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)
