Hey guys!
Took a little breather from village to hang out with my peace corps friends for st. pattys day. We are back in the small city of Koulikoro on the beautiful Niger river, trying to fight the sun of the early hot season.
I havent written in so long, but I want to send all my greetings and warmest wishes to all of you. Im thinking about you all the time. The following blogs might make it seem like things are really hard now. It has been challenging, but I also must remind you that the times I choose to use my precious laptop battery are times I need to detress, to get all of my thoughts down. So if there is a pessimistic ressoance, please know that there is still much optomism in my service, I just dont write about it as often!
Talking to Karen the other night though really lifted my spirits. I miss you all and thank you again for all that you are doing by supporting me. Thanks for the letters, donations, prayers and love. Allah ki son (may god bles you)
Emily
Monday, March 16, 2009
Its not about building the well guys- really!
There have been three times in my service that I told someone that I was serious about going home. There will be more I know. Each of the times, I know deep in my heart that I won’t really go, but the urge to escape- either from fear or hopelessness was just so overwhelming that the thought of packing up my hut, dumping my bags in the Peace Corps office in Bamako and asking for a ticket home seemed like the best solution. I’m not talking about everyday homesickness- like on today’s 105 degree Bamako heat- imagining those lazy summer days by the pool at home- making a tuna sandwich on whole wheat bread with chips and a cooooooool glass of skim milk. I’m talking about the first day when I left my bag at the airport and couldn’t find my way through a strange place. I’m talking about the night I got lost in the middle of nowhere in the dark, completing loosing faith in my own independence. And then there was this weekend. I let all the stress of the week build up until I finally arrived at Caroline’s house, explained all of my fears, and worries, and came to the conclusion that the mess I made is too much to handle. My presence in the village is causing more problems then solving. And how unpromising the next year and a half really begqn to look.
I half blame my village, I half blame myself, I 100% blame colonization, decades of mindlessness foreign aid, and humanity in generally. I just wanted to help. They want water sanitation. We had a meeting. What are our strengths? What are our resources? Yada yada yada. We want to fix the wells. Well ok.
Now I’m not a water san volunteer, but I tried my best to get them the information they need. I tried to be optimistic. But working with a committee that can’t even agree on a meeting time was impossible. How many wells can we fix? That depends on you, I answer, if you’re willing to put in the work, the sky’s the limit.
And that’s where the trouble started. Yes, there is Peace Corps funding to help, but there is a limit (as I would find out a little too late). And the cost of fixing one well is a lot more than I originally heard. So the rumor got around village that Aminata was going to fix every well, all, as I would soon find, 120 of them before rainy season. People were so excited that they started throwing money at my committee members to fund food for a training session. I had no idea any of this was happening. But we had a great turnout apparentl; everyone invested their five cents upon the promise that Peace Corps would fix their wells.
After visiting the water sanitation expert, Adama, at the Peace Corps office, I realized that I was in over my head. Way over my head. The resources we need for a project like this, even if we were to fix a dozen wells, are a lot more complicated than I had found out before. He is coming to do a training session at my village, to teach the villagers how to do the work, on Thursday. But with my committee so far away from being able to pull off a successful project on their own, I highly doubt that any quality work will be done any time soon. We have a long way to go. A long way to pull ourselves out of the mindset that the NGO is going to do everything for us. “So how are we going to transport the well doors?” I asked. “Oh, we figured Peace Corps was going to take care of that.” “Where are we going to find skilled workers? How are we going to make a project plan?” “Aminata, you talk too much. When are we gonna get the money? We want to start the project.”
I’ve turned in to Miss Moneybags, the thing I’ve been trying to avoid my whole service. But the thing that is causing me the most problem is the fact that we cannot fix every well in the village. There is a financial and time constraint, and it just is not possible. The result? I’m loosing face and credit, and the villagers are all arguing about whose well will be fixed and whose will be left out. I explain to them in the meetings that this project is about getting people fresh drinking water. We need to do a thorough investigation to find out where it is needed the most. “Yes, yes, yes.” They agree. But then they’ll pull me aside in the market, “But my well will be fixed right Aminata? You’ll make sure that mine is fixed?” “But Aminata, I told everyone in my house that our well would be fixed. I cannot tell them it is not going to be anymore.” The well they chose to fix for the training session is mine (out of great graciousness for the empty promise that I somehow conveyed to them). So now I’ll have the nicest well in town, and my neighbor is begging me to promise that hers will be fixed, even though it’s a 10 meter walk to ours.
Guys, it’s bad. This whole thing has blown up. And as I said in the past, it’s not about building the well. And now, it’s not about building the well. It’s about money and status. And when I try to bring them back to the surface to say, guys, this is about clean drinking water- we need to do more than buy well building materials. We need to organized sensitization activities and water treatment plans… they brush it off. “That’s the easy part Aminata. We need to talk about money.”
Basically, I’ve gotten myself in a mess. I totally regret saying I could help with water sanitation when my expertise and passion is health education. Now these stupid well repairs are taking up all of my time and mental energy. Sure, I could leave the whole project in there hands, but they aren’t ready for that yet. They aren’t ready. And I admit that I don’t know about water sanitation, but I’ll do my best to help. “Next time we get a Peace Corps volunteer, let’s get a water person” they all agree, “someone who can build us pumps and wells.”
So my work right now is worth what you can put on a project check. My presence in the village is to haul in the money and construction trucks. Grown men are begging me, giving me sob stories about their dying mother or missed paycheck. I’ve ruined my whole image- my whole purpose- to help people help themselves. I’ve built them up that great help is coming, and let them down. I’ve let them push me and push me for all I’m worth. And now they’ve come to the conclusion, I’m really not worth much. “Oh don’t be too hard on her. She doesn’t understand Bambara. She doesn’t understand water sanitation. She doesn’t understand. When the Peace Corps guy comes, we’ll ask him. And next time, we’ll get someone who knows.”
Even if it takes my whole service, they want to fix every well in the village, they’ve told me. But why. Really, why? Is that really necessary? There will be enough sources of clean water if we fix a dozen, and then we can think about some other things that are equally as important, but maybe not as expensive. Maybe free. I feel like I am fastening the band-aid of foreign aid, instead of digging through the wound and trying to find the source of the problem. A well might be more of a status symbol, and this project is pulling at the gap between the rich and the poor.
Honestly, I am writing this after days and days of stressing over it. Thinking too much, hiding from people in my village, trying to save my name but feeling ashamed that I cannot pull through for the village or for my own standards of my service. I really, really, don’t want to spend my next two years on this project. My heart’s not into it. But I feel like to make my community happy, I’m going to have to. I am tired of talking about this, really. I can’t explain it all now, but I will tell you that the option of running away from it all and coming home is out. Yes, I’ve learned a lesson, and there will be many hard days to come. Some how, I’ll deal with it. But I’m scared to death about it. If only I kept my mouth shut and defined my boundaries. Then I’d be spending my days with our mothers and children like I’m supposed to. I need some help, some prayers. Hot season has begun. And in our sweat and lightheadedness, we’ve got a big mess to clean up in Dombila. And our little white girl can’t give us everything we want her too. Eh, Allah!
I half blame my village, I half blame myself, I 100% blame colonization, decades of mindlessness foreign aid, and humanity in generally. I just wanted to help. They want water sanitation. We had a meeting. What are our strengths? What are our resources? Yada yada yada. We want to fix the wells. Well ok.
Now I’m not a water san volunteer, but I tried my best to get them the information they need. I tried to be optimistic. But working with a committee that can’t even agree on a meeting time was impossible. How many wells can we fix? That depends on you, I answer, if you’re willing to put in the work, the sky’s the limit.
And that’s where the trouble started. Yes, there is Peace Corps funding to help, but there is a limit (as I would find out a little too late). And the cost of fixing one well is a lot more than I originally heard. So the rumor got around village that Aminata was going to fix every well, all, as I would soon find, 120 of them before rainy season. People were so excited that they started throwing money at my committee members to fund food for a training session. I had no idea any of this was happening. But we had a great turnout apparentl; everyone invested their five cents upon the promise that Peace Corps would fix their wells.
After visiting the water sanitation expert, Adama, at the Peace Corps office, I realized that I was in over my head. Way over my head. The resources we need for a project like this, even if we were to fix a dozen wells, are a lot more complicated than I had found out before. He is coming to do a training session at my village, to teach the villagers how to do the work, on Thursday. But with my committee so far away from being able to pull off a successful project on their own, I highly doubt that any quality work will be done any time soon. We have a long way to go. A long way to pull ourselves out of the mindset that the NGO is going to do everything for us. “So how are we going to transport the well doors?” I asked. “Oh, we figured Peace Corps was going to take care of that.” “Where are we going to find skilled workers? How are we going to make a project plan?” “Aminata, you talk too much. When are we gonna get the money? We want to start the project.”
I’ve turned in to Miss Moneybags, the thing I’ve been trying to avoid my whole service. But the thing that is causing me the most problem is the fact that we cannot fix every well in the village. There is a financial and time constraint, and it just is not possible. The result? I’m loosing face and credit, and the villagers are all arguing about whose well will be fixed and whose will be left out. I explain to them in the meetings that this project is about getting people fresh drinking water. We need to do a thorough investigation to find out where it is needed the most. “Yes, yes, yes.” They agree. But then they’ll pull me aside in the market, “But my well will be fixed right Aminata? You’ll make sure that mine is fixed?” “But Aminata, I told everyone in my house that our well would be fixed. I cannot tell them it is not going to be anymore.” The well they chose to fix for the training session is mine (out of great graciousness for the empty promise that I somehow conveyed to them). So now I’ll have the nicest well in town, and my neighbor is begging me to promise that hers will be fixed, even though it’s a 10 meter walk to ours.
Guys, it’s bad. This whole thing has blown up. And as I said in the past, it’s not about building the well. And now, it’s not about building the well. It’s about money and status. And when I try to bring them back to the surface to say, guys, this is about clean drinking water- we need to do more than buy well building materials. We need to organized sensitization activities and water treatment plans… they brush it off. “That’s the easy part Aminata. We need to talk about money.”
Basically, I’ve gotten myself in a mess. I totally regret saying I could help with water sanitation when my expertise and passion is health education. Now these stupid well repairs are taking up all of my time and mental energy. Sure, I could leave the whole project in there hands, but they aren’t ready for that yet. They aren’t ready. And I admit that I don’t know about water sanitation, but I’ll do my best to help. “Next time we get a Peace Corps volunteer, let’s get a water person” they all agree, “someone who can build us pumps and wells.”
So my work right now is worth what you can put on a project check. My presence in the village is to haul in the money and construction trucks. Grown men are begging me, giving me sob stories about their dying mother or missed paycheck. I’ve ruined my whole image- my whole purpose- to help people help themselves. I’ve built them up that great help is coming, and let them down. I’ve let them push me and push me for all I’m worth. And now they’ve come to the conclusion, I’m really not worth much. “Oh don’t be too hard on her. She doesn’t understand Bambara. She doesn’t understand water sanitation. She doesn’t understand. When the Peace Corps guy comes, we’ll ask him. And next time, we’ll get someone who knows.”
Even if it takes my whole service, they want to fix every well in the village, they’ve told me. But why. Really, why? Is that really necessary? There will be enough sources of clean water if we fix a dozen, and then we can think about some other things that are equally as important, but maybe not as expensive. Maybe free. I feel like I am fastening the band-aid of foreign aid, instead of digging through the wound and trying to find the source of the problem. A well might be more of a status symbol, and this project is pulling at the gap between the rich and the poor.
Honestly, I am writing this after days and days of stressing over it. Thinking too much, hiding from people in my village, trying to save my name but feeling ashamed that I cannot pull through for the village or for my own standards of my service. I really, really, don’t want to spend my next two years on this project. My heart’s not into it. But I feel like to make my community happy, I’m going to have to. I am tired of talking about this, really. I can’t explain it all now, but I will tell you that the option of running away from it all and coming home is out. Yes, I’ve learned a lesson, and there will be many hard days to come. Some how, I’ll deal with it. But I’m scared to death about it. If only I kept my mouth shut and defined my boundaries. Then I’d be spending my days with our mothers and children like I’m supposed to. I need some help, some prayers. Hot season has begun. And in our sweat and lightheadedness, we’ve got a big mess to clean up in Dombila. And our little white girl can’t give us everything we want her too. Eh, Allah!
Still not in Kansas anymore
I wrote about a time when I thought the “honeymoon period” of cultural adjustment was over. Well, I can attest now- now it is REALLY over. I’m no longer the naïve, clueless, innocent foreigner who makes everyone laugh because she’s totally out of her element. I can speak Bambara for the most part, and when a woman calls me over to see if I can pound millet, they are almost disappointed to see that I know what I‘m doing. (which is why I usually pretend that every time I pound millet is my first time and that they are teaching me something new.) And my village is my daily habitat- I’ve figured out how it works generally, and coming from a time where I would make a new discovery every day, Dombila’s novelty has worn off.
Even so, after being in my village for 6 months, and in Mali for 8, there are still things about the culture that surprise me. There are still discoveries- and though more and more rare, are more and more appreciated.
The other day, I was sitting with Sali and Awa and they were making fun of me for how early I go to sleep. They said “But Aminata, when the skinny cows march, you have to stay up really late. They don’t start until 10 and it goes until like 1 in the morning.”
“The skinny cows?”
“Yeah, in Bamako, the skinny cows march down the road every year.”
“Do you go to see them?” -Me
“Oh no. But everyone comes to the health center and we watch it on TV.”- Sali
“Oooo! I’m so excited!”- Awa
Apparently they pick 11 skinny cows. Yes 11- no more and no less. And the march down the street, and they get weighed one by one. “Some of them are like less than 50 kilos!” They then are herded to a big trowl to eat. Oh, and I forgot to mention, they all wear dresses and jewelry and such. Awa and Sali then gave me their best impressions of the skinny primped cows marching down the street. And for some reason, I found this to be about the funniest concept ever. It’s their Macy’s parade.
“You’ll stay up to watch it with us right?”
“Sure,” I say, “When is it?”
“Oh… next December.”
And that, my friends, is about the speed of life in Mali. It’s February and we’re already excited about a TV special in December. Mark your calendars guys.
But then there were the night wails. Culture from the deep, deep brush. I started noticing things- children wearing cola nuts around their necks to protect them from genies, people talking about the fires of the fields and the places you were not supposed to go to at night. And as I was reading the other night, I heard loud cries in the distance, forced, wild bellows- not from a goat or donkey as the norm, but from a human. Each followed by the hard slapping of a goat skin drum. Whispers and fear swept the tiny village at night, “Aminata, get inside your house!” What, why? My whole family rolled up their mats, blew out the lantern and hurried behind the curtains of their mud hut. A bit bewildered, a was approached by my host dad. “It’s the elders. They are out calling the spirits. They put on white clothes and wander set fires in the brush.”
“Do they hurt people?”
“No, they are the elders. They don’t hurt people, but if you see the ritual, you will die.”
“Why do they do it.”
“Culture” he responded.
So I obeyed and took my book inside of my hut. As the hot season is rolling in, it gets harder and harder to stay inside with the thick air. But I lay on my mattress with my flashlight, feeling perfectly secure and comforted despite the hustle in my neighbors. I listened to the cries of the wilderness imagining the voices of centuries and centuries of Malian ancestors echoing through the night-piercing cries. How cool, I thought, that I am hearing the heart of it.
Even so, after being in my village for 6 months, and in Mali for 8, there are still things about the culture that surprise me. There are still discoveries- and though more and more rare, are more and more appreciated.
The other day, I was sitting with Sali and Awa and they were making fun of me for how early I go to sleep. They said “But Aminata, when the skinny cows march, you have to stay up really late. They don’t start until 10 and it goes until like 1 in the morning.”
“The skinny cows?”
“Yeah, in Bamako, the skinny cows march down the road every year.”
“Do you go to see them?” -Me
“Oh no. But everyone comes to the health center and we watch it on TV.”- Sali
“Oooo! I’m so excited!”- Awa
Apparently they pick 11 skinny cows. Yes 11- no more and no less. And the march down the street, and they get weighed one by one. “Some of them are like less than 50 kilos!” They then are herded to a big trowl to eat. Oh, and I forgot to mention, they all wear dresses and jewelry and such. Awa and Sali then gave me their best impressions of the skinny primped cows marching down the street. And for some reason, I found this to be about the funniest concept ever. It’s their Macy’s parade.
“You’ll stay up to watch it with us right?”
“Sure,” I say, “When is it?”
“Oh… next December.”
And that, my friends, is about the speed of life in Mali. It’s February and we’re already excited about a TV special in December. Mark your calendars guys.
But then there were the night wails. Culture from the deep, deep brush. I started noticing things- children wearing cola nuts around their necks to protect them from genies, people talking about the fires of the fields and the places you were not supposed to go to at night. And as I was reading the other night, I heard loud cries in the distance, forced, wild bellows- not from a goat or donkey as the norm, but from a human. Each followed by the hard slapping of a goat skin drum. Whispers and fear swept the tiny village at night, “Aminata, get inside your house!” What, why? My whole family rolled up their mats, blew out the lantern and hurried behind the curtains of their mud hut. A bit bewildered, a was approached by my host dad. “It’s the elders. They are out calling the spirits. They put on white clothes and wander set fires in the brush.”
“Do they hurt people?”
“No, they are the elders. They don’t hurt people, but if you see the ritual, you will die.”
“Why do they do it.”
“Culture” he responded.
So I obeyed and took my book inside of my hut. As the hot season is rolling in, it gets harder and harder to stay inside with the thick air. But I lay on my mattress with my flashlight, feeling perfectly secure and comforted despite the hustle in my neighbors. I listened to the cries of the wilderness imagining the voices of centuries and centuries of Malian ancestors echoing through the night-piercing cries. How cool, I thought, that I am hearing the heart of it.
School Handwashing Stations
I’ve heard that most projects attempted in a volunteer’s first couple months of service fail. Yes, this was in the back of my mind when the enthusiastic visiting engineer took the reins of Dombila’s school sanitation project- wanting to move it quickly so as to finish before his short term assignment expired. I asked all the right questions, I did my assessments, I was assured that the students would maintain their equiptment. So hushing all my reservations, I practically emptied my personal living allowance bank account to allow project coordinators to start work. When my project proposal goes through I will be reimbursed through donations from friends and family in the states. (You!) Yes, I thought this was all happening too quickly, but I held my breath and gave my trust to some enthusiastic people who were really working hard.
Looking back, I’m sure the expenses could have been lowered. One hand washing station might have been plenty, but now we have two, one in a slightly odd location. I think we bought too much cement, and perhaps an extra water barrel wasn’t worth the $16. So I’ll come clean and honest, my first project was not perfect, it was not as carefully planned as it might have been. And against protocal, I went ahead and started with out all the official paper work in. But thanks to your generous contributions, 845 students will have access to clean latrine and wash facilities. Yet unfortunately, if you choose to give, some of your money will be paying for mistakes and overlooks, as it does in most other charity.
But financial flops is not the reason I am worried that this project is not accomplishing what we ultimately want to accomplish. A failure? There’s no telling yet, we’ll wait and see. But today as I sat in a meeting with student leaders of the project and a couple of teachers, I realized how deep of a hole this school is in. I want capacity building, I want the students to take charge of the project, to motivate their peers, to complete chores and put in their two cents (literally) for soap. I wanted them to design lessons and songs for the younger kids. Instead, I was placed in a room where students were a the mercy of an overbearing teacher, too afraid to speak. This teacher, known for whipping fourth graders daily, demonstrated to me that next to a closet, her school is about the absolute worst place to educate a child. And that the development of her community is the least of her priorities.
Sunday, I taught my women’s group how to make soap, which they were very excited about. It’s actually great quality soap and though they are only making about a 25% profit, they decided they like the work and want to begin a little business- see how it works out. (Too perfect, I’m thinking, now the students can buy soap from the women and everybody wins!)
When I suggested this, she shut me down immediately. “Black people’s soap? No. We’re buying carton soap in town” (at about 200% of the price, when most of the students actually prefer the local stuff). “Why doesn’t your project help us buy soap?”
“There needs to be a community controbution for a Peace Corps project to assure that it will be sustainable” (of course, not said so eloquently in Bambara).
She scoffs. These American projects.
“Excuse me, but I’ve put in a lot of work and my friends and family in the U.S. have put in a lot of money so that your students can have clean facilities. The least you can do is organize a soap collection.”
“Oh yeah? How much money?”
I don’t want to just spit out a number in front of her, but I promise to show the budget I’ve been stressing over for weeks. I hate to say that an impoverished school has been spoiled by NGOs, but despite their quest for modernization, they have not learned to solve problems themselves. We’ll buy the more expensive soap, no sorry- you’ll buy the more expensive soap.
And I look in the crowd at students who are genuinely interested in making the project a success- who would be football or music stars, starting clubs and running for student government in the states, but instead are finding an outlet for their motivation and leadership in heading up a latrine cleaning committee.
Maybe it was too early to do a funded project at the school. Maybe I should have started smaller, done weekly lessons at school about fundraising, project organization, and capacity building. Maybe I shouldn’t have let an outsider take so much control. Maybe I should have waited to see if the students could work with what they have already before adding more to the system.
A few weeks later, when the hand washing stations were ready to be installed, I repeatedly went to see the school director. A nice man by most people’s standards, Amadu Mega is in survival mode. Seven years, he told me back when I interviewed him in September, until blessed retirement. And he is counting every day.
“Why don’t we have notebooks so the students can keep track of their weekly chores?” I suggest.
“Oui, oui. Oui, Oui.” dismissingly, is all he says. Not, “Alright, let’s exchange ideas on how to organize them.”
“So how did the money for the soap collection go?”
“Oh, we’ll do it tomorrow… tomorrow…. Tomorrow….”
Hesitantly, I finally gave the go signal, and two large hand washing stations with drainage were assembled in the school yard. The kids were swarming it, messing with the fausets. “Aminata,” Mohamadu (Shaka’s younger brother) said, “we told you not to do this. This is a terrible idea.” The words struck me like a bullet. All I wanted to do was help, and the choas of Dombila’s school had been unleashed all over our precious work.
Where’s the water? The kids wondered. “Well, why don’t you go get some?” And a dozen kids ran to the pump, carrying the new water buckets three by three. A few more of them grabbed brooms, and with all of my encouragement and an audience of their peers, ventured into the forbidden old latrines- the most disgusting places I have encountered in village- and cleaned. They washed, they swept, they drew water. It was a beautiful sight.
And then the man I was looking for finally arrived on the scene. “I’m Derise. The chief of 9th grade. The director said you wanted me to set up some notebooks?” After a half hour with Derise, I was finally able to break through the barriers of the teachers and give the project to the hands of where it belongs. Derise is not only organizing the notebooks, but the soap collection, and is taking his job very seriously. If the women do get seriously organized with soap, we’ll begin to buy from them. That afternoon, each class took a mini field trip outside to the improved latrines and new hand washing stations. Derise instructed how to use them, what the daily chores would be consisted of and why it’s important to be maintained. I stood by feeling quite silly (as always, I am white, right?) but also a bit more hopeful. The project might not be a failure after all. It might not start out perfect, and there will be bumps in the road- late soap collections, broken faucets, I have no doubt. But at least it’s in the right hands- the students. I mounted my bike to ride home- got no thank yous, just the normal kids staring at my high quality bike. I was smiling thinking of the 4th graders who so bravely cleaned up the latrines, but also so nervous about what Monday morning would bring in Dombila’s central school.
I thank you full heartedly for your donations and will surely keep you updated.
Looking back, I’m sure the expenses could have been lowered. One hand washing station might have been plenty, but now we have two, one in a slightly odd location. I think we bought too much cement, and perhaps an extra water barrel wasn’t worth the $16. So I’ll come clean and honest, my first project was not perfect, it was not as carefully planned as it might have been. And against protocal, I went ahead and started with out all the official paper work in. But thanks to your generous contributions, 845 students will have access to clean latrine and wash facilities. Yet unfortunately, if you choose to give, some of your money will be paying for mistakes and overlooks, as it does in most other charity.
But financial flops is not the reason I am worried that this project is not accomplishing what we ultimately want to accomplish. A failure? There’s no telling yet, we’ll wait and see. But today as I sat in a meeting with student leaders of the project and a couple of teachers, I realized how deep of a hole this school is in. I want capacity building, I want the students to take charge of the project, to motivate their peers, to complete chores and put in their two cents (literally) for soap. I wanted them to design lessons and songs for the younger kids. Instead, I was placed in a room where students were a the mercy of an overbearing teacher, too afraid to speak. This teacher, known for whipping fourth graders daily, demonstrated to me that next to a closet, her school is about the absolute worst place to educate a child. And that the development of her community is the least of her priorities.
Sunday, I taught my women’s group how to make soap, which they were very excited about. It’s actually great quality soap and though they are only making about a 25% profit, they decided they like the work and want to begin a little business- see how it works out. (Too perfect, I’m thinking, now the students can buy soap from the women and everybody wins!)
When I suggested this, she shut me down immediately. “Black people’s soap? No. We’re buying carton soap in town” (at about 200% of the price, when most of the students actually prefer the local stuff). “Why doesn’t your project help us buy soap?”
“There needs to be a community controbution for a Peace Corps project to assure that it will be sustainable” (of course, not said so eloquently in Bambara).
She scoffs. These American projects.
“Excuse me, but I’ve put in a lot of work and my friends and family in the U.S. have put in a lot of money so that your students can have clean facilities. The least you can do is organize a soap collection.”
“Oh yeah? How much money?”
I don’t want to just spit out a number in front of her, but I promise to show the budget I’ve been stressing over for weeks. I hate to say that an impoverished school has been spoiled by NGOs, but despite their quest for modernization, they have not learned to solve problems themselves. We’ll buy the more expensive soap, no sorry- you’ll buy the more expensive soap.
And I look in the crowd at students who are genuinely interested in making the project a success- who would be football or music stars, starting clubs and running for student government in the states, but instead are finding an outlet for their motivation and leadership in heading up a latrine cleaning committee.
Maybe it was too early to do a funded project at the school. Maybe I should have started smaller, done weekly lessons at school about fundraising, project organization, and capacity building. Maybe I shouldn’t have let an outsider take so much control. Maybe I should have waited to see if the students could work with what they have already before adding more to the system.
A few weeks later, when the hand washing stations were ready to be installed, I repeatedly went to see the school director. A nice man by most people’s standards, Amadu Mega is in survival mode. Seven years, he told me back when I interviewed him in September, until blessed retirement. And he is counting every day.
“Why don’t we have notebooks so the students can keep track of their weekly chores?” I suggest.
“Oui, oui. Oui, Oui.” dismissingly, is all he says. Not, “Alright, let’s exchange ideas on how to organize them.”
“So how did the money for the soap collection go?”
“Oh, we’ll do it tomorrow… tomorrow…. Tomorrow….”
Hesitantly, I finally gave the go signal, and two large hand washing stations with drainage were assembled in the school yard. The kids were swarming it, messing with the fausets. “Aminata,” Mohamadu (Shaka’s younger brother) said, “we told you not to do this. This is a terrible idea.” The words struck me like a bullet. All I wanted to do was help, and the choas of Dombila’s school had been unleashed all over our precious work.
Where’s the water? The kids wondered. “Well, why don’t you go get some?” And a dozen kids ran to the pump, carrying the new water buckets three by three. A few more of them grabbed brooms, and with all of my encouragement and an audience of their peers, ventured into the forbidden old latrines- the most disgusting places I have encountered in village- and cleaned. They washed, they swept, they drew water. It was a beautiful sight.
And then the man I was looking for finally arrived on the scene. “I’m Derise. The chief of 9th grade. The director said you wanted me to set up some notebooks?” After a half hour with Derise, I was finally able to break through the barriers of the teachers and give the project to the hands of where it belongs. Derise is not only organizing the notebooks, but the soap collection, and is taking his job very seriously. If the women do get seriously organized with soap, we’ll begin to buy from them. That afternoon, each class took a mini field trip outside to the improved latrines and new hand washing stations. Derise instructed how to use them, what the daily chores would be consisted of and why it’s important to be maintained. I stood by feeling quite silly (as always, I am white, right?) but also a bit more hopeful. The project might not be a failure after all. It might not start out perfect, and there will be bumps in the road- late soap collections, broken faucets, I have no doubt. But at least it’s in the right hands- the students. I mounted my bike to ride home- got no thank yous, just the normal kids staring at my high quality bike. I was smiling thinking of the 4th graders who so bravely cleaned up the latrines, but also so nervous about what Monday morning would bring in Dombila’s central school.
I thank you full heartedly for your donations and will surely keep you updated.
In Ginas words
My mom writes the following of her visit to Africa...
. “Adventure of a lifetime” is so clique, but this was truly one.
Arriving at the airport in Dakar, Senegal is an experience I wish no one. It was very dark out with hundreds of people that want you, (of course something I am very used to ), but these people wanted your money, any amount possible and would do anything to get it.
Apparently Bill had not read the memo not to speak to anyone, but his sketchy new friend took us to an even sketchier, broken down van, to take us to the Hotel. That wasn’t going to happen. I literally made Bill run back to our safety zone.. Inside the airport, where a nice policeman sternly told us not to leave this spot and if we need anything to call a policeman. After a torturous hour someone finally came from the hotel to retrieve us.
The Hotel, outside of Dakar on the coast was lovely. Very resort like right on the ocean. It was hard to get me out of the hotel. Constantly facing the sellers and beggars got exhausting very quick. Our first ventures out were to explore the city of Dakar and then take the ferry to the Island of Goree. Our first steps on the streets involved a beautiful little boy begging for money. Emily promptly looked in his cup and exclaimed he had more money than hed know what to do with anyway, and he should really be in school at that hour. (She’s good). We sat in a cafe and had coffee and pastries. We shortly realized this is what mom needed to get her bearings. We visited the inside of the cathedral and walked down to the president’s house. From there, we got the ferry to Goree. The gentleman sitting next to Bill on the ferry, I thought was just being friendly till we got there and he offered a tour if we paid him. At first, being totally put off I said no, but then thought twice, and it was a great tour. The island, also like the other island we visited, N’gor was beautiful: Goree, full of the history of the Slave trade and N’Gor a sandy beach. Both Islands had plenty of merchants with various items to sell. Being on the beach took the pressure away, and we were able to relax a bit, and enjoy some fresh fruit from the vendors, a little wine for mom and some very fresh shrimp for Dad.
Arriving at the beach for the boat for N’Gor was another experience, settled only by finding a nice hotel that I could sit, regroup and get some coffee. Once again, mom just needs a minute. The long thin canoe shaped boat held about 50 people, along with baskets of fruits and vegetables and of course merchants .Although we were taking on a whole lot of water throughout the 15 minute ride we arrived safe and sound.
Due to my respect for my husband and daughter, I will not discuss the “stolen ” wallet and jewelry case. As the swat team from the Hotel began the investigation, I chose to ignore the entire situation and have a little breakfast.
Flying to Bamako, another horrible airport, but the difference now is we have an interpreter who not only is fluent in the language but is fully immersed in the culture and traditions of the Malian people. We checked into our hotel, The Radisson, in the heart of the city but with beautiful eclectic African décor. We changed and quickly got into a cab, (this one was Post WWII, a nice change from some cabs we took in Dakar), that took us the Peace Corp Office. Finally, Bill and I were able to put pictures to all the words and illustrations to our imagination.
We met Emily friends, at the American bar around the corner, a Peace Corps hangout An absolutely great group of kids that share a common bond so unique, it can only be described as extraordinary. Then love each other, play and work with each other, talk over ideas, share experiences and most importantly take care of each other.
We gathered about 12 of them and headed out to dinner. A great Malian restaurant: full of atmosphere, music, cold beer, and lots of fun. We got a couple of cabs after dinner and headed back to the Radisson, for more laughs in our room.
Saturday we were off to the Village of Dombia. Emily found a friend of the luggage guys at the hotel, who had a cousin who know a neighbor who had a car they MAY make it all the way to the Village.. Here we go……The driver arrived and the car was not in real bad shape.. Bill and I in the back ,sharing one “removable” handle for each of our windows and Emily in the front, talking and laughing with our driver the whole way. The roads are ok till you get farther out of the city only to find no roads to get to her village.. Before we arrive in Dombila we drive through Kati a small city with people who surround your car to sell you things. Emily has named this the drive through market. With it being 100 degrees and having the windows open the sellers quickly put there arms in the open windows to make a sale. Holy smokes, talk about anxiety. (Another incident proving that God was right to make prescription medication) It was a bit frightening and very claustrophobic. We drove through the Village of Dio where Emily’s closet Volunteer is to her sight and a great friend, Caroline lives. This is where public transportation ends and Emily needs to ride her bike the rest of the way. Very few cars travel out this far and the car merely takes a long path, between some trees and open desert to get there.
From the minute we arrived in her Village, the warmth of the Malian people was everywhere. The kids from far down the path saw us arrive and ran behind the car till it came to a stop near her home (hut). They quickly removed our luggage from the car and ran to Emily’s hut. For the next 3 days, villagers came from everywhere to shake our hand (they don’t hug) and welcome us. They said over and over, how grateful they were that we had come. These people have absolutely nothing, but they are the most genuine, loving people we have ever met. They adore Emily, protect and respect her. Her host mom is a riot and keeps her in line better then I ever did. The un spoken words between us as mothers was amazing. She is a wonderful woman. I trust her with my daughter, enough said.
The children of the village were beautiful, fun and a little intimidated. They had gotten used to Emily, but bringing two more white people to the village was somewhat scary for them. The majority, however were so sweet and unbelievably respectful. The family unit is very tight. Rarely did we see siblings argue or fight, we saw 9 year olds watching out for 7 yr olds. We saw 7 yr olds carrying babies on their back. Teenage girls would never think of not doing their load of chores, or what was expected of them.
The first night in Village the xylophone players from the neighboring Village came to play at a welcoming party for us. We gave them gifts of macaroni, tea and sugar. There were at least 200 hundred villagers all dressed up and dancing into the wee hours. I wore a traditional skirt (pange?) and danced with Emily’s homologue Irene. Never would I have imagined. They brought chairs for us and Bill and I and we were treated like royalty all evening. The next night we tried to introduce her family to s’mores, not the Malians first idea of a treat. The texture of the crackers was tough. They eat mostly soft food; many of them have only a few teeth.
During the days we would walk the Village with Em. She constantly amazed us with her language skills and projects she is developing. The Village people listen so intently to her and look at her with such promise, for Bill and I, it was more than fulfilling. Presently she is working on two water sanitation projects. She conducts meetings with the Village people and both men and women come and share ideas and hope. Emily is steadfast on her wish to have the Villagers own these projects. If you teach a man to fish type thing.
They need to contribute, time or money for all of the projects. For the doni, doni style of the Malians this is quite a task.
We’ve never seen Emily so confident and happy. She is so grateful for all of the support she receives from everyone. We are truly blessed to have you as friends and family.
Thank you.
. “Adventure of a lifetime” is so clique, but this was truly one.
Arriving at the airport in Dakar, Senegal is an experience I wish no one. It was very dark out with hundreds of people that want you, (of course something I am very used to ), but these people wanted your money, any amount possible and would do anything to get it.
Apparently Bill had not read the memo not to speak to anyone, but his sketchy new friend took us to an even sketchier, broken down van, to take us to the Hotel. That wasn’t going to happen. I literally made Bill run back to our safety zone.. Inside the airport, where a nice policeman sternly told us not to leave this spot and if we need anything to call a policeman. After a torturous hour someone finally came from the hotel to retrieve us.
The Hotel, outside of Dakar on the coast was lovely. Very resort like right on the ocean. It was hard to get me out of the hotel. Constantly facing the sellers and beggars got exhausting very quick. Our first ventures out were to explore the city of Dakar and then take the ferry to the Island of Goree. Our first steps on the streets involved a beautiful little boy begging for money. Emily promptly looked in his cup and exclaimed he had more money than hed know what to do with anyway, and he should really be in school at that hour. (She’s good). We sat in a cafe and had coffee and pastries. We shortly realized this is what mom needed to get her bearings. We visited the inside of the cathedral and walked down to the president’s house. From there, we got the ferry to Goree. The gentleman sitting next to Bill on the ferry, I thought was just being friendly till we got there and he offered a tour if we paid him. At first, being totally put off I said no, but then thought twice, and it was a great tour. The island, also like the other island we visited, N’gor was beautiful: Goree, full of the history of the Slave trade and N’Gor a sandy beach. Both Islands had plenty of merchants with various items to sell. Being on the beach took the pressure away, and we were able to relax a bit, and enjoy some fresh fruit from the vendors, a little wine for mom and some very fresh shrimp for Dad.
Arriving at the beach for the boat for N’Gor was another experience, settled only by finding a nice hotel that I could sit, regroup and get some coffee. Once again, mom just needs a minute. The long thin canoe shaped boat held about 50 people, along with baskets of fruits and vegetables and of course merchants .Although we were taking on a whole lot of water throughout the 15 minute ride we arrived safe and sound.
Due to my respect for my husband and daughter, I will not discuss the “stolen ” wallet and jewelry case. As the swat team from the Hotel began the investigation, I chose to ignore the entire situation and have a little breakfast.
Flying to Bamako, another horrible airport, but the difference now is we have an interpreter who not only is fluent in the language but is fully immersed in the culture and traditions of the Malian people. We checked into our hotel, The Radisson, in the heart of the city but with beautiful eclectic African décor. We changed and quickly got into a cab, (this one was Post WWII, a nice change from some cabs we took in Dakar), that took us the Peace Corp Office. Finally, Bill and I were able to put pictures to all the words and illustrations to our imagination.
We met Emily friends, at the American bar around the corner, a Peace Corps hangout An absolutely great group of kids that share a common bond so unique, it can only be described as extraordinary. Then love each other, play and work with each other, talk over ideas, share experiences and most importantly take care of each other.
We gathered about 12 of them and headed out to dinner. A great Malian restaurant: full of atmosphere, music, cold beer, and lots of fun. We got a couple of cabs after dinner and headed back to the Radisson, for more laughs in our room.
Saturday we were off to the Village of Dombia. Emily found a friend of the luggage guys at the hotel, who had a cousin who know a neighbor who had a car they MAY make it all the way to the Village.. Here we go……The driver arrived and the car was not in real bad shape.. Bill and I in the back ,sharing one “removable” handle for each of our windows and Emily in the front, talking and laughing with our driver the whole way. The roads are ok till you get farther out of the city only to find no roads to get to her village.. Before we arrive in Dombila we drive through Kati a small city with people who surround your car to sell you things. Emily has named this the drive through market. With it being 100 degrees and having the windows open the sellers quickly put there arms in the open windows to make a sale. Holy smokes, talk about anxiety. (Another incident proving that God was right to make prescription medication) It was a bit frightening and very claustrophobic. We drove through the Village of Dio where Emily’s closet Volunteer is to her sight and a great friend, Caroline lives. This is where public transportation ends and Emily needs to ride her bike the rest of the way. Very few cars travel out this far and the car merely takes a long path, between some trees and open desert to get there.
From the minute we arrived in her Village, the warmth of the Malian people was everywhere. The kids from far down the path saw us arrive and ran behind the car till it came to a stop near her home (hut). They quickly removed our luggage from the car and ran to Emily’s hut. For the next 3 days, villagers came from everywhere to shake our hand (they don’t hug) and welcome us. They said over and over, how grateful they were that we had come. These people have absolutely nothing, but they are the most genuine, loving people we have ever met. They adore Emily, protect and respect her. Her host mom is a riot and keeps her in line better then I ever did. The un spoken words between us as mothers was amazing. She is a wonderful woman. I trust her with my daughter, enough said.
The children of the village were beautiful, fun and a little intimidated. They had gotten used to Emily, but bringing two more white people to the village was somewhat scary for them. The majority, however were so sweet and unbelievably respectful. The family unit is very tight. Rarely did we see siblings argue or fight, we saw 9 year olds watching out for 7 yr olds. We saw 7 yr olds carrying babies on their back. Teenage girls would never think of not doing their load of chores, or what was expected of them.
The first night in Village the xylophone players from the neighboring Village came to play at a welcoming party for us. We gave them gifts of macaroni, tea and sugar. There were at least 200 hundred villagers all dressed up and dancing into the wee hours. I wore a traditional skirt (pange?) and danced with Emily’s homologue Irene. Never would I have imagined. They brought chairs for us and Bill and I and we were treated like royalty all evening. The next night we tried to introduce her family to s’mores, not the Malians first idea of a treat. The texture of the crackers was tough. They eat mostly soft food; many of them have only a few teeth.
During the days we would walk the Village with Em. She constantly amazed us with her language skills and projects she is developing. The Village people listen so intently to her and look at her with such promise, for Bill and I, it was more than fulfilling. Presently she is working on two water sanitation projects. She conducts meetings with the Village people and both men and women come and share ideas and hope. Emily is steadfast on her wish to have the Villagers own these projects. If you teach a man to fish type thing.
They need to contribute, time or money for all of the projects. For the doni, doni style of the Malians this is quite a task.
We’ve never seen Emily so confident and happy. She is so grateful for all of the support she receives from everyone. We are truly blessed to have you as friends and family.
Thank you.
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