Mali- Likes and Dislikes

Likes

Mangos
Wild, colorful clothing
Beautiful children greeting me by my name
Fresh, cold bucket baths
Running on the dirt roads
The generosity of the Malian people
My hammock
Homemade peanut butter
My womens' group
Escapes to Bamako
Dancing to zylophones
Putting American $ to good use
Riding my bike
Joking Cousins

Dislikes

Rotten mangos on the street
Dirty, sweaty, ripped clothing
Annoying bratty children taunting me
Bathing with dirty water
Running in the heat
The slow-to-action tendancies of the Malian people
The way my back feels after sleeping in my hammock
The extra pounds I've gained from basing my diet on homemade peanut butter
The social status of women
Transport to Bamako
Being forced to dance your 3rd zylophone dance when its late and you're exhausted
The fear of pouring money down the development drain
Changing my bike's frequent flat tires
Troures, Coulibalies, and Boares

Dad, I'm trying to wear your "happy glasses". They get dirty out here in the Sub-Saharan, but I try to clean them off when they do.

Feelin HOT HOT HOT

Remember that song? Hanging out by the lake- what I wouldn't give to jump in a lake right now!

I haven't been in the city in a while, and I wish that I could have keep some sharper updates on village life. Handwriten journals and I have never had lasting relationships- I've written some letters and promised to update my blog thoroughly on my next Bamako trip, but I've been staring at the computer all day and feeling a bit tired. So I'll give you the pathedic, hurried updates as they come out of my head.

PROJECTS:
- Handwashing stations are broken due to meanasing children and poor welding. Don't really know where to go from here. Is it worth reviving? No one in the community seems to be taking any action, despite my pushing. The director is terribly unmotivated, so so far we're at a standstill. Sorry to all of you donars, but only time and the good Lordy will tell if this will work. I'm doing my best.
- Malnutrition: We've had some great recoveries, including one mother who nobody believed could actually rehabilitate her child. We've become close personally and her son is now of normal weight. We also had a heartbreaking death two weeks ago that is making me and the CSCOM staff wonder how we can make our impatient program more accomidating (so far if you can't find a place to stay, you're out of luck).
-Wells: Came into Bamako to get the money to start the well project, which of course, is not in. Such is Mali. Meeting on Sunday with the very elusive water sanitation committe of Dombila who has not quite decided on the exact details of executing this project. Our well is done however, but now the water is kinda chalky looking... hmmm...
-Women's Soap: My women are still making soap every two weeks, experiementing with different shapes and sizes. They still do not make much profit, but we are looking at ideas on how to use our shea trees to get shea butter when the rainy season comes so we can lower our expenses.
-School: I started teaching sex ed at the school. Lord knows why. I was looking for something to do and they asked me to. We'll see how this goes...
-Computer: Our 1996 PC is fixed and I've resumed lessons with the CSCOM Doctor. We've learned important skills such as "home row" "copy paste" and of course, "Solitaire."
-Radio: Sunday night Dombila radio is "Health Talk" with your hosts Irene and Aminata. Aminata hardly says much (she has a weird accent), but Irene is quite talkative if you can get her to get out of bed and stay up until 10:00 (that's mainly my job)
-Informal: I think though what takes up the most of my time in village (or shall I say, what I am forced to fill my time with) is informal education. No one freakin wants to do anything seriously productive these days. I talk about starting a project, a committee, putting on a play with the youth, doing a big formation with community health workers... and I feel like I'm talking to walls. I seriously come up with some (so I think) break-through idea ever day- a small group smoking cessation project, a kid's malaria game night, a mural painting contest. But all anyone is really serious about is braiding hair and eating mangos. So if you can't beat them, join them. I've been doing a lot of braiding hair and eating mangos and sitting around with these bums. But in that sitting around, we talk. From water sanitation to baby nutrition to fruit drying, I feel like I'm starting to put some ideas in people's heads. I'm the first volunteer in a sleepy, rural traditional town. And while I can get jealous of my friends who are working with big Shea Butter Exportation projects with foriegn buyers or doing formations on pump repair, I feel like in my own way, I'm making a bit of a difference. Damn it I try my hardest, every day. And as an achievement oriented person, not seeing any results can drive me nuts. But you never know- things may be germinating beneath the soil. And maybe soon, we'll get serious about growin

VILLAGE NEWS:
- New mayor elected, not too sure about this guy. Not my host dad's candidate, but unlike our previous mayor, at least he is literate.

-I'm getting a site mate. An education PCV will be only 5k away from me starting this September. Don't know who yet. I hope they help us with the school at Dombila as well, (we really need it!) Let's also hope that its also the man of my dreams ;) (It's slim pickins out here- though I have a steady flow of marriage proposals I have yet to find a Malian man who meets my only two qualities: having all of his teeth and is against wife beating. Slim pickins for sure).

CULTURE:
-Village chief in Sidian Coro (3k away) died and the elder's secret society did a bunch of weird traditional ritual things. What did that mean for me? None of my mothers came into the CSCOM that day because "the road was bad". If you traveled on the main road, you might see one of the elders engaged in this secretive spiritual ritual. And if you see it, you die. No, they don't kill you, but they put a curse on you, which is just as bad.

-I also almost ate a mango from a cursed mango tree. Luckily about 12 kids came running to stop me before I even picked it off.

-After visiting one of the neighboring villages for vaccinations, I overheard a debate among some women on whether or not they thought my hair was real, or a wig. Malian women are super into fake hair that they braid into their real hair. So now not only do people ask me for money, my bike, and my watch, but I have people asking me for my hair. I don't know why they want it anyway- its a greasy frizz ball these days. Heck, we're all grease balls these days.

MY LIFE:
Newsflash: After some stomach rumblings, I've lowered my mango intake to 2-4 per day.

With the slow swing of hot season, I'm doing a lot of reading and thus a lot of thinking. I don't ever think I've thought so much in my life. Mostly about development, inequality, human rights, and poverty. The more I read and learn and question, the more I'm troubled by how difficult it is to render feasible solutions for the destitute people of our world. My head is exploding with questions that have no answers. I feel like I could write a book on all of my thoughts, but the book would essentially say, let's stop writing books. We've got enough books. What we don't have is enough people taking action. And why's that? Because action in it's purest form out here is as slow as a donkey cart.
Besides driving myself crazy pondering the troubles of humanity, I'm enjoying some QT on my new hammock (thanks Mom and Dad!)Some long runs with Shaka (who gives me the cold shoulder 50% of the time these days out of stupid things. I can't tell if he's over-protective or jealous but whenever I spend time with somebody that isn't him or the other boys, he gets mad. I'm learning to live with it unfortunately.) I've also started some Monday afternoon games on the soccer field with kids. Tag games, sprint drills, but mostly just messin around doing handstands and whatnot. It's quite a site, espcially when little Noellie, now at 13 months, staggers his newly found walking feet over to join the games.

Maria

Maria has quite a story. Born in Rochester, NY she was raised in Erie, PA and is a 2008 grad of Penn State. Swimmer, musician, and nutrition fanatic, she was drawn to Peace Corps service and got on a plane to Madagascar last December. Her service parelled mine- four months of learning the local language, adopting to culture, figuring out the needs in her community- with one exception. Her and her fellow PCVs were on close standby as local riots escalated into a coup d’etat. Finally she got a text message. Madagascar was no longer considered safe for Peace Corps service. She was to take one bag of essentials and leave her village quietly, without telling anyone. In a quaint little village on the edge of the rainforest, she never felt the least bit in danger. But soon she was bunked temporarily in city with the other volunteers, counting the gunshots they heard outside on the street.
The Madagascar volunteers were quickly evacuated to South Africa, where they had their close-of-service conference. They could consider their Peace Corps service complete and return to the states with their readjustment allowance and RPCV (returned Peace Corps volunteer) status. To Maria, and some others, that wasn’t enough. Each volunteer had to see a therapist, and Maria recalls him saying to her, “Peace Corps isn’t done with you yet,” which was in the back of her head anyway.
After two weeks of greesy hotel food and maid service in South Africa, Maria and four other former Madagascar volunteers headed to Mali where they would fill some of the open slots we supposedly had. That’s where I found her- with limited language, no understanding of the culture, and four months of a crazy experience behind her. They were given just two weeks of training- including four days of a site visit with a Mali PCV. So Maria came to check out Dombila with me.
Having her here was a blast. She was so easy going (I guess you’d have to be to transfer your Peace Corps service to a totally different country.) And never flinched on the long transport or bike rides or weird food or heat. But besides having an English-speaking friend for four days, what was really nice was to see Dombila through her perspective. At a point where the kids were getting on my nerves, Maria’s reactions to them reminded me that they were adorable. And thinking that my work was not amounting to anything, a fellow PCV was truly impressed by what I’ve been doing with child nutrition, school sanitation and wells. Since my installation, I ashamedly haven’t been to greet the chief- mostly because he lives far away and I am unfamiliar with the route. But Maria and I went, with Shaka, Cesalo and Madu sitting on the back of our bikes as guides. The shaky, wrinkled man with one good eye gave us a warm greeting as Maria offered him a small gift of tea and sugar. We then went and pounded millet with the women. My village, I’m thinking, is a pretty cool place.
And when the zylophones play week after week, I find myself wanting to stay at home and read a book. It’s old hat and isn’t exciting anymore. But the novelty of it to Maria was indeed exciting, and we both enjoyed doing the traditional dances with the villagers in the hot night, sweating off every drop of water in our bodies. I realized that during the first three months of my service, this was what I considered my work- getting to know people and culture, participating in every village activity there is. I was really happy back then doing these things. As my role changed- I was now expected to do projects and work- I let these little things drop out of the picture. There wasn’t much to discover in Dombila anymore, so I lost an interest in discovery. I was all about projects, and could speak of nothing else. If I wasn't doing "real work," well, I was useless. And sitting around with Malians drinking tea was no longer a productive way to spend my time.
But sitting around drinking tea is still the only key to helping these people. It is still my work- this integration, living like the natives. And I still can discover new and exciting things about the culture, especially with my improved language skills. Dombila's a pretty cool place, Maria told me, and I should be considered very lucky that I was put in my service here.
Maria ran with me, biked with me, cooked with me, and left Dombila with an better sense of Malian culture. She's headed to the Sikasso region to work in health education and nutrition. Best of luck to her, and thanks to her, Dombila has a refreshing air to it through my eyes. It's full of problems, poverty, and illness but my friends, its a jewel in the rough and I'm as proud as ever to show it off to a newcomer.

Family Planning

A family planning organization has begun work in Dombila. They came with their big SUV for two days of free family planning services, which they gave out at the CSCOM. Over 80 women came, some young girls, but mostly middle aged women looking for long-term family planning options (there was both 5 and 12 year “devices” offered). Family planning was not something that I have yet unearthed in my position as health educator, as I was still uncertain about the cultural context on which it sits. As for my own personal views, I support stressing abstinence as the first and best option. However with oppressed women in rural Mali, sometimes you need a second option. Women came and registered their names and number of children- some have given birth to as many as 12. And I never heard a whisper of opposition to these services in the village. So I’ll be the last to openly speak out against it.
As for me, I found a window to finally start having open conversations about AIDS. As the women went around showing the different family planning techniques, I followed to stress that even if they are getting long-term family planning, they should strongly consider male or female condoms to prevent AIDS and STIs. All of the doctors were women, but the person registering at the front table was a man. He was giving out free condoms at his table, but apparently, the word hadn’t spread around the village because no guys were showing up. I myself considered going around on my bike and rounding up the men, but I thought better of it and found a young high school guy to do it for me. He went to a nearby mango tree where a bunch of the high school guys hang out after school, he returned with nobody.
“Where are they?” I asked, wondering if they don’t understand the importance of condoms, and half hoping that they don’t need them anyway.
I was assured that they understand the importance. “They’ll come,” he told me, and indicated to the front gate of the CSCOM. I looked over to see about a dozen little heads peeking over the wall, only to quickly descend when somebody glanced their way. It was a hilarious scene, and Irene and I got quite a chuckle out of it. Eventually, with some rumbling behind the gate, one chosen young chap was pushed into the CSCOM, obviously with much resistance. But once your in you know, you gotta act cool. He knew we were all watching him as wondered around trying not to look stupid.
“Come say hi to your friend over here,” Irene said, indicating the front-desk-guy. The youngun came over shook his hand, was handed a 4-pack of condoms which he quickly put in his pocket. As he turned around to exit, all of the heads that were watching he every move again descended, and we could tell as he returned to his troops there was much fanfare behind the gate.
Irene was the first to make it clear that if you wanted the condoms, you had to come in yourself. You can’t take a bunch and give them to your friends. So donni donni these guys started to come in. It was always the same thing, they were pushed in the pool, a bit confused once in, directed toward the guy, shook his hand, shot an embarrassed smile over to me and Irene who couldn’t help but watch. “Put it in your pocket!” we’d say, and then with a brisk walk, they’d return outside the wall. The condoms were out of stock within the hour.

Post-script: I wrote this awhile ago, but here's related news: I've started teaching sex ed (AIDS, STIs, Family Planning) at the local school out of request from the director. GO figure. We'll see how this goes...

The latest from Dombila- Mangos, Naps, and politics

Easter always seems to come up so quickly. At home, I’m always surprised to see Easter when I look outside and the expected flowers and grass and chirping birds and such have not yet arrived. But in Mali, the seasons are certainly changing. The hot season is well upon us, and sometimes it seems like there is no escape from the blistering sun. Though I have been watching the trees for weeks and weeks as their little buds start to grow, little by little. They were big and green but not quite ready yet, until finally, this week, they came upon us.
Yes, my friends, the mangos have finally arrived. Almost every tree in my village is a mango tree and the fruit is unlimited for the next few months. Every morning, noon, and night, kids come to my door and give me mangos. Since the start of the hot season, I’ve been impatiently watching them ripen, now satisfactorily, eating 7 to 8 a day! I had mango oatmeal for dinner last night, mango spagetti another night, and then just your average mango snack throughout the day. Temperatures are rough, the sun’s rays even rougher, but the mangos are getting me through. They are absolutely delicious.

Seasons are changing in other ways here in Dombila. With the heat, there is “community naptime” from approximately 1pm-3pm. Everybody sleeps. It’s the only thing you really can do in the heat. Me, I typically don’t sleep, but I’ll relax under the shade of my hanger and read a book or something. It’s too hot to sleep. And as soon as the sun goes down I hit the sack- though that’s the time the rest of the village goes out to sociallize. In other news, the election is right around the corner, and with 7 political parties bidding for control of the mayor’s office, people are quite preoccupied with it. So I have two things here: the village leaders who have their heads rapped up in nothing but politics, and the common village people who are pretty much sleeping all day. Who is going to work with me?
The last two weeks have been painfully slow. I try to keep my motivation and determination up, hoping someone will listen to me, but so far I have felt very unheard.. Just a few weeks ago I was stressed about having too many projects on my mind, now I am desperate for something to do. My job is to work with the community, so really, there is little I can accomplish on my own. But with an absent community that doesn’t have the time or interest in working with me, things are at a standstill. I have a zillion ideas for the community, and every time I mention one I am told to put it off until later. It’s understandable I suppose- there are other things to do now. But what am I supposed to do in the meantime? I used to think that Peace Corps volunteers who read all the time were a bit lazy or distracted from their work. But now, I’m reading quite a bit. Reading, eating mangos, weighing some babies here and there, and trying to stir up some motivation in the community. If there is anything I’ve learned thus far, it’s that patience is a virtue. I’ve learned to be patient, but my months are numbered already, and what little we’ve accomplished is far from my vision. Donni donni all the way.

Gone to Kati- Shaka stays back

I’m in Kati now to celebrate Easter with Irene’s family. As far as our relationship, Irene and I get along just fine on a personal level at least. There are no hard feelings, I don’t think there ever were that many. But on a professional level, we still are not seeing eye to eye, though we don’t express it. In any case, I’ll enjoy spending some time with her family on Easter, but in small doses. Hence why I have devoted my first few hours in the town to the internet café.
It must have been a month ago that I was running with Shaka when he asked why he can’t go a long with my when I leave town. Trying to explain why I can’t favor him over other people, pay his transport and such got nowhere. He finally decided he was going to come to Kati for Easter to hang out with Irene’s son Mamadi. Irene agreed, and so did his mother Dalfine. I explicitly said I was not a part of it and I could not pay his transport. “We know, “ said Dalfine, “he’ll find the money.”
But when I was all ready to leave today Shaka came to me and showed me the money he had. About 40 cents. Round trip to Kati is almost $3, and he asked if I could help him out with the money. Why do you do this to me? I’m in such a predicament now, I know he wants to go so badly, but I can’t put myself in that position. I know no other volunteer that would even think twice about doing it. I told him, “Shaka, I told you long ago that I wasn’t paying for your transport.” But he knows I have the money. He cried, guys. He cried. I pondered about it, prayed about it. And I still don’t know if I made the right decision. What did Jesus say about helping the poor? “Do unto others as you’d have done to me.” It’d be great for him to go. But then what? He’ll want to go to Bamako, and I know, I just know, he’ll beg to come back to the states with me. Everyone in the village already thinks that he is going to. They know I favor him, but who wouldn’t? The kid runs with me everyday, pulls my water, gets me mangos and vegetables, accompanies me to the market. Sure, I never really need or ask for his help, but he offers it freely. He’s a good kid. And I wanted to show my appreciation.
“When I was hungry you gave me to eat.” Alright, we’re working with malnourished children.
“When I was thirsty, you gave me to drink.” We’re fixing people’s wells and treating water.
“When I was naked, you gave me clothes.” Well, there’s plenty of people running around naked or half naked, but that’s their choice. They all got plenty of clothes.
Nowhere did I find “When I wanted to travel, you paid my transport.” The boy’s father has the money, but refused to give it to him. But then- how selfish of me. I feel incredibly guilty. I have the ability to make this kid’s whole year perhaps, but I turned my head. “If you run there, I’ll bike beside you.” It’s about 15 miles on the main road in the hot sun. I offered him the opportunity, and I would have watched him carefully. He pondered upon it, and finally turned it down. I don’t blame him- he make a good decision. I give this kid a lot- buy him stuff at the market and so on. That’s already overstepping the lines as far as Peace Corps sees things. But he gives me a lot too. And I’m still in the quarry of whether or not I made the right decision. I think I did (your comments welcome here!) But I made him cry. And on the week where I want to feel like a good Christian, I’ve turned my head on the poor. Was it for the best?

Rock Stars

The equivalent of tribal rock stars came to Dombila. I had no idea where my whole host family was going one night, but they sure seemed excited, so I went along. We arrived in a big clearing, with basically the whole village sitting in a big square. The zylophones started to play and three men in large masks and burlap type jumpsuits came in the middle, clacking sticks and dancing a slow, rhythmic dance. Oh, I know what this is. I’ve seen this before- remember-the assumption of Mary at the church in Koulikani. These are acrobats. As the dance picked up, the men flipped and sprung with incredible physical strength and agility. Gymnastics, break dancing, and of course, Malian tribal guestures all came together to provide awe and amazement to the crowd. Even I gasped and genuinely applauded. It was pretty amazing. And it was happing basically in the middle of nowhere.
My host mom, Gneba, was really into it. She would yell and squeel like a rock-star groupie. And these guys were rock stars. They came from Bamako and the next morning I met them, they were wearing blue jeans and sunglasses and walking around with their picture phones. But that night they were tribal gods and their identiy conceled. After some incredible routine by one particular performer, Gneba ran to the center of the big opening (totally out of custom) and took off her head wrap, waved it at the guy and threw it at him. I equate it to that one crazy screaming woman at a rock concert who takes off her bra and throws it on stage. Everyone, especially me, is dying of laughter. The performer danced around with it a bit and then found Gneba in the crowd to return it to her. “Take it with you! Take it with you!” she insisted. And from a poor woman like her, this is a great gift.

Uncle B

I’ve written about Binot Troure, the guardian at the CSCOM before. He’s a very funny man, and I see him as kind of an adopted uncle to me. He is the head mason of our well repair project, and though some days he can be very motivated and do great work, other days he’ll scoff and blow us off. “I’m not doing ANYTHING today!” So tempermental! I can always tease him about it, if we are supposed to go to a certain village and he decides he’d rather not make the effort, I can rip on him because he’s my joking cousin. His response is that I don’t ever really work, I just do a lot of talking (which is true I suppose). Or that I’m too ugly, and he can’t even look at me today, so he can’t work with me. It makes me nervous though. If we want to fix 21 wells by rainy season and it took him 3 weeks to get around to finishing the first one, I am not really sure how this is going to work out.
But I find that if I am persistent enough, and that other people yell at him for me, he comes around. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll work today, I don’t want Aminata to be mad at me.” What time are we going to Koyan tomorrow? “6 am he says. I get up at 5 am every morning to sweep the CSCOM. We can leave at 6.”
So I came at 6, he wasn’t up. 6:30, nope. Finally at 7, I found him sweeping the leaves up under the center mango tree. I picked up a broom to help. “Are we going to Koyan today?” “Yes,” he says. “If Aminata says work, I’ll work.” Not always true, but nice to hear. I think he thinks he does a lot more than he really does. But really, I love the ole guy. And as we were sweeping the leaves my mind went to my father and the days we would rake up the leaves together on Hickory Lane. It was always a big job, but the satisfaction of completing it was so great. Dad, you never knew this, but I admired you so much simply for raking the leaves. Dedication is one of man’s greatest aptitudes, and every so often I get glimpses of this dedication from Binot. But he’s a Troure, so its rare.
“Sweeping the leaves reminds me of when I was a little girl. I used to sweep the leaves with my father.”
“So I have become your father?”
Though he doesn’t much remind me of my father, he has become a father figure to me in the village.
“No, you’re not my father, you don’t work.”
“Your father doesn’t have a guardian to sweep the leaves?”
“No! Why would my father have a guardian?”
“To sweep the leaves and watch the house. Why doesn’t he have a guardian?”
“He’s not a rich guy. He works really hard himself.” At this point, we are biking into the fields. It is a half hour ride to reach Koyan, where we are to take measurements on 3 wells. Normally a half hour, but as Binot’s chain falls off his rusty old bike every few hundred meters, it was quite a journey. I went on to tell him about my parents, how they each worked two jobs their whole lives so that my sister and I could go to college. He seemed a bit taken aback. People’s lives aren’t completely easy going in America. You gotta work. It inspired him I think. And to have this opportunity to work on some village wells and get a few extra bucks from the Peace Corps could really help his family. Work ethic. He has it, buried beneath the constraints his poverty, stirred by his family of four that he feeds with $30 a month. I believe in him, and know he has great talent in masonry to help the village. Work ethic. My father has it, my mother has it. And I begin to realize what an amazing childhood I had as a result. A comfortable neighborhood and home, a college education, and a chance to rake the leaves with my dad.
“Aminata. You were talking the other day about Easter in America.” he says. “It’s about the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Why”
“Let me get this straight. A large rabbit comes, in the middle of the night, and hides chicken eggs? And the kids go looking for the eggs?”
“Yup. And some eggs are plastic and people put candy and little toys inside.”
“And beans.” Those darn Troures.

A note about polygamy

Shaka’s father got married Thursday night. He took, or shall I say bought, a second wife from a nearby village. To marry a woman, you must pay a dowry to her father’s family. So when a man finds money, many of them will chose to marry again. It’s someone else to do the dishes and the laundry, which is why the first wife never really objects, and you’ll have more kids to carry out your family name. I never really understood why all of the textbooks say that poverty hits women and children the hardest, but now I know. Men are not obliged to give anything, ANYTHING to their wife or children. The food is the woman’s business and responsibility. Any profit the man makes is for himself. Moriba, Shaka’s father, recently bought a motorcycle and had a wedding, but could not give Shaka $3 to celebrate Easter in Kati, or to his wife Dafine to go to her uncle’s funeral in Bamako. He is not one of my favorite men. I once was chatting at night at his home, looking up at the stars and asked philosophically if he would ever want to go to the moon. He snapped back, “How can I ever go to the moon! I’m poor, I’m from Mali, only your people ever go to the moon. You give me money and then I can go to the moon.” Geez, it was just a question.
All this considered, I was a bit worried about what this second wife’s life was to be like. How much choice did she have in this wedding? She’s barely 17, younger than Moriba’s oldest son. And when I asked about her reputation and personality, my host family was quite hesitant. They weren’t real sure about this one.
She arrived in a train of motorcycles and the women came to dance and sing wedding songs. But the acrobats were performing again on the other side of town, so the turn out was low. “We^ll do it again tomorrow night,” they decided. How would I feel, I’m thinking, if I arrived at my wedding, the crowd was low, and they just decided, hey, let’s do it another day.
But the number of people was the least of the brides problem. The whole night she sat in the corner, crying. Crying while the older women teased her. Perhaps they were trying to welcome her, but she did not want to be welcomed. Moriba is kind of a scary guy, and I can’t imagine she is truly in love with him, or that she is here on her own will. I feel for her, and want to befriend her, but I am also bound in this culture now that totally accepts that this is the way it is.
“I didn’t like that” I said as we returned to our concession, “she was crying.”
“Aminata,” my host mother replied, “every woman cries. She’s crying because she’s thinking of her family. She left her father and her mother for good. Even I cried on my wedding day.” She cried? But her an her husband are in love, they are very happy together.
“American women don’t cry.”
“Why not?”
“They are happy to be with their husbands. They love them.”
“Oh and we don’t love our husbands?”
Somehow, I doubted that this new young girl was in love with this bitter middle aged man. But the women I asked said she was. And the next morning she was doing the dishes, and greeted everyone with a warm smile. She fits in well around here and the family seems to be getting a long fine.
Polygamy is tough because it means men are always on the prowl. Even if they are married. Even if they are content with their wives, even if they aren’t really looking for romance. “I got two wives but I’m looking for a third,” my buddy from Tomba Yaya Coullibaly tells me, completely innocently. “If you have three wives, you can reeeelllaax. And if you got a lot of kids, so be it. Allah will feed them.” I chuckle and shake my head. Irene once explained to me that polygamy was necessary here because there are a lot more girls than there are boys. “Believe me- I’m the matrone, I give births, I know!” I’m not convinced. But it’s the system. It’s unbreakable thus far. It works for the men, and for the women, unfortunately, they hardly have a choice.

A brief training

Just finished a two day training at Bamako and wondering what's next for me and my village. A lot has happened so take your time reading. I love you all and miss you more than I can say. Have a Happy Easter and God Bless :)
Em

“What the heck?” Moments

I’d like to briefly record three moments recently in which I turned a corner and had to do a double-take- am I really seeing what I’m seeing? Problem being, there was nobody else around who found my discovery unusual, hence I will share with you.

1. I was closing my door of my hut, getting ready to depart for work and there was a camel- yes a camel- outside my door. Wait, what the heck? It was pretty darn huge too. The man sitting on top of it was singing blessings in Arabic and calling children to come sit on top of it- kinda like Santa Claus.

2. I saw a woman without a nose when I went to do a child nutrition talk in a neighboring village. Yup, no nose. Just a hole in her face. Yikes.

3. I recently visited a small satallite village looking for some of our missing children in the nutrition program. Seemingly way out in the brush, I was checking out the village when I came upon a Malian woman sitting in the middle of a concession typing on a laptop! There isn’t a working computer in the CSCOM or the Mayor’s office- so how did this get here? Before I totally felt like I was dreaming, I was told that these are the people from Bamako working on the census. I had actually met them before and knew they were doing work out here, I just didn’t expect to come upon them in the middle of nowhere.

Pacho

Pacho is the cutest 3-year old you’ll ever meet. My parents will tell you if you ask them- they completely fell in love with him during their visit here. They gave him a toy dump truck, which he’s been playing with ever since. Pacho is the kind of kid that is just always happy, always playing and talking in a little voice that’ll make your heart melt. He follows me around as much as he can. If he’s at the neighbor’s house when I return from work, I’ll stop and he’ll climb up, ever so carefully on the back of my bike to ride home with me. When I’m in my house, he’ll always creep up to the screen door peering in like my house is some magical forbidden world. And while I’m cooking or getting ready, he’ll ask little questions. He’s especially interested in getting a good look at my exercise ball, which I still refuse to take outside because of the dirt and kids. He’s astutely frank. His little girlfriend was crying for no apparent reason once and I asked what happened. “Oh. I hit her.” He says with little shame or concern. Pacho! He also likes to jump up and down for no reason. Once his jumping was a little labored. “What’s with you?” I asked. “Poop.” He said matter-a-factly. “You have to poop?” “Yes.” Well ok.
So the dump truck was his favorite toy until I decided to take out the singing valentine my sister sent me. It is a hip-hop dog hologram that dances and when you open the card you hear a snipet of “Who let the dogs out.” I remember how amazed Americans were when singing greeting cards came out, so you can just imagine the fuss they got in a small African village. All the kids loved it but Pacho still comes to my door everyday. “Aminata- dog!” he whispers. “Get the dog who talks!” He’s been playing with it for like two weeks now and it’s a miracle that its not broken yet. But there are times that he’s just astounded when he opens it and it doesn’t play. “Aminata, the dog is finished talking.” Or when he closes it and it won’t stop. “Eh Allah!” But basically, he just loves to move the card around, watch the dog dance and shake his little hips in rhythm. Thank God for Pacho, a daily reminder of the joy in simple things.

Delicate trust: An encounter with domestic abuse

Despite having a very good couple of weeks, there was one dark night that I’ve had no choice but to try to push out of my head. I must face it one of these days, I know. I just haven’t figured out how.
Since I’ve been here, I’ve held dying children, I’ve seen a child dead on the side of the road from an accident, I’ve watched unconscious women be carried to try to seek medical care for malaria, only to find that they were too late. But what I had yet to see is violence between fellow men. Until now.
I’ve written about my “subtitle guy,” my English-speaking language tutor, the courageous secretary general of Dombila who has given up his rich life in Kati to give to the more lowly people. He’s a man that more or less, I trust. He’s someone I’m excited to work with and owe so much thanks for all the selfless help he has offered me so far. That’s why it was particularly painful when I saw such rage coming from him.
After a meeting in Kati, he took me to meet his family. Nice people for the most part, but one teenage boy was silent. “You don’t greet people?” Mamadou, my tutor asked. The boy did not respond. “You don’t greet people?” Still, no response from the boy. I saw anger growing on Mamadou’s face as he wrapped his arm around the boy’s throat and dragged him in the back room, not shutting the door.
My instincts told me that this was playful brotherhood behavior. Maybe he was going to give him a “nuggie”. Mamadou is a large, strong man. Even a nuggie would demand merci, but this was not that. He punched, kicked, choked, threw all his strength on the boy. Right in front of me. Right in front of me. I turned my head, another man grabbed a whip and entered the room. I left without looking back. I left with angry tears, without even saying goodbye. Started down the road, had no idea where I was. Only imaging what was happening behind me. Hearing the sounds of the beating from the thick mud brick walls. It lasted a long time. A long time.
Mamdou’s family came chasing after me, assuring that everything was fine and trying to coax me back. I refused. But then I realized, it was dark and I didn’t know my way back. They said Mamadou would walk me home, and I waited cautiously for him outside.
The whole way back he tried to explain himself. The boy does not behave, he will never learn, this is Africa and this is the way we do things. Yes, I think, this is the way some people do things. But it is wrong and I wouldn’t expect it from a good man like you. He wanted to talk about it, to make me understand. I just wanted to go back to Hunter’s house and get away from him. We’ll talk about it later, I can’t speak to you now. I’ve seen him twice since. I still can’t speak to him. He’s someone that deservingly won my trust, but then showed me more frightening rage than I have ever seen in my life. I want to pretend it never happened, and I will forgive him. But at the same time, how do I turn my head and pretend it never happened? How do I smile and greet him and act like I think this is ok. It’s not ok. And it is a great puzzle to me why good Christians, Muslims, people do not understand this.

Project Update: Donni Donni

1) Well Repair
So last you heard from me I was stressing about this well repair project. My weaker qualities- trying to please everybody and not being able to say “no”, got me into a lot of trouble. Well a lot has happened since then and though there are still many problems, a lot of good is starting to come out of it.
A Peace Corps trainer came into my village to show everyone how to do top-well repairs. The work went really well, but everyone, including I, came to realize how difficult it was. We got down to reality and realized exactly what this entailed- and a couple of men who were pestering me about money, failed to show up. “Where are they?” “Oh, since the project got smaller and there isn’t money involved they didn’t want to come. Just forget about them.” Can do. But its nice to know that their opinion wasn’t the opinion of the whole group.
What I was left with was a core group of people who did a systematic evaluation of the village and chose 21 sites- 14 traditional wells and 7 project-initiated wells that need improvement. Basically what we are doing to the traditional wells is digging out the top and installing rocks and cement to prevent erosion. Then for all of the wells, we are installing a slab with a metal door to prevent dirt and other things from falling in. We are then going to clean and shock the wells and begin treating them regularly with cholorine.
It’s not easy work- especially when we could only find one guy in the whole village that actually knows what he’s doing (Binot Troure, my joking cousin who also build the hand washing stations). Can’t other people learn how to do it? Yes, Binot is taking 3 apprentices to learn donni donni. But it’s harder than you think when you really only have one guy that knows how to use a tape measure, let alone fix a village water system.
And then there’s Mariam. The president of the water sanitation committee, a woman who after elected was the source of a few mens’ subsequent absences. When I talk to her, I feel like it’s the “Field of Dreams.” (If you build it they will come). Meeting after meeting we find more problems. The work is hard, we don’t know what we’re doing, we don’t have a lot of money. After one dishearting meeting I sat down with her to ask, “Really… REALLY… is this something that we can do?” Half hoping for her to bag it and thus free myself to focus on other work, she responded with dignity, “It will be done.” Can we find workers? “If you call them, they will come.” Can we find enough time? “It will be done.” Will they treat the wells consistently? “If you show them, they will do it.” She really has a lot of faith and determination, and was an inspiration to me. One day Binot and I were to go travel around the villages and look at the wells by bike but he was called for other work (seems to happen a lot with this guy which makes me rather nervous) and Mariam went with me. We walked for three hours in the hot sun to visit dozens of families. “I am not tired,” she says, “this is important work.” Of course, without Binot, I felt pretty clueless. I tried to take some measurements to make it look like I knew what I was doing, but I think I’ll leave that to him. So we’re doin it guys. N’I Alla Sonna (If God wills). And I’ve realized that this is something really important to my community, something they are willing to sacrafice a lot to accomplish, and that’s why I’m excited about this. I don’t know much about fixing wells, but after seeing some of the water that these people drink, I am realizing how important it is. Kids are malnourished here, but it’s not just because of the food. They drink this dirty water and get worms and then can’t eat. I’m starting to open my eyes and realize this. So it’s all related. Health. If we build it, it will come.

2) Child Nutrition

There are still mothers who won’t come. Irene gets mad, I get worried. There are still messy records. Irene gets mad, I get worried. There are still people who do not understand how to properly wean their children. And there are still dozens of children with sunken faces and bony limbs. But here’s the thing- we’re getting somewhere. I go out into one village, and a community health worker who I trained to screen for malnutrition explains everything to me and how she has been taking arm measurements of children and giving advice to mothers. I am stunned and pleased. I go out into another village: A child who had not come back to the CSCOM for follow up was shown to me. His mother started making him the porriage I showed here, and he gained about 5 pounds in two months! As healthy as can be, the mother agreed to come back for a follow up weighing where I told her I would take her baby’s picture and put it on the wall of the maternity. I also told her that I would give her baby a friendship bracelet that my sister and her lacrosse team made (now a standard gift for children graduating from the program). She came to the CSCOM, brought her little sister, who currently has a malnourished baby, and helped teach some of the mothers about nutrition. And oh, I forgot to mention, she walked 8 miles to do so- with a terribly deformed foot. Donni donni guys. Things are happenin.

3) Soap making/ Hand-washing

So my women’s group sold soap in the market for the first time the other day. It was a big hit. It’s great quality and the villagers are starting to catch on to it. The women on the other hand, are in no rush to really expand their business. Each women in my group is making about 5 cents a week profit on this, but are not really thinking of ways to limit their expenses or expand production. 5 cents more than they had last week, and most of them end up buying the soap for themselves anyway. But hey, donni donni. As of now, more and more people are washing their hands and every so often, they’ll take out our soap and talk about how nice it is. Next stop- school hand washing stations- (that is if they ever get the leak fix and the teachers go off of strike). Eh Allah!

A three-footed walk

I arose early in the morning to find Mariam, to walk with her to find some of our wells deep in the village. When I arrived at her house I was led by some children out into the field where an old woman motioned me to come near. She told me Mariam had already left deep in the fields to go collect wood for the cooking fire. It was a bit of a walk, but she would take me there.
As we walked, I noticed she labored a bit. “Look at my foot,” she says. It has a boot on it and does not flex. An artificial foot in the brush of Mali! “I used to have a sock too, but it is gone. I want to find another sock to wear.”
Some minutes later, she told me her story.
“When I was in sixth grade, I got very hurt.” She spared the details, but said, “Some children are very mean, very mean. There was blood everywhere. A white man came in a car. A Christian. They took me to the hospital and they said they must do an operation. The man then ordered this fake foot from France. It cost $200. $200! And he paid for it all. I didn’t pay one cent. They did the operation, but it was hard to recover. I could not return to school. But now, look at me! I can work. I can go collect wood. I can cook. I can walk. I can do everything, just a little slower.”
Though I cringe that the white man was the hero in the story, I let the big picture fade for a moment. Here I’m working on sustainable development, on helping people find solutions to their own problems, and it would not be in my place as a Peace Corps Volunteer to buy anyone an artificial foot. But look what happened here. She was saved from being crippled and ostracized from the community. She can walk. It is a beautiful thing. And I reflect on this, thinking that in all of my efforts to get Dombila standing on two feet, I must not fall into the sociological sin of “blaming the victim.” There are no easy answers. And the long term answers are not going to be an immediate fix to urgent suffering. So sometimes we need someone to give us an artificial foot. Africa, my friends, does not have two working feet. We’ve given them one, and it is not a perfect solution. It will not last forever. And Africa is dependent on it even though it makes walking unnatural and labored. But Africa has one healthy working foot that without it, it would fall. For now, we can give them that artificial foot. It is not a natural part of its body, but now at least, now, we can walk forward.
“The only thing I can’t do,” she says, “is read. I loved school so much, but I had to stop. They used to do adult reading and writing classes in town, but those project people left. What I think is so important now, is for women to be able to read and write. If someone comes back to help us with that, I would be very happy.”
They’re looking for help out here my friends, the problem is, where to look. Next time the Christian may not pull up in a car. But for now, there is a white girl walking with a limping black woman. We are both slightly confused as to where we are going, but we are walking. Together.

Irene makes me cry

Catchy title? Blunt, nonetheless. At our two day formation at Tubaniso, the truth comes out. In the Malian culture, if someone is older than you, they can tell you to do basically anything they want and if you don’t do it, it’s disrespectful. Not understanding that I should be exempt from that, I came to a realization that I’m really being pushed around. Especially with her crying child, Irene has been extremely bossy, telling me what I can and can’t do, asking me to get up in the middle of a meeting to get her water or an orange or to go charge her phone or add sugar to her coffee. (So all you walked over interns out there in America, I feel your pain, even here). These little things get on my nerves, but after an exercise with homolouges and volunteers at our training, I noticed its not just these little things. It’s everything. I can’t do anything without her permission or approval. I can’t go anywhere, I can’t do any work with anyone else besides her or she gets jealous and offended, and most of all, my opinion doesn’t matter. I don’t understand anything, according to her. And though I am fun to have around, and I help her out tremendously, though she loves me, she doesn’t respect me as a working adult. I should be her right-hand man and remain so. I work for her, in her opinion, not for the village of Dombila. Peace Corps trainers were embarrassed by her, skipping sessions, bossing me around. The cultural facilitator even said, “I know you are trying to respect her, but in my opinion she is not a respectful person. And she obviously doesn’t respect you.” I’m her adopted daughter, and in Mali a daughter is a servent. And I can work as long as its under her demand and close supervision. Luckily, she’s right about a lot of things. But sometimes she’s not. And sometimes I am called to build hand washing stations or wells and I’m sorry that you have prenatal councils, but I can’t spend my service sitting around waiting for you to have time to work with me. I once spent 5 hours waiting for her to record a radio show with me because she doesn’t think I can do it myself. I could have done that and a million other things.
But what made me cry was when she announced her list of complaints against me. “She works on things and doesn’t even tell me about them until after that happens! She comes in the morning and tells me what work she wants to do when I should be telling her! She does not respect me, and all of the work that she has done without me has turned out terrible. The hand washing stations leak and people are cheating her for money. She even goes out and drinks tea with other people, even after I told her that they are putting charms in the tea to curse her.” (That last one says it all.)
We got a long way to go, me and her. I have to set some boundaries for myself and its not going to be easy. But I’ve let her push me around long enough. We get along and have fun together, but we still do not understand each other’s roles. I do need to keep her more in the loop of my side projects, which I will begin to do. But in all my struggles of trying to fit in to the Malian culture, I placed myself too far down on the hierarchy. No more using my phone to call her sons. No more making me sit around all day in Kati with her family so that she won’t look bad if I go back to the village before her. No, I don’t understand everything in Bambara. But I do understand some things. And I feel like we would be a lot further in our work if she would just listen to me every once in a while. So who knows. Malians don’t hold grudges, so I know whenever she is mad at me, it probably won’t be for long. But it’s respect I want. I don’t want to be her boss, but I don’t want to be a doormat either. She’s my boss now, which isn’t her job description either. Homolouge- same. Ironic for two people coming from two different worlds to achieve this balance of equality. It may happen eventually, but it’ll be a bumpy road.