Easter always seems to come up so quickly. At home, I’m always surprised to see Easter when I look outside and the expected flowers and grass and chirping birds and such have not yet arrived. But in Mali, the seasons are certainly changing. The hot season is well upon us, and sometimes it seems like there is no escape from the blistering sun. Though I have been watching the trees for weeks and weeks as their little buds start to grow, little by little. They were big and green but not quite ready yet, until finally, this week, they came upon us.
Yes, my friends, the mangos have finally arrived. Almost every tree in my village is a mango tree and the fruit is unlimited for the next few months. Every morning, noon, and night, kids come to my door and give me mangos. Since the start of the hot season, I’ve been impatiently watching them ripen, now satisfactorily, eating 7 to 8 a day! I had mango oatmeal for dinner last night, mango spagetti another night, and then just your average mango snack throughout the day. Temperatures are rough, the sun’s rays even rougher, but the mangos are getting me through. They are absolutely delicious.
Seasons are changing in other ways here in Dombila. With the heat, there is “community naptime” from approximately 1pm-3pm. Everybody sleeps. It’s the only thing you really can do in the heat. Me, I typically don’t sleep, but I’ll relax under the shade of my hanger and read a book or something. It’s too hot to sleep. And as soon as the sun goes down I hit the sack- though that’s the time the rest of the village goes out to sociallize. In other news, the election is right around the corner, and with 7 political parties bidding for control of the mayor’s office, people are quite preoccupied with it. So I have two things here: the village leaders who have their heads rapped up in nothing but politics, and the common village people who are pretty much sleeping all day. Who is going to work with me?
The last two weeks have been painfully slow. I try to keep my motivation and determination up, hoping someone will listen to me, but so far I have felt very unheard.. Just a few weeks ago I was stressed about having too many projects on my mind, now I am desperate for something to do. My job is to work with the community, so really, there is little I can accomplish on my own. But with an absent community that doesn’t have the time or interest in working with me, things are at a standstill. I have a zillion ideas for the community, and every time I mention one I am told to put it off until later. It’s understandable I suppose- there are other things to do now. But what am I supposed to do in the meantime? I used to think that Peace Corps volunteers who read all the time were a bit lazy or distracted from their work. But now, I’m reading quite a bit. Reading, eating mangos, weighing some babies here and there, and trying to stir up some motivation in the community. If there is anything I’ve learned thus far, it’s that patience is a virtue. I’ve learned to be patient, but my months are numbered already, and what little we’ve accomplished is far from my vision. Donni donni all the way.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Gone to Kati- Shaka stays back
I’m in Kati now to celebrate Easter with Irene’s family. As far as our relationship, Irene and I get along just fine on a personal level at least. There are no hard feelings, I don’t think there ever were that many. But on a professional level, we still are not seeing eye to eye, though we don’t express it. In any case, I’ll enjoy spending some time with her family on Easter, but in small doses. Hence why I have devoted my first few hours in the town to the internet café.
It must have been a month ago that I was running with Shaka when he asked why he can’t go a long with my when I leave town. Trying to explain why I can’t favor him over other people, pay his transport and such got nowhere. He finally decided he was going to come to Kati for Easter to hang out with Irene’s son Mamadi. Irene agreed, and so did his mother Dalfine. I explicitly said I was not a part of it and I could not pay his transport. “We know, “ said Dalfine, “he’ll find the money.”
But when I was all ready to leave today Shaka came to me and showed me the money he had. About 40 cents. Round trip to Kati is almost $3, and he asked if I could help him out with the money. Why do you do this to me? I’m in such a predicament now, I know he wants to go so badly, but I can’t put myself in that position. I know no other volunteer that would even think twice about doing it. I told him, “Shaka, I told you long ago that I wasn’t paying for your transport.” But he knows I have the money. He cried, guys. He cried. I pondered about it, prayed about it. And I still don’t know if I made the right decision. What did Jesus say about helping the poor? “Do unto others as you’d have done to me.” It’d be great for him to go. But then what? He’ll want to go to Bamako, and I know, I just know, he’ll beg to come back to the states with me. Everyone in the village already thinks that he is going to. They know I favor him, but who wouldn’t? The kid runs with me everyday, pulls my water, gets me mangos and vegetables, accompanies me to the market. Sure, I never really need or ask for his help, but he offers it freely. He’s a good kid. And I wanted to show my appreciation.
“When I was hungry you gave me to eat.” Alright, we’re working with malnourished children.
“When I was thirsty, you gave me to drink.” We’re fixing people’s wells and treating water.
“When I was naked, you gave me clothes.” Well, there’s plenty of people running around naked or half naked, but that’s their choice. They all got plenty of clothes.
Nowhere did I find “When I wanted to travel, you paid my transport.” The boy’s father has the money, but refused to give it to him. But then- how selfish of me. I feel incredibly guilty. I have the ability to make this kid’s whole year perhaps, but I turned my head. “If you run there, I’ll bike beside you.” It’s about 15 miles on the main road in the hot sun. I offered him the opportunity, and I would have watched him carefully. He pondered upon it, and finally turned it down. I don’t blame him- he make a good decision. I give this kid a lot- buy him stuff at the market and so on. That’s already overstepping the lines as far as Peace Corps sees things. But he gives me a lot too. And I’m still in the quarry of whether or not I made the right decision. I think I did (your comments welcome here!) But I made him cry. And on the week where I want to feel like a good Christian, I’ve turned my head on the poor. Was it for the best?
It must have been a month ago that I was running with Shaka when he asked why he can’t go a long with my when I leave town. Trying to explain why I can’t favor him over other people, pay his transport and such got nowhere. He finally decided he was going to come to Kati for Easter to hang out with Irene’s son Mamadi. Irene agreed, and so did his mother Dalfine. I explicitly said I was not a part of it and I could not pay his transport. “We know, “ said Dalfine, “he’ll find the money.”
But when I was all ready to leave today Shaka came to me and showed me the money he had. About 40 cents. Round trip to Kati is almost $3, and he asked if I could help him out with the money. Why do you do this to me? I’m in such a predicament now, I know he wants to go so badly, but I can’t put myself in that position. I know no other volunteer that would even think twice about doing it. I told him, “Shaka, I told you long ago that I wasn’t paying for your transport.” But he knows I have the money. He cried, guys. He cried. I pondered about it, prayed about it. And I still don’t know if I made the right decision. What did Jesus say about helping the poor? “Do unto others as you’d have done to me.” It’d be great for him to go. But then what? He’ll want to go to Bamako, and I know, I just know, he’ll beg to come back to the states with me. Everyone in the village already thinks that he is going to. They know I favor him, but who wouldn’t? The kid runs with me everyday, pulls my water, gets me mangos and vegetables, accompanies me to the market. Sure, I never really need or ask for his help, but he offers it freely. He’s a good kid. And I wanted to show my appreciation.
“When I was hungry you gave me to eat.” Alright, we’re working with malnourished children.
“When I was thirsty, you gave me to drink.” We’re fixing people’s wells and treating water.
“When I was naked, you gave me clothes.” Well, there’s plenty of people running around naked or half naked, but that’s their choice. They all got plenty of clothes.
Nowhere did I find “When I wanted to travel, you paid my transport.” The boy’s father has the money, but refused to give it to him. But then- how selfish of me. I feel incredibly guilty. I have the ability to make this kid’s whole year perhaps, but I turned my head. “If you run there, I’ll bike beside you.” It’s about 15 miles on the main road in the hot sun. I offered him the opportunity, and I would have watched him carefully. He pondered upon it, and finally turned it down. I don’t blame him- he make a good decision. I give this kid a lot- buy him stuff at the market and so on. That’s already overstepping the lines as far as Peace Corps sees things. But he gives me a lot too. And I’m still in the quarry of whether or not I made the right decision. I think I did (your comments welcome here!) But I made him cry. And on the week where I want to feel like a good Christian, I’ve turned my head on the poor. Was it for the best?
Rock Stars
The equivalent of tribal rock stars came to Dombila. I had no idea where my whole host family was going one night, but they sure seemed excited, so I went along. We arrived in a big clearing, with basically the whole village sitting in a big square. The zylophones started to play and three men in large masks and burlap type jumpsuits came in the middle, clacking sticks and dancing a slow, rhythmic dance. Oh, I know what this is. I’ve seen this before- remember-the assumption of Mary at the church in Koulikani. These are acrobats. As the dance picked up, the men flipped and sprung with incredible physical strength and agility. Gymnastics, break dancing, and of course, Malian tribal guestures all came together to provide awe and amazement to the crowd. Even I gasped and genuinely applauded. It was pretty amazing. And it was happing basically in the middle of nowhere.
My host mom, Gneba, was really into it. She would yell and squeel like a rock-star groupie. And these guys were rock stars. They came from Bamako and the next morning I met them, they were wearing blue jeans and sunglasses and walking around with their picture phones. But that night they were tribal gods and their identiy conceled. After some incredible routine by one particular performer, Gneba ran to the center of the big opening (totally out of custom) and took off her head wrap, waved it at the guy and threw it at him. I equate it to that one crazy screaming woman at a rock concert who takes off her bra and throws it on stage. Everyone, especially me, is dying of laughter. The performer danced around with it a bit and then found Gneba in the crowd to return it to her. “Take it with you! Take it with you!” she insisted. And from a poor woman like her, this is a great gift.
My host mom, Gneba, was really into it. She would yell and squeel like a rock-star groupie. And these guys were rock stars. They came from Bamako and the next morning I met them, they were wearing blue jeans and sunglasses and walking around with their picture phones. But that night they were tribal gods and their identiy conceled. After some incredible routine by one particular performer, Gneba ran to the center of the big opening (totally out of custom) and took off her head wrap, waved it at the guy and threw it at him. I equate it to that one crazy screaming woman at a rock concert who takes off her bra and throws it on stage. Everyone, especially me, is dying of laughter. The performer danced around with it a bit and then found Gneba in the crowd to return it to her. “Take it with you! Take it with you!” she insisted. And from a poor woman like her, this is a great gift.
Uncle B
I’ve written about Binot Troure, the guardian at the CSCOM before. He’s a very funny man, and I see him as kind of an adopted uncle to me. He is the head mason of our well repair project, and though some days he can be very motivated and do great work, other days he’ll scoff and blow us off. “I’m not doing ANYTHING today!” So tempermental! I can always tease him about it, if we are supposed to go to a certain village and he decides he’d rather not make the effort, I can rip on him because he’s my joking cousin. His response is that I don’t ever really work, I just do a lot of talking (which is true I suppose). Or that I’m too ugly, and he can’t even look at me today, so he can’t work with me. It makes me nervous though. If we want to fix 21 wells by rainy season and it took him 3 weeks to get around to finishing the first one, I am not really sure how this is going to work out.
But I find that if I am persistent enough, and that other people yell at him for me, he comes around. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll work today, I don’t want Aminata to be mad at me.” What time are we going to Koyan tomorrow? “6 am he says. I get up at 5 am every morning to sweep the CSCOM. We can leave at 6.”
So I came at 6, he wasn’t up. 6:30, nope. Finally at 7, I found him sweeping the leaves up under the center mango tree. I picked up a broom to help. “Are we going to Koyan today?” “Yes,” he says. “If Aminata says work, I’ll work.” Not always true, but nice to hear. I think he thinks he does a lot more than he really does. But really, I love the ole guy. And as we were sweeping the leaves my mind went to my father and the days we would rake up the leaves together on Hickory Lane. It was always a big job, but the satisfaction of completing it was so great. Dad, you never knew this, but I admired you so much simply for raking the leaves. Dedication is one of man’s greatest aptitudes, and every so often I get glimpses of this dedication from Binot. But he’s a Troure, so its rare.
“Sweeping the leaves reminds me of when I was a little girl. I used to sweep the leaves with my father.”
“So I have become your father?”
Though he doesn’t much remind me of my father, he has become a father figure to me in the village.
“No, you’re not my father, you don’t work.”
“Your father doesn’t have a guardian to sweep the leaves?”
“No! Why would my father have a guardian?”
“To sweep the leaves and watch the house. Why doesn’t he have a guardian?”
“He’s not a rich guy. He works really hard himself.” At this point, we are biking into the fields. It is a half hour ride to reach Koyan, where we are to take measurements on 3 wells. Normally a half hour, but as Binot’s chain falls off his rusty old bike every few hundred meters, it was quite a journey. I went on to tell him about my parents, how they each worked two jobs their whole lives so that my sister and I could go to college. He seemed a bit taken aback. People’s lives aren’t completely easy going in America. You gotta work. It inspired him I think. And to have this opportunity to work on some village wells and get a few extra bucks from the Peace Corps could really help his family. Work ethic. He has it, buried beneath the constraints his poverty, stirred by his family of four that he feeds with $30 a month. I believe in him, and know he has great talent in masonry to help the village. Work ethic. My father has it, my mother has it. And I begin to realize what an amazing childhood I had as a result. A comfortable neighborhood and home, a college education, and a chance to rake the leaves with my dad.
“Aminata. You were talking the other day about Easter in America.” he says. “It’s about the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Why”
“Let me get this straight. A large rabbit comes, in the middle of the night, and hides chicken eggs? And the kids go looking for the eggs?”
“Yup. And some eggs are plastic and people put candy and little toys inside.”
“And beans.” Those darn Troures.
But I find that if I am persistent enough, and that other people yell at him for me, he comes around. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll work today, I don’t want Aminata to be mad at me.” What time are we going to Koyan tomorrow? “6 am he says. I get up at 5 am every morning to sweep the CSCOM. We can leave at 6.”
So I came at 6, he wasn’t up. 6:30, nope. Finally at 7, I found him sweeping the leaves up under the center mango tree. I picked up a broom to help. “Are we going to Koyan today?” “Yes,” he says. “If Aminata says work, I’ll work.” Not always true, but nice to hear. I think he thinks he does a lot more than he really does. But really, I love the ole guy. And as we were sweeping the leaves my mind went to my father and the days we would rake up the leaves together on Hickory Lane. It was always a big job, but the satisfaction of completing it was so great. Dad, you never knew this, but I admired you so much simply for raking the leaves. Dedication is one of man’s greatest aptitudes, and every so often I get glimpses of this dedication from Binot. But he’s a Troure, so its rare.
“Sweeping the leaves reminds me of when I was a little girl. I used to sweep the leaves with my father.”
“So I have become your father?”
Though he doesn’t much remind me of my father, he has become a father figure to me in the village.
“No, you’re not my father, you don’t work.”
“Your father doesn’t have a guardian to sweep the leaves?”
“No! Why would my father have a guardian?”
“To sweep the leaves and watch the house. Why doesn’t he have a guardian?”
“He’s not a rich guy. He works really hard himself.” At this point, we are biking into the fields. It is a half hour ride to reach Koyan, where we are to take measurements on 3 wells. Normally a half hour, but as Binot’s chain falls off his rusty old bike every few hundred meters, it was quite a journey. I went on to tell him about my parents, how they each worked two jobs their whole lives so that my sister and I could go to college. He seemed a bit taken aback. People’s lives aren’t completely easy going in America. You gotta work. It inspired him I think. And to have this opportunity to work on some village wells and get a few extra bucks from the Peace Corps could really help his family. Work ethic. He has it, buried beneath the constraints his poverty, stirred by his family of four that he feeds with $30 a month. I believe in him, and know he has great talent in masonry to help the village. Work ethic. My father has it, my mother has it. And I begin to realize what an amazing childhood I had as a result. A comfortable neighborhood and home, a college education, and a chance to rake the leaves with my dad.
“Aminata. You were talking the other day about Easter in America.” he says. “It’s about the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Why”
“Let me get this straight. A large rabbit comes, in the middle of the night, and hides chicken eggs? And the kids go looking for the eggs?”
“Yup. And some eggs are plastic and people put candy and little toys inside.”
“And beans.” Those darn Troures.
A note about polygamy
Shaka’s father got married Thursday night. He took, or shall I say bought, a second wife from a nearby village. To marry a woman, you must pay a dowry to her father’s family. So when a man finds money, many of them will chose to marry again. It’s someone else to do the dishes and the laundry, which is why the first wife never really objects, and you’ll have more kids to carry out your family name. I never really understood why all of the textbooks say that poverty hits women and children the hardest, but now I know. Men are not obliged to give anything, ANYTHING to their wife or children. The food is the woman’s business and responsibility. Any profit the man makes is for himself. Moriba, Shaka’s father, recently bought a motorcycle and had a wedding, but could not give Shaka $3 to celebrate Easter in Kati, or to his wife Dafine to go to her uncle’s funeral in Bamako. He is not one of my favorite men. I once was chatting at night at his home, looking up at the stars and asked philosophically if he would ever want to go to the moon. He snapped back, “How can I ever go to the moon! I’m poor, I’m from Mali, only your people ever go to the moon. You give me money and then I can go to the moon.” Geez, it was just a question.
All this considered, I was a bit worried about what this second wife’s life was to be like. How much choice did she have in this wedding? She’s barely 17, younger than Moriba’s oldest son. And when I asked about her reputation and personality, my host family was quite hesitant. They weren’t real sure about this one.
She arrived in a train of motorcycles and the women came to dance and sing wedding songs. But the acrobats were performing again on the other side of town, so the turn out was low. “We^ll do it again tomorrow night,” they decided. How would I feel, I’m thinking, if I arrived at my wedding, the crowd was low, and they just decided, hey, let’s do it another day.
But the number of people was the least of the brides problem. The whole night she sat in the corner, crying. Crying while the older women teased her. Perhaps they were trying to welcome her, but she did not want to be welcomed. Moriba is kind of a scary guy, and I can’t imagine she is truly in love with him, or that she is here on her own will. I feel for her, and want to befriend her, but I am also bound in this culture now that totally accepts that this is the way it is.
“I didn’t like that” I said as we returned to our concession, “she was crying.”
“Aminata,” my host mother replied, “every woman cries. She’s crying because she’s thinking of her family. She left her father and her mother for good. Even I cried on my wedding day.” She cried? But her an her husband are in love, they are very happy together.
“American women don’t cry.”
“Why not?”
“They are happy to be with their husbands. They love them.”
“Oh and we don’t love our husbands?”
Somehow, I doubted that this new young girl was in love with this bitter middle aged man. But the women I asked said she was. And the next morning she was doing the dishes, and greeted everyone with a warm smile. She fits in well around here and the family seems to be getting a long fine.
Polygamy is tough because it means men are always on the prowl. Even if they are married. Even if they are content with their wives, even if they aren’t really looking for romance. “I got two wives but I’m looking for a third,” my buddy from Tomba Yaya Coullibaly tells me, completely innocently. “If you have three wives, you can reeeelllaax. And if you got a lot of kids, so be it. Allah will feed them.” I chuckle and shake my head. Irene once explained to me that polygamy was necessary here because there are a lot more girls than there are boys. “Believe me- I’m the matrone, I give births, I know!” I’m not convinced. But it’s the system. It’s unbreakable thus far. It works for the men, and for the women, unfortunately, they hardly have a choice.
All this considered, I was a bit worried about what this second wife’s life was to be like. How much choice did she have in this wedding? She’s barely 17, younger than Moriba’s oldest son. And when I asked about her reputation and personality, my host family was quite hesitant. They weren’t real sure about this one.
She arrived in a train of motorcycles and the women came to dance and sing wedding songs. But the acrobats were performing again on the other side of town, so the turn out was low. “We^ll do it again tomorrow night,” they decided. How would I feel, I’m thinking, if I arrived at my wedding, the crowd was low, and they just decided, hey, let’s do it another day.
But the number of people was the least of the brides problem. The whole night she sat in the corner, crying. Crying while the older women teased her. Perhaps they were trying to welcome her, but she did not want to be welcomed. Moriba is kind of a scary guy, and I can’t imagine she is truly in love with him, or that she is here on her own will. I feel for her, and want to befriend her, but I am also bound in this culture now that totally accepts that this is the way it is.
“I didn’t like that” I said as we returned to our concession, “she was crying.”
“Aminata,” my host mother replied, “every woman cries. She’s crying because she’s thinking of her family. She left her father and her mother for good. Even I cried on my wedding day.” She cried? But her an her husband are in love, they are very happy together.
“American women don’t cry.”
“Why not?”
“They are happy to be with their husbands. They love them.”
“Oh and we don’t love our husbands?”
Somehow, I doubted that this new young girl was in love with this bitter middle aged man. But the women I asked said she was. And the next morning she was doing the dishes, and greeted everyone with a warm smile. She fits in well around here and the family seems to be getting a long fine.
Polygamy is tough because it means men are always on the prowl. Even if they are married. Even if they are content with their wives, even if they aren’t really looking for romance. “I got two wives but I’m looking for a third,” my buddy from Tomba Yaya Coullibaly tells me, completely innocently. “If you have three wives, you can reeeelllaax. And if you got a lot of kids, so be it. Allah will feed them.” I chuckle and shake my head. Irene once explained to me that polygamy was necessary here because there are a lot more girls than there are boys. “Believe me- I’m the matrone, I give births, I know!” I’m not convinced. But it’s the system. It’s unbreakable thus far. It works for the men, and for the women, unfortunately, they hardly have a choice.
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