Rainy season is upon us. Which means the mangos are diminishing, the mud is everywhere, the sun is a little less brutal, and the fields have begun to be planted. Besides the mud and the mosquitos, I love the spontaneity of rainy season… for the most part that is. When it rains, nothing happens. Nothing. Everything is canceled. No radio show, no vaccinations, no traveling. And it’s understood by everyone in the village. Anything you had planned- if there’s a storm, is not going to happen. So now, I have little breaks every now and again during surprise moments. I don’t have to even entertain Malians. I just crawl in my house, read my book or nap for a few hours, and wait for the storm to pass. And I don’t have to make any excuses for doing so. It’s like having mini-snow days multiple times a week. I will occasionally disrupt a plan for a run or a meeting, but nothing that can’t be rescheduled.
I’m in Kati now, working with the Rotary on an evaluation of the well improvement project, and meeting with the regional health center to get information on HIV rapid tests. I stayed with Hunter who just got back from Dogon country and showed me some spectacular pictures. I really hope it works out with my sister, Steve and Matt that we can go to visit it. After all that I’ve put him through, my loosing wallets, loosing my way, and my "away from site"-guilt-trips, I’m surprised Hunter is still my friend. There are some pretty amazing people here, and I got really lucky. Caroline too, stopped by after her vacation. I saw her briefly on her way back to Dio. Dio wasn’t really sounding too pleasant to her after she just spent the last two weeks on the beautiful islands of Cape Verde. I was really happy to see her, and I think she was happy to see me, but the thoughts of little ankle-biting children, cockroachs in her latrine, long days of greetings and trying to cook by a dim flashlight might have dampered her reaction.
I also got to talk briefly to my family and to Karen, who stopped over with pictures and gifts from the trip. So much amazing stuff is happening at home. My dad got an awesome new job. My mom just turned 50. Karen and all my friends from college are running, working, and just being the great people they are. I’m missing so much at home, I feel. I should be there for this stuff. Hunter is thinking about extending his service and asked me if I would ever think of that. I told him the truth- if I found a good job with an NGO in Bamako, I might be worth an extra couple of months to fill the gap before grad school, but I’m not sure yet. “Emily,” he says, “think of how hard this year was for you being away from your family. Could you really do that again?” He has a point. But it’s dooni dooni you know. And then next dooni step is the night of Aug 5 where my other half is coming to reunite- the notorious Katie Hurley. And her partners in crime Steve and Matt Hurley. Watch out Mali.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Spells on my hair
Though I don’t miss the feeling of being confused all of the time, there were a few things that were eaiser when I was clueless. Before I could understand Bambara, I didn’t have to hear all of the crap people say about each other. I had an exception from village gossip. Now, I’m right in the thick of it. Everyone’s got someone to complain about, and I can’t pretend I don’t understand for very long. It’s like any other small town in the world. Everyone’s in everyone’s business, everyone’s got their grudges. Staying a neutral party is a challenge.
Beneath the gossip though, are there really dark evils in Dombila like many people believe? Spirits, genies, jinks, curses… I never realized how these ancient customs are so much a part of everyday concern. Shaka is always looking out for me. I appriciate it, but it sometimes gets pretty ridiculous. He told me not to run by the market. “Those are people in there who want to cut your hair.” He’s said that before, and even gone so far as to collect the hair that I have taken out of my hairbrush and thrown outside out of fear that these people will get their hands on it. I guess they have spells and stuff they can do on my hair that’s he is quite concerned about. “Don’t go to the market! They’re gonna take your hair!!”
Tired of this I snaped back, “Shaka, they are not going to take my hair! I can look after my own head thank you very much.” And then, totally unplanned, it just came out. “And by the way, even if they do have my hair, it won’t do anything to hurt me!”
He looked completely shocked. He shook his head. “Even now Aminata, you really don’t know Malian people.” This culture is serious stuff. And unfortunately, I can’t play dumb anymore.
Beneath the gossip though, are there really dark evils in Dombila like many people believe? Spirits, genies, jinks, curses… I never realized how these ancient customs are so much a part of everyday concern. Shaka is always looking out for me. I appriciate it, but it sometimes gets pretty ridiculous. He told me not to run by the market. “Those are people in there who want to cut your hair.” He’s said that before, and even gone so far as to collect the hair that I have taken out of my hairbrush and thrown outside out of fear that these people will get their hands on it. I guess they have spells and stuff they can do on my hair that’s he is quite concerned about. “Don’t go to the market! They’re gonna take your hair!!”
Tired of this I snaped back, “Shaka, they are not going to take my hair! I can look after my own head thank you very much.” And then, totally unplanned, it just came out. “And by the way, even if they do have my hair, it won’t do anything to hurt me!”
He looked completely shocked. He shook his head. “Even now Aminata, you really don’t know Malian people.” This culture is serious stuff. And unfortunately, I can’t play dumb anymore.
His name is… Bule?
As my parents were leaving in February, they were given a note by the xylophone players who entertained us that first night. Even after we gave them little goodie bags of tea, sugar, macaroni, and a small amount of cash, they wanted to ask my dad if they would buy them a microphone to enhance their performance. Now though it was a formal note, I’d still consider that begging. Looking back on it now, I should have been firm and just said “no” but of course I began to make excuses. He didn’t understand the note, we have no idea how to buy you a microphone, etc. etc. So the whole thing died down quietly.
Then when Karen came, these xylophone guys played again. We gave them little gifts, but the whole night we were reminded of the microphone that they want my dad to buy for them. Of course, my parents are extremely generous people, and all I would have to do is say the word and they’d donate it. But the problem is it sets a precedent for the future- ask Aminata and you shall receive. I don’t know if my replacement volunteer would like people coming up to her saying, “But Aminata’s father bought us this, why can’t you buy us that?” Donations are great, if I can funnel them through my main purpose- health education projects. Unfortunately, an electronic xylophone extension doesn’t fit that bill at the moment. So again, I brushed off the request.
But my host mom is sneaky. One of the xylophone players’ wife had a baby the night Karen was here. I later found out that it was my host mom’s scheme to tell them to name the baby after my dad. Maybe if he was named after my dad, he would be so honored that he would send money for a microphone and maybe even he would tell me to bring the baby to America with me. So that night they kept asking me, “What’s your dad’s name? We want to name the baby after him.” Knowing it was a trick, I played dumb. My dad’s name is Bill, apparently very hard for my host mother to remember or pronounce.
The next week, when I went to the baby’s baptism, they asked me what the name of the child was. “I don’t know it’s name!” I said.
“Yes you do! You named it after your dad!”
“No I didn’t. You are the parents, you should name your child.”
“We want to name it after your dad. Gneba said it was something like… Bule…?”
Refusing to correct “Bule” to “Bill” I simply told them that that was not my dad’s name. But now, this poor kid’s name is Bule. And I’ve asked them to change it but they haven’t as far as I know. He is Bule, a mutation of the name “Bill”.
As Irene and I were recounting the sequence of events, we had some good laughs about the exotic places our names have come from. She said, “Even my father! He worked at the Grand Hotel in Bamako and some American people came and stayed. I was born and he thought if he named me after one of the American women, maybe she would take me to America!” Then she thought, “Hey! Maybe it was your grandmother!” which just cracked me up. I then told her how my name came from a prostitute’s baby on a soap opera that my mom used to watch in college. So I guess if nothing else comes out of this, no microphone or ticket to the states, at least one day Bule will have a good story to tell about how he got his name.
Then when Karen came, these xylophone guys played again. We gave them little gifts, but the whole night we were reminded of the microphone that they want my dad to buy for them. Of course, my parents are extremely generous people, and all I would have to do is say the word and they’d donate it. But the problem is it sets a precedent for the future- ask Aminata and you shall receive. I don’t know if my replacement volunteer would like people coming up to her saying, “But Aminata’s father bought us this, why can’t you buy us that?” Donations are great, if I can funnel them through my main purpose- health education projects. Unfortunately, an electronic xylophone extension doesn’t fit that bill at the moment. So again, I brushed off the request.
But my host mom is sneaky. One of the xylophone players’ wife had a baby the night Karen was here. I later found out that it was my host mom’s scheme to tell them to name the baby after my dad. Maybe if he was named after my dad, he would be so honored that he would send money for a microphone and maybe even he would tell me to bring the baby to America with me. So that night they kept asking me, “What’s your dad’s name? We want to name the baby after him.” Knowing it was a trick, I played dumb. My dad’s name is Bill, apparently very hard for my host mother to remember or pronounce.
The next week, when I went to the baby’s baptism, they asked me what the name of the child was. “I don’t know it’s name!” I said.
“Yes you do! You named it after your dad!”
“No I didn’t. You are the parents, you should name your child.”
“We want to name it after your dad. Gneba said it was something like… Bule…?”
Refusing to correct “Bule” to “Bill” I simply told them that that was not my dad’s name. But now, this poor kid’s name is Bule. And I’ve asked them to change it but they haven’t as far as I know. He is Bule, a mutation of the name “Bill”.
As Irene and I were recounting the sequence of events, we had some good laughs about the exotic places our names have come from. She said, “Even my father! He worked at the Grand Hotel in Bamako and some American people came and stayed. I was born and he thought if he named me after one of the American women, maybe she would take me to America!” Then she thought, “Hey! Maybe it was your grandmother!” which just cracked me up. I then told her how my name came from a prostitute’s baby on a soap opera that my mom used to watch in college. So I guess if nothing else comes out of this, no microphone or ticket to the states, at least one day Bule will have a good story to tell about how he got his name.
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