No, she’s not. And she’s not going to be. But there was a question that she may be up for it. Is she going to be fired? Possibly. If she isn’t, she is going to quit and leave her job as a midwife, and leave the town of Dombila for good. At least that’s what she says now.
Irene was involved with what us as Americans would understand as a medical mal-practice civil case. Not quite as technical in Mali, but still gave her a bunch of problems. I’ve tried to act dumb and stay out of it but I’ve caught the drift and it’s not good.
It was revealed after a medical examination at the CESREF of Kati that Irene pushed on the stomach of a woman in labor so hard that she broke the umbilical cord. Irene didn’t call the ambulance for three days. When the women went to Kati and had 2 operations, her and her husband blamed the death of their child on Irene. “And-” as it’s always emphasized when a Malian is telling this story, “the baby was a BOY!” Oh no! Not a boy! If it was a girl, well, maybe we’d forgive her.
The father has demanded that Irene be fired from her job as a midwife. She took off to Kati for a week while ASACO had a series of meetings about it. Because there is no hard proof that she was responsible for the death of the child, she is probably not going to be fired. But according to Irene, the father said that even if she is not fired, he is going to kill her.
After all this I came to visit Irene in Kati on my way to Bamako. I was surprised to find her in good spirits. She said if it wasn’t for me, she’d call her daughter and have her bring her things and never come back. “The people of Dombila don’t trust me. The doctors in Kati say hat I’m mean and lazy and that I do not do my job well. If this is resolved, something else will come up soon. I’m done with midwife work.”
My shocked face also didn’t surprise her. “I’m not leaving you now. Once your service is up, I’ll quit. But we work together and I made a promise to Peace Corps that I would work with you and look after you. So don’t you worry. I’m not going anywhere. But when you go to America, I’m also leaving the village.”
I’ll be the last to stop her. I enjoy working with her, but her passion for the job has waned as she gradually looses her connection with the community. She is always speaking of how the Dombila women are lazy and stupid and impossible to work with. And apparently, they think the same about her. I love Irene, don’t get me wrong. She’s taken me in as her own daughter and has been enthusiastic about my projects and aspirations for Dombila. But I want to work with someone who isn’t going to walk out at the same time I do. Talk about sustainable development. If I work with one person closely for two years on improving the village, who is just going to leave the village, well, where does that leave our work?
So pray for her, and for the family of the dead child. It seems optimistic now that this situation will blow over. But the lasting effects it will have on the relationship between Irene and the community are yet to be told.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Planting Season
We’re well into the rainy season here which means the mangos are gone, the mosquitoes are out, and everyone is hard at work in the fields. The new trainnees land in country the night of the 10th, and as I think about myself a year ago, its amazing how much I really feel at home here. These foreign, strange people have become my close friends, I speak their language well enough to have real meaningful conversations, and I even find myself wanting to be more like them. My millet pounding has greatly improved (I don’t knock over the hollowed out tree stump much any more subsequently spilling a family’s dinner on the mud…), and while everyone is farming, I wanted to jump on the bandwagon.
“Well, what would you plant? Millet? Corn?” Shaka asked me on one of our runs.
“Nah, when those things are ripe theres so much of them around. I want to plant something that there isn’t much of.”
“Like what?”
“Cucumbers.”
So my host family agreed to give me a section of their garden so I could plant my cucmbers. But, I didn’t really want to be crowding them. “Is there like a field or something I could throw down my cucumber seeds?” Ever since my mom saw Dafine’s garden on her trip here, she begged her to help me start a little gardening. One day, Dafine had Shaka take me out behind her garden to show me the place I could plant my cucumbers. Turns out, it was an entire abandoned garden! Somebody just left it there, and gave Dalfine the permission to let me have it! It’s so perfect. It’s got a good amount of space, a stick fence and gate around it so the animals don’t get in, two dug out wells, and it’s right near Shaka’s family’s garden. When the 4 boys took me to see it, I jumped up and down and picked them all up and spun them around. I couldn’t believe this was my garden!
Shaka and the younger boys agreed to help me out, and they’re also gonna grow some stuff in it themselves to sell at the market. Me and Shaka are going seed shopping on Saturday- not just cucumbers my friends, but green peppers, maybe carrots, and a few other vegetables that you wouldn’t know and I don’t know the English words for them anyways.
Before our run we went out there with little garden hoes. It’s tough work. There’s no rotar-tiller here, or hose. To water it, I’m gonna have to buy a watering can and tie it to a string and draw water from the deep well. I couldn’t believe how those boys can work it. It’s their life though. Once school gets out- it’s to the fields. I see my boys less and less these days because they’re always working. Their daily afternoon “Let’s go bug Aminata” sessions, which previously drove me crazy, have thinned out and I miss them. But to have them come and work with me in my garden was the funnest thing ever. They didn’t even beg me for candy either (but I gave them some anyways, I’m such a sucker.)
“Well, what would you plant? Millet? Corn?” Shaka asked me on one of our runs.
“Nah, when those things are ripe theres so much of them around. I want to plant something that there isn’t much of.”
“Like what?”
“Cucumbers.”
So my host family agreed to give me a section of their garden so I could plant my cucmbers. But, I didn’t really want to be crowding them. “Is there like a field or something I could throw down my cucumber seeds?” Ever since my mom saw Dafine’s garden on her trip here, she begged her to help me start a little gardening. One day, Dafine had Shaka take me out behind her garden to show me the place I could plant my cucumbers. Turns out, it was an entire abandoned garden! Somebody just left it there, and gave Dalfine the permission to let me have it! It’s so perfect. It’s got a good amount of space, a stick fence and gate around it so the animals don’t get in, two dug out wells, and it’s right near Shaka’s family’s garden. When the 4 boys took me to see it, I jumped up and down and picked them all up and spun them around. I couldn’t believe this was my garden!
Shaka and the younger boys agreed to help me out, and they’re also gonna grow some stuff in it themselves to sell at the market. Me and Shaka are going seed shopping on Saturday- not just cucumbers my friends, but green peppers, maybe carrots, and a few other vegetables that you wouldn’t know and I don’t know the English words for them anyways.
Before our run we went out there with little garden hoes. It’s tough work. There’s no rotar-tiller here, or hose. To water it, I’m gonna have to buy a watering can and tie it to a string and draw water from the deep well. I couldn’t believe how those boys can work it. It’s their life though. Once school gets out- it’s to the fields. I see my boys less and less these days because they’re always working. Their daily afternoon “Let’s go bug Aminata” sessions, which previously drove me crazy, have thinned out and I miss them. But to have them come and work with me in my garden was the funnest thing ever. They didn’t even beg me for candy either (but I gave them some anyways, I’m such a sucker.)
Progress
So to follow up on work in Dombila, there are some new projects on the horizon. I’ve partnered with a NGO that has worked with Peace Corps to help start up a small women’s gardening project in the village of Sidian-Coro. The boss of the NGO, a quiet, content guy in his 40s, is from the commune of Dombila, and was very eagar to work with me when I came to his office in Bamako. He also wants to be my best friend- and gave me a ride in his car all the way to Dio. It was nice, but maybe I shouldn’t have taken it. He followed up by offering to take me anywhere I wanted anytime. When he came to my site, he left shaking hands and giving me a 10,000 cfa bill (about $20) and refused to take it back. It’s so weird to have people offering me stuff when I’m used to people trying to get stuff from me. But, maybe luckily, after visiting the project site, the gardening project is not going to be as big of an ordeal as I thought, so I won’t have to deal with this weirdness too much.
Our chef de post, Bouary is still plugging away on his computer work. He seems to understand quite a bit now. While we work, we talk about projects and such. As for getting the HIV rapid test in Dombila, he thinks its extremely important and knows the CSCOM staff is capable of HIV counseling. “I know there’s AIDS here,” he says, and continues to talk about the mother-to-child prevention drug that can save infant from contracting HIV if it is detected in their mother. So I was sent on a wild goose chase, and talked to some officials in Kati. Man the situation here is terrible. There are no materials. Kati trained 17 CSCOMs in the rapid test, but the Malian government does not have their act together and these places can not be equipped with the necessary materials to continue this group. “We can’t add Dombila to this list unless we can guarantee testing materials.” It seems unbelievable to me that three decades into the AIDS epidemic, poor countries still cannot have HIV tests available to people of high risk. It seems like a deeply rooted problem, in politics and organization, deeper that I can understand right now. But I’m gonna try to dig in the dirt, get as much information as I can, and even if Dombila’s HIV rapid test does not come during my service, Peace Corps should be active in this work- find out what’s going on up there with those people in charge, and see if we can’t voice our opinions.
My biggest prospective project now is a week long school with our 30 community health workers. I’m putting together educational materials, seeking out guest speakers and trying to develop an evaluation system along side the health workers for better quality work. The training school should happen in January 2010, so there’s time, but a lot of work.
I think I’m finally getting into the swing of things with the radio show. My Bambara is comfortable enough that I can be interviewed on-air and not have to stop and ask him to repeat the question 3 times (very embarrassing). We had a great show about water sanitation in which I interviewed some people working on the project. We joked around on-air, and at that moment, I really felt like I knew this language, like I knew what I was doing, and that I was where I was supposed to be.
Handwashing stations: rest in peace. Funny story, I had a little sit down meeting with the new mayor the other day. Actually, he’s a pretty motivated and smart old thin, white haired guy. I explained to him what my job is and has been so far. I asked him for suggestions on small projects. “You know, maybe you could do something with the school.” He is not from central Dombila, mind you, but the tiny outskirt village of Koyan. “Like fix up the latrines or give them a place to wash their hands.” Sounds like a good idea doesn’t it? It’s like trying to fix a square peg in a round hole. Admit defeat?
Binot says he can make new hand washing stations with left over material from the new school. But trouble is, he also says he can do a project with me building some solar fruit mango driers to get ready for next mango season. And to top it off, the whole village is counting on him to fix these damn wells. Of the 19 that were in the project. 16 were done quickly, efficiently, and with good quality. He was a motivated worker. And then he convinced the project committee to give him all of his salary and since then, he’s been a lazy bum! I can’t get him off his feet to finish these darn 3 wells. To his defense, his two sidekicks have since abandoned him to go work in their fields, but come on! There’s only 3 left! Let’s get to it so we can moooove on! I crept up on him one morning with a branch (supposedly to whip him) only to find him listening to Malian Christian xylophone tunes on his cassette player. Darn it, he’s being all religious. I dropped the whip, said a few bean jokes, and tried to believe him when he said he’ll get to work right away.
Our chef de post, Bouary is still plugging away on his computer work. He seems to understand quite a bit now. While we work, we talk about projects and such. As for getting the HIV rapid test in Dombila, he thinks its extremely important and knows the CSCOM staff is capable of HIV counseling. “I know there’s AIDS here,” he says, and continues to talk about the mother-to-child prevention drug that can save infant from contracting HIV if it is detected in their mother. So I was sent on a wild goose chase, and talked to some officials in Kati. Man the situation here is terrible. There are no materials. Kati trained 17 CSCOMs in the rapid test, but the Malian government does not have their act together and these places can not be equipped with the necessary materials to continue this group. “We can’t add Dombila to this list unless we can guarantee testing materials.” It seems unbelievable to me that three decades into the AIDS epidemic, poor countries still cannot have HIV tests available to people of high risk. It seems like a deeply rooted problem, in politics and organization, deeper that I can understand right now. But I’m gonna try to dig in the dirt, get as much information as I can, and even if Dombila’s HIV rapid test does not come during my service, Peace Corps should be active in this work- find out what’s going on up there with those people in charge, and see if we can’t voice our opinions.
My biggest prospective project now is a week long school with our 30 community health workers. I’m putting together educational materials, seeking out guest speakers and trying to develop an evaluation system along side the health workers for better quality work. The training school should happen in January 2010, so there’s time, but a lot of work.
I think I’m finally getting into the swing of things with the radio show. My Bambara is comfortable enough that I can be interviewed on-air and not have to stop and ask him to repeat the question 3 times (very embarrassing). We had a great show about water sanitation in which I interviewed some people working on the project. We joked around on-air, and at that moment, I really felt like I knew this language, like I knew what I was doing, and that I was where I was supposed to be.
Handwashing stations: rest in peace. Funny story, I had a little sit down meeting with the new mayor the other day. Actually, he’s a pretty motivated and smart old thin, white haired guy. I explained to him what my job is and has been so far. I asked him for suggestions on small projects. “You know, maybe you could do something with the school.” He is not from central Dombila, mind you, but the tiny outskirt village of Koyan. “Like fix up the latrines or give them a place to wash their hands.” Sounds like a good idea doesn’t it? It’s like trying to fix a square peg in a round hole. Admit defeat?
Binot says he can make new hand washing stations with left over material from the new school. But trouble is, he also says he can do a project with me building some solar fruit mango driers to get ready for next mango season. And to top it off, the whole village is counting on him to fix these damn wells. Of the 19 that were in the project. 16 were done quickly, efficiently, and with good quality. He was a motivated worker. And then he convinced the project committee to give him all of his salary and since then, he’s been a lazy bum! I can’t get him off his feet to finish these darn 3 wells. To his defense, his two sidekicks have since abandoned him to go work in their fields, but come on! There’s only 3 left! Let’s get to it so we can moooove on! I crept up on him one morning with a branch (supposedly to whip him) only to find him listening to Malian Christian xylophone tunes on his cassette player. Darn it, he’s being all religious. I dropped the whip, said a few bean jokes, and tried to believe him when he said he’ll get to work right away.
Monday, June 29, 2009
1 year down, 15 months to go
Rainy season is upon us. Which means the mangos are diminishing, the mud is everywhere, the sun is a little less brutal, and the fields have begun to be planted. Besides the mud and the mosquitos, I love the spontaneity of rainy season… for the most part that is. When it rains, nothing happens. Nothing. Everything is canceled. No radio show, no vaccinations, no traveling. And it’s understood by everyone in the village. Anything you had planned- if there’s a storm, is not going to happen. So now, I have little breaks every now and again during surprise moments. I don’t have to even entertain Malians. I just crawl in my house, read my book or nap for a few hours, and wait for the storm to pass. And I don’t have to make any excuses for doing so. It’s like having mini-snow days multiple times a week. I will occasionally disrupt a plan for a run or a meeting, but nothing that can’t be rescheduled.
I’m in Kati now, working with the Rotary on an evaluation of the well improvement project, and meeting with the regional health center to get information on HIV rapid tests. I stayed with Hunter who just got back from Dogon country and showed me some spectacular pictures. I really hope it works out with my sister, Steve and Matt that we can go to visit it. After all that I’ve put him through, my loosing wallets, loosing my way, and my "away from site"-guilt-trips, I’m surprised Hunter is still my friend. There are some pretty amazing people here, and I got really lucky. Caroline too, stopped by after her vacation. I saw her briefly on her way back to Dio. Dio wasn’t really sounding too pleasant to her after she just spent the last two weeks on the beautiful islands of Cape Verde. I was really happy to see her, and I think she was happy to see me, but the thoughts of little ankle-biting children, cockroachs in her latrine, long days of greetings and trying to cook by a dim flashlight might have dampered her reaction.
I also got to talk briefly to my family and to Karen, who stopped over with pictures and gifts from the trip. So much amazing stuff is happening at home. My dad got an awesome new job. My mom just turned 50. Karen and all my friends from college are running, working, and just being the great people they are. I’m missing so much at home, I feel. I should be there for this stuff. Hunter is thinking about extending his service and asked me if I would ever think of that. I told him the truth- if I found a good job with an NGO in Bamako, I might be worth an extra couple of months to fill the gap before grad school, but I’m not sure yet. “Emily,” he says, “think of how hard this year was for you being away from your family. Could you really do that again?” He has a point. But it’s dooni dooni you know. And then next dooni step is the night of Aug 5 where my other half is coming to reunite- the notorious Katie Hurley. And her partners in crime Steve and Matt Hurley. Watch out Mali.
I’m in Kati now, working with the Rotary on an evaluation of the well improvement project, and meeting with the regional health center to get information on HIV rapid tests. I stayed with Hunter who just got back from Dogon country and showed me some spectacular pictures. I really hope it works out with my sister, Steve and Matt that we can go to visit it. After all that I’ve put him through, my loosing wallets, loosing my way, and my "away from site"-guilt-trips, I’m surprised Hunter is still my friend. There are some pretty amazing people here, and I got really lucky. Caroline too, stopped by after her vacation. I saw her briefly on her way back to Dio. Dio wasn’t really sounding too pleasant to her after she just spent the last two weeks on the beautiful islands of Cape Verde. I was really happy to see her, and I think she was happy to see me, but the thoughts of little ankle-biting children, cockroachs in her latrine, long days of greetings and trying to cook by a dim flashlight might have dampered her reaction.
I also got to talk briefly to my family and to Karen, who stopped over with pictures and gifts from the trip. So much amazing stuff is happening at home. My dad got an awesome new job. My mom just turned 50. Karen and all my friends from college are running, working, and just being the great people they are. I’m missing so much at home, I feel. I should be there for this stuff. Hunter is thinking about extending his service and asked me if I would ever think of that. I told him the truth- if I found a good job with an NGO in Bamako, I might be worth an extra couple of months to fill the gap before grad school, but I’m not sure yet. “Emily,” he says, “think of how hard this year was for you being away from your family. Could you really do that again?” He has a point. But it’s dooni dooni you know. And then next dooni step is the night of Aug 5 where my other half is coming to reunite- the notorious Katie Hurley. And her partners in crime Steve and Matt Hurley. Watch out Mali.
Spells on my hair
Though I don’t miss the feeling of being confused all of the time, there were a few things that were eaiser when I was clueless. Before I could understand Bambara, I didn’t have to hear all of the crap people say about each other. I had an exception from village gossip. Now, I’m right in the thick of it. Everyone’s got someone to complain about, and I can’t pretend I don’t understand for very long. It’s like any other small town in the world. Everyone’s in everyone’s business, everyone’s got their grudges. Staying a neutral party is a challenge.
Beneath the gossip though, are there really dark evils in Dombila like many people believe? Spirits, genies, jinks, curses… I never realized how these ancient customs are so much a part of everyday concern. Shaka is always looking out for me. I appriciate it, but it sometimes gets pretty ridiculous. He told me not to run by the market. “Those are people in there who want to cut your hair.” He’s said that before, and even gone so far as to collect the hair that I have taken out of my hairbrush and thrown outside out of fear that these people will get their hands on it. I guess they have spells and stuff they can do on my hair that’s he is quite concerned about. “Don’t go to the market! They’re gonna take your hair!!”
Tired of this I snaped back, “Shaka, they are not going to take my hair! I can look after my own head thank you very much.” And then, totally unplanned, it just came out. “And by the way, even if they do have my hair, it won’t do anything to hurt me!”
He looked completely shocked. He shook his head. “Even now Aminata, you really don’t know Malian people.” This culture is serious stuff. And unfortunately, I can’t play dumb anymore.
Beneath the gossip though, are there really dark evils in Dombila like many people believe? Spirits, genies, jinks, curses… I never realized how these ancient customs are so much a part of everyday concern. Shaka is always looking out for me. I appriciate it, but it sometimes gets pretty ridiculous. He told me not to run by the market. “Those are people in there who want to cut your hair.” He’s said that before, and even gone so far as to collect the hair that I have taken out of my hairbrush and thrown outside out of fear that these people will get their hands on it. I guess they have spells and stuff they can do on my hair that’s he is quite concerned about. “Don’t go to the market! They’re gonna take your hair!!”
Tired of this I snaped back, “Shaka, they are not going to take my hair! I can look after my own head thank you very much.” And then, totally unplanned, it just came out. “And by the way, even if they do have my hair, it won’t do anything to hurt me!”
He looked completely shocked. He shook his head. “Even now Aminata, you really don’t know Malian people.” This culture is serious stuff. And unfortunately, I can’t play dumb anymore.
His name is… Bule?
As my parents were leaving in February, they were given a note by the xylophone players who entertained us that first night. Even after we gave them little goodie bags of tea, sugar, macaroni, and a small amount of cash, they wanted to ask my dad if they would buy them a microphone to enhance their performance. Now though it was a formal note, I’d still consider that begging. Looking back on it now, I should have been firm and just said “no” but of course I began to make excuses. He didn’t understand the note, we have no idea how to buy you a microphone, etc. etc. So the whole thing died down quietly.
Then when Karen came, these xylophone guys played again. We gave them little gifts, but the whole night we were reminded of the microphone that they want my dad to buy for them. Of course, my parents are extremely generous people, and all I would have to do is say the word and they’d donate it. But the problem is it sets a precedent for the future- ask Aminata and you shall receive. I don’t know if my replacement volunteer would like people coming up to her saying, “But Aminata’s father bought us this, why can’t you buy us that?” Donations are great, if I can funnel them through my main purpose- health education projects. Unfortunately, an electronic xylophone extension doesn’t fit that bill at the moment. So again, I brushed off the request.
But my host mom is sneaky. One of the xylophone players’ wife had a baby the night Karen was here. I later found out that it was my host mom’s scheme to tell them to name the baby after my dad. Maybe if he was named after my dad, he would be so honored that he would send money for a microphone and maybe even he would tell me to bring the baby to America with me. So that night they kept asking me, “What’s your dad’s name? We want to name the baby after him.” Knowing it was a trick, I played dumb. My dad’s name is Bill, apparently very hard for my host mother to remember or pronounce.
The next week, when I went to the baby’s baptism, they asked me what the name of the child was. “I don’t know it’s name!” I said.
“Yes you do! You named it after your dad!”
“No I didn’t. You are the parents, you should name your child.”
“We want to name it after your dad. Gneba said it was something like… Bule…?”
Refusing to correct “Bule” to “Bill” I simply told them that that was not my dad’s name. But now, this poor kid’s name is Bule. And I’ve asked them to change it but they haven’t as far as I know. He is Bule, a mutation of the name “Bill”.
As Irene and I were recounting the sequence of events, we had some good laughs about the exotic places our names have come from. She said, “Even my father! He worked at the Grand Hotel in Bamako and some American people came and stayed. I was born and he thought if he named me after one of the American women, maybe she would take me to America!” Then she thought, “Hey! Maybe it was your grandmother!” which just cracked me up. I then told her how my name came from a prostitute’s baby on a soap opera that my mom used to watch in college. So I guess if nothing else comes out of this, no microphone or ticket to the states, at least one day Bule will have a good story to tell about how he got his name.
Then when Karen came, these xylophone guys played again. We gave them little gifts, but the whole night we were reminded of the microphone that they want my dad to buy for them. Of course, my parents are extremely generous people, and all I would have to do is say the word and they’d donate it. But the problem is it sets a precedent for the future- ask Aminata and you shall receive. I don’t know if my replacement volunteer would like people coming up to her saying, “But Aminata’s father bought us this, why can’t you buy us that?” Donations are great, if I can funnel them through my main purpose- health education projects. Unfortunately, an electronic xylophone extension doesn’t fit that bill at the moment. So again, I brushed off the request.
But my host mom is sneaky. One of the xylophone players’ wife had a baby the night Karen was here. I later found out that it was my host mom’s scheme to tell them to name the baby after my dad. Maybe if he was named after my dad, he would be so honored that he would send money for a microphone and maybe even he would tell me to bring the baby to America with me. So that night they kept asking me, “What’s your dad’s name? We want to name the baby after him.” Knowing it was a trick, I played dumb. My dad’s name is Bill, apparently very hard for my host mother to remember or pronounce.
The next week, when I went to the baby’s baptism, they asked me what the name of the child was. “I don’t know it’s name!” I said.
“Yes you do! You named it after your dad!”
“No I didn’t. You are the parents, you should name your child.”
“We want to name it after your dad. Gneba said it was something like… Bule…?”
Refusing to correct “Bule” to “Bill” I simply told them that that was not my dad’s name. But now, this poor kid’s name is Bule. And I’ve asked them to change it but they haven’t as far as I know. He is Bule, a mutation of the name “Bill”.
As Irene and I were recounting the sequence of events, we had some good laughs about the exotic places our names have come from. She said, “Even my father! He worked at the Grand Hotel in Bamako and some American people came and stayed. I was born and he thought if he named me after one of the American women, maybe she would take me to America!” Then she thought, “Hey! Maybe it was your grandmother!” which just cracked me up. I then told her how my name came from a prostitute’s baby on a soap opera that my mom used to watch in college. So I guess if nothing else comes out of this, no microphone or ticket to the states, at least one day Bule will have a good story to tell about how he got his name.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Karen's visit!
What a fantastic week. Karen was up for a visit- using her own money and limited vacation days to come across the world to hang with me for 6 wonderful days. When my villagers heard this, the most frequent response was “That’s a really good friend.” She flew in Friday night, and had the energy to go out on the town to some of the more “Tubab” dance clubs with some PCVs and embassy workers.
The next day we had egg-tiki for breakfast and headed out on transport (after a lovely 3 hour wait) to the town of Siby on the outskirts of Bamako. We had a nice time there with PCV Elizabeth and in the morning, hit the cliffs for a guided hike/ rock-climb/ rappel with two funny little Malian guys. The view was great, I thought. So did Karen but she just came back from the grand canyon so I doubt our little Malian plateaus compared much. But we learned some cool history. We walked through a cave that was once used as a hiding place in an ancient tribal war. We saw the remains of pots of the Malian peoples of yesteryear, picked some leaves of traditional medicine, and saw a place where hunters used to skin panthers! We were done with the hike about mid-day (the hot sun was getting to us) and we headed back to Bamako.
After journeying to the post in Kati, I realized my phone and wallet were gone. I take most of the blame because of my inherent absentmindedness, but I also blame Malian transport and such. After a stressful few hours of trying to figure out how we were going to get back to village, Hunter came to the rescue again. The fact that Hunter to this day is still my friend, despite all of the times he’s bailed me out, calmed me down, and forgave me in stressful situations is a miracle blessing. He’s a great guy. And so is Karen for having such incredible faith that everything would work out alright.
We spent the night in Dio and biked to Dombila in the morning. Karen did a lot of the formal meet-and-greets and we went on a nice run together (it had been so long- and she’s still in great shape!). That night the xylophone guys played for us. It was a great experience- Karen was in her traditional Malian wear. But the xylophone guys still reminded me that they want me to ask my American father to send money so they can buy a microphone. It’d be nice to help them out, sure. But it’d be also nice if they wanted to play for the foreign visitor, as a thank you for my work, without asking for anything in return. Exhausted and sweaty, we went to bed- Karen liked the hammock quite a bit.
The next day we made mango jam, played with the kids, ate some Malian rice, and went to greet the chief. The old man with the bad eyes welcomed the visitor and we took a picture for him. Karen picked up a good amount of Bambara during her stay here, and she got at least a dozen marriage proposals. Not to mention everyone begging her to stay here. (My host mom even went so far as to offer to trade me in for her!)
Karen helped with baby weighing on Wednesday and afterwards we got a ride to Bamako with the Peace Corps doctor who came to do my site visit. We ran some errands (mainly replacing my lost items- thanks for hanging in there Karen) and then had a relaxing night. We looked at pictures, new and old, exchanged ideas about life, spirituality, fitness, purpose. It was fantastic to have her, and to feel so un-alone, so blessed with this great friendship. The shower in the old Dalfina was quite temperamental, so we put on our swim-suits and tried to scrub off all the African grime in the pool.
We took it easy in Bamako the last day. Real shopping (not market shopping where people are grabbing at you every second), sight-seeing at the University and through the city. Great restaurants, and real showers. I felt like an American. I felt like I was back in the states, in a way. Not back in the states per se, but back in my own life. With an old friend., doing normal people things. And I found myself craving it. I found myself craving her life- her desk-and-computer job, her grocery shopping, her road-racing, her house with 3 other cool young American girls. I want some time there.
It’s not that I don’t love the Peace Corps, but I think I have tried to block out of my mind how tough it is. It’s tough. It’s fantastic and I’d never give up this experience, but it’s tough. And I’ve been thinking now about where I’m going after this adventure- what field of work, what kind of job, what kind of schooling? I feel like this second year of Peace Corps is going to be personality building. I’ve already broken down the walls. I’ve hit rock bottom many times and pulled myself up. I know what it’s like to scratch at the grass roots of a community, of a problem and to not get anywhere for a while. But I also know that there are possibilities for growth and improvement. I am the only white girl here, but I’m not the only one with resources or motivation. I only pray I can do all I can to help my village come together, and to help you back at home be closer to them.
So since Wednesday, I’m still in Bamako. Depending on a meeting, I may be for another day. That’s a long time. And site guilt is still there, but I’m also treating myself to the real world of work. I’ve been in front of the computer all day. I’ve been visiting NGO workers to discuss projects. I’ve traveled all around Bamako replacing my phone, debit cards and identification. And things are good here. It’s still Western Africa, but it’s a little more modernized. I like this life.
But in the back of my mind I know there is much work to be done. We are just getting started. They say the first year of Peace Corps is trial-and-error, and the second year is where your lasting impact is laid down. A refresher, of motivation, organization, dedication, purpose. I have Karen to thank for all that. And now I’m off. No not to save the world. Not to even save the village of Dombila. Not to even save the CSCOM of the village of Dombila. I’m off to serve- wherever I am needed and however best I can. Inner strength is the starting engine, but one can only travel the avenue of service by following the lead of those you serve. Dombila, I’ve made mistakes against you, I’ve escaped you, I’ve resented you. But I’m still yours. Completely. For another year and change.
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