He said that it hasn’t come yet. He said there is a long road ahead. But I truly believe that last night, we won back the respect of the global community. We are serious about change, and we chose the man who can bring us there. And I know I will return to an America in two year that is better than the one I left. Yes we can.
Last night because of the time difference, we did not start watching the election coverage until 10pm. Our first stop was the home of UNICEF’s medical director. Our peace corps director told us that she was having a party and man was it amazing. The house was incredible, and we watched the votes come in on a big screan projector under the Malian starry sky.
At about 1:30 we went to an American bar near the Peace Corps office. Because it looked like we weren’t going to hear any results for a while. I went back to my hotel with a teammate to take a quick nap at about 3am. We set our alarms for 4:30, roamed the halls of the hotel looking for the small bar in its ground floor. One of the Malian janitors looked at us like we were crazy and asked us where we were going. Tired and groggy, he understood none of our Bambara- we want to watch the election in the bar… nothing. It wasn’t until my teammate uttered the name “Barak Obama” that the janitor grew a huge smile on his face, motioned us to come with him, and showed us the little television in the lobby. We saw Chicago, and a large text banner on the bottom “Barak Obama est la 44eme president de les Etas-Unis”! And we cheered with the Malians.
Going back down to the American bar a little before 5, we arrived just in time to hear the historic speech. Americans from all over the country, some Malians, were all sitting eyes glued to the television- people were sitting on each other’s laps, holding hands, embracing, some shedding tears, as we listened to the words of the next president.
This morning, I walk out of my hotel to the office, and a Malian man yells at me down the street- “BARAK OBAMA!” and I turn to throw my fist in the air in victory along with him. Yes we can.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Hanging out with the wrong crowd
Doing my baseline survey, I get to meet a bunch of interesting people around the town of Dombilia. One girl, strikingly pretty and energitic, was particularly interested in talking to me and I returned a few days later to play the guitar with her family, talk and hang out. Her name is Sugaglo, she is around my age, and she called me toward her hanger in the market on market day to drink tea with her friends. After chit-chatting, I spotted Irene’s bold eyes as she motioned for me to come by her side.
“Aminata,” she says, being extra careful to pronounce a simple, simple Bambara so that there would be no misunderstanding, “Do not drink tea with just everyone. You can drink tea and the health center, or with your host family. Only. Nowhere else- do you understand?”
I suppose she’s right, but since coming to Dombilia, I’ve never really been concerned about safety. Yet for some reason, seeing me drink tea with my friend was alarming to Irene.
The next night, I was out in my cornfield sweet-spot- the only place I get cell phone reception in town. As always, a group of kids comes swarming by, wanting to know who I am talking to. I dismissed them, only to see that amongst them was Sugaglo. She had come over to talk to me and I had told her crowd to leave me be. Apologetic and embarrassed, we talked for awhile and I walked her a bit down the road (which is customary when a friend is leaving).
Feeling bad for not being around to talk with Sugaglo, I was surpised to return to my compound to an angry host family and a group of angry neighbors.
“Aminata! Where were you?”
“On the phone?”
“Sungaglo came over and wanted you to chat. Were you going over to her house?”
“No, she had come here to talk.”
”Do not go over there, do you hear?”
What followed was the first time I had really felt discordance among the villagers in Dombilia. My trio of little runner boys- Shaka, Mahamadu, and Cesalo are always very possessive of me and get angry when I hang out with other people. But here was some true resentment. She is a prostitute. She has AIDS. She has many men. She is sick and you shouldn’t be going over there at night.
I explained I was not planning on going across town at night, I know better than that. But she befriened me and I enjoy talking to her. The adults agreed it was fine to chat during the day in the market. But do not take her tea (apparently they are afraid she puts drugs in it… seemed fine with me but I’ll stop anyway) and do not go over at night. They must have repeated these things a million times, and couldn’t say “I understand" enough.
A few days later, I paid a visit to Sungaglo again. Yes, she is my friend. And if it is true that she has AIDS and that the villagers resent her, even better to start a positive relationship with her, so maybe one day, I could help start to ease some of the tension. We went out and picked sweet potatoes in her field, and she sent me home with enough to feed me for a month. Not on the road for two minutes, I saw my trio of side-kicks- Shaka, Mahamadu, and Cesalo, questioning me like parents to a teenager that just got caught from sneeking out at night.
“Where were you?”
“The field”
“WHO’S field”
“My friend Sungaglo.”
“She is not your friend. We told you not to speak to her again.”
I gave them the lecture that I keep having to repeat. Be kind to everyone. Yes, I am going to greet everyone. Yes, everyone in Dombila is my friend. No, I won’t wander around at night, but I am going to chat with everyone. Thinking they were only being stubborn and possessive I dismissed the “Aminata, you’re bad” “Yeah, you’re bad” “We’re mad at you” and went back home. That night, as I was talking on my phone in my sweet spot, little Mohamadu finds me again. Eight years old, he sometimes calls to me in my window at night, asking for bubblegum or peanuts (which always freaks me out hearing this little child whisper to me at night). But tonight, he is upset. Really upset.
“Aminata, you’re bad” I think he is going to follow up with a complaint about me not giving him peanuts or something, but when I ask him what is the matter, he refuses to tell me. Finally, he brings his chin up, and I look into his eyes watering up. “Aminata, if a stranger gives you candy, don’t take it. If a stranger gives you tea, don’t take it. Some people are bad people.”
This just ripped my heart open. The ‘don’t take candy from strangers’ talk from an eight-year-old in the middle of Africa. I have always felt safe in Dombilia, always. Even when my language tutor tells me that there are very resentful and bad-intented people, if they want express their hatred toward somebody, they go to a witch doctor and do an offering to an evil spirit. To a Malian, this is serious stuff, but as for me, I’m not worried about anyone seriously hurting me. Accepting me and respecting me perhaps, but I am in good hands here. It’s not my safety I am worried about, it is the dynamics of this community. Underneath the surface, there is gossip, there are old rivalries, and there are indeed untouchables. Like any community I suppose. So where do I fit into this picture? How can I call myself a volunteer for peace if I turn my head when the wrong people greet me? So I’ll greet Sungaglo, I’ll visit her from time to time and sing with her family and the children of her compound. I may even go help her in her sweet potato field… in daylight. And just in case, I’ll pass on the tea.
“Aminata,” she says, being extra careful to pronounce a simple, simple Bambara so that there would be no misunderstanding, “Do not drink tea with just everyone. You can drink tea and the health center, or with your host family. Only. Nowhere else- do you understand?”
I suppose she’s right, but since coming to Dombilia, I’ve never really been concerned about safety. Yet for some reason, seeing me drink tea with my friend was alarming to Irene.
The next night, I was out in my cornfield sweet-spot- the only place I get cell phone reception in town. As always, a group of kids comes swarming by, wanting to know who I am talking to. I dismissed them, only to see that amongst them was Sugaglo. She had come over to talk to me and I had told her crowd to leave me be. Apologetic and embarrassed, we talked for awhile and I walked her a bit down the road (which is customary when a friend is leaving).
Feeling bad for not being around to talk with Sugaglo, I was surpised to return to my compound to an angry host family and a group of angry neighbors.
“Aminata! Where were you?”
“On the phone?”
“Sungaglo came over and wanted you to chat. Were you going over to her house?”
“No, she had come here to talk.”
”Do not go over there, do you hear?”
What followed was the first time I had really felt discordance among the villagers in Dombilia. My trio of little runner boys- Shaka, Mahamadu, and Cesalo are always very possessive of me and get angry when I hang out with other people. But here was some true resentment. She is a prostitute. She has AIDS. She has many men. She is sick and you shouldn’t be going over there at night.
I explained I was not planning on going across town at night, I know better than that. But she befriened me and I enjoy talking to her. The adults agreed it was fine to chat during the day in the market. But do not take her tea (apparently they are afraid she puts drugs in it… seemed fine with me but I’ll stop anyway) and do not go over at night. They must have repeated these things a million times, and couldn’t say “I understand" enough.
A few days later, I paid a visit to Sungaglo again. Yes, she is my friend. And if it is true that she has AIDS and that the villagers resent her, even better to start a positive relationship with her, so maybe one day, I could help start to ease some of the tension. We went out and picked sweet potatoes in her field, and she sent me home with enough to feed me for a month. Not on the road for two minutes, I saw my trio of side-kicks- Shaka, Mahamadu, and Cesalo, questioning me like parents to a teenager that just got caught from sneeking out at night.
“Where were you?”
“The field”
“WHO’S field”
“My friend Sungaglo.”
“She is not your friend. We told you not to speak to her again.”
I gave them the lecture that I keep having to repeat. Be kind to everyone. Yes, I am going to greet everyone. Yes, everyone in Dombila is my friend. No, I won’t wander around at night, but I am going to chat with everyone. Thinking they were only being stubborn and possessive I dismissed the “Aminata, you’re bad” “Yeah, you’re bad” “We’re mad at you” and went back home. That night, as I was talking on my phone in my sweet spot, little Mohamadu finds me again. Eight years old, he sometimes calls to me in my window at night, asking for bubblegum or peanuts (which always freaks me out hearing this little child whisper to me at night). But tonight, he is upset. Really upset.
“Aminata, you’re bad” I think he is going to follow up with a complaint about me not giving him peanuts or something, but when I ask him what is the matter, he refuses to tell me. Finally, he brings his chin up, and I look into his eyes watering up. “Aminata, if a stranger gives you candy, don’t take it. If a stranger gives you tea, don’t take it. Some people are bad people.”
This just ripped my heart open. The ‘don’t take candy from strangers’ talk from an eight-year-old in the middle of Africa. I have always felt safe in Dombilia, always. Even when my language tutor tells me that there are very resentful and bad-intented people, if they want express their hatred toward somebody, they go to a witch doctor and do an offering to an evil spirit. To a Malian, this is serious stuff, but as for me, I’m not worried about anyone seriously hurting me. Accepting me and respecting me perhaps, but I am in good hands here. It’s not my safety I am worried about, it is the dynamics of this community. Underneath the surface, there is gossip, there are old rivalries, and there are indeed untouchables. Like any community I suppose. So where do I fit into this picture? How can I call myself a volunteer for peace if I turn my head when the wrong people greet me? So I’ll greet Sungaglo, I’ll visit her from time to time and sing with her family and the children of her compound. I may even go help her in her sweet potato field… in daylight. And just in case, I’ll pass on the tea.
I've never...
…seen such excitement over an airplane.
A airplane flew close to the ground the other day, and it was the most hysterical site ever. People young and old stopped everything they were doing to watch. Children screamed at the top of their lungs, yelling to the big thing in the sky, running circles of glee around each other. Women kept repeating “Beleebeleeba!” the Malian word for “that’s freakin huge.”
…had my barf cleaned up so easily.
Got sick again for a morning. May have eaten too many peanuts. In any sense, I did not make it to the “negen”, and threw up all outside my hut in front of my host family. Embarassed about making a mess, I started to get some water to wash it out. “Stop Aminata,” as my host mother comes over with a shovel full of dirt. She dumps it over the mess and batabing- it’s cleaned up. Hmmm, maybe it’s good I didn’t make the negen.
…seen a snake with huge teeth about to devour a huge frog.
I think it was a cobra, but whatever it was, it was pretty freakin scary. Luckily, it was more scared of me, than I was of it, and abandoned its prospective meal to scurry into the bushes.
…been so happy to play the piano.
Yes! I found one! Election night, we arrived at the home of the head of the medical devision for UNICEF Mali. An incredible place, a great gathering of Americans and Malians alike. And yes, she had an electric piano. They keys stuck terribly, but I was still able to make a sound. My fingers have never been so happy.
…known my bellybutton to be so funny.
There’s no such thing as an “innie” in Mali. My three sidekicks- Shaka, Mohamadu, and Cesalo, caught a glimpse of mine as we were stretching before a run one day. They could not stop laughing and pointing.
A airplane flew close to the ground the other day, and it was the most hysterical site ever. People young and old stopped everything they were doing to watch. Children screamed at the top of their lungs, yelling to the big thing in the sky, running circles of glee around each other. Women kept repeating “Beleebeleeba!” the Malian word for “that’s freakin huge.”
…had my barf cleaned up so easily.
Got sick again for a morning. May have eaten too many peanuts. In any sense, I did not make it to the “negen”, and threw up all outside my hut in front of my host family. Embarassed about making a mess, I started to get some water to wash it out. “Stop Aminata,” as my host mother comes over with a shovel full of dirt. She dumps it over the mess and batabing- it’s cleaned up. Hmmm, maybe it’s good I didn’t make the negen.
…seen a snake with huge teeth about to devour a huge frog.
I think it was a cobra, but whatever it was, it was pretty freakin scary. Luckily, it was more scared of me, than I was of it, and abandoned its prospective meal to scurry into the bushes.
…been so happy to play the piano.
Yes! I found one! Election night, we arrived at the home of the head of the medical devision for UNICEF Mali. An incredible place, a great gathering of Americans and Malians alike. And yes, she had an electric piano. They keys stuck terribly, but I was still able to make a sound. My fingers have never been so happy.
…known my bellybutton to be so funny.
There’s no such thing as an “innie” in Mali. My three sidekicks- Shaka, Mohamadu, and Cesalo, caught a glimpse of mine as we were stretching before a run one day. They could not stop laughing and pointing.
Tomba
I’ve started a baby-weighing program in the small neighboring village of Tomba, about 6k away from Dombilia. After seeing the malnourished children during a vaccination trip and listening to the mothers say how hard it is to walk to Dombila for weighings, I decided to go out there myself. Knowing my lanuage would be a barrier in doing an ameliorated porriage demonstrated, I relied on the relay Yaya Coulibably, to help translate and run the show. relay, to help translate and run the show. . (A relay by the way, is a villager who goes around and calls people for special events, like vaccinations). And Yaya is everything the name Yaya would suggest- crazy, giggly, a little off his rocker but very sharp in his own sense. Together, we recorded the weight of 25 babies, discovered 4 moderately malnourished, and 1 severely malnourished (this one we sent to the health center). Not a great starting percentage, but we worked with the women to teach them how to make ameliorated porriage, and went over with them the basics of nutrition and child weaning. It was probably my most rewarding experience in Mali yet. These women were really listening, really understanding and I could tell as I counseled at least two of the mothers of the sick children that they were really going to take my word to heart, and were really alarmed as I told them that they need to change what their doing, or their baby is going to get worse. The problem usually is, you’ll have a baby, 10, 11 months old, still living on breast milk only. Sometimes breast milk and to or rice- plain grains that cannot be ingested in high quantities, and contain minimal protein and vitamins. Amelorated porriage can be made simply with sugar, peanut powder and a grain, and can really help combat malnutrition in a sustanible and inexpensive way. I praised the women for their work, shook the hand of Yaya and promised to return the next week to see if the women had gained weight.
The next week I returned, but I was late- even by Malian standards. There are not really hours here too much- there are four times- “Morning” “Midday” “Afternoon” and “Night”. I said I would come in the morning. It was Sunday, so I went to church first thing in the morning (which lasted longer than usual), hit the road by 10, got lost and ended up in another village, found a familiar face who directed me to Tomba. Arrived at 11- yup it’s Midday now. I’m late. I went to Yaya’s house, whose wife told me he was waiting for me all morning and had gone out to the field. I told her I was sorry, and got lost. I felt so bad, but the woman was kind. She brought me some water (which I can’t drink unless I filter it at my house) and some To, my favorite (I’ve never successfully digested it). “I’m sorry. I’m full.”
“I don’t understand you. You come here late, you don’t drink our water, you don’t eat our food. What do you want from us? Why have you come?”
And I couldn’t hold my tears in.
“Look, she’s mad now,” one of the women said.
“No, it’s just sweat. I am hot.”
“Well why don’t you please drink some water then?”
I excused myself to the negen, to get myself back together. It was like coming into Dombilia for the first time all over again. They do not understand me, and I am a million miles away from home. What am I doing here? Well, I am here, and there is no getting out of this now. It’s either put on a happy face or loose the respect of a whole village in need.
Damn, I should have at least eaten that To.
I emerged, composed, and perked up when Yaya came back from the fields. He was understanding of my tardiness, but still dressed himself in his best to go to the vaccination site and call the women. “I think we’ll have to reschedule, everyone’s already gone out in the fields for the day.”
I agreed and promised to return another day. He did tell me though, that the women were keeping up with their porriage and that he was checking on the 5 malnourished children regularly. That’s great. That day, three women did show up for the weighing. One, who’s mother is the most enthusiastic in all of Mali, and whose baby is freakin FAT. I think she just likes to show off to the other mothers. She gleamed with joy as I told her, yes her baby did gain weight in the past 6 days. What a feat.
The other two approached me with sick children. One with burns all over her body, the other with symptoms of malaria. And these women looked to me like I could save them, like I had all the answers. If there was any point I wish I had a medical degree, it was now. I’m not a doctor, I told them. But I think he has malaria, you should take him to Dombila, and I think you should clean and cover those wounds. And by the way, this one is malnourished, you can make ameliorated porriage. Haha, my one specialty. The one thing I can really explain in Bambara. So, might as well throw that out there too. It can’t hurt. Dooni, dooni.
The next week I returned, but I was late- even by Malian standards. There are not really hours here too much- there are four times- “Morning” “Midday” “Afternoon” and “Night”. I said I would come in the morning. It was Sunday, so I went to church first thing in the morning (which lasted longer than usual), hit the road by 10, got lost and ended up in another village, found a familiar face who directed me to Tomba. Arrived at 11- yup it’s Midday now. I’m late. I went to Yaya’s house, whose wife told me he was waiting for me all morning and had gone out to the field. I told her I was sorry, and got lost. I felt so bad, but the woman was kind. She brought me some water (which I can’t drink unless I filter it at my house) and some To, my favorite (I’ve never successfully digested it). “I’m sorry. I’m full.”
“I don’t understand you. You come here late, you don’t drink our water, you don’t eat our food. What do you want from us? Why have you come?”
And I couldn’t hold my tears in.
“Look, she’s mad now,” one of the women said.
“No, it’s just sweat. I am hot.”
“Well why don’t you please drink some water then?”
I excused myself to the negen, to get myself back together. It was like coming into Dombilia for the first time all over again. They do not understand me, and I am a million miles away from home. What am I doing here? Well, I am here, and there is no getting out of this now. It’s either put on a happy face or loose the respect of a whole village in need.
Damn, I should have at least eaten that To.
I emerged, composed, and perked up when Yaya came back from the fields. He was understanding of my tardiness, but still dressed himself in his best to go to the vaccination site and call the women. “I think we’ll have to reschedule, everyone’s already gone out in the fields for the day.”
I agreed and promised to return another day. He did tell me though, that the women were keeping up with their porriage and that he was checking on the 5 malnourished children regularly. That’s great. That day, three women did show up for the weighing. One, who’s mother is the most enthusiastic in all of Mali, and whose baby is freakin FAT. I think she just likes to show off to the other mothers. She gleamed with joy as I told her, yes her baby did gain weight in the past 6 days. What a feat.
The other two approached me with sick children. One with burns all over her body, the other with symptoms of malaria. And these women looked to me like I could save them, like I had all the answers. If there was any point I wish I had a medical degree, it was now. I’m not a doctor, I told them. But I think he has malaria, you should take him to Dombila, and I think you should clean and cover those wounds. And by the way, this one is malnourished, you can make ameliorated porriage. Haha, my one specialty. The one thing I can really explain in Bambara. So, might as well throw that out there too. It can’t hurt. Dooni, dooni.
The Brusse Romance Letters
You send me letters to the Malian post office. But the real Malian postal system is “en brouse”. If you have an important message and you happen to be literate, all you must do is find someone going in the direction of your letter’s destination, and instruct them to pass it on. In a country of low development and infrastructure, it actually works quite well. So, when spending the night in Kati, I learned of a romance or sorts budding between two of my teammates. The girl entrusted Hunter (my teammate in Kati) and I to try and send a letter to the guy via brusse post. Excited to be playing cupid, Hunter and I hopped on our bikes upon my departure for site, and arrived at a sort of bus/ taxi station just outside of Kati. We approached the area where the vehicles were loading up passangers and announced in the middle of the chaos: “Who is going to Falaje?” We found a group of young men, and also a crowd of very curious on lookers as we took the letter out of our bags.
“You are going to Falaje”
“Yes”
“You know ----name----? He’s a white guy, you can’t miss him.”
“Yes, I have seen him. He works in the mayor’s office”
“Yes! Can you bring this letter to the mayor’s office? It is very important!”
Now there is a social rule in Mali that if someone of a higher age or status tells you to do something, you must do it. No questions or complaints. Malians are happy to serve their elders. I am even sent to the local store for Irene every now and again, being her minor. And I send Shaka to climb up the maringa tree and gather leaves for my dinners all the time. So the young teenager was more than willing, even somewhat frightened to be entrusted with this ever so important task.
We rode our bikes away, giggling with delight. A few days later, we discovered that the guy had successfully sent a letter and a small package of Oreos through the 60 kilometers to her site. An African” Message-in-a-bottle”. I love it.
“You are going to Falaje”
“Yes”
“You know ----name----? He’s a white guy, you can’t miss him.”
“Yes, I have seen him. He works in the mayor’s office”
“Yes! Can you bring this letter to the mayor’s office? It is very important!”
Now there is a social rule in Mali that if someone of a higher age or status tells you to do something, you must do it. No questions or complaints. Malians are happy to serve their elders. I am even sent to the local store for Irene every now and again, being her minor. And I send Shaka to climb up the maringa tree and gather leaves for my dinners all the time. So the young teenager was more than willing, even somewhat frightened to be entrusted with this ever so important task.
We rode our bikes away, giggling with delight. A few days later, we discovered that the guy had successfully sent a letter and a small package of Oreos through the 60 kilometers to her site. An African” Message-in-a-bottle”. I love it.
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