkin pie, and colorful foliage (I guess even snow now I hear?) easily slip my mind. But as I sit here in my teammate Caroline’s hut, I am hit with the nostalgia of all these things. Simple things really, that I am missing now. But nonetheless, there is no lack of things, simple and great, that I can be thankful for today.
I am thankful I have found a place in my community. I am thankful that I have really gotten to know the Malians on a personal level.
I am thankful that my homolouge makes rice everyday for lunch instead of To, like most of her neighbors.
I am thankful I have stayed healthy- physically and emotionally- in a new and strange environment.
I am thankful for the fields to run in, the multitude of stars at night, the packages and letters from home. I just got a whole slew of letters today, and it embarasses me that I haven't been able to write everyone back in a timely manner.
I am thankful I can talk to my family once a week.
I am thankful that people back in the states are doing such honest and dedicated work to make the world a better place. Especially FACE AIDS Geneseo. If you haven’t checked out their amazing work this semester, you can see it here . Dec 1 is World AIDS Day, and there are tons of events going on, including the premier of “The One Who Speaks” a play that I adopted from and interview of an amazing Ugandan girl.
I am thankful that I grew up with the world of opportunities at my feet. My country, my community, and especially, my family, not only taught me but showed me that I could do anything I wanted to do, that I could be anything I wanted to be. And I see out here in the villages, there are people of such wisdom, talent, and potential, that were never offered piano lessons, were never taught how to use a computer, or even how to read and write, never had sports or theater or all of these other amazing things I had. I am thankful I went to a good school, I am thankful I have seen and learned about the outside world. I don’t know how I got so blessed.
I am thankful that people are actually starting to understand my Bambara.
I am thankful that the Troure twins, once severely malnourished, returned to the CSCOM healthy and plump. They are the first to officially graduate from our program.
I am thankful for the friends I have made here. My teammates Hunter, Caroline, Dave and Chris, have become like a family to me.
Going off of that, I am thankful I am safe. A scary experience, which I will spare you the details, occurred last week involving me loosing my way on a moonless night. With the help of friends, friendly strangers, and angles, I was guided to a safe harbor.
I am thankful for the support back at home, the eagerness to help, and the prospect of doing good work in Dombila off of your contributions.
Granola bars, new socks, calcium chews, whole grain cereals, protein powder, Gatorade or propel water powder, baby wipes, disposable razors, face wash, and pictures from home. I will be thankful for these things immensely, that is if anyone decides to send a couple in a Christmas package hint hint. The Malians also really liked almonds and Welch’s fruit snacks. And as I said before that big packages were hard to transport… well I can make it work…
Alright, enough for being greedy. This is a day to be thankful. And though my plans changed, it looks like I will still have quite an amazing Thanksgiving here in Bamako. If all works out, I will be attending Thanksgiving dinner at the ambassador’s house. Though it will be no clover lanes, no sunset bulavard, no aunt sue’s bread and jokes at the kids table, it may be nice. I can’t even begin to say how much I am going to miss home on thanksgiving night. But as for now, I am not dwelling on this. I am thankful. So thankful. That I have a loving home in Rochester New York, full of loving, amazing people that have showered me with support. I am thankful that I have now also found a loving home in Mali.

Humbled

Lately, I’ve been searching for humility in this town. As I get more and more comfortable with my job, I worry about outshining my counterpart or becoming too affirmative about my ideas. Still worshiped by the local children, I worry about jealously and such things. I am not anything special, I just have different color skin than you. And the fact that so many people are eager to befriend me, I have realized, may indeed be because they are looking for money. I still get asked everyday if I will give away my bike, my watch, and my two younger sidekicks, Cesalo and Amadou, with beg for candy if they ever find me alone.

So I live for humbling moments. I live for instances when I see that a person can do something remarkable on their own, something I cannot do, something I cannot help them with. It was, of course, Shaka. Our runs together have become less and less frequent as my work has picked up at the CSCOM. And if Cesalo and Amadou come, they are slow and interrupted. So the other night, I was lucky to squeeze in 5 miles with him in the evening. After 5 he said he was tired and we should go back home. It seemed unlike him, but perhaps his body was exhausted from working the fields all day. So he went to his house, I went to mine, got a quick sip or water, and headed out for another couple of miles before nightfall.

And we caught each other. I found Shaka on the road. Running like I have never seen him before. Bulleting through the dusty fields. He had snuck out to run faster, but did not want to embarrass me by saying so. The next evening, I asked him as we slowly jogged through the fields. “Shaka, do you run by yourself a lot?”
“Yes.” I figured he just kind of waited for me to run, and just did normal 12 year old kid stuff on his own.
“A lot?”
“Yes.”
“When you run by yourself, do you run faster than this?”
“Yes.”
“Show me.” He looked embarrassed, and almost ashamed, but when I gave him the encouraging look, he picked up the pace, little by little, so as I could follow. “Can you pass me Shaka?” And then he did it, he just flew by, with the most beautiful form I’ve ever seen, leaving me huffing and puffing, putting more and more distance on me until he graciously slowed down to wait for me to catch up. I haven’t run this fast in a while. And as I think I have a pretty respectable running resume, here I am, completely winded and dusting by a 12 year old boy. I’m humbled, and honestly, it feels great.
“Why don’t you run like that when we run together?”
“You are my teacher, it would be wrong to run faster than my teacher.” I explained to him that this was not correct, and that my running teacher was an old man who would drive his car next to us as we ran. Shaka proceed to answer my questions. He runs quite a bit on his own, and usually has already run earlier in the day when we go out together in the evening. He runs fast and far for two weeks, and then slow for two weeks. Not the most sophisticated training plan I have ever heard, but the fact that he has one, that his is systematic and consistent is above and beyond what I expected of him.
“Are you running with me to the market tomorrow?”
“Maybe.” He says with a smile, and I know he had already planned to run there, but to wait for my slow pace was not on the agenda.
“You want to run fast don’t you?” He nods with an embarrassed smile. And I explain to him that if I find an odemeter for my bike, the first thing I want to do is time him in a 5k.
And all my dreams for him came rushing back. I had been ignoring them for a while, thinking my work at the CSCOM was first and foremost priority. Which it is, but that doesn’t mean I still can’t really search for a means for this kid to shine. Its hard though, my homolouge and host family disapprove me spending so much time with him. My homolouge is convinced he is going to steal something from me one day, and I see how the other village kids are jealous. Something is drawing me towards him though. This kid is meant for something bigger than the millet fields of Dombila.
“What do you want to do when you grow up Shaka?”
“Oh I don’t know.” He thinks for a while. “I want to go to America and be a teacher. I want to teach Bambara to Americans.” I give a slight chuckle at his precious naivite.
“Americans don’t really study Bambara in America. But you could work for the Peace Corps one day in Bamako and teach Americans like me how to live in Mali and speak Bambara.” He agreed that that would be pretty cool.

The Mysterious Vegetable

Arriving at Tomba again, I was pleased to see that many of the babies there have been gaining weight. Yaya Coulibaly informed me proudly that he had been encouraging them all the cook ameliorated porridge. A few were still on the dangerous end, so I invited them to the CSCOM where we are launching off a new program for malnourished children starting November 30. At the end of my presentation on treating wounds, one of the women in the crowd came up with a brilliant idea. “Oh! We should show Aminata my garden!” Yeah, yeah, yeah, that’s a great idea. So after the baby weighing session, a crowd of Malians led me excitedly to a garden. It looked like just any other old garden. Cabbage. But in the middle was this large weird beet thing. It was tan and bigger than my head, happily growing in the soil. “What is this?” The owner of the garden asked me. This tends to happen a lot. Malians quiz me on the names of things, especially food. “I don’t know. What’s it called?” Over and over they asked me. You don’t know? She doesn’t know! And everyone burst out into laughter. Ok, my horrible Bambara isn’t that funny.
“This doesn’t come from your country?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
More laughter. “Well we don’t know what it is either!” Turns out some white people (an agricultural NGO from Germany, I later found out) came and planted it as part of a project to introduce new foods into the community. One result: a large weird beet head thing sitting in the middle of this women’s garden, which people young and old would come and look at. And they were so excited when another white person came who could tell them what it was. What in God’s name is this thing? They said again to themselves. And I just had to laugh with them.

Death in Dombila

I’m feeling great lately, health wise. I’ve been eating well, exercising a lot, sleeping great and staying cool. My body is really adapting to this place. It knows the rhythm of things, it awakes with the rising of the steaming African sun, it rests as the moon comes out. It’s found its place in nature- I find nutrients in the leaves of trees hidden in the fields to cook in my dinner. I never worry about getting lost in the vast espace of rolling hills because the sun guides me home.

As my own self has been refreshed and renewed under Dombila’s sky, this peace has been clouded by the poor health of my neiighbors. For some reason, a lot of people died this week. It began with a phone call to my homolouge. Her close, middle-aged friend had fallen sick and died unexpectedly. As she cried outside her home, no one really comforted her. Malians don’t hug, as I have written before. And though I wanted to put my arm around her, I settled with giving blessings and leaving her be. She left town for the rest of the week.

Shaka and Amadu, two of my three sidekicks, experienced the death of their grandfather. I had met the guy, old yes, but still in tact with things. The funeral was quite strange. No one really did anything. The men sat in a clump together, the women sat together, some chatted, some gave blessings. We ate. We left. And I still felt awkward, I still felt strange that no one was showing any major reaction to this death. Shaka seemed fine the whole day. But as we went for our afternoon run, he took me by his grave, and we stopped to look at the mound of fresh dirt. There are many ways to say “I’m sad” in Bambara. He chose: “Aminata, my heart is angry.” We took it slow and jogged back home. I spoke of the day my grandmother died, and how I felt. We agreed it was ok to cry, that he is not suffering anymore, that he is with God in heaven.

I can understand when an old person dies. It is tragic, but I can accept it. But when a child dies, good God.
This is hard for me to write right now. I am almost hesitant in publishing my feelings here, but I have to at least write them down. Vaccination day- the head nurse had left for another village, my homolouge was gone at her friend’s funeral. It was just me and the vaccinator and a few helping hands to deal with 30 or so screaming babies. It’s become customary to hand over the malnourished kids to me, because I have taken on the rehabilitation program as one of my projects, and weighing babies is one of the simple tasks I can handle now. Most of the children getting vaccinated were 3 months old, and their mothers tried to listen to my demonstration on ameliorated porriage over the cries of squirming children.

“Aminata, look. Here’s a malnourished child. Put him on the program.” Now most of the children in the program are around 1 years old. This kid was 6. I took one look at him and the first thought that shot through my head was “He is going to die.” His mother tried to feed him some porriage, and he could barely keep his eyes open. At 11 kilos, he was less than 60% of his peferred body weight. Less than 80% is considered malnourished. I’ve never seen a skinnier, sicker looking child. And here, they handed him over to me. “Give him some of the rehabilitation food packets.”

So what do I do? Alright, I measured him, I weighed him. I checked for dehydration, body swelling. I went through the motions and then I just realized, God, there is nothing I can do for him.

“I think this child is really sick. We should send him to the hospital.” The vaccinator came to look at him, “Yes, you’re right. But we can’t do that without the head nurse. He needs to write a referral.” He send the woman home, who had already walked 5 miles with this 6 year old child on her back, and instructed her to come back in the morning.

I’m not a doctor. Even if I was, there is no equipment here to work with. I have no car. Even if I did, there are no reliable roads, no ambulance. Perhaps tomorrow, we can call for a car. When the nurse gets back, we have to send him to the hospital. Yet the urgency I felt was not reflected in my company. The boy’s mother, the vaccinator, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to say they didn’t care. But what can they do?

I told the nurse of this situation the next morning. And I waited and waited for their return. By lunchtime, I asked the vaccinator why they hadn’t come back. He turned to another man who had come from his village to ask of his whereabouts. “Oh he died,” he responded casually. When? “Last night.” And that was it.

And I went into the empty maternity by myself, the same place I had examined the boy, and tried to straighten out his crippled body over the measuring board. I had held him just a few hours before his death. And my anger came from every direction, I was looking for someone to blame but truthfully, the thought that haunted me was that there was nothing we could have done. I came here to help in someway, but there are children dying in front of me, and all I know how to do is hand them a package of “Plumpy Nut” and write their weight on a sheet of paper, only to stuff it away because usually, the babies we see come once and never return again.

There is a long way to go. A long way. Another PCV came to visit for a few days to look at the water sanitation situation in Dombila. Anxious to get the projects going, he gave me great advice. “You can’t feel guilty about not doing work in the first three months.” It’s true. The first three months are for assessment purposes and our projects are to start after our mid-service training in January. But how can I not feel guilty when women are coming up to me, explaining symptoms of a pinched siatic nerve, or a stomach ulcer. And I know what’s wrong. I know there are medicines to treat this. But none that they can access, afford, or find someone qualified enough to administer them. So I hesitantly say, “I’m sorry, I’m not a doctor.” They understand. But they tell me when I go back to states, I should become one, and then return to help them again. Do you want to learn how to make ameliorated porriage?

Belly Laughs

The guard at the CSCOM is one of my joking cousins. And as my language is improving, the jokes are getting more and more elaborate. This guy and his wife remind me of my neighbors back on Hickory Lane, the Bonivillas. They are just hysterical, and have made me laugh more than I ever have in Dombila before. Binot, the guard, wears camlefloge every day. He shaves his head, has a gotie, but really, he doesn’t do anything but sit around, drink tea and smoke cigarettes. I’d like to take this opportunity to document some of his comments to me. The translation is not direcet, but I’m trying to get the full effect here.

“Aminata- when you play guitar, you sound like you are crying” He then imitates me wailing and playing a ballad on the guitar. “You cry and cry- you really need to just rock it and dance around.”

“You can’t even find a husband Aminata. I’m gonna go to the Peace Corps office and pay someone to get you a husband. You’re worth about $1.”

“Nah, I don’t like her. She’s too skinny. I like women with some meat on them. They gotta be fat. Like this woman over there. She’s fat. But I don’t like her, because he mind is totally gone.” (He’s refering to my homolouge’s daughter, who I am learning day by day really is a little wound up in the head)

“I’m going back to America with you.” (Now, everyone says this to me, and it’s usually followed by “I’m gonna make a lot of money”)
“What are you going to do in America Binot?”
“I’m gonna be Barak Obama’s body guard. I’m gonna wear cool sunglasses and ride around in a big, sweet, black car, and if anyone messes with Barak, I’m gonna pound them….. And I’m gonna make a lot of money.”

His wife shows up at the maternity. “Aminata, it’s time for my prenatal counsel.” “Oh really! I didn’t know you were pregnant!” “Yup. Quadrupulets.” She points to four places on her stomach and I hear the roaring laugh of her husband in the background.

It’s the Malian version of the Bonavillas!

PICTURES!

1. My hut! The first door on the left goes to by bedroom. The next door goes to my “negen” or little hole in the ground where I poop. And on the right is my kitchen/ storage area.
2. Bakary, the vaccinator, waiting for baby vaccinations to start in one of the distant villages
3. My homologue, Irene, shucking peanuts
4. Me and my homolouge’s daughter, Denise
5. Me and Irene
6. My host brother, Pacho, goofing off as always
7. Working in the peanut fields. That’s my host dad in the teal shirt and red hat brewing up some tea
8. Me outside the door of my hut

Change has come

He said that it hasn’t come yet. He said there is a long road ahead. But I truly believe that last night, we won back the respect of the global community. We are serious about change, and we chose the man who can bring us there. And I know I will return to an America in two year that is better than the one I left. Yes we can.
Last night because of the time difference, we did not start watching the election coverage until 10pm. Our first stop was the home of UNICEF’s medical director. Our peace corps director told us that she was having a party and man was it amazing. The house was incredible, and we watched the votes come in on a big screan projector under the Malian starry sky.
At about 1:30 we went to an American bar near the Peace Corps office. Because it looked like we weren’t going to hear any results for a while. I went back to my hotel with a teammate to take a quick nap at about 3am. We set our alarms for 4:30, roamed the halls of the hotel looking for the small bar in its ground floor. One of the Malian janitors looked at us like we were crazy and asked us where we were going. Tired and groggy, he understood none of our Bambara- we want to watch the election in the bar… nothing. It wasn’t until my teammate uttered the name “Barak Obama” that the janitor grew a huge smile on his face, motioned us to come with him, and showed us the little television in the lobby. We saw Chicago, and a large text banner on the bottom “Barak Obama est la 44eme president de les Etas-Unis”! And we cheered with the Malians.
Going back down to the American bar a little before 5, we arrived just in time to hear the historic speech. Americans from all over the country, some Malians, were all sitting eyes glued to the television- people were sitting on each other’s laps, holding hands, embracing, some shedding tears, as we listened to the words of the next president.
This morning, I walk out of my hotel to the office, and a Malian man yells at me down the street- “BARAK OBAMA!” and I turn to throw my fist in the air in victory along with him. Yes we can.

Hanging out with the wrong crowd

Doing my baseline survey, I get to meet a bunch of interesting people around the town of Dombilia. One girl, strikingly pretty and energitic, was particularly interested in talking to me and I returned a few days later to play the guitar with her family, talk and hang out. Her name is Sugaglo, she is around my age, and she called me toward her hanger in the market on market day to drink tea with her friends. After chit-chatting, I spotted Irene’s bold eyes as she motioned for me to come by her side.
“Aminata,” she says, being extra careful to pronounce a simple, simple Bambara so that there would be no misunderstanding, “Do not drink tea with just everyone. You can drink tea and the health center, or with your host family. Only. Nowhere else- do you understand?”
I suppose she’s right, but since coming to Dombilia, I’ve never really been concerned about safety. Yet for some reason, seeing me drink tea with my friend was alarming to Irene.
The next night, I was out in my cornfield sweet-spot- the only place I get cell phone reception in town. As always, a group of kids comes swarming by, wanting to know who I am talking to. I dismissed them, only to see that amongst them was Sugaglo. She had come over to talk to me and I had told her crowd to leave me be. Apologetic and embarrassed, we talked for awhile and I walked her a bit down the road (which is customary when a friend is leaving).
Feeling bad for not being around to talk with Sugaglo, I was surpised to return to my compound to an angry host family and a group of angry neighbors.
“Aminata! Where were you?”
“On the phone?”
“Sungaglo came over and wanted you to chat. Were you going over to her house?”
“No, she had come here to talk.”
”Do not go over there, do you hear?”
What followed was the first time I had really felt discordance among the villagers in Dombilia. My trio of little runner boys- Shaka, Mahamadu, and Cesalo are always very possessive of me and get angry when I hang out with other people. But here was some true resentment. She is a prostitute. She has AIDS. She has many men. She is sick and you shouldn’t be going over there at night.
I explained I was not planning on going across town at night, I know better than that. But she befriened me and I enjoy talking to her. The adults agreed it was fine to chat during the day in the market. But do not take her tea (apparently they are afraid she puts drugs in it… seemed fine with me but I’ll stop anyway) and do not go over at night. They must have repeated these things a million times, and couldn’t say “I understand" enough.
A few days later, I paid a visit to Sungaglo again. Yes, she is my friend. And if it is true that she has AIDS and that the villagers resent her, even better to start a positive relationship with her, so maybe one day, I could help start to ease some of the tension. We went out and picked sweet potatoes in her field, and she sent me home with enough to feed me for a month. Not on the road for two minutes, I saw my trio of side-kicks- Shaka, Mahamadu, and Cesalo, questioning me like parents to a teenager that just got caught from sneeking out at night.
“Where were you?”
“The field”
“WHO’S field”
“My friend Sungaglo.”
“She is not your friend. We told you not to speak to her again.”
I gave them the lecture that I keep having to repeat. Be kind to everyone. Yes, I am going to greet everyone. Yes, everyone in Dombila is my friend. No, I won’t wander around at night, but I am going to chat with everyone. Thinking they were only being stubborn and possessive I dismissed the “Aminata, you’re bad” “Yeah, you’re bad” “We’re mad at you” and went back home. That night, as I was talking on my phone in my sweet spot, little Mohamadu finds me again. Eight years old, he sometimes calls to me in my window at night, asking for bubblegum or peanuts (which always freaks me out hearing this little child whisper to me at night). But tonight, he is upset. Really upset.
“Aminata, you’re bad” I think he is going to follow up with a complaint about me not giving him peanuts or something, but when I ask him what is the matter, he refuses to tell me. Finally, he brings his chin up, and I look into his eyes watering up. “Aminata, if a stranger gives you candy, don’t take it. If a stranger gives you tea, don’t take it. Some people are bad people.”
This just ripped my heart open. The ‘don’t take candy from strangers’ talk from an eight-year-old in the middle of Africa. I have always felt safe in Dombilia, always. Even when my language tutor tells me that there are very resentful and bad-intented people, if they want express their hatred toward somebody, they go to a witch doctor and do an offering to an evil spirit. To a Malian, this is serious stuff, but as for me, I’m not worried about anyone seriously hurting me. Accepting me and respecting me perhaps, but I am in good hands here. It’s not my safety I am worried about, it is the dynamics of this community. Underneath the surface, there is gossip, there are old rivalries, and there are indeed untouchables. Like any community I suppose. So where do I fit into this picture? How can I call myself a volunteer for peace if I turn my head when the wrong people greet me? So I’ll greet Sungaglo, I’ll visit her from time to time and sing with her family and the children of her compound. I may even go help her in her sweet potato field… in daylight. And just in case, I’ll pass on the tea.

I've never...

…seen such excitement over an airplane.
A airplane flew close to the ground the other day, and it was the most hysterical site ever. People young and old stopped everything they were doing to watch. Children screamed at the top of their lungs, yelling to the big thing in the sky, running circles of glee around each other. Women kept repeating “Beleebeleeba!” the Malian word for “that’s freakin huge.”

…had my barf cleaned up so easily.
Got sick again for a morning. May have eaten too many peanuts. In any sense, I did not make it to the “negen”, and threw up all outside my hut in front of my host family. Embarassed about making a mess, I started to get some water to wash it out. “Stop Aminata,” as my host mother comes over with a shovel full of dirt. She dumps it over the mess and batabing- it’s cleaned up. Hmmm, maybe it’s good I didn’t make the negen.

…seen a snake with huge teeth about to devour a huge frog.
I think it was a cobra, but whatever it was, it was pretty freakin scary. Luckily, it was more scared of me, than I was of it, and abandoned its prospective meal to scurry into the bushes.

…been so happy to play the piano.
Yes! I found one! Election night, we arrived at the home of the head of the medical devision for UNICEF Mali. An incredible place, a great gathering of Americans and Malians alike. And yes, she had an electric piano. They keys stuck terribly, but I was still able to make a sound. My fingers have never been so happy.

…known my bellybutton to be so funny.
There’s no such thing as an “innie” in Mali. My three sidekicks- Shaka, Mohamadu, and Cesalo, caught a glimpse of mine as we were stretching before a run one day. They could not stop laughing and pointing.

Tomba

I’ve started a baby-weighing program in the small neighboring village of Tomba, about 6k away from Dombilia. After seeing the malnourished children during a vaccination trip and listening to the mothers say how hard it is to walk to Dombila for weighings, I decided to go out there myself. Knowing my lanuage would be a barrier in doing an ameliorated porriage demonstrated, I relied on the relay Yaya Coulibably, to help translate and run the show. relay, to help translate and run the show. . (A relay by the way, is a villager who goes around and calls people for special events, like vaccinations). And Yaya is everything the name Yaya would suggest- crazy, giggly, a little off his rocker but very sharp in his own sense. Together, we recorded the weight of 25 babies, discovered 4 moderately malnourished, and 1 severely malnourished (this one we sent to the health center). Not a great starting percentage, but we worked with the women to teach them how to make ameliorated porriage, and went over with them the basics of nutrition and child weaning. It was probably my most rewarding experience in Mali yet. These women were really listening, really understanding and I could tell as I counseled at least two of the mothers of the sick children that they were really going to take my word to heart, and were really alarmed as I told them that they need to change what their doing, or their baby is going to get worse. The problem usually is, you’ll have a baby, 10, 11 months old, still living on breast milk only. Sometimes breast milk and to or rice- plain grains that cannot be ingested in high quantities, and contain minimal protein and vitamins. Amelorated porriage can be made simply with sugar, peanut powder and a grain, and can really help combat malnutrition in a sustanible and inexpensive way. I praised the women for their work, shook the hand of Yaya and promised to return the next week to see if the women had gained weight.

The next week I returned, but I was late- even by Malian standards. There are not really hours here too much- there are four times- “Morning” “Midday” “Afternoon” and “Night”. I said I would come in the morning. It was Sunday, so I went to church first thing in the morning (which lasted longer than usual), hit the road by 10, got lost and ended up in another village, found a familiar face who directed me to Tomba. Arrived at 11- yup it’s Midday now. I’m late. I went to Yaya’s house, whose wife told me he was waiting for me all morning and had gone out to the field. I told her I was sorry, and got lost. I felt so bad, but the woman was kind. She brought me some water (which I can’t drink unless I filter it at my house) and some To, my favorite (I’ve never successfully digested it). “I’m sorry. I’m full.”
“I don’t understand you. You come here late, you don’t drink our water, you don’t eat our food. What do you want from us? Why have you come?”
And I couldn’t hold my tears in.
“Look, she’s mad now,” one of the women said.
“No, it’s just sweat. I am hot.”
“Well why don’t you please drink some water then?”
I excused myself to the negen, to get myself back together. It was like coming into Dombilia for the first time all over again. They do not understand me, and I am a million miles away from home. What am I doing here? Well, I am here, and there is no getting out of this now. It’s either put on a happy face or loose the respect of a whole village in need.
Damn, I should have at least eaten that To.
I emerged, composed, and perked up when Yaya came back from the fields. He was understanding of my tardiness, but still dressed himself in his best to go to the vaccination site and call the women. “I think we’ll have to reschedule, everyone’s already gone out in the fields for the day.”
I agreed and promised to return another day. He did tell me though, that the women were keeping up with their porriage and that he was checking on the 5 malnourished children regularly. That’s great. That day, three women did show up for the weighing. One, who’s mother is the most enthusiastic in all of Mali, and whose baby is freakin FAT. I think she just likes to show off to the other mothers. She gleamed with joy as I told her, yes her baby did gain weight in the past 6 days. What a feat.
The other two approached me with sick children. One with burns all over her body, the other with symptoms of malaria. And these women looked to me like I could save them, like I had all the answers. If there was any point I wish I had a medical degree, it was now. I’m not a doctor, I told them. But I think he has malaria, you should take him to Dombila, and I think you should clean and cover those wounds. And by the way, this one is malnourished, you can make ameliorated porriage. Haha, my one specialty. The one thing I can really explain in Bambara. So, might as well throw that out there too. It can’t hurt. Dooni, dooni.

The Brusse Romance Letters

You send me letters to the Malian post office. But the real Malian postal system is “en brouse”. If you have an important message and you happen to be literate, all you must do is find someone going in the direction of your letter’s destination, and instruct them to pass it on. In a country of low development and infrastructure, it actually works quite well. So, when spending the night in Kati, I learned of a romance or sorts budding between two of my teammates. The girl entrusted Hunter (my teammate in Kati) and I to try and send a letter to the guy via brusse post. Excited to be playing cupid, Hunter and I hopped on our bikes upon my departure for site, and arrived at a sort of bus/ taxi station just outside of Kati. We approached the area where the vehicles were loading up passangers and announced in the middle of the chaos: “Who is going to Falaje?” We found a group of young men, and also a crowd of very curious on lookers as we took the letter out of our bags.
“You are going to Falaje”
“Yes”
“You know ----name----? He’s a white guy, you can’t miss him.”
“Yes, I have seen him. He works in the mayor’s office”
“Yes! Can you bring this letter to the mayor’s office? It is very important!”
Now there is a social rule in Mali that if someone of a higher age or status tells you to do something, you must do it. No questions or complaints. Malians are happy to serve their elders. I am even sent to the local store for Irene every now and again, being her minor. And I send Shaka to climb up the maringa tree and gather leaves for my dinners all the time. So the young teenager was more than willing, even somewhat frightened to be entrusted with this ever so important task.
We rode our bikes away, giggling with delight. A few days later, we discovered that the guy had successfully sent a letter and a small package of Oreos through the 60 kilometers to her site. An African” Message-in-a-bottle”. I love it.

Links to my teammates blogs

Hunter Gray (Kati, education): http://hunteroflifewithnograydays.blogspot.com/

Caroline Nelson (Dombila, small enterprise development) http://carolineonmyway.blogspot.com/

Amanda Misit (Koulikoroville, Health) http://amisiti.blogspot.com/

The One Who Speaks

Hey all! Guess what? The amazing folks at FACE AIDS Geneseo have carried on the torch and are producing a short play that I worked on adapting from an interview with a young, HIV positive Ugandan girl. The date of the one who speaksis set for Dec 5 (during the week of world aids day) and there is now a facebook group if you are interested in the project. Sweeeeeeeeet!!!

http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=32609141023

Send me a videotape!!

Where I set my bag

Another week in the brush and I'm beginning to feel at home- though not without some growing pains. The rest of my weekend in Bamako was wonderful- I have become really close with the other volunteers in my region- wonderful but difficult at the same time. Bamako is like the crossroads between the two worlds. When I can look at a computer, talk English, go out to eat at a resturant, it is like a teasing of the Western world. And this past weekend in particular, my homesickness struck me hard. I cried after speaking to my cousins and sister on the phone, part of me refused to go back to my village because I was having such a great time with my American friends. Yet when I returned to Dombila, the clouds cleared. I realized why I was so upset. This time of transition, I don't know where to call home. Is it back in the U.S? Is it here in Bamako with my American friends? Or is it back in the village of Dombila? Dombila in Bamabra means "The place where I set my bag down to rest". Right now, my home is all three of those places. Its just I cannot decide where I want to rest my bag.

Coming back to Dombila though, for the first time, my guilty feelings of leaving town were exterminated upon arrival. I met my homolouge on the road back who invited me for dinner. There, she took me into her bedroom and brought out a brand new dress that she had made for me. It was about as African as you can get- leopard skin from head to toe- and I love it. "When the man comes to market with the camera, he can take a picture of our family and you will wear this dress and be in the picture." And that was the day I finally rested my bag in Dombila. I have been accepted. I have a family here, a home. Though my true home is across the ocean, though I will always be a foreigner, I feel like I am finally settled in. And who knows, if Irene has her way, our families will be one! I will marry her oldest son and my sister will marry her second oldest. (Kate- he's already fallen in love with your picture!) hahaha

But despite feeling so accepted by my host family and my homolouge's family, in many ways I feel like the most popular girl in junior high amongst the rest of the village- worshiped yet resented. Greeted with enthusiasm but gossiped about at the same time. I actually had my first argument in Bambara and though proud of my language skills, I am now even more frightened of the witch-lady who demands that I bring her medicine. I try my best to be friendly with everyone, but I'm a sucker for the "Oh, come back tonight- and sit and chat with us!" The other night I remember coming home from work having promised to sit and talk with 3 different families, play soccer with some teenagers, and run with Shaka and the boys. With only a few hours of sunlight left, I decided, maybe its time to grow a backbone and set few boundaries for myself. Alone time is hard to find, but Im going to need a little if I want to stay sane here..

After a few hard days of homesickness, things started to come together for me in Dombila. My language is improving, especially with the help of my language tutor, the young English-speaking secretary General of Dombila. It's peanut harvesting season, so everywhere you grow there are groups of people sitting around, listening to a radio, laughing as they shuck the peanuts off of the stalks. And just when you think its over, another donkey cart pulls in hauling another load. The women make peanut butter here, but nobody actually eats it straight, especially not in a sandwhich. They water it down to make sause for rice. Tasty for sure, but I've promised them to bring back some bananas from Kati and introduce them to my staple food- peanut butter and banana sandwhichs. The idea though, that you would actually put peanut butter inside bread, is incredibly bizzare.

Not only is my own language getting better, but my host brothers and sisters are picking up a little English. I called my sister this week who was able to have a short converstation with Shaka (How are you, what is your name). Shaka is like the little brother I never had. He helps remind me of people's names, tells me what's going on with the kids in Dombila, at school or in the feilds, and he has already told me that I am to stay in Dombilia for not 2, not 5, but 100 years. And I am to marry him AND his two younger brothers. He asked me how to say "I like you very much" in English, and since I told him, all the little kids in our compound can say it. Even Mussa, the two-year-old, will come up to me when I am reading under my hanger, get right in my face and exclaim in a fast, excited, African accent "I like you very much!"

As for Dombilia, everyday my head fills with more and more ideas. I want to start a water sanitation committee with the village men, I want to get some equipment for the schools... I have so many ideas but I can't keep up with them because every day I discover a new problem with the village. Taxes for instance. The secretary general told me yesterday that only 17% of the people here paid taxes in the last three years. Why? because it's not enforced. And the mayor doesn't want to enforce it in fears of not being re-elected. Talk about backwards thinking. What can the mayor even do when only 17% of the population is paying their $3 a year? It is true though, that some people cannot even afford this.

Out in the expanse of Dombilia, I've been able to ride my bike to some vaccination sites. Yesterday, I did a skit with my homologue about the importance of vaccinations. It was pretty funny. The big-boned Irene gets right in my face and asks me why my child cannot walk. And this little boy I pulled from the crowd, has his head down in shame. I was a bad mother, I did not take him to get his shots. And the crowd of Malians are pointing and laughing. And I am trying to defend myself. Out in the brush, away from the main village, they only get medical services maybe once every month when we got out there. Either that, or they walk for miles and miles to get to the CSCOM. My supervisor has told me just to investigate now, not to start any work until I really know the village deeply. I agree, but after seeing a handful of severely malnourished babies in the distant village of Tomba, I could not just leave. I am returning Monday to teach the women how to make ameliorated porridge. My language skills are going to struggle greatly with this, but I figure it can't hurt to at least give it a try. I think...

My supervisor from the Peace Corps comes to visit Tuesday. I'm going to seriously discuss project ideas from her, and possibly post them in the next blog. (I'd love to get something going that you can all help with, like supplies for the school). I travel again to Bamako next Tuesday to watch the election with my teammates. I just got my two absentee ballots in the mail today. Yes two. I guess I can vote twice...??? Anyway, in Kati now, going to the big church tomorrow morning, and gonna stick around to beg the priest if I can play the piano when the place empties out.

Love you all. Miss you terribly- as I have been brought into the family of Dombila, as have you. Your pictures are known to the villagers, your names, your stories, and as they say in Bambara, Ubee aw fo. (They greet you all).

Emily

PS- pictures will be coming hopefully within the next month!

Getting by

Back in Bamako, but won't be returning until Nov. 4 to watch the election. Things are swingin, but I must say it is getting a bit frusterating. I can't go anywhere without at least 3 children following me, I can't ever be alone, and the more Bambara I hear, the less I understand it strangely enough. Rice for two meals a day, and whatever I can scrounge up for dinner, which usually consists of a couple of power-bars. Irene's daughter has left for a tailoring job in Kati, so though the meals are still good, it is rice and sause every day. And at least a half a dozen people everyday tell me how proud they are of me that I am gaining weight. I have a litte, but I am still aching out 50 miles a week on my new running shoes that with great reluctance, gave a mud bath before putting them on so that the boys wouldn't be jealous. One day, I will get them shoes. But for now, I pulled out my ducttape and fixed up their jelli-sandles. For now. I can't complain though- they like me I suppose, and I am learning little by little how to do this job that is totally perfect for me. So as refreshed as I can be sweating like a pig here in the Peace Corps office, I am. I'm with a bunch of my friends, might be looking forward to a cold orange juice sometime today.

Missing you all like crazy. Especailly the Geneseo xc team right now- best of luck with the rest of the season you guys- I miss it so much.

K'an ben. (Bye!)
Em

Scandals with subtitles

So I found a language tutor. The secretary general of Dombila, who actually commutes from Kati, speaks fluent English. And though not a villager of Dombila, he has actually been able to explain to me a lot of what goes on underneath the surface here that I would have otherwise glazed over.

Scandal 1: Where are the teachers?

After pushing past the hesitancy of the school director, I finally got him to allow me to come to school one morning and observe. School just started about 2 weeks ago, so during the day the village is swarming with kids- some who have walked as far as 10 or 12 kilometers from neighboring villages. Why was the director so hesitant about me coming?

I arrived early in his office to witness his headache, stacks of paper on his desk, and motivational quotes written in neat French cursive on old construction paper taped to the walls. After asking him plenty of prepared questions, which I couldn't understand the answers too, he took me class by class so as to introduce me to the students. After all, what better place to do health education than a school?

We started at the highest level- the 9th grade, which consisted of your average adolescents and some in their mid-20s who just haven't passed yet. The director is firm with them, demanding they pay me respect, and scolding kids for coming in late. As we descend to the youngest, his voice becomes sweeter- She is from a land far, far away, over the ocean, almost like it was the land of oz. And the kids stare and giggle.

I notice many things about the school- the bareness of the walls, the lack of equiptment and space... what you would expect I suppose. But the one thing I couldn't figure out is- where are the teachers?

No teachers, anywhere. I ask again and again. Something about they are coming later, we have to listen to the radio, the want their salary, and it wasn't until my English speaking friend showed up to my rescue to let me know what was really going on. There has been a country wide teachers strike due to the fact that the govenment is late on paying their salaries. The kids have been coming to school all week, only to be sent home, day after day. When I finally heard that the strike was over, I noticed the next day, the teachers still didn't come. I asked Shaka, my other main source of information, what was going on. "The teachers are all in Bamako, marching the streets and yelling." For real? God, I have no clue. But all I know is I hate to see those kids who have already walked for an hour being turned away with their little lunch pails of To. Well, maybe they can have some fresh To today, and hopefully by the time I get back, they'll be someone to teach them.

Scandal 2:

Well I knew that someone stole money from the maternity. I knew Irene was extreamly upset about it. I knew there were many meetings about this, but I didn't know I almost lost my homolouge.

My subtitle-man explained to me that the chef de poste and the mayor's office were demanding that Irene reimburse the money out of her own pocket. Her salary and the cigarettes she sells out of her house (yes, attached to the health center) is not so much that she can do this. Not only that, it was completely not her fault, and if they did not change the ruling, she would stop working. Not only would I have lost my homolouge, but I would have been stuck in a village with no teachers and no midwife. After some very loud and expressive meetings, it was decided that it was no fault of her own, and she was not oblidged to pay back the stolen money. Thank God for that.

This, by the way, was all over the equivalent of $25.

Questions about America

Here are some of the more entertaining questions I get about the Good Ole USA:

-Are there black people in the states? (Ok, that's ligit, but it's almost always followed by:) Do they speak Bambara? (Even within their own country not everyone speaks Bambara!)

-How long did it take you to drive here?

-When people die in the states, can the doctors bring them back to life? (this was actually the pharmasist at the health center, maybe she was thinking of when your heart stops, I'm not sure)

-A group of kids: How do you say kalo in English? (This is moon, but "moon" is how you say "What?" in Bambara. So it was kind of like a "Who's on first" situation. Moon/kalo! kalo! the thing in the sky at night/ moon/ kalo kalo don't you know?/ yes you say moon/ KALO! (stupid white girl)

-Every kind of food and animal: do they have this in america?

-Do women carry their babies on their backs in America? Well then what do they do with them?

-Why can't you marry more than one woman in America? Why do women only have one or two kids. And of course the age old question that is asked at least 5 times a day: Why aren't YOU married and WHO are you going to marry?

I think there's a witch in this town...

So there's this really scary woman who lives near the boutique in my village, and if there is any such thing as witches, she is definately one. Whenever I am near, she comes out of her house with her crooked long back and droopy face and bulges her eyes out to look at me. Then she gets right into my face and swirms her head down like a snake to meet my height.

"Look Aminata- I'm sick, what are you going to do huh? You have medicine, I know you do, you have money." If I refute, she cackles, yes cackles. She questions why I have come and why I cannot speak Bamabara, and trying to do my job, asking her questions about the problems of the village she tells me only, come here tomorrow morning and see our women's gathering.

Well, at least she didn't ask me to come at night, or else I'm sure she'd cook me in her stew. As I pushed by bike down the path to leave, I saw her whispering something to herself, and shooting me a cursing glance. I'm not really scared of the snakes here, but this woman, geez.

But happily, I arrived the next morning to a lovely group of sitting in a circle, most of them ignoring the witch-lady prancing around the outskirts. I'm not exactly sure the logistics of it, but they each give a little money, and they can borrow some from the safe and every so often some one gets a big lump sum to stimulate their small personal buisness of selling their goods in the market. It's pretty cute too, they have a name and a little yaya sisterhood clappy song and handshake they do at the end. Even though I don't quite know how it works, or if it works, I saw a weekly gathering of women who were amenable to the idea of me doing health talks at their weekly meetings.

All these little things I'm discovering in the depths of the millet fields- who wuddathought?

Another guilty escape

So I left site again and I'm in Bamako. Wasn't at all planning on it, but my teammate Caroline showed up and my house this morning wanting to go to try to replace her lost cell phone. It was good timing I suppose, because I was starting to wonder what to do with myself today, but every time I leave I feel guilty. I feel guilty when my counterpart and supervisor are working their butts off, I feel guilty when I tell my younger brothers I can't take them with me, I feel guilty that I actually have the money to pay for transport to get to Bamako, which would be a huge investment for the vast majority of the people in my village. I feel guilty that after being at site for a month, I really haven't done much. I understand that the first three months of service, before our mid-service training is for inventory. We are surveying the village, integrating, observing, and working on our language. The real work comes a bit later.
Nonetheless, I've been pulled to do a bit of things. The following entries will catch you up on some of Dombila's latest trials and tribulations.

Let's talk about AIDS

I've starting doing some presentations at the health center on good nutrition, yet actually getting that rolling was a chore. Between the limits of resources and language, its like dragging your feet through mud. All I wanted to do was draw a picture of the different food groups, but in order to get my hands on some paper or markers, it involved a 2 hour trip to Kati. I returned from Kati with a new set of completely non-functional markers and had to resort to other ideas.
Pulling out some old magazines and newspapers, I gathered some children to help me look for pictures of food. Actually, we found quite a bit. Excited about my presentation, I began to cut the pictures out of the magazine. At the first claps of my scissors, the children gasped in horror. This magazine, with colored glossy pages and beautiful pictures, was more amazing than any book they had ever held before. And here I was, through their winces, cutting it up. "It's ok! It's ok! It comes every month, its not really a book." But still, they stopped telling me when they found pictures of food, they'd rather me leave it be.
When all was said and done, I was actually quite pleased with my poster on nutrition, and as I did my talks in the health center, was grateful when my homologue jumped in to decipher my speaking. I start of with my bumpy Bamabara and she jumps in with her enthusiastic bellowing, raspy voice, getting into the faces of the women to make them understand. They seem like they understand. They seem like they are listening. They seem like they have learned a little something about how to make themselves or their babies healthier. So we ask them- Ok, what are the three food groups?
They look toward each other.
No one seems to know.
Oh wait- this woman here knows. "Potatoes, rice, beans."
And my bubble is bursted. Nooooo. They are probably just amused that this Tubab girl is trying to speak their language, only to return to their homes that night to pound the millet and make plain To- again.
After the third day of nutrition talks, I showed up at my homolouge's home in the morning.
"So Aminata, are we going to do an animation today?"
"Yeah sure, what about?"
"Let's talk about AIDS."
Whoaaa there. What the heck? That totally came out of the blue. It was only the other day that I asked Irene about AIDS. She doesn't believe it is much of an issue in the village, and the health center doesn't even test for it. She gave me the go ahead to ask the sexual health questions when I do my household baseline survey around the village, but warned me that some people are embarrassed to talk about it. And now- she wants me to do a presentation. With no preparation, it wouldn't just be language I would screw up, I could totally misconstrue their cultural understanding, totally offend people, or offer information that isn't inline with Irene's. Not only did I ask Irene to hold off on this, I had to take a step back and ask myself- what is really the best use of my time here? Should I be breaking my back to try and do these animations, or do I need to just slow down, work on my language, get a little more comfortable and familiar with the place so that the work goes easier?
After talking to my Peace Corps supervisor today in Bamako, and seeing her gasp after telling her I was already doing animations, I'm starting to know the answer. But with all of the problems I'm discovering in Dombilia, I feel like I need to be doing something, even if it's just a little, to prove to myself and to my coworkers that I can. That's when I began my search for Sadi.

Searching for Sadi

I'd like to think it was a spiritual calling for a heroic adventure, but much of it simply my self doubt, ego and restlessness, but that afternoon I decided to take some action with our new malnutrition program. Fingering through the files, I dug through names of babies who showed up for weighings and treatments, and then never returned. What happened to these kids. Many died, I soon learned. But others were out there... way out there.

The thing about Dombila is it is like a labyrinith. The center of the village, where I live, is only a handful of compounds. The rest of the families are out in the twisting trails through 10 foot cornstalks. You would never know they were there unless, well, you lived there. And there are 10 little "bugus" (smaller villages) that we are responsible for- some as far as 12 or 15 kilometers away. I wonder all of the time how I'm ever going to reach these people, how I'm ever going to really learn about the village if its so hidden like this.

So I picked one name- Sadi Coulibaly- who had arrived 2 weeks ago, malnourished, to get some emergency calroies and vitamines. One year old, lived in a village only 3k away, father's name was Adu Coulibaly. I asked Irene what happened to this child- why it never returned, and she didn't know. So I offered to go find her. I hoped on my bike, and rode out into the brush, stopping to pound millet with random women before politely asking for directions.

After arriving at the home of Adu Coulibaly, I saw the child- with thinning light hair and a bony face. Still alive. Thank God. Is this Sadi? Sali. Alright, there are always mispelling in the records at the doctor's office. Father- Adu, right town, with only about 25 children in the program- this one has got to be it. I asked them why they didn't come to the health center today. Oh we were supposed to come today? I thought we were supposed to come Monday. No, good God. Today! Why didn't you come today?

I was stern with them. It's ok to be stern in Mali, especially with a serious matter such as this. I placed the stuggling child on my scale and showed the parents a chart- Sadi's age and weight pointed toward the severely malnourished category. The mother agreed to come to the health center the next morning, and I returned to Dombilia to be congradulated by my coworkers.

Sali Coulibaly arrived the next morning. Sali, Irene says, weighing her. Sali. This is Sali. And her weight puts her in the moderately malnourished category for her age. But where, she asks, where is Sadi?

Sali is here today, after a stern talking to by the funny white girl. Sali is here today, but was supposed to come Monday. But Sadi- still out there somewhere. The one I had set out to look for was not the one I retrieved. You know those shameful plunges in your stomach when you realize you made a big mistake? Yeah. One of those.

On the bright side, it was a good thing that Sali came to the health center- she was not doing well, and was able to get some emergency vitamins and calories and such. Her mother, confused about the malnutrition program and the health of her child, got a lot of her questions answered. And I sent her with a message to tell the OTHER Adu Coulibaly that her son, Sadi, needs to come to the health center immediately. She was very agreeable, sat in on my nutrition talk, and seemed glad that she came.

Here in Bamako today, I still don't know- whatever happened to Sadi? And what about the others? These babies way out in the brush that just stop coming? And with the vast and winding fields of the commune of Dombilia, the hectic schedules of the health center workers, are we ever going to find them?

You eat beans!

Joking cousins are absolutely fantastic. Why don’t we have them in America? I’ve written about them before, but it only keeps getting more intense. Especially with bean harvesting season.
Of course the big Malian fart joke, “You eat beans.” Never gets old. And if I haven’t learned any Bambara, I’ve learned how to make fun of people extensively for cooking, eating, and passing beans. It’s gotten to the point where I show up at work, and the guard, whose last name is archenemies with mine, slips me a handful of beans when he shakes my hand. There is an old woman who is one of my neighbors and joking cousins, who comes over everyday to make fun of me for eating beans. One night, after the sun set, I indeed was eating some pretty damn good beans prepared by my host mother. And wouldn’t you know it, over the mud brick wall of our compound, the head of the nosy old woman next door slow rises!
“Ahhh Diarra [my new last name since arriving in Dombila]! You are eating beans! I see it!”
Oh dear. It never ends. This is a joke that never gets old, and truthfully hasn’t for hundreds of years. But its so handy. Everywhere you go, you get along with people. If they have a last name that goes with you, you are their sister. If they have a last name of one of your ancient enemies, you just tell them they eat beans, they crack up for a few minutes, and you’ve made a friend. There is no such thing as a stranger. And with a Malian last name, there’s no such thing as a foreigner.

Shaka's family

The other day, Shaka and I took the 10mile round trip out to Dio. Though he can get possessive and annoying when he is with the younger boys, our one-on-one runs is one of my favorite pastimes. He teaches me Bambara, I teach him English, we joke about blowing snot rockets or trying to pass a bicyclist. We stopped at the Dio boutique to pick up some break and fish for the family back in Dombila. After a confusing conversation, I finally realized, Shaka is actually not my host brother, but my neighbor. He just has the same last name as me and always hangs out and eats my house. His mother, a slim, often crazy woman who comes to dance every night and almost never wears a shirt, was to be the recipient of half the fish and half of the bread.
Her name is Dalphin, a Christian who blesses me with the sign of the cross before I go to bed. To meet her, you would think she was the happiest person alive- smiling and grinning. But it wasn’t until I took my notebook, and my household questionnaire, to sit down and talk to her, that I started to realize- corn season is almost over, soon they will have no food until garden season. What do you do? Well we lay. It gets very hot for a few weeks, there is no food, so we lay down all day, and then wander the village searching for food at night. Her clothes are so ripped and worn that she worries that they will rip and her baby will fall off of her back. She has no negen to go to the bathroom, no education, and she drinks her the dirty water right out of the well. But she strives to add some vegetables and beans to her To to give her children some nutritious meals. And though skinny, they are healthy. Shaka, my God, is a little machiene! For some reason, I can understand her, linguistically. Everything she says is crystal clear. There are some people I just can NOT talk to- with lisps, stutters, mumbles, or other reasons- I just don’t understand a word that comes out of their mouth. But Dalphin, she makes perfect sense.
After I left her house, she came to my kitchen, and handed me a fresh soso- a sour fruit from her small garden. This woman with nothing to call her own, has offered me a gift. I feel like crying, but I open the door to my kitchen, grab a small bag of almonds, and offer it to her in return. Catching a glimpse of her eyes as they gazed at my stuffed kitchen shelves, my gas stove, and my collection of pots and pans, I heard her exclaim under her breath “Eeh, Allah” (Oh My God.)