Visit http://em-mali2.blogspot.com/ for the sequel

The last blog post

Well, this is the last blog, a week later than my self-imposed deadline. Am I still in the lenient West African time mentality, or is it perhaps that I’m holding on to something I don’t want to let go of? In any case, here I am. And it’s time to wrap things up… for now.

“Little by little, the bird builds his nest.”

The phrase I’ve heard over and over the past two years: Donni, donni. Things don’t happen quickly in international development, in language learning, or with personal growth. Patience, as people used to say in this country, is a virtue. And why? Maybe we feel a heightened sense of accomplishment when reward doesn’t come easy or at least when gratification is delayed. Then, presumably, when we reach some end goal, we can look back with pride all the superpowers we had to muster to survive and surpass.

That would be the linear way of looking at it, and it’s how I always have. Start to finish. Beginning to end. Persevere and you’ll cross the line a winner. Well I’ve crossed the line, I made it. But I don’t feel finished.

The bird here is not building a linear road, or trying to launch an incredible flight to a distant land. She is building, piece by piece, an endless circular nest, which can envelop her chicks as she nurtures them. Little by little, allowing time to breathe and understand, she carefully intertwines one twig with another. She’s found these pieces in distant corners, and carried them back to this one spot, bringing them together to lay a strong base in a carefully prepared location. And she never stops building, repairing, rearranging, to respond to the change in winds or rain. All to make a strong shelter for what she will produce, love and foster through growth.

Most recently returned Peace Corps volunteers have a little trouble, shall I say, defining their nest. I’ve been home for three weeks, but find I’m not fully here. I want to settle in, be comfortable and enjoy it, but to do that, I find myself pushing away thoughts of Dombila. I’ll call today, or maybe tomorrow. I’m fine until the ghost of Shaka seems to be running beside me, or I sit alone outside and am interfered with an image of Boure sitting with me. It seems to be a struggle to find balance between these two worlds, and its frighteningly simple to temporarily block Mali out.

I went to New York City last week to catch up with some interesting people. Lauren was in from Mali, and being her culturally savvy self, took me to see a Slovic brass band, art at the MET, and lunch at an Indian restaurant with some Israelis. I got to spend some QT with my godmother’s family in New Jersey, and also RPCV/ my personal hero Sally Briggs. The last night, I met an 8 ½ month-pregnant Andi and her husband Seydou (remember from the 9/11/09 Blog?). They took me out to a West African restaurant where I had great Yassa and fried Plantains, Malian specialties. Then it was out to celebrate Ramadan in “Little Mali” with a bunch of Bambara speaking, Malian dressed, New Yorkers. It was strange, but a blast to speak Bambara, talk about Mali, and see the way they all meshed their culture with living in NYC.

And now I’m back here, doing what I should be doing. Job hunting, driving a car, putting food in a refrigerator, taking warm showers on cool autumn mornings when alas, I’m not that dirty to begin with (or so I think). I never had a breakdown, an overwhelming sense of guilt, or a sudden urge to go back. Am I doing this right? I’m supposed to be forever changed, but sometimes things seem just as they were before. Comfortable. I can be comfortable here. But God help me, I never want to be.

Comfortable is ignorant, it’s unchallenging, it’s stagnant. It doesn’t allow me to question, to step outside of the lines, to take a moment and remember the other side of the world. I can be comfortable with the fact that I’ll always be a little uncomfortable. For not just scanning over the yet-another-middle east bombing in the newspaper; for talking to people who may be different; for asking questions; for learning; for acting on injustice; for being mindful of Dombila and all its blessings and sufferings.

That’s how I believe our great leaders live. And great RPCVs. To quote one: “I never really fully adjusted back to life in the United States. And I hope I never do.” I have a place here, I have a place there. And perhaps it shouldn’t be a “constant struggle” but more like building a strong nest of all types of experiences. Or maybe we, if we allow ourselves to be carried, bent, and placed next to strangers, are the weavings of the nest. It’s not comfortable, but it’s the only way to craft peace in a world full of so many insecurities and inequalities.

In the spirit of Malian blessings:
May we all be constantly intertwining ourselves with each other- on this side of the nest and the other.
May we build our nests with diligence and diversity.
May we not be afraid to step, work, and live outside of our comfort zone.

Ever noticed the dove in flight in the Peace Corps logo? That didn’t happen in a day.

Now excuse me, I have a few phone calls to make.

Donni, donni.

Amazing Appearances

Koyan's chief: Falen Diarra
Our chief: DJ Hurley

What a great time I had yesterday. For all of you who were able to make it out to the Hurley house for the picnic, thank you for the smile you put on my face that is still here. I realize the mix of people was very eclectic- family, people from my childhood, college and high school friends, more recent friends of my parents, neighbors... but if you even had half as good of a time as I did, it was worthwhile. I couldn't believe some of the people that showed up- friends coming in from Buffalo, Syracuse, even as far as New York City and Boston. And also some faces that I didn't realize kept up with how I was doing so closely, who have indirectly supported me through my family. Each person that came, though you have all supported me throughout these two years, just by showing up expressed that time and distance cannot break wonderful relationships. That blog I wrote from the airport, I felt so alone. Well now look at all of these people I got after two years. "Oh my gosh I have friends!" I exclaimed when the Geneseo girls showed up. They presented me with a homemade storybook- a recount of everyday life at college written in a mock-blog style.

The only thing that bothered me was it was like everyone that showed up I wanted to sit down with and talk for hours. I have so much catching up to do, and I'm truly interested in where life has taken you all. I guess it gives me something to look forward to. I've got some time now to get reconnect with people, which I'm starting tomorrow morning when I head down to the NY/NJ area to see my godmother, my Peace Corps sitemate Lauren (on her vacation!), my fellow RPCV Sally, cousin Jenny, and friend Andi (the one who married a Malian... I'll venture out to "Little Mali" in NYC, speak some Bambara and have a traditional Ramadan feast!)

This isn't the last blog. I still haven't had time to do the whole "reflection thing". But I swear, it's coming. Give me a week. One week from today check it out. I'm going to try to go back and read some of the old entries, and then I'll have to let this go, finally!

Loyally yours and you have been mine,

Emily

Settling In

I've been home for a little over a week now and it's been a whirlwind. I attended Libby and Chad's wedding on Saturday, visited my sister for a few days, caught up with a bunch of friends in the area, caught a cold, and even had a job interview. The first four or five days was complete bliss. All I kept thinking was how beautiful America is. Landing in Rochester I was looking over the perfect suburbs from the plane. The pretty schools, someone making a splash in their backyard pool, and sidewalks! Remember those? What a wonderful concept!

My house is so beautiful! My sister is so beautiful! These trees are so beautiful! This cheese is so beautiful. I felt like this world was immaculate and I wasn't worthy to touch anything. A fear perhaps justified, considering even after two showers my sister exclaimed, "You smell like Africa!"

And then it started to hit me. Not all at once, but gradually. That job interview. Boy, was I unprepared. The real world is going to be tough. I don't think I can do the office thing. Going through boxes of old clothes, I heard Shaka's voice in my head. "Why do white people need so many clothes?" And these stupid sidewalks. What a waste! Do you know how many wells we could build with this amount of cement?

I went to the public market with my mom today. Saturday morning market! It was fun. In a way it reminded me of back in village, but in a way, not so much. No bargaining. No greeting for heaven's sake. My mom just goes up to the guy and yells, "How much are the onions?" How rude! She could have at least said good morning and asked how his wife and children were doing, and given even just one blessing! And nobody in this country has figured out how much easier it is to carry heavy items on your head. (It is a LITTLE bit harder without a head wrap. Maybe next week). We also stopped at the Pittsford Wegmans, and I put on my horse blinders so as not to freak out too much. I've heard about many returned Peace Corps Volunteers having emotional breakdowns in the cereal aisle.

Donni Donni, I still need to remember.

Tomorrow is a thank you picnic. Everyone is invited. It's a chance for me and my family to thank you and give you thanks on behalf of the people of Dombila, for all the support you have given in the past two years. Whether you donated, sent me a letter, or even just clicked on this blog every once in a while, you are part of this. So please join us at 3:30 on.

I'll write one more entry after the picnic, and that'll be it.

The New World

A thought from JFK... (aug 26)

"I'm here at the airport at New York and I feel very unsettled. I just treated myself to a Tall Skinny Cinnamon Dolce Latte at Starbucks. $4.64. There was the Cinnamon Dolce Latte or the Skinny Cinnamon Dolce Latte. I got the one with "Skinny" in the name figuring it would have less calories or something like that.

Who am I? I'm trying to find a reflection of me, a piece of me somewhere in this airport. I can't. So I feel as if I need to redefine myself to fit in here. I browse the bookstore. All those magazines- beautiful women, dieting schemes, how to get the moisture back in your hair. Do I need this stuff? I fear. I'm going to be living in this world now, but how? I don't really know who I am here, but I figured I'd do the best I could to take a step in the right direction. I take refuge in the bathroom. Those big scary mirrors. I throw on some makeup and brush my hair. It's a start. I walk out trying to exude confidence and poise. Like I belong here.

I sit for a while, just people watching. They are not so talkative, these travellers, most so serious, exhausted. I'm feeling invisible. No one is staring at me or greeting me. Even all the security workers seemed a bit taken aback when I smiled at them. The people pass and I wonder about them, who they are. I wonder who they think I am. I college kid? A worldly traveller? A confused, odd, mousy girl? Who am I kidding, no one has even glanced at me. They don't care. Refreshing in a way, up until now everyone I come across pesters me until they find out everything about me. But also unsettling. I'm so alone.

Or am I? A man in a faded pastel golf shirt and a baseball cap wheels his luggage by. From the back I swear he could have been my father. Suddenly my stale emotion subsides and I'm choked up. Moments later I'm jubilant. Dad. What a great guy. See you soon."

Getting Back Home... Again

I arrived at the Bamako airport a little past 10 pm. I think the Bamako airport literally is hell. This is what hell would be like. Getting in is the first challenge- you have people pushing and shoving and yelling at all sides... no lines of course. Just a mob. I'm slowly funneled to the door and I give my passport to the policeman. The police have took over today- the airport crew is on strike.

"Where's your Malian visa?" he asked.

"Its-" Shoot. I realized that I had taken my normal-person's passport, leaving my fancy embassy peace corps passport behind. Gets me every time. Two passports. So confusing. I wasn't even thinking that I would need that Peace Corps one again, and besides, I had to return it to Peace Corps anyway. But apparently you also need a visa to get you OUT of the country. Forgot about that.

"I have one! I swear I do! It's in my other passport. I'm Peace Corps!" But he totally wasn't listening to me. I was shoved off in to a corner, not allowed to enter the airport, still in the midst of this chaotic scene, aka hell.

So I kept bugging this policeman. Hitting him on his shoulder, yelling to get his attention, being obnoxious. Hey, everyone else was. And if I didn't make myself seen he would have just left me in that corner to rot. I had a plane to catch.

I called Peace Corps and tried giving the phone to him. Of course some friendly Peace Corps staff member would use their negotiating skills, let this guys know whats up, maybe even read off my visa number to them, and then I would be on my way.

He wasn't having it. He kept swatting the phone away from me, while other members of the angry mob yelled for me to get out of their way. I didn't know what else to do. I dropped my bags in my little corner behind the door and started to cry. I was upset, frustrated, but also admittedly using the last card in my hand. Maybe they'll take pity on my.

And then, in the depths of hell, an angel in a glimmering white Arab robe garnished with gold trim was sent from the heavens. "Why are you crying?" he asked. And not only was this young, compassionate, English-speaking man sent from God, he was, as my eyes excitedly glanced to his name-badge, sent by the airport.

"Are you with Peace Corps? Your office just called us." I took out my phone to call Peace Corps to confirm this, but the man thought that I just wanted his phone number. Umm...of course I want your phone number! (Which would prove to be handy getting through the rest of the lines once inside the building.) His name was El Hajji, and he was from Timbuktu, giving him a look more like a Middle Eastern Arab than an African. "It is my pleasure to help beautiful woman such as yourself. You give two year to help us, now we help you."

El Hajji saved the day. He talked to the policeman, and every person at every line who needed my passport. And a few minutes later, Chiek, a Peace Corps staff member shows up with my other passport. We volunteers do a lot of stupid things, and we make Peace Corps' job pretty rough. But I tell you, the staff here in Mali goes above and beyond and Mali would have chewed us all up and spit us out if it wasn't for them.

I was giving so many blessings, even bowing a little to show my thanks to Chiek and El Hajji. I was finally in line for the flight to Paris. El Hajji kissed my cheek and said, "If you are ever back in Mali, you call me."

"Of course!" I said. If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't be leaving in the first place.

He walks off. "And that is a promise," he reminds me. Time to go home.

My flights were not too bad until NYC. We were sitting on the runway on the small plane destined for Rochester when we were told of an emergency at the ROC airport. People were doing research on these fancy little computer phones that everyone seems to have. Explosion! Hydrogen tank blows up and injures 3 people! Airport Closed! The flight attendant was advising us to book tickets for a flight to Buffalo or Syracuse by phone. My mother has got to be freaking out, I thought.

After about a half hour of this, having made travel buddies and a plan to go to Buffalo, the flight attendant gets on the loud speaker and says, "Ok. Well I guess things are back on track." Oh. Ok. And now we're going to Rochester. Fantastic :)

Some Traveling

From July 25- Aug 1, I went what we like to call “yalla-ing” in Bamba-ish. I’d been “wandering around” the country, seeing what I’ve never seen before, discovering the Northeast of Mali, with its embellished mosques, devout Islamic-Arab culture, desert climate, and webbing of tribes and languages. For the first time in my service, I went to see the non-Bambara parts of the country. What a different land it was.
I traveled with the normal crew: Caroline, Dave, Chris, and our other friend Ryan to Mopti, and took a pinasse boat down to the city of Djenne. The boat ride was quite and adventure, and as much as I want to share it with you all now, I will hold off. It’s better told in person, which I will have the opportunity to do soon. And it also includes some details best left out of public access. To make a long story short, we took a very round-a-bout way to Djenne, ending up in an isolated fishing village of the Bozo tribe, fought rain and hunger and finally reached the ancient sister-city of Timbuctu, Djenne. (Timbuctu was on our travel-dream list, but because of Al-Quada action and kidnappings, we are restricted from travel there.)
In Djenne we toured the mosque, the biggest mud building in the world, and the Islamic library where families keep their heirlooms and ancient texts. Accustomed to tourists giving out empty plastic water bottles, pens, and taking tons of pictures, we were always being followed by children. Caroline and Dave journeyed back to Bamako, as Chris, Ryan and I met up with two girls from another region to do a tour of the Dogon country.
We hiked three days on the escarpment, staying in little cliff villages of the Dogon people. The region was very isolated, and most of the villages can only be accessed by climbing on foot. It was the West Africa I had heard about- animism, monkeys, tribal masks, and spectacular views from the escarpment over the sandy plains.
“This all used to be jungle,” our guide Omar told us, “I don’t remember these sand dunes from when I was growing up here.” It was the first time I really understood desertification and what is becoming of our world. These Dogon villages- in the next century- will they still be around?
Omar was the Crocodile Dundee of Africa, and hiked with a safari hat, green cargo vest, and a dirty mouth. He supports himself by giving tours of the Dogon country and is famous among Peace Corps volunteers all around Africa. His English is slurred and vulgur, thanks to 12 years hanging out with kids like us.
We hiked three days with Omar, and thoroughly enjoyed it. We joked with each other, had more serious, insightful conversations, and sometimes just went along in silence, taking it all in. Africa. It’s a wonderful and terrible place. This last week I saw desert oasis, fascinating culture, and breathtaking nature. I saw bands of beggar children, crazy men wandering the streets, and eight dead bodies being pulled out of a smashed up bus on the road to Bamako. I humbly received a warm welcome from local people, I disgustingly dismissed the cat-calls of the men I passed on the streets. I was an excited tourist, and a homesick traveler. With the Bozo village, the confrontations with the animist culture, the adventures of a group of almost broke Americans traveling around just South of the Sahara- the week was well spent. If anything, for all the stories I have to tell when I’m back.

Check out Ryan’s pictures here: http://picasaweb.google.com/vroegindewey/KouakoulouDjenneDogonDioilaMaliJuly2010
(He lives in Bamako and can do things like make nice online phone albumns)