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/
Saturday, October 25, 2008
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!!
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!
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!
Friday, October 17, 2008
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
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.
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?
-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?
"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?
Friday, October 10, 2008
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.)
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.)
So how am I doing, really?
The initial romance of the village has slowly wore down. Which is good in some ways, and tough in others. I feel like I’ve made some friends, not quite real friends yet because I can’t really talk, but people that care about me, look out for me, and have accepted me, and perhaps will develop into real friends. But I’m also starting to realize, more and more everyday, how numerous and deeply rooted the problems here truly are. And sometimes I wake up really missing someone- there isn't one of you back at home that I have forgotten about. I dream about my friends, from high school, college, my family, and I wake up and think- two years- damn that's a long time. I've been healthy but I sometimes don't feel like myself- I'm sunburned, covered with mosquito bites, and I'm certaintly not in the kind of physical shape I like to be in.
It’s a toss up on what to do with my time sometimes- do I study Bambara, do I try to make myself useful at the CSCOM, do I just go and sit with my homologue or family so that they’ll accept me, do I go out and explore the village, do I take out a book and just escape for a while, or do I really try to put a presentation together for work? (Or in this case- do I abandon my anxieties and escape to Bamako for the day?) I’m a time orientated person, so to slow down and soak things in is a challenge- especially when I see so many people around me working hard to improve this village. But I’ve learned that these first three months should be slow. Right now the number one item on my to-do list is to master a Malian song on my guitar so that I can play it at nightly gatherings for the village. Language, integration, and tons of sugary Malian tea- I suppose that is going to be the next two months. But you, you’re gonna help me build a school, a pump, a girl’s club, or a new maternity ward. All you back at home. But not until after I learn that song, and perhaps a little more Bambara too. The challenge now is being ok with the fact that I cannot quite conquer the challenges of Dombila. Not quite yet. It would be silly to even try. So for now, donni, donni.
It’s a toss up on what to do with my time sometimes- do I study Bambara, do I try to make myself useful at the CSCOM, do I just go and sit with my homologue or family so that they’ll accept me, do I go out and explore the village, do I take out a book and just escape for a while, or do I really try to put a presentation together for work? (Or in this case- do I abandon my anxieties and escape to Bamako for the day?) I’m a time orientated person, so to slow down and soak things in is a challenge- especially when I see so many people around me working hard to improve this village. But I’ve learned that these first three months should be slow. Right now the number one item on my to-do list is to master a Malian song on my guitar so that I can play it at nightly gatherings for the village. Language, integration, and tons of sugary Malian tea- I suppose that is going to be the next two months. But you, you’re gonna help me build a school, a pump, a girl’s club, or a new maternity ward. All you back at home. But not until after I learn that song, and perhaps a little more Bambara too. The challenge now is being ok with the fact that I cannot quite conquer the challenges of Dombila. Not quite yet. It would be silly to even try. So for now, donni, donni.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Ramadan and nostalgia
Here I am listening to the mix that my sister made me before I left, missing her-missing a number of things- a light, my fingers pressing down on the piano keys, fresh cottage cheese or cold skim milk on my morning cereal, or just typing on my computer- what a convenience that really is.
The trip to Koulikoro was fanstastic. I couldn't help but feel a bit guilty though that we stayed an extra day to sit around and be lazy, but it really took the stress out of traveling in Mali. Besides, I got to stop in Bamako, pick up a package and some letters that eased the ora of my pity party a few days ago (when my computer died and the peace corps office yeilded no internet or postal access). I had traveled for hours to get a glimpse of the outside world, and at that point it didn't even seem worth it. I keep telling myself communication will get better- keep promising my family and frineds that I'll find and easier way once I get settled in, but it just seems to be getting harder.
I realized that all I've been doing lately is trying to please people- I'm a sucker for agreeing with everything, and its gotten me pulled in too many different directions with no time for myself. My little brothers especially are extreamly possessive of me, and I can't go for a run alone without them following after me, calling me. I'd love to just run with Shaka, but the younger boIf I ever try to go away from them to greet someone they say, "Don't greet him! He eats people! He will eat you!" So instead of people pleasing, I long to be looking at the bigger picture. Little by little, I'm learning that though the people here are bubbly, friendly, and welcoming- there really are some serious problems- with health, administration, education- the more I hang around the more I see. But its just these two damn barriers- language and resources. I can't ask all the questions I want to ask, and can't understand all the answers. And this week, all I wanted to do was draw a picture of the three food groups (yes, there are only three in Mali) to hang in the CSCOM to educate women on child weaning- but to get crayons or colored pencils would mean a whole day's trip into the city. Something as simple as a filing cabinet for our materinity is going to take weeks maybe even months to procure.
Yesterday marked the end of Ramadan. The moment I returned to Dombilia, I knew there was something different in the air. All the boys had their heads shaved and the girls had their hair braided and wrapped. Since Ramadan depends on the moon, nobody quite knew if it was going to be Tuesday or Wednesday, so when the radio announced on Monday night that it was to be the next day, cheers erupted throughout the village. It was almost like Easter Sunday when all of the villagers put on their best clothes and greeted each other with special blessings.
Even I whipped out my "complay" to go dancing at night. As much as I wanted to go to the mosque in the morning, Irene discouraged me. It was probably for the better because being totally clueless, I could have easily offended the whole village. But at dusk, I walked with Shaka through the tall corn, expecting to find a couple families chillin by the radio. Instead, we came across a large opening with two men playing large zylophones and another on a drum. There were maybe 200 faces there forming a circle around a half a dozen dancers. Dombila's so spread out- people's homes are hiddlen in the millt and corn filds and so far, I've only gotten to know my immediate neighbors. I'd say about 2/3 of people there had never seen me before. SO it was one of those clutch moments that everyone dread's in their lives. When a whole crowd of people stop what they are doing to stare at you. Yo, if you didn't know before, there's a white girl in town.
I sat in a princess' throne (a chair among benches) to watch a dozen people dancing in the middle of the circle. The basic steps didn't seem to hard, but when someone was doing especially well, women come to tie their head scarves around the dancer's waist. So when someone has like 6 or 7, you know they're really rockin it.
I was enjoying myself, pretending not to stick out so much, when Irene arrived. "Aminata! Get yourself up and dance!" She practically yanked me out of my chair and lead me by the arm to the middle of the circle. I'd like to think I caught on ok- I probably looked totally ridiculous. But as I lost myself in the music, I somehow felt greatly accepted. Especially when a young woman from the crowd ran out and tied her shawl around my waist!
The trip to Koulikoro was fanstastic. I couldn't help but feel a bit guilty though that we stayed an extra day to sit around and be lazy, but it really took the stress out of traveling in Mali. Besides, I got to stop in Bamako, pick up a package and some letters that eased the ora of my pity party a few days ago (when my computer died and the peace corps office yeilded no internet or postal access). I had traveled for hours to get a glimpse of the outside world, and at that point it didn't even seem worth it. I keep telling myself communication will get better- keep promising my family and frineds that I'll find and easier way once I get settled in, but it just seems to be getting harder.
I realized that all I've been doing lately is trying to please people- I'm a sucker for agreeing with everything, and its gotten me pulled in too many different directions with no time for myself. My little brothers especially are extreamly possessive of me, and I can't go for a run alone without them following after me, calling me. I'd love to just run with Shaka, but the younger boIf I ever try to go away from them to greet someone they say, "Don't greet him! He eats people! He will eat you!" So instead of people pleasing, I long to be looking at the bigger picture. Little by little, I'm learning that though the people here are bubbly, friendly, and welcoming- there really are some serious problems- with health, administration, education- the more I hang around the more I see. But its just these two damn barriers- language and resources. I can't ask all the questions I want to ask, and can't understand all the answers. And this week, all I wanted to do was draw a picture of the three food groups (yes, there are only three in Mali) to hang in the CSCOM to educate women on child weaning- but to get crayons or colored pencils would mean a whole day's trip into the city. Something as simple as a filing cabinet for our materinity is going to take weeks maybe even months to procure.
Yesterday marked the end of Ramadan. The moment I returned to Dombilia, I knew there was something different in the air. All the boys had their heads shaved and the girls had their hair braided and wrapped. Since Ramadan depends on the moon, nobody quite knew if it was going to be Tuesday or Wednesday, so when the radio announced on Monday night that it was to be the next day, cheers erupted throughout the village. It was almost like Easter Sunday when all of the villagers put on their best clothes and greeted each other with special blessings.
Even I whipped out my "complay" to go dancing at night. As much as I wanted to go to the mosque in the morning, Irene discouraged me. It was probably for the better because being totally clueless, I could have easily offended the whole village. But at dusk, I walked with Shaka through the tall corn, expecting to find a couple families chillin by the radio. Instead, we came across a large opening with two men playing large zylophones and another on a drum. There were maybe 200 faces there forming a circle around a half a dozen dancers. Dombila's so spread out- people's homes are hiddlen in the millt and corn filds and so far, I've only gotten to know my immediate neighbors. I'd say about 2/3 of people there had never seen me before. SO it was one of those clutch moments that everyone dread's in their lives. When a whole crowd of people stop what they are doing to stare at you. Yo, if you didn't know before, there's a white girl in town.
I sat in a princess' throne (a chair among benches) to watch a dozen people dancing in the middle of the circle. The basic steps didn't seem to hard, but when someone was doing especially well, women come to tie their head scarves around the dancer's waist. So when someone has like 6 or 7, you know they're really rockin it.
I was enjoying myself, pretending not to stick out so much, when Irene arrived. "Aminata! Get yourself up and dance!" She practically yanked me out of my chair and lead me by the arm to the middle of the circle. I'd like to think I caught on ok- I probably looked totally ridiculous. But as I lost myself in the music, I somehow felt greatly accepted. Especially when a young woman from the crowd ran out and tied her shawl around my waist!
A note about giving
I've heard so many people back at home are supporting the village here, want to send money, supplies, help out with projects. I can't tell you how much that means to me. There is so much I want to do- fix up the school, get a water pump, start up some activities for children... but these big projects are not something that I can even put on my radar now. I'm starting off with grass roots stuff, but eventually, your help will truly make a difference. Anyone who wants to donate gifts to the health center or the kids- I am extreamely grateful. However, I only just arrived, I have no clue what Im doing yet. Just stay tuned. I'm here for two years, so there is plenty of time. It's wonderful though that I can dream big and know that once I figure out what I'm doing here, I have the net of support back home to make it happen. Ive gotten your emails and messages and i will take you up on all of it... when the time is right. So thank you and God bless.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)