Just finished a two day training at Bamako and wondering what's next for me and my village. A lot has happened so take your time reading. I love you all and miss you more than I can say. Have a Happy Easter and God Bless :)
Em
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
“What the heck?” Moments
I’d like to briefly record three moments recently in which I turned a corner and had to do a double-take- am I really seeing what I’m seeing? Problem being, there was nobody else around who found my discovery unusual, hence I will share with you.
1. I was closing my door of my hut, getting ready to depart for work and there was a camel- yes a camel- outside my door. Wait, what the heck? It was pretty darn huge too. The man sitting on top of it was singing blessings in Arabic and calling children to come sit on top of it- kinda like Santa Claus.
2. I saw a woman without a nose when I went to do a child nutrition talk in a neighboring village. Yup, no nose. Just a hole in her face. Yikes.
3. I recently visited a small satallite village looking for some of our missing children in the nutrition program. Seemingly way out in the brush, I was checking out the village when I came upon a Malian woman sitting in the middle of a concession typing on a laptop! There isn’t a working computer in the CSCOM or the Mayor’s office- so how did this get here? Before I totally felt like I was dreaming, I was told that these are the people from Bamako working on the census. I had actually met them before and knew they were doing work out here, I just didn’t expect to come upon them in the middle of nowhere.
1. I was closing my door of my hut, getting ready to depart for work and there was a camel- yes a camel- outside my door. Wait, what the heck? It was pretty darn huge too. The man sitting on top of it was singing blessings in Arabic and calling children to come sit on top of it- kinda like Santa Claus.
2. I saw a woman without a nose when I went to do a child nutrition talk in a neighboring village. Yup, no nose. Just a hole in her face. Yikes.
3. I recently visited a small satallite village looking for some of our missing children in the nutrition program. Seemingly way out in the brush, I was checking out the village when I came upon a Malian woman sitting in the middle of a concession typing on a laptop! There isn’t a working computer in the CSCOM or the Mayor’s office- so how did this get here? Before I totally felt like I was dreaming, I was told that these are the people from Bamako working on the census. I had actually met them before and knew they were doing work out here, I just didn’t expect to come upon them in the middle of nowhere.
Pacho
Pacho is the cutest 3-year old you’ll ever meet. My parents will tell you if you ask them- they completely fell in love with him during their visit here. They gave him a toy dump truck, which he’s been playing with ever since. Pacho is the kind of kid that is just always happy, always playing and talking in a little voice that’ll make your heart melt. He follows me around as much as he can. If he’s at the neighbor’s house when I return from work, I’ll stop and he’ll climb up, ever so carefully on the back of my bike to ride home with me. When I’m in my house, he’ll always creep up to the screen door peering in like my house is some magical forbidden world. And while I’m cooking or getting ready, he’ll ask little questions. He’s especially interested in getting a good look at my exercise ball, which I still refuse to take outside because of the dirt and kids. He’s astutely frank. His little girlfriend was crying for no apparent reason once and I asked what happened. “Oh. I hit her.” He says with little shame or concern. Pacho! He also likes to jump up and down for no reason. Once his jumping was a little labored. “What’s with you?” I asked. “Poop.” He said matter-a-factly. “You have to poop?” “Yes.” Well ok.
So the dump truck was his favorite toy until I decided to take out the singing valentine my sister sent me. It is a hip-hop dog hologram that dances and when you open the card you hear a snipet of “Who let the dogs out.” I remember how amazed Americans were when singing greeting cards came out, so you can just imagine the fuss they got in a small African village. All the kids loved it but Pacho still comes to my door everyday. “Aminata- dog!” he whispers. “Get the dog who talks!” He’s been playing with it for like two weeks now and it’s a miracle that its not broken yet. But there are times that he’s just astounded when he opens it and it doesn’t play. “Aminata, the dog is finished talking.” Or when he closes it and it won’t stop. “Eh Allah!” But basically, he just loves to move the card around, watch the dog dance and shake his little hips in rhythm. Thank God for Pacho, a daily reminder of the joy in simple things.
So the dump truck was his favorite toy until I decided to take out the singing valentine my sister sent me. It is a hip-hop dog hologram that dances and when you open the card you hear a snipet of “Who let the dogs out.” I remember how amazed Americans were when singing greeting cards came out, so you can just imagine the fuss they got in a small African village. All the kids loved it but Pacho still comes to my door everyday. “Aminata- dog!” he whispers. “Get the dog who talks!” He’s been playing with it for like two weeks now and it’s a miracle that its not broken yet. But there are times that he’s just astounded when he opens it and it doesn’t play. “Aminata, the dog is finished talking.” Or when he closes it and it won’t stop. “Eh Allah!” But basically, he just loves to move the card around, watch the dog dance and shake his little hips in rhythm. Thank God for Pacho, a daily reminder of the joy in simple things.
Delicate trust: An encounter with domestic abuse
Despite having a very good couple of weeks, there was one dark night that I’ve had no choice but to try to push out of my head. I must face it one of these days, I know. I just haven’t figured out how.
Since I’ve been here, I’ve held dying children, I’ve seen a child dead on the side of the road from an accident, I’ve watched unconscious women be carried to try to seek medical care for malaria, only to find that they were too late. But what I had yet to see is violence between fellow men. Until now.
I’ve written about my “subtitle guy,” my English-speaking language tutor, the courageous secretary general of Dombila who has given up his rich life in Kati to give to the more lowly people. He’s a man that more or less, I trust. He’s someone I’m excited to work with and owe so much thanks for all the selfless help he has offered me so far. That’s why it was particularly painful when I saw such rage coming from him.
After a meeting in Kati, he took me to meet his family. Nice people for the most part, but one teenage boy was silent. “You don’t greet people?” Mamadou, my tutor asked. The boy did not respond. “You don’t greet people?” Still, no response from the boy. I saw anger growing on Mamadou’s face as he wrapped his arm around the boy’s throat and dragged him in the back room, not shutting the door.
My instincts told me that this was playful brotherhood behavior. Maybe he was going to give him a “nuggie”. Mamadou is a large, strong man. Even a nuggie would demand merci, but this was not that. He punched, kicked, choked, threw all his strength on the boy. Right in front of me. Right in front of me. I turned my head, another man grabbed a whip and entered the room. I left without looking back. I left with angry tears, without even saying goodbye. Started down the road, had no idea where I was. Only imaging what was happening behind me. Hearing the sounds of the beating from the thick mud brick walls. It lasted a long time. A long time.
Mamdou’s family came chasing after me, assuring that everything was fine and trying to coax me back. I refused. But then I realized, it was dark and I didn’t know my way back. They said Mamadou would walk me home, and I waited cautiously for him outside.
The whole way back he tried to explain himself. The boy does not behave, he will never learn, this is Africa and this is the way we do things. Yes, I think, this is the way some people do things. But it is wrong and I wouldn’t expect it from a good man like you. He wanted to talk about it, to make me understand. I just wanted to go back to Hunter’s house and get away from him. We’ll talk about it later, I can’t speak to you now. I’ve seen him twice since. I still can’t speak to him. He’s someone that deservingly won my trust, but then showed me more frightening rage than I have ever seen in my life. I want to pretend it never happened, and I will forgive him. But at the same time, how do I turn my head and pretend it never happened? How do I smile and greet him and act like I think this is ok. It’s not ok. And it is a great puzzle to me why good Christians, Muslims, people do not understand this.
Since I’ve been here, I’ve held dying children, I’ve seen a child dead on the side of the road from an accident, I’ve watched unconscious women be carried to try to seek medical care for malaria, only to find that they were too late. But what I had yet to see is violence between fellow men. Until now.
I’ve written about my “subtitle guy,” my English-speaking language tutor, the courageous secretary general of Dombila who has given up his rich life in Kati to give to the more lowly people. He’s a man that more or less, I trust. He’s someone I’m excited to work with and owe so much thanks for all the selfless help he has offered me so far. That’s why it was particularly painful when I saw such rage coming from him.
After a meeting in Kati, he took me to meet his family. Nice people for the most part, but one teenage boy was silent. “You don’t greet people?” Mamadou, my tutor asked. The boy did not respond. “You don’t greet people?” Still, no response from the boy. I saw anger growing on Mamadou’s face as he wrapped his arm around the boy’s throat and dragged him in the back room, not shutting the door.
My instincts told me that this was playful brotherhood behavior. Maybe he was going to give him a “nuggie”. Mamadou is a large, strong man. Even a nuggie would demand merci, but this was not that. He punched, kicked, choked, threw all his strength on the boy. Right in front of me. Right in front of me. I turned my head, another man grabbed a whip and entered the room. I left without looking back. I left with angry tears, without even saying goodbye. Started down the road, had no idea where I was. Only imaging what was happening behind me. Hearing the sounds of the beating from the thick mud brick walls. It lasted a long time. A long time.
Mamdou’s family came chasing after me, assuring that everything was fine and trying to coax me back. I refused. But then I realized, it was dark and I didn’t know my way back. They said Mamadou would walk me home, and I waited cautiously for him outside.
The whole way back he tried to explain himself. The boy does not behave, he will never learn, this is Africa and this is the way we do things. Yes, I think, this is the way some people do things. But it is wrong and I wouldn’t expect it from a good man like you. He wanted to talk about it, to make me understand. I just wanted to go back to Hunter’s house and get away from him. We’ll talk about it later, I can’t speak to you now. I’ve seen him twice since. I still can’t speak to him. He’s someone that deservingly won my trust, but then showed me more frightening rage than I have ever seen in my life. I want to pretend it never happened, and I will forgive him. But at the same time, how do I turn my head and pretend it never happened? How do I smile and greet him and act like I think this is ok. It’s not ok. And it is a great puzzle to me why good Christians, Muslims, people do not understand this.
Project Update: Donni Donni
1) Well Repair
So last you heard from me I was stressing about this well repair project. My weaker qualities- trying to please everybody and not being able to say “no”, got me into a lot of trouble. Well a lot has happened since then and though there are still many problems, a lot of good is starting to come out of it.
A Peace Corps trainer came into my village to show everyone how to do top-well repairs. The work went really well, but everyone, including I, came to realize how difficult it was. We got down to reality and realized exactly what this entailed- and a couple of men who were pestering me about money, failed to show up. “Where are they?” “Oh, since the project got smaller and there isn’t money involved they didn’t want to come. Just forget about them.” Can do. But its nice to know that their opinion wasn’t the opinion of the whole group.
What I was left with was a core group of people who did a systematic evaluation of the village and chose 21 sites- 14 traditional wells and 7 project-initiated wells that need improvement. Basically what we are doing to the traditional wells is digging out the top and installing rocks and cement to prevent erosion. Then for all of the wells, we are installing a slab with a metal door to prevent dirt and other things from falling in. We are then going to clean and shock the wells and begin treating them regularly with cholorine.
It’s not easy work- especially when we could only find one guy in the whole village that actually knows what he’s doing (Binot Troure, my joking cousin who also build the hand washing stations). Can’t other people learn how to do it? Yes, Binot is taking 3 apprentices to learn donni donni. But it’s harder than you think when you really only have one guy that knows how to use a tape measure, let alone fix a village water system.
And then there’s Mariam. The president of the water sanitation committee, a woman who after elected was the source of a few mens’ subsequent absences. When I talk to her, I feel like it’s the “Field of Dreams.” (If you build it they will come). Meeting after meeting we find more problems. The work is hard, we don’t know what we’re doing, we don’t have a lot of money. After one dishearting meeting I sat down with her to ask, “Really… REALLY… is this something that we can do?” Half hoping for her to bag it and thus free myself to focus on other work, she responded with dignity, “It will be done.” Can we find workers? “If you call them, they will come.” Can we find enough time? “It will be done.” Will they treat the wells consistently? “If you show them, they will do it.” She really has a lot of faith and determination, and was an inspiration to me. One day Binot and I were to go travel around the villages and look at the wells by bike but he was called for other work (seems to happen a lot with this guy which makes me rather nervous) and Mariam went with me. We walked for three hours in the hot sun to visit dozens of families. “I am not tired,” she says, “this is important work.” Of course, without Binot, I felt pretty clueless. I tried to take some measurements to make it look like I knew what I was doing, but I think I’ll leave that to him. So we’re doin it guys. N’I Alla Sonna (If God wills). And I’ve realized that this is something really important to my community, something they are willing to sacrafice a lot to accomplish, and that’s why I’m excited about this. I don’t know much about fixing wells, but after seeing some of the water that these people drink, I am realizing how important it is. Kids are malnourished here, but it’s not just because of the food. They drink this dirty water and get worms and then can’t eat. I’m starting to open my eyes and realize this. So it’s all related. Health. If we build it, it will come.
2) Child Nutrition
There are still mothers who won’t come. Irene gets mad, I get worried. There are still messy records. Irene gets mad, I get worried. There are still people who do not understand how to properly wean their children. And there are still dozens of children with sunken faces and bony limbs. But here’s the thing- we’re getting somewhere. I go out into one village, and a community health worker who I trained to screen for malnutrition explains everything to me and how she has been taking arm measurements of children and giving advice to mothers. I am stunned and pleased. I go out into another village: A child who had not come back to the CSCOM for follow up was shown to me. His mother started making him the porriage I showed here, and he gained about 5 pounds in two months! As healthy as can be, the mother agreed to come back for a follow up weighing where I told her I would take her baby’s picture and put it on the wall of the maternity. I also told her that I would give her baby a friendship bracelet that my sister and her lacrosse team made (now a standard gift for children graduating from the program). She came to the CSCOM, brought her little sister, who currently has a malnourished baby, and helped teach some of the mothers about nutrition. And oh, I forgot to mention, she walked 8 miles to do so- with a terribly deformed foot. Donni donni guys. Things are happenin.
3) Soap making/ Hand-washing
So my women’s group sold soap in the market for the first time the other day. It was a big hit. It’s great quality and the villagers are starting to catch on to it. The women on the other hand, are in no rush to really expand their business. Each women in my group is making about 5 cents a week profit on this, but are not really thinking of ways to limit their expenses or expand production. 5 cents more than they had last week, and most of them end up buying the soap for themselves anyway. But hey, donni donni. As of now, more and more people are washing their hands and every so often, they’ll take out our soap and talk about how nice it is. Next stop- school hand washing stations- (that is if they ever get the leak fix and the teachers go off of strike). Eh Allah!
So last you heard from me I was stressing about this well repair project. My weaker qualities- trying to please everybody and not being able to say “no”, got me into a lot of trouble. Well a lot has happened since then and though there are still many problems, a lot of good is starting to come out of it.
A Peace Corps trainer came into my village to show everyone how to do top-well repairs. The work went really well, but everyone, including I, came to realize how difficult it was. We got down to reality and realized exactly what this entailed- and a couple of men who were pestering me about money, failed to show up. “Where are they?” “Oh, since the project got smaller and there isn’t money involved they didn’t want to come. Just forget about them.” Can do. But its nice to know that their opinion wasn’t the opinion of the whole group.
What I was left with was a core group of people who did a systematic evaluation of the village and chose 21 sites- 14 traditional wells and 7 project-initiated wells that need improvement. Basically what we are doing to the traditional wells is digging out the top and installing rocks and cement to prevent erosion. Then for all of the wells, we are installing a slab with a metal door to prevent dirt and other things from falling in. We are then going to clean and shock the wells and begin treating them regularly with cholorine.
It’s not easy work- especially when we could only find one guy in the whole village that actually knows what he’s doing (Binot Troure, my joking cousin who also build the hand washing stations). Can’t other people learn how to do it? Yes, Binot is taking 3 apprentices to learn donni donni. But it’s harder than you think when you really only have one guy that knows how to use a tape measure, let alone fix a village water system.
And then there’s Mariam. The president of the water sanitation committee, a woman who after elected was the source of a few mens’ subsequent absences. When I talk to her, I feel like it’s the “Field of Dreams.” (If you build it they will come). Meeting after meeting we find more problems. The work is hard, we don’t know what we’re doing, we don’t have a lot of money. After one dishearting meeting I sat down with her to ask, “Really… REALLY… is this something that we can do?” Half hoping for her to bag it and thus free myself to focus on other work, she responded with dignity, “It will be done.” Can we find workers? “If you call them, they will come.” Can we find enough time? “It will be done.” Will they treat the wells consistently? “If you show them, they will do it.” She really has a lot of faith and determination, and was an inspiration to me. One day Binot and I were to go travel around the villages and look at the wells by bike but he was called for other work (seems to happen a lot with this guy which makes me rather nervous) and Mariam went with me. We walked for three hours in the hot sun to visit dozens of families. “I am not tired,” she says, “this is important work.” Of course, without Binot, I felt pretty clueless. I tried to take some measurements to make it look like I knew what I was doing, but I think I’ll leave that to him. So we’re doin it guys. N’I Alla Sonna (If God wills). And I’ve realized that this is something really important to my community, something they are willing to sacrafice a lot to accomplish, and that’s why I’m excited about this. I don’t know much about fixing wells, but after seeing some of the water that these people drink, I am realizing how important it is. Kids are malnourished here, but it’s not just because of the food. They drink this dirty water and get worms and then can’t eat. I’m starting to open my eyes and realize this. So it’s all related. Health. If we build it, it will come.
2) Child Nutrition
There are still mothers who won’t come. Irene gets mad, I get worried. There are still messy records. Irene gets mad, I get worried. There are still people who do not understand how to properly wean their children. And there are still dozens of children with sunken faces and bony limbs. But here’s the thing- we’re getting somewhere. I go out into one village, and a community health worker who I trained to screen for malnutrition explains everything to me and how she has been taking arm measurements of children and giving advice to mothers. I am stunned and pleased. I go out into another village: A child who had not come back to the CSCOM for follow up was shown to me. His mother started making him the porriage I showed here, and he gained about 5 pounds in two months! As healthy as can be, the mother agreed to come back for a follow up weighing where I told her I would take her baby’s picture and put it on the wall of the maternity. I also told her that I would give her baby a friendship bracelet that my sister and her lacrosse team made (now a standard gift for children graduating from the program). She came to the CSCOM, brought her little sister, who currently has a malnourished baby, and helped teach some of the mothers about nutrition. And oh, I forgot to mention, she walked 8 miles to do so- with a terribly deformed foot. Donni donni guys. Things are happenin.
3) Soap making/ Hand-washing
So my women’s group sold soap in the market for the first time the other day. It was a big hit. It’s great quality and the villagers are starting to catch on to it. The women on the other hand, are in no rush to really expand their business. Each women in my group is making about 5 cents a week profit on this, but are not really thinking of ways to limit their expenses or expand production. 5 cents more than they had last week, and most of them end up buying the soap for themselves anyway. But hey, donni donni. As of now, more and more people are washing their hands and every so often, they’ll take out our soap and talk about how nice it is. Next stop- school hand washing stations- (that is if they ever get the leak fix and the teachers go off of strike). Eh Allah!
A three-footed walk
I arose early in the morning to find Mariam, to walk with her to find some of our wells deep in the village. When I arrived at her house I was led by some children out into the field where an old woman motioned me to come near. She told me Mariam had already left deep in the fields to go collect wood for the cooking fire. It was a bit of a walk, but she would take me there.
As we walked, I noticed she labored a bit. “Look at my foot,” she says. It has a boot on it and does not flex. An artificial foot in the brush of Mali! “I used to have a sock too, but it is gone. I want to find another sock to wear.”
Some minutes later, she told me her story.
“When I was in sixth grade, I got very hurt.” She spared the details, but said, “Some children are very mean, very mean. There was blood everywhere. A white man came in a car. A Christian. They took me to the hospital and they said they must do an operation. The man then ordered this fake foot from France. It cost $200. $200! And he paid for it all. I didn’t pay one cent. They did the operation, but it was hard to recover. I could not return to school. But now, look at me! I can work. I can go collect wood. I can cook. I can walk. I can do everything, just a little slower.”
Though I cringe that the white man was the hero in the story, I let the big picture fade for a moment. Here I’m working on sustainable development, on helping people find solutions to their own problems, and it would not be in my place as a Peace Corps Volunteer to buy anyone an artificial foot. But look what happened here. She was saved from being crippled and ostracized from the community. She can walk. It is a beautiful thing. And I reflect on this, thinking that in all of my efforts to get Dombila standing on two feet, I must not fall into the sociological sin of “blaming the victim.” There are no easy answers. And the long term answers are not going to be an immediate fix to urgent suffering. So sometimes we need someone to give us an artificial foot. Africa, my friends, does not have two working feet. We’ve given them one, and it is not a perfect solution. It will not last forever. And Africa is dependent on it even though it makes walking unnatural and labored. But Africa has one healthy working foot that without it, it would fall. For now, we can give them that artificial foot. It is not a natural part of its body, but now at least, now, we can walk forward.
“The only thing I can’t do,” she says, “is read. I loved school so much, but I had to stop. They used to do adult reading and writing classes in town, but those project people left. What I think is so important now, is for women to be able to read and write. If someone comes back to help us with that, I would be very happy.”
They’re looking for help out here my friends, the problem is, where to look. Next time the Christian may not pull up in a car. But for now, there is a white girl walking with a limping black woman. We are both slightly confused as to where we are going, but we are walking. Together.
As we walked, I noticed she labored a bit. “Look at my foot,” she says. It has a boot on it and does not flex. An artificial foot in the brush of Mali! “I used to have a sock too, but it is gone. I want to find another sock to wear.”
Some minutes later, she told me her story.
“When I was in sixth grade, I got very hurt.” She spared the details, but said, “Some children are very mean, very mean. There was blood everywhere. A white man came in a car. A Christian. They took me to the hospital and they said they must do an operation. The man then ordered this fake foot from France. It cost $200. $200! And he paid for it all. I didn’t pay one cent. They did the operation, but it was hard to recover. I could not return to school. But now, look at me! I can work. I can go collect wood. I can cook. I can walk. I can do everything, just a little slower.”
Though I cringe that the white man was the hero in the story, I let the big picture fade for a moment. Here I’m working on sustainable development, on helping people find solutions to their own problems, and it would not be in my place as a Peace Corps Volunteer to buy anyone an artificial foot. But look what happened here. She was saved from being crippled and ostracized from the community. She can walk. It is a beautiful thing. And I reflect on this, thinking that in all of my efforts to get Dombila standing on two feet, I must not fall into the sociological sin of “blaming the victim.” There are no easy answers. And the long term answers are not going to be an immediate fix to urgent suffering. So sometimes we need someone to give us an artificial foot. Africa, my friends, does not have two working feet. We’ve given them one, and it is not a perfect solution. It will not last forever. And Africa is dependent on it even though it makes walking unnatural and labored. But Africa has one healthy working foot that without it, it would fall. For now, we can give them that artificial foot. It is not a natural part of its body, but now at least, now, we can walk forward.
“The only thing I can’t do,” she says, “is read. I loved school so much, but I had to stop. They used to do adult reading and writing classes in town, but those project people left. What I think is so important now, is for women to be able to read and write. If someone comes back to help us with that, I would be very happy.”
They’re looking for help out here my friends, the problem is, where to look. Next time the Christian may not pull up in a car. But for now, there is a white girl walking with a limping black woman. We are both slightly confused as to where we are going, but we are walking. Together.
Irene makes me cry
Catchy title? Blunt, nonetheless. At our two day formation at Tubaniso, the truth comes out. In the Malian culture, if someone is older than you, they can tell you to do basically anything they want and if you don’t do it, it’s disrespectful. Not understanding that I should be exempt from that, I came to a realization that I’m really being pushed around. Especially with her crying child, Irene has been extremely bossy, telling me what I can and can’t do, asking me to get up in the middle of a meeting to get her water or an orange or to go charge her phone or add sugar to her coffee. (So all you walked over interns out there in America, I feel your pain, even here). These little things get on my nerves, but after an exercise with homolouges and volunteers at our training, I noticed its not just these little things. It’s everything. I can’t do anything without her permission or approval. I can’t go anywhere, I can’t do any work with anyone else besides her or she gets jealous and offended, and most of all, my opinion doesn’t matter. I don’t understand anything, according to her. And though I am fun to have around, and I help her out tremendously, though she loves me, she doesn’t respect me as a working adult. I should be her right-hand man and remain so. I work for her, in her opinion, not for the village of Dombila. Peace Corps trainers were embarrassed by her, skipping sessions, bossing me around. The cultural facilitator even said, “I know you are trying to respect her, but in my opinion she is not a respectful person. And she obviously doesn’t respect you.” I’m her adopted daughter, and in Mali a daughter is a servent. And I can work as long as its under her demand and close supervision. Luckily, she’s right about a lot of things. But sometimes she’s not. And sometimes I am called to build hand washing stations or wells and I’m sorry that you have prenatal councils, but I can’t spend my service sitting around waiting for you to have time to work with me. I once spent 5 hours waiting for her to record a radio show with me because she doesn’t think I can do it myself. I could have done that and a million other things.
But what made me cry was when she announced her list of complaints against me. “She works on things and doesn’t even tell me about them until after that happens! She comes in the morning and tells me what work she wants to do when I should be telling her! She does not respect me, and all of the work that she has done without me has turned out terrible. The hand washing stations leak and people are cheating her for money. She even goes out and drinks tea with other people, even after I told her that they are putting charms in the tea to curse her.” (That last one says it all.)
We got a long way to go, me and her. I have to set some boundaries for myself and its not going to be easy. But I’ve let her push me around long enough. We get along and have fun together, but we still do not understand each other’s roles. I do need to keep her more in the loop of my side projects, which I will begin to do. But in all my struggles of trying to fit in to the Malian culture, I placed myself too far down on the hierarchy. No more using my phone to call her sons. No more making me sit around all day in Kati with her family so that she won’t look bad if I go back to the village before her. No, I don’t understand everything in Bambara. But I do understand some things. And I feel like we would be a lot further in our work if she would just listen to me every once in a while. So who knows. Malians don’t hold grudges, so I know whenever she is mad at me, it probably won’t be for long. But it’s respect I want. I don’t want to be her boss, but I don’t want to be a doormat either. She’s my boss now, which isn’t her job description either. Homolouge- same. Ironic for two people coming from two different worlds to achieve this balance of equality. It may happen eventually, but it’ll be a bumpy road.
But what made me cry was when she announced her list of complaints against me. “She works on things and doesn’t even tell me about them until after that happens! She comes in the morning and tells me what work she wants to do when I should be telling her! She does not respect me, and all of the work that she has done without me has turned out terrible. The hand washing stations leak and people are cheating her for money. She even goes out and drinks tea with other people, even after I told her that they are putting charms in the tea to curse her.” (That last one says it all.)
We got a long way to go, me and her. I have to set some boundaries for myself and its not going to be easy. But I’ve let her push me around long enough. We get along and have fun together, but we still do not understand each other’s roles. I do need to keep her more in the loop of my side projects, which I will begin to do. But in all my struggles of trying to fit in to the Malian culture, I placed myself too far down on the hierarchy. No more using my phone to call her sons. No more making me sit around all day in Kati with her family so that she won’t look bad if I go back to the village before her. No, I don’t understand everything in Bambara. But I do understand some things. And I feel like we would be a lot further in our work if she would just listen to me every once in a while. So who knows. Malians don’t hold grudges, so I know whenever she is mad at me, it probably won’t be for long. But it’s respect I want. I don’t want to be her boss, but I don’t want to be a doormat either. She’s my boss now, which isn’t her job description either. Homolouge- same. Ironic for two people coming from two different worlds to achieve this balance of equality. It may happen eventually, but it’ll be a bumpy road.
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