Still on the rollercoaster. It’s been long enough, you know? On this day, I find myself sitting in the stage-house in Koulikoro. It’s a weekend party welcoming the new trainees at the end of their site-visit week. Being with 25 Americans freaked me out for the first night. I felt like an awkward 13-year old. How do I converse with these people? Do I even fit in with them? I don’t really know what came over me, just extreme discomfort. So I called my sister, the most socially outgoing person I know, took a walk alongside the Niger river, and then gradually settled in to the social scene. It ended up being a fun weekend. Oh yeah, so these are “my people”.
My new sitemate, Lauren Biggs, arrived in town this past Sunday. She is stationed in the town of Koyan, part of the commune of Dombila, just about 5k away from me. I admit, I was skeptical about the decision to put a volunteer in Koyan. It’s out there. Reeeaaaallly out there. No market. No store which means no bread or biscuts, no CSCOM or Mayor’s office, no real center of town, and the houses are all so spread out that you need to wander through a corn-maze for a good chunk of time before you get to another concession of huts. Only about 1,000 people spread out along the gradually rolling hills of millet and corn, the little river in the gully of shady mango trees, and a three-room school-house- where Lauren will begin her service as an education volunteer. Beautiful, friendly, as cute as can be… but out there.
I waited for her in Dio and together we biked the 8k bumpy path to Koyan, at one point having to forge a small stream of water with a decent current. I tried to imagine what she was thinking as we walked our bikes through water up to our knees. But she kept a calm exterior, and I never let my smile down.
“How do you get shisto?” she asked, a common disease that can infect anyone wading in the dirty waters of Malian streams.
“Don’t think about it,” I said, “we don’t have much choice.”
She took the first step into the gray, cloudy, rushing water. “Oh,” she exclaimed, “this actually feels pretty good!”
Peace Corps learned from last year. After volunteers came back from their villages during site visit week, it was obvious that those who had a “buddy” (another volunteer to show them the ropes for the first couple of days) had a much better experience than those who were sent out into the wilderness on donkey carts alone. I remember how hard of a week that was for me last year, so the least I could do was be as positive and helpful to this new girl as I could be. Koyan is out there, but who knows, she may learn to love it.
I learned that Lauren was actually born in Rochester, NY, then moved to Saudi Arabia, returned for a few years to go to Pittsford Middle School, and then moved to Hawaii for high school. She found herself back on the East Coast until this spring where she graduated with a philosophy degree from Columbia University. A bit shy, with a cute little giggle to cover up her nervousness, but as sweet as can be, I felt really lucky to have another buddy around here. When I told Dalfinie that I had a new friend, a girl who’s working in Koyan, she was happy but said, “They couldn’t have made it a boy? To be your new BOYfriend?” That would have kept the villagers gossiping for months! Not that I didn’t consider that possibility.
I already have a lot of friends in Koyan, and knew that her host family was fabulous. Actually, her host family is the family of N’tossama Diarra, Health Education Program Assistant for the Peace Corps, so I’m sure that connection with the Peace Corps helped the little hamlet of Koyan get on the volunteer site map. N’tossama’s older brother, Fablen, is Lauren’s host dad. Fast-talking, big toothy smile, little gotee, and surprisingly naïve about the outside world, Fablen is a loveable character, and just sitting with him makes me laugh. His two young sons are like “Thing 1” and “Thing 2”- Fablen doesn’t even use their real names, but calls them “Old” and “Small”. His dog also has the very affectionate and creative name of “Dog.”
I stayed two nights with Lauren, introducing her to people, talking to her host family about little improvements for her house, answering her questions about life out in village, and translating. It was a bit weird because I already had all of these preconceptions about her site and experience with these people but I wanted to keep my comments neutral. As much as it’s nice to have a buddy, there’s nothing more important than exploring and discovering on your own. I wanted desperately to get inside her head- when they put the green-slime toh in front of her for lunch, when she stumbled upon her Bambara, when she insisted on drawing her own bath water from the well. “Oh I’m fine!” she’d happily chirp whenever I’d ask her how she was doing. Koyan’s out there, but I think she genuinely likes it. And the village is estatic to have her. All of the old men of the village gathered for a meeting one of her first mornings there with their round Muslim caps sitting cross-legged on the colorful mats under the straw hanger. They gave endless Bambara blessings, and spent a good time of the meeting discussing how during this week, she has no food. “We must all give her food. Warm food. Much food. Not cold food, but warm, good food.” I translated to Lauren and she shot me a worried but amused look- Does this mean everyone in the village is going to constantly be bringing me toh? Probably.
Even I was presented with a chicken for my good work. I tied it to my handlebars to bike back the winding bush road to Dombila. Worked out nice- I got to have a nice chicken dinner for my 23rd birthday. “That is Allah’s work,” the villagers would commonly say, “born in the same village, separated, and then brought back to the same village in another part of the world.” Lauren quickly changed her last name to Diarra- she’s one of us now.
Back in Dombila, I walked the small market, remembering my disappointment during my site visit last year. They weren’t kidding about the scarcity of our market during rainy season- froo-froos (fried milled dough) only. And it was honestly a strange moment. I’m different. I speak the language, I know these people. I’m not trying to impress, to fit in, this is my home, and I’m comfortable here. But as much as I have changed, the thing that suddenly struck me was that Dombila has not. This is the same market I walked last year. These are the same malnourished kids I saw last year, the same people frustrated that the have no money to buy malaria medicines. I’ve been here for a year and nothing has changed. That morning, I felt as out of touch with my purpose as I did that very first market day last year. With one difference, I went in to talk with Irene, my eyes welling up, to be comforted by her and another friend Josephine.
“The whole village knows of your good work. Don’t you see? Mothers come from far off villages to see you, the wells are clean, the people are understanding new things.” And I look at Boare, the motivated doctor of the CSCOM and feel ashamed for having these delusions of grandeur. He has the most unwavering dedication and optimism I have ever seen, and he has been here for years. And he believes in his work and boy does it show. Us second-years need a reminder, a burst of new energy, and we’re lucky to be able to have this group of new, enthusiastic volunteers to give us that boost. I asked a couple girls how they liked their rural sites. “Oh!” they said with loving eyes, “it’s like an African fairy land!” For us veterans, not quite a fairy land. But we like it well enough.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
I LOVE THE HURLEYS
The Bamako airport is full of travelers and eager Malians swarming them with luggage carts and little trinkets for sale, trying to make a buck. I have decided to come all the way here to bid farewell to my uncle Steve, cousin Matt and sister Katie. I just wasn’t ready to say goodbye at the hotel. So I hugged them goodbye before they weaved through the crowd to catch the night flight to London, promising that the months before my Christmas visit would go by fast. It was a good week, and a great experience for all of us.
Of course, I was overjoyed to see my Boston relatives. The fact that they came all the way here to spend some time with me in the middle of nowhere, well that’s about as cool of relatives as you can ask for. But when I saw my sister, I gave her the biggest hug ever. My mom later asked on the phone, “Did you cry when you saw each other.”
“No mom,” I said, “I was just so happy.” I looked at Katie, expecting her to comment on how mothers are overly-emotional. But instead Katie said with her little honest smile, “I cried a little!” It took about 5 minutes after we were reunited for me to say, “Katie, I feel like I just saw you yesterday.” It had really been 13 months, but we were so comfortable with each other, having fun already. Man, I have the best sister in the world. She really is my other half, and all week, I felt like whatever might have been missing in my day to day life out here had been filled.
A big red bag, like Santa’s sack, came with the crew. All filled with goodies. Birthday presents like new clothes and mountains of granola bars from friends and family, magazines, homemade jam and applesauce… (Thanks everyone!) Uncle Steve even came with a solar powered flashlight and a new tent that he would leave with me after they left. It was incredible! We stayed the first two nights at the fancy Radisson hotel, the next night in a little motel in the city of Segu, then we moved to a business hotel in Bamako (mainly for its incredible pool), spent a night in village, and then another night in Bamako.
I’ll let them tell you about the adventures through their own eyes. (Katie, Steve, Matt, you’re welcome to write something for me to post as well). They braved the Grand Marche the very first day, they spent hours in little Malian cars so we could see the port of Segu and make our own Bogolon fabric. They took the broken old bush road to Dombila where they danced with the xylophones, tried Malian food, and mingled with the locals. Uncle Steve even went for a peaceful morning run with me and Shaka! Matt was the star of the dance party, showing off his disco moves, and Katie impressed the kids with her back-handspring and also sported the traditional Malian garb along with henna painted on her foot. (Only ONE foot though, to the great confusion of the Malians).
Katie and Matt also had some great skills at the rock climbing/ rappelling hike in Siby. They are fearless! They even got on Malian transport to return to Bamako. That was after we gave up waiting for hours for our driver to come back with something to mend a flat tire. Uncle Steve got a bit worried when we showed up 4 hours late, but all was good.
Aside from the adventures, we had significant R&R time. The pool at the hotel was paradise, we ate some really nice meals out, and I even got to work out a couple of times in the hotel gym! I feel like I was treated like a princess. Nice showers, clean all the time, air conditioning, a great bed, great company, great food. It was more of a vacation for me I think! At first, I was really uncomfortable being in these fancy hotels spending a lot of money, but then I started to get used to the high-life. It’s strange, you know. And now I feel like an American again, needing my daily dose of the internet and drinking bottled water. I’m going back to village right now, with that site guilt on my shoulders. I’m living between two worlds, and I’ll never fully be a part of either of them for the next year. I was feeling Malian, now I’m feeling like an American. But whatever doubts and worries I have, about status, about rich and poor, white and black, though they may always be in the background isn’t the essence of my identification, my relationships. Katie, Steve, and Matt reminded me of my roots, my home, and the beauty of it. But now I take a deep breath, push aside my doubts and know that no matter what my roots, today, I have another real home, in Dombila. So as much as I was tempted to hop on that plane in the Bamako airport last night and reunite even more fully with my roots and with the “comfortable life”, that time has not come. I’m heading back, and trying to figure out what the heck I can do for this poor little village.
PS- Matt has an incredible camera and great photography skills. He will send me his flicker site to post so that you can see some more pictures of Mali.
Of course, I was overjoyed to see my Boston relatives. The fact that they came all the way here to spend some time with me in the middle of nowhere, well that’s about as cool of relatives as you can ask for. But when I saw my sister, I gave her the biggest hug ever. My mom later asked on the phone, “Did you cry when you saw each other.”
“No mom,” I said, “I was just so happy.” I looked at Katie, expecting her to comment on how mothers are overly-emotional. But instead Katie said with her little honest smile, “I cried a little!” It took about 5 minutes after we were reunited for me to say, “Katie, I feel like I just saw you yesterday.” It had really been 13 months, but we were so comfortable with each other, having fun already. Man, I have the best sister in the world. She really is my other half, and all week, I felt like whatever might have been missing in my day to day life out here had been filled.
A big red bag, like Santa’s sack, came with the crew. All filled with goodies. Birthday presents like new clothes and mountains of granola bars from friends and family, magazines, homemade jam and applesauce… (Thanks everyone!) Uncle Steve even came with a solar powered flashlight and a new tent that he would leave with me after they left. It was incredible! We stayed the first two nights at the fancy Radisson hotel, the next night in a little motel in the city of Segu, then we moved to a business hotel in Bamako (mainly for its incredible pool), spent a night in village, and then another night in Bamako.
I’ll let them tell you about the adventures through their own eyes. (Katie, Steve, Matt, you’re welcome to write something for me to post as well). They braved the Grand Marche the very first day, they spent hours in little Malian cars so we could see the port of Segu and make our own Bogolon fabric. They took the broken old bush road to Dombila where they danced with the xylophones, tried Malian food, and mingled with the locals. Uncle Steve even went for a peaceful morning run with me and Shaka! Matt was the star of the dance party, showing off his disco moves, and Katie impressed the kids with her back-handspring and also sported the traditional Malian garb along with henna painted on her foot. (Only ONE foot though, to the great confusion of the Malians).
Katie and Matt also had some great skills at the rock climbing/ rappelling hike in Siby. They are fearless! They even got on Malian transport to return to Bamako. That was after we gave up waiting for hours for our driver to come back with something to mend a flat tire. Uncle Steve got a bit worried when we showed up 4 hours late, but all was good.
Aside from the adventures, we had significant R&R time. The pool at the hotel was paradise, we ate some really nice meals out, and I even got to work out a couple of times in the hotel gym! I feel like I was treated like a princess. Nice showers, clean all the time, air conditioning, a great bed, great company, great food. It was more of a vacation for me I think! At first, I was really uncomfortable being in these fancy hotels spending a lot of money, but then I started to get used to the high-life. It’s strange, you know. And now I feel like an American again, needing my daily dose of the internet and drinking bottled water. I’m going back to village right now, with that site guilt on my shoulders. I’m living between two worlds, and I’ll never fully be a part of either of them for the next year. I was feeling Malian, now I’m feeling like an American. But whatever doubts and worries I have, about status, about rich and poor, white and black, though they may always be in the background isn’t the essence of my identification, my relationships. Katie, Steve, and Matt reminded me of my roots, my home, and the beauty of it. But now I take a deep breath, push aside my doubts and know that no matter what my roots, today, I have another real home, in Dombila. So as much as I was tempted to hop on that plane in the Bamako airport last night and reunite even more fully with my roots and with the “comfortable life”, that time has not come. I’m heading back, and trying to figure out what the heck I can do for this poor little village.
PS- Matt has an incredible camera and great photography skills. He will send me his flicker site to post so that you can see some more pictures of Mali.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Mother of the bride
"My daughter is getting married on Thursday in Kati. I am the mother of the bride. It is a big deal. You are coming."
I looked at Irene with a blank stare. Who? Not Awa, though she is a new mother, I know she's not getting married.
"What's her name?"
"Batuma." I had never heard of this daughter before. But sometimes Malians extend their immidiate family like that. When I told them that my uncle was coming to visit, they asked if it was an older or younger brother of my mom's. "It's my dad's older brother," I explained to them. "Ohhh," said my host mom, "that's not your uncle, that's your other father."
In that same logic, Batuma was really a neice, her mother alive and well. But aparently Irene was the mother of the bride and I was obliged to go.
I met up with them after I spend a couple of sick days in Bamako (all better now), and found Irene primping herself with tons of scary eye-makeup and her hair all did. She had a very large sparkly headress and a moumu. (She would proceed to change her outfit a total of four times during the day). She actually looked cool though, like an African queen. She had one of her little neices put henna on my feet and hands. Henna is black dye that Malians draw flowers and little designs on their hands and feet for special occasions. Its kind of like temporary tatoos that last for a week or so. It dried painfully over the many blisters I aquired from wearing my Caroline's running shoes the day before.
The wedding was different than any I had attended in Dombila. Namely, this was the bride's side. And also, these were richer people. I felt pretty underdressed in my old pink complee. No sparkly headress here. I didn't even have any jewlery with me. We sat in fold-out chairs under a colorful tent with dozens of women. Yes, only women the whole day. This was not a man's party. They danced in a circle surrounding the xylophones, and Irene literally forced me out of my seat a number of times to join the dance. I wish I could write about this experience from the point-of-view of a visiting anthropologist. A beautiful traditional ceremony filled with colorful culture. Yet as much as I tried to enjoy the experience, I essentially was Irene's dog on a leash all day, and abided to follow her everywhere when she called me. What else was I going to do?
We spent the late afternoon in the bride's room. You see, the Malian bride does not come out of the house on her wedding day. She stays inside, greeting people who stop in, as she waits for nightfall. That's when they will bring her to her husband's house where she will stay FOR-EV-ER. I told you how distraught I was when I saw Mody's new wife crying upon being left in her new husband's compound, but I think I understand now. It's just like going off to college, for good. A girl lives with her father until her wedding day, and then packs up all of her stuff and leaves. It's a tearjerker for the whole family.
Batuma was inside with her closest girl-friends, Irene, and I (feeling quite awkward and out of place). Her things were packed and she was waiting on her bed, looking beautiful in dark bazan, henna, and fine jewlery. The room was dark and stuffy, and I was sitting on the bride's right side while people came in to greet, give blessings and cry.
At one point we went outside to do the first round of gifts. A griot (traditional singer of blessings) would sing to Batuma, who was getting her face and feet washed by an old woman. You could throw money toward the griot and she would announce, in song, how much money you gave to the bride and then sing your special message. Irene gave a small bill and I heard her whisper to the griot that she has know Batuma for 18 years and how special she was to her. The griot began singing, "Oh Batummaaaa, she's known you for 10 years..." And everytime she said "10 years" Irene scoffed in the background, shaking her haid. "It's much more than 10." When it was over, they shooed Batuma away, and called, "Next!" and a whole other group of people came to the spot. I was confused.
As we waited in the bedroom, Batuma had a dark shawl and veil covering her. Another girl came in with the same exact outfit, followed by the future sister-in-law who looked at them closely. "This one's Batuma. You're coming with me!" Was this some kind of traditional guessing game? With look alike brides that you have to pick the real one? I had no idea.
They passed a long time putting off the big leave, nighttime fell and we went without dinner. Soon the party had ended and Irene was taking Batuma around the street, greeting the elders and getting ready for the departure. This was Irene's show now. And when she called a car over, she and Batuma entered, and so did I, on that leash.
We drove and drove through the night on the streets of Kati toward Bamako. After a while, the rickety old car descended off the road into a dirt path in a small valley. We twisted and turned- as far as I could see we were going into the middle of nowhere with only our two headlights to light the way. I prayed for our saftely.
We arrived in a large compound in a small village. The husband's house. The family was welcoming, and among 3 albino young women, I felt somewhat at home. We sat in the dark as Irene went through a series of negotiations with the new family. "You must buy her a white gown," Irene demanded.
They agreed, as long as they would agree to abide by the tradition that a new bride must stay inside the house for a whole 7 days after the wedding. "Our neighbors new bride only spent 3 days inside for the honeymoon. And that marriage turned out terrible!"
We headed back to Kati late, Irene semi-emotional, but also complaining of a tea-deprived headache. She was good to have around for the new bride, I thought, people listen to this woman. But why did she do this job?
"The real mother of the bride never drops the bride off. You always get a relative and name her 'the mother of the bride'. They go and do all the negotiations and drop the daughter off."
Ohhhhh. I get it now. But why was there another girl dressed as a bride? Were there two marriages today?
"There were four." I guess its normal for a family to get all of their weddings done in one shot. In one day, this family married off three of their daughters, and brought in a woman for their son. No wonder it was a big party.
I looked at Irene with a blank stare. Who? Not Awa, though she is a new mother, I know she's not getting married.
"What's her name?"
"Batuma." I had never heard of this daughter before. But sometimes Malians extend their immidiate family like that. When I told them that my uncle was coming to visit, they asked if it was an older or younger brother of my mom's. "It's my dad's older brother," I explained to them. "Ohhh," said my host mom, "that's not your uncle, that's your other father."
In that same logic, Batuma was really a neice, her mother alive and well. But aparently Irene was the mother of the bride and I was obliged to go.
I met up with them after I spend a couple of sick days in Bamako (all better now), and found Irene primping herself with tons of scary eye-makeup and her hair all did. She had a very large sparkly headress and a moumu. (She would proceed to change her outfit a total of four times during the day). She actually looked cool though, like an African queen. She had one of her little neices put henna on my feet and hands. Henna is black dye that Malians draw flowers and little designs on their hands and feet for special occasions. Its kind of like temporary tatoos that last for a week or so. It dried painfully over the many blisters I aquired from wearing my Caroline's running shoes the day before.
The wedding was different than any I had attended in Dombila. Namely, this was the bride's side. And also, these were richer people. I felt pretty underdressed in my old pink complee. No sparkly headress here. I didn't even have any jewlery with me. We sat in fold-out chairs under a colorful tent with dozens of women. Yes, only women the whole day. This was not a man's party. They danced in a circle surrounding the xylophones, and Irene literally forced me out of my seat a number of times to join the dance. I wish I could write about this experience from the point-of-view of a visiting anthropologist. A beautiful traditional ceremony filled with colorful culture. Yet as much as I tried to enjoy the experience, I essentially was Irene's dog on a leash all day, and abided to follow her everywhere when she called me. What else was I going to do?
We spent the late afternoon in the bride's room. You see, the Malian bride does not come out of the house on her wedding day. She stays inside, greeting people who stop in, as she waits for nightfall. That's when they will bring her to her husband's house where she will stay FOR-EV-ER. I told you how distraught I was when I saw Mody's new wife crying upon being left in her new husband's compound, but I think I understand now. It's just like going off to college, for good. A girl lives with her father until her wedding day, and then packs up all of her stuff and leaves. It's a tearjerker for the whole family.
Batuma was inside with her closest girl-friends, Irene, and I (feeling quite awkward and out of place). Her things were packed and she was waiting on her bed, looking beautiful in dark bazan, henna, and fine jewlery. The room was dark and stuffy, and I was sitting on the bride's right side while people came in to greet, give blessings and cry.
At one point we went outside to do the first round of gifts. A griot (traditional singer of blessings) would sing to Batuma, who was getting her face and feet washed by an old woman. You could throw money toward the griot and she would announce, in song, how much money you gave to the bride and then sing your special message. Irene gave a small bill and I heard her whisper to the griot that she has know Batuma for 18 years and how special she was to her. The griot began singing, "Oh Batummaaaa, she's known you for 10 years..." And everytime she said "10 years" Irene scoffed in the background, shaking her haid. "It's much more than 10." When it was over, they shooed Batuma away, and called, "Next!" and a whole other group of people came to the spot. I was confused.
As we waited in the bedroom, Batuma had a dark shawl and veil covering her. Another girl came in with the same exact outfit, followed by the future sister-in-law who looked at them closely. "This one's Batuma. You're coming with me!" Was this some kind of traditional guessing game? With look alike brides that you have to pick the real one? I had no idea.
They passed a long time putting off the big leave, nighttime fell and we went without dinner. Soon the party had ended and Irene was taking Batuma around the street, greeting the elders and getting ready for the departure. This was Irene's show now. And when she called a car over, she and Batuma entered, and so did I, on that leash.
We drove and drove through the night on the streets of Kati toward Bamako. After a while, the rickety old car descended off the road into a dirt path in a small valley. We twisted and turned- as far as I could see we were going into the middle of nowhere with only our two headlights to light the way. I prayed for our saftely.
We arrived in a large compound in a small village. The husband's house. The family was welcoming, and among 3 albino young women, I felt somewhat at home. We sat in the dark as Irene went through a series of negotiations with the new family. "You must buy her a white gown," Irene demanded.
They agreed, as long as they would agree to abide by the tradition that a new bride must stay inside the house for a whole 7 days after the wedding. "Our neighbors new bride only spent 3 days inside for the honeymoon. And that marriage turned out terrible!"
We headed back to Kati late, Irene semi-emotional, but also complaining of a tea-deprived headache. She was good to have around for the new bride, I thought, people listen to this woman. But why did she do this job?
"The real mother of the bride never drops the bride off. You always get a relative and name her 'the mother of the bride'. They go and do all the negotiations and drop the daughter off."
Ohhhhh. I get it now. But why was there another girl dressed as a bride? Were there two marriages today?
"There were four." I guess its normal for a family to get all of their weddings done in one shot. In one day, this family married off three of their daughters, and brought in a woman for their son. No wonder it was a big party.
The Miracle Tree
The kids and I planted a couple of dozen Moringa trees, which have grown quite nicely. Lately, I've been taking them around the village and giving them to mothers of malnourished kids and close friends.
So what is Moringa? They call it the miracle tree. It's leaves are amazingly high in an abundance of nutrients. Moringa has 7 times the vitamin C of an orange, 3 times the iron of spinich, 2 times the protien of milk, 4 times the calcium of milk, 3 times the potassium of bananas, and 4 times the vitamin A in carrots. The leaves can be dried and turned into a natural nutritional suppliment, which we can add to a baby's porriage. The seeds can be grinded into a powder that purifies water. The flowers can be made into a tea that aleviates headaches.
There are a couple naturally growing moringa trees in Dombila, but the kids and I have planted some more, which grow very quickly, even in unfertilized soil. I also planted 6 at the CSCOM with the help of Laji, a tree-worker who cut his leg down to the bone on the job and has been hanging out at the CSCOM for the past two months while it heals and he tries to figure out how to get money to keep up his medications. He took some pride in this occupational therapy. Unfortunately, most of the nutritional benifits of our baby trees at the CSCOM have been enjoyed by the goats.
I've written about moringa before, about how I put the leaves in my spagetti. It's hard to explain to Malians just how much of a miracle it is when they have limited understanding of vitamins, minerals, and macronutrients. I've found the most comprehensive nutrition education that makes sense to them so far is "This food has lots of vitamins. This food doesn't." So when I explain moringa, I say, "This has lots of lots of lots of vitamins!"
Little by litte, people are understanding. I have women tell me that their breast milk increased after putting moringa in their sauce, I caught Shaka's family cooking it for dinner, and almost weekly I find Irene giving a talk about it to pregnant women and mothers in the CSCOM.
For more information on moringa, here is a pretty good video.
So what is Moringa? They call it the miracle tree. It's leaves are amazingly high in an abundance of nutrients. Moringa has 7 times the vitamin C of an orange, 3 times the iron of spinich, 2 times the protien of milk, 4 times the calcium of milk, 3 times the potassium of bananas, and 4 times the vitamin A in carrots. The leaves can be dried and turned into a natural nutritional suppliment, which we can add to a baby's porriage. The seeds can be grinded into a powder that purifies water. The flowers can be made into a tea that aleviates headaches.
There are a couple naturally growing moringa trees in Dombila, but the kids and I have planted some more, which grow very quickly, even in unfertilized soil. I also planted 6 at the CSCOM with the help of Laji, a tree-worker who cut his leg down to the bone on the job and has been hanging out at the CSCOM for the past two months while it heals and he tries to figure out how to get money to keep up his medications. He took some pride in this occupational therapy. Unfortunately, most of the nutritional benifits of our baby trees at the CSCOM have been enjoyed by the goats.
I've written about moringa before, about how I put the leaves in my spagetti. It's hard to explain to Malians just how much of a miracle it is when they have limited understanding of vitamins, minerals, and macronutrients. I've found the most comprehensive nutrition education that makes sense to them so far is "This food has lots of vitamins. This food doesn't." So when I explain moringa, I say, "This has lots of lots of lots of vitamins!"
Little by litte, people are understanding. I have women tell me that their breast milk increased after putting moringa in their sauce, I caught Shaka's family cooking it for dinner, and almost weekly I find Irene giving a talk about it to pregnant women and mothers in the CSCOM.
For more information on moringa, here is a pretty good video.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Korotoun
Rainy season is bitter-sweet in Mali. It's a time of rejoycing in the planting of the new harvest. The hungry season has come to an end, the heat lets up after a refreshing rain-storm several times a week. In fact, the rain is so sacred to the Malians that I once got in trouble for joking about it. A strong wind came and everyone said that it was going to down pour. I said,"Nah, it's not going to rain". And it didn't. This happened a second time when I joked that I told the dark clouds to go away so that we could go on a vaccination expedition. The clouds let up and vaccinations were back on. Yet the farmers were angry- "Where's our rainstorm Aminata? You chased it away!" I continued the joke and out of the blue said, "Don't worry, we'll get a big storm Saturday night." What a coincidence it was, I was 3 for 3 and we got a steady, soaking rain on Saturday night. I stopped my weather forcasting after the rumor spread around village that perhaps I had some strange powers that could control the rain. "You gotta stop telling people you're stopping the rain!" Shaka says in all seriousness, "If the crop is bad this year, they'll all curse you!"
But now that we're well into the rainy season, not even I can stop it. Yet as much as the rains are giving life here, nourishing millet fields with puddles, these storms also bring the winds of death. Rain means mosquitoes. Mosquitoes mean malaria. Rain means everything is dirty. Uncleanliness brings intestinal disease, diahreah or worms, which also take the lives of kids in sub-saharan Africa. We've seen a lot of hardship at the CSCOM lately. One example, women and girls get up before dawn to go harvest the nuts of the shea trea far out in the brusse. I begged my host mom to let me go with her everyday. She refused- "It's too dark and dangerous out there!" When a young girl returned from a shea nut expidition and died from a snake bite two days later in our CSCOM, I stopped asking.
And the most frusterating is just when we feel like we're starting to get through to the women about malnutrtion, it skyrockets. It's amazing how the kids who have been in our program for a long time have recovered. I love taking out their sheet and putting them in pile of successes. But for every kid we let go, lately, there are 3 or 4 new ones that are referred to us. Some are fighting or recovering malaria or diareah, some are referred by our relais who are really stepping up their work in the community, and others are just simply not fed. They are strapped on their mother's backs all day to work in the fields. No time to specially make ameliorated porriage for the baby. Drink until the breast goes dry.
I registered 4 severely malnourished children (defined as less than 70% of the median weight for its height) in two days. But none was quite as bad as Korotoun. At 20 months, Korotun was barely 5 kg (about 11 pounds). In my 10 months in Dombila, I've only seen 3 other kids as bad as Korotoun. Each one we recommended in-patient treatment. Each one, the family refused. Can we really drop our lives and scrounge up the money to support ourselves to live in the dusty old sick-ward in the CSCOM for an indefinate period of time? Each one died.
But Korotoun's case was exciting because the family accepted in-patient treatment. We explained to the parents that they were to stay with Korotoun here as our staff carefully measured and prepared vitamin-enriched milk to be given her. She would also be given a coctail of medications and vitamins so that her body would eventually stop throwing up everything given to her, and that she would keep well hydrated and protected against vulnerable infections like malaria or rougeole. The father left in tears to walk back to his village, Dio, to collect their things. Of course, I felt so much pity for the child and the family. But I was more hopeful and excited as I had ever been. A father, sitting with his sick child, being so moved... that doesn't happen every day. A child is a woman's buisness. And if she can't feed him right, it's her fault, never mind the father. To see their courage and trust in us. Even the child's grandmother came, and the three of them set up camp in the sick room next to Laji, the guy who's had a gash on his foot for months.
I went straight to the book and planned out Korotoun's diet regimine for the first few days of her treatment. "We have to feed her every hour," Irene says. "Well, not necissarily," I said, "It might be better if we split it up every hour and a half so that she can get her calories gradually throughout the day." Of course, Irene is not refering to the handbook but only to the training she went to last year. "Believe me, I know, I went to the training." Well ok then. We'll feed her every hour.
Korotoun's case came at a time when I was looking for something to keep me busy. And honestly, I could have sat with that little girl every hour, feeding her the warm milk. But I was scared to. I was scared to take on all the responsibility that should be on the permanent CSCOM staff. But mostly, I was scared of getting to attached. Korotoun was so fragile. The day I met her, she couldn't even hold her head up by herself. He eyse too, kept rolling into the back of her head. Her cry was a pained, suppressed whimper, that was lost in the thickness of stuggles she must have been feeling. Yet she drank the milk. She drank it every hour. I left in hopeful confidence at about 2:00pm, Irene assuring me that she would administer the remaining 4 meals of the day.
I came in the next morning to find that Irene only had time to give one of the four meals of the afternoon. "We had a woman in labor! We were in there for a long time. We didn't have time to give the other meals. Besides, the kid was full anyway!" Are you kidding me? It's not about the kid being "full"! It's about carefully calculated calories, protiens and medications portioned out by scientists for her exact weight and height that should be enough to help stabilize her but not too much to overwhelm her system. You can't just wing it.
Cool it, Em, I thought. At least she's here. She got a lot more nutritents yesterday than she did in a long time. She's being helped and besides, she looks a lot better today. Her family was also optomistic. Her eyes were steady, and though too large for her sunken face, were stable and alert. She only lost a little of her food from yesterday, and had a good night's sleep. I began talking to Boary about switching her over to the transition phase, a post-stabilizing regime that initiates the weight-gain process. He said we would start that in another day. Even after I weighed Korotoun to find out her 5.1 kg had dropped to 5.0 kg since yesterday, I wasn't too worried. Today is the day she's really gonna start eating.
The CSCOM staff all signed up for slots to feed Korotoun so that she wouldn't miss a meal. I took the last two, number 7 and 8, so that I could go to market with Caroline during the day. I came back late afternoon to find that Irene had already given her her 7th meal. Her appetite had slowed down a little just before afternoon, but she had eatedn well during the day. I hung around until meal number 8, when I came in with the warm milk that I had made with UNICEF'S packaged powder. He mother spoon=fed her ever so carefully. It was 9pm and Korotoun was tired. She would give these little pain whimpers in between drinks. And I found myself wanting to sit with her forever. I concentrated so hard, on each sip she took. When she would turn away, I would look into her eyes. Very deeply, connecting with the life hidden inside her broken body. "Drink it," I whispered, "Drink it." And without taking her puddle eyes off me, she would calm her crying and drink. It took a while to get the whole meal down. "Drink it, drink it," I said, trust it.
I happily announced to Boure, our chef de poste, that Korotoun had had all 8 of her meals today. "Great!" He said. "Tomorrow we'll start her on the transition phase." Shaka, who had come to watch TV at Boure's, and I walked home about 9:30pm. "You were right Aminata. That baby's really skinny!" He said. "Yeah, but she's doing better today."
The next morning, I stopped by the CSCOM before work on my morning run to see how she was doing. I met Irene at the gate. "How's our baby? How's the family?"
"They left. She died last night. 10pm."
But now that we're well into the rainy season, not even I can stop it. Yet as much as the rains are giving life here, nourishing millet fields with puddles, these storms also bring the winds of death. Rain means mosquitoes. Mosquitoes mean malaria. Rain means everything is dirty. Uncleanliness brings intestinal disease, diahreah or worms, which also take the lives of kids in sub-saharan Africa. We've seen a lot of hardship at the CSCOM lately. One example, women and girls get up before dawn to go harvest the nuts of the shea trea far out in the brusse. I begged my host mom to let me go with her everyday. She refused- "It's too dark and dangerous out there!" When a young girl returned from a shea nut expidition and died from a snake bite two days later in our CSCOM, I stopped asking.
And the most frusterating is just when we feel like we're starting to get through to the women about malnutrtion, it skyrockets. It's amazing how the kids who have been in our program for a long time have recovered. I love taking out their sheet and putting them in pile of successes. But for every kid we let go, lately, there are 3 or 4 new ones that are referred to us. Some are fighting or recovering malaria or diareah, some are referred by our relais who are really stepping up their work in the community, and others are just simply not fed. They are strapped on their mother's backs all day to work in the fields. No time to specially make ameliorated porriage for the baby. Drink until the breast goes dry.
I registered 4 severely malnourished children (defined as less than 70% of the median weight for its height) in two days. But none was quite as bad as Korotoun. At 20 months, Korotun was barely 5 kg (about 11 pounds). In my 10 months in Dombila, I've only seen 3 other kids as bad as Korotoun. Each one we recommended in-patient treatment. Each one, the family refused. Can we really drop our lives and scrounge up the money to support ourselves to live in the dusty old sick-ward in the CSCOM for an indefinate period of time? Each one died.
But Korotoun's case was exciting because the family accepted in-patient treatment. We explained to the parents that they were to stay with Korotoun here as our staff carefully measured and prepared vitamin-enriched milk to be given her. She would also be given a coctail of medications and vitamins so that her body would eventually stop throwing up everything given to her, and that she would keep well hydrated and protected against vulnerable infections like malaria or rougeole. The father left in tears to walk back to his village, Dio, to collect their things. Of course, I felt so much pity for the child and the family. But I was more hopeful and excited as I had ever been. A father, sitting with his sick child, being so moved... that doesn't happen every day. A child is a woman's buisness. And if she can't feed him right, it's her fault, never mind the father. To see their courage and trust in us. Even the child's grandmother came, and the three of them set up camp in the sick room next to Laji, the guy who's had a gash on his foot for months.
I went straight to the book and planned out Korotoun's diet regimine for the first few days of her treatment. "We have to feed her every hour," Irene says. "Well, not necissarily," I said, "It might be better if we split it up every hour and a half so that she can get her calories gradually throughout the day." Of course, Irene is not refering to the handbook but only to the training she went to last year. "Believe me, I know, I went to the training." Well ok then. We'll feed her every hour.
Korotoun's case came at a time when I was looking for something to keep me busy. And honestly, I could have sat with that little girl every hour, feeding her the warm milk. But I was scared to. I was scared to take on all the responsibility that should be on the permanent CSCOM staff. But mostly, I was scared of getting to attached. Korotoun was so fragile. The day I met her, she couldn't even hold her head up by herself. He eyse too, kept rolling into the back of her head. Her cry was a pained, suppressed whimper, that was lost in the thickness of stuggles she must have been feeling. Yet she drank the milk. She drank it every hour. I left in hopeful confidence at about 2:00pm, Irene assuring me that she would administer the remaining 4 meals of the day.
I came in the next morning to find that Irene only had time to give one of the four meals of the afternoon. "We had a woman in labor! We were in there for a long time. We didn't have time to give the other meals. Besides, the kid was full anyway!" Are you kidding me? It's not about the kid being "full"! It's about carefully calculated calories, protiens and medications portioned out by scientists for her exact weight and height that should be enough to help stabilize her but not too much to overwhelm her system. You can't just wing it.
Cool it, Em, I thought. At least she's here. She got a lot more nutritents yesterday than she did in a long time. She's being helped and besides, she looks a lot better today. Her family was also optomistic. Her eyes were steady, and though too large for her sunken face, were stable and alert. She only lost a little of her food from yesterday, and had a good night's sleep. I began talking to Boary about switching her over to the transition phase, a post-stabilizing regime that initiates the weight-gain process. He said we would start that in another day. Even after I weighed Korotoun to find out her 5.1 kg had dropped to 5.0 kg since yesterday, I wasn't too worried. Today is the day she's really gonna start eating.
The CSCOM staff all signed up for slots to feed Korotoun so that she wouldn't miss a meal. I took the last two, number 7 and 8, so that I could go to market with Caroline during the day. I came back late afternoon to find that Irene had already given her her 7th meal. Her appetite had slowed down a little just before afternoon, but she had eatedn well during the day. I hung around until meal number 8, when I came in with the warm milk that I had made with UNICEF'S packaged powder. He mother spoon=fed her ever so carefully. It was 9pm and Korotoun was tired. She would give these little pain whimpers in between drinks. And I found myself wanting to sit with her forever. I concentrated so hard, on each sip she took. When she would turn away, I would look into her eyes. Very deeply, connecting with the life hidden inside her broken body. "Drink it," I whispered, "Drink it." And without taking her puddle eyes off me, she would calm her crying and drink. It took a while to get the whole meal down. "Drink it, drink it," I said, trust it.
I happily announced to Boure, our chef de poste, that Korotoun had had all 8 of her meals today. "Great!" He said. "Tomorrow we'll start her on the transition phase." Shaka, who had come to watch TV at Boure's, and I walked home about 9:30pm. "You were right Aminata. That baby's really skinny!" He said. "Yeah, but she's doing better today."
The next morning, I stopped by the CSCOM before work on my morning run to see how she was doing. I met Irene at the gate. "How's our baby? How's the family?"
"They left. She died last night. 10pm."
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