Likes
Mangos
Wild, colorful clothing
Beautiful children greeting me by my name
Fresh, cold bucket baths
Running on the dirt roads
The generosity of the Malian people
My hammock
Homemade peanut butter
My womens' group
Escapes to Bamako
Dancing to zylophones
Putting American $ to good use
Riding my bike
Joking Cousins
Dislikes
Rotten mangos on the street
Dirty, sweaty, ripped clothing
Annoying bratty children taunting me
Bathing with dirty water
Running in the heat
The slow-to-action tendancies of the Malian people
The way my back feels after sleeping in my hammock
The extra pounds I've gained from basing my diet on homemade peanut butter
The social status of women
Transport to Bamako
Being forced to dance your 3rd zylophone dance when its late and you're exhausted
The fear of pouring money down the development drain
Changing my bike's frequent flat tires
Troures, Coulibalies, and Boares
Dad, I'm trying to wear your "happy glasses". They get dirty out here in the Sub-Saharan, but I try to clean them off when they do.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Feelin HOT HOT HOT
Remember that song? Hanging out by the lake- what I wouldn't give to jump in a lake right now!
I haven't been in the city in a while, and I wish that I could have keep some sharper updates on village life. Handwriten journals and I have never had lasting relationships- I've written some letters and promised to update my blog thoroughly on my next Bamako trip, but I've been staring at the computer all day and feeling a bit tired. So I'll give you the pathedic, hurried updates as they come out of my head.
PROJECTS:
- Handwashing stations are broken due to meanasing children and poor welding. Don't really know where to go from here. Is it worth reviving? No one in the community seems to be taking any action, despite my pushing. The director is terribly unmotivated, so so far we're at a standstill. Sorry to all of you donars, but only time and the good Lordy will tell if this will work. I'm doing my best.
- Malnutrition: We've had some great recoveries, including one mother who nobody believed could actually rehabilitate her child. We've become close personally and her son is now of normal weight. We also had a heartbreaking death two weeks ago that is making me and the CSCOM staff wonder how we can make our impatient program more accomidating (so far if you can't find a place to stay, you're out of luck).
-Wells: Came into Bamako to get the money to start the well project, which of course, is not in. Such is Mali. Meeting on Sunday with the very elusive water sanitation committe of Dombila who has not quite decided on the exact details of executing this project. Our well is done however, but now the water is kinda chalky looking... hmmm...
-Women's Soap: My women are still making soap every two weeks, experiementing with different shapes and sizes. They still do not make much profit, but we are looking at ideas on how to use our shea trees to get shea butter when the rainy season comes so we can lower our expenses.
-School: I started teaching sex ed at the school. Lord knows why. I was looking for something to do and they asked me to. We'll see how this goes...
-Computer: Our 1996 PC is fixed and I've resumed lessons with the CSCOM Doctor. We've learned important skills such as "home row" "copy paste" and of course, "Solitaire."
-Radio: Sunday night Dombila radio is "Health Talk" with your hosts Irene and Aminata. Aminata hardly says much (she has a weird accent), but Irene is quite talkative if you can get her to get out of bed and stay up until 10:00 (that's mainly my job)
-Informal: I think though what takes up the most of my time in village (or shall I say, what I am forced to fill my time with) is informal education. No one freakin wants to do anything seriously productive these days. I talk about starting a project, a committee, putting on a play with the youth, doing a big formation with community health workers... and I feel like I'm talking to walls. I seriously come up with some (so I think) break-through idea ever day- a small group smoking cessation project, a kid's malaria game night, a mural painting contest. But all anyone is really serious about is braiding hair and eating mangos. So if you can't beat them, join them. I've been doing a lot of braiding hair and eating mangos and sitting around with these bums. But in that sitting around, we talk. From water sanitation to baby nutrition to fruit drying, I feel like I'm starting to put some ideas in people's heads. I'm the first volunteer in a sleepy, rural traditional town. And while I can get jealous of my friends who are working with big Shea Butter Exportation projects with foriegn buyers or doing formations on pump repair, I feel like in my own way, I'm making a bit of a difference. Damn it I try my hardest, every day. And as an achievement oriented person, not seeing any results can drive me nuts. But you never know- things may be germinating beneath the soil. And maybe soon, we'll get serious about growin
VILLAGE NEWS:
- New mayor elected, not too sure about this guy. Not my host dad's candidate, but unlike our previous mayor, at least he is literate.
-I'm getting a site mate. An education PCV will be only 5k away from me starting this September. Don't know who yet. I hope they help us with the school at Dombila as well, (we really need it!) Let's also hope that its also the man of my dreams ;) (It's slim pickins out here- though I have a steady flow of marriage proposals I have yet to find a Malian man who meets my only two qualities: having all of his teeth and is against wife beating. Slim pickins for sure).
CULTURE:
-Village chief in Sidian Coro (3k away) died and the elder's secret society did a bunch of weird traditional ritual things. What did that mean for me? None of my mothers came into the CSCOM that day because "the road was bad". If you traveled on the main road, you might see one of the elders engaged in this secretive spiritual ritual. And if you see it, you die. No, they don't kill you, but they put a curse on you, which is just as bad.
-I also almost ate a mango from a cursed mango tree. Luckily about 12 kids came running to stop me before I even picked it off.
-After visiting one of the neighboring villages for vaccinations, I overheard a debate among some women on whether or not they thought my hair was real, or a wig. Malian women are super into fake hair that they braid into their real hair. So now not only do people ask me for money, my bike, and my watch, but I have people asking me for my hair. I don't know why they want it anyway- its a greasy frizz ball these days. Heck, we're all grease balls these days.
MY LIFE:
Newsflash: After some stomach rumblings, I've lowered my mango intake to 2-4 per day.
With the slow swing of hot season, I'm doing a lot of reading and thus a lot of thinking. I don't ever think I've thought so much in my life. Mostly about development, inequality, human rights, and poverty. The more I read and learn and question, the more I'm troubled by how difficult it is to render feasible solutions for the destitute people of our world. My head is exploding with questions that have no answers. I feel like I could write a book on all of my thoughts, but the book would essentially say, let's stop writing books. We've got enough books. What we don't have is enough people taking action. And why's that? Because action in it's purest form out here is as slow as a donkey cart.
Besides driving myself crazy pondering the troubles of humanity, I'm enjoying some QT on my new hammock (thanks Mom and Dad!)Some long runs with Shaka (who gives me the cold shoulder 50% of the time these days out of stupid things. I can't tell if he's over-protective or jealous but whenever I spend time with somebody that isn't him or the other boys, he gets mad. I'm learning to live with it unfortunately.) I've also started some Monday afternoon games on the soccer field with kids. Tag games, sprint drills, but mostly just messin around doing handstands and whatnot. It's quite a site, espcially when little Noellie, now at 13 months, staggers his newly found walking feet over to join the games.
I haven't been in the city in a while, and I wish that I could have keep some sharper updates on village life. Handwriten journals and I have never had lasting relationships- I've written some letters and promised to update my blog thoroughly on my next Bamako trip, but I've been staring at the computer all day and feeling a bit tired. So I'll give you the pathedic, hurried updates as they come out of my head.
PROJECTS:
- Handwashing stations are broken due to meanasing children and poor welding. Don't really know where to go from here. Is it worth reviving? No one in the community seems to be taking any action, despite my pushing. The director is terribly unmotivated, so so far we're at a standstill. Sorry to all of you donars, but only time and the good Lordy will tell if this will work. I'm doing my best.
- Malnutrition: We've had some great recoveries, including one mother who nobody believed could actually rehabilitate her child. We've become close personally and her son is now of normal weight. We also had a heartbreaking death two weeks ago that is making me and the CSCOM staff wonder how we can make our impatient program more accomidating (so far if you can't find a place to stay, you're out of luck).
-Wells: Came into Bamako to get the money to start the well project, which of course, is not in. Such is Mali. Meeting on Sunday with the very elusive water sanitation committe of Dombila who has not quite decided on the exact details of executing this project. Our well is done however, but now the water is kinda chalky looking... hmmm...
-Women's Soap: My women are still making soap every two weeks, experiementing with different shapes and sizes. They still do not make much profit, but we are looking at ideas on how to use our shea trees to get shea butter when the rainy season comes so we can lower our expenses.
-School: I started teaching sex ed at the school. Lord knows why. I was looking for something to do and they asked me to. We'll see how this goes...
-Computer: Our 1996 PC is fixed and I've resumed lessons with the CSCOM Doctor. We've learned important skills such as "home row" "copy paste" and of course, "Solitaire."
-Radio: Sunday night Dombila radio is "Health Talk" with your hosts Irene and Aminata. Aminata hardly says much (she has a weird accent), but Irene is quite talkative if you can get her to get out of bed and stay up until 10:00 (that's mainly my job)
-Informal: I think though what takes up the most of my time in village (or shall I say, what I am forced to fill my time with) is informal education. No one freakin wants to do anything seriously productive these days. I talk about starting a project, a committee, putting on a play with the youth, doing a big formation with community health workers... and I feel like I'm talking to walls. I seriously come up with some (so I think) break-through idea ever day- a small group smoking cessation project, a kid's malaria game night, a mural painting contest. But all anyone is really serious about is braiding hair and eating mangos. So if you can't beat them, join them. I've been doing a lot of braiding hair and eating mangos and sitting around with these bums. But in that sitting around, we talk. From water sanitation to baby nutrition to fruit drying, I feel like I'm starting to put some ideas in people's heads. I'm the first volunteer in a sleepy, rural traditional town. And while I can get jealous of my friends who are working with big Shea Butter Exportation projects with foriegn buyers or doing formations on pump repair, I feel like in my own way, I'm making a bit of a difference. Damn it I try my hardest, every day. And as an achievement oriented person, not seeing any results can drive me nuts. But you never know- things may be germinating beneath the soil. And maybe soon, we'll get serious about growin
VILLAGE NEWS:
- New mayor elected, not too sure about this guy. Not my host dad's candidate, but unlike our previous mayor, at least he is literate.
-I'm getting a site mate. An education PCV will be only 5k away from me starting this September. Don't know who yet. I hope they help us with the school at Dombila as well, (we really need it!) Let's also hope that its also the man of my dreams ;) (It's slim pickins out here- though I have a steady flow of marriage proposals I have yet to find a Malian man who meets my only two qualities: having all of his teeth and is against wife beating. Slim pickins for sure).
CULTURE:
-Village chief in Sidian Coro (3k away) died and the elder's secret society did a bunch of weird traditional ritual things. What did that mean for me? None of my mothers came into the CSCOM that day because "the road was bad". If you traveled on the main road, you might see one of the elders engaged in this secretive spiritual ritual. And if you see it, you die. No, they don't kill you, but they put a curse on you, which is just as bad.
-I also almost ate a mango from a cursed mango tree. Luckily about 12 kids came running to stop me before I even picked it off.
-After visiting one of the neighboring villages for vaccinations, I overheard a debate among some women on whether or not they thought my hair was real, or a wig. Malian women are super into fake hair that they braid into their real hair. So now not only do people ask me for money, my bike, and my watch, but I have people asking me for my hair. I don't know why they want it anyway- its a greasy frizz ball these days. Heck, we're all grease balls these days.
MY LIFE:
Newsflash: After some stomach rumblings, I've lowered my mango intake to 2-4 per day.
With the slow swing of hot season, I'm doing a lot of reading and thus a lot of thinking. I don't ever think I've thought so much in my life. Mostly about development, inequality, human rights, and poverty. The more I read and learn and question, the more I'm troubled by how difficult it is to render feasible solutions for the destitute people of our world. My head is exploding with questions that have no answers. I feel like I could write a book on all of my thoughts, but the book would essentially say, let's stop writing books. We've got enough books. What we don't have is enough people taking action. And why's that? Because action in it's purest form out here is as slow as a donkey cart.
Besides driving myself crazy pondering the troubles of humanity, I'm enjoying some QT on my new hammock (thanks Mom and Dad!)Some long runs with Shaka (who gives me the cold shoulder 50% of the time these days out of stupid things. I can't tell if he's over-protective or jealous but whenever I spend time with somebody that isn't him or the other boys, he gets mad. I'm learning to live with it unfortunately.) I've also started some Monday afternoon games on the soccer field with kids. Tag games, sprint drills, but mostly just messin around doing handstands and whatnot. It's quite a site, espcially when little Noellie, now at 13 months, staggers his newly found walking feet over to join the games.
Maria
Maria has quite a story. Born in Rochester, NY she was raised in Erie, PA and is a 2008 grad of Penn State. Swimmer, musician, and nutrition fanatic, she was drawn to Peace Corps service and got on a plane to Madagascar last December. Her service parelled mine- four months of learning the local language, adopting to culture, figuring out the needs in her community- with one exception. Her and her fellow PCVs were on close standby as local riots escalated into a coup d’etat. Finally she got a text message. Madagascar was no longer considered safe for Peace Corps service. She was to take one bag of essentials and leave her village quietly, without telling anyone. In a quaint little village on the edge of the rainforest, she never felt the least bit in danger. But soon she was bunked temporarily in city with the other volunteers, counting the gunshots they heard outside on the street.
The Madagascar volunteers were quickly evacuated to South Africa, where they had their close-of-service conference. They could consider their Peace Corps service complete and return to the states with their readjustment allowance and RPCV (returned Peace Corps volunteer) status. To Maria, and some others, that wasn’t enough. Each volunteer had to see a therapist, and Maria recalls him saying to her, “Peace Corps isn’t done with you yet,” which was in the back of her head anyway.
After two weeks of greesy hotel food and maid service in South Africa, Maria and four other former Madagascar volunteers headed to Mali where they would fill some of the open slots we supposedly had. That’s where I found her- with limited language, no understanding of the culture, and four months of a crazy experience behind her. They were given just two weeks of training- including four days of a site visit with a Mali PCV. So Maria came to check out Dombila with me.
Having her here was a blast. She was so easy going (I guess you’d have to be to transfer your Peace Corps service to a totally different country.) And never flinched on the long transport or bike rides or weird food or heat. But besides having an English-speaking friend for four days, what was really nice was to see Dombila through her perspective. At a point where the kids were getting on my nerves, Maria’s reactions to them reminded me that they were adorable. And thinking that my work was not amounting to anything, a fellow PCV was truly impressed by what I’ve been doing with child nutrition, school sanitation and wells. Since my installation, I ashamedly haven’t been to greet the chief- mostly because he lives far away and I am unfamiliar with the route. But Maria and I went, with Shaka, Cesalo and Madu sitting on the back of our bikes as guides. The shaky, wrinkled man with one good eye gave us a warm greeting as Maria offered him a small gift of tea and sugar. We then went and pounded millet with the women. My village, I’m thinking, is a pretty cool place.
And when the zylophones play week after week, I find myself wanting to stay at home and read a book. It’s old hat and isn’t exciting anymore. But the novelty of it to Maria was indeed exciting, and we both enjoyed doing the traditional dances with the villagers in the hot night, sweating off every drop of water in our bodies. I realized that during the first three months of my service, this was what I considered my work- getting to know people and culture, participating in every village activity there is. I was really happy back then doing these things. As my role changed- I was now expected to do projects and work- I let these little things drop out of the picture. There wasn’t much to discover in Dombila anymore, so I lost an interest in discovery. I was all about projects, and could speak of nothing else. If I wasn't doing "real work," well, I was useless. And sitting around with Malians drinking tea was no longer a productive way to spend my time.
But sitting around drinking tea is still the only key to helping these people. It is still my work- this integration, living like the natives. And I still can discover new and exciting things about the culture, especially with my improved language skills. Dombila's a pretty cool place, Maria told me, and I should be considered very lucky that I was put in my service here.
Maria ran with me, biked with me, cooked with me, and left Dombila with an better sense of Malian culture. She's headed to the Sikasso region to work in health education and nutrition. Best of luck to her, and thanks to her, Dombila has a refreshing air to it through my eyes. It's full of problems, poverty, and illness but my friends, its a jewel in the rough and I'm as proud as ever to show it off to a newcomer.
The Madagascar volunteers were quickly evacuated to South Africa, where they had their close-of-service conference. They could consider their Peace Corps service complete and return to the states with their readjustment allowance and RPCV (returned Peace Corps volunteer) status. To Maria, and some others, that wasn’t enough. Each volunteer had to see a therapist, and Maria recalls him saying to her, “Peace Corps isn’t done with you yet,” which was in the back of her head anyway.
After two weeks of greesy hotel food and maid service in South Africa, Maria and four other former Madagascar volunteers headed to Mali where they would fill some of the open slots we supposedly had. That’s where I found her- with limited language, no understanding of the culture, and four months of a crazy experience behind her. They were given just two weeks of training- including four days of a site visit with a Mali PCV. So Maria came to check out Dombila with me.
Having her here was a blast. She was so easy going (I guess you’d have to be to transfer your Peace Corps service to a totally different country.) And never flinched on the long transport or bike rides or weird food or heat. But besides having an English-speaking friend for four days, what was really nice was to see Dombila through her perspective. At a point where the kids were getting on my nerves, Maria’s reactions to them reminded me that they were adorable. And thinking that my work was not amounting to anything, a fellow PCV was truly impressed by what I’ve been doing with child nutrition, school sanitation and wells. Since my installation, I ashamedly haven’t been to greet the chief- mostly because he lives far away and I am unfamiliar with the route. But Maria and I went, with Shaka, Cesalo and Madu sitting on the back of our bikes as guides. The shaky, wrinkled man with one good eye gave us a warm greeting as Maria offered him a small gift of tea and sugar. We then went and pounded millet with the women. My village, I’m thinking, is a pretty cool place.
And when the zylophones play week after week, I find myself wanting to stay at home and read a book. It’s old hat and isn’t exciting anymore. But the novelty of it to Maria was indeed exciting, and we both enjoyed doing the traditional dances with the villagers in the hot night, sweating off every drop of water in our bodies. I realized that during the first three months of my service, this was what I considered my work- getting to know people and culture, participating in every village activity there is. I was really happy back then doing these things. As my role changed- I was now expected to do projects and work- I let these little things drop out of the picture. There wasn’t much to discover in Dombila anymore, so I lost an interest in discovery. I was all about projects, and could speak of nothing else. If I wasn't doing "real work," well, I was useless. And sitting around with Malians drinking tea was no longer a productive way to spend my time.
But sitting around drinking tea is still the only key to helping these people. It is still my work- this integration, living like the natives. And I still can discover new and exciting things about the culture, especially with my improved language skills. Dombila's a pretty cool place, Maria told me, and I should be considered very lucky that I was put in my service here.
Maria ran with me, biked with me, cooked with me, and left Dombila with an better sense of Malian culture. She's headed to the Sikasso region to work in health education and nutrition. Best of luck to her, and thanks to her, Dombila has a refreshing air to it through my eyes. It's full of problems, poverty, and illness but my friends, its a jewel in the rough and I'm as proud as ever to show it off to a newcomer.
Family Planning
A family planning organization has begun work in Dombila. They came with their big SUV for two days of free family planning services, which they gave out at the CSCOM. Over 80 women came, some young girls, but mostly middle aged women looking for long-term family planning options (there was both 5 and 12 year “devices” offered). Family planning was not something that I have yet unearthed in my position as health educator, as I was still uncertain about the cultural context on which it sits. As for my own personal views, I support stressing abstinence as the first and best option. However with oppressed women in rural Mali, sometimes you need a second option. Women came and registered their names and number of children- some have given birth to as many as 12. And I never heard a whisper of opposition to these services in the village. So I’ll be the last to openly speak out against it.
As for me, I found a window to finally start having open conversations about AIDS. As the women went around showing the different family planning techniques, I followed to stress that even if they are getting long-term family planning, they should strongly consider male or female condoms to prevent AIDS and STIs. All of the doctors were women, but the person registering at the front table was a man. He was giving out free condoms at his table, but apparently, the word hadn’t spread around the village because no guys were showing up. I myself considered going around on my bike and rounding up the men, but I thought better of it and found a young high school guy to do it for me. He went to a nearby mango tree where a bunch of the high school guys hang out after school, he returned with nobody.
“Where are they?” I asked, wondering if they don’t understand the importance of condoms, and half hoping that they don’t need them anyway.
I was assured that they understand the importance. “They’ll come,” he told me, and indicated to the front gate of the CSCOM. I looked over to see about a dozen little heads peeking over the wall, only to quickly descend when somebody glanced their way. It was a hilarious scene, and Irene and I got quite a chuckle out of it. Eventually, with some rumbling behind the gate, one chosen young chap was pushed into the CSCOM, obviously with much resistance. But once your in you know, you gotta act cool. He knew we were all watching him as wondered around trying not to look stupid.
“Come say hi to your friend over here,” Irene said, indicating the front-desk-guy. The youngun came over shook his hand, was handed a 4-pack of condoms which he quickly put in his pocket. As he turned around to exit, all of the heads that were watching he every move again descended, and we could tell as he returned to his troops there was much fanfare behind the gate.
Irene was the first to make it clear that if you wanted the condoms, you had to come in yourself. You can’t take a bunch and give them to your friends. So donni donni these guys started to come in. It was always the same thing, they were pushed in the pool, a bit confused once in, directed toward the guy, shook his hand, shot an embarrassed smile over to me and Irene who couldn’t help but watch. “Put it in your pocket!” we’d say, and then with a brisk walk, they’d return outside the wall. The condoms were out of stock within the hour.
Post-script: I wrote this awhile ago, but here's related news: I've started teaching sex ed (AIDS, STIs, Family Planning) at the local school out of request from the director. GO figure. We'll see how this goes...
As for me, I found a window to finally start having open conversations about AIDS. As the women went around showing the different family planning techniques, I followed to stress that even if they are getting long-term family planning, they should strongly consider male or female condoms to prevent AIDS and STIs. All of the doctors were women, but the person registering at the front table was a man. He was giving out free condoms at his table, but apparently, the word hadn’t spread around the village because no guys were showing up. I myself considered going around on my bike and rounding up the men, but I thought better of it and found a young high school guy to do it for me. He went to a nearby mango tree where a bunch of the high school guys hang out after school, he returned with nobody.
“Where are they?” I asked, wondering if they don’t understand the importance of condoms, and half hoping that they don’t need them anyway.
I was assured that they understand the importance. “They’ll come,” he told me, and indicated to the front gate of the CSCOM. I looked over to see about a dozen little heads peeking over the wall, only to quickly descend when somebody glanced their way. It was a hilarious scene, and Irene and I got quite a chuckle out of it. Eventually, with some rumbling behind the gate, one chosen young chap was pushed into the CSCOM, obviously with much resistance. But once your in you know, you gotta act cool. He knew we were all watching him as wondered around trying not to look stupid.
“Come say hi to your friend over here,” Irene said, indicating the front-desk-guy. The youngun came over shook his hand, was handed a 4-pack of condoms which he quickly put in his pocket. As he turned around to exit, all of the heads that were watching he every move again descended, and we could tell as he returned to his troops there was much fanfare behind the gate.
Irene was the first to make it clear that if you wanted the condoms, you had to come in yourself. You can’t take a bunch and give them to your friends. So donni donni these guys started to come in. It was always the same thing, they were pushed in the pool, a bit confused once in, directed toward the guy, shook his hand, shot an embarrassed smile over to me and Irene who couldn’t help but watch. “Put it in your pocket!” we’d say, and then with a brisk walk, they’d return outside the wall. The condoms were out of stock within the hour.
Post-script: I wrote this awhile ago, but here's related news: I've started teaching sex ed (AIDS, STIs, Family Planning) at the local school out of request from the director. GO figure. We'll see how this goes...
Saturday, April 11, 2009
The latest from Dombila- Mangos, Naps, and politics
Easter always seems to come up so quickly. At home, I’m always surprised to see Easter when I look outside and the expected flowers and grass and chirping birds and such have not yet arrived. But in Mali, the seasons are certainly changing. The hot season is well upon us, and sometimes it seems like there is no escape from the blistering sun. Though I have been watching the trees for weeks and weeks as their little buds start to grow, little by little. They were big and green but not quite ready yet, until finally, this week, they came upon us.
Yes, my friends, the mangos have finally arrived. Almost every tree in my village is a mango tree and the fruit is unlimited for the next few months. Every morning, noon, and night, kids come to my door and give me mangos. Since the start of the hot season, I’ve been impatiently watching them ripen, now satisfactorily, eating 7 to 8 a day! I had mango oatmeal for dinner last night, mango spagetti another night, and then just your average mango snack throughout the day. Temperatures are rough, the sun’s rays even rougher, but the mangos are getting me through. They are absolutely delicious.
Seasons are changing in other ways here in Dombila. With the heat, there is “community naptime” from approximately 1pm-3pm. Everybody sleeps. It’s the only thing you really can do in the heat. Me, I typically don’t sleep, but I’ll relax under the shade of my hanger and read a book or something. It’s too hot to sleep. And as soon as the sun goes down I hit the sack- though that’s the time the rest of the village goes out to sociallize. In other news, the election is right around the corner, and with 7 political parties bidding for control of the mayor’s office, people are quite preoccupied with it. So I have two things here: the village leaders who have their heads rapped up in nothing but politics, and the common village people who are pretty much sleeping all day. Who is going to work with me?
The last two weeks have been painfully slow. I try to keep my motivation and determination up, hoping someone will listen to me, but so far I have felt very unheard.. Just a few weeks ago I was stressed about having too many projects on my mind, now I am desperate for something to do. My job is to work with the community, so really, there is little I can accomplish on my own. But with an absent community that doesn’t have the time or interest in working with me, things are at a standstill. I have a zillion ideas for the community, and every time I mention one I am told to put it off until later. It’s understandable I suppose- there are other things to do now. But what am I supposed to do in the meantime? I used to think that Peace Corps volunteers who read all the time were a bit lazy or distracted from their work. But now, I’m reading quite a bit. Reading, eating mangos, weighing some babies here and there, and trying to stir up some motivation in the community. If there is anything I’ve learned thus far, it’s that patience is a virtue. I’ve learned to be patient, but my months are numbered already, and what little we’ve accomplished is far from my vision. Donni donni all the way.
Yes, my friends, the mangos have finally arrived. Almost every tree in my village is a mango tree and the fruit is unlimited for the next few months. Every morning, noon, and night, kids come to my door and give me mangos. Since the start of the hot season, I’ve been impatiently watching them ripen, now satisfactorily, eating 7 to 8 a day! I had mango oatmeal for dinner last night, mango spagetti another night, and then just your average mango snack throughout the day. Temperatures are rough, the sun’s rays even rougher, but the mangos are getting me through. They are absolutely delicious.
Seasons are changing in other ways here in Dombila. With the heat, there is “community naptime” from approximately 1pm-3pm. Everybody sleeps. It’s the only thing you really can do in the heat. Me, I typically don’t sleep, but I’ll relax under the shade of my hanger and read a book or something. It’s too hot to sleep. And as soon as the sun goes down I hit the sack- though that’s the time the rest of the village goes out to sociallize. In other news, the election is right around the corner, and with 7 political parties bidding for control of the mayor’s office, people are quite preoccupied with it. So I have two things here: the village leaders who have their heads rapped up in nothing but politics, and the common village people who are pretty much sleeping all day. Who is going to work with me?
The last two weeks have been painfully slow. I try to keep my motivation and determination up, hoping someone will listen to me, but so far I have felt very unheard.. Just a few weeks ago I was stressed about having too many projects on my mind, now I am desperate for something to do. My job is to work with the community, so really, there is little I can accomplish on my own. But with an absent community that doesn’t have the time or interest in working with me, things are at a standstill. I have a zillion ideas for the community, and every time I mention one I am told to put it off until later. It’s understandable I suppose- there are other things to do now. But what am I supposed to do in the meantime? I used to think that Peace Corps volunteers who read all the time were a bit lazy or distracted from their work. But now, I’m reading quite a bit. Reading, eating mangos, weighing some babies here and there, and trying to stir up some motivation in the community. If there is anything I’ve learned thus far, it’s that patience is a virtue. I’ve learned to be patient, but my months are numbered already, and what little we’ve accomplished is far from my vision. Donni donni all the way.
Gone to Kati- Shaka stays back
I’m in Kati now to celebrate Easter with Irene’s family. As far as our relationship, Irene and I get along just fine on a personal level at least. There are no hard feelings, I don’t think there ever were that many. But on a professional level, we still are not seeing eye to eye, though we don’t express it. In any case, I’ll enjoy spending some time with her family on Easter, but in small doses. Hence why I have devoted my first few hours in the town to the internet café.
It must have been a month ago that I was running with Shaka when he asked why he can’t go a long with my when I leave town. Trying to explain why I can’t favor him over other people, pay his transport and such got nowhere. He finally decided he was going to come to Kati for Easter to hang out with Irene’s son Mamadi. Irene agreed, and so did his mother Dalfine. I explicitly said I was not a part of it and I could not pay his transport. “We know, “ said Dalfine, “he’ll find the money.”
But when I was all ready to leave today Shaka came to me and showed me the money he had. About 40 cents. Round trip to Kati is almost $3, and he asked if I could help him out with the money. Why do you do this to me? I’m in such a predicament now, I know he wants to go so badly, but I can’t put myself in that position. I know no other volunteer that would even think twice about doing it. I told him, “Shaka, I told you long ago that I wasn’t paying for your transport.” But he knows I have the money. He cried, guys. He cried. I pondered about it, prayed about it. And I still don’t know if I made the right decision. What did Jesus say about helping the poor? “Do unto others as you’d have done to me.” It’d be great for him to go. But then what? He’ll want to go to Bamako, and I know, I just know, he’ll beg to come back to the states with me. Everyone in the village already thinks that he is going to. They know I favor him, but who wouldn’t? The kid runs with me everyday, pulls my water, gets me mangos and vegetables, accompanies me to the market. Sure, I never really need or ask for his help, but he offers it freely. He’s a good kid. And I wanted to show my appreciation.
“When I was hungry you gave me to eat.” Alright, we’re working with malnourished children.
“When I was thirsty, you gave me to drink.” We’re fixing people’s wells and treating water.
“When I was naked, you gave me clothes.” Well, there’s plenty of people running around naked or half naked, but that’s their choice. They all got plenty of clothes.
Nowhere did I find “When I wanted to travel, you paid my transport.” The boy’s father has the money, but refused to give it to him. But then- how selfish of me. I feel incredibly guilty. I have the ability to make this kid’s whole year perhaps, but I turned my head. “If you run there, I’ll bike beside you.” It’s about 15 miles on the main road in the hot sun. I offered him the opportunity, and I would have watched him carefully. He pondered upon it, and finally turned it down. I don’t blame him- he make a good decision. I give this kid a lot- buy him stuff at the market and so on. That’s already overstepping the lines as far as Peace Corps sees things. But he gives me a lot too. And I’m still in the quarry of whether or not I made the right decision. I think I did (your comments welcome here!) But I made him cry. And on the week where I want to feel like a good Christian, I’ve turned my head on the poor. Was it for the best?
It must have been a month ago that I was running with Shaka when he asked why he can’t go a long with my when I leave town. Trying to explain why I can’t favor him over other people, pay his transport and such got nowhere. He finally decided he was going to come to Kati for Easter to hang out with Irene’s son Mamadi. Irene agreed, and so did his mother Dalfine. I explicitly said I was not a part of it and I could not pay his transport. “We know, “ said Dalfine, “he’ll find the money.”
But when I was all ready to leave today Shaka came to me and showed me the money he had. About 40 cents. Round trip to Kati is almost $3, and he asked if I could help him out with the money. Why do you do this to me? I’m in such a predicament now, I know he wants to go so badly, but I can’t put myself in that position. I know no other volunteer that would even think twice about doing it. I told him, “Shaka, I told you long ago that I wasn’t paying for your transport.” But he knows I have the money. He cried, guys. He cried. I pondered about it, prayed about it. And I still don’t know if I made the right decision. What did Jesus say about helping the poor? “Do unto others as you’d have done to me.” It’d be great for him to go. But then what? He’ll want to go to Bamako, and I know, I just know, he’ll beg to come back to the states with me. Everyone in the village already thinks that he is going to. They know I favor him, but who wouldn’t? The kid runs with me everyday, pulls my water, gets me mangos and vegetables, accompanies me to the market. Sure, I never really need or ask for his help, but he offers it freely. He’s a good kid. And I wanted to show my appreciation.
“When I was hungry you gave me to eat.” Alright, we’re working with malnourished children.
“When I was thirsty, you gave me to drink.” We’re fixing people’s wells and treating water.
“When I was naked, you gave me clothes.” Well, there’s plenty of people running around naked or half naked, but that’s their choice. They all got plenty of clothes.
Nowhere did I find “When I wanted to travel, you paid my transport.” The boy’s father has the money, but refused to give it to him. But then- how selfish of me. I feel incredibly guilty. I have the ability to make this kid’s whole year perhaps, but I turned my head. “If you run there, I’ll bike beside you.” It’s about 15 miles on the main road in the hot sun. I offered him the opportunity, and I would have watched him carefully. He pondered upon it, and finally turned it down. I don’t blame him- he make a good decision. I give this kid a lot- buy him stuff at the market and so on. That’s already overstepping the lines as far as Peace Corps sees things. But he gives me a lot too. And I’m still in the quarry of whether or not I made the right decision. I think I did (your comments welcome here!) But I made him cry. And on the week where I want to feel like a good Christian, I’ve turned my head on the poor. Was it for the best?
Rock Stars
The equivalent of tribal rock stars came to Dombila. I had no idea where my whole host family was going one night, but they sure seemed excited, so I went along. We arrived in a big clearing, with basically the whole village sitting in a big square. The zylophones started to play and three men in large masks and burlap type jumpsuits came in the middle, clacking sticks and dancing a slow, rhythmic dance. Oh, I know what this is. I’ve seen this before- remember-the assumption of Mary at the church in Koulikani. These are acrobats. As the dance picked up, the men flipped and sprung with incredible physical strength and agility. Gymnastics, break dancing, and of course, Malian tribal guestures all came together to provide awe and amazement to the crowd. Even I gasped and genuinely applauded. It was pretty amazing. And it was happing basically in the middle of nowhere.
My host mom, Gneba, was really into it. She would yell and squeel like a rock-star groupie. And these guys were rock stars. They came from Bamako and the next morning I met them, they were wearing blue jeans and sunglasses and walking around with their picture phones. But that night they were tribal gods and their identiy conceled. After some incredible routine by one particular performer, Gneba ran to the center of the big opening (totally out of custom) and took off her head wrap, waved it at the guy and threw it at him. I equate it to that one crazy screaming woman at a rock concert who takes off her bra and throws it on stage. Everyone, especially me, is dying of laughter. The performer danced around with it a bit and then found Gneba in the crowd to return it to her. “Take it with you! Take it with you!” she insisted. And from a poor woman like her, this is a great gift.
My host mom, Gneba, was really into it. She would yell and squeel like a rock-star groupie. And these guys were rock stars. They came from Bamako and the next morning I met them, they were wearing blue jeans and sunglasses and walking around with their picture phones. But that night they were tribal gods and their identiy conceled. After some incredible routine by one particular performer, Gneba ran to the center of the big opening (totally out of custom) and took off her head wrap, waved it at the guy and threw it at him. I equate it to that one crazy screaming woman at a rock concert who takes off her bra and throws it on stage. Everyone, especially me, is dying of laughter. The performer danced around with it a bit and then found Gneba in the crowd to return it to her. “Take it with you! Take it with you!” she insisted. And from a poor woman like her, this is a great gift.
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