Persistence- Aug 10

I had that initial worry of coming back- embarrassed for being gone so long, guilty for enjoying myself. I came upon Bouare doing the monthly reports with a loving smile on his face. Like the others, he was enthusiastically happy to see me. I truly felt home, and however many begging children or perverted men make me want to flee from the Malians to a place I better belong, the people in Dombila are family. They know me for who I am, not as a white girl. I finally feel like, with a select group of friends and neighbors, I can have an honest conversation, without hiding who I am, without being ashamed of it, without feeling pressure to be something I’m not. I’m still the Tubab, but I have connected to this village like a home, and feel like I belong as much as the villagers do.

“Bouare, I can’t help but feeling bad. I was out having fun, but you never get a vacation. You are always, always working.”
“If I took a vacation, what would that bring? The sick patients would be mad, and no one else here can really do the work. I can’t take a vacation.”
I knew this was true, however grandiose it might have sounded to an outsider. That first month here I watched the kid die of malaria, who might have been saved if Bouare wasn’t away at a meeting.

And I know I’ve had those feelings too. A lot of villagers think that if I’m not to be found, the malnourished children won’t get treatment. They’ve identified me as inseparable with the program, and many mothers have peered in the door of the CSCOM, failed to spot me, and turned back home, not even willing to ask if any of the other fully capable staff could help them.

I’ve always been worried about the sustainability of my work. Will it continue after I’m gone? It’s hard to say. I came back from my Dogon trip 10 days later to find that the files of the malnourished children were jumbled everywhere, hardly anything was written in the registry, and the monthly report was incomplete. I know they can do the work, I’ve taught them. So why don’t they? They know I’ll be back. They know I’ll take care of it. They have to realize that pretty soon I’m not going to be back. And to just transfer my work to another American volunteer is really not making the best use of their resources. I’d love to see the CSCOM staff fully take charge of the rehabilitation program, and to have the volunteer out in the field more often doing prevention activities. It’s something to strive for. Donni Donni. I suppose that is why I’m being replaced. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither was Peace Corps Mali.

“We’ve been in Mali for 40 years,” one of my PCV colleagues said at a small restaurant out in the Mopti region, “and Mali is no closer to getting out of poverty then it was back then. What are we doing?”

We’ve had this conversation before. All Peace Corps volunteers do. It’s because we’re always questioning what we’re doing. “Peace Corps has an identity complex,” Ryan had said, “are we a cultural exchange program or a development agency?” No one argues against the value of cultural exchange, whatever the government’s underlying diplomacy intentions are. But if we are here to do development work, why do projects continually fail, villages become increasingly dependant on aid, and Mali has still not pulled itself out of poverty?

It’s amazing the harsh words PCVs have to say about charities and NGOs. It drives us nuts that we can’t find the solutions, and many are convinced that we shouldn’t be expected to. It’s their country- their hope, their answers need to come from them. We can’t help but wonder what would happen if all the NGOs, with their corruption, big fancy 4 x 4s, and failed project just got the hell out.

For me, though, I had to play the optimist. Maybe we are getting somewhere with this work, maybe we are learning from our mistakes and moving forward. Development has turned into a science and is always making adaptations. I found a dusty old book in one of the regional Peace Corps libraries and was shocked to read about PC Mali’s program in the 80’s:

“Some of the projects were better than others, but the Peace Corps staff was regularly evaluating the effectiveness of each program. For example, the staff abandoned a program to monitor the weight of babies with a view of reducing infant mortality through nutrition awareness, largely because the mothers considered it a foolish exercise and instantly questioned the qualifications of the volunteers.”

And now look where we are. Amazing. Things move at snails pace here. And it can drive a Westerner crazy. Day to day, year to year, decade to decade, progress in miniscule. But it’s still progress. You have to believe that. My old track coach the great Bernie Gardner once said, “As long as your feet are moving, you’re still in the race.” Keep up the finish chute, Mali’s coming. Slowly but surely. The West has taken off at light speed and left us behind. But we’re still moving.

Home

Wow. It’s been a while. My apologies. A lot has happened that the blog has missed. But I’ll be home on Thursday to tell you the rest.

I just left Santinebougou. That’s right. Satinebougou. It’s my second to last day here in Mali and I was called to help with a training at the old homestays for the soon to be new volunteers. I stopped by to say a quick hello/ goodbye to my original host family. Kadja came running into my arms to greet me, just like before. But this time she was a lot bigger and I struggled to carry her on my hip back to the concession. There’s a new baby, everyone’s a little older. My host mother went from a young girl to a woman, now with her third child. My old house is completely in shambles. But other than that, things are the same. In a good way. They welcomed me warmly, and I felt guilty for not having visited them more often during my service.

But amazingly, I still have a home there. They remembered how I’d play the guitar and joke with the kids. I can always go back, I learned, and be accepted. It’s a comfort to know, because just 3 days ago I left my true second home, Dombila.

“It’s amazing,” I said the night before my departure to a crowd of my friends and coworkers who had came to visit, “that you people can welcome and accept someone from a far off land who doesn’t speak your language, and learn to live and work alongside of them. That is a bigger accomplishment than all the wells we built.”

And it really is. I noticed that when Shawna, the young college grad from Orgeon, came to Dombila to visit for a week. Site visit. I remember mine. The worst week of my life. I took extra care to make sure Dombila’s new volunteer would be well acquainted, informed, and comfortable upon her arrival, but there’s no getting around it: adjustment is hard. Shawna was polite and warm to the people of Dombila, but trying to take it all in, imagining herself there for the next two years, she couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed. It’s donni donni. And she’ll do just fine.

But seeing her, and the way my host family and all of the people at the CSCOM interacted with her, reminded me of my first few months. It was so hard for me, but I never really realized, it was so hard for them too. The way they took Shawna in as their own and looked after her was so endearing, and I began to realize that I have thus far underestimated all they have done for me. Peace Corps always said volunteers come out of service having gained more than they feel like they have given. It’s personal development, but it’s also valuing the gifts of others, no matter how small. They’ve giving me so much, the people of this town. All the pomegranates from the pomegranate tree, all of the eggplants from the garden, the only peanuts left in the house, the prize chicken, and all of the blessings imaginable. And a home. The last few months I’ve felt like I could finally let down my guard and be myself in Dombila. I wasn’t hiding who I was, nor was I struggling to express it. I was so comfortable, content, and so me.

And then I had to say goodbye. I spend a couple of days riding my bike out into the villages, into Tomba, Sidian Coro, all of those far off places that also offered me their hospitality. I will never forget walking with Kulu from Sidian Coro, deep into the corn fields following his bare cracked feet on every step. There we found a group of people working in the noon sun, including the chief of the village, who I gave my blessings, asked for pardon, and bid farewell.
Everywhere I went was blessings, blessings, blessings. May you return safely. May we see each other soon. May you find a husband and have lots of babies. Mine were almost as abundant as theirs: May you stay healthy. May there never be discontent between us. And my most stressed: May the work we’ve done together continue to move forward.

I had a break down in the CSCOM during vaccinations. A malnourished child came and almost left- I wasn’t going to say anything, because its not my job anymore, but I called my coworkers out on it. “I don’t want to leave,” I cried to Boure in the back room of the CSCOM, “I need to be doing this work. I don’t want to disrespect the others, but how can I watch them just let a severely malnourished kid carried out without saying a word?” I could have helped that child.

It will get better. The work will continue. It has gotten better. I’ve got to have faith…

I told myself that it was time to let go. I apologized to Shawna for bogging her down with details about the well projects and the community health workers when first she just needed to figure out how to get her drinking water. Of course, it will be a while before she’s working on projects. But I realized that everything she needs to know, if it’s not in the 20 page document I wrote for her, is in the villagers. They know the deal. I’ve gotta trust that they’ll carry the torch. I’ve done my work. I’ve struggled and struggled to teach it to others. And I know they understand. I know they will work at it all. And now it’s time to leave.

The day I left I didn’t start crying until I handed over my keys to my host dad. When he was helping me stuff my sleeping bag into its case, something my own dad always had to do for me, I realized he has really become like a father to me. The women came over to greet, all of them wearing bits and pieces of my wardrobe that I had been giving out in the days before. (Cleaning out the house was hard, because not only did I want to get rid of my junk, I had to evenly distribute my junk among all the people that wanted it). Many of them were tearing, but Malians discourage crying. I never liked that. If anyone is crying the person of close proximity will just keep saying “Stop crying. Stop crying. Crying is bad,” until they stop. Just let them cry! Just let me cry. And let me give you a hug for gosh sakes. But no hugs here. Firm handshakes. With the left hand this time instead of the right, symbolizing a long journey and hopes that we’ll see each other again and correct this deep error by shaking with right hands. I want to show my respect, my love, and even now the Malian way feels funny to me. There were a lot of glances at the floor, small whispers, people slipping away so as not to show their emotions. Dalfinie could barely look at me and she ran off to her house. I found her and gave her a hug. Sorry hun, that’s how we do it where I come from.

I bid farewell to Boure, a weeping Mariam, and a laughing Binot Troue who never ceased picking on my from the moment I got here. What a crew. Outside the CSCOM Shaka was waiting for me. He borrowed a bike and had some of my things tied to the back of it. God, my bag was heavy. Let’s go. Let’s go to the market at Dio.

It was the longest bike ride to Dio ever. I cried for the first minute and then got back in the game. Shaka and I greeted the women on their way to the market, baskets on their heads and babies on their back, them all whispering about how I was going back to America. My load was heavy and the road was rough. That road- the road I’ve run miles and miles on, and used to escape Dombila on my bike and return, gone to market every Saturday, stopping in frustration to pick up the tomatoes that had fallen off the back of my bike. Every section of that road passed like a funeral procession under my wheels.

I imagined saying goodbye to Shaka differently. I played it in my head- what would I say to him? What would I give him? I wanted it to be special but instead it was choked my the frustrations of the atmosphere. I never quite got used to all of the people harassing me all the time. “White girl! White girl! Where are you going? Bamako? Get in the car! What is your name? What is your last name? Diarra? DIARRA? Eh! You eat beans? How is your husband? Or are you not married? I’ll marry you.” It’s always the same thing. Just leave me alone! Especially now.

“I’m going to buy a juice,” I announced and left my stuff in the small bush taxi and walked toward the market with Shaka at my heels.

“What? You’re not fasting?”

“NO!”

Shaka was tearing up. He was looking at the ground. “Hey. We’ll see each other,” I assured him. “We’ll see each other one day.” I handed him a few small bills. “Go buy your milk.” He likes to fast, but only when he can break it with some creamy milk.

I got back in the bush taxi. Women and men all chit chattering at me. “Look he’s crying! You just left him crying like that! Go after him! Eh? You’re crying too? Look everyone she’s crying!” And boy did that break the moment. My eyes dried up, we took off, a soft Bamabara chant was playing on the radio and the green fields and trees of the grasslands passed again on the procession of a familiar road.

I spent some time in Kati. A nice night with Irene followed by a dreadful day. I woke up Sunday morning to the news that her brother in law died in Bamako that morning. I accompanied her to the funeral, not expecting to be there all day. I literally sat in silence in one room from 9 am until 6 pm, with a small bowl of fried rice at noon. I almost went crazy, a couple people did. When the iman came to do the ceremony, three young girls fainted. The devil was possessing them, or it was fasting plus claustrophobia. Irene was in the main room mourning with the women, I sat alone thinking stupid thoughts over and over, reminding myself that no matter how much I love Irene, I have spent many occasions with her sitting, doing nothing. By the time it came to say goodbye, I was more than ready to go.

I said goodbye to Camera, my old language tutor. The one who I witnessed beat his nephew, is ironically one of the people I most respect here in Mali. Next to Bouare, he is the hardest worker I know, smart, innovative, respectful and generous. He now works as a translator for the President, and may have a trip to America in his future.

Irene and I parted on the road. It was hard saying goodbye to her family- Awa, little Noellie who is still edible, but Irene… I know her and I will stay close. We just have to. She cried. I forced out a tear. But honestly, I was so taken aback by her love for me, the gifts and blessings she had given me, that I was more jubilant than anything. “We’ll see each other,” I assured her as I did Shaka. “And I’ll call.”

And I want to stick to that promise. I want to come back and visit. My goal, I told them all, is three years from now. I want to call. I want to keep these people in my life. Satinebougou reminded me of that. Look at what they’ve done for me. I can’t just close the book on it.

I’ll be back. But right now, I’m ready to go home. Excited to get on the plane. Stressed with all of the Peace Corps paperwork and other things I have to get done in a short amount of time. Scared about adapting to life back in the states- finding a job, adjusting socially, reconnecting with people who have been so supportive of me and whom I’ve failed to keep in close touch with. Malians apologies a lot in a kind of general way. When you part you say, “Forgive me,” and it pretty much covers everything you might have done, whether you meant it or not, to offend them. Satinebougou, forgive me. Dombila, forgive me. Honeoye Falls, Geneseo, America, forgive me. I’m coming home. And after all of this time, I’m nervous about it. Forgive me, I ask you, and let me back in.

I imagine getting off the plane like I’ll be waking up from a dream. Like-wow- wait- what just happened? Then I’ll settle in, have a home cooked meal, get ready for Libby’s wedding and our picnic (which you are all invited to) on September 5. I’ll go for a run on the old farm roads and reminise about my last run with Shaka. We finished on the soccer field at sunset for some sprints. He can still kick my butt.

I’m not as emotional, not as reflective as I expected at this time. I always imagined what the final blog would say, what kind of wisdom I’ve gained in the last two years. But honestly, it hasn’t all hit me yet. I’ve been so preoccupied with miniscule things- from moving out to getting on the plane, there’s been a lot to check off the list. Maybe after a week or so at home, I’ll really start to get nostalgic. I’ll really begin to understand what these last two years were really about. And when that time comes, when it really hits me, I’ll write again. To you loyal blog readers and friends,

I ni baaraji (Thank you)
K’an ben sonni (See you soon)

What's Going On- In Pictures

Vaccination/ Baby Weighing days are still the CSCOM's biggest event of the week. I still get a kick out of weighing babies (especially the healthy ones) and working with the CSCOM staff (my coworker Dusu is pictured here).


That’s me with one of the community health workers, Kuru, doing a presentation on reproductive health with the Koyan Women’s Group. The community health workers have really stepped it up, and are doing more and more health prevention activities in the villages.


Mangos are done and the rains have come. This was a storm over the Niger we witnessed from our conference room in Bamako. The whole meeting stopped and people rushed to the windows feeling like the building was going to be picked up by the wind.



My friend Kiatu has avowed to teach me everything Malian before I leave. This day we walked about 2 miles to cut firewood in the brush, which we carried back to village on our heads (much to the amusment of the Malians).


I still can't believe how mature Shaka is these days. A regular teenager, he keeps himself busy nowadays hauling wild fruit to sell at the market, and using some of the money to buy presents for his new girlfriend, Marie. (It's very sweet). He still find every so often to hit the trails with me.


Caroline and I at Hunter's going away party, in between street dancing songs. I've been so blessed with awesome teammates and hope to stay close with them long after service is up.



Here's the mural project we did in Tomba with 3rd and 4th graders on the Food Groups. Kids worked in pairs to draw different healthy foods and then presented their work to the community with a song and nutrition demonstration.





Last week, 6 PCVs, most of them Water/Sanitation volunteers, agreed to come to my site to do evaluations on the 54 top well repairs we've done. They had great insight to give my committee on technical and behavioral/sanitation improvements we can strive for to make the project sustainable and more effective.

Values Falut Zone

"No matter how long a log sits in the stream, it will never become a crocodile. So goes the Malian proverb meaning, ultimately, you are what you are in any environment. Its funny because two years in village, growing so connected to the people, I realize that my roots and values, fundamentally, will never totally be in sync with theirs. Yes we are all part of the same humanity. But I wonder if this fault line between values systems is sometimes the source of development efforts that mean good, but eventually crumble.

As an American, I value achievement, intellect, individuality. I dedicated 16 years of my life to education and find joy in innovation, competition, and completing tasks. I grew up well- and want the same doors of opportunity to be available to the people here. But what do they want?

“A millet grinder,” said Lauren, preparing to put up the white flag for her adult literacy efforts. After months of training on Bambara literacy, Lauren, as an education volunteer, tried to rally her community to revive a dead adult literacy program in Koyan, Dombila, and Sidian Coro. With the waning interest of community leaders, Lauren feels like she’s fighting an uphill battle. “I don’t know what I can do to help them, what they really want. They want stuff. Any maybe that’s the best way I’m equipped to serve them.” It’d be a lot more rewarding to create a sustainable literacy program, giving adult women a second chance at the schooling they never had, but at the end of the day, there's still millet to be pounded. And as a Malian woman, with no access to reading materials, no reason to write, that millet is what's on your mind.

And what about the youth? After a successful mural project, the village of Tomba with 3rd and 4th graders, I invited the winners of a drawing contest in Dombila's middle school to paint health education murals around the CSCOM. Result: chaotic disaster. "Why didn't you just paint them yourself?" The CSCOM staff asked with horrified looks toward the messy slops of paint all over the walls. Creating perfect masterpieces wasn't the point. The point was to give kids an opportunity to express themselves and exercise their developing talent. But as they went wild painting their shoes and running away with the brushes it seemed like very few of them came for that reason. Then they rushed off home for lunch, where their families anxiously waited for them. Thank Allah school's out for the summer- there are fields to plow. And if you made it to the 5th grade without ever really understanding how to read, as many do, it won't make a difference when you got that plow in your hand.

It's not heredity or even culture. It's poverty. Sure, a few lucky ones with a decent head on their shoulders will move out of the village and become salaried employees in the towns or cities. But overall, no one has found the golden key of pulling this country out of poverty. Education is great. Child survival- fantastic. Cleaner water, solar electricity- love it. But if the harvest is bad, the family goes hungry, whether or not your 7th grader can do long division.

So you and I with a first-world upbringing have come to love achievement, and think of ourselves as pretty smart. Smart enough to help the lowly people rise out of misery. In some ways, perhaps we can. I have access to a lot that can help the people of Dombila- money, knowledge, coupled with my sense of determination should be a winning combo to helping others. And I have helped. But I'm starting to realize the truth in what so many PCVs before me have attested- you leave country realizing that they helped you a lot more than you helped them.

Amidst the constraints of poverty and the lack of access to opportunity, Malians have developed a strong values system. So if not competition and education, what are Malian values? Practicing utmost respect for people. Taking an interest in other people's affairs and endeavors. Sharing everything you have and not taking anything for yourself unless there's some left over. Stopping to help everyone you pass who may need a hand, not thinking twice about if it will make you "late" or if it's "not your problem." And though I've been annoyed with people persistently insisting on helping when I can clearly draw my own water or change my own bike tire, people stopping me to give an unending string of blessings and greetings, people constantly inquiring about my comings and goings or dismissing my polite declines to ask me to eat toh with them for the fourth time in a row, I know now, they just care about me. They give everything, which is nothing in our sense. But blessings, care, small acts of generosity, is all they have. And they have been offering it to me from the day I arrived. They are putting their values into practice and in doing so, show me that maybe the way I do things isn't necessarily right. I'm that girl who whizzes by on her bike because stopping to great a group of 10 women on the way to the market would take up way too much of my precious time. I'm the girl that has nice food and medicines in her home that she hides from the rest of the village. And how many nights have I dismissed someone who wanted to chat because I'd rather have my head in a book? What really gets me- is the individualism. I'm catching myself- my thoughts. Self-centered, so often about me. When I peer into the brain of my fellow Malian, who could be resting but instead goes over to help her neighbor wash clothes, I see her thoughts of society, and love for others suppressing that "me! me! me!" voice that is always trying to scream the loudest in our minds.

After our well evaluation activity with Peace Corps Volunteers in Dombila, four households gave us their prize chickens. One household, having wanting to give us a chicken, gave us 1000 cfa ($2) instead because the chicken got sick and died. Realizing the extent to what they give me is humbling, and I find my thoughts swing between humility, love and guilt.

Peace Corps staff, all Malian, get training on American work values so that the office can be more efficient, punctual, and reflective of an American office. I was once in the office of a certain staff member, and noticed a small-typed list hanging behind his desk: 50 Successful Tips for Working in an American office. There was one highlighted. I leaned over the desk and squinted to read it. "Work first. Family Second."

My heart fell. I pitied him, and in doing so, pitied myself, and the millions of Americans who have internalized that.

I've been up and down lately, and as my transition back home becomes near, that's to be expected. I'm still happiest when I'm busy, and I still have enough to keep it that way. The wat/san committee is doing a lot, and I've picked up a side project with a Women's Rights organization in Kati. But seeing sick children, watching one little girl die of malnutrition, is harder and harder knowing that in 2 months, this will continue and there will be nothing I can do about it anymore. The village is happy with the work I've done, they call me the "Master of Work" sometimes. But there have been times lately, caught in this values fault zone, I've not thought too highly of myself or my way of going about things.

"You're not a bad person," Lauren assured me, "you just have different values. If a Malian came to America, was late to everything and refused to send his children to school, we wouldn't think very highly of him either. But if you appreciate some Malian values, now is the time to figure out how you can incorporate them in your life in America."

I'm not a bad person for having different values. And neither are the Malians. I'm just, well, a log. Still. A log sitting in a rough but beautiful stream, trying to decide how much I'll let it carry me along.

Close of Service Conference

Hello all and my apologies for being so long since I last wrote.

I'm currently at my Close of Service Conference at a fancy hotel on the river. Three days of half protocal, half our little bit of luxary at the end of a hard core two years.

This is just to quickly write that my spirits are up and so is my motivation. A lot has been going on in the last month. I've been feeling much better about where I am with my serivce, even after some additional and interesting turns in the road. Projects are going well and even some things are starting to fall into place for my transition back into the US. Really, I can't help but enjoy my time here now. The weather is a bit more manageable, and I am truly feeling like I'm really part of my host family, albeit some squabbles that I hope I get a chance to touch on later. Tomorrow I have to say goodbye to Hunter, fellow volunteer who has become a brother to me. That'll be the start, a tough one for the start. Five of us who had become particularly close got together for a picnic dinner on the top of the grand plateau, watching the sunset over the city of Bamako and talking about the last two years and the future. Then Hunter had a crazy dance party with his community and a bunch of PCVs who came in. Dance/sheep-slaughtering party I should say. Gotta keep it native.

My journal is filled with more adventures- a huge change in our malnutrition program, more "mice" in my house, encounters with traditional healers... but without a computer here it is hard to keep you all updated. My camera is filled with pictures that this internet can't share with all. So I will try try try to post blogs, pictures etc in the next few days. But, I also need to be present here. Close of Service is a big deal, and I don't want to miss much time spending with my friends here. Just know I'm doing well and I'm thinking about you all and we'll catch up soon.

And I'm looking for a travel buddy who wants to go to Uganda at the end of August. Think about it :)

Peace-
Emily

Still being called Tubab

My apologies for the delay on new blogs. A lot has been going on personally, my mind cluttered with things that I just couldn’t find blog-appropriate words for. With a pretty solid plan for the rest of my service, I’ve been recently thrown for some loops. A potentially serious relationship ended, because of just that- it was getting potentially serious. A position I thought I had locked, Health Trainer for the July-September training for new volunteers, was given to someone else. And I’m left now with a month of village work left, and 4 more months of floundering until I go home, to do some more floundering.
We all want purpose, and I believe we all have purpose. In the hot hours of the day when the rest of the village is sleeping or sipping tea, I spend a lot of time alone, just writing or thinking. We want purpose for what? Ourselves? Our society? God? We are happiest when we’re busy, entrusted with a great task, and then praised for our good work. But here I am among people who are perfectly at peace of mind drinking tea and surrendering their afternoon to the sizzling, hypnotic sun. I, on the other hand, am restless. I’m running so much, thinking so much of home, obsessively trying to map my life’s route sans destination. Without always 4realizing it, I’m missing Irene, who had some sort of larger-than-life way about everything that kept days at the CSCOM moving. Here in Dombila, we got some work done. We have a little work left to do. But can I really sit here in my hut going crazy through the slow rainy season?
I have some traveling I want to do, but I feel site guilt even now. I’ve worked but I want to work more. Tireless determination. It’s something I long for but it easily fails to launch in 113 degree heat. I want to go to hidden stone villages of Dogon country, and out to Uganda to solve some mysteries regarding an AIDS victim that has haunted my thoughts for four years. I want to run, run, run. And then, I want to go home. My friends are extending their services in other countries: Hunter’s off to China, Caroline to Nicaragua, Chris to Fiji, and others are looking for jobs or preparing for grad school. I could be off somewhere- there are plenty of opportunities for me in Africa and beyond. I could search for a job in a city as I’m preparing for grad school in 2011. But right now, and I know I might change my mind, I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be than home.
At least there are mangos. More than imaginable. We’ve had short passing wind storms that whip dust into your face and drop mangos like bombs all around. You literally have to duck and cover. I meticulously solar dry the fruit, with the admiration but reluctance to participate from my Malian neighbors.
There is still plenty to keep me busy for a while. School is still in session, and we’re finishing up the health lessons, preparing for the mural project, and training the high schoolers for their physical education final exam (in long jump, shot put, and 100m dash). We have a couple of wells left to finish, as well as a big finale to the project, an evaluation and goal-setting two day conference with Peace Corps Volunteers. We’re supervising the community health workers more closely, and have their first official report review on Thursday. My new homologue and I attended a week long training session at Tubaniso, and returned with more ideas on nutrition and food security. Lauren is also busy raising money for new desks at her school (you can donate through www.peacecorps.gov), launching a soap formation, and training adult literacy teachers.
I’ve been filling up journals, trying to foresee the ending of this story instead of living it. I’m taking it day by day, even now. In truth, I’m terrified of the transition, and I’m longing for some structure and plan. But I have to accept that I’m still on an adventure, and these strange dust storms come at unexpected times. I am not sure where I’ll end up, and why. I just hope that, underneath the scattered and thirsty dirt roads I run, there is purpose.

My other job- Playdoh supervisor

Some Christian group came with cartons of Christmas packages for the kids in 1st-6th grade. It was such a mystery as to what was in them, for they were not to be opened until the American patron came. It would have been interesting to meet these guys, reportedly from North Carolina, but I was careful to keep my distance from the commotion. A while back a World Vision truck came giving someones unwanted dress shirts and dozens of Breast Cancer Awareness visors, probably left over from some unsuccessful event. I barely entered the scene, scored a visor from the insistence of the Malians, and for weeks afterwords, paid the repercussions.
“Aminata! Aminata!” I’d hear passing on my bike, “I didn’t get a hat!” “Where’s my teeshirt?” Ahh! I have no part in this! What would give you the idea that those boxes of unwanted clothes were my doing? Oh yeah, I’m white.
Needless to say, I made sure I had no part in the Christmas boxes. But I would be called into duty. Kids came home with pretty sweet boxes, filled with little toys, candy, soap, toothbrushes, even princess underwear that the boys constantly poked fun at Madu for receiving. Yet some things were just plain confusing. I had to stop Sali at the pharmacy for completely opening the chemicals in an instant handwarmer packet, school girls were rubbing glue sticks on their lips, people were approaching me for explanations of smelly candles, tree ornaments, glow sticks and lufas. But the most mysterious item of them all was first brought to attention by the middle school math teacher. “Aminata. We’re all wondering. What is ‘plaaeydoh?’”
Playdoh was a frequently found treasure in the packages, but misinterpreted as soap, cooking oil, chewing gum, or candy. All throughout the village, people young and old were trying to wash themselves with Playdoh or make it into an afternoon snack. It was getting too much.
“Dusu,” I said to my college at the CSCOM one day after vaccinations, “You want to come help me do a health animation at the school?” We went together, but not to talk about sanitation or malaria, but to explain to each class: This is playdoh. It’s a toy. Do not eat it!
“People are going to kill themselves!” Shaka exclaimed hanging out with the boys under my hanger. “They have no idea what any of this stuff is! If you weren’t here Aminata, we’d have some big problems. These gifts are crap!”
“They’re not crap,” I said, but couldn’t help agreeing with Shaka when he commented that they will all just turn into piles of trash in the next few months. That money should have gone to help fix the road, he decided. When did he get so insightful?
Nevertheless, kids are excited about the toys. They’ve never gotten anything like this before, so its special and exciting. I’m even a little jealous. It looks like packages I’d get from home, all of the M&Ms and life savers and such. Sweet, sweet America. Complete with a “Jesus loves you” blessing. I know even Shaka appreciated it, at least for the aspect of his favorite subject, cultural exchange. “When I become a big patron, I’m going to send boxes of Malian stuff to American school kids.”
“What would you send them?”
He had to think about that for a while. “Bicycles.”
These programs have a place in what we’re doing, as a simple act of kindness. Kindness can go a long way, but is not the only answer to these deep rooted problems. I’ll spare you another lament on the controversies of charity and development work, and leave you with the true moral of the story: Think twice before you send playdoh to Africa.