So Thankful

So Thanksgiving has arrived, and it still feels like mid-summer here. Until I really stop to think about it, things like apple cider, pumpkin pie, and colorful foliage (I guess even snow now I hear?) easily slip my mind. But as I sit here in my teammate Caroline’s hut, I am hit with the nostalgia of all these things. Simple things really, that I am missing now. But nonetheless, there is no lack of things, simple and great, that I can be thankful for today.
I am thankful I have found a place in my community. I am thankful that I have really gotten to know the Malians on a personal level.
I am thankful that my homolouge makes rice everyday for lunch instead of To, like most of her neighbors.
I am thankful I have stayed healthy- physically and emotionally- in a new and strange environment.
I am thankful for the fields to run in, the multitude of stars at night, the packages and letters from home. I just got a whole slew of letters today, and it embarasses me that I haven't been able to write everyone back in a timely manner.
I am thankful I can talk to my family once a week.
I am thankful that people back in the states are doing such honest and dedicated work to make the world a better place. Especially FACE AIDS Geneseo. If you haven’t checked out their amazing work this semester, you can see it here . Dec 1 is World AIDS Day, and there are tons of events going on, including the premier of “The One Who Speaks” a play that I adopted from and interview of an amazing Ugandan girl.
I am thankful that I grew up with the world of opportunities at my feet. My country, my community, and especially, my family, not only taught me but showed me that I could do anything I wanted to do, that I could be anything I wanted to be. And I see out here in the villages, there are people of such wisdom, talent, and potential, that were never offered piano lessons, were never taught how to use a computer, or even how to read and write, never had sports or theater or all of these other amazing things I had. I am thankful I went to a good school, I am thankful I have seen and learned about the outside world. I don’t know how I got so blessed.
I am thankful that people are actually starting to understand my Bambara.
I am thankful that the Troure twins, once severely malnourished, returned to the CSCOM healthy and plump. They are the first to officially graduate from our program.
I am thankful for the friends I have made here. My teammates Hunter, Caroline, Dave and Chris, have become like a family to me.
Going off of that, I am thankful I am safe. A scary experience, which I will spare you the details, occurred last week involving me loosing my way on a moonless night. With the help of friends, friendly strangers, and angles, I was guided to a safe harbor.
I am thankful for the support back at home, the eagerness to help, and the prospect of doing good work in Dombila off of your contributions.
Granola bars, new socks, calcium chews, whole grain cereals, protein powder, Gatorade or propel water powder, baby wipes, disposable razors, face wash, and pictures from home. I will be thankful for these things immensely, that is if anyone decides to send a couple in a Christmas package hint hint. The Malians also really liked almonds and Welch’s fruit snacks. And as I said before that big packages were hard to transport… well I can make it work…
Alright, enough for being greedy. This is a day to be thankful. And though my plans changed, it looks like I will still have quite an amazing Thanksgiving here in Bamako. If all works out, I will be attending Thanksgiving dinner at the ambassador’s house. Though it will be no clover lanes, no sunset bulavard, no aunt sue’s bread and jokes at the kids table, it may be nice. I can’t even begin to say how much I am going to miss home on thanksgiving night. But as for now, I am not dwelling on this. I am thankful. So thankful. That I have a loving home in Rochester New York, full of loving, amazing people that have showered me with support. I am thankful that I have now also found a loving home in Mali.

Humbled

Lately, I’ve been searching for humility in this town. As I get more and more comfortable with my job, I worry about outshining my counterpart or becoming too affirmative about my ideas. Still worshiped by the local children, I worry about jealously and such things. I am not anything special, I just have different color skin than you. And the fact that so many people are eager to befriend me, I have realized, may indeed be because they are looking for money. I still get asked everyday if I will give away my bike, my watch, and my two younger sidekicks, Cesalo and Amadou, with beg for candy if they ever find me alone.

So I live for humbling moments. I live for instances when I see that a person can do something remarkable on their own, something I cannot do, something I cannot help them with. It was, of course, Shaka. Our runs together have become less and less frequent as my work has picked up at the CSCOM. And if Cesalo and Amadou come, they are slow and interrupted. So the other night, I was lucky to squeeze in 5 miles with him in the evening. After 5 he said he was tired and we should go back home. It seemed unlike him, but perhaps his body was exhausted from working the fields all day. So he went to his house, I went to mine, got a quick sip or water, and headed out for another couple of miles before nightfall.

And we caught each other. I found Shaka on the road. Running like I have never seen him before. Bulleting through the dusty fields. He had snuck out to run faster, but did not want to embarrass me by saying so. The next evening, I asked him as we slowly jogged through the fields. “Shaka, do you run by yourself a lot?”
“Yes.” I figured he just kind of waited for me to run, and just did normal 12 year old kid stuff on his own.
“A lot?”
“Yes.”
“When you run by yourself, do you run faster than this?”
“Yes.”
“Show me.” He looked embarrassed, and almost ashamed, but when I gave him the encouraging look, he picked up the pace, little by little, so as I could follow. “Can you pass me Shaka?” And then he did it, he just flew by, with the most beautiful form I’ve ever seen, leaving me huffing and puffing, putting more and more distance on me until he graciously slowed down to wait for me to catch up. I haven’t run this fast in a while. And as I think I have a pretty respectable running resume, here I am, completely winded and dusting by a 12 year old boy. I’m humbled, and honestly, it feels great.
“Why don’t you run like that when we run together?”
“You are my teacher, it would be wrong to run faster than my teacher.” I explained to him that this was not correct, and that my running teacher was an old man who would drive his car next to us as we ran. Shaka proceed to answer my questions. He runs quite a bit on his own, and usually has already run earlier in the day when we go out together in the evening. He runs fast and far for two weeks, and then slow for two weeks. Not the most sophisticated training plan I have ever heard, but the fact that he has one, that his is systematic and consistent is above and beyond what I expected of him.
“Are you running with me to the market tomorrow?”
“Maybe.” He says with a smile, and I know he had already planned to run there, but to wait for my slow pace was not on the agenda.
“You want to run fast don’t you?” He nods with an embarrassed smile. And I explain to him that if I find an odemeter for my bike, the first thing I want to do is time him in a 5k.
And all my dreams for him came rushing back. I had been ignoring them for a while, thinking my work at the CSCOM was first and foremost priority. Which it is, but that doesn’t mean I still can’t really search for a means for this kid to shine. Its hard though, my homolouge and host family disapprove me spending so much time with him. My homolouge is convinced he is going to steal something from me one day, and I see how the other village kids are jealous. Something is drawing me towards him though. This kid is meant for something bigger than the millet fields of Dombila.
“What do you want to do when you grow up Shaka?”
“Oh I don’t know.” He thinks for a while. “I want to go to America and be a teacher. I want to teach Bambara to Americans.” I give a slight chuckle at his precious naivite.
“Americans don’t really study Bambara in America. But you could work for the Peace Corps one day in Bamako and teach Americans like me how to live in Mali and speak Bambara.” He agreed that that would be pretty cool.

The Mysterious Vegetable

Arriving at Tomba again, I was pleased to see that many of the babies there have been gaining weight. Yaya Coulibaly informed me proudly that he had been encouraging them all the cook ameliorated porridge. A few were still on the dangerous end, so I invited them to the CSCOM where we are launching off a new program for malnourished children starting November 30. At the end of my presentation on treating wounds, one of the women in the crowd came up with a brilliant idea. “Oh! We should show Aminata my garden!” Yeah, yeah, yeah, that’s a great idea. So after the baby weighing session, a crowd of Malians led me excitedly to a garden. It looked like just any other old garden. Cabbage. But in the middle was this large weird beet thing. It was tan and bigger than my head, happily growing in the soil. “What is this?” The owner of the garden asked me. This tends to happen a lot. Malians quiz me on the names of things, especially food. “I don’t know. What’s it called?” Over and over they asked me. You don’t know? She doesn’t know! And everyone burst out into laughter. Ok, my horrible Bambara isn’t that funny.
“This doesn’t come from your country?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
More laughter. “Well we don’t know what it is either!” Turns out some white people (an agricultural NGO from Germany, I later found out) came and planted it as part of a project to introduce new foods into the community. One result: a large weird beet head thing sitting in the middle of this women’s garden, which people young and old would come and look at. And they were so excited when another white person came who could tell them what it was. What in God’s name is this thing? They said again to themselves. And I just had to laugh with them.