Rainy season is upon us. Which means the mangos are diminishing, the mud is everywhere, the sun is a little less brutal, and the fields have begun to be planted. Besides the mud and the mosquitos, I love the spontaneity of rainy season… for the most part that is. When it rains, nothing happens. Nothing. Everything is canceled. No radio show, no vaccinations, no traveling. And it’s understood by everyone in the village. Anything you had planned- if there’s a storm, is not going to happen. So now, I have little breaks every now and again during surprise moments. I don’t have to even entertain Malians. I just crawl in my house, read my book or nap for a few hours, and wait for the storm to pass. And I don’t have to make any excuses for doing so. It’s like having mini-snow days multiple times a week. I will occasionally disrupt a plan for a run or a meeting, but nothing that can’t be rescheduled.
I’m in Kati now, working with the Rotary on an evaluation of the well improvement project, and meeting with the regional health center to get information on HIV rapid tests. I stayed with Hunter who just got back from Dogon country and showed me some spectacular pictures. I really hope it works out with my sister, Steve and Matt that we can go to visit it. After all that I’ve put him through, my loosing wallets, loosing my way, and my "away from site"-guilt-trips, I’m surprised Hunter is still my friend. There are some pretty amazing people here, and I got really lucky. Caroline too, stopped by after her vacation. I saw her briefly on her way back to Dio. Dio wasn’t really sounding too pleasant to her after she just spent the last two weeks on the beautiful islands of Cape Verde. I was really happy to see her, and I think she was happy to see me, but the thoughts of little ankle-biting children, cockroachs in her latrine, long days of greetings and trying to cook by a dim flashlight might have dampered her reaction.
I also got to talk briefly to my family and to Karen, who stopped over with pictures and gifts from the trip. So much amazing stuff is happening at home. My dad got an awesome new job. My mom just turned 50. Karen and all my friends from college are running, working, and just being the great people they are. I’m missing so much at home, I feel. I should be there for this stuff. Hunter is thinking about extending his service and asked me if I would ever think of that. I told him the truth- if I found a good job with an NGO in Bamako, I might be worth an extra couple of months to fill the gap before grad school, but I’m not sure yet. “Emily,” he says, “think of how hard this year was for you being away from your family. Could you really do that again?” He has a point. But it’s dooni dooni you know. And then next dooni step is the night of Aug 5 where my other half is coming to reunite- the notorious Katie Hurley. And her partners in crime Steve and Matt Hurley. Watch out Mali.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Spells on my hair
Though I don’t miss the feeling of being confused all of the time, there were a few things that were eaiser when I was clueless. Before I could understand Bambara, I didn’t have to hear all of the crap people say about each other. I had an exception from village gossip. Now, I’m right in the thick of it. Everyone’s got someone to complain about, and I can’t pretend I don’t understand for very long. It’s like any other small town in the world. Everyone’s in everyone’s business, everyone’s got their grudges. Staying a neutral party is a challenge.
Beneath the gossip though, are there really dark evils in Dombila like many people believe? Spirits, genies, jinks, curses… I never realized how these ancient customs are so much a part of everyday concern. Shaka is always looking out for me. I appriciate it, but it sometimes gets pretty ridiculous. He told me not to run by the market. “Those are people in there who want to cut your hair.” He’s said that before, and even gone so far as to collect the hair that I have taken out of my hairbrush and thrown outside out of fear that these people will get their hands on it. I guess they have spells and stuff they can do on my hair that’s he is quite concerned about. “Don’t go to the market! They’re gonna take your hair!!”
Tired of this I snaped back, “Shaka, they are not going to take my hair! I can look after my own head thank you very much.” And then, totally unplanned, it just came out. “And by the way, even if they do have my hair, it won’t do anything to hurt me!”
He looked completely shocked. He shook his head. “Even now Aminata, you really don’t know Malian people.” This culture is serious stuff. And unfortunately, I can’t play dumb anymore.
Beneath the gossip though, are there really dark evils in Dombila like many people believe? Spirits, genies, jinks, curses… I never realized how these ancient customs are so much a part of everyday concern. Shaka is always looking out for me. I appriciate it, but it sometimes gets pretty ridiculous. He told me not to run by the market. “Those are people in there who want to cut your hair.” He’s said that before, and even gone so far as to collect the hair that I have taken out of my hairbrush and thrown outside out of fear that these people will get their hands on it. I guess they have spells and stuff they can do on my hair that’s he is quite concerned about. “Don’t go to the market! They’re gonna take your hair!!”
Tired of this I snaped back, “Shaka, they are not going to take my hair! I can look after my own head thank you very much.” And then, totally unplanned, it just came out. “And by the way, even if they do have my hair, it won’t do anything to hurt me!”
He looked completely shocked. He shook his head. “Even now Aminata, you really don’t know Malian people.” This culture is serious stuff. And unfortunately, I can’t play dumb anymore.
His name is… Bule?
As my parents were leaving in February, they were given a note by the xylophone players who entertained us that first night. Even after we gave them little goodie bags of tea, sugar, macaroni, and a small amount of cash, they wanted to ask my dad if they would buy them a microphone to enhance their performance. Now though it was a formal note, I’d still consider that begging. Looking back on it now, I should have been firm and just said “no” but of course I began to make excuses. He didn’t understand the note, we have no idea how to buy you a microphone, etc. etc. So the whole thing died down quietly.
Then when Karen came, these xylophone guys played again. We gave them little gifts, but the whole night we were reminded of the microphone that they want my dad to buy for them. Of course, my parents are extremely generous people, and all I would have to do is say the word and they’d donate it. But the problem is it sets a precedent for the future- ask Aminata and you shall receive. I don’t know if my replacement volunteer would like people coming up to her saying, “But Aminata’s father bought us this, why can’t you buy us that?” Donations are great, if I can funnel them through my main purpose- health education projects. Unfortunately, an electronic xylophone extension doesn’t fit that bill at the moment. So again, I brushed off the request.
But my host mom is sneaky. One of the xylophone players’ wife had a baby the night Karen was here. I later found out that it was my host mom’s scheme to tell them to name the baby after my dad. Maybe if he was named after my dad, he would be so honored that he would send money for a microphone and maybe even he would tell me to bring the baby to America with me. So that night they kept asking me, “What’s your dad’s name? We want to name the baby after him.” Knowing it was a trick, I played dumb. My dad’s name is Bill, apparently very hard for my host mother to remember or pronounce.
The next week, when I went to the baby’s baptism, they asked me what the name of the child was. “I don’t know it’s name!” I said.
“Yes you do! You named it after your dad!”
“No I didn’t. You are the parents, you should name your child.”
“We want to name it after your dad. Gneba said it was something like… Bule…?”
Refusing to correct “Bule” to “Bill” I simply told them that that was not my dad’s name. But now, this poor kid’s name is Bule. And I’ve asked them to change it but they haven’t as far as I know. He is Bule, a mutation of the name “Bill”.
As Irene and I were recounting the sequence of events, we had some good laughs about the exotic places our names have come from. She said, “Even my father! He worked at the Grand Hotel in Bamako and some American people came and stayed. I was born and he thought if he named me after one of the American women, maybe she would take me to America!” Then she thought, “Hey! Maybe it was your grandmother!” which just cracked me up. I then told her how my name came from a prostitute’s baby on a soap opera that my mom used to watch in college. So I guess if nothing else comes out of this, no microphone or ticket to the states, at least one day Bule will have a good story to tell about how he got his name.
Then when Karen came, these xylophone guys played again. We gave them little gifts, but the whole night we were reminded of the microphone that they want my dad to buy for them. Of course, my parents are extremely generous people, and all I would have to do is say the word and they’d donate it. But the problem is it sets a precedent for the future- ask Aminata and you shall receive. I don’t know if my replacement volunteer would like people coming up to her saying, “But Aminata’s father bought us this, why can’t you buy us that?” Donations are great, if I can funnel them through my main purpose- health education projects. Unfortunately, an electronic xylophone extension doesn’t fit that bill at the moment. So again, I brushed off the request.
But my host mom is sneaky. One of the xylophone players’ wife had a baby the night Karen was here. I later found out that it was my host mom’s scheme to tell them to name the baby after my dad. Maybe if he was named after my dad, he would be so honored that he would send money for a microphone and maybe even he would tell me to bring the baby to America with me. So that night they kept asking me, “What’s your dad’s name? We want to name the baby after him.” Knowing it was a trick, I played dumb. My dad’s name is Bill, apparently very hard for my host mother to remember or pronounce.
The next week, when I went to the baby’s baptism, they asked me what the name of the child was. “I don’t know it’s name!” I said.
“Yes you do! You named it after your dad!”
“No I didn’t. You are the parents, you should name your child.”
“We want to name it after your dad. Gneba said it was something like… Bule…?”
Refusing to correct “Bule” to “Bill” I simply told them that that was not my dad’s name. But now, this poor kid’s name is Bule. And I’ve asked them to change it but they haven’t as far as I know. He is Bule, a mutation of the name “Bill”.
As Irene and I were recounting the sequence of events, we had some good laughs about the exotic places our names have come from. She said, “Even my father! He worked at the Grand Hotel in Bamako and some American people came and stayed. I was born and he thought if he named me after one of the American women, maybe she would take me to America!” Then she thought, “Hey! Maybe it was your grandmother!” which just cracked me up. I then told her how my name came from a prostitute’s baby on a soap opera that my mom used to watch in college. So I guess if nothing else comes out of this, no microphone or ticket to the states, at least one day Bule will have a good story to tell about how he got his name.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Karen's visit!
What a fantastic week. Karen was up for a visit- using her own money and limited vacation days to come across the world to hang with me for 6 wonderful days. When my villagers heard this, the most frequent response was “That’s a really good friend.” She flew in Friday night, and had the energy to go out on the town to some of the more “Tubab” dance clubs with some PCVs and embassy workers.
The next day we had egg-tiki for breakfast and headed out on transport (after a lovely 3 hour wait) to the town of Siby on the outskirts of Bamako. We had a nice time there with PCV Elizabeth and in the morning, hit the cliffs for a guided hike/ rock-climb/ rappel with two funny little Malian guys. The view was great, I thought. So did Karen but she just came back from the grand canyon so I doubt our little Malian plateaus compared much. But we learned some cool history. We walked through a cave that was once used as a hiding place in an ancient tribal war. We saw the remains of pots of the Malian peoples of yesteryear, picked some leaves of traditional medicine, and saw a place where hunters used to skin panthers! We were done with the hike about mid-day (the hot sun was getting to us) and we headed back to Bamako.
After journeying to the post in Kati, I realized my phone and wallet were gone. I take most of the blame because of my inherent absentmindedness, but I also blame Malian transport and such. After a stressful few hours of trying to figure out how we were going to get back to village, Hunter came to the rescue again. The fact that Hunter to this day is still my friend, despite all of the times he’s bailed me out, calmed me down, and forgave me in stressful situations is a miracle blessing. He’s a great guy. And so is Karen for having such incredible faith that everything would work out alright.
We spent the night in Dio and biked to Dombila in the morning. Karen did a lot of the formal meet-and-greets and we went on a nice run together (it had been so long- and she’s still in great shape!). That night the xylophone guys played for us. It was a great experience- Karen was in her traditional Malian wear. But the xylophone guys still reminded me that they want me to ask my American father to send money so they can buy a microphone. It’d be nice to help them out, sure. But it’d be also nice if they wanted to play for the foreign visitor, as a thank you for my work, without asking for anything in return. Exhausted and sweaty, we went to bed- Karen liked the hammock quite a bit.
The next day we made mango jam, played with the kids, ate some Malian rice, and went to greet the chief. The old man with the bad eyes welcomed the visitor and we took a picture for him. Karen picked up a good amount of Bambara during her stay here, and she got at least a dozen marriage proposals. Not to mention everyone begging her to stay here. (My host mom even went so far as to offer to trade me in for her!)
Karen helped with baby weighing on Wednesday and afterwards we got a ride to Bamako with the Peace Corps doctor who came to do my site visit. We ran some errands (mainly replacing my lost items- thanks for hanging in there Karen) and then had a relaxing night. We looked at pictures, new and old, exchanged ideas about life, spirituality, fitness, purpose. It was fantastic to have her, and to feel so un-alone, so blessed with this great friendship. The shower in the old Dalfina was quite temperamental, so we put on our swim-suits and tried to scrub off all the African grime in the pool.
We took it easy in Bamako the last day. Real shopping (not market shopping where people are grabbing at you every second), sight-seeing at the University and through the city. Great restaurants, and real showers. I felt like an American. I felt like I was back in the states, in a way. Not back in the states per se, but back in my own life. With an old friend., doing normal people things. And I found myself craving it. I found myself craving her life- her desk-and-computer job, her grocery shopping, her road-racing, her house with 3 other cool young American girls. I want some time there.
It’s not that I don’t love the Peace Corps, but I think I have tried to block out of my mind how tough it is. It’s tough. It’s fantastic and I’d never give up this experience, but it’s tough. And I’ve been thinking now about where I’m going after this adventure- what field of work, what kind of job, what kind of schooling? I feel like this second year of Peace Corps is going to be personality building. I’ve already broken down the walls. I’ve hit rock bottom many times and pulled myself up. I know what it’s like to scratch at the grass roots of a community, of a problem and to not get anywhere for a while. But I also know that there are possibilities for growth and improvement. I am the only white girl here, but I’m not the only one with resources or motivation. I only pray I can do all I can to help my village come together, and to help you back at home be closer to them.
So since Wednesday, I’m still in Bamako. Depending on a meeting, I may be for another day. That’s a long time. And site guilt is still there, but I’m also treating myself to the real world of work. I’ve been in front of the computer all day. I’ve been visiting NGO workers to discuss projects. I’ve traveled all around Bamako replacing my phone, debit cards and identification. And things are good here. It’s still Western Africa, but it’s a little more modernized. I like this life.
But in the back of my mind I know there is much work to be done. We are just getting started. They say the first year of Peace Corps is trial-and-error, and the second year is where your lasting impact is laid down. A refresher, of motivation, organization, dedication, purpose. I have Karen to thank for all that. And now I’m off. No not to save the world. Not to even save the village of Dombila. Not to even save the CSCOM of the village of Dombila. I’m off to serve- wherever I am needed and however best I can. Inner strength is the starting engine, but one can only travel the avenue of service by following the lead of those you serve. Dombila, I’ve made mistakes against you, I’ve escaped you, I’ve resented you. But I’m still yours. Completely. For another year and change.
Well work pics
1. B doing some finishing touches on one of the wells
2. The old well cover. We removed this, which was all that was sitting on the top of the well- held together by rotting branches on mud, to put on our metal and cement covers
3. The guys at work!
2. The old well cover. We removed this, which was all that was sitting on the top of the well- held together by rotting branches on mud, to put on our metal and cement covers
3. The guys at work!
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
PICTURES PROMISED LATER
As always, things in B-ko are crazy and photo uploading is just not happening. I PROMISE to get some pictures up- there's a lot of well repair and other stuff I really want to show you but now unfortunatley I have to catch the last bush taxi to make it back by dark...
Allah K'an ben tuguni sooni
(May we meet again soon)
Allah K'an ben tuguni sooni
(May we meet again soon)
Refresher
I haven’t been in Bamako in a month and except for one short day in Kati, I’ve been in Dombila for a really long time. I ran out of money, food, sanity. I came into town for the HIV Task Force meeting at Peace Corps, but might have to stay for a bit longer for some medical stuff. So I’ll get back Wednesday, leave again on Friday for an AIDS Awareness Day in my friend’s village, return Sunday or Monday, and then leave again the following Friday to get Karen (!) at the airport. I still can’t believe she’s coming all the way out here. Man, I got the best friends in the world.
Personally, I’ve still been up and down, working on really defining myself out here. I’m faced with pretty basic stuff that I’ve been forced to encounter. Things like being a good friend, being appreciative, humble, and gracious toward other people are skills that I’ve never felt like I need to actively evaluate myself on. But when you feel like Malians are always pestering you in the market and they don’t understand you, you can become quite standoffish. I need to quit complaining, especially to my American peers. It’s tough living among foreign people- it’s exhausting to say the least. But I’ve come to a point where I need to get over that and find a way to embrace it every day. It’s all part of the journey. Up and down. I’ll let loose and dance to the zylophones until 1:00 in the morning, loving my villagers, and then being an ogar the next day when all I want to do is take a nap and there are kids screaming at me outside my door.
It seems silly to complain at this point when things are really going very well. Really well. I wrote about some of the projects I’m working on in the entries that follow. But what’s really coming together right now is my goals. I feel like I have a road to follow, like I really know what my village needs and what I want to accomplish in the next 15 months.
1) My biggest goal is getting our community health workers (relais) self-sustaining, functional, and capable of keeping track of the malnourished children on their own. I started off my service doing a lot of the leg work- chasing down lost kids, keeping records at the CSCOM. But now, I’m gradually handing this off to our community health workers, who know the kids the best. We have about 30 of them- some I know better than others, for Dombila is a vast area of some very distant, remote villages. When I go out into these small villages, I work with the relais on baby weighing and ameliorated porriage demonstrations (you may remember the all-star relay Yaya Coulibaly of the village of Tomba). And the ones I work with one-on-one are really starting to understand the system. I smiled all day when one morning shortly after a baby weighing, Kulu Diarra, a relay from the very poor village of Sidian-Coro, came to me at the CSCOM with a list of sick children, asking if they had come in for nutritional rehabilitation and counseling.
“These two came in. This one did not. These two do not have their vaccinations up to date. These three do not need to come in, but may need someone to keep an eye on them to make sure they start adding some protein to their diet.” He took careful notes, and agreed to visit the families of the children. If all of the relais could do as he does, we would never let any babies get lost again.
So after some discussions with my chef de post, Dr. Boary, we contacted an NGO who gave all the relais bicycles so that they could better do their work and come in for a monthly meeting at the CSCOM. These monthly meetings will hopefully start in July. The relais have had one training session but most of them still do not understand their work- which is to go around to 30 homes a month and interview the family on their health status and practices. This summer in the fall, I hope to help the relais define their work and a system of evaluation for it and then hopefully hold another big training session in the winter. If I can leave here with this whole malnutrition program in the hands of dedicated and capable individuals, I will have done my job.
2) There’s AIDS in our village. Boary, the chef of the CSCOM know it in his heart. But we don’t know for sure because there is no test, no medical service. They just fly under the radar. This summer, I hope to be working with the medical center in Kati to help get HIV/AIDS service out in Dombila. There’s no excuse for not at least having the test. We want to bring in people who can train our staff on HIV counseling and also to hold some educational events surrounding the opening of HIV services in Dombila. It’s a long way off, but it’s a goal.
3) Water Sanitation! We have an extremely capable committee in Dombila, and some motivated workers. The sky’s the limit with these well projects, and other water sanitation projects like soak pits and wash areas.
4) Women’s garden: The women of Sidian Coro have no water source to garden in the dry season, unless they are able to walk 8 miles a day to use the neighboring village’s garden. We’re in the beginning stages of talking about this project.
5) Expand basic health education: including murals, school lessons, health center and community educational resources (books, pamphlets), and radio.
6) Get those freakin hand-washing stations fixed for the next school year. Haha. Dooni dooni right?
7) And whatever else comes up. Sorry for the extensiveness. But writing it out makes it feel more concrete, purposeful.
Personally, I’ve still been up and down, working on really defining myself out here. I’m faced with pretty basic stuff that I’ve been forced to encounter. Things like being a good friend, being appreciative, humble, and gracious toward other people are skills that I’ve never felt like I need to actively evaluate myself on. But when you feel like Malians are always pestering you in the market and they don’t understand you, you can become quite standoffish. I need to quit complaining, especially to my American peers. It’s tough living among foreign people- it’s exhausting to say the least. But I’ve come to a point where I need to get over that and find a way to embrace it every day. It’s all part of the journey. Up and down. I’ll let loose and dance to the zylophones until 1:00 in the morning, loving my villagers, and then being an ogar the next day when all I want to do is take a nap and there are kids screaming at me outside my door.
It seems silly to complain at this point when things are really going very well. Really well. I wrote about some of the projects I’m working on in the entries that follow. But what’s really coming together right now is my goals. I feel like I have a road to follow, like I really know what my village needs and what I want to accomplish in the next 15 months.
1) My biggest goal is getting our community health workers (relais) self-sustaining, functional, and capable of keeping track of the malnourished children on their own. I started off my service doing a lot of the leg work- chasing down lost kids, keeping records at the CSCOM. But now, I’m gradually handing this off to our community health workers, who know the kids the best. We have about 30 of them- some I know better than others, for Dombila is a vast area of some very distant, remote villages. When I go out into these small villages, I work with the relais on baby weighing and ameliorated porriage demonstrations (you may remember the all-star relay Yaya Coulibaly of the village of Tomba). And the ones I work with one-on-one are really starting to understand the system. I smiled all day when one morning shortly after a baby weighing, Kulu Diarra, a relay from the very poor village of Sidian-Coro, came to me at the CSCOM with a list of sick children, asking if they had come in for nutritional rehabilitation and counseling.
“These two came in. This one did not. These two do not have their vaccinations up to date. These three do not need to come in, but may need someone to keep an eye on them to make sure they start adding some protein to their diet.” He took careful notes, and agreed to visit the families of the children. If all of the relais could do as he does, we would never let any babies get lost again.
So after some discussions with my chef de post, Dr. Boary, we contacted an NGO who gave all the relais bicycles so that they could better do their work and come in for a monthly meeting at the CSCOM. These monthly meetings will hopefully start in July. The relais have had one training session but most of them still do not understand their work- which is to go around to 30 homes a month and interview the family on their health status and practices. This summer in the fall, I hope to help the relais define their work and a system of evaluation for it and then hopefully hold another big training session in the winter. If I can leave here with this whole malnutrition program in the hands of dedicated and capable individuals, I will have done my job.
2) There’s AIDS in our village. Boary, the chef of the CSCOM know it in his heart. But we don’t know for sure because there is no test, no medical service. They just fly under the radar. This summer, I hope to be working with the medical center in Kati to help get HIV/AIDS service out in Dombila. There’s no excuse for not at least having the test. We want to bring in people who can train our staff on HIV counseling and also to hold some educational events surrounding the opening of HIV services in Dombila. It’s a long way off, but it’s a goal.
3) Water Sanitation! We have an extremely capable committee in Dombila, and some motivated workers. The sky’s the limit with these well projects, and other water sanitation projects like soak pits and wash areas.
4) Women’s garden: The women of Sidian Coro have no water source to garden in the dry season, unless they are able to walk 8 miles a day to use the neighboring village’s garden. We’re in the beginning stages of talking about this project.
5) Expand basic health education: including murals, school lessons, health center and community educational resources (books, pamphlets), and radio.
6) Get those freakin hand-washing stations fixed for the next school year. Haha. Dooni dooni right?
7) And whatever else comes up. Sorry for the extensiveness. But writing it out makes it feel more concrete, purposeful.
Mr. Fix-it and Friends
Funny how the best thing going right now felt like it was going to be the end of the world a few months ago. The well project is going smoothly. Financially sound, run by motivated people, and with really little intervention by me. They got their act together. Binot Troure, the head mason aka Dombila’s guardian and handyman, found a new spurt of work ethic (probably because we’re paying him with our project money, but you know…) and with only 3 weeks into the project has finished the bulk of work on 19 village wells with his teammates Douda and Nema Diarra.
With all of the politics surrounding this project, I should probably take some time to explain exactly what we are doing. Most of the people in Dombila get their drinking water from traditional wells- hand dug with nothing but an old metal barrel and some logs at the top. This is problematic for many reasons. Erosion near the surface causes the wells to break and debree to continually fall in the drinking water source. Uncovered wells are also an invitation to dust, mud and other impurities. In addition, they are dangerous, as tales are told of toddlers who have fallen the dozens of feet down into the bottom of local wells. Kids get worms all of the time from drinking dirty water, which causes them not to be able to eat, thus being a direct contributer to our malnutrition problem. Our project is digging out the broken sections of the wells and reinforcing them with cement. We then cover the well with a metal door and teach the villagers how to hang their well bucket away from their well, how to shock treat their well after the construction work, and finally how to maintain clean drinking water with on-going with monthly cholrine threatments and clean water pulling practices. The deal was that Peace Corps would pay for the cement and metal if the community hitched up their donkey carts for transportation of materials, as well as finding their own suitable rocks and gravel for the project. The response of the community was enthusiastic and successful. The wells are turning out beautiful and functional- I’m so proud of these worker guys. Every time I go to see them at work they’ve gotten the entire surrounding community involved, even in the basking sun. And the villagers treat them like kings. I’ll meet them after work one afternoon and they’ll talk about how one concession killed a chicken for them and how one old lady was so happy she couldn’t stop dancing. I’m certain that once these wells are finished, we’ll be expanding the project after the rainy season.
With all of the politics surrounding this project, I should probably take some time to explain exactly what we are doing. Most of the people in Dombila get their drinking water from traditional wells- hand dug with nothing but an old metal barrel and some logs at the top. This is problematic for many reasons. Erosion near the surface causes the wells to break and debree to continually fall in the drinking water source. Uncovered wells are also an invitation to dust, mud and other impurities. In addition, they are dangerous, as tales are told of toddlers who have fallen the dozens of feet down into the bottom of local wells. Kids get worms all of the time from drinking dirty water, which causes them not to be able to eat, thus being a direct contributer to our malnutrition problem. Our project is digging out the broken sections of the wells and reinforcing them with cement. We then cover the well with a metal door and teach the villagers how to hang their well bucket away from their well, how to shock treat their well after the construction work, and finally how to maintain clean drinking water with on-going with monthly cholrine threatments and clean water pulling practices. The deal was that Peace Corps would pay for the cement and metal if the community hitched up their donkey carts for transportation of materials, as well as finding their own suitable rocks and gravel for the project. The response of the community was enthusiastic and successful. The wells are turning out beautiful and functional- I’m so proud of these worker guys. Every time I go to see them at work they’ve gotten the entire surrounding community involved, even in the basking sun. And the villagers treat them like kings. I’ll meet them after work one afternoon and they’ll talk about how one concession killed a chicken for them and how one old lady was so happy she couldn’t stop dancing. I’m certain that once these wells are finished, we’ll be expanding the project after the rainy season.
Yes they eat bugs
5/15/09
So we’re still in hot season, but the good news is, we got some rain. A big rain storm too, like the ones I remember from August. It’s a great excuse to go inside and have some “me” time as the rain pounds on the tin roof. And by “me” time I mean no Malians bugging me, and a sound-proof arena where I can sing at the top of my lungs. In some sense, I’m looking forward to the rainy season. But then I am reminded of the increased humidity and the perpetual mud and I realize the real relief might have to wait until next cold season.
Because along with the rain as well come the bugs. All sorts of little critters landing on you at night. My family today was talking about how sometimes they cook up crickets in oil and eat them during the rainy season. Now meat in Mali grosses me out with all the fat and it’s impossible to chew. But something with a crunch that’s high in protein and extremely low in fat, it actually doesn’t sound that bad. “I’ll try some,” I say. They boys go out and catch some and bring them back in a can to show my host mom.
“ Oh, these are still too small to eat,” she says, “we’ll have to wait until rainy season really comes.” I look in the jar. These are too small? These are the biggest freakin bugs I’ve ever seen! About the length of my thumb. They had these gross thoraxes with antenas and bug eyes and they were scwirming all over the place. Hmmm, I’m thinking,, perhaps I won’t be eating crickets with them.
So we’re still in hot season, but the good news is, we got some rain. A big rain storm too, like the ones I remember from August. It’s a great excuse to go inside and have some “me” time as the rain pounds on the tin roof. And by “me” time I mean no Malians bugging me, and a sound-proof arena where I can sing at the top of my lungs. In some sense, I’m looking forward to the rainy season. But then I am reminded of the increased humidity and the perpetual mud and I realize the real relief might have to wait until next cold season.
Because along with the rain as well come the bugs. All sorts of little critters landing on you at night. My family today was talking about how sometimes they cook up crickets in oil and eat them during the rainy season. Now meat in Mali grosses me out with all the fat and it’s impossible to chew. But something with a crunch that’s high in protein and extremely low in fat, it actually doesn’t sound that bad. “I’ll try some,” I say. They boys go out and catch some and bring them back in a can to show my host mom.
“ Oh, these are still too small to eat,” she says, “we’ll have to wait until rainy season really comes.” I look in the jar. These are too small? These are the biggest freakin bugs I’ve ever seen! About the length of my thumb. They had these gross thoraxes with antenas and bug eyes and they were scwirming all over the place. Hmmm, I’m thinking,, perhaps I won’t be eating crickets with them.
Opening Night
At the beginning of May, when I was in between projects (as my blogs say doing a lot of mango eating and hair braiding) I began to get impatient with my villagers. Why doesn’t anyone want to do anything? At the same time, I began to get annoyed by the group of kids always at my door. Don’t they have anything better to do than to hang out here 24/7?
And then it clicked. If you can’t beat them, join them. And if no one else is listening besides these kids- run with it. The idea struck me when my boys were looking through this comic book on malaria I had got during one of our field trips in Mid-service training. It was about two students, top of their class. One took really good care of her health and slept under a treated mosquito net. The other did not, ended up getting malaria, missing a lot of school and falling behind. With the help of my language tutor, I translated the story into a Bambara script, and then gathered all the neighborhood kids under my hanger one afternoon. “We’re doing a play.”
The first few days were a blast. I read them the story and had perfect attention, smiles, and excited applause. We then did auditions, and got a big laugh out of each of the little boys pretending to be attached by mosquitos in the middle of the night.
But after rehearsals got underway, I realized that this was going to be a lot harder than I thought. I remember how stressed I would be trying to choregraph a dance number at the Harley Summer Theater camp with 30 middle schoolers. This was even harder. The first rehearsal there were at least three fist fights, and Shaka got into an argument with a passing woman that completely disrupted the whole rehearsal. I had no choice. I kicked him out of the play. “Fine,” he said after he was the one who helped bring it all together in the first place, “I don’t want to be in it anyway.” Some of the older kids (10, 11, 12 year olds) were really truly interested, and dedicated. But they were outnumbered by crying 6 year olds who just didn’t understand why you can’t run on stage and say your one line at any old point. And that first rehearsal, my friends, is a day I will never forget. It is the day I realized how much untreated ADHD there is in Malian children. Cesalo, leave the bike alone. Cesalo, leave the bike alone. Cesalo! I know that he doesn’t want to cause trouble but he seriously cannot, CANNOT keep his hands to himself.
But its either this or more sitting under the mango tree. Let’s hope it gets somewhere.
Two weeks later…
We’ve had our rehearsals. They are at no scheduled time per se, just when all the kids round each other up. The boys cleared out an area under a shady mango tree and hung a large three meter piece of plastic that I had bought at the market as our curtain. Taped to this plastic was decorated letters that spelled “SUMAYA” (Bambara for “Malaria”) colored by the children. Gabriel, our doctor, had a special white coat borrowed from the CSCOM, and the youngest kids had plastic-bag wings strapped on their backs to portray the devious mosquitoes. I had no idea if these kids would be able to keep themselves under control for the whole 15 minutes, but we were going to give it a shot. The original date of the play got switched. (The legitimate excuse- it rained. But really, 15 minutes before the show, all of my kids were out working in the fields so I doubt it would have happened anyway). When I finally gathered them all the next afternoon, we had no audience (even though I had spread the word as much as possible). “Go around the village and get people!” I shouted. This was so unorganized. Even the star of our show, the young Aicha, didn’t bother to tell me she’d be out of town today, and left me to put in an understudy. I noticed that the sense of a performance being an end goal didn’t really have much meaning to them. On the day of the show I had kids show up that I’ve never seen before in my life claiming that they were in the show. “Who are you?” “I’m one of the mosquitoes!” “No you’re not, I’m sorry, you’ve never even been to a rehearsal. Go sit in the audience.”
The kids finally rounded up about 25 villagers, mostly teenagers who came to laugh at their younger brothers and sisters. If the concept of a theater was foreign to my actors, it was even more so to the audience. When I’ve seen Malians watch TV at the CSCOM or in Dio, it’s the funniest thing ever. They comment on EVERYTHING. Especially Irene: “Oh! Did you see that? The kid is crying!” Here in Dombila’s children’s theater, it wasn’t any different. The Malians would laugh at the top of their lungs at everything, and when somebody messed up their line or enterance, they would vocally let that person know. Little kids would be running all over the place, and kids behind the black curtain would continuously run out to watch or intervene from the sides. It was pure chaos. But you know what? It was a blast. The audience loved it. The kids loved it. The joking cousin bean jokes were spoken loud and clear by little kids that were previously too embarrassed to do any sort of public speaking. And when the doctor came out in his white coat to explain the 8 sandwhich-board type malaria pervention signs worn by all of our little mosquitoes standing in a line, all was silent. The message was heard. And though we won’t be going to Broadway anytime soon, probably not even to Dio, we’re working on a spot on Dombila’s health radio show and maybe a second performance (after the performance kids came back to my house- are we doing the play today? Um… it’s over, we already did it!). The play was in the middle of a malaria prevention week in Dombila, where I went around to 5 different villages doing malaria talks and mosquito-net treatment demonstrations. For the most part, I had great attendance. So even if you are sitting under a mango tree braiding hair all day, it doesn’t mean you’re not going to ever get up. You just need a reason to do so. So that’s our job, finding those reasons.
And then it clicked. If you can’t beat them, join them. And if no one else is listening besides these kids- run with it. The idea struck me when my boys were looking through this comic book on malaria I had got during one of our field trips in Mid-service training. It was about two students, top of their class. One took really good care of her health and slept under a treated mosquito net. The other did not, ended up getting malaria, missing a lot of school and falling behind. With the help of my language tutor, I translated the story into a Bambara script, and then gathered all the neighborhood kids under my hanger one afternoon. “We’re doing a play.”
The first few days were a blast. I read them the story and had perfect attention, smiles, and excited applause. We then did auditions, and got a big laugh out of each of the little boys pretending to be attached by mosquitos in the middle of the night.
But after rehearsals got underway, I realized that this was going to be a lot harder than I thought. I remember how stressed I would be trying to choregraph a dance number at the Harley Summer Theater camp with 30 middle schoolers. This was even harder. The first rehearsal there were at least three fist fights, and Shaka got into an argument with a passing woman that completely disrupted the whole rehearsal. I had no choice. I kicked him out of the play. “Fine,” he said after he was the one who helped bring it all together in the first place, “I don’t want to be in it anyway.” Some of the older kids (10, 11, 12 year olds) were really truly interested, and dedicated. But they were outnumbered by crying 6 year olds who just didn’t understand why you can’t run on stage and say your one line at any old point. And that first rehearsal, my friends, is a day I will never forget. It is the day I realized how much untreated ADHD there is in Malian children. Cesalo, leave the bike alone. Cesalo, leave the bike alone. Cesalo! I know that he doesn’t want to cause trouble but he seriously cannot, CANNOT keep his hands to himself.
But its either this or more sitting under the mango tree. Let’s hope it gets somewhere.
Two weeks later…
We’ve had our rehearsals. They are at no scheduled time per se, just when all the kids round each other up. The boys cleared out an area under a shady mango tree and hung a large three meter piece of plastic that I had bought at the market as our curtain. Taped to this plastic was decorated letters that spelled “SUMAYA” (Bambara for “Malaria”) colored by the children. Gabriel, our doctor, had a special white coat borrowed from the CSCOM, and the youngest kids had plastic-bag wings strapped on their backs to portray the devious mosquitoes. I had no idea if these kids would be able to keep themselves under control for the whole 15 minutes, but we were going to give it a shot. The original date of the play got switched. (The legitimate excuse- it rained. But really, 15 minutes before the show, all of my kids were out working in the fields so I doubt it would have happened anyway). When I finally gathered them all the next afternoon, we had no audience (even though I had spread the word as much as possible). “Go around the village and get people!” I shouted. This was so unorganized. Even the star of our show, the young Aicha, didn’t bother to tell me she’d be out of town today, and left me to put in an understudy. I noticed that the sense of a performance being an end goal didn’t really have much meaning to them. On the day of the show I had kids show up that I’ve never seen before in my life claiming that they were in the show. “Who are you?” “I’m one of the mosquitoes!” “No you’re not, I’m sorry, you’ve never even been to a rehearsal. Go sit in the audience.”
The kids finally rounded up about 25 villagers, mostly teenagers who came to laugh at their younger brothers and sisters. If the concept of a theater was foreign to my actors, it was even more so to the audience. When I’ve seen Malians watch TV at the CSCOM or in Dio, it’s the funniest thing ever. They comment on EVERYTHING. Especially Irene: “Oh! Did you see that? The kid is crying!” Here in Dombila’s children’s theater, it wasn’t any different. The Malians would laugh at the top of their lungs at everything, and when somebody messed up their line or enterance, they would vocally let that person know. Little kids would be running all over the place, and kids behind the black curtain would continuously run out to watch or intervene from the sides. It was pure chaos. But you know what? It was a blast. The audience loved it. The kids loved it. The joking cousin bean jokes were spoken loud and clear by little kids that were previously too embarrassed to do any sort of public speaking. And when the doctor came out in his white coat to explain the 8 sandwhich-board type malaria pervention signs worn by all of our little mosquitoes standing in a line, all was silent. The message was heard. And though we won’t be going to Broadway anytime soon, probably not even to Dio, we’re working on a spot on Dombila’s health radio show and maybe a second performance (after the performance kids came back to my house- are we doing the play today? Um… it’s over, we already did it!). The play was in the middle of a malaria prevention week in Dombila, where I went around to 5 different villages doing malaria talks and mosquito-net treatment demonstrations. For the most part, I had great attendance. So even if you are sitting under a mango tree braiding hair all day, it doesn’t mean you’re not going to ever get up. You just need a reason to do so. So that’s our job, finding those reasons.
Growth and Family
5/12/09
I’ve been here for a long time. Today I just got off of the phone with my mom, who reminded me that it was a year ago today that I graduated from Geneseo. Unbelievable. And I’ve been here in Mali for over 10 months. I’m homesick in a strange way. I’m not sad or completely nostalgic, I’m just really longing a week’s getaway where I can live my old life for a little while, and see my old friends. I like it here, but I’m getting antsy. Christmas is still so far away…
There are signs everywhere that the time I’ve passed here has been more than a short jaunt. Namely, the kids. Noellie, just a tiny little 8 month old when I first met him, is now running around, playing with other kids, and talking a mixture of real words and baby talk. (“Anglais!” they tell me). Pacho, though still adorable is no longer a toddler but now one of the boys. On the other end, Shaka is a teenager (13 now)- and as moody as a teenager can be. We still have growing pains in our relationship- he can get very bossy and jealous. But when it comes down to it, he truly is one of my best friends and in the end, I know I’ll be able to count on him. My host mother’s new baby, Sama, has developed a smiling personality (praise the Lord that she recovered from her premature birth) and I’ve watch my 18 year old host sister stomach grow and grow until she gave birth to her first daughter last week. She named it after me, Aminata, but I’m a little cautious to call it a compliment. It took me by surprise because I never really thought my host sister liked me that much. I think it was more of a response to my constant joking that she should name it “Aminata,” and also perhaps a good lead in to ask me to buy the new baby presents. There was no naming ceremony. This was an illegitimate child of a poor family.
Speaking of family dynamics, I should probably update you on Mody’s (Shaka’s dad’s) new wife. I remember at first, I felt really sorry for the young girl, being stripped away from her family like that to live with this temperamental middle aged man. But now who I really feel sorry for is Dafinie (Shaka’s mom). At first it seemed like she didn’t mind welcoming a new wife, but now that Mariam (the young teenage new wife) is around, Dafinie finds herself driven out of her home. During the day she wanders around the village- Mody doesn’t want her around if it isn’t time to cook a meal. “There’s a new woman in his eyes now” Dafinie says, and being in her position, there is really nowhere for her to go at night except back to Mody, to be driven away while he spends time with Mariam. As a rebellion against his first wife, Mody didn’t pay any of his six children’s school fees for the spring trimester. I noticed it one morning running with Shaka. “Hey, isn’t it time for school?”
“Helloooo. I haven’t been to school in weeks. I didn’t get my money in” Oh. Honestly though, it doesn’t seem like he’s missing much. School is cancelled almost every other day due to lack of teacher motivation or other reasons God knows why. And when school is in session, its chaotic and unstructured. This trimester especially. People are anxious and tired. And its hot. Good lord it’s hot.
I’ve been here for a long time. Today I just got off of the phone with my mom, who reminded me that it was a year ago today that I graduated from Geneseo. Unbelievable. And I’ve been here in Mali for over 10 months. I’m homesick in a strange way. I’m not sad or completely nostalgic, I’m just really longing a week’s getaway where I can live my old life for a little while, and see my old friends. I like it here, but I’m getting antsy. Christmas is still so far away…
There are signs everywhere that the time I’ve passed here has been more than a short jaunt. Namely, the kids. Noellie, just a tiny little 8 month old when I first met him, is now running around, playing with other kids, and talking a mixture of real words and baby talk. (“Anglais!” they tell me). Pacho, though still adorable is no longer a toddler but now one of the boys. On the other end, Shaka is a teenager (13 now)- and as moody as a teenager can be. We still have growing pains in our relationship- he can get very bossy and jealous. But when it comes down to it, he truly is one of my best friends and in the end, I know I’ll be able to count on him. My host mother’s new baby, Sama, has developed a smiling personality (praise the Lord that she recovered from her premature birth) and I’ve watch my 18 year old host sister stomach grow and grow until she gave birth to her first daughter last week. She named it after me, Aminata, but I’m a little cautious to call it a compliment. It took me by surprise because I never really thought my host sister liked me that much. I think it was more of a response to my constant joking that she should name it “Aminata,” and also perhaps a good lead in to ask me to buy the new baby presents. There was no naming ceremony. This was an illegitimate child of a poor family.
Speaking of family dynamics, I should probably update you on Mody’s (Shaka’s dad’s) new wife. I remember at first, I felt really sorry for the young girl, being stripped away from her family like that to live with this temperamental middle aged man. But now who I really feel sorry for is Dafinie (Shaka’s mom). At first it seemed like she didn’t mind welcoming a new wife, but now that Mariam (the young teenage new wife) is around, Dafinie finds herself driven out of her home. During the day she wanders around the village- Mody doesn’t want her around if it isn’t time to cook a meal. “There’s a new woman in his eyes now” Dafinie says, and being in her position, there is really nowhere for her to go at night except back to Mody, to be driven away while he spends time with Mariam. As a rebellion against his first wife, Mody didn’t pay any of his six children’s school fees for the spring trimester. I noticed it one morning running with Shaka. “Hey, isn’t it time for school?”
“Helloooo. I haven’t been to school in weeks. I didn’t get my money in” Oh. Honestly though, it doesn’t seem like he’s missing much. School is cancelled almost every other day due to lack of teacher motivation or other reasons God knows why. And when school is in session, its chaotic and unstructured. This trimester especially. People are anxious and tired. And its hot. Good lord it’s hot.
The U of Bamako
5/9/09
I finally made the decision to attend a 4 day training with USAID’s “Keneya Ciriwa” health management project. Having no idea what I was getting into, I went to meet people, pick the brain of former PCV genious Emily Janovich, and especially, to get a break from village life. Guys, it was amazing. Me and my fellow health volunteer Amanda got driven to the Univeristy of Bamako- a simple campus, but a college campus nonetheless- on what they call the “mountain of knowledge” overlooking the Niger River. I can’t tell you how excited I felt when I walked into a lecture hall with a PowerPoint and was handed a glossy pamphlet. Though the training was all in French, I felt really at home in the formal classroom setting. Amanda and I walked in and glanced at each other: “Ooooo! Acadamia! Remember this?”
We enjoyed the next four days in air conditioned hotel rooms with continental breakfasts of coffee and crossants. Real toilets. Real showers. Electricity. A swimming pool for gosh sakes. It was just the break I needed, and what was even better about it was it was for work so I didn’t have to feel guilty about taking a vacation. It made me miss home, and college. I wish I could go to class, see my old girlfriends. I know Karen’s coming soon, which makes me happy. But the whole up-state New York environment sounds so pleasing right now. How many months until Christmas?
As the training sessions progressed though, it was apparent. We’re still in Mali. Even though we’re working on computers and speaking in French, things are still done at the Malian pace. The projects goal is to visit ASACOs, or volunteer management bodies of community health centers, evaluate them, and help them improve their work in the community. Doing a simple questionnaire in our work groups was an all day project. Not one question could be answered without ample confusion, discussion, debate, sidetracking, backtracking, more confusion, and oh my gosh if there was a type-o, that threw us off for a good half an hour. I worry that if this is the rate all of Mali is working at, development is a long ways off. It’s funny, everything in Mali is either really over-thought, or really flying by the seat of your pants. Irene refuses to do any preparation for our radio show, which is extremely anxiety provoking for me, but just the way she likes it. People can change the date of their wedding in a half hour’s notice. But if there’s any sort of structure, you better get comfy. My water sanitation committee had a good two hour meeting after the project money came in. “Look at this bill. It is a $10 bill. We are giving it to this man to buy metal.” They would pass the bill from person to person until a dozen people could affirm, “Yes, it is indeed a $10 bill and I approve you giving it to this person.”
In any case, the training gave me some great ideas, and a chance to talk to a successful former PCV who is now working with USAID. I got great information to bring back to the village, and I also got to eat some ice cream, escape the hot season heat, and practice my French. And to think I almost passed this up.
6/2/09 Follow-up
Emily Janovich, the amazing young lady who ran these trainings, just left for the US last night after 4 years in Mali. She will start her masters in public policy at Harvard this August. Good luck Emily, and thanks for all you’ve done for Mali Health in Peace Corps and beyond! (Thanks for the hand-me-down clothes too!)
I finally made the decision to attend a 4 day training with USAID’s “Keneya Ciriwa” health management project. Having no idea what I was getting into, I went to meet people, pick the brain of former PCV genious Emily Janovich, and especially, to get a break from village life. Guys, it was amazing. Me and my fellow health volunteer Amanda got driven to the Univeristy of Bamako- a simple campus, but a college campus nonetheless- on what they call the “mountain of knowledge” overlooking the Niger River. I can’t tell you how excited I felt when I walked into a lecture hall with a PowerPoint and was handed a glossy pamphlet. Though the training was all in French, I felt really at home in the formal classroom setting. Amanda and I walked in and glanced at each other: “Ooooo! Acadamia! Remember this?”
We enjoyed the next four days in air conditioned hotel rooms with continental breakfasts of coffee and crossants. Real toilets. Real showers. Electricity. A swimming pool for gosh sakes. It was just the break I needed, and what was even better about it was it was for work so I didn’t have to feel guilty about taking a vacation. It made me miss home, and college. I wish I could go to class, see my old girlfriends. I know Karen’s coming soon, which makes me happy. But the whole up-state New York environment sounds so pleasing right now. How many months until Christmas?
As the training sessions progressed though, it was apparent. We’re still in Mali. Even though we’re working on computers and speaking in French, things are still done at the Malian pace. The projects goal is to visit ASACOs, or volunteer management bodies of community health centers, evaluate them, and help them improve their work in the community. Doing a simple questionnaire in our work groups was an all day project. Not one question could be answered without ample confusion, discussion, debate, sidetracking, backtracking, more confusion, and oh my gosh if there was a type-o, that threw us off for a good half an hour. I worry that if this is the rate all of Mali is working at, development is a long ways off. It’s funny, everything in Mali is either really over-thought, or really flying by the seat of your pants. Irene refuses to do any preparation for our radio show, which is extremely anxiety provoking for me, but just the way she likes it. People can change the date of their wedding in a half hour’s notice. But if there’s any sort of structure, you better get comfy. My water sanitation committee had a good two hour meeting after the project money came in. “Look at this bill. It is a $10 bill. We are giving it to this man to buy metal.” They would pass the bill from person to person until a dozen people could affirm, “Yes, it is indeed a $10 bill and I approve you giving it to this person.”
In any case, the training gave me some great ideas, and a chance to talk to a successful former PCV who is now working with USAID. I got great information to bring back to the village, and I also got to eat some ice cream, escape the hot season heat, and practice my French. And to think I almost passed this up.
6/2/09 Follow-up
Emily Janovich, the amazing young lady who ran these trainings, just left for the US last night after 4 years in Mali. She will start her masters in public policy at Harvard this August. Good luck Emily, and thanks for all you’ve done for Mali Health in Peace Corps and beyond! (Thanks for the hand-me-down clothes too!)
Fit and trim like Hillary Clinton
5/14/09
My friend Sali is just a riot. She’s the one who I pluck her eyebrows for her. She really should be a fashion model or something, but she loves her job as a birthing and doctor’s assistant at the CSCOM. Away from her family and without a lot of educated, single people her age to hang out with, she’s as content as can be. Sometimes we goof around in the maternity after the work is done, taking each other’s blood pressure, height, and weight. I step on the scale today. Still about 6 pounds up from when I left last July.
“Aminata,” she says, “you’re getting really fat!” Now I’m pretty used to Malians saying this to me by now, but its usually followed by praise and admiration. Today Sali is concerned. “You can’t keep getting fat like this. If you go back to America, they won’t even recognize you. You should go on a diet.”
A diet? Coming from a Malian? “Sali,” our other friend Mariam says, “she’s fine, she doesn’t need a diet.”
“Yes, you should go on a diet so that you can look like Barack Obama’s secretary.”
“Who?”
“Barack Obama’s secretary that was in that magazine we were looking at. You said it was his secretary.” I’m racking my brain now. Who is she talking about? Hilary Clinton? Did I corrupt this sweet little village with magazine’s of American propaganda and vanity?
And though I know a fair amount about nutrition (including realizing that white rice every day will probably add up and that I have no other choice) I ask out of pure curiosity. “Sali, how do I go on a diet?”
“When you wake up in the morning, don’t eat breakfast. At noon, eat lunch. But at night, don’t eat dinner. Just lunch, and then you’ll look just like Barack Obama’s secretary!”
It’s kinda funny, but also a little disturbing at the same time.
My friend Sali is just a riot. She’s the one who I pluck her eyebrows for her. She really should be a fashion model or something, but she loves her job as a birthing and doctor’s assistant at the CSCOM. Away from her family and without a lot of educated, single people her age to hang out with, she’s as content as can be. Sometimes we goof around in the maternity after the work is done, taking each other’s blood pressure, height, and weight. I step on the scale today. Still about 6 pounds up from when I left last July.
“Aminata,” she says, “you’re getting really fat!” Now I’m pretty used to Malians saying this to me by now, but its usually followed by praise and admiration. Today Sali is concerned. “You can’t keep getting fat like this. If you go back to America, they won’t even recognize you. You should go on a diet.”
A diet? Coming from a Malian? “Sali,” our other friend Mariam says, “she’s fine, she doesn’t need a diet.”
“Yes, you should go on a diet so that you can look like Barack Obama’s secretary.”
“Who?”
“Barack Obama’s secretary that was in that magazine we were looking at. You said it was his secretary.” I’m racking my brain now. Who is she talking about? Hilary Clinton? Did I corrupt this sweet little village with magazine’s of American propaganda and vanity?
And though I know a fair amount about nutrition (including realizing that white rice every day will probably add up and that I have no other choice) I ask out of pure curiosity. “Sali, how do I go on a diet?”
“When you wake up in the morning, don’t eat breakfast. At noon, eat lunch. But at night, don’t eat dinner. Just lunch, and then you’ll look just like Barack Obama’s secretary!”
It’s kinda funny, but also a little disturbing at the same time.
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