So I have computer access right now, but I’m just way to tired to write a blog. It sucks how the timing works out like that you know? I’m in Kati, attended the rotary club meeting last night to ask them for help on a water sanitation project I want to begin in Dombila. But I came down with a fever and a cold sort of thing- my head is spinning right now so please excuse the lack of details, the lack of stories in this blog. On Jan 12 I go for three weeks of training in Tubaniso- with daily access to spotty internet, I’ll be able to catch you up on all the adventures in Dombila. What I can say now is, I absolutely love my job. I am already starting to be rewarded by it. Babies are getting fatter, mothers are demonstrating understanding of good health practices (dooni dooni) and me and my homolouge Irene are communicating wonderfully. We make a great team and I’m having a blast out here every day. I celebrated Christmas three different days in three different locations (Falaje, Kati, Dombila)- dancing to the sounds of the African zylophones and drums. Lately, there’s just been a load of holidays around here, most recently ended with New Years. I attended a party in my village where the men had a really good time chillin inside, drinking tea, while us women cooked outside in the cold for about 6 hours. Thats African gender for ya. But hey, the food was good- chicken, fried plantains, even salad (though it was covered with oil and MSG). I myself made pizza paninis upon my supervisors request for “un plat special americain!. My new year’s resolution: wear sunscreen everyday.
So I hate to leave you without stories from the field, but please just take my word that it really has been an excellent week for me; I’m so excited about the direction my projects are beginning to take. I promise to have more for you next week (even ways you can begin to help me!) but for now, I just need to kinda let my mind go back into fighting this fever. Dombila wishes you a happy happy new year!
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Christmas 2008
Though nothing beats Christmas in Rochester, NY, Christmas 2008 is one that I will never forget. It is the first year that I wasn’t home for Christmas, and though I missed my family and loved ones and Christmas tradidtions terribly, it was kinda neat to do something new for a change. My parents will tell you that I always had many mixed emotions at Christmas time- the joy of the season being somewhat cluttered by guilt, disappointment with our culture’s materialism, and thoughts of what our brothers and sisters, the “have-nots” were doing. To celebrate Christmas alongside Malians and Americans alike, in a minimalist but bountiful way was a true blessing.
After stocking up on some goodies from the Western-style “supermaket” in Bamako, we made our way to Falaje, a rural Christian village about 80k outside of the capital. Dave Williams, a volunteer in Falaje, hosted 6 of us at his hut for a pig roast. Man, I’ve never seen so much work done for a good strip of pork. The guys built a brick roasting pit the two days before Christmas Eve. On Christmas Eve, they bought and slaughtered the pig (I conveniently was out for a run during that part), cut its hair, and let it marinate in a bucket of salt water over night. On Christmas day, we all took turns turning the metal pole we (the guys I should say) stuck through the pig and over the fire for a good three or four hours. The meat came out quite tasty, which is more than I can say about Chris’ attempt at blood soup (hey at least I tried it). All the gruesome details can be found on Chris’s new blog: notbalibutmalil.blogspot.com In the meantime, we snaked on watermelon, hot coco, popcorn, banana bread, Christmas cookies/candies/and fruit cakes that came from the states, and any other such things we happened to whip up. Basically, we spent two days cooking and eating, playing charades, and decorating the house for Christmas. A small, fake plastic Christmas tree was overshadowed by a chalk drawing on dave’s wall that we all “decorated” with our own drawings. Us girls made stockings out of an old teeshirt, and with decorative markers and Lindsay’s crocheting ability, actually came out quite nice. Combined with Christmas carols on the ipod and guitar, little silly presents of ketchup, slingshots, and homemade fruit jam really brought the Christmas spirit to our middle-of-nowhere corner of the world. Midnight mass in Falaje was incredible. There was a Bambara choir, singing the mass parts to traditional African beats, and I wore my new “Mary-and-Jesus compilee” that the priest in Kati gave me as a Christmas gift. On my way to Falaje, I also picked up some packages sent from you all that I excitedly opened on Christmas morning! A Christmas I’ll never forget, and my nostalgia for my family was comforted by the fact that I was among good and caring friends and that it would be less than two months before I see my parents. (FEB 16!) I’m so excited!
After stocking up on some goodies from the Western-style “supermaket” in Bamako, we made our way to Falaje, a rural Christian village about 80k outside of the capital. Dave Williams, a volunteer in Falaje, hosted 6 of us at his hut for a pig roast. Man, I’ve never seen so much work done for a good strip of pork. The guys built a brick roasting pit the two days before Christmas Eve. On Christmas Eve, they bought and slaughtered the pig (I conveniently was out for a run during that part), cut its hair, and let it marinate in a bucket of salt water over night. On Christmas day, we all took turns turning the metal pole we (the guys I should say) stuck through the pig and over the fire for a good three or four hours. The meat came out quite tasty, which is more than I can say about Chris’ attempt at blood soup (hey at least I tried it). All the gruesome details can be found on Chris’s new blog: notbalibutmalil.blogspot.com In the meantime, we snaked on watermelon, hot coco, popcorn, banana bread, Christmas cookies/candies/and fruit cakes that came from the states, and any other such things we happened to whip up. Basically, we spent two days cooking and eating, playing charades, and decorating the house for Christmas. A small, fake plastic Christmas tree was overshadowed by a chalk drawing on dave’s wall that we all “decorated” with our own drawings. Us girls made stockings out of an old teeshirt, and with decorative markers and Lindsay’s crocheting ability, actually came out quite nice. Combined with Christmas carols on the ipod and guitar, little silly presents of ketchup, slingshots, and homemade fruit jam really brought the Christmas spirit to our middle-of-nowhere corner of the world. Midnight mass in Falaje was incredible. There was a Bambara choir, singing the mass parts to traditional African beats, and I wore my new “Mary-and-Jesus compilee” that the priest in Kati gave me as a Christmas gift. On my way to Falaje, I also picked up some packages sent from you all that I excitedly opened on Christmas morning! A Christmas I’ll never forget, and my nostalgia for my family was comforted by the fact that I was among good and caring friends and that it would be less than two months before I see my parents. (FEB 16!) I’m so excited!
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Peace on Earth
So I finally pulled out my Christmas tunes on the old ipod .(Correction- new ipod, thanks to Uncle Jeff). If I was back in the states, I would have been listening to these for weeks now, taking time in the afternoon to brush up on the piano so that Grandpa’s version of “silent night” would ring loud and clear on Christmas night. I’m someone who lives for the Christmas spirit, but this year, I’ve been in denial a bit. I can wake up in the morning, not wanting to get out of bed because all I am thinking about is what our Christmas tree looks like this year, the smiling faces of my family, and how this will be the first year in my life that I will not curl up on the couch with my family before going to bed on Christmas eve to read aloud our ancient, heirloom book, “The night before Christmas”. I’m missing them, I’m missing all of you, and lately, I’ve really been missing my grandmother, “Nanie,” who is still present in all of my Christmas memories of childhood.
But then eventually, I get out of bed, go for a run, eat my porriage and arrive at work. I greet Irene, my fun-loving co-worker and friend Sali, my supervisor, Kassoum, and all the sick folks. I hang out with Irene as she gets ready, late as always. I play with her son, Noelle, who’s first birthday is coming this Christmas. He can almost say my name now (it comes out as “Tata”). I weigh pregnant women or some of the most adorable babies I’ve ever seen with their little winter caps. I ride my bike out into the villages to find lost patients. I rejoice when the mother of a severely malnourished child made the 23 kilometer journey to seek help in our office. After discovering that the child was not only malnourished, but dangerously dehydrated, I showed her how to make homemade Oral rehydration solution, which the child eagerly drank, much to the mother’s delight. And suddenly, I’m not thinking about Christmas anymore. It’s still summer isn’t it? The world I left has stopped for me. I’m distracted by the life I love here. And at night, after my run with Shaka, my dinner of macaroni or potatoes, my warm bucket bath, I almost fear going back into my hut alone, letting myself remember Christmas and everything back home.
But tonight, I’ve faced it. The Christmas carols are playing. I’m singing here, alone in my hut. And I’ve realized that I never really forgot the season after all. I feel myself there with you all, but even more so, I feel you all here with me. The love that you have for me, is never ever forgotten. It never leaves my heart. I want you all to remember that. Even if you don’t hear from me for a long time, we are still connected. Distance is abolished at Christmastime- we are all close right now- to each other and to Bethlehem. So why be alone? Night has fallen. I take out my guitar, and greet my sidekicks, who have proudly crafted a drum out of an old gorge and some animal skin. I teach them how to sing jingle bells- which with their limited English, was almost too hysterical for me to handle. I’m not alone here. I’m not outside of the loving care of a family.
So to answer Bandaid’s age old question “Do they know it’s Christmas time at all?”, the answer is, yes. They know. And in my village, the Christians and the Muslims celebrate it side by side. The zylophones will play just like on Tabaski, we’ll eat meat but this time- pig. As far as the spirit of giving- everyone here gives everything they have to their neighbors anyway, that there really is no difference. An NGO came to the village yesterday, as close as we are going to get to Santa Claus. They had come last year, to take pictures of the children, promising them gifts. Dozens of kids walked away with new sneakers. Beautiful Nike sneakers, all of them as big as boats. The surplus sizes that no one in the Western world wants anymore. I don’t even think Zach Scott could fit in them. So the past couple of days everyone has been trying to figure out what to do with the dozens of humungous shoes we have acquired.
I asked Denise, my homologue’s 5 year old ward, about Christmas. She is very excited because she just got her hair braided and she is traveling to Kati to see her mother. I asked her what she wanted for Christmas- the concept of getting gifts was foreign to her. She thought really hard and then her eyes lighted up as she told me “I want a piece of candy!” Similarly, my Christian neighbor, Dalfin, asked me for a packet of macaroni and some powdered milk. Now I didn’t come here to be Santa Clause- to just give stuff away and most of the villagers think. I sigh because I see how dependent they are- how they have this idea in their minds that their lives will never improve until some white person in a big NGO car comes to change things. I’m the first volunteer, but I’m not the first person to try to help Dombila. But I am not here to help Dombila as a village, I’m here to help the people of Dombila. And maybe one day, they will have the self-initiative, the understanding, and the pride in themselves to improve their village for the sake of their health, and that of the future generations. And many are working so hard to do this too. But many, many have given up on so many things.
So yeah, it’s been a little hard lately. But I knew the hard times were coming. I’m in limbo where I’m ready to do something, but can’t really effectively do it until after my month of training in Bamako in January. I still am having a great time in village, but especially with Christmas coming up, I feel like my ability to give right now is completely absent. Dad, I hope you don’t mind, but I want to share with everyone what you wrote to me, because it made all the difference.
“ It will never be easy. it will be lots of fun at times, sometimes sad and lonely, sometimes totally amazing.
But most often it is hard in someway. The easy times are for regeneration and centering. The hard times are for growth and learning and achieving. God has a way of preparing us for the hard and it that success that we feel full-filled from. When things don't go well, look elsewhere for opportunity. As I said on the phone, nurture relationships not just accomplishments. That is an investment that will never stop paying dividends. Even if you don't feel the connection or appreciation coming back, it is something that you can always give. And is that what it really about. Especially around this holiday, find hope and spread hope through others. December 25th comes with the same message of love no matter where you are on this globe.”
And I think that says it all. I’ve learned such a lesson about giving this Christmas. It’s not about driving a truck with surplus Nike shoes, throwing them at kids and driving away. It’s not about proving yourself, that you can change the world. It’s about the smile on your face, the time you take to sit down with your neighbor, the respect you show for the people around you. And don't any of you worry a second about me- I've got a great pig roast in a little Christian village with all of my Peace Corps friends to look forward to. My friends, all I can give you this Christmas is all my love. With all the love you’ve given me, I just pray you will understand it is right back at you. From all your friends here and the other forgotten corners of the world- Merry Christmas.
But then eventually, I get out of bed, go for a run, eat my porriage and arrive at work. I greet Irene, my fun-loving co-worker and friend Sali, my supervisor, Kassoum, and all the sick folks. I hang out with Irene as she gets ready, late as always. I play with her son, Noelle, who’s first birthday is coming this Christmas. He can almost say my name now (it comes out as “Tata”). I weigh pregnant women or some of the most adorable babies I’ve ever seen with their little winter caps. I ride my bike out into the villages to find lost patients. I rejoice when the mother of a severely malnourished child made the 23 kilometer journey to seek help in our office. After discovering that the child was not only malnourished, but dangerously dehydrated, I showed her how to make homemade Oral rehydration solution, which the child eagerly drank, much to the mother’s delight. And suddenly, I’m not thinking about Christmas anymore. It’s still summer isn’t it? The world I left has stopped for me. I’m distracted by the life I love here. And at night, after my run with Shaka, my dinner of macaroni or potatoes, my warm bucket bath, I almost fear going back into my hut alone, letting myself remember Christmas and everything back home.
But tonight, I’ve faced it. The Christmas carols are playing. I’m singing here, alone in my hut. And I’ve realized that I never really forgot the season after all. I feel myself there with you all, but even more so, I feel you all here with me. The love that you have for me, is never ever forgotten. It never leaves my heart. I want you all to remember that. Even if you don’t hear from me for a long time, we are still connected. Distance is abolished at Christmastime- we are all close right now- to each other and to Bethlehem. So why be alone? Night has fallen. I take out my guitar, and greet my sidekicks, who have proudly crafted a drum out of an old gorge and some animal skin. I teach them how to sing jingle bells- which with their limited English, was almost too hysterical for me to handle. I’m not alone here. I’m not outside of the loving care of a family.
So to answer Bandaid’s age old question “Do they know it’s Christmas time at all?”, the answer is, yes. They know. And in my village, the Christians and the Muslims celebrate it side by side. The zylophones will play just like on Tabaski, we’ll eat meat but this time- pig. As far as the spirit of giving- everyone here gives everything they have to their neighbors anyway, that there really is no difference. An NGO came to the village yesterday, as close as we are going to get to Santa Claus. They had come last year, to take pictures of the children, promising them gifts. Dozens of kids walked away with new sneakers. Beautiful Nike sneakers, all of them as big as boats. The surplus sizes that no one in the Western world wants anymore. I don’t even think Zach Scott could fit in them. So the past couple of days everyone has been trying to figure out what to do with the dozens of humungous shoes we have acquired.
I asked Denise, my homologue’s 5 year old ward, about Christmas. She is very excited because she just got her hair braided and she is traveling to Kati to see her mother. I asked her what she wanted for Christmas- the concept of getting gifts was foreign to her. She thought really hard and then her eyes lighted up as she told me “I want a piece of candy!” Similarly, my Christian neighbor, Dalfin, asked me for a packet of macaroni and some powdered milk. Now I didn’t come here to be Santa Clause- to just give stuff away and most of the villagers think. I sigh because I see how dependent they are- how they have this idea in their minds that their lives will never improve until some white person in a big NGO car comes to change things. I’m the first volunteer, but I’m not the first person to try to help Dombila. But I am not here to help Dombila as a village, I’m here to help the people of Dombila. And maybe one day, they will have the self-initiative, the understanding, and the pride in themselves to improve their village for the sake of their health, and that of the future generations. And many are working so hard to do this too. But many, many have given up on so many things.
So yeah, it’s been a little hard lately. But I knew the hard times were coming. I’m in limbo where I’m ready to do something, but can’t really effectively do it until after my month of training in Bamako in January. I still am having a great time in village, but especially with Christmas coming up, I feel like my ability to give right now is completely absent. Dad, I hope you don’t mind, but I want to share with everyone what you wrote to me, because it made all the difference.
“ It will never be easy. it will be lots of fun at times, sometimes sad and lonely, sometimes totally amazing.
But most often it is hard in someway. The easy times are for regeneration and centering. The hard times are for growth and learning and achieving. God has a way of preparing us for the hard and it that success that we feel full-filled from. When things don't go well, look elsewhere for opportunity. As I said on the phone, nurture relationships not just accomplishments. That is an investment that will never stop paying dividends. Even if you don't feel the connection or appreciation coming back, it is something that you can always give. And is that what it really about. Especially around this holiday, find hope and spread hope through others. December 25th comes with the same message of love no matter where you are on this globe.”
And I think that says it all. I’ve learned such a lesson about giving this Christmas. It’s not about driving a truck with surplus Nike shoes, throwing them at kids and driving away. It’s not about proving yourself, that you can change the world. It’s about the smile on your face, the time you take to sit down with your neighbor, the respect you show for the people around you. And don't any of you worry a second about me- I've got a great pig roast in a little Christian village with all of my Peace Corps friends to look forward to. My friends, all I can give you this Christmas is all my love. With all the love you’ve given me, I just pray you will understand it is right back at you. From all your friends here and the other forgotten corners of the world- Merry Christmas.
A baby on my back
So I have a baby. Her name is Fatima and I made her out of cardboard. She has two heads- one is a skinny crying face, the other is a big fat-cheeked smily one. My homologue and I were to do a skit about child weaning. Her chubby baby, Noelle, is the poster child for our program. And I’m the bad mother who let her child get malnourished. To prepare, I’ve been walking around village for the past few days, carrying this cardboard baby on my back just like the Malian women. It’s sick, sad face draws a playful concern from my neighbors. I take it to the doctor’s office, and the pharmasit refuses to give it medicine because she says its too ugly. I wait with the mothers for baby weighing, and they ask me who the father is. They laugh and scold me because my baby isn’t even 1 kilo. My neighbors even made an afternoon visit to the doctor’s office- we heard your baby’s sick, we came to give it blessings. So they begin the traditions “May God lessen the pain.” Amiina. “May god make it eaiser.” Amiina. “May God banish the sickness completely.” Amiina. I travel the village, they point and laugh at my back, and I tell them I am taking my baby to the doctor’s office to enroll him in the malnutrition program, and donni, donni, I begin to explain what we do there. I return home, and the neighbors see my baby’s cardboard leg is broken and give more blessings. After they are done, I am supposed to say, “May God answer these prayers.” Amiina. Then Shaka appears from behind his house. “Aminata!” Yes? “May God strike your baby dead!” “Shaka! May God strike you dead! May he send snakes to bite your feet so you can’t run” “Aminata- may God give you ugly babies, uglier than this one.” And so it started. I love how at this point, my Bambara is good enough where I can really rip on people, and understand when they rip on me. It’s true, Malians do two things better than anyone else in the world- drink tea and joke.
A Chicken Dinner
Warning: Isa and Caroline (my two young god-cousins, vegetarian and animal rights activists)- Don’t read this, you’ll never look at me the same. For Tabaski, I wanted to surpise my family with a big gift. I knew that they couldn’t afford a goat to slaughter, and for that matter, neither can I, but I thought I would treat them to a nice chicken dinner. Now in Mali, treating your family to a nice chicken dinner is a little different than calling up Mia’s or the Brewery and getting some nice grilled up chicken breasts. The family of course, must kill, pluck, gut, and roast the chicken themselves. I wasn’t really planning to be involved in all that. My only job was to get them the animal.
So I rode my bike the 7k to Dio on market day, Shaka running at my side. “One chicken won’t feed your family,” Shaka says, “You should buy two.” When we reached the town, we wandered the road until we found a vendor. Shaka approved- they were good and fat. I bought two, the total came to less than what would be $10. The vendor tied its feet together and I hung the chickens by their feet on my bicycle handle. This of course, was a first for me, but felt completely normal. I see people with live chickens hanging off their bikes all the time, with goats tied to the back of their motorcycles, people scattering chickens and frogs from their homes and bathrooms. Shaka decided to hang back with his older sister, so I got back on my bike to head home. Every so often, my tires would clip the wings of one of my chickens and they’d give a sickly yell. “Oh, sorry you guys.” I said. Yeah, you’re my dinner.
So about 1 or 2 k into the 7k trip, I popped a tire. Great. I spend the better part of the next hour walk/jogging my bike back by its handlebars, slushing around two wailing chikens, and being laughed at by women passing me with their wares in baskets on their heads and babies on their backs. Coming back to Dombila, I told my family that there was something wrong with my bike. I left it out of the complex. The tire is popped, I told them, and besides that there are some animals on it. Animals? My mother went to take a look. She seemed very concerned about the flat tire, but then I pointed out the two chickens hanging upside-down on the handle bar. Wait for it, wait for it. Ohhhhh. Chicken! Let’s go call dad to come slit their throats.
So I rode my bike the 7k to Dio on market day, Shaka running at my side. “One chicken won’t feed your family,” Shaka says, “You should buy two.” When we reached the town, we wandered the road until we found a vendor. Shaka approved- they were good and fat. I bought two, the total came to less than what would be $10. The vendor tied its feet together and I hung the chickens by their feet on my bicycle handle. This of course, was a first for me, but felt completely normal. I see people with live chickens hanging off their bikes all the time, with goats tied to the back of their motorcycles, people scattering chickens and frogs from their homes and bathrooms. Shaka decided to hang back with his older sister, so I got back on my bike to head home. Every so often, my tires would clip the wings of one of my chickens and they’d give a sickly yell. “Oh, sorry you guys.” I said. Yeah, you’re my dinner.
So about 1 or 2 k into the 7k trip, I popped a tire. Great. I spend the better part of the next hour walk/jogging my bike back by its handlebars, slushing around two wailing chikens, and being laughed at by women passing me with their wares in baskets on their heads and babies on their backs. Coming back to Dombila, I told my family that there was something wrong with my bike. I left it out of the complex. The tire is popped, I told them, and besides that there are some animals on it. Animals? My mother went to take a look. She seemed very concerned about the flat tire, but then I pointed out the two chickens hanging upside-down on the handle bar. Wait for it, wait for it. Ohhhhh. Chicken! Let’s go call dad to come slit their throats.
Journal entry- Tabaski troubles
ISA and CAROLINE- you might want to skip this one too. Well it’s the feast of Tabaski today, and though I’ve been looking forward to it as an opportunity for cultural integration, I’ve never felt like more of an outsider. Lately, the big joke in my family is “Aminata can’t do anything right!” They make fun of me for not being able to light my lantern or for not being able to change my bike tires- but really, they hardly give me a chance. Yeah it’s a funny joke but really, I feel like nothing I do is ever good enough. Especially today. Aside from this morning, when I got some beautiful pictures of the sunrise prayer, I can’t say I’ve enjoyed myself on the feast day. Pretty much all I’ve done today is sit around on my butt while women criticize me for not tying my pagne right, for the stain on my shirt, for my hair not being done correctly. And all day I’ve been force-fed every part of goat, sheep, and cow you can imagine- not to mention the fact that they were slaughtered right in front of my eyes. “Why don’t you like meat? Why don’t you eat it? Oh, well try this kind, try this kind. Come on, just try a little.” Alright, I tried a little. But I’m not going to suck the blood out of the bones like the rest of you. And my feeble efforts to tell them to wash their hands before they eat go unheard. This simple thing is such a big cultural barrier- they will not use soap. It brings bad luck. And they all wash in the same water, so they’re picking up even more germs. Even my homolouge and the most educated villagers refuse. And they laugh at me for being so dirty as to have a stain on my outfit. How the heck do they even notice? And why is it the one thing everyone keeps pointing out to me? I feel like I’m treated like a little child. No one can trust me to do anything by myself, everyone keeps pointing out my faults and talking to me like I’m deaf. They give me a long line of Tabaski blessings in which I graciously respond “Amiina” (Amen). And then they laugh at me because I don’t understand them. Alright, it is the first time a foriegner has shared their most sacred cultural feast. And I may not be doing everything right. But give me a break- it’s not easy. And they don’t understand.
So here, I’ve escaped in my hut for a precious few minutes before going to the big zylophone-dance place. All day music has been playing on the radio and people will say “Aminata, get up and dance.” And sometimes I do, and they get a kick out of it. It’s like I’m their little dancing monkey. Oh look the white girl is dancing, that’s so funny. So really, I’m not looking forward to the rest of the evening. I can’t blend in with the crowd. I can’t escape to go to bed at a decent hour without offending people. I’m Aminata. And as they like to say- I can’t do anything.
So here, I’ve escaped in my hut for a precious few minutes before going to the big zylophone-dance place. All day music has been playing on the radio and people will say “Aminata, get up and dance.” And sometimes I do, and they get a kick out of it. It’s like I’m their little dancing monkey. Oh look the white girl is dancing, that’s so funny. So really, I’m not looking forward to the rest of the evening. I can’t blend in with the crowd. I can’t escape to go to bed at a decent hour without offending people. I’m Aminata. And as they like to say- I can’t do anything.
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