I've starting doing some presentations at the health center on good nutrition, yet actually getting that rolling was a chore. Between the limits of resources and language, its like dragging your feet through mud. All I wanted to do was draw a picture of the different food groups, but in order to get my hands on some paper or markers, it involved a 2 hour trip to Kati. I returned from Kati with a new set of completely non-functional markers and had to resort to other ideas.
Pulling out some old magazines and newspapers, I gathered some children to help me look for pictures of food. Actually, we found quite a bit. Excited about my presentation, I began to cut the pictures out of the magazine. At the first claps of my scissors, the children gasped in horror. This magazine, with colored glossy pages and beautiful pictures, was more amazing than any book they had ever held before. And here I was, through their winces, cutting it up. "It's ok! It's ok! It comes every month, its not really a book." But still, they stopped telling me when they found pictures of food, they'd rather me leave it be.
When all was said and done, I was actually quite pleased with my poster on nutrition, and as I did my talks in the health center, was grateful when my homologue jumped in to decipher my speaking. I start of with my bumpy Bamabara and she jumps in with her enthusiastic bellowing, raspy voice, getting into the faces of the women to make them understand. They seem like they understand. They seem like they are listening. They seem like they have learned a little something about how to make themselves or their babies healthier. So we ask them- Ok, what are the three food groups?
They look toward each other.
No one seems to know.
Oh wait- this woman here knows. "Potatoes, rice, beans."
And my bubble is bursted. Nooooo. They are probably just amused that this Tubab girl is trying to speak their language, only to return to their homes that night to pound the millet and make plain To- again.
After the third day of nutrition talks, I showed up at my homolouge's home in the morning.
"So Aminata, are we going to do an animation today?"
"Yeah sure, what about?"
"Let's talk about AIDS."
Whoaaa there. What the heck? That totally came out of the blue. It was only the other day that I asked Irene about AIDS. She doesn't believe it is much of an issue in the village, and the health center doesn't even test for it. She gave me the go ahead to ask the sexual health questions when I do my household baseline survey around the village, but warned me that some people are embarrassed to talk about it. And now- she wants me to do a presentation. With no preparation, it wouldn't just be language I would screw up, I could totally misconstrue their cultural understanding, totally offend people, or offer information that isn't inline with Irene's. Not only did I ask Irene to hold off on this, I had to take a step back and ask myself- what is really the best use of my time here? Should I be breaking my back to try and do these animations, or do I need to just slow down, work on my language, get a little more comfortable and familiar with the place so that the work goes easier?
After talking to my Peace Corps supervisor today in Bamako, and seeing her gasp after telling her I was already doing animations, I'm starting to know the answer. But with all of the problems I'm discovering in Dombilia, I feel like I need to be doing something, even if it's just a little, to prove to myself and to my coworkers that I can. That's when I began my search for Sadi.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Searching for Sadi
I'd like to think it was a spiritual calling for a heroic adventure, but much of it simply my self doubt, ego and restlessness, but that afternoon I decided to take some action with our new malnutrition program. Fingering through the files, I dug through names of babies who showed up for weighings and treatments, and then never returned. What happened to these kids. Many died, I soon learned. But others were out there... way out there.
The thing about Dombila is it is like a labyrinith. The center of the village, where I live, is only a handful of compounds. The rest of the families are out in the twisting trails through 10 foot cornstalks. You would never know they were there unless, well, you lived there. And there are 10 little "bugus" (smaller villages) that we are responsible for- some as far as 12 or 15 kilometers away. I wonder all of the time how I'm ever going to reach these people, how I'm ever going to really learn about the village if its so hidden like this.
So I picked one name- Sadi Coulibaly- who had arrived 2 weeks ago, malnourished, to get some emergency calroies and vitamines. One year old, lived in a village only 3k away, father's name was Adu Coulibaly. I asked Irene what happened to this child- why it never returned, and she didn't know. So I offered to go find her. I hoped on my bike, and rode out into the brush, stopping to pound millet with random women before politely asking for directions.
After arriving at the home of Adu Coulibaly, I saw the child- with thinning light hair and a bony face. Still alive. Thank God. Is this Sadi? Sali. Alright, there are always mispelling in the records at the doctor's office. Father- Adu, right town, with only about 25 children in the program- this one has got to be it. I asked them why they didn't come to the health center today. Oh we were supposed to come today? I thought we were supposed to come Monday. No, good God. Today! Why didn't you come today?
I was stern with them. It's ok to be stern in Mali, especially with a serious matter such as this. I placed the stuggling child on my scale and showed the parents a chart- Sadi's age and weight pointed toward the severely malnourished category. The mother agreed to come to the health center the next morning, and I returned to Dombilia to be congradulated by my coworkers.
Sali Coulibaly arrived the next morning. Sali, Irene says, weighing her. Sali. This is Sali. And her weight puts her in the moderately malnourished category for her age. But where, she asks, where is Sadi?
Sali is here today, after a stern talking to by the funny white girl. Sali is here today, but was supposed to come Monday. But Sadi- still out there somewhere. The one I had set out to look for was not the one I retrieved. You know those shameful plunges in your stomach when you realize you made a big mistake? Yeah. One of those.
On the bright side, it was a good thing that Sali came to the health center- she was not doing well, and was able to get some emergency vitamins and calories and such. Her mother, confused about the malnutrition program and the health of her child, got a lot of her questions answered. And I sent her with a message to tell the OTHER Adu Coulibaly that her son, Sadi, needs to come to the health center immediately. She was very agreeable, sat in on my nutrition talk, and seemed glad that she came.
Here in Bamako today, I still don't know- whatever happened to Sadi? And what about the others? These babies way out in the brush that just stop coming? And with the vast and winding fields of the commune of Dombilia, the hectic schedules of the health center workers, are we ever going to find them?
The thing about Dombila is it is like a labyrinith. The center of the village, where I live, is only a handful of compounds. The rest of the families are out in the twisting trails through 10 foot cornstalks. You would never know they were there unless, well, you lived there. And there are 10 little "bugus" (smaller villages) that we are responsible for- some as far as 12 or 15 kilometers away. I wonder all of the time how I'm ever going to reach these people, how I'm ever going to really learn about the village if its so hidden like this.
So I picked one name- Sadi Coulibaly- who had arrived 2 weeks ago, malnourished, to get some emergency calroies and vitamines. One year old, lived in a village only 3k away, father's name was Adu Coulibaly. I asked Irene what happened to this child- why it never returned, and she didn't know. So I offered to go find her. I hoped on my bike, and rode out into the brush, stopping to pound millet with random women before politely asking for directions.
After arriving at the home of Adu Coulibaly, I saw the child- with thinning light hair and a bony face. Still alive. Thank God. Is this Sadi? Sali. Alright, there are always mispelling in the records at the doctor's office. Father- Adu, right town, with only about 25 children in the program- this one has got to be it. I asked them why they didn't come to the health center today. Oh we were supposed to come today? I thought we were supposed to come Monday. No, good God. Today! Why didn't you come today?
I was stern with them. It's ok to be stern in Mali, especially with a serious matter such as this. I placed the stuggling child on my scale and showed the parents a chart- Sadi's age and weight pointed toward the severely malnourished category. The mother agreed to come to the health center the next morning, and I returned to Dombilia to be congradulated by my coworkers.
Sali Coulibaly arrived the next morning. Sali, Irene says, weighing her. Sali. This is Sali. And her weight puts her in the moderately malnourished category for her age. But where, she asks, where is Sadi?
Sali is here today, after a stern talking to by the funny white girl. Sali is here today, but was supposed to come Monday. But Sadi- still out there somewhere. The one I had set out to look for was not the one I retrieved. You know those shameful plunges in your stomach when you realize you made a big mistake? Yeah. One of those.
On the bright side, it was a good thing that Sali came to the health center- she was not doing well, and was able to get some emergency vitamins and calories and such. Her mother, confused about the malnutrition program and the health of her child, got a lot of her questions answered. And I sent her with a message to tell the OTHER Adu Coulibaly that her son, Sadi, needs to come to the health center immediately. She was very agreeable, sat in on my nutrition talk, and seemed glad that she came.
Here in Bamako today, I still don't know- whatever happened to Sadi? And what about the others? These babies way out in the brush that just stop coming? And with the vast and winding fields of the commune of Dombilia, the hectic schedules of the health center workers, are we ever going to find them?
You eat beans!
Joking cousins are absolutely fantastic. Why don’t we have them in America? I’ve written about them before, but it only keeps getting more intense. Especially with bean harvesting season.
Of course the big Malian fart joke, “You eat beans.” Never gets old. And if I haven’t learned any Bambara, I’ve learned how to make fun of people extensively for cooking, eating, and passing beans. It’s gotten to the point where I show up at work, and the guard, whose last name is archenemies with mine, slips me a handful of beans when he shakes my hand. There is an old woman who is one of my neighbors and joking cousins, who comes over everyday to make fun of me for eating beans. One night, after the sun set, I indeed was eating some pretty damn good beans prepared by my host mother. And wouldn’t you know it, over the mud brick wall of our compound, the head of the nosy old woman next door slow rises!
“Ahhh Diarra [my new last name since arriving in Dombila]! You are eating beans! I see it!”
Oh dear. It never ends. This is a joke that never gets old, and truthfully hasn’t for hundreds of years. But its so handy. Everywhere you go, you get along with people. If they have a last name that goes with you, you are their sister. If they have a last name of one of your ancient enemies, you just tell them they eat beans, they crack up for a few minutes, and you’ve made a friend. There is no such thing as a stranger. And with a Malian last name, there’s no such thing as a foreigner.
Of course the big Malian fart joke, “You eat beans.” Never gets old. And if I haven’t learned any Bambara, I’ve learned how to make fun of people extensively for cooking, eating, and passing beans. It’s gotten to the point where I show up at work, and the guard, whose last name is archenemies with mine, slips me a handful of beans when he shakes my hand. There is an old woman who is one of my neighbors and joking cousins, who comes over everyday to make fun of me for eating beans. One night, after the sun set, I indeed was eating some pretty damn good beans prepared by my host mother. And wouldn’t you know it, over the mud brick wall of our compound, the head of the nosy old woman next door slow rises!
“Ahhh Diarra [my new last name since arriving in Dombila]! You are eating beans! I see it!”
Oh dear. It never ends. This is a joke that never gets old, and truthfully hasn’t for hundreds of years. But its so handy. Everywhere you go, you get along with people. If they have a last name that goes with you, you are their sister. If they have a last name of one of your ancient enemies, you just tell them they eat beans, they crack up for a few minutes, and you’ve made a friend. There is no such thing as a stranger. And with a Malian last name, there’s no such thing as a foreigner.
Shaka's family
The other day, Shaka and I took the 10mile round trip out to Dio. Though he can get possessive and annoying when he is with the younger boys, our one-on-one runs is one of my favorite pastimes. He teaches me Bambara, I teach him English, we joke about blowing snot rockets or trying to pass a bicyclist. We stopped at the Dio boutique to pick up some break and fish for the family back in Dombila. After a confusing conversation, I finally realized, Shaka is actually not my host brother, but my neighbor. He just has the same last name as me and always hangs out and eats my house. His mother, a slim, often crazy woman who comes to dance every night and almost never wears a shirt, was to be the recipient of half the fish and half of the bread.
Her name is Dalphin, a Christian who blesses me with the sign of the cross before I go to bed. To meet her, you would think she was the happiest person alive- smiling and grinning. But it wasn’t until I took my notebook, and my household questionnaire, to sit down and talk to her, that I started to realize- corn season is almost over, soon they will have no food until garden season. What do you do? Well we lay. It gets very hot for a few weeks, there is no food, so we lay down all day, and then wander the village searching for food at night. Her clothes are so ripped and worn that she worries that they will rip and her baby will fall off of her back. She has no negen to go to the bathroom, no education, and she drinks her the dirty water right out of the well. But she strives to add some vegetables and beans to her To to give her children some nutritious meals. And though skinny, they are healthy. Shaka, my God, is a little machiene! For some reason, I can understand her, linguistically. Everything she says is crystal clear. There are some people I just can NOT talk to- with lisps, stutters, mumbles, or other reasons- I just don’t understand a word that comes out of their mouth. But Dalphin, she makes perfect sense.
After I left her house, she came to my kitchen, and handed me a fresh soso- a sour fruit from her small garden. This woman with nothing to call her own, has offered me a gift. I feel like crying, but I open the door to my kitchen, grab a small bag of almonds, and offer it to her in return. Catching a glimpse of her eyes as they gazed at my stuffed kitchen shelves, my gas stove, and my collection of pots and pans, I heard her exclaim under her breath “Eeh, Allah” (Oh My God.)
Her name is Dalphin, a Christian who blesses me with the sign of the cross before I go to bed. To meet her, you would think she was the happiest person alive- smiling and grinning. But it wasn’t until I took my notebook, and my household questionnaire, to sit down and talk to her, that I started to realize- corn season is almost over, soon they will have no food until garden season. What do you do? Well we lay. It gets very hot for a few weeks, there is no food, so we lay down all day, and then wander the village searching for food at night. Her clothes are so ripped and worn that she worries that they will rip and her baby will fall off of her back. She has no negen to go to the bathroom, no education, and she drinks her the dirty water right out of the well. But she strives to add some vegetables and beans to her To to give her children some nutritious meals. And though skinny, they are healthy. Shaka, my God, is a little machiene! For some reason, I can understand her, linguistically. Everything she says is crystal clear. There are some people I just can NOT talk to- with lisps, stutters, mumbles, or other reasons- I just don’t understand a word that comes out of their mouth. But Dalphin, she makes perfect sense.
After I left her house, she came to my kitchen, and handed me a fresh soso- a sour fruit from her small garden. This woman with nothing to call her own, has offered me a gift. I feel like crying, but I open the door to my kitchen, grab a small bag of almonds, and offer it to her in return. Catching a glimpse of her eyes as they gazed at my stuffed kitchen shelves, my gas stove, and my collection of pots and pans, I heard her exclaim under her breath “Eeh, Allah” (Oh My God.)
So how am I doing, really?
The initial romance of the village has slowly wore down. Which is good in some ways, and tough in others. I feel like I’ve made some friends, not quite real friends yet because I can’t really talk, but people that care about me, look out for me, and have accepted me, and perhaps will develop into real friends. But I’m also starting to realize, more and more everyday, how numerous and deeply rooted the problems here truly are. And sometimes I wake up really missing someone- there isn't one of you back at home that I have forgotten about. I dream about my friends, from high school, college, my family, and I wake up and think- two years- damn that's a long time. I've been healthy but I sometimes don't feel like myself- I'm sunburned, covered with mosquito bites, and I'm certaintly not in the kind of physical shape I like to be in.
It’s a toss up on what to do with my time sometimes- do I study Bambara, do I try to make myself useful at the CSCOM, do I just go and sit with my homologue or family so that they’ll accept me, do I go out and explore the village, do I take out a book and just escape for a while, or do I really try to put a presentation together for work? (Or in this case- do I abandon my anxieties and escape to Bamako for the day?) I’m a time orientated person, so to slow down and soak things in is a challenge- especially when I see so many people around me working hard to improve this village. But I’ve learned that these first three months should be slow. Right now the number one item on my to-do list is to master a Malian song on my guitar so that I can play it at nightly gatherings for the village. Language, integration, and tons of sugary Malian tea- I suppose that is going to be the next two months. But you, you’re gonna help me build a school, a pump, a girl’s club, or a new maternity ward. All you back at home. But not until after I learn that song, and perhaps a little more Bambara too. The challenge now is being ok with the fact that I cannot quite conquer the challenges of Dombila. Not quite yet. It would be silly to even try. So for now, donni, donni.
It’s a toss up on what to do with my time sometimes- do I study Bambara, do I try to make myself useful at the CSCOM, do I just go and sit with my homologue or family so that they’ll accept me, do I go out and explore the village, do I take out a book and just escape for a while, or do I really try to put a presentation together for work? (Or in this case- do I abandon my anxieties and escape to Bamako for the day?) I’m a time orientated person, so to slow down and soak things in is a challenge- especially when I see so many people around me working hard to improve this village. But I’ve learned that these first three months should be slow. Right now the number one item on my to-do list is to master a Malian song on my guitar so that I can play it at nightly gatherings for the village. Language, integration, and tons of sugary Malian tea- I suppose that is going to be the next two months. But you, you’re gonna help me build a school, a pump, a girl’s club, or a new maternity ward. All you back at home. But not until after I learn that song, and perhaps a little more Bambara too. The challenge now is being ok with the fact that I cannot quite conquer the challenges of Dombila. Not quite yet. It would be silly to even try. So for now, donni, donni.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Ramadan and nostalgia
Here I am listening to the mix that my sister made me before I left, missing her-missing a number of things- a light, my fingers pressing down on the piano keys, fresh cottage cheese or cold skim milk on my morning cereal, or just typing on my computer- what a convenience that really is.
The trip to Koulikoro was fanstastic. I couldn't help but feel a bit guilty though that we stayed an extra day to sit around and be lazy, but it really took the stress out of traveling in Mali. Besides, I got to stop in Bamako, pick up a package and some letters that eased the ora of my pity party a few days ago (when my computer died and the peace corps office yeilded no internet or postal access). I had traveled for hours to get a glimpse of the outside world, and at that point it didn't even seem worth it. I keep telling myself communication will get better- keep promising my family and frineds that I'll find and easier way once I get settled in, but it just seems to be getting harder.
I realized that all I've been doing lately is trying to please people- I'm a sucker for agreeing with everything, and its gotten me pulled in too many different directions with no time for myself. My little brothers especially are extreamly possessive of me, and I can't go for a run alone without them following after me, calling me. I'd love to just run with Shaka, but the younger boIf I ever try to go away from them to greet someone they say, "Don't greet him! He eats people! He will eat you!" So instead of people pleasing, I long to be looking at the bigger picture. Little by little, I'm learning that though the people here are bubbly, friendly, and welcoming- there really are some serious problems- with health, administration, education- the more I hang around the more I see. But its just these two damn barriers- language and resources. I can't ask all the questions I want to ask, and can't understand all the answers. And this week, all I wanted to do was draw a picture of the three food groups (yes, there are only three in Mali) to hang in the CSCOM to educate women on child weaning- but to get crayons or colored pencils would mean a whole day's trip into the city. Something as simple as a filing cabinet for our materinity is going to take weeks maybe even months to procure.
Yesterday marked the end of Ramadan. The moment I returned to Dombilia, I knew there was something different in the air. All the boys had their heads shaved and the girls had their hair braided and wrapped. Since Ramadan depends on the moon, nobody quite knew if it was going to be Tuesday or Wednesday, so when the radio announced on Monday night that it was to be the next day, cheers erupted throughout the village. It was almost like Easter Sunday when all of the villagers put on their best clothes and greeted each other with special blessings.
Even I whipped out my "complay" to go dancing at night. As much as I wanted to go to the mosque in the morning, Irene discouraged me. It was probably for the better because being totally clueless, I could have easily offended the whole village. But at dusk, I walked with Shaka through the tall corn, expecting to find a couple families chillin by the radio. Instead, we came across a large opening with two men playing large zylophones and another on a drum. There were maybe 200 faces there forming a circle around a half a dozen dancers. Dombila's so spread out- people's homes are hiddlen in the millt and corn filds and so far, I've only gotten to know my immediate neighbors. I'd say about 2/3 of people there had never seen me before. SO it was one of those clutch moments that everyone dread's in their lives. When a whole crowd of people stop what they are doing to stare at you. Yo, if you didn't know before, there's a white girl in town.
I sat in a princess' throne (a chair among benches) to watch a dozen people dancing in the middle of the circle. The basic steps didn't seem to hard, but when someone was doing especially well, women come to tie their head scarves around the dancer's waist. So when someone has like 6 or 7, you know they're really rockin it.
I was enjoying myself, pretending not to stick out so much, when Irene arrived. "Aminata! Get yourself up and dance!" She practically yanked me out of my chair and lead me by the arm to the middle of the circle. I'd like to think I caught on ok- I probably looked totally ridiculous. But as I lost myself in the music, I somehow felt greatly accepted. Especially when a young woman from the crowd ran out and tied her shawl around my waist!
The trip to Koulikoro was fanstastic. I couldn't help but feel a bit guilty though that we stayed an extra day to sit around and be lazy, but it really took the stress out of traveling in Mali. Besides, I got to stop in Bamako, pick up a package and some letters that eased the ora of my pity party a few days ago (when my computer died and the peace corps office yeilded no internet or postal access). I had traveled for hours to get a glimpse of the outside world, and at that point it didn't even seem worth it. I keep telling myself communication will get better- keep promising my family and frineds that I'll find and easier way once I get settled in, but it just seems to be getting harder.
I realized that all I've been doing lately is trying to please people- I'm a sucker for agreeing with everything, and its gotten me pulled in too many different directions with no time for myself. My little brothers especially are extreamly possessive of me, and I can't go for a run alone without them following after me, calling me. I'd love to just run with Shaka, but the younger boIf I ever try to go away from them to greet someone they say, "Don't greet him! He eats people! He will eat you!" So instead of people pleasing, I long to be looking at the bigger picture. Little by little, I'm learning that though the people here are bubbly, friendly, and welcoming- there really are some serious problems- with health, administration, education- the more I hang around the more I see. But its just these two damn barriers- language and resources. I can't ask all the questions I want to ask, and can't understand all the answers. And this week, all I wanted to do was draw a picture of the three food groups (yes, there are only three in Mali) to hang in the CSCOM to educate women on child weaning- but to get crayons or colored pencils would mean a whole day's trip into the city. Something as simple as a filing cabinet for our materinity is going to take weeks maybe even months to procure.
Yesterday marked the end of Ramadan. The moment I returned to Dombilia, I knew there was something different in the air. All the boys had their heads shaved and the girls had their hair braided and wrapped. Since Ramadan depends on the moon, nobody quite knew if it was going to be Tuesday or Wednesday, so when the radio announced on Monday night that it was to be the next day, cheers erupted throughout the village. It was almost like Easter Sunday when all of the villagers put on their best clothes and greeted each other with special blessings.
Even I whipped out my "complay" to go dancing at night. As much as I wanted to go to the mosque in the morning, Irene discouraged me. It was probably for the better because being totally clueless, I could have easily offended the whole village. But at dusk, I walked with Shaka through the tall corn, expecting to find a couple families chillin by the radio. Instead, we came across a large opening with two men playing large zylophones and another on a drum. There were maybe 200 faces there forming a circle around a half a dozen dancers. Dombila's so spread out- people's homes are hiddlen in the millt and corn filds and so far, I've only gotten to know my immediate neighbors. I'd say about 2/3 of people there had never seen me before. SO it was one of those clutch moments that everyone dread's in their lives. When a whole crowd of people stop what they are doing to stare at you. Yo, if you didn't know before, there's a white girl in town.
I sat in a princess' throne (a chair among benches) to watch a dozen people dancing in the middle of the circle. The basic steps didn't seem to hard, but when someone was doing especially well, women come to tie their head scarves around the dancer's waist. So when someone has like 6 or 7, you know they're really rockin it.
I was enjoying myself, pretending not to stick out so much, when Irene arrived. "Aminata! Get yourself up and dance!" She practically yanked me out of my chair and lead me by the arm to the middle of the circle. I'd like to think I caught on ok- I probably looked totally ridiculous. But as I lost myself in the music, I somehow felt greatly accepted. Especially when a young woman from the crowd ran out and tied her shawl around my waist!
A note about giving
I've heard so many people back at home are supporting the village here, want to send money, supplies, help out with projects. I can't tell you how much that means to me. There is so much I want to do- fix up the school, get a water pump, start up some activities for children... but these big projects are not something that I can even put on my radar now. I'm starting off with grass roots stuff, but eventually, your help will truly make a difference. Anyone who wants to donate gifts to the health center or the kids- I am extreamely grateful. However, I only just arrived, I have no clue what Im doing yet. Just stay tuned. I'm here for two years, so there is plenty of time. It's wonderful though that I can dream big and know that once I figure out what I'm doing here, I have the net of support back home to make it happen. Ive gotten your emails and messages and i will take you up on all of it... when the time is right. So thank you and God bless.
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