Monday, September 29, 2008
Your emails
Woah! i just got tons of emails fro, you guys!!! i have limited time now on qa french computer.... but i think iùll be qble to answer most of your emails next week!!! love you qll and thankd for keeping in touch!
Things to share
Hello Everyone!
It's been quite a difficult journey getting this blog to you. In the city this weekend, the internet was down at the office and then my own personal computer died (may it rest in peace) and all of the emails and blog entries I had written are now gone. Here on my friend Caroline's computer, I've been able to type up some excerpts of my journal entries from the week and the ones I saved from my computer for you to read in the following entries. lI'm now at a littlle internet cafe, looking through this little screen I have to the outside world.
All in all, things have been going well. I'm living the life- really. I love my village- there are alot of opprotunitiies for development, and I think the next two years are going to be great. So, read what you want, and don't forget to keep in touch!
Love you!
Em
It's been quite a difficult journey getting this blog to you. In the city this weekend, the internet was down at the office and then my own personal computer died (may it rest in peace) and all of the emails and blog entries I had written are now gone. Here on my friend Caroline's computer, I've been able to type up some excerpts of my journal entries from the week and the ones I saved from my computer for you to read in the following entries. lI'm now at a littlle internet cafe, looking through this little screen I have to the outside world.
All in all, things have been going well. I'm living the life- really. I love my village- there are alot of opprotunitiies for development, and I think the next two years are going to be great. So, read what you want, and don't forget to keep in touch!
Love you!
Em
My Routine
9-23
Things are going very well for the most part- I’ve settled into somewhat of a routine and I feel like I’m doing what little I can to get my work rolling. I wake up pretty early every morning and have a few hours to myself to run, workout, or clean up before I go to the health center. My host mother brings me my corn porriage which I always mix with peanut butter. I boil some water and make some powdered milk with coffee or hot chocolate or protein powder. I draw my water from the well, take my bucket bath, and then walk over to the health center about 8:30 or 9. I work for a few hours, doing silly little tasks that they could certainly do without me- taking blood pressures, weighing women and helping with prenatal counsels. My favorite day is baby vaccination day because dozens of the most adorable babies come in on their mother’s backs. The baby weighing process isn’t quite down pat yet, so I’ve been helping with that. I have however, given up on actually holding the baby because most of them so scared to be held b a white girl that they end up peeing on me. I've also started to give a few presentations in conjunction with these days. To start off, I taught the women how to make oral rehydration solution. Go figure the first time I mixed up the salt and sugar and put way too much salt in and my coworker, Aja was laughing at me for the rest of the morning. Aja is 20 and is one of my best friends here. She helps me out a lot, and I’m helping her learn English (which would be her fourth language). She is doing somewhat of an interhip here, but is planning on going to medical school in the future.
Right before lunch I tutor my homolouge’s awkward 16-year old son in English. It’s not the first thing I want to be doing, but it’s how I can pay back my homolouge’s family for feeding me lunch everyday. After lunch, I study Bambara on my own for a while (I still haven't found a tutor) and then I "yalayala" (walk around) the village, talking to people, asking them questions about life in Dombila.
By about 4:00 boy's club starts. I teach beginning Enlish to 6 little boys (from 7-12 years old) and then afterwords, we do a workout. So I suppose I just accidentatly started my running club because one-by-one they just started following me. Now, we do little runs through the fields, stop to do pushups, lunges, and sometimes a dip in the little river that runs through it. They have a blast.
Afterwords, I take my second bucket bath, prepare and eat my dinner. Usually I just cook up anything I can find- rice, beans, potatoes, eggs.... I discovered a maringa tree in the middle of the village, whose leaves are packed with iron, protien, and fiber, so I"ve started to add them to my meal. Caroline, my teammate, came to visit one night and we cooked the extreames of both the prossesed and natural food worlds- boxed mac and cheese mixed with cooked maringa leaves. Afterwords, I relax in my family's compound, chatting, drinking tea, playing guitar and eating grilled corn until about 9:30 when I crash in bed. Donni, donni, and day by day, but you know, life is pretty good.
Things are going very well for the most part- I’ve settled into somewhat of a routine and I feel like I’m doing what little I can to get my work rolling. I wake up pretty early every morning and have a few hours to myself to run, workout, or clean up before I go to the health center. My host mother brings me my corn porriage which I always mix with peanut butter. I boil some water and make some powdered milk with coffee or hot chocolate or protein powder. I draw my water from the well, take my bucket bath, and then walk over to the health center about 8:30 or 9. I work for a few hours, doing silly little tasks that they could certainly do without me- taking blood pressures, weighing women and helping with prenatal counsels. My favorite day is baby vaccination day because dozens of the most adorable babies come in on their mother’s backs. The baby weighing process isn’t quite down pat yet, so I’ve been helping with that. I have however, given up on actually holding the baby because most of them so scared to be held b a white girl that they end up peeing on me. I've also started to give a few presentations in conjunction with these days. To start off, I taught the women how to make oral rehydration solution. Go figure the first time I mixed up the salt and sugar and put way too much salt in and my coworker, Aja was laughing at me for the rest of the morning. Aja is 20 and is one of my best friends here. She helps me out a lot, and I’m helping her learn English (which would be her fourth language). She is doing somewhat of an interhip here, but is planning on going to medical school in the future.
Right before lunch I tutor my homolouge’s awkward 16-year old son in English. It’s not the first thing I want to be doing, but it’s how I can pay back my homolouge’s family for feeding me lunch everyday. After lunch, I study Bambara on my own for a while (I still haven't found a tutor) and then I "yalayala" (walk around) the village, talking to people, asking them questions about life in Dombila.
By about 4:00 boy's club starts. I teach beginning Enlish to 6 little boys (from 7-12 years old) and then afterwords, we do a workout. So I suppose I just accidentatly started my running club because one-by-one they just started following me. Now, we do little runs through the fields, stop to do pushups, lunges, and sometimes a dip in the little river that runs through it. They have a blast.
Afterwords, I take my second bucket bath, prepare and eat my dinner. Usually I just cook up anything I can find- rice, beans, potatoes, eggs.... I discovered a maringa tree in the middle of the village, whose leaves are packed with iron, protien, and fiber, so I"ve started to add them to my meal. Caroline, my teammate, came to visit one night and we cooked the extreames of both the prossesed and natural food worlds- boxed mac and cheese mixed with cooked maringa leaves. Afterwords, I relax in my family's compound, chatting, drinking tea, playing guitar and eating grilled corn until about 9:30 when I crash in bed. Donni, donni, and day by day, but you know, life is pretty good.
A Running Partner
9-18
I've found a running prodigy- Shaka- my 11 year old younger host brother- is absolutely amazing. Yesterday, I was running to the butiki (small shop) and he and my other two younger brothers came along. Do you think we can run all the way to the butiki? It was about a half a mile- they all did it with ease- and for Shaka, I didn't have to slow my normal pace.
Do you think we can run all the way home? Piece of cake. No we're not tired. No we're not done. We ended up running about 4 miles and he hardly broke sweat. The two younger ones actually did a pretty good job for their age as well.
I ahead already ran n the morning, but thought I would encourage the boys to do another 3ish for me. Afterwords, we went to the soccer field to do sprints. Shaka's got speed too! He never fell a step behind me- though I think he probably could have out sprinted me too, but he was either being polite or he does not yet realize his own speek because he barely lost his breath. We returned to the house, stretched, and I gave them some peanuts and water. Good workout boys.
"Aminata, let's go"- says Shaka
"Where?"
"Running."
He hadn't had enough- we did three more miles- passed by his girlfriend's house as always- and paused to do some pushups and lunges before returning back If it wasn't getting dark and we weren't eating soon, he would have kept going.
I'm going to the maket with you Saturday, he says. It's about 4 or 5 miles away. But I'm riding my bike there. He sayd "no problem, "I will run." As much as I want to see this boy run 10 miles, I'm going to spend the day there hanging out with my teammate Caroline, so I'd be better off without compan. I'm sure though, we'll be running a lot together. I wonder if there's any opprotunities for him to pursue his talents. If only I could find him a place to shine- I have fantasizes about trainning him for stardom. The only time he slows down is during the real rocky parts of the road- he has no shoes.
9=20
The next morning I woke up before my brothers and decided to run a few miles before they joined me. After about 2 miles, I met Shaka on the road. “Aminata, I’m coming to the market in Dio with you today.” I had planned on riding my bike the 5 miles to the bigger town to go to market and visit my teammate, Caroline, who works with a women’s shea butter organization there.
“You can’t Shaka because I’m riding my bike there.”
“That’s ok, I’ll run.”
“It’s really far”
“I know.”
“I’ll tell you what Shaka, let’s run to the market together right now.” I thought he could probably handle a 10 mile run, and then I could stop at Caroline’s house and make plans for the rest of the day. Shaka agreed, but then affirmed that he was going to come with me when I returned on my bike. He was basically telling me he wanted to put in a 20 mile day, but I figured that after the first trip to Dio, he’d be hot and tired enough to let me go on my own.
On the way over, Shaka told me he wanted to go to America with me to run and go to school. God, how much do I want to take you, I thought. And I gave my typical answer, “If you want to come to America, you have to learn English.” But here, I had the opportunity to teach. It took us 5 miles, but he got down “Hello my name is Shaka, how are you?” Returning to Dombilia, I think Shaka got a bit tired at mile 9- not as tired as me though, and I finally saw that this kid could certaintly outrun me when he comes to terms with his own speed. I washed, ate, and loaded my bike to return to the market. Slowly starting down the road, I noticed there he was, this skinny little 11 year old with cavities blackening his excited smile, following me. I stopped and put my hand on his shoulder: “Shaka- you really want to run to Dio again?”
“Yes.”
“You think you can?”
“Yes.” And you know what- I thought he could too.
“Alright, but if you get thristy, you tell me, because I have water in my bag.”
We stopped only once for water, and he was slowing down a bit as we pulled into the town the second time. I gave him some water and bought him some peanuts, but he needed no recovery. He was content and ready to help me do my shopping.
Caroline and I traversed the market- I didn’t buy as much as I want for fear of looking like Mrs. Moneybags in front of my little brother, who asked me to buy him clothes and stopped to gaze at the athletic shoes. It broke my heart to tell him I couldn’t buy him things right now, because then I would have to buy things for everyone. I can’t be playing favorites, but in truth, I definitely have a favorite.
Shaka is human- he was too tired to run back in the blazing sun of the afternoon, so he hopped on the back of my bike. I ran 12 miles today. This little 11year old ran 15. What am I going to do with him?
I've found a running prodigy- Shaka- my 11 year old younger host brother- is absolutely amazing. Yesterday, I was running to the butiki (small shop) and he and my other two younger brothers came along. Do you think we can run all the way to the butiki? It was about a half a mile- they all did it with ease- and for Shaka, I didn't have to slow my normal pace.
Do you think we can run all the way home? Piece of cake. No we're not tired. No we're not done. We ended up running about 4 miles and he hardly broke sweat. The two younger ones actually did a pretty good job for their age as well.
I ahead already ran n the morning, but thought I would encourage the boys to do another 3ish for me. Afterwords, we went to the soccer field to do sprints. Shaka's got speed too! He never fell a step behind me- though I think he probably could have out sprinted me too, but he was either being polite or he does not yet realize his own speek because he barely lost his breath. We returned to the house, stretched, and I gave them some peanuts and water. Good workout boys.
"Aminata, let's go"- says Shaka
"Where?"
"Running."
He hadn't had enough- we did three more miles- passed by his girlfriend's house as always- and paused to do some pushups and lunges before returning back If it wasn't getting dark and we weren't eating soon, he would have kept going.
I'm going to the maket with you Saturday, he says. It's about 4 or 5 miles away. But I'm riding my bike there. He sayd "no problem, "I will run." As much as I want to see this boy run 10 miles, I'm going to spend the day there hanging out with my teammate Caroline, so I'd be better off without compan. I'm sure though, we'll be running a lot together. I wonder if there's any opprotunities for him to pursue his talents. If only I could find him a place to shine- I have fantasizes about trainning him for stardom. The only time he slows down is during the real rocky parts of the road- he has no shoes.
9=20
The next morning I woke up before my brothers and decided to run a few miles before they joined me. After about 2 miles, I met Shaka on the road. “Aminata, I’m coming to the market in Dio with you today.” I had planned on riding my bike the 5 miles to the bigger town to go to market and visit my teammate, Caroline, who works with a women’s shea butter organization there.
“You can’t Shaka because I’m riding my bike there.”
“That’s ok, I’ll run.”
“It’s really far”
“I know.”
“I’ll tell you what Shaka, let’s run to the market together right now.” I thought he could probably handle a 10 mile run, and then I could stop at Caroline’s house and make plans for the rest of the day. Shaka agreed, but then affirmed that he was going to come with me when I returned on my bike. He was basically telling me he wanted to put in a 20 mile day, but I figured that after the first trip to Dio, he’d be hot and tired enough to let me go on my own.
On the way over, Shaka told me he wanted to go to America with me to run and go to school. God, how much do I want to take you, I thought. And I gave my typical answer, “If you want to come to America, you have to learn English.” But here, I had the opportunity to teach. It took us 5 miles, but he got down “Hello my name is Shaka, how are you?” Returning to Dombilia, I think Shaka got a bit tired at mile 9- not as tired as me though, and I finally saw that this kid could certaintly outrun me when he comes to terms with his own speed. I washed, ate, and loaded my bike to return to the market. Slowly starting down the road, I noticed there he was, this skinny little 11 year old with cavities blackening his excited smile, following me. I stopped and put my hand on his shoulder: “Shaka- you really want to run to Dio again?”
“Yes.”
“You think you can?”
“Yes.” And you know what- I thought he could too.
“Alright, but if you get thristy, you tell me, because I have water in my bag.”
We stopped only once for water, and he was slowing down a bit as we pulled into the town the second time. I gave him some water and bought him some peanuts, but he needed no recovery. He was content and ready to help me do my shopping.
Caroline and I traversed the market- I didn’t buy as much as I want for fear of looking like Mrs. Moneybags in front of my little brother, who asked me to buy him clothes and stopped to gaze at the athletic shoes. It broke my heart to tell him I couldn’t buy him things right now, because then I would have to buy things for everyone. I can’t be playing favorites, but in truth, I definitely have a favorite.
Shaka is human- he was too tired to run back in the blazing sun of the afternoon, so he hopped on the back of my bike. I ran 12 miles today. This little 11year old ran 15. What am I going to do with him?
My Neighbors
9-24
There's a little girl who is terrified to even look at me. About 5 years old, she comes around my compound on her mother's back, squinting her eyes as hard as she can. The other day, she was sitting on the bench outside of my house with my host sisters. When I came out, she imedimmately thre her hands to her eyes and ran away, much to the amusement of my host sisters.
9-18
Today, two women came and one thrusted her baby at me and wanted me to breast feed it. Women in the village are constantly breast feeding- wheather its their own cild or someone else's- its just a community resouce- she almost yanked my breast out of my bra to feed it. "No, no- I can't do it."
"Why?"
"They're... too small" I said.
"No they're not, they're big!" Oh well thank you, but really. I explained to her that I can't breast feed because I've never had children. This is unbelievable to them. I'm not married. Even more autonishing. Then te game begins- who are you going to marry? My mother is convinced it is going to be the head nurse at the health center, even though he already has a wife, I could be the second. And apparently, word got around that I was staying for five years instead of two. Plenty of time to get married. And once I do, I'll have to stay at least that long.
There's a little girl who is terrified to even look at me. About 5 years old, she comes around my compound on her mother's back, squinting her eyes as hard as she can. The other day, she was sitting on the bench outside of my house with my host sisters. When I came out, she imedimmately thre her hands to her eyes and ran away, much to the amusement of my host sisters.
9-18
Today, two women came and one thrusted her baby at me and wanted me to breast feed it. Women in the village are constantly breast feeding- wheather its their own cild or someone else's- its just a community resouce- she almost yanked my breast out of my bra to feed it. "No, no- I can't do it."
"Why?"
"They're... too small" I said.
"No they're not, they're big!" Oh well thank you, but really. I explained to her that I can't breast feed because I've never had children. This is unbelievable to them. I'm not married. Even more autonishing. Then te game begins- who are you going to marry? My mother is convinced it is going to be the head nurse at the health center, even though he already has a wife, I could be the second. And apparently, word got around that I was staying for five years instead of two. Plenty of time to get married. And once I do, I'll have to stay at least that long.
Irene
9-20
There is something different about Irene. Unlike many of the other women I've encountered, she does not wear a sunken face with the wrinkled of oppression. Instead, her cheek bones are stong and full, like an opera singer. She has a sort of husky rasp to her voice that countermines the disintingrating whispers of her patients. Her presence commends respect and when she puts on her white couat, tilts her reading glasses, and looks someone in the eye, she is all buisness. With her fully rooted stance, I sometimes forget she is Malian until she takes her youngest off her back to breast feel while filling out her paperwork. A divorceed mother of 7, leading a successful career, and still bearing the biggest rosiest cheeks I've seen on a Malin. Well that, that's a real woman.
There is something different about Irene. Unlike many of the other women I've encountered, she does not wear a sunken face with the wrinkled of oppression. Instead, her cheek bones are stong and full, like an opera singer. She has a sort of husky rasp to her voice that countermines the disintingrating whispers of her patients. Her presence commends respect and when she puts on her white couat, tilts her reading glasses, and looks someone in the eye, she is all buisness. With her fully rooted stance, I sometimes forget she is Malian until she takes her youngest off her back to breast feel while filling out her paperwork. A divorceed mother of 7, leading a successful career, and still bearing the biggest rosiest cheeks I've seen on a Malin. Well that, that's a real woman.
Vaccinations in the Brush
Today, I went with Irene and the vaccinator, Bakary, to a neighboring village to register and vaccinate the newborn babies. I decided that I would not be overly ambitious to do any sort of education animation this first time around, so I tagged along just to observe. Only 10k away, I thought the bike ride would not be difficult- but in the blaring sun, over rocks, crevices, hills and rivers, I struggled to keep up with Irene and Bakary, who were leading the way on a motorcycle. The landscape however, was breathtaking. Down here in the farming valleys, I suppose that this is the most beautiful time of year. At the end of the rainy season, everything is green, and I have trouble imagining the red-dust covered Africa that has been repeatedly described to me.
The vaccinations at the small maternity went quickly. Though we were practically finished before noon, a harsh and windy storm rolled into the valley. I thought the rainy season was over, but this was one of the biggest storms I had ever seen. So we went inside the maternity to wait it out. For hours upon hours I sat inside the slowly flooding small maternity. I’m truly in the middle of nowhere. With no signs of letting up, I watched as the rains turned the dirt roads into rivers, glanced at my bicycle, and seriously questioned if I was going to be able to make it back to Dombila that day.
I’ve learned though, in situations such as this, worrying is completely useless. So, with nothing much else to do, I took a nap, and chatted with the others in the maternity.
Irene is different
I was hanging out in a room with two men- a middle aged, attentive and engergic one, and an older Muslim, wrapped in blue robes and a turban. The middle-aged man asked me how I was going to vote in Novemeber. I’ve been asked that question before, and by now I know that it is always a polite opening to segway into a conversation about Barak Obama. Once I admitted that I was voting for him, we had a fantastic conversation about politics and world issues. The quiet Muslim sitting in the corner said nothing for a while until finally he looks at me and asks: “Are there cows in America?”
I almost burst out laughing. Yes, there are cows in America. A huge smile took over his face. “Oh wonderful! I am a cow herder. I love cows.” Good Lord, I thought, where the heck am I right now?
The rain finally let up, but the roads were still flooded. We were able to slowly ride back to Dombilia, and I returned covered in mud. I got ready for my run with Shaka, but my host mother said we shouldn’t go. “It’s too wet out there- you can run tomorrow morning.” Something my mom at home would have said. I wasn’t going to argue though, I had certainly had my workout that day.
The vaccinations at the small maternity went quickly. Though we were practically finished before noon, a harsh and windy storm rolled into the valley. I thought the rainy season was over, but this was one of the biggest storms I had ever seen. So we went inside the maternity to wait it out. For hours upon hours I sat inside the slowly flooding small maternity. I’m truly in the middle of nowhere. With no signs of letting up, I watched as the rains turned the dirt roads into rivers, glanced at my bicycle, and seriously questioned if I was going to be able to make it back to Dombila that day.
I’ve learned though, in situations such as this, worrying is completely useless. So, with nothing much else to do, I took a nap, and chatted with the others in the maternity.
Irene is different
I was hanging out in a room with two men- a middle aged, attentive and engergic one, and an older Muslim, wrapped in blue robes and a turban. The middle-aged man asked me how I was going to vote in Novemeber. I’ve been asked that question before, and by now I know that it is always a polite opening to segway into a conversation about Barak Obama. Once I admitted that I was voting for him, we had a fantastic conversation about politics and world issues. The quiet Muslim sitting in the corner said nothing for a while until finally he looks at me and asks: “Are there cows in America?”
I almost burst out laughing. Yes, there are cows in America. A huge smile took over his face. “Oh wonderful! I am a cow herder. I love cows.” Good Lord, I thought, where the heck am I right now?
The rain finally let up, but the roads were still flooded. We were able to slowly ride back to Dombilia, and I returned covered in mud. I got ready for my run with Shaka, but my host mother said we shouldn’t go. “It’s too wet out there- you can run tomorrow morning.” Something my mom at home would have said. I wasn’t going to argue though, I had certainly had my workout that day.
Chapel of Dombila
I just came back from church. I kept hearing that there was a church in Dombila, but from what I gathered, it was a very small and informal Sunday gathering. Alighn with my expectations, I was lead to a family compound, and sat on a bench with two young Christian men- Raymond and Noelle. Another came over to talk and shared his Bambara mistellet with me. With a nostalgic smile, I looked over the familiar Our Father, Hail Mary and Apostle’s creed in this new language I was learning. So this is African Christian church- we sit and discuss the Word together in a family compound. Pretty cool.
But my expectations were tremendously exceeded when a boy started to ring the Sunday morning bell. “Let’s go.” the boys said to me. “Where?” I was a bit confused. “To the chapel.”
Just around the corner was a small mud building. I step inside- and with two rows of mud pews at my side, I notice the cruxifix hanging humbly in the front. Yet simple as it was, it drew tremendous reverence from the people entering. There is a small alter with two candles burning on each side. To my left- a calendar from last year- stuck on December with a midevil drawing of the Holy Mother and Baby Jesus sat below chipped and chewed statue of Mary. I am completely swept away. I feel so at home among these things, yet so far away at the same time. I hadn’t realized how much I missed this Sunday-morning feeling until it returned to me. If my white skin wasn’t enough to make me stick out among a dozen other people, it might have been the fact that I had to regularly wipe the tears from my face.
We proceeded with the familiar Catholic mass. I understood enough to identify the parts of the mass and which gospel we were listening to. And like many other Sundays growing up, my mind wandered during the homily to other things, my hands went to others as we said the “Our Father”- I know what this is about here. I am a part of this. As we offered our prayers, it was only the lump in my throat that held me back from praying for you all in front of the congregation. I have said I have prayed for you before, but today- I fully and completely sent my entire heart to you all. And as much as I wanted to stay after church and get to know my Christian brothers and sisters with the crosses around their necks, to talk to the cantor about the Malian Christian music, to ask for a Bambara bible so I could learn the prayers, I couldn’t bring myself to do any of these things. I walked back to my hut, emptied the rest of my tears in my pillow, and prayed for all of the things that I was too choked up to let my mind penetrate on them inside the chapel.
But my expectations were tremendously exceeded when a boy started to ring the Sunday morning bell. “Let’s go.” the boys said to me. “Where?” I was a bit confused. “To the chapel.”
Just around the corner was a small mud building. I step inside- and with two rows of mud pews at my side, I notice the cruxifix hanging humbly in the front. Yet simple as it was, it drew tremendous reverence from the people entering. There is a small alter with two candles burning on each side. To my left- a calendar from last year- stuck on December with a midevil drawing of the Holy Mother and Baby Jesus sat below chipped and chewed statue of Mary. I am completely swept away. I feel so at home among these things, yet so far away at the same time. I hadn’t realized how much I missed this Sunday-morning feeling until it returned to me. If my white skin wasn’t enough to make me stick out among a dozen other people, it might have been the fact that I had to regularly wipe the tears from my face.
We proceeded with the familiar Catholic mass. I understood enough to identify the parts of the mass and which gospel we were listening to. And like many other Sundays growing up, my mind wandered during the homily to other things, my hands went to others as we said the “Our Father”- I know what this is about here. I am a part of this. As we offered our prayers, it was only the lump in my throat that held me back from praying for you all in front of the congregation. I have said I have prayed for you before, but today- I fully and completely sent my entire heart to you all. And as much as I wanted to stay after church and get to know my Christian brothers and sisters with the crosses around their necks, to talk to the cantor about the Malian Christian music, to ask for a Bambara bible so I could learn the prayers, I couldn’t bring myself to do any of these things. I walked back to my hut, emptied the rest of my tears in my pillow, and prayed for all of the things that I was too choked up to let my mind penetrate on them inside the chapel.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Off to the brush
So I did it. On September 12, 2008, I stood up in my native “complay” on the lawn of the United States embassy, put up my right hand and swore to serve Mali to the best of my ability for the next two years. It was of course another hot day, but under the tents fanning ourselves with our programs, it almost felt like graduation all over again, (except for the fact that there were speeches not only in English, but in French, Bambara, and Bomou). Most volunteers have were sporting local fabrics. It’s funny to take a step back and remind myself that our men are basically wearing shiny pajama sets because in all honesty, they were lookin quite sharp. So rhis is it. We’re being sent off. A new adventure has begun.
The days leading up to swear in had their ups and downs. It was great being back at Tubaniso, because at this point we’ve become such a close knit group of people. Between sessions we’ve been playing sports, board games, cards, projecting movies in the cafeteria, and just having great conversations. We closed the week with a talent show and superlatives.
So I guess in a way it was good to be in the company of my pals when I got sick yet again. (*Disclaimer: I am going to tell this story perhaps suspenseful and dramatically so just to forewarn you, right now, I am perfectly fine). Tuesday morning I woke up with body cramps and thinking that I just slept on my side wrong, I went for a little run to loosen up. The cramps never went away and by lunch, I was feeling dizzy and had trouble breathing. I spent the rest of the afternoon in the medical center sweating out my fever and trying to take slow deep breaths. The cramps, body aches and general fatigue got so bad that it hurt to lay down, sit up, and walking was out of the question. The nurse wasn’t on duty so I gave her a call and had to answer some scary questions. “Are you up to date on your malaria medicine? Have you gotten a lot of mosquito bites lately?” I took some Tylenol for my fever and started to feel a bit better around dinner. By the time I went to sleep, ironically I felt like myself again. I woke up the next morning feeling better than myself. After a particularly strong 11 mile run, I showed up to breakfast as happy as can be. “Guys I feel great today!” I exclaimed to my friends. “No fever, no cramps- nothing!” “Great” one of my pals said, “If your fever comes back this afternoon you definitely have malaria.” Thanks, Beatrice. She’s right though- malaria comes in cyclic spells of fever, chills, and body aches, and then goes away for a bit.
But the fever didn’t come back, I went through the rest of the day and the next morning still feeling awesome. It wasn’t until lunchtime on Thursday that I started to have pain in my chest and trouble breathing again. I went to see the nurse- tested negative for malaria (thank God!) and had a normal temperature. Probably just hearburn she said- and then left for the day. I went to lay down for a few hours before my run- took 1, 2, 3, then four anti-acids with no relief. An attempt to run lasted about 10 steps until I felt like someone was sweezing their fists around my lungs- tighter and tighter if I kept going. A banna (That’s done). I rested up enough to drag myself to the home-stay family party that night-one member from each of our host families came for dinner and a recognition ceremony. And to my luck, so was the Peace Corps Doctor.
The homestay party was a riot. A bus pulled up with dozens of wide eyed faced- like a grammar school field trip, but instead the bus was filled with our Malian fathers wearing their best threads. Most homestay villages were less “out in the brush” than ours, so it was especially funny to see the Satinebugou dads raving about the food at Tubasnio and introducing themselves to all the big-wigs at the Peace Corps. The three host dads from Satinebougu have a favorite pastime of joking extensively about whose host daughter is the best. So we turned a lot of heads at dinner because our fathers would make a big loud fuss when one of us got the drinks or cleared the dishes. It always segways into all the rest of the things we can or can’t do “She can’t cook, she can’t speak Bambara, she never studies, but my daughter stays up all night studying, and washed my clothes, and works the fields…etc..” The rest of the Malians may have thought our host fathers were the hicks that came and crashed the party, but the Americans certainly thought they were the life of the evening.
I finally got a hold of the doctor to open up the med unit, still with a fever and trouble breathing. Thankfully though, she was able to diagnose me. Not malaria, not heartburn, but actually a virus that had infected the muscles in my torso and around my rib cage. “It will pass in 5-7 days” she says, as she gives me some extra strong anti-inflammatory.
I’ll be ok, I know, but I’m a bit worried at this point that I won’t be able to enjoy the next day. After swear in- swimming, clubbing, and lots of festivities had been planned. All I wanted to do was dance and laugh. But when lifting my arms or taking deep breath was practically impossible, things were looking bleak.
Luckily, the medication worked well, and I felt pretty ok for swear-in day. Today, I’m even better- back running as well. And I certainly enjoyed myself on swear-in day.
After the ceremony, we headed to the “American Club”. I almost felt like the Peace Corps rented out my backyard on Hickory lane. We relaxed for hours by the pool, played some sand volleyball, and grilled out hot dogs and hamburgers. For the whole afternoon, we were back home, and I had to awaken myself to figure out why when I left the gates there were these strange looking African beggars all around.
We were all staying in a hotel in Bamako that night- and my fantasies about sharing a room with three girlfriends, and getting ready for the night on the town together were crushed when I saw that the hotel manager had given us two large conference rooms with dozens of mattresses lined up on the floor together. Bare white walls, bear white sheets- it almost felt like an insane asylum. But hey- I did get a real shower, and a real toilet to use, so in my book it was worth it.
We proceeded to spend the rest of the night dancing at two clubs- the later supposedly being among the nicest in West Africa. Most of the music was American hip-hop, and again, we felt completely removed. I was feeling well enough to enjoy myself and the company of my new friends, who are now referred to as ‘Honey Bunches of Oats.” (An announcement was made by the veteran volunteers that this would be our stage name- because as a freshman class of PCVs, we’re “sweet, wholesome, but a little nutty.”
The past few days have been like a lazy vacation here at Tubaniso- which makes it harder by the day to imagine being left out in the middle of nowhere sooner than I’ll ever be comfortable with. With the majority of volunteers having already left for their regions, it was only us in the Bamako region left here to prepare for site. Yesterday, we traveled to the regional capital, Koulikoro, to meet the governor. The beautiful city sat beneath green clifs and on the shores of Niger River that was more blue and inviting than the one we’ve known in Bamako. Protocal was like much in Mali- a silly formality. Danielle Hunt- this story is for you- During our meeting, the general’s cell phone went off. A big Malian man with military badges was fumbling for the small device in his pocket that was singing- no joke- “Boom Boom Boom Boom- I want you in my room”- and I was at serious risk for an uncontrollable laugh attack.
So at this moment, I’m sitting in my hut at Tubaniso for the last morning. The tucans are starting to chirp and the sun is just beginning to rise on an already humid and muggy day. This is the beginning of the mini-hot season that will tax on us for a brief couple of weeks before “nene waati” (cold season). In just a few hours- I load up my things on the Peace Corps SUV, and take off with my teammate Caroline, who is in the town just 7k away from my own. I’ve got a bike now, a gas stove, and a lot of letters from you all. So things I suppose will be a little easier. “We’re gonna wine them, dine them, and then throw ‘em out in the brush for two years,” I overheard one of the veteran volunteer trainers say. After living in this fantasy western world, it’s going to be quite a shock to go back to speaking Bambara and living on my own. The next three months are supposed to be for site assessment and smaller projects. My main task is to survey the village, integrate myself, and really get a sense of the needs of the community. When January comes, we all go back for a brief training session where we present reports on our sites and proposed project ideas for our service. Basically what it comes down to is- this is my time. There’s no more structure, no one (officially) telling me what to do. My immediate job is to get to know Dombila- and embrace it as my home for the next two years, and its people as my second family. I’m not sure when I’ll get to internet again, but it’s looking like I’m going to get together in Koulikoro with some of my teammates in two weeks, so hopefully there will be internet there. This is the time though, that I’ll be writing lots and lots of letters- so watch out for that. I’m excited though. I’m a real volunteer now, and I have a home where I can unpack my bags and not worry about packing them up again in a week. So “Anka Taa” (Let’s go). My SUV leaves in an hour. Dombila… here I come.
The days leading up to swear in had their ups and downs. It was great being back at Tubaniso, because at this point we’ve become such a close knit group of people. Between sessions we’ve been playing sports, board games, cards, projecting movies in the cafeteria, and just having great conversations. We closed the week with a talent show and superlatives.
So I guess in a way it was good to be in the company of my pals when I got sick yet again. (*Disclaimer: I am going to tell this story perhaps suspenseful and dramatically so just to forewarn you, right now, I am perfectly fine). Tuesday morning I woke up with body cramps and thinking that I just slept on my side wrong, I went for a little run to loosen up. The cramps never went away and by lunch, I was feeling dizzy and had trouble breathing. I spent the rest of the afternoon in the medical center sweating out my fever and trying to take slow deep breaths. The cramps, body aches and general fatigue got so bad that it hurt to lay down, sit up, and walking was out of the question. The nurse wasn’t on duty so I gave her a call and had to answer some scary questions. “Are you up to date on your malaria medicine? Have you gotten a lot of mosquito bites lately?” I took some Tylenol for my fever and started to feel a bit better around dinner. By the time I went to sleep, ironically I felt like myself again. I woke up the next morning feeling better than myself. After a particularly strong 11 mile run, I showed up to breakfast as happy as can be. “Guys I feel great today!” I exclaimed to my friends. “No fever, no cramps- nothing!” “Great” one of my pals said, “If your fever comes back this afternoon you definitely have malaria.” Thanks, Beatrice. She’s right though- malaria comes in cyclic spells of fever, chills, and body aches, and then goes away for a bit.
But the fever didn’t come back, I went through the rest of the day and the next morning still feeling awesome. It wasn’t until lunchtime on Thursday that I started to have pain in my chest and trouble breathing again. I went to see the nurse- tested negative for malaria (thank God!) and had a normal temperature. Probably just hearburn she said- and then left for the day. I went to lay down for a few hours before my run- took 1, 2, 3, then four anti-acids with no relief. An attempt to run lasted about 10 steps until I felt like someone was sweezing their fists around my lungs- tighter and tighter if I kept going. A banna (That’s done). I rested up enough to drag myself to the home-stay family party that night-one member from each of our host families came for dinner and a recognition ceremony. And to my luck, so was the Peace Corps Doctor.
The homestay party was a riot. A bus pulled up with dozens of wide eyed faced- like a grammar school field trip, but instead the bus was filled with our Malian fathers wearing their best threads. Most homestay villages were less “out in the brush” than ours, so it was especially funny to see the Satinebugou dads raving about the food at Tubasnio and introducing themselves to all the big-wigs at the Peace Corps. The three host dads from Satinebougu have a favorite pastime of joking extensively about whose host daughter is the best. So we turned a lot of heads at dinner because our fathers would make a big loud fuss when one of us got the drinks or cleared the dishes. It always segways into all the rest of the things we can or can’t do “She can’t cook, she can’t speak Bambara, she never studies, but my daughter stays up all night studying, and washed my clothes, and works the fields…etc..” The rest of the Malians may have thought our host fathers were the hicks that came and crashed the party, but the Americans certainly thought they were the life of the evening.
I finally got a hold of the doctor to open up the med unit, still with a fever and trouble breathing. Thankfully though, she was able to diagnose me. Not malaria, not heartburn, but actually a virus that had infected the muscles in my torso and around my rib cage. “It will pass in 5-7 days” she says, as she gives me some extra strong anti-inflammatory.
I’ll be ok, I know, but I’m a bit worried at this point that I won’t be able to enjoy the next day. After swear in- swimming, clubbing, and lots of festivities had been planned. All I wanted to do was dance and laugh. But when lifting my arms or taking deep breath was practically impossible, things were looking bleak.
Luckily, the medication worked well, and I felt pretty ok for swear-in day. Today, I’m even better- back running as well. And I certainly enjoyed myself on swear-in day.
After the ceremony, we headed to the “American Club”. I almost felt like the Peace Corps rented out my backyard on Hickory lane. We relaxed for hours by the pool, played some sand volleyball, and grilled out hot dogs and hamburgers. For the whole afternoon, we were back home, and I had to awaken myself to figure out why when I left the gates there were these strange looking African beggars all around.
We were all staying in a hotel in Bamako that night- and my fantasies about sharing a room with three girlfriends, and getting ready for the night on the town together were crushed when I saw that the hotel manager had given us two large conference rooms with dozens of mattresses lined up on the floor together. Bare white walls, bear white sheets- it almost felt like an insane asylum. But hey- I did get a real shower, and a real toilet to use, so in my book it was worth it.
We proceeded to spend the rest of the night dancing at two clubs- the later supposedly being among the nicest in West Africa. Most of the music was American hip-hop, and again, we felt completely removed. I was feeling well enough to enjoy myself and the company of my new friends, who are now referred to as ‘Honey Bunches of Oats.” (An announcement was made by the veteran volunteers that this would be our stage name- because as a freshman class of PCVs, we’re “sweet, wholesome, but a little nutty.”
The past few days have been like a lazy vacation here at Tubaniso- which makes it harder by the day to imagine being left out in the middle of nowhere sooner than I’ll ever be comfortable with. With the majority of volunteers having already left for their regions, it was only us in the Bamako region left here to prepare for site. Yesterday, we traveled to the regional capital, Koulikoro, to meet the governor. The beautiful city sat beneath green clifs and on the shores of Niger River that was more blue and inviting than the one we’ve known in Bamako. Protocal was like much in Mali- a silly formality. Danielle Hunt- this story is for you- During our meeting, the general’s cell phone went off. A big Malian man with military badges was fumbling for the small device in his pocket that was singing- no joke- “Boom Boom Boom Boom- I want you in my room”- and I was at serious risk for an uncontrollable laugh attack.
So at this moment, I’m sitting in my hut at Tubaniso for the last morning. The tucans are starting to chirp and the sun is just beginning to rise on an already humid and muggy day. This is the beginning of the mini-hot season that will tax on us for a brief couple of weeks before “nene waati” (cold season). In just a few hours- I load up my things on the Peace Corps SUV, and take off with my teammate Caroline, who is in the town just 7k away from my own. I’ve got a bike now, a gas stove, and a lot of letters from you all. So things I suppose will be a little easier. “We’re gonna wine them, dine them, and then throw ‘em out in the brush for two years,” I overheard one of the veteran volunteer trainers say. After living in this fantasy western world, it’s going to be quite a shock to go back to speaking Bambara and living on my own. The next three months are supposed to be for site assessment and smaller projects. My main task is to survey the village, integrate myself, and really get a sense of the needs of the community. When January comes, we all go back for a brief training session where we present reports on our sites and proposed project ideas for our service. Basically what it comes down to is- this is my time. There’s no more structure, no one (officially) telling me what to do. My immediate job is to get to know Dombila- and embrace it as my home for the next two years, and its people as my second family. I’m not sure when I’ll get to internet again, but it’s looking like I’m going to get together in Koulikoro with some of my teammates in two weeks, so hopefully there will be internet there. This is the time though, that I’ll be writing lots and lots of letters- so watch out for that. I’m excited though. I’m a real volunteer now, and I have a home where I can unpack my bags and not worry about packing them up again in a week. So “Anka Taa” (Let’s go). My SUV leaves in an hour. Dombila… here I come.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Promised pictures
You can check out some of my other pics here:
http://picasaweb.google.com/emilyahurley/EmMali?authkey=JgUxRpHGGQc
Monday, September 8, 2008
Ready to go
So... I thought all of the pictures I uploaded come out, but obviously not. When I find some faster internet and some more patience, I'll post the rest of the pictures I talked about in the entry.
Is it really September back in the states? In so many ways, I feel like time has stopped since I got here. And because its scorching hot in the afternoons, I’m still in July mindset. But you’re all starting back up with school, jobs, getting ready for the leaves to change…It was so hard for me to conceptualize this out in the homestay village for 3 weeks.
But when I returned to the training center- I was bombarded with letters, packages, emails, blog messages, and I spent some amazing hours reading about what you are all up to, and counting my blessings. I’ve gotten a reputation among the Peace Corps volunteers of getting the most letters from home. I love hearing from you all. When Malians greet, they typically ask “How is your family?” before they ask “How are you?” It’s a nice little reminder about the value of having a supportive network of family and friends. And I want to thank you for pulling me though, and for inspiring me- with both your encouraging words and with the work that you yourselves are doing in your lives.
It’s hard also to believe that in less than a week, I will be sworn in as an official Peace Corps volunteer. Training is over. Sunday, I said goodbye to my host family- which was quite awkward. All I wanted to do was hug them, but Malians don’t hug. So we just gave a bunch of blessings and I promised to come and visit. Malians also don’t talk about pregnancy- so having noticed that my host mom was starting to slightly show her third child on the way, I pulled my aunt and grandmother aside and said “Call me for the baptism”- and they burst out in giggles. Oh, she knows! The “malaria” that my host mother had during the last stay, my language tutor claims is what they call “white girl’s malaria”… i.e. there’s somethin cookin in the oven.
Life in Satinebougu was wonderful, and we got some good work done. There have been some pretty hot afternoons which makes work hard for anyone. Plus, toward the end of our stay, Ramadan began and energy levels waned among those fasting. No food, no drink during the day. I awake to Muslim hymns blasting on the radio while my family eats a big meal about 4:30 in the morning, and then as the fast breaks in the evening, they have porridge with tons of sugar to hold over until dinner. Not everyone fasts though, and as the season went on, some people began taking meals during the day because of health reasons. It’s been quite incredible to experience. The night before the first day, I watched my young sisters put on their best head scarves and pray. My grandmother and I then exchanged hymns and spoke about our religions, their differences and similarities, and how we share Abraham as our father.
Before Ramadan is the time to get weddings in and we were lucky enough to attend one within our village. I’ve included some pictures of it. You can see one ritual where an elder woman is washing the face of the bride before she changes into her formal garb. Elders are extremely respected in Malian society that it is said when and old man dies, it is as if a library is burned down. We told them that some Americans think elders are a burden or are loosing their minds a bit, much to their disgust. There was also plenty of dancing at the wedding, with some make-shift musical instruments, like this woman playing a wooden bowl afloat over a tub of water. Later, we feasted on meat, vegetables, and rice. The picture here is of the two other trainees in my village and our two language tutors sitting around the communal bowl. Both the trainees and the teachers have become my close friends. We got to the point that for our language lessons at the end of training, we would basically just girl talk/gossip in Bamabara. I’m going to miss them! The two Malian women I am standing between in the one picture are my language tutor, Fatimata and Kajatu.
Aside from language training, we did some practice health education activities. We taught our families how to treat mosquito nets and we painted a mural to sensitize the community about handwashing. We also had a day of baby weighing (which was quite a scene with 45 babies being shoved at us, one after another, as we proceeded to hang them by rubber shorts to a scale on a tree branch. Good Lord the noise! Well, I’d be screaming my lungs out too if my mother handed me to the scary white girl so she could hang me in a tree swing. The next day, we invited the mothers, especially those with underweight children, to come to an ameliorated porridge making demonstration. Together, we made porridge that opposed to their typical pure-starch porridge, included peanut powder for protein and squeezed fruit for vitamins. It’s a sustainable way to combat malnutrition because it uses resources and techniques already present in the community. Finally, our big hurrah was our health animation. Each of us lead a group discussion about a health topic. A challenge to do in Bambara of course, but really, it went well. The village women came to hear Kira speak of water treatment, Beatrice about malaria, and as for me, I talked about diarrhea and how to make oral rehydration drinks. I concluded my animation with an incredibly cheesy, but in that sense, rather funny, song about diarrhea my guitar. And yes, we all danced, to the diarrhea Bambara song.
These three weeks was not all work though- we got out to Bamako on both Sundays. One was to browse around the national museum, the other was an afternoon by a hotel pool. It was nice to get out of the village, see our pals- almost like the anticipation of a family vacation. Complete with games of sharks and minnows, chicken fights, and drinks by the pool, in a way it was. Besides some stretches of homesickness, these past few weeks have been pretty even keel. The emotional rollercoaster of culture sock has settled a bit, less highs, less lows, almost like everyday life. Almost.
With my improved Bamabara and familiarity with my surroundings, I had the opportunity to become really close with my host family. I suppose I’ll start with Jenabu, the youngest. At 2, I think she might have been sick when I made my first impression of her- crying all of the time. Now whenever she cries I tell her that I am going to cry. I start making a fool out of myself with a fake cry and pretty soon she is running around giggling. She follows around the 4-year-old, Kajatu all of the time- copies what she does and what she says. Kajatu, Jenabu and I have had fun going “fishing” in the road that becomes a river during the heavy rains, chasing each other around playing “car” or “airplane,” and sneaking up on each other just to tickle or laugh. I want to take these two girls home with me, they are absolutely precious (as the pictures almost show) and just the most energetic, adorable girls. I don’t know if they understand that I left pretty much for good though.
It’s customary in Mali to bring back a gift when you go on a trip. So after returning from Bamako one day, I brought my family a large bag of peanuts. And wouldn’t you know it, my enterprising younger sisters (the 7, 10 and 13 year olds, who are actually cousins but live with us…) decided that instead of eating them, they would roast them, divide them up into bags, and sell them to the villagers. I guess its in their genes because everyday I see my father making coal to sell or going out into the fields, my grandmother making shea butter or stacking piles of firewood, or my aunt preparing spices to sell at the market. Anyway, Kajatu was very upset the first time the three older girls went out with trays of peanuts on their heads because her mother said she was too young to go. The next day however, Rokia gave in and on my way back home from school. I hear “Aminata! Aminata! Look! I’m selling peanuts!” And there was little Kajatu leading the line of girls with a small tray of peanuts on her head. I’ve never seen her look so proud!
The older girls are also a riot. They’ve been proudly wearing the friendship bracelets dear Katie Hurley made them, along with the rest of the women in the family (see picture!) One day I gave them some of my colored pencils and girls drew some pictures of Malian life (cows, donkeys, people drinking tea) so I could send them to my family. Afterwords, they demanded that my American family draw THEM pictures of American things. “What kind of things do you want to see?” “We want a picture of an American cow, and American chicken, a stool, a house, people, your dad chopping wood and your mom cooking.” That’s gonna be a fun letter for you guys to send Mom and Dad :). The 10 year old, Aminata, is actually a talented artist. She’s also brilliant (always helping me with my homework) and endearing. I asked her one day what she wanted to be when she grows up and she didn’t understand the question.
“You know, some girls become nurses or teachers. What are you going to become?”
She still didn’t understand.
“Ami- when you become an adult, what are you going to do?”
“Oh!” She says and a big smile comes on her face. “I’m going to make To, and RICE!” with all of the pride and conviction in the world. Deary me, how things are different here. A female in the small village, I suppose those are your childhood dreams for the most part.
My older sisters also started to imitate me when I would go my abs and arms workouts in the compound. By the end of this week, they actually had pretty good push-up form and enjoyed doing jumping jacks and lunges. No, I’m not running a boot-camp.
Generally, I've been healthy but its still a struggle.. Running is like taking one step forward and two steps back. If its not my old track injuries bothering me, it might be the fact that my last six meals were rice. Once my family figured out that I liked rice, I eat rice porridge in the morning with them, rice with a different sauce at lunch, and either rice or anti-To meal (macaroni or potatoes) for dinner. Compared to before though, I’m getting more nutrients because of the sauce, grains, etc. I also survived a minor foot infection that despite being gross to look at, hurt me no more than the minor side effects from the anti-biotics.
I can’t believe this is the last week we will all be together at Tubaniso. I passed my final language test and will be sworn in as an official volunteer at the embassy this Friday. A few days later, it’ll be back to Dombila for real this time. Ready for take off.
Emily
NOTE: Anyone who has sent me packages- thank you SO much! However, once I am in my site, the only way I’ll be able to get packages from the post office to my house is if I can fit them in my backpack or on the back of my bike (which is my main source of transportation). So until further notice, think small. Pictures, letters, maybe a couple granola bars. I’m all set for magic tricks though (thanks to Uncle Steve)… except I think the kids in Satinebugu think I’m a witch now. Oh well.
Is it really September back in the states? In so many ways, I feel like time has stopped since I got here. And because its scorching hot in the afternoons, I’m still in July mindset. But you’re all starting back up with school, jobs, getting ready for the leaves to change…It was so hard for me to conceptualize this out in the homestay village for 3 weeks.
But when I returned to the training center- I was bombarded with letters, packages, emails, blog messages, and I spent some amazing hours reading about what you are all up to, and counting my blessings. I’ve gotten a reputation among the Peace Corps volunteers of getting the most letters from home. I love hearing from you all. When Malians greet, they typically ask “How is your family?” before they ask “How are you?” It’s a nice little reminder about the value of having a supportive network of family and friends. And I want to thank you for pulling me though, and for inspiring me- with both your encouraging words and with the work that you yourselves are doing in your lives.
It’s hard also to believe that in less than a week, I will be sworn in as an official Peace Corps volunteer. Training is over. Sunday, I said goodbye to my host family- which was quite awkward. All I wanted to do was hug them, but Malians don’t hug. So we just gave a bunch of blessings and I promised to come and visit. Malians also don’t talk about pregnancy- so having noticed that my host mom was starting to slightly show her third child on the way, I pulled my aunt and grandmother aside and said “Call me for the baptism”- and they burst out in giggles. Oh, she knows! The “malaria” that my host mother had during the last stay, my language tutor claims is what they call “white girl’s malaria”… i.e. there’s somethin cookin in the oven.
Life in Satinebougu was wonderful, and we got some good work done. There have been some pretty hot afternoons which makes work hard for anyone. Plus, toward the end of our stay, Ramadan began and energy levels waned among those fasting. No food, no drink during the day. I awake to Muslim hymns blasting on the radio while my family eats a big meal about 4:30 in the morning, and then as the fast breaks in the evening, they have porridge with tons of sugar to hold over until dinner. Not everyone fasts though, and as the season went on, some people began taking meals during the day because of health reasons. It’s been quite incredible to experience. The night before the first day, I watched my young sisters put on their best head scarves and pray. My grandmother and I then exchanged hymns and spoke about our religions, their differences and similarities, and how we share Abraham as our father.
Before Ramadan is the time to get weddings in and we were lucky enough to attend one within our village. I’ve included some pictures of it. You can see one ritual where an elder woman is washing the face of the bride before she changes into her formal garb. Elders are extremely respected in Malian society that it is said when and old man dies, it is as if a library is burned down. We told them that some Americans think elders are a burden or are loosing their minds a bit, much to their disgust. There was also plenty of dancing at the wedding, with some make-shift musical instruments, like this woman playing a wooden bowl afloat over a tub of water. Later, we feasted on meat, vegetables, and rice. The picture here is of the two other trainees in my village and our two language tutors sitting around the communal bowl. Both the trainees and the teachers have become my close friends. We got to the point that for our language lessons at the end of training, we would basically just girl talk/gossip in Bamabara. I’m going to miss them! The two Malian women I am standing between in the one picture are my language tutor, Fatimata and Kajatu.
Aside from language training, we did some practice health education activities. We taught our families how to treat mosquito nets and we painted a mural to sensitize the community about handwashing. We also had a day of baby weighing (which was quite a scene with 45 babies being shoved at us, one after another, as we proceeded to hang them by rubber shorts to a scale on a tree branch. Good Lord the noise! Well, I’d be screaming my lungs out too if my mother handed me to the scary white girl so she could hang me in a tree swing. The next day, we invited the mothers, especially those with underweight children, to come to an ameliorated porridge making demonstration. Together, we made porridge that opposed to their typical pure-starch porridge, included peanut powder for protein and squeezed fruit for vitamins. It’s a sustainable way to combat malnutrition because it uses resources and techniques already present in the community. Finally, our big hurrah was our health animation. Each of us lead a group discussion about a health topic. A challenge to do in Bambara of course, but really, it went well. The village women came to hear Kira speak of water treatment, Beatrice about malaria, and as for me, I talked about diarrhea and how to make oral rehydration drinks. I concluded my animation with an incredibly cheesy, but in that sense, rather funny, song about diarrhea my guitar. And yes, we all danced, to the diarrhea Bambara song.
These three weeks was not all work though- we got out to Bamako on both Sundays. One was to browse around the national museum, the other was an afternoon by a hotel pool. It was nice to get out of the village, see our pals- almost like the anticipation of a family vacation. Complete with games of sharks and minnows, chicken fights, and drinks by the pool, in a way it was. Besides some stretches of homesickness, these past few weeks have been pretty even keel. The emotional rollercoaster of culture sock has settled a bit, less highs, less lows, almost like everyday life. Almost.
With my improved Bamabara and familiarity with my surroundings, I had the opportunity to become really close with my host family. I suppose I’ll start with Jenabu, the youngest. At 2, I think she might have been sick when I made my first impression of her- crying all of the time. Now whenever she cries I tell her that I am going to cry. I start making a fool out of myself with a fake cry and pretty soon she is running around giggling. She follows around the 4-year-old, Kajatu all of the time- copies what she does and what she says. Kajatu, Jenabu and I have had fun going “fishing” in the road that becomes a river during the heavy rains, chasing each other around playing “car” or “airplane,” and sneaking up on each other just to tickle or laugh. I want to take these two girls home with me, they are absolutely precious (as the pictures almost show) and just the most energetic, adorable girls. I don’t know if they understand that I left pretty much for good though.
It’s customary in Mali to bring back a gift when you go on a trip. So after returning from Bamako one day, I brought my family a large bag of peanuts. And wouldn’t you know it, my enterprising younger sisters (the 7, 10 and 13 year olds, who are actually cousins but live with us…) decided that instead of eating them, they would roast them, divide them up into bags, and sell them to the villagers. I guess its in their genes because everyday I see my father making coal to sell or going out into the fields, my grandmother making shea butter or stacking piles of firewood, or my aunt preparing spices to sell at the market. Anyway, Kajatu was very upset the first time the three older girls went out with trays of peanuts on their heads because her mother said she was too young to go. The next day however, Rokia gave in and on my way back home from school. I hear “Aminata! Aminata! Look! I’m selling peanuts!” And there was little Kajatu leading the line of girls with a small tray of peanuts on her head. I’ve never seen her look so proud!
The older girls are also a riot. They’ve been proudly wearing the friendship bracelets dear Katie Hurley made them, along with the rest of the women in the family (see picture!) One day I gave them some of my colored pencils and girls drew some pictures of Malian life (cows, donkeys, people drinking tea) so I could send them to my family. Afterwords, they demanded that my American family draw THEM pictures of American things. “What kind of things do you want to see?” “We want a picture of an American cow, and American chicken, a stool, a house, people, your dad chopping wood and your mom cooking.” That’s gonna be a fun letter for you guys to send Mom and Dad :). The 10 year old, Aminata, is actually a talented artist. She’s also brilliant (always helping me with my homework) and endearing. I asked her one day what she wanted to be when she grows up and she didn’t understand the question.
“You know, some girls become nurses or teachers. What are you going to become?”
She still didn’t understand.
“Ami- when you become an adult, what are you going to do?”
“Oh!” She says and a big smile comes on her face. “I’m going to make To, and RICE!” with all of the pride and conviction in the world. Deary me, how things are different here. A female in the small village, I suppose those are your childhood dreams for the most part.
My older sisters also started to imitate me when I would go my abs and arms workouts in the compound. By the end of this week, they actually had pretty good push-up form and enjoyed doing jumping jacks and lunges. No, I’m not running a boot-camp.
Generally, I've been healthy but its still a struggle.. Running is like taking one step forward and two steps back. If its not my old track injuries bothering me, it might be the fact that my last six meals were rice. Once my family figured out that I liked rice, I eat rice porridge in the morning with them, rice with a different sauce at lunch, and either rice or anti-To meal (macaroni or potatoes) for dinner. Compared to before though, I’m getting more nutrients because of the sauce, grains, etc. I also survived a minor foot infection that despite being gross to look at, hurt me no more than the minor side effects from the anti-biotics.
I can’t believe this is the last week we will all be together at Tubaniso. I passed my final language test and will be sworn in as an official volunteer at the embassy this Friday. A few days later, it’ll be back to Dombila for real this time. Ready for take off.
Emily
NOTE: Anyone who has sent me packages- thank you SO much! However, once I am in my site, the only way I’ll be able to get packages from the post office to my house is if I can fit them in my backpack or on the back of my bike (which is my main source of transportation). So until further notice, think small. Pictures, letters, maybe a couple granola bars. I’m all set for magic tricks though (thanks to Uncle Steve)… except I think the kids in Satinebugu think I’m a witch now. Oh well.
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