WHHHAAATTTT?

Thanks to you all, there will be 35 improved drinking wells in the village of Dombila. The goal of $4,100 was recently reached, and I can’t thank you all enough for your donations. The project will begin January 2010.

Aw ni baaraji!!! (Thank you!)

Almost home

Some mornings I wake up and I can see my breath. Nevertheless, a few hours pass and the sun is in full force again. The cold season is easy living around here. Lots of fruits and veggies are in season, and I can actually stay in my hut for more than 10 minutes without sweating profusely. We just celebrated the Muslim Feast of Tabaski (“Seliba” as they say in Bambara, which means “big prayer”). I don’t know how, but joyously, I successfully slid by this year without eating any meat.

Some mornings I wake up and I can see my breath, and before I open my eyes I reach for my lamp on the bedpost and think about what cereal I’m going to eat for breakfast. And then reality hits, there is no lamp, just a mosquito net. And the sounds of my host mom pounding millet can only mean one thing- porridge…again.

No I’m not entirely delusional, I’ve just had my mind on December 19th. When a little plane will take me to Paris, a bigger one will take me to New York, another one to Rochester, where I will spend 20 glorious days in the home that I left 18 months ago. Home for the holidays baby. It’s about time.

Thanksgiving was nice. I spent it again at the ambassadors with a good old fashioned turkey dinner. I got to talk to the whole Hurley gang and get all the updates on the cousins’ moustache growing contest and the amusing remarks of my 88 year old grandfather. But unlike last year, I felt more of a sense of guilt than I did of comfort. I’ve missed two Thanksgivings in a row- that’s grounds for excommunication of the family. I’ve gotta go home. I’ve gotta reconnect. And oh how thankful I am that I will be doing just that.

But I’m keeping busy here at site, which is preventing me from driving myself crazy with fantasies of home. The solar drying project is finally gaining momentum, and I’m also putting together the in-service training for the new stage of volunteers on HIV/AIDS. Malnutrition work is still rewarding, especially now as community health workers become more and more involved. These are pictures from a recent community event in the small town of N’galamadiby, 10k outside of Dombila. It started 3 hours late because my bike broke down and I had to ride some random rickety old man’s bike. (The bike was rickety and old, and the man was rickety and old, just to clear that up).


As a matter of fact, I feel like all of my stuff is breaking, my phone, the windows on my house, my hammock, my radio, the equipment at the CSCOM, my computer… but that’s just life here in Mali. Things don’t break so much in America, do they? I don’t quite remember.

I’ve been traveling a lot to Bamako and back for various work. It’s exhausting to say the least. Travel here is not easy. America, America… travel is easy, isn’t it? I don’t quite remember.

The untold stories. There are dozens. Stories of children making miraculous recoveries, stories of scary experiences I’ve had, stories of people I’ve met and places I’ve discovered. Things I’ve never written in this blog. Things I cannot describe on a computer. The way the goats come trotting back to the compound every evening, the way the babies dance to traditional songs, the way the men drum in the fields each morning to drive the bird each morning. Some things that I know only my eyes will see. But to tell you- to sit down on a cold December day next to the Christmas tree, with a cup of hot chocolate and a blazing fire. Well, in two weeks I’ll be able to do that. And I can also hear about all the way you’ve grown and changed in the last 18 months. Ahhhhh….I’ll see you soon.

Pictures from Tabaski

1. A teenager praying on his prayer beads
2. Three of my neighbors on the way to morning prayer
3. Kids sporting some Barak Obama gear and sweeet sunglasses
4. Denisie and I (disregard hair-do please!)
5. My new site-mate, Lauren, and I in our holiday outfits

Dombila fights HIV/AIDS

These are pictures from the World AIDS Day Celebration (Dec. 1) in Dombila.

Since school started in early October, I have been training a group of peer educators in whats called the "Life Skills Program". It is an international Peace Corps initiative, recently translated into Bambara, aiming to teach HIV/AIDS basics to youth while helping them develop communication, relationship, and decision making skills. Much better than my previous attempt as sex education, this program is active and focused on real youth issues. I had about 15 volunteer 7th, 8th, and 9th graders who met after school once a week for about two hours. Of course, we had stumbling blocks: getting the girls confident enough to speak in front of their peers, disruptions from younger kids, etc. But in all, it was a really positive experience and I've enjoyed so much getting to know these kids. I conducted post-interviews with all of the participats, to find out how the Life Skills Program can be improved for future volunteers. Yes it was disheartening to see that many of the girls dropped out of the group. But I knew that it was worth it during my interview with one of my favorite kids, Keleke.

"What did you like about Life Skills?"
"I liked the skits, the games..."
"What didn't you like about Life Skills?"
"Ehhh Aminata!" he laughs as he shakes his head, "I liked it all!"

Through games, skits and other activities, these youth have become local HIV experts and tell how their friends have asked them about a number of adolescent issues. The group put together an awareness day for December 1st. As I have also become a gym teacher at the high school, we naturally incoporated running and had a big relay race announced on a loudspeaker for the whole village to watch. In between the boys and girls races, the Life Skills participants performed two skits on HIV/AIDS and good decision making. We then had a showing of a film, followed by discussion questions at the CSCOM. My sitemate Lauren estimated that over 250 people showed up for the event. All of this was done by villagers pitching in and helping out- no outside funding. Yay Dombila!

The Day I Took Off My Shoes

“I kera Bamanan yere yere ye” (You’ve become a real Bambaran). I hear this phrase more and more often these days as my community notices the small changes I continue to make to become cozier in the culture. It’s the way I tie my head-wrap, or the unexpected slang expression I whip out, the stubbornness in bargaining, or my acquired addiction to strong, sweet, local tea. No, I am still never going near toh, and you don’t have to worry about me walking around shirtless, but even after 18 months I’m making small adaptations and feeling more and more comfortable living this once strange life.

I’ll again thank those of you who sent running shoes to my pose of boys last February. The gifts were embraced and appreciated, not just for their usage but as a sign of support for their running. But here is the truth: the boys’ mothers felt that the shoes were too nice to be worn running around the village and insisted they be saved for the big Muslim holidays when everyone gets dressed up. After I begged them, they allowed the excited boys to run in the shoes. So we went on a run, and something was just not right. The boys were stumbling and uncomfortable, and the high tech shoes were weighing down their otherwise effortless stride. It wasn’t long before the shoes took their rightful place, and the boys got many complements as they proudly strutted around the village during the holiday gatherings.

I still run with Shaka and he still runs barefoot. He still politely trots a few steps behind me during 10, 11, 12 mile runs, but lets loose and kicks my butt in sprints down the soccer field. My parents recently sent me a package and in it they included an article about the benefits of running barefoot and a couple new issues of Runner’s Worlds. There was a blurb in one about this guy who does all his running barefoot. I remember he said something like, “if there is a pebble or even a piece of glass, I just relax and let my foot mold to it.”

Hmmm, let your foot ‘mold’ to it. Maybe that’s Shaka’s secret. On a solo run one morning, deep in the millet fields where no one was watching, I decided to give it a try. It reminded me of the day I secretly jumped in a mud puddle in hopes of escaping the fact that my high class feet need new $100 running shoes every 400 miles. One step, dozens of pebbles, another step, more pebbles- ‘mold’ to it darn it!- a third step, I’m on the ground. Falling is not an uncommon occurrence during my runs. At least once or twice a week I get scraped up as a result of the uneven terrain of the savannah. Sheepishly, I put my shoes back on and ran back to my hut.

The next day, I asked Shaka if he likes running barefoot and if it was easy. “Of course,” he replies. I asked him to teach me. This time we went on a smoother terrain of soft dust. The pebbles weren’t too bad and I managed 5 minutes. I always thought barefoot running was reserved for strides on carefully groomed soccer fields after a properly shoed-run. I now take off my shoes frequently, much to the amusement of the villagers, and have built up to about 2 miles. I tell Shaka I’ll do the run to Dio one day barefoot. If I do, n beke bamanan yere yere yere ye. (I’ll have really really really become Bambaran!)

What my friends are blogging about

For some other perspectives, check out the PEACE CORPS MALI blog site:

www.peacecorpsjournals.com/country/ml


My mother especially enjoyed this new volunteers review on Malian cuisine:
http://mattinwestafrica.blogspot.com/2009/11/ive-never-read-article-on-food-before.html

Zanbougou

Sweet potato harvest


I often write of the hurdles of working in development, especially in a foreign culture. I recently gave a class on nutrition to our community health workers. You mention something like, "Eggs are filled will all the nutrients needed for a pregnant woman." And you get a question like, "Well, what do you do if your chicken gets mad at your for taking its eggs?" and you want to smack your head against the wall.
But today, let me write about Zanbougou, one of the most impressive places I've visited in Africa. Behold a success story in small scale development, home-grown solutions, and positive community initiative.
I had never been to Zanbougou, as it is outside our CSCOM's area of coverage and not on our vaccination rotation. But I had been invited by some of the community health workers to come for a baby-weighing and child nutrition session with the woman. The hour and a half bike ride began with me tumbling face first into a mud puddle, much to the delight of those accompanging me. Luckily, I was able to wash up before meeting the village elders.
Zanbougou is a small village, hidden in the back dirt roads in a little valley outside of the commune. Sweet potato and cassava fields stretch as far as the eye can see. My guides were four men, enthusiastic, educated, and extreamly active. I also had two of Dombila's community health workers with me, who are being trained to weigh babies and give health presentations. After I was presented with two dozen bananas, fresh milk, potaotes and a chicken, I was taken on a tour to the village. "Wait until you see the dam!" my guides excitedly exclaimed.
On the hike through the descending back brush, one of the men told me that Zanbougou used to have a lot of problems. "There was no water for many hard years. The wells would all go dry. Women would walk for miles to find water, no matter how diry, and carry it back on their heads. The feilds were dry and dying. We wanted to all get up and abandon this place."
Suddenly I found myself standing on a expansive 30 foot wall of bolders and wire. In front of me was a small lake. The villagers of Zanbougou had built a dam about 3 years ago. 250 men worked for every day three months making the journey to the top of the plateau and carrying down boulders. Some boulders were so big that they required 10 men to carry them. Sunrise to sunset. Day after day. No abled-bodied man in the entire village was exempt. Or woman for that matter, as they would search for water and again walk long distances to carry it to the project site.

"Where did you come up with this idea?" I asked in amazement.

"Well we had heard that Durako (another hamlet of Dombila) had an ONG that was building a water tower. We went to them to ask them what we should do about our drought. They told us that if we were willing to build a dam, we could catch some of the runoff water from the plateau and it would get us through the dry seasons. They gave us some of the wire, but we did all of this work ourselves."

"You don't drink this water do you?" It looked a bit questionable.

"Oh no. But ever since this area filled up, our wells are always full with fresh water and our farmland is so fertile. Did you see all of our sweet potatos?" he asked with a prideful smile.

"I've never seen so many potato fields in my life!"

"We're poor here in Zanbougou, but we ain't hungry!"

We proceeded to the gathering place, where dozens of women showed up to listen to the talk. The women actually participated, answering questions and brainstorming- something that I can usually never get the silent women in Dombila to do. The four men took extensive notes on nutrition, as well as the ages, weight, and nutrition indicator level for 40 babies in the village that were brought in for weighing. Only three of these were severly malnourished, but after an ameliorated porriage demonstration, we found that these three (who had not been started on complimentary foods yet) eagerly drank the porriage. Their mothers prepared a dance and song for me as they were so happy they found a way to give their kids strengh. The team of 4 Zanbougou guys volunteered to track these 3 and the 6 moderately malnourished kids, with home visits and arm measurements, and I have already heard news that all are eating and doing well.

So what's next for Zanbougou?

"What we really want is a maternity," they told me, and asked if I could help. I told them that that's outside of my realm of work, but I would keep my eyes and ears open for other organizations that can build them. "And we're also thinking of something else that would really put Zanbougou on the map."

"What's that?"

"A potato chip factory! We have so many sweet potatos here, all we need to do is get some equiptment and we could package potato chips and send them out all over the world!"

In all my time in Mali, I've never seen a single potato chip. Where did these guys, from the middle of rural African nowhere come up with something like this? I put my chicken on my bike handles and rode home. My host family wanted to cook the chicken that night.

"Hey, why don't we ever save the chickens and eat the eggs?"

"Chickens get mad if you take their eggs."

Oh Lordy. By the time Dombila figures out how to fry an egg, you'll all be eating Zan-Chips instead of Pringles.

How are you all so awesome!

Dombila children lined up for the relay run to raise support and awareness for clean water and sanitation

So here's what happened:
I wasn't even sure if my supervisor at Peace Corps had read through my project yet. But after talking to my family last week, I realized my project had not only been approved, posted on the internet, but it already had over $2,200 of funding! From all of YOU! That is unheard of. Some of my friends have had projects posted for months now and only have very small fraction of that. Unbelievable! I can't thank you all enough, but once the project is fully funded, I will hopefully get a list of your names (didn't happen for that last project) and be able to thank you all individually. Dombila is so excited for this new well project, and it's you all who are making it possible!

If you want to help us chip away at the final $1900, you can donate here: https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=resources.donors.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=688-318

Updates

Here in Bamako again, frantically trying to get some computer work done. My eyes are throbbing. Work has piled up and our sketchy solar panal fried both my laptop and my CSCOM's. So much for our medical records! But for now, I have to get out of site every so often to work on materials for the big training we have coming in January. A lot of typing in a lot of different languages. Since when did this become a real job and not some exotic adventure?

I was browsing through my blog to see that there are a lot of loose ends. I should probably give you some brief updates as to what's going on with some of that.

- The witch lady and I are now friends. I think. She is still creepy, but after she's done giving me the evil eye, she gives me a big, toothless smile, which I think is genuine.
-The cucumbers in my garden were a mild success, worms ate much of the tomatoes but the urine fertillizer did actually make them more fruitful.(the tomatoes, not the worms) I did end my gardening season with one killer zuccini that we ate on Ramadan.
-Things with Camera, my English speaking friend, are good. He's actually applying for a job with the Peace Corps. Let's hope he has good luck with that!
-Things are also good with Irene. She's a larger than life woman, so I'll always have to deal with that. But I'm not as worried about being at her beckoned call all the time. And she has helped me out a ton.
-My host sister's baby (Aminata) is fat and smiley, though they've moved to another town. My host mother's Sama is still on the small side, doesn't like many people, but is approaching her first birthday and is as cute as ever. Noellie, now 18 months, has a brilliant curiosity that just fascinates me. He's a quick learner, loves to explore and play games, has a confidence that just cracks everyone up. He can even say "how are you? i'm fine" in english! Pacho is 4 now, and we have had our wedding ceremony, presided over by Shaka and Cesalo. He then told me he with take Caroline as a second wife.
-Lauren, my new site mate, is having all her own adventures in the little town of Koyan. She's doing great, and came up to Dombila for a meeting last week. "Wow," she said of my village, "I feel like I'm in a big city!" Oh Lord bless her.
- Caroline has a huge project just starting up- a $16,000 center for shea butter production. I hope it goes smoothly. Hunter is happier too after moving to a new house.
- Shaka is running again. After taking the whole summer off to farm (besides a couple 2 milers a week in the mornings)he's now on fire again. I don't understand it. He sprinted to Dio on market day, and I couldn't keep up with him... ON MY BIKE! I trained for a marathon, but I'm sill nothing next to this deceivingly does this scrawny 75 pound 13 year old. I can still do more push-ups than him though.
- My radio show has been cancelled. It's ridiculous. The higher ups want money, I refuse to give them any, they are just waiting for me to give in and pretend that I can still do my radio show. They turned me, my guitar, and a small choir of 3 children ready to sing about vaccinations away last night. Not until we clear it with the committee (who want my money). I cried. That's just not right.
- Work besides that is great, really. As farming season is over, people actually have time to do other things, like sanitation outreach and work with women's groups. It's exciting, and besides the normal nuiances that come with dealing with Malians, I feel like we might be getting somewhere.

Thanks HFL!

To all the little runners in Lima and Manor, to the teachers and administration who supported the event, to my parents and sister who helped organize, and especially to Debbie Clapp and Kevin O'Connell who brought all the heart and soul of Africa into their gym classes- You guys rock!

Together you raised over $400 for the new well project in Dombila. That means 4 wells can be improved to provide dozens of people with cleaner drinking water. Not only that but we have kids across the world who have a better understanding of each other. We know we're different, but there is something we have in common- we all can run to show our support for good health!

The people of Dombila have heard all about your efforts and are appriciative and excited. Aw ni baaraji!

Stay tuned for the website if anyone want to make any further donations. We can't thank you enough.

A Wild Carpenter Chace- My experience with corruption

I should have seen it coming. Every development worker speaks of the corruption anchor, that undismissingly drags at the cundercurrent of otherwise promising embarkments of development. Sometimes it sinks the ship down. Other times it changes its course. But usually we who try to drive our projects forward just keep treading and pushing, too scared or naive to confront what's happening behind our backs. We are determined to progress, despite the shady activity going on beneath the waters.

So then what did I do when all at once, I was a victim of blatant corruption that not only demanded immediate acknowledgement, but also opened my eyes to a series of wrong-doing I had glazed over during the past year?

"B.", as we call him, is always excited to help with a project. He built the school's handwashing stations, headed up construction on the wells, and has recently shown an interest in my latest project idea: solar fruit dryers for mango preservation. He is after all, Dombila's Mr. Fix-it. Shortly after presenting him with some information, he excitedly told me he had called his friend in Kati who makes these things regularly. "I'm gonig to Kati to learn how to build one with him, then I'll bring it back here as an example for people to see."

But he needed some money. $30.

"That sounds a little steep," I said.
"But he's making a big one!"
"Why?"
"He'll make a big one now and later we'll make smaller ones, and I know the price will lower if we make a lot of them at once." Unfortunately, any suspicians I had were crowded out by my excitement and impatience in starting this project. "Even if you give him $20 now, you can pay the rest later."
"And when we write the project proposal, I'll write it in my budget and get refunded," I reasoned.
"Exactly."

Later that day, B came to my house looking for the money. For a Malian, that's a big chunk of change. Why did he need it now? He fished for an answer and finally said that the guy was here in the market and needed it now. I was busy with a million things as always on market day, but what it comes down to is I'm a sucker. I coughed it up.

It didn't take long before I told Irene and my host family the buisness. "$20?" they exclaimed, "A solar table is not worth $20!" I withheld that there was still $10 to be added to it. Irene was upset I didn't go to her first. Daramane, my host father, told me it's common knowledge that if something costs so much, B will tell you its actually more and put the difference in his pocket. The rest of the actors in the scene confessed to seeing B skipping around the market on a shopping spree shortly after I had given him the money.

This was three weeks ago. After that there were all these excuses about why he hadn't gone to Kati yet and how tommorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow- the same song he sang during the slower period of the well project. I went to Ghana expecting to come back to at least a functional mango drier in my compound.

In the week following, excuses included transportation problems, and a very elaborate story about how he went to Kati, knocked on his friend's door, only to find out that he had left town for a funeral and of course forgot his cell phone so couldn't be reached. He can sense my anger now, and makes a promise to go on Friday.

"Ok," I say, "but I want to go with you and meet this guy." Firday comes, B is in no rush to go to Kati, and rolls in on the hot afternoon having decided it would be better to go sleep in Kati tonight and meet us Saturday morning. We were to meet at 8:00 in Malibougou, a small hamlet of Kati where this mysterious capenter, who cannot be reached by cell phone, has been dilegently working on my solar drier.

I spent the night with Caroline. She made a wonderful stew and we talked theology as we counted shooting stars and slapped mosquitos dead on our legs. We went to find a car for Kati bright and early. I called B.

"Are you in Kati?"
"No I'm still in Dombila. Couldn't go last night but I'm on my way."
"Great, we'll wait for you and we'll all go together."
An hour later, I call to find B still in Dombila. "I'm busy," he says, "Work."
"But we've had this appointment all week." What could he possibly be doing?
"And you need to come to Dombila right away. There's a mother with a malnourished baby thats been waiting for you all morning."
"Well Irene's there, she knew I had other work today. She can see them."
"No, we can't find Irene."
"What about Sali?"
"She's busy. There's a ton of people at the CSCOM. They're going to turn the mother away if you don't come."

What a weapon he pulled! Trying to tug at my heartstrtings like that! He knows my weakness, but at this point I know better.

"We're going to Kati," I say, "what's your friend's name and number?"
"You forgot his name already?"
"You never told it to me."
"Yes I did." Pause. "Daouda Coulibaly. I'll call you back with his number." And that was the last I heard from B that day, even with my persistant calling.

Caroline and I lifter our spirits by pretending we were on the Amazing Race or some wacky scavenger hunt. We spent the whole morning in Malibougou and even the center of Kati asking about this carpenter, Daouda Coulibaly, whom nobody seemed to know. Maybe you can ask here, there, over there, did you try that place? We were told. Once we had combed the area thoroughly and concluded that Daouda Coulibaly really doesn't exist, not to mention our solar drier, we headed back to Dio.

I was angry of course and undecided about how I would handle the situation, but honestly felt like I had accomplished something that morning. Case closed. I know the truth now. And I put some more pieces together in my mind- that extra barrel from the handwashing station, the $60 missing from the last project that I made up out of my own pocket, the extra well cement that had disappeared to the black market, and the $14 loan I stupidly made hime to help a sick relative in one of my first naive months here. (First and last loan I ever made here).

Caroline recommended we talk to her carpenter friend, a firery old bearded guy who fixed her window and made desks for the school. A few days later we had a meeting with him in Dombila. He agreed to help with the project, but was not free of B's pestering. B kept interrupting with his enthusiasm and supposed expertise of the project, on fear that he would be out of a job (or out of access to a pot of potential money from Uncle Sam).

"B., Kalanmoko is going to help with this project. It's easier than having to go all the way to Kati, he can make them right here in Dio."

"I was going to go to Kati this afternoon to get your table!" I gave him a blank stare. "Oh, would you rather I get you your money."

"Get me my money."

He never went, still hasn't, and so rests the fate of another handful of good-intended green ones from the American people.

Vacation is over

So I’m back from Ghana and still on cloud nine. That was the best vacation ever. Even my ex-pat friend Mike was impressed with my traveling skills. After the marathon I took off on my own to see some historical sites- the old slave castle in the old British capital of the New World- Cape Coast, the Kakum national part with its canopy walk over the roof of the rainforest. I stayed in youth hostels, took local transportation or hitch-hiked with some more missionaries, found some great Ghanaian street food, and just explored. Beaches, old colonial churches, the rainforest and swamp-lands…it was very liberating traveling around on my own, and a truly amazing experience. When I return, make sure to ask me about the salsa dancing. Some PCVs and I ended up at the hot spot for the beautiful people in Ghana my last night- a large salsa dancing party- me feeling totally out of place in my running shoes and dirty jeans. But nonetheless, I found myself being twirled and dipped by Ghanaian men who despite their tight pants and pretentious sunglasses were actually quite talented dancers.
Now I’m back in Mali. I forgot how dirty it is here. In Ghana, there’s like bathrooms and garbage cans and stuff. And now my legs have that perpetual coat of dirt. Bamako is not my favorite place in the world, so I’ll be happy to get out of here tonight. I wonder what it’s going to be like getting back to village. How long with it take me and my villagers to get back in the swing of things? I feel guilty as always- my villagers, especially my co-workers in the CSCOM work really hard under trying conditions. They never get a vacation to Ghana. And what will my new attitude be toward the work I want to accomplish? Will I have a fresh positive view or be looking at things in a different way? I guess I’ll find out soon enough.
Before I left, the kids in the village did a relay run. We organized it to learn about clean water and the dangers of dehydration. A similar run will be happening in the HFL schools back in my home town too. They will be working to raise money for the expansion of the well project. Keep your eyes open in the next month because I am planning on posting the project soon. We will be trying to raise somewhere between $3,000- $4,000 to do more top well repairs in the village. So, I’m going to need your help. Again, thanks to all who helped with the hand washing stations- I finally got your names so I’ll be working on the thank-you notes soon!
Allah k’a yafa di an ma, ka keneya ni here di an ma. (My God forgive us, and give us health and peace).

The Accra International Marathon

After I bid farewell to Maridee and Lani- they were headed for a cheap night’s sleep before their departure for Cape Coast, I pulled out a small piece of scrap paper. On it, I had written numbers and names of connections in Ghana, the most valuable being “the guy Mike” as Joel likes to refer to him. A friend of the marathon race director, Mike is an American living in Ghana who had graciously agreed to put Joel and I up for a couple of nights. I gave him a call, and within minutes I was settling in to a high class apartment in the lush district of Accra.

I couldn’t believe how I was welcomed with a key and instructions to make myself at home. Mike was great company. I middle aged former PCV and also regular marathoner. We exchanged stories about Peace Corps for a while, and I turned in to bed early, in my very own guest room complete with air conditioning. Livin the life.

The next morning, I made friends with the 8 Peace Corps volunteers from Ghana who were registering alongside me the morning before the race. It almost felt like home again, getting all in the running mode. Except for the fact that it took me four hours to get my teeshirt- we’re still in Africa.

They showed me around town and even invited me to the country director’s house for a pre-race pasta dinner. That night, Mike’s guests went from 1 to 5 nomadic Peace Corps volunteers- he seemed to be having a great time though. Alone here on a year long project with NGO consulting, now he had a house full of Peace Corps kids, and was as laid back as you can get.

I had a bit trouble falling asleep because of excitement, and managed to get in 3 or 4 hours total before our alarm went off at 2:30 a.m. We had called a taxi to pick us up and bring us to the shuttle, which would get us to the start plenty of time before the 5:30 gun time. It’s Africa, may I remind you, the marathon actually started at 6:45.

My plan was to start out around 8:40 pace, but that completely went out the window. I ran the first 7 miles with a PCV from Ghana, Serena at about an 8:15 pace. Then I wiped out and after that I was on a mission. I was hitting some good mile times in the middle there, trying to draft off of people as much as I could. We ran with a terrible head wind in our faces for the entire race (it was all in one direction on the coast of the ocean). But drafting off of Africans is difficult. Most of the ones back with me were guys in decent shape but very confused on how to pace themselves. We’d be going 7:15 pace one minute and 9:00 pace the next.

The course was terrible- in mid morning traffic in down-town Accra. They didn’t clear the roads, so I was dodging crazy taxi drivers and breathing in smog. And after the thing spead out, there were many times when I was all alone, wondering if I was still going the right way. Support was pretty good though, enough water-stations, bananas and whatnot. But the Ghanians running the stations half expected me to stop and take an order like I was at McDonalds. I got the hand of yelling “Juice Jucie!” or “Water! Water!” from 20 meters away to get them prepared. I was once handed an entire carton liter of orange juice, what the heck? And took a water cup that always had water in it before, dumped it over my head only to find out it was apple juice.

I definitely slowed down the last 5 miles, but I felt surpisingly good the whole way through. And I got good at yelling “Move! Move!” When I city bus would be letting out a crowd of Ghanaias right in front of my path. I placed 5th among women (1st white girl!) in 3:47. Not bad for a first timer. I’m sure the time could have been faster under better weather and race conditions, but I was happy. I like the marathon, and will most definitely be running more of them (in the states!). My new friends were pretty impressed, as was Mike who left us a feast of lunch meats, pitas, fruit, junk food and drinks back at the apartment. Oh yeah, and I won the equivalent of $100!

It's like Mali, with chinese places and missionaries

Where do I start? As life in Mali was beginning to get mundane, I pleaded for your suggestions. What the heck to I write about these days? I had drafted a blog entry about the condition of my bicycle and yet another update on the weather. (I bet you can't wait.) But now, as I am sitting in the Peace Corps office of Accra, Ghana (the very first Peace Corps establishment in 1961), I have plenty other things to report.

I sort of explained to my village I was going on a vacation to Ghana and running a 42 kilometer race. I didn’t want to make it too big of a deal, especially in the midst of the Feast of Ramadan this past weekend. The Feast, I am disappointed to say, was not much of a feast. The Muslim calendar and mother nature’s harvest calendar clashed in such a way that no one had any money or means to really celebrate. Oh sure, they killed a goat at the Bouare’s house, and I actually did eat some unidentified parts of it in hoping to get some extra nutrients for this marathon. But even the xylophones weren’t as well attended- people complained about not having any new fancy clothes to wear. Most of my feast was spent at the party of Shaka and his gang of 6 school boys. During the school vacation this summer, they had a little business running errands and doing chores for people around the village. They collectively managed to save up 4500 cfa (almost $9) and splurged on macaroni, tea, sodas and I contributed some fried plantains. They claimed they were going to dance all night in the little open storage hut that my host dad just built next to mine, but a little after midnight most of them had passed out, their tapes of xylophone music still blaring on the old cassette player. It was wicked cute.

Work only started to get really crazy Wednesday morning, as I was about to leave for my trip. Irene was away at a funeral, Sali was tending to a woman in labor, and 50+ screaming babies were waiting for the vaccinations. It was only me, Viay the vacainator, and two community health workers (one so clueless he might have well been one of the babies). Instead of doing my normal weighing routine and individual consuling, I scanned the crowd and hand-picked babies to be weighed (I’ve developed a pretty good eye for malnutrition, even when they’re all tied up on their mother’s backs.) Here I am running here and there, registering kids, trying to understand why they’re not eating, what the mothers should be doing differently, and the sun keeps rising higher and higher. I got to think about getting out of here soon.

I had a lot on my mind. I was to leave Thursday morning on a flight to Lome, Togo, and aftwerwords find ground transport across the Togo boarder to Accra, Ghana. My civilian passport was still sitting in the Togonese embassy across town in Bamako, and my government passport, with my Malian visa, was nowhere to be found. I ripped my hut apart a number of times and resorted to the prayer and chance that I had passed it over in my safe in Bamako. I could get to Ghana (that is if my Togo visa was processed alright) but could I get back into Mali? Not to mention the fact that my debit card was not working in any ATMs I tried, and between cash and what I had in my Peace Corps account, I had barely over $100 to my name. My computer charger was nowhere to be found, and fresh out of hotel vochuers I had no idea where I was going to sleep in Bamako, if I even made it there in the first place.

My route to Ghana would be solo, but I was to meet up with two characters at some random, nook in the wall hotel we chose- Joel, my marathoning buddy, and Maridee, a retired, older volunteer meeting her daughter’s plane from the states in Ghana. Maridee and her daughter were going to travel around shortly after meeting up, and Joel and I were going to stick together. Meet at hotel, stay with some ex-pat named Mike whose number we got from the race director, race, then travel up to Cape Coast for some real vacation time. Heck, we even decided to stick together on the same pace for the first 10-13 miles of the race. It was because I had heard Joel was doing this marathon that convinced me to sign up in the first place.

By 11:00 I was on my bike and off. Fotiki was following me, the father of Sayo. Sayo is 18 months and has been on our malnutrition rehab program for 4 months now. Each week he drops a few more grams. Puzzeled by our many attempts at counseling and treating underlying diseases, Bouare and I referred him to the hospital in Kati. After much convincing and a few loans from friends, Fotiki and his wife Teresi agreed to go for referred treatment. I was to help them check in and get settled.

So I’m swerving down the road of Dio (the brakes on my bike are broken)trying to get things in order by making frantic calls on my cell phone. (Anyone ever driven with me in the States?)

“Hey Joel, are you in Bamako yet? I think I have a package from my parents in and I don’t know if I’ll be in in time to pick it up.”

“Oh, no I’m not,” Joel responded.

“Are you still in village?” I asked.

“Yeah, did you get my message last night?”

“No…”

Turns out Joel is violently ill with some stomach thing and throat infection and any one of those lovely parasites you can pick up here in Africa. Bottom line: He bailed from the trip. I’m in this one alone.

Transport to Kati was rough, as we stopped to load 50 potato sacks on the top of the bush taxi, and had some dude jumping on and off the roof the whole way there. God knows why. Fotiki, the silent, solemn field farmer he is, was getting impatient. We got there, got settled, dealt with a few helpful and not-so-helpful people at the hospital. Just as I was in the middle of meeting with some of the doctors, my phone rang.

It was Maridee, about to get on her bus. 2 days in the heat across the savannah to Ghana. I’m glad I had a plane ticket at least part of the way.

“Emily- can you pick my daughter up from the airport in Accra tomorrow night? Her plane comes in at 6:30, she’s got long curly hair, her name is Lani. I’m not going to be there until the next morning.” And here I’m trying to get out of the hospital to meet with my friend Camera to help him with a Peace Corps job application, and to get to Bamako, find a place to stay, find my damn passport. I’ve developed a reputation around the volunteers here. Emily is the scatterbrain.

“I’ll try Maridee, but I can’t promise anything.”

Yet things only went smoothly after that. My visa card was working, I even got my Peace Corps paycheck in. My passport ended up being in the desk drawer of the staff member who went to get our Visas renewed, my friend Pete offered me a place to stay, got my vaccine card and boarding pass, I got a fabulous pre-marathon package filled with energy gels, whole grain pasta and new shoes, and I even snagged an old bathing suit top from the lost-and-found. My bathing suit top is lost, but now I can at least hit the beach. (I won’t be matching, oh well…) The only thing that didn’t turn up was my computer charger. So I’m lugging around a dead laptop. Things could be worse.

I’m in a great mood as I check in at the Bamako airport. Being the confusing place it is, I was happy to be on the plane headed for Lome, Togo. Togo is French speaking, and when I arrived I had to find out how I would get to Ghana.

The short taxi drive along the coast ended up at this huge archway with the normal crowds of African beggars and sellers. I get out of my taxi to a rail-thin girl in a lace shawl. “Welcome Sieeeeestarrrrrr!” Pushing through crowds of Africans like this is nothing new, but I didn’t have the trick of being able to speak their native tongue. I showed my papers to a bunch of official looking people, one by one, and was then alone with my two bags, staring at busses and cars.

“We need one more for Accra!” An excited man is yelling standing next to a rather modern, family style SUV. Looks nice. I’ll take it. Because I didn’t have any Ghanian money, I just shoved some CFAs at him, who ran to exchange the money with one of the black market dealers roaming around the coastal scene with wads of bills. Before I knew it, I was on a bumpy road with a Nigerian woman, her brother and his wife, listening to some Rhumba and headed 3 hours West. I take a step back- Did I really just cross the Togo-Ghanian boarder and now I’ve pretty much hitchhiked with a family from Nigeria? Where has life taken me? I’m having a blast already.

Ghana’s a lot different from Mali. Sure, village life is similar all around West Africa, though they’ve replaced millet stalks with palm branches and bamboo on the roofs of their huts. A bit more tropical, a bit more fun. Even the music is better. Instead of this weird, zany, disharmonic xylophone stuff, we got some great base and lively African coastal jams. And to top it all off, ENGLISH SPEAKING. I’m liking Ghana.

The other thing that struck me was the huge Christian presence. We drove by tons of little churches and catholic schools. There were little shack stores like “Jesus is a Winner Plastics” and “God is With You Cold Cuts”. My mind went to the road trip I took with some high school friends a few summers ago on the back roads of Carolina.

We reached the outskirts of Accra, and the Nigerian family just kind of dropped me off on a highway by a little taxi corner. Hmmm, I thought, what to do now. I look at my phone- a little after 5. Well, might as well find the airport.

The Ghana airport was a strange place. There were billboards reading “Trafficking Drugs? You’ll be caught!” “Cocaine Kills!” “Need drug counseling? Call blablabla”. I ran into a whole fleet of missionaries fresh off the plane from Tennessee. They greeted me with enthusiasm knowing I was American. “Oehw! Are yew a missinery tew?”

I got some great Chinese food (well, great to me) and scribbled “Lani” on the back of my boarding pass, and held it up to the exiting travelers feeling like and idiot. It wasn’t long after a confused girl with long curly hair wheeled her luggage around the corner. She did a double-take. “Wait, I’m Lani.”

“Oh! I’m Emily. I know your Mom. We’re supposed to meet her tomorrow morning at the hotel Christanbourg.”

“Oh Ok. I had no idea anyone was coming to meet me!”

“Neither did I! Welcome to Africa.”

Lani and I checked into the rusting hotel and walked out with a Ghanaian staff member to get some food for Lani. She was taking it all in, the air, the clothing, the colors. I, on the other hand was thinking how strange this is. We don’t have the secret language anymore. We are around these Ghanaians who can speak their language that we don’t understand, but if we speak English, they DO understand it! It’s all backwords! I’m supposed to be able to say whatever I want in English without the African understanding (almost got in trouble with that one), and they have no defense because I know Bambara. Ghana is pretty cool, but I’ve been stripped of my weapon.

Exhausted from traveling, we went to bed early. The hotel was pretty gross and overpriced, but it was the designated meeting place. And all I had to get me through the rest of the week was some phone numbers ("We're staying with a guy named Mike" Joel had briefly told be a few weeks ago) and the hope that I’d make some new friends at the Peace Corps office. So I cranked up the air conditioning and enjoyed a good night sleep.

MARATHON TRAINING and MISHAPS

I’ve been training fairly well for this thing. Before my taper, I was up to 63 miles a week and had done a couple of 18 mile long runs and a 20 miler. Not in the shape I was in college, and still carrying around some rice weight, but feeling better than I ever have in country. And my body knows something’s up. I’ve been naturally getting up earlier and drinking a ton of water. Not to mention I bought a loaf of wheat bread and ate the entire thing today. Yummmm. I just hope I don’t regret it.

Like the Chinese.

Or maybe it was the smoothie.

Whatever it was, my body was a little surprised and unfamiliar with it this morning. About three miles in to an easy 4 miler, I had an urge. Some call it “Runner’s Trots.” Here in Peace Corps, we call it “Mr. D.” Whatever you want to call it, I needed some sort of toilet facility. Immediately.

I went to a little corner shop and asked the woman if there was a toilet around. Her English was not great and she first started giving me information about renting a toilet. No, I don’t want to rent one, I have to use one!

We walked across the street to her family’s compound. It was a nice place, clean, with a driveway and a few men hosing down a car. But we had walked. And my intestines didn’t want to wait. It was beyond my power, I don’t know if I’ve ever had an experience like this before, and if I have, I’ve been on some back trail with bushes all over the place. Here I am in the middle of a foreign city in some random Ghanian woman’s driveway and there is s**t dropping from my shorts on to it. The men washing the car look at each other and then give me a strange look. “I am very very sick.” I said. Actually, I felt fine, but I just couldn’t control something. But I played it like I’ve never been so sick in my life, bending over, holding my stomach.

There is someone in the bathroom. The woman is yelling at him to come out in Ashanti, (their native language). All I could make out of it was “Poo! Poo!” A frantic man in nothing but a very tight blue speedo comes out, and I run in. The woman hands me a whole role of toilet paper, in which I use the entire thing. It was a pretty clean bathroom, I thought. I almost wished it was a negen so I wouldn’t feel so bad about being in here. I take my time, trying not to leave any trace. I hear her from the outside, “I am waiting for you,” every couple of minutes.

When I finally emerge, this big Ghanian woman, now abuzz and spastic, hurridley shoves me into the neighboring room where a small shower is running. “Now you wash! Wash it all!” I get in the shower with my clothes on and scrub. “And you yooose da soap! Yooose da soap!” I’m thinking I’ll just clean up as best as I can, throw on my running shoes and sprint out of here. I’ve never been so embarrassed as far as I can remember.

She tries to offer me a change of clothes. “No, it’s ok.” I’m still in the shower, you see. “Wash it! Wash it here!” I thought she was talking about the shower floor. She is almost having a heart attack with her thick glasses and her bright orange African garb. She probably thinks I’m super sick or just wicked disgusting. I pick up a loofa sheet and start to wash the floor. “Wash it! No, no- here!” I look at her, she is pointing to her bee-hind. “No- here!” I close the bathroom door and scrub myself clean. With da soap. I put on my shoes, hurriedly apologize to the entire family, and the woman walks me out.

I try to give her money, I’m apologizing excessively now but she is seriously worried about me. She wants to help me get back, she thinks I’m really sick. I said my friends were down the street and I’d be fine. She tells me to come back if I need anything, anytime. Ghanians are nice right? I don’t think I’d tell that to a stranger/foreigner that s**t all over my house. I do the act and limp down the street holding my stomach, and when I turn the corner, start on finishing my run like before. What else is there left to do?

Note to self: No Chinese before the marathon.

What do you want to read?

For those of you that do read this blog, I'd love your feedback. I know it's important to me to write for myself, but I don't have to publish every boring thing that goes on. What do you want to hear about? Culture? Projects? My personal life and thoughts? Descriptions of people in the village? Let me know so that I try to make this blog more exciting for you all to read. I also have some suggested reading for any of you really interested in this stuff.

Books on Peace Corps Life in West Africa:
-Monique and the Mango Rains (Kris Halloway)
-Nine Hills To Nambonkaha (Sarah Erdman)

Adventures in Health Education in Mali:
- Dancing Skeletons (Katherine A. Dettwyler)
(gives a great picture of malnutrition work in Mali by an American anthropologist)

Books on Development and Health
- The White Man's Burden (William Easterly)
- The End of Poverty (Jeffery Sachs)
- Pathologies of Power (Paul Farmer)

Let me know if you get a chance to read any of these.

Peace,

Emily

Partying

I have stories to write about various festivities- ranging from Peace Corps volunteers, to college-kids from Kati, to Muslims in Ramadan. It is the season! And when I return to my computer this entry will be replaced with all the details.

Andi and Sedou

A few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of meeting Andi and Sedou. Andi is a friend of a friend, and I got her information before heading to Mali. From the Rochester area, she now resides in New York City where she met and married Sedou. Sedou, is a Malian! Apparently there is a little pocket of Malians in NYC. Like a "Little Mali". They speak Bambara, make rice and peanut sauce and everything. Andi told me about how she once made toh on their apartment stove. I can just see Sedou instructing her on how to whip the thick paste just like the women in the Malian villages do.

So Andi has had a bit of exposure to Malian culture. She could speak a little Bambara, new some of the customs. But nothing would have prepared her for her first intense experience in Mali. After Andi and Sedou wed in New York, they planned their trip to Sedou's homeland. When I first got to Mali, I was eased into things. Surrounded by Americans, pizza for dinner the first night, a dooni-dooni philosophy of adapting to the cutlure. When Andi first came to Mali, she was thrust into the center of a traditional wedding, caught in a whirlwind as her new family welcomed their son's bride.

I imagine it somewhat like the other Malian weddings I've been to, except this time with a spunky, excited white girl as the woman of the day. She must have gotten her feet painted with henna, given traditional wedding garb to wear, and lead around all day by old women with a shawl over her head. Sitting in the middle of a circle of women, her head covered a thick scarf, she stared at the ground like she was supposed to. Meanwhile, women danced around her to the slow beat of a drum while a griot sang her blessings. All the time thinking about the next few days of house-arrest honeymoon tradition to look forward to.


"I had no idea what was going on!" she confessed. "All of the sudden an old, calloused hand started washing my face as part of the ritual. I thought, Oh there goes my makeup! Well at least no one can see because of this hooded shawl." Meanwhile, the old woman tore off the shawl to reveal the new, cleaned bride (with her mascara running) to the entire crowd.
If anyone could be a great sport about it all, it was Andi. Though new to the country, she was so genuinely excited and full of adoration. A rainstorm and family obligations kept them from getting out to Dombila, which was too bad. Andi aspires to get her medical degree and move back to Mali to work in health care. How cool is that? Sedou is now doing graduate studies in agriculture, and has actually been to Dombila doing some work while he was still in the country.

What a fascinating and courageous couple! It was a joy to meet them and I wish them all the best in their marriage. I know I'll be making a trip to NYC after my Peace Corps service for some good Bambara conversation and some Peter Pan Peanut Butter Sauce and rice. Thanks for the visit, and the blessings from Joanne and Mary!

The Rainy Season

I wrote this two weeks ago:

I'm tired. Happy but tired. It's been a good week. We've had two wash-out days, which everyone loves. It's an excuse to sleep in and it quiets the qualms of drought that the farmers have been worried about. Rainy Season got off to a slow start. When I was in Bamako helping with training for the new trainees, I casually mentioned to one of my fellow PCVs, "I remembered the rainy season being a lot more brutal last year." She looked at me like I was crazy- "Where have you been? We're in a drought!" Apparently we haven't seen a drier August since 1976, where millions of people struggled because of the poor harvest.

Luckily, the rain has redeemed itself this September, leaving us with two days this week where I could hardly step out of my house. I was able to do some computer work with my chef de post and catch up on my sleep however!

My thoughts to this day are more rain rain go away. The two wash out days turned into 5, and I found those lovely rainy mornings beginning to get under my skin. There are only so many hours I can sit in my hut keeping myself occupied. Only so many naps I can take, so many lists I can make of things I want to get done once the rain stops, only so much reading one can do by flashlight.

When people aren't waiting out the rain, they are sprinting to the fields to get some farming in. The kids are out of school, helping in the fields, the women have tons of work to do, and are not interested in doing health education or bringing their malnurished kids all the way to the CSCOM for weighing. And any free minute the men have, they are resting to recover their bodies from the daylight fasting of the month of Ramadan. My radio show has been rained out twice. Vaccination Days have been canceled. So again, I must report, work is on the slow side.

I have however, had a pastfew busy days in Bamako. Bamako is way more stressful than village, and I realize how much I love my life in Dombila when I'm swamped with real world stuff. It has been nice though to do some computer work and business networking. I've been chosen as the new National Coordinator for Peace Corps HIV/AIDS Task Force, so I've had a lot of, I suppose, "coordinating" to get started on. I'm also getting my travel plans all squared away for my upcoming vacation to Ghana. I'll be running the marathon there on Sept. 27. We'll see how that goes! Training has been fun- it's kept me focused and motivated, though I am still realistic about how much my body can do in this environment. I'll make sure to let you know how it goes. My first marathon, it should be lots of fun.

As far as other work in village, a couple things are going on. I'm helping with a project called "Keneya Ciwara" which is aimed at improving management in the community health centers. I'm also planning a kid's running relay to coincide with one going on back home at HFL. We're going to center it around Clean Water education, while the kids in the states are going to raise money for the expansion of our well project. I'm really excited that everyone back at home is so into this. Our run in on the 21st and I'll be sure to send some picutres.

I'm also eating cucumbers from my garden :) Ah, the simple life.

The New Stage Arrives

Still on the rollercoaster. It’s been long enough, you know? On this day, I find myself sitting in the stage-house in Koulikoro. It’s a weekend party welcoming the new trainees at the end of their site-visit week. Being with 25 Americans freaked me out for the first night. I felt like an awkward 13-year old. How do I converse with these people? Do I even fit in with them? I don’t really know what came over me, just extreme discomfort. So I called my sister, the most socially outgoing person I know, took a walk alongside the Niger river, and then gradually settled in to the social scene. It ended up being a fun weekend. Oh yeah, so these are “my people”.
My new sitemate, Lauren Biggs, arrived in town this past Sunday. She is stationed in the town of Koyan, part of the commune of Dombila, just about 5k away from me. I admit, I was skeptical about the decision to put a volunteer in Koyan. It’s out there. Reeeaaaallly out there. No market. No store which means no bread or biscuts, no CSCOM or Mayor’s office, no real center of town, and the houses are all so spread out that you need to wander through a corn-maze for a good chunk of time before you get to another concession of huts. Only about 1,000 people spread out along the gradually rolling hills of millet and corn, the little river in the gully of shady mango trees, and a three-room school-house- where Lauren will begin her service as an education volunteer. Beautiful, friendly, as cute as can be… but out there.
I waited for her in Dio and together we biked the 8k bumpy path to Koyan, at one point having to forge a small stream of water with a decent current. I tried to imagine what she was thinking as we walked our bikes through water up to our knees. But she kept a calm exterior, and I never let my smile down.
“How do you get shisto?” she asked, a common disease that can infect anyone wading in the dirty waters of Malian streams.
“Don’t think about it,” I said, “we don’t have much choice.”
She took the first step into the gray, cloudy, rushing water. “Oh,” she exclaimed, “this actually feels pretty good!”
Peace Corps learned from last year. After volunteers came back from their villages during site visit week, it was obvious that those who had a “buddy” (another volunteer to show them the ropes for the first couple of days) had a much better experience than those who were sent out into the wilderness on donkey carts alone. I remember how hard of a week that was for me last year, so the least I could do was be as positive and helpful to this new girl as I could be. Koyan is out there, but who knows, she may learn to love it.
I learned that Lauren was actually born in Rochester, NY, then moved to Saudi Arabia, returned for a few years to go to Pittsford Middle School, and then moved to Hawaii for high school. She found herself back on the East Coast until this spring where she graduated with a philosophy degree from Columbia University. A bit shy, with a cute little giggle to cover up her nervousness, but as sweet as can be, I felt really lucky to have another buddy around here. When I told Dalfinie that I had a new friend, a girl who’s working in Koyan, she was happy but said, “They couldn’t have made it a boy? To be your new BOYfriend?” That would have kept the villagers gossiping for months! Not that I didn’t consider that possibility.
I already have a lot of friends in Koyan, and knew that her host family was fabulous. Actually, her host family is the family of N’tossama Diarra, Health Education Program Assistant for the Peace Corps, so I’m sure that connection with the Peace Corps helped the little hamlet of Koyan get on the volunteer site map. N’tossama’s older brother, Fablen, is Lauren’s host dad. Fast-talking, big toothy smile, little gotee, and surprisingly naïve about the outside world, Fablen is a loveable character, and just sitting with him makes me laugh. His two young sons are like “Thing 1” and “Thing 2”- Fablen doesn’t even use their real names, but calls them “Old” and “Small”. His dog also has the very affectionate and creative name of “Dog.”
I stayed two nights with Lauren, introducing her to people, talking to her host family about little improvements for her house, answering her questions about life out in village, and translating. It was a bit weird because I already had all of these preconceptions about her site and experience with these people but I wanted to keep my comments neutral. As much as it’s nice to have a buddy, there’s nothing more important than exploring and discovering on your own. I wanted desperately to get inside her head- when they put the green-slime toh in front of her for lunch, when she stumbled upon her Bambara, when she insisted on drawing her own bath water from the well. “Oh I’m fine!” she’d happily chirp whenever I’d ask her how she was doing. Koyan’s out there, but I think she genuinely likes it. And the village is estatic to have her. All of the old men of the village gathered for a meeting one of her first mornings there with their round Muslim caps sitting cross-legged on the colorful mats under the straw hanger. They gave endless Bambara blessings, and spent a good time of the meeting discussing how during this week, she has no food. “We must all give her food. Warm food. Much food. Not cold food, but warm, good food.” I translated to Lauren and she shot me a worried but amused look- Does this mean everyone in the village is going to constantly be bringing me toh? Probably.
Even I was presented with a chicken for my good work. I tied it to my handlebars to bike back the winding bush road to Dombila. Worked out nice- I got to have a nice chicken dinner for my 23rd birthday. “That is Allah’s work,” the villagers would commonly say, “born in the same village, separated, and then brought back to the same village in another part of the world.” Lauren quickly changed her last name to Diarra- she’s one of us now.
Back in Dombila, I walked the small market, remembering my disappointment during my site visit last year. They weren’t kidding about the scarcity of our market during rainy season- froo-froos (fried milled dough) only. And it was honestly a strange moment. I’m different. I speak the language, I know these people. I’m not trying to impress, to fit in, this is my home, and I’m comfortable here. But as much as I have changed, the thing that suddenly struck me was that Dombila has not. This is the same market I walked last year. These are the same malnourished kids I saw last year, the same people frustrated that the have no money to buy malaria medicines. I’ve been here for a year and nothing has changed. That morning, I felt as out of touch with my purpose as I did that very first market day last year. With one difference, I went in to talk with Irene, my eyes welling up, to be comforted by her and another friend Josephine.
“The whole village knows of your good work. Don’t you see? Mothers come from far off villages to see you, the wells are clean, the people are understanding new things.” And I look at Boare, the motivated doctor of the CSCOM and feel ashamed for having these delusions of grandeur. He has the most unwavering dedication and optimism I have ever seen, and he has been here for years. And he believes in his work and boy does it show. Us second-years need a reminder, a burst of new energy, and we’re lucky to be able to have this group of new, enthusiastic volunteers to give us that boost. I asked a couple girls how they liked their rural sites. “Oh!” they said with loving eyes, “it’s like an African fairy land!” For us veterans, not quite a fairy land. But we like it well enough.

I LOVE THE HURLEYS

The Bamako airport is full of travelers and eager Malians swarming them with luggage carts and little trinkets for sale, trying to make a buck. I have decided to come all the way here to bid farewell to my uncle Steve, cousin Matt and sister Katie. I just wasn’t ready to say goodbye at the hotel. So I hugged them goodbye before they weaved through the crowd to catch the night flight to London, promising that the months before my Christmas visit would go by fast. It was a good week, and a great experience for all of us.
Of course, I was overjoyed to see my Boston relatives. The fact that they came all the way here to spend some time with me in the middle of nowhere, well that’s about as cool of relatives as you can ask for. But when I saw my sister, I gave her the biggest hug ever. My mom later asked on the phone, “Did you cry when you saw each other.”
“No mom,” I said, “I was just so happy.” I looked at Katie, expecting her to comment on how mothers are overly-emotional. But instead Katie said with her little honest smile, “I cried a little!” It took about 5 minutes after we were reunited for me to say, “Katie, I feel like I just saw you yesterday.” It had really been 13 months, but we were so comfortable with each other, having fun already. Man, I have the best sister in the world. She really is my other half, and all week, I felt like whatever might have been missing in my day to day life out here had been filled.
A big red bag, like Santa’s sack, came with the crew. All filled with goodies. Birthday presents like new clothes and mountains of granola bars from friends and family, magazines, homemade jam and applesauce… (Thanks everyone!) Uncle Steve even came with a solar powered flashlight and a new tent that he would leave with me after they left. It was incredible! We stayed the first two nights at the fancy Radisson hotel, the next night in a little motel in the city of Segu, then we moved to a business hotel in Bamako (mainly for its incredible pool), spent a night in village, and then another night in Bamako.
I’ll let them tell you about the adventures through their own eyes. (Katie, Steve, Matt, you’re welcome to write something for me to post as well). They braved the Grand Marche the very first day, they spent hours in little Malian cars so we could see the port of Segu and make our own Bogolon fabric. They took the broken old bush road to Dombila where they danced with the xylophones, tried Malian food, and mingled with the locals. Uncle Steve even went for a peaceful morning run with me and Shaka! Matt was the star of the dance party, showing off his disco moves, and Katie impressed the kids with her back-handspring and also sported the traditional Malian garb along with henna painted on her foot. (Only ONE foot though, to the great confusion of the Malians).
Katie and Matt also had some great skills at the rock climbing/ rappelling hike in Siby. They are fearless! They even got on Malian transport to return to Bamako. That was after we gave up waiting for hours for our driver to come back with something to mend a flat tire. Uncle Steve got a bit worried when we showed up 4 hours late, but all was good.
Aside from the adventures, we had significant R&R time. The pool at the hotel was paradise, we ate some really nice meals out, and I even got to work out a couple of times in the hotel gym! I feel like I was treated like a princess. Nice showers, clean all the time, air conditioning, a great bed, great company, great food. It was more of a vacation for me I think! At first, I was really uncomfortable being in these fancy hotels spending a lot of money, but then I started to get used to the high-life. It’s strange, you know. And now I feel like an American again, needing my daily dose of the internet and drinking bottled water. I’m going back to village right now, with that site guilt on my shoulders. I’m living between two worlds, and I’ll never fully be a part of either of them for the next year. I was feeling Malian, now I’m feeling like an American. But whatever doubts and worries I have, about status, about rich and poor, white and black, though they may always be in the background isn’t the essence of my identification, my relationships. Katie, Steve, and Matt reminded me of my roots, my home, and the beauty of it. But now I take a deep breath, push aside my doubts and know that no matter what my roots, today, I have another real home, in Dombila. So as much as I was tempted to hop on that plane in the Bamako airport last night and reunite even more fully with my roots and with the “comfortable life”, that time has not come. I’m heading back, and trying to figure out what the heck I can do for this poor little village.

PS- Matt has an incredible camera and great photography skills. He will send me his flicker site to post so that you can see some more pictures of Mali.

Mother of the bride

"My daughter is getting married on Thursday in Kati. I am the mother of the bride. It is a big deal. You are coming."
I looked at Irene with a blank stare. Who? Not Awa, though she is a new mother, I know she's not getting married.
"What's her name?"
"Batuma." I had never heard of this daughter before. But sometimes Malians extend their immidiate family like that. When I told them that my uncle was coming to visit, they asked if it was an older or younger brother of my mom's. "It's my dad's older brother," I explained to them. "Ohhh," said my host mom, "that's not your uncle, that's your other father."
In that same logic, Batuma was really a neice, her mother alive and well. But aparently Irene was the mother of the bride and I was obliged to go.

I met up with them after I spend a couple of sick days in Bamako (all better now), and found Irene primping herself with tons of scary eye-makeup and her hair all did. She had a very large sparkly headress and a moumu. (She would proceed to change her outfit a total of four times during the day). She actually looked cool though, like an African queen. She had one of her little neices put henna on my feet and hands. Henna is black dye that Malians draw flowers and little designs on their hands and feet for special occasions. Its kind of like temporary tatoos that last for a week or so. It dried painfully over the many blisters I aquired from wearing my Caroline's running shoes the day before.

The wedding was different than any I had attended in Dombila. Namely, this was the bride's side. And also, these were richer people. I felt pretty underdressed in my old pink complee. No sparkly headress here. I didn't even have any jewlery with me. We sat in fold-out chairs under a colorful tent with dozens of women. Yes, only women the whole day. This was not a man's party. They danced in a circle surrounding the xylophones, and Irene literally forced me out of my seat a number of times to join the dance. I wish I could write about this experience from the point-of-view of a visiting anthropologist. A beautiful traditional ceremony filled with colorful culture. Yet as much as I tried to enjoy the experience, I essentially was Irene's dog on a leash all day, and abided to follow her everywhere when she called me. What else was I going to do?

We spent the late afternoon in the bride's room. You see, the Malian bride does not come out of the house on her wedding day. She stays inside, greeting people who stop in, as she waits for nightfall. That's when they will bring her to her husband's house where she will stay FOR-EV-ER. I told you how distraught I was when I saw Mody's new wife crying upon being left in her new husband's compound, but I think I understand now. It's just like going off to college, for good. A girl lives with her father until her wedding day, and then packs up all of her stuff and leaves. It's a tearjerker for the whole family.

Batuma was inside with her closest girl-friends, Irene, and I (feeling quite awkward and out of place). Her things were packed and she was waiting on her bed, looking beautiful in dark bazan, henna, and fine jewlery. The room was dark and stuffy, and I was sitting on the bride's right side while people came in to greet, give blessings and cry.

At one point we went outside to do the first round of gifts. A griot (traditional singer of blessings) would sing to Batuma, who was getting her face and feet washed by an old woman. You could throw money toward the griot and she would announce, in song, how much money you gave to the bride and then sing your special message. Irene gave a small bill and I heard her whisper to the griot that she has know Batuma for 18 years and how special she was to her. The griot began singing, "Oh Batummaaaa, she's known you for 10 years..." And everytime she said "10 years" Irene scoffed in the background, shaking her haid. "It's much more than 10." When it was over, they shooed Batuma away, and called, "Next!" and a whole other group of people came to the spot. I was confused.

As we waited in the bedroom, Batuma had a dark shawl and veil covering her. Another girl came in with the same exact outfit, followed by the future sister-in-law who looked at them closely. "This one's Batuma. You're coming with me!" Was this some kind of traditional guessing game? With look alike brides that you have to pick the real one? I had no idea.

They passed a long time putting off the big leave, nighttime fell and we went without dinner. Soon the party had ended and Irene was taking Batuma around the street, greeting the elders and getting ready for the departure. This was Irene's show now. And when she called a car over, she and Batuma entered, and so did I, on that leash.

We drove and drove through the night on the streets of Kati toward Bamako. After a while, the rickety old car descended off the road into a dirt path in a small valley. We twisted and turned- as far as I could see we were going into the middle of nowhere with only our two headlights to light the way. I prayed for our saftely.

We arrived in a large compound in a small village. The husband's house. The family was welcoming, and among 3 albino young women, I felt somewhat at home. We sat in the dark as Irene went through a series of negotiations with the new family. "You must buy her a white gown," Irene demanded.

They agreed, as long as they would agree to abide by the tradition that a new bride must stay inside the house for a whole 7 days after the wedding. "Our neighbors new bride only spent 3 days inside for the honeymoon. And that marriage turned out terrible!"

We headed back to Kati late, Irene semi-emotional, but also complaining of a tea-deprived headache. She was good to have around for the new bride, I thought, people listen to this woman. But why did she do this job?

"The real mother of the bride never drops the bride off. You always get a relative and name her 'the mother of the bride'. They go and do all the negotiations and drop the daughter off."

Ohhhhh. I get it now. But why was there another girl dressed as a bride? Were there two marriages today?

"There were four." I guess its normal for a family to get all of their weddings done in one shot. In one day, this family married off three of their daughters, and brought in a woman for their son. No wonder it was a big party.

The Miracle Tree

The kids and I planted a couple of dozen Moringa trees, which have grown quite nicely. Lately, I've been taking them around the village and giving them to mothers of malnourished kids and close friends.

So what is Moringa? They call it the miracle tree. It's leaves are amazingly high in an abundance of nutrients. Moringa has 7 times the vitamin C of an orange, 3 times the iron of spinich, 2 times the protien of milk, 4 times the calcium of milk, 3 times the potassium of bananas, and 4 times the vitamin A in carrots. The leaves can be dried and turned into a natural nutritional suppliment, which we can add to a baby's porriage. The seeds can be grinded into a powder that purifies water. The flowers can be made into a tea that aleviates headaches.

There are a couple naturally growing moringa trees in Dombila, but the kids and I have planted some more, which grow very quickly, even in unfertilized soil. I also planted 6 at the CSCOM with the help of Laji, a tree-worker who cut his leg down to the bone on the job and has been hanging out at the CSCOM for the past two months while it heals and he tries to figure out how to get money to keep up his medications. He took some pride in this occupational therapy. Unfortunately, most of the nutritional benifits of our baby trees at the CSCOM have been enjoyed by the goats.

I've written about moringa before, about how I put the leaves in my spagetti. It's hard to explain to Malians just how much of a miracle it is when they have limited understanding of vitamins, minerals, and macronutrients. I've found the most comprehensive nutrition education that makes sense to them so far is "This food has lots of vitamins. This food doesn't." So when I explain moringa, I say, "This has lots of lots of lots of vitamins!"

Little by litte, people are understanding. I have women tell me that their breast milk increased after putting moringa in their sauce, I caught Shaka's family cooking it for dinner, and almost weekly I find Irene giving a talk about it to pregnant women and mothers in the CSCOM.

For more information on moringa, here is a pretty good video.

Korotoun

Rainy season is bitter-sweet in Mali. It's a time of rejoycing in the planting of the new harvest. The hungry season has come to an end, the heat lets up after a refreshing rain-storm several times a week. In fact, the rain is so sacred to the Malians that I once got in trouble for joking about it. A strong wind came and everyone said that it was going to down pour. I said,"Nah, it's not going to rain". And it didn't. This happened a second time when I joked that I told the dark clouds to go away so that we could go on a vaccination expedition. The clouds let up and vaccinations were back on. Yet the farmers were angry- "Where's our rainstorm Aminata? You chased it away!" I continued the joke and out of the blue said, "Don't worry, we'll get a big storm Saturday night." What a coincidence it was, I was 3 for 3 and we got a steady, soaking rain on Saturday night. I stopped my weather forcasting after the rumor spread around village that perhaps I had some strange powers that could control the rain. "You gotta stop telling people you're stopping the rain!" Shaka says in all seriousness, "If the crop is bad this year, they'll all curse you!"

But now that we're well into the rainy season, not even I can stop it. Yet as much as the rains are giving life here, nourishing millet fields with puddles, these storms also bring the winds of death. Rain means mosquitoes. Mosquitoes mean malaria. Rain means everything is dirty. Uncleanliness brings intestinal disease, diahreah or worms, which also take the lives of kids in sub-saharan Africa. We've seen a lot of hardship at the CSCOM lately. One example, women and girls get up before dawn to go harvest the nuts of the shea trea far out in the brusse. I begged my host mom to let me go with her everyday. She refused- "It's too dark and dangerous out there!" When a young girl returned from a shea nut expidition and died from a snake bite two days later in our CSCOM, I stopped asking.

And the most frusterating is just when we feel like we're starting to get through to the women about malnutrtion, it skyrockets. It's amazing how the kids who have been in our program for a long time have recovered. I love taking out their sheet and putting them in pile of successes. But for every kid we let go, lately, there are 3 or 4 new ones that are referred to us. Some are fighting or recovering malaria or diareah, some are referred by our relais who are really stepping up their work in the community, and others are just simply not fed. They are strapped on their mother's backs all day to work in the fields. No time to specially make ameliorated porriage for the baby. Drink until the breast goes dry.

I registered 4 severely malnourished children (defined as less than 70% of the median weight for its height) in two days. But none was quite as bad as Korotoun. At 20 months, Korotun was barely 5 kg (about 11 pounds). In my 10 months in Dombila, I've only seen 3 other kids as bad as Korotoun. Each one we recommended in-patient treatment. Each one, the family refused. Can we really drop our lives and scrounge up the money to support ourselves to live in the dusty old sick-ward in the CSCOM for an indefinate period of time? Each one died.

But Korotoun's case was exciting because the family accepted in-patient treatment. We explained to the parents that they were to stay with Korotoun here as our staff carefully measured and prepared vitamin-enriched milk to be given her. She would also be given a coctail of medications and vitamins so that her body would eventually stop throwing up everything given to her, and that she would keep well hydrated and protected against vulnerable infections like malaria or rougeole. The father left in tears to walk back to his village, Dio, to collect their things. Of course, I felt so much pity for the child and the family. But I was more hopeful and excited as I had ever been. A father, sitting with his sick child, being so moved... that doesn't happen every day. A child is a woman's buisness. And if she can't feed him right, it's her fault, never mind the father. To see their courage and trust in us. Even the child's grandmother came, and the three of them set up camp in the sick room next to Laji, the guy who's had a gash on his foot for months.

I went straight to the book and planned out Korotoun's diet regimine for the first few days of her treatment. "We have to feed her every hour," Irene says. "Well, not necissarily," I said, "It might be better if we split it up every hour and a half so that she can get her calories gradually throughout the day." Of course, Irene is not refering to the handbook but only to the training she went to last year. "Believe me, I know, I went to the training." Well ok then. We'll feed her every hour.

Korotoun's case came at a time when I was looking for something to keep me busy. And honestly, I could have sat with that little girl every hour, feeding her the warm milk. But I was scared to. I was scared to take on all the responsibility that should be on the permanent CSCOM staff. But mostly, I was scared of getting to attached. Korotoun was so fragile. The day I met her, she couldn't even hold her head up by herself. He eyse too, kept rolling into the back of her head. Her cry was a pained, suppressed whimper, that was lost in the thickness of stuggles she must have been feeling. Yet she drank the milk. She drank it every hour. I left in hopeful confidence at about 2:00pm, Irene assuring me that she would administer the remaining 4 meals of the day.

I came in the next morning to find that Irene only had time to give one of the four meals of the afternoon. "We had a woman in labor! We were in there for a long time. We didn't have time to give the other meals. Besides, the kid was full anyway!" Are you kidding me? It's not about the kid being "full"! It's about carefully calculated calories, protiens and medications portioned out by scientists for her exact weight and height that should be enough to help stabilize her but not too much to overwhelm her system. You can't just wing it.

Cool it, Em, I thought. At least she's here. She got a lot more nutritents yesterday than she did in a long time. She's being helped and besides, she looks a lot better today. Her family was also optomistic. Her eyes were steady, and though too large for her sunken face, were stable and alert. She only lost a little of her food from yesterday, and had a good night's sleep. I began talking to Boary about switching her over to the transition phase, a post-stabilizing regime that initiates the weight-gain process. He said we would start that in another day. Even after I weighed Korotoun to find out her 5.1 kg had dropped to 5.0 kg since yesterday, I wasn't too worried. Today is the day she's really gonna start eating.

The CSCOM staff all signed up for slots to feed Korotoun so that she wouldn't miss a meal. I took the last two, number 7 and 8, so that I could go to market with Caroline during the day. I came back late afternoon to find that Irene had already given her her 7th meal. Her appetite had slowed down a little just before afternoon, but she had eatedn well during the day. I hung around until meal number 8, when I came in with the warm milk that I had made with UNICEF'S packaged powder. He mother spoon=fed her ever so carefully. It was 9pm and Korotoun was tired. She would give these little pain whimpers in between drinks. And I found myself wanting to sit with her forever. I concentrated so hard, on each sip she took. When she would turn away, I would look into her eyes. Very deeply, connecting with the life hidden inside her broken body. "Drink it," I whispered, "Drink it." And without taking her puddle eyes off me, she would calm her crying and drink. It took a while to get the whole meal down. "Drink it, drink it," I said, trust it.

I happily announced to Boure, our chef de poste, that Korotoun had had all 8 of her meals today. "Great!" He said. "Tomorrow we'll start her on the transition phase." Shaka, who had come to watch TV at Boure's, and I walked home about 9:30pm. "You were right Aminata. That baby's really skinny!" He said. "Yeah, but she's doing better today."

The next morning, I stopped by the CSCOM before work on my morning run to see how she was doing. I met Irene at the gate. "How's our baby? How's the family?"

"They left. She died last night. 10pm."

Is Irene in jail?

No, she’s not. And she’s not going to be. But there was a question that she may be up for it. Is she going to be fired? Possibly. If she isn’t, she is going to quit and leave her job as a midwife, and leave the town of Dombila for good. At least that’s what she says now.

Irene was involved with what us as Americans would understand as a medical mal-practice civil case. Not quite as technical in Mali, but still gave her a bunch of problems. I’ve tried to act dumb and stay out of it but I’ve caught the drift and it’s not good.

It was revealed after a medical examination at the CESREF of Kati that Irene pushed on the stomach of a woman in labor so hard that she broke the umbilical cord. Irene didn’t call the ambulance for three days. When the women went to Kati and had 2 operations, her and her husband blamed the death of their child on Irene. “And-” as it’s always emphasized when a Malian is telling this story, “the baby was a BOY!” Oh no! Not a boy! If it was a girl, well, maybe we’d forgive her.

The father has demanded that Irene be fired from her job as a midwife. She took off to Kati for a week while ASACO had a series of meetings about it. Because there is no hard proof that she was responsible for the death of the child, she is probably not going to be fired. But according to Irene, the father said that even if she is not fired, he is going to kill her.

After all this I came to visit Irene in Kati on my way to Bamako. I was surprised to find her in good spirits. She said if it wasn’t for me, she’d call her daughter and have her bring her things and never come back. “The people of Dombila don’t trust me. The doctors in Kati say hat I’m mean and lazy and that I do not do my job well. If this is resolved, something else will come up soon. I’m done with midwife work.”

My shocked face also didn’t surprise her. “I’m not leaving you now. Once your service is up, I’ll quit. But we work together and I made a promise to Peace Corps that I would work with you and look after you. So don’t you worry. I’m not going anywhere. But when you go to America, I’m also leaving the village.”

I’ll be the last to stop her. I enjoy working with her, but her passion for the job has waned as she gradually looses her connection with the community. She is always speaking of how the Dombila women are lazy and stupid and impossible to work with. And apparently, they think the same about her. I love Irene, don’t get me wrong. She’s taken me in as her own daughter and has been enthusiastic about my projects and aspirations for Dombila. But I want to work with someone who isn’t going to walk out at the same time I do. Talk about sustainable development. If I work with one person closely for two years on improving the village, who is just going to leave the village, well, where does that leave our work?

So pray for her, and for the family of the dead child. It seems optimistic now that this situation will blow over. But the lasting effects it will have on the relationship between Irene and the community are yet to be told.