Where do I start? As life in Mali was beginning to get mundane, I pleaded for your suggestions. What the heck to I write about these days? I had drafted a blog entry about the condition of my bicycle and yet another update on the weather. (I bet you can't wait.) But now, as I am sitting in the Peace Corps office of Accra, Ghana (the very first Peace Corps establishment in 1961), I have plenty other things to report.
I sort of explained to my village I was going on a vacation to Ghana and running a 42 kilometer race. I didn’t want to make it too big of a deal, especially in the midst of the Feast of Ramadan this past weekend. The Feast, I am disappointed to say, was not much of a feast. The Muslim calendar and mother nature’s harvest calendar clashed in such a way that no one had any money or means to really celebrate. Oh sure, they killed a goat at the Bouare’s house, and I actually did eat some unidentified parts of it in hoping to get some extra nutrients for this marathon. But even the xylophones weren’t as well attended- people complained about not having any new fancy clothes to wear. Most of my feast was spent at the party of Shaka and his gang of 6 school boys. During the school vacation this summer, they had a little business running errands and doing chores for people around the village. They collectively managed to save up 4500 cfa (almost $9) and splurged on macaroni, tea, sodas and I contributed some fried plantains. They claimed they were going to dance all night in the little open storage hut that my host dad just built next to mine, but a little after midnight most of them had passed out, their tapes of xylophone music still blaring on the old cassette player. It was wicked cute.
Work only started to get really crazy Wednesday morning, as I was about to leave for my trip. Irene was away at a funeral, Sali was tending to a woman in labor, and 50+ screaming babies were waiting for the vaccinations. It was only me, Viay the vacainator, and two community health workers (one so clueless he might have well been one of the babies). Instead of doing my normal weighing routine and individual consuling, I scanned the crowd and hand-picked babies to be weighed (I’ve developed a pretty good eye for malnutrition, even when they’re all tied up on their mother’s backs.) Here I am running here and there, registering kids, trying to understand why they’re not eating, what the mothers should be doing differently, and the sun keeps rising higher and higher. I got to think about getting out of here soon.
I had a lot on my mind. I was to leave Thursday morning on a flight to Lome, Togo, and aftwerwords find ground transport across the Togo boarder to Accra, Ghana. My civilian passport was still sitting in the Togonese embassy across town in Bamako, and my government passport, with my Malian visa, was nowhere to be found. I ripped my hut apart a number of times and resorted to the prayer and chance that I had passed it over in my safe in Bamako. I could get to Ghana (that is if my Togo visa was processed alright) but could I get back into Mali? Not to mention the fact that my debit card was not working in any ATMs I tried, and between cash and what I had in my Peace Corps account, I had barely over $100 to my name. My computer charger was nowhere to be found, and fresh out of hotel vochuers I had no idea where I was going to sleep in Bamako, if I even made it there in the first place.
My route to Ghana would be solo, but I was to meet up with two characters at some random, nook in the wall hotel we chose- Joel, my marathoning buddy, and Maridee, a retired, older volunteer meeting her daughter’s plane from the states in Ghana. Maridee and her daughter were going to travel around shortly after meeting up, and Joel and I were going to stick together. Meet at hotel, stay with some ex-pat named Mike whose number we got from the race director, race, then travel up to Cape Coast for some real vacation time. Heck, we even decided to stick together on the same pace for the first 10-13 miles of the race. It was because I had heard Joel was doing this marathon that convinced me to sign up in the first place.
By 11:00 I was on my bike and off. Fotiki was following me, the father of Sayo. Sayo is 18 months and has been on our malnutrition rehab program for 4 months now. Each week he drops a few more grams. Puzzeled by our many attempts at counseling and treating underlying diseases, Bouare and I referred him to the hospital in Kati. After much convincing and a few loans from friends, Fotiki and his wife Teresi agreed to go for referred treatment. I was to help them check in and get settled.
So I’m swerving down the road of Dio (the brakes on my bike are broken)trying to get things in order by making frantic calls on my cell phone. (Anyone ever driven with me in the States?)
“Hey Joel, are you in Bamako yet? I think I have a package from my parents in and I don’t know if I’ll be in in time to pick it up.”
“Oh, no I’m not,” Joel responded.
“Are you still in village?” I asked.
“Yeah, did you get my message last night?”
“No…”
Turns out Joel is violently ill with some stomach thing and throat infection and any one of those lovely parasites you can pick up here in Africa. Bottom line: He bailed from the trip. I’m in this one alone.
Transport to Kati was rough, as we stopped to load 50 potato sacks on the top of the bush taxi, and had some dude jumping on and off the roof the whole way there. God knows why. Fotiki, the silent, solemn field farmer he is, was getting impatient. We got there, got settled, dealt with a few helpful and not-so-helpful people at the hospital. Just as I was in the middle of meeting with some of the doctors, my phone rang.
It was Maridee, about to get on her bus. 2 days in the heat across the savannah to Ghana. I’m glad I had a plane ticket at least part of the way.
“Emily- can you pick my daughter up from the airport in Accra tomorrow night? Her plane comes in at 6:30, she’s got long curly hair, her name is Lani. I’m not going to be there until the next morning.” And here I’m trying to get out of the hospital to meet with my friend Camera to help him with a Peace Corps job application, and to get to Bamako, find a place to stay, find my damn passport. I’ve developed a reputation around the volunteers here. Emily is the scatterbrain.
“I’ll try Maridee, but I can’t promise anything.”
Yet things only went smoothly after that. My visa card was working, I even got my Peace Corps paycheck in. My passport ended up being in the desk drawer of the staff member who went to get our Visas renewed, my friend Pete offered me a place to stay, got my vaccine card and boarding pass, I got a fabulous pre-marathon package filled with energy gels, whole grain pasta and new shoes, and I even snagged an old bathing suit top from the lost-and-found. My bathing suit top is lost, but now I can at least hit the beach. (I won’t be matching, oh well…) The only thing that didn’t turn up was my computer charger. So I’m lugging around a dead laptop. Things could be worse.
I’m in a great mood as I check in at the Bamako airport. Being the confusing place it is, I was happy to be on the plane headed for Lome, Togo. Togo is French speaking, and when I arrived I had to find out how I would get to Ghana.
The short taxi drive along the coast ended up at this huge archway with the normal crowds of African beggars and sellers. I get out of my taxi to a rail-thin girl in a lace shawl. “Welcome Sieeeeestarrrrrr!” Pushing through crowds of Africans like this is nothing new, but I didn’t have the trick of being able to speak their native tongue. I showed my papers to a bunch of official looking people, one by one, and was then alone with my two bags, staring at busses and cars.
“We need one more for Accra!” An excited man is yelling standing next to a rather modern, family style SUV. Looks nice. I’ll take it. Because I didn’t have any Ghanian money, I just shoved some CFAs at him, who ran to exchange the money with one of the black market dealers roaming around the coastal scene with wads of bills. Before I knew it, I was on a bumpy road with a Nigerian woman, her brother and his wife, listening to some Rhumba and headed 3 hours West. I take a step back- Did I really just cross the Togo-Ghanian boarder and now I’ve pretty much hitchhiked with a family from Nigeria? Where has life taken me? I’m having a blast already.
Ghana’s a lot different from Mali. Sure, village life is similar all around West Africa, though they’ve replaced millet stalks with palm branches and bamboo on the roofs of their huts. A bit more tropical, a bit more fun. Even the music is better. Instead of this weird, zany, disharmonic xylophone stuff, we got some great base and lively African coastal jams. And to top it all off, ENGLISH SPEAKING. I’m liking Ghana.
The other thing that struck me was the huge Christian presence. We drove by tons of little churches and catholic schools. There were little shack stores like “Jesus is a Winner Plastics” and “God is With You Cold Cuts”. My mind went to the road trip I took with some high school friends a few summers ago on the back roads of Carolina.
We reached the outskirts of Accra, and the Nigerian family just kind of dropped me off on a highway by a little taxi corner. Hmmm, I thought, what to do now. I look at my phone- a little after 5. Well, might as well find the airport.
The Ghana airport was a strange place. There were billboards reading “Trafficking Drugs? You’ll be caught!” “Cocaine Kills!” “Need drug counseling? Call blablabla”. I ran into a whole fleet of missionaries fresh off the plane from Tennessee. They greeted me with enthusiasm knowing I was American. “Oehw! Are yew a missinery tew?”
I got some great Chinese food (well, great to me) and scribbled “Lani” on the back of my boarding pass, and held it up to the exiting travelers feeling like and idiot. It wasn’t long after a confused girl with long curly hair wheeled her luggage around the corner. She did a double-take. “Wait, I’m Lani.”
“Oh! I’m Emily. I know your Mom. We’re supposed to meet her tomorrow morning at the hotel Christanbourg.”
“Oh Ok. I had no idea anyone was coming to meet me!”
“Neither did I! Welcome to Africa.”
Lani and I checked into the rusting hotel and walked out with a Ghanaian staff member to get some food for Lani. She was taking it all in, the air, the clothing, the colors. I, on the other hand was thinking how strange this is. We don’t have the secret language anymore. We are around these Ghanaians who can speak their language that we don’t understand, but if we speak English, they DO understand it! It’s all backwords! I’m supposed to be able to say whatever I want in English without the African understanding (almost got in trouble with that one), and they have no defense because I know Bambara. Ghana is pretty cool, but I’ve been stripped of my weapon.
Exhausted from traveling, we went to bed early. The hotel was pretty gross and overpriced, but it was the designated meeting place. And all I had to get me through the rest of the week was some phone numbers ("We're staying with a guy named Mike" Joel had briefly told be a few weeks ago) and the hope that I’d make some new friends at the Peace Corps office. So I cranked up the air conditioning and enjoyed a good night sleep.
Friday, September 25, 2009
MARATHON TRAINING and MISHAPS
I’ve been training fairly well for this thing. Before my taper, I was up to 63 miles a week and had done a couple of 18 mile long runs and a 20 miler. Not in the shape I was in college, and still carrying around some rice weight, but feeling better than I ever have in country. And my body knows something’s up. I’ve been naturally getting up earlier and drinking a ton of water. Not to mention I bought a loaf of wheat bread and ate the entire thing today. Yummmm. I just hope I don’t regret it.
Like the Chinese.
Or maybe it was the smoothie.
Whatever it was, my body was a little surprised and unfamiliar with it this morning. About three miles in to an easy 4 miler, I had an urge. Some call it “Runner’s Trots.” Here in Peace Corps, we call it “Mr. D.” Whatever you want to call it, I needed some sort of toilet facility. Immediately.
I went to a little corner shop and asked the woman if there was a toilet around. Her English was not great and she first started giving me information about renting a toilet. No, I don’t want to rent one, I have to use one!
We walked across the street to her family’s compound. It was a nice place, clean, with a driveway and a few men hosing down a car. But we had walked. And my intestines didn’t want to wait. It was beyond my power, I don’t know if I’ve ever had an experience like this before, and if I have, I’ve been on some back trail with bushes all over the place. Here I am in the middle of a foreign city in some random Ghanian woman’s driveway and there is s**t dropping from my shorts on to it. The men washing the car look at each other and then give me a strange look. “I am very very sick.” I said. Actually, I felt fine, but I just couldn’t control something. But I played it like I’ve never been so sick in my life, bending over, holding my stomach.
There is someone in the bathroom. The woman is yelling at him to come out in Ashanti, (their native language). All I could make out of it was “Poo! Poo!” A frantic man in nothing but a very tight blue speedo comes out, and I run in. The woman hands me a whole role of toilet paper, in which I use the entire thing. It was a pretty clean bathroom, I thought. I almost wished it was a negen so I wouldn’t feel so bad about being in here. I take my time, trying not to leave any trace. I hear her from the outside, “I am waiting for you,” every couple of minutes.
When I finally emerge, this big Ghanian woman, now abuzz and spastic, hurridley shoves me into the neighboring room where a small shower is running. “Now you wash! Wash it all!” I get in the shower with my clothes on and scrub. “And you yooose da soap! Yooose da soap!” I’m thinking I’ll just clean up as best as I can, throw on my running shoes and sprint out of here. I’ve never been so embarrassed as far as I can remember.
She tries to offer me a change of clothes. “No, it’s ok.” I’m still in the shower, you see. “Wash it! Wash it here!” I thought she was talking about the shower floor. She is almost having a heart attack with her thick glasses and her bright orange African garb. She probably thinks I’m super sick or just wicked disgusting. I pick up a loofa sheet and start to wash the floor. “Wash it! No, no- here!” I look at her, she is pointing to her bee-hind. “No- here!” I close the bathroom door and scrub myself clean. With da soap. I put on my shoes, hurriedly apologize to the entire family, and the woman walks me out.
I try to give her money, I’m apologizing excessively now but she is seriously worried about me. She wants to help me get back, she thinks I’m really sick. I said my friends were down the street and I’d be fine. She tells me to come back if I need anything, anytime. Ghanians are nice right? I don’t think I’d tell that to a stranger/foreigner that s**t all over my house. I do the act and limp down the street holding my stomach, and when I turn the corner, start on finishing my run like before. What else is there left to do?
Note to self: No Chinese before the marathon.
Like the Chinese.
Or maybe it was the smoothie.
Whatever it was, my body was a little surprised and unfamiliar with it this morning. About three miles in to an easy 4 miler, I had an urge. Some call it “Runner’s Trots.” Here in Peace Corps, we call it “Mr. D.” Whatever you want to call it, I needed some sort of toilet facility. Immediately.
I went to a little corner shop and asked the woman if there was a toilet around. Her English was not great and she first started giving me information about renting a toilet. No, I don’t want to rent one, I have to use one!
We walked across the street to her family’s compound. It was a nice place, clean, with a driveway and a few men hosing down a car. But we had walked. And my intestines didn’t want to wait. It was beyond my power, I don’t know if I’ve ever had an experience like this before, and if I have, I’ve been on some back trail with bushes all over the place. Here I am in the middle of a foreign city in some random Ghanian woman’s driveway and there is s**t dropping from my shorts on to it. The men washing the car look at each other and then give me a strange look. “I am very very sick.” I said. Actually, I felt fine, but I just couldn’t control something. But I played it like I’ve never been so sick in my life, bending over, holding my stomach.
There is someone in the bathroom. The woman is yelling at him to come out in Ashanti, (their native language). All I could make out of it was “Poo! Poo!” A frantic man in nothing but a very tight blue speedo comes out, and I run in. The woman hands me a whole role of toilet paper, in which I use the entire thing. It was a pretty clean bathroom, I thought. I almost wished it was a negen so I wouldn’t feel so bad about being in here. I take my time, trying not to leave any trace. I hear her from the outside, “I am waiting for you,” every couple of minutes.
When I finally emerge, this big Ghanian woman, now abuzz and spastic, hurridley shoves me into the neighboring room where a small shower is running. “Now you wash! Wash it all!” I get in the shower with my clothes on and scrub. “And you yooose da soap! Yooose da soap!” I’m thinking I’ll just clean up as best as I can, throw on my running shoes and sprint out of here. I’ve never been so embarrassed as far as I can remember.
She tries to offer me a change of clothes. “No, it’s ok.” I’m still in the shower, you see. “Wash it! Wash it here!” I thought she was talking about the shower floor. She is almost having a heart attack with her thick glasses and her bright orange African garb. She probably thinks I’m super sick or just wicked disgusting. I pick up a loofa sheet and start to wash the floor. “Wash it! No, no- here!” I look at her, she is pointing to her bee-hind. “No- here!” I close the bathroom door and scrub myself clean. With da soap. I put on my shoes, hurriedly apologize to the entire family, and the woman walks me out.
I try to give her money, I’m apologizing excessively now but she is seriously worried about me. She wants to help me get back, she thinks I’m really sick. I said my friends were down the street and I’d be fine. She tells me to come back if I need anything, anytime. Ghanians are nice right? I don’t think I’d tell that to a stranger/foreigner that s**t all over my house. I do the act and limp down the street holding my stomach, and when I turn the corner, start on finishing my run like before. What else is there left to do?
Note to self: No Chinese before the marathon.
Friday, September 11, 2009
What do you want to read?
For those of you that do read this blog, I'd love your feedback. I know it's important to me to write for myself, but I don't have to publish every boring thing that goes on. What do you want to hear about? Culture? Projects? My personal life and thoughts? Descriptions of people in the village? Let me know so that I try to make this blog more exciting for you all to read. I also have some suggested reading for any of you really interested in this stuff.
Books on Peace Corps Life in West Africa:
-Monique and the Mango Rains (Kris Halloway)
-Nine Hills To Nambonkaha (Sarah Erdman)
Adventures in Health Education in Mali:
- Dancing Skeletons (Katherine A. Dettwyler)
(gives a great picture of malnutrition work in Mali by an American anthropologist)
Books on Development and Health
- The White Man's Burden (William Easterly)
- The End of Poverty (Jeffery Sachs)
- Pathologies of Power (Paul Farmer)
Let me know if you get a chance to read any of these.
Peace,
Emily
Books on Peace Corps Life in West Africa:
-Monique and the Mango Rains (Kris Halloway)
-Nine Hills To Nambonkaha (Sarah Erdman)
Adventures in Health Education in Mali:
- Dancing Skeletons (Katherine A. Dettwyler)
(gives a great picture of malnutrition work in Mali by an American anthropologist)
Books on Development and Health
- The White Man's Burden (William Easterly)
- The End of Poverty (Jeffery Sachs)
- Pathologies of Power (Paul Farmer)
Let me know if you get a chance to read any of these.
Peace,
Emily
Partying
I have stories to write about various festivities- ranging from Peace Corps volunteers, to college-kids from Kati, to Muslims in Ramadan. It is the season! And when I return to my computer this entry will be replaced with all the details.
Andi and Sedou
A few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of meeting Andi and Sedou. Andi is a friend of a friend, and I got her information before heading to Mali. From the Rochester area, she now resides in New York City where she met and married Sedou. Sedou, is a Malian! Apparently there is a little pocket of Malians in NYC. Like a "Little Mali". They speak Bambara, make rice and peanut sauce and everything. Andi told me about how she once made toh on their apartment stove. I can just see Sedou instructing her on how to whip the thick paste just like the women in the Malian villages do.
So Andi has had a bit of exposure to Malian culture. She could speak a little Bambara, new some of the customs. But nothing would have prepared her for her first intense experience in Mali. After Andi and Sedou wed in New York, they planned their trip to Sedou's homeland. When I first got to Mali, I was eased into things. Surrounded by Americans, pizza for dinner the first night, a dooni-dooni philosophy of adapting to the cutlure. When Andi first came to Mali, she was thrust into the center of a traditional wedding, caught in a whirlwind as her new family welcomed their son's bride.
I imagine it somewhat like the other Malian weddings I've been to, except this time with a spunky, excited white girl as the woman of the day. She must have gotten her feet painted with henna, given traditional wedding garb to wear, and lead around all day by old women with a shawl over her head. Sitting in the middle of a circle of women, her head covered a thick scarf, she stared at the ground like she was supposed to. Meanwhile, women danced around her to the slow beat of a drum while a griot sang her blessings. All the time thinking about the next few days of house-arrest honeymoon tradition to look forward to.
"I had no idea what was going on!" she confessed. "All of the sudden an old, calloused hand started washing my face as part of the ritual. I thought, Oh there goes my makeup! Well at least no one can see because of this hooded shawl." Meanwhile, the old woman tore off the shawl to reveal the new, cleaned bride (with her mascara running) to the entire crowd.
If anyone could be a great sport about it all, it was Andi. Though new to the country, she was so genuinely excited and full of adoration. A rainstorm and family obligations kept them from getting out to Dombila, which was too bad. Andi aspires to get her medical degree and move back to Mali to work in health care. How cool is that? Sedou is now doing graduate studies in agriculture, and has actually been to Dombila doing some work while he was still in the country.
What a fascinating and courageous couple! It was a joy to meet them and I wish them all the best in their marriage. I know I'll be making a trip to NYC after my Peace Corps service for some good Bambara conversation and some Peter Pan Peanut Butter Sauce and rice. Thanks for the visit, and the blessings from Joanne and Mary!
So Andi has had a bit of exposure to Malian culture. She could speak a little Bambara, new some of the customs. But nothing would have prepared her for her first intense experience in Mali. After Andi and Sedou wed in New York, they planned their trip to Sedou's homeland. When I first got to Mali, I was eased into things. Surrounded by Americans, pizza for dinner the first night, a dooni-dooni philosophy of adapting to the cutlure. When Andi first came to Mali, she was thrust into the center of a traditional wedding, caught in a whirlwind as her new family welcomed their son's bride.
I imagine it somewhat like the other Malian weddings I've been to, except this time with a spunky, excited white girl as the woman of the day. She must have gotten her feet painted with henna, given traditional wedding garb to wear, and lead around all day by old women with a shawl over her head. Sitting in the middle of a circle of women, her head covered a thick scarf, she stared at the ground like she was supposed to. Meanwhile, women danced around her to the slow beat of a drum while a griot sang her blessings. All the time thinking about the next few days of house-arrest honeymoon tradition to look forward to.
"I had no idea what was going on!" she confessed. "All of the sudden an old, calloused hand started washing my face as part of the ritual. I thought, Oh there goes my makeup! Well at least no one can see because of this hooded shawl." Meanwhile, the old woman tore off the shawl to reveal the new, cleaned bride (with her mascara running) to the entire crowd.
If anyone could be a great sport about it all, it was Andi. Though new to the country, she was so genuinely excited and full of adoration. A rainstorm and family obligations kept them from getting out to Dombila, which was too bad. Andi aspires to get her medical degree and move back to Mali to work in health care. How cool is that? Sedou is now doing graduate studies in agriculture, and has actually been to Dombila doing some work while he was still in the country.
What a fascinating and courageous couple! It was a joy to meet them and I wish them all the best in their marriage. I know I'll be making a trip to NYC after my Peace Corps service for some good Bambara conversation and some Peter Pan Peanut Butter Sauce and rice. Thanks for the visit, and the blessings from Joanne and Mary!
The Rainy Season
I wrote this two weeks ago:
I'm tired. Happy but tired. It's been a good week. We've had two wash-out days, which everyone loves. It's an excuse to sleep in and it quiets the qualms of drought that the farmers have been worried about. Rainy Season got off to a slow start. When I was in Bamako helping with training for the new trainees, I casually mentioned to one of my fellow PCVs, "I remembered the rainy season being a lot more brutal last year." She looked at me like I was crazy- "Where have you been? We're in a drought!" Apparently we haven't seen a drier August since 1976, where millions of people struggled because of the poor harvest.
Luckily, the rain has redeemed itself this September, leaving us with two days this week where I could hardly step out of my house. I was able to do some computer work with my chef de post and catch up on my sleep however!
My thoughts to this day are more rain rain go away. The two wash out days turned into 5, and I found those lovely rainy mornings beginning to get under my skin. There are only so many hours I can sit in my hut keeping myself occupied. Only so many naps I can take, so many lists I can make of things I want to get done once the rain stops, only so much reading one can do by flashlight.
When people aren't waiting out the rain, they are sprinting to the fields to get some farming in. The kids are out of school, helping in the fields, the women have tons of work to do, and are not interested in doing health education or bringing their malnurished kids all the way to the CSCOM for weighing. And any free minute the men have, they are resting to recover their bodies from the daylight fasting of the month of Ramadan. My radio show has been rained out twice. Vaccination Days have been canceled. So again, I must report, work is on the slow side.
I have however, had a pastfew busy days in Bamako. Bamako is way more stressful than village, and I realize how much I love my life in Dombila when I'm swamped with real world stuff. It has been nice though to do some computer work and business networking. I've been chosen as the new National Coordinator for Peace Corps HIV/AIDS Task Force, so I've had a lot of, I suppose, "coordinating" to get started on. I'm also getting my travel plans all squared away for my upcoming vacation to Ghana. I'll be running the marathon there on Sept. 27. We'll see how that goes! Training has been fun- it's kept me focused and motivated, though I am still realistic about how much my body can do in this environment. I'll make sure to let you know how it goes. My first marathon, it should be lots of fun.
As far as other work in village, a couple things are going on. I'm helping with a project called "Keneya Ciwara" which is aimed at improving management in the community health centers. I'm also planning a kid's running relay to coincide with one going on back home at HFL. We're going to center it around Clean Water education, while the kids in the states are going to raise money for the expansion of our well project. I'm really excited that everyone back at home is so into this. Our run in on the 21st and I'll be sure to send some picutres.
I'm also eating cucumbers from my garden :) Ah, the simple life.
I'm tired. Happy but tired. It's been a good week. We've had two wash-out days, which everyone loves. It's an excuse to sleep in and it quiets the qualms of drought that the farmers have been worried about. Rainy Season got off to a slow start. When I was in Bamako helping with training for the new trainees, I casually mentioned to one of my fellow PCVs, "I remembered the rainy season being a lot more brutal last year." She looked at me like I was crazy- "Where have you been? We're in a drought!" Apparently we haven't seen a drier August since 1976, where millions of people struggled because of the poor harvest.
Luckily, the rain has redeemed itself this September, leaving us with two days this week where I could hardly step out of my house. I was able to do some computer work with my chef de post and catch up on my sleep however!
My thoughts to this day are more rain rain go away. The two wash out days turned into 5, and I found those lovely rainy mornings beginning to get under my skin. There are only so many hours I can sit in my hut keeping myself occupied. Only so many naps I can take, so many lists I can make of things I want to get done once the rain stops, only so much reading one can do by flashlight.
When people aren't waiting out the rain, they are sprinting to the fields to get some farming in. The kids are out of school, helping in the fields, the women have tons of work to do, and are not interested in doing health education or bringing their malnurished kids all the way to the CSCOM for weighing. And any free minute the men have, they are resting to recover their bodies from the daylight fasting of the month of Ramadan. My radio show has been rained out twice. Vaccination Days have been canceled. So again, I must report, work is on the slow side.
I have however, had a pastfew busy days in Bamako. Bamako is way more stressful than village, and I realize how much I love my life in Dombila when I'm swamped with real world stuff. It has been nice though to do some computer work and business networking. I've been chosen as the new National Coordinator for Peace Corps HIV/AIDS Task Force, so I've had a lot of, I suppose, "coordinating" to get started on. I'm also getting my travel plans all squared away for my upcoming vacation to Ghana. I'll be running the marathon there on Sept. 27. We'll see how that goes! Training has been fun- it's kept me focused and motivated, though I am still realistic about how much my body can do in this environment. I'll make sure to let you know how it goes. My first marathon, it should be lots of fun.
As far as other work in village, a couple things are going on. I'm helping with a project called "Keneya Ciwara" which is aimed at improving management in the community health centers. I'm also planning a kid's running relay to coincide with one going on back home at HFL. We're going to center it around Clean Water education, while the kids in the states are going to raise money for the expansion of our well project. I'm really excited that everyone back at home is so into this. Our run in on the 21st and I'll be sure to send some picutres.
I'm also eating cucumbers from my garden :) Ah, the simple life.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
The New Stage Arrives
Still on the rollercoaster. It’s been long enough, you know? On this day, I find myself sitting in the stage-house in Koulikoro. It’s a weekend party welcoming the new trainees at the end of their site-visit week. Being with 25 Americans freaked me out for the first night. I felt like an awkward 13-year old. How do I converse with these people? Do I even fit in with them? I don’t really know what came over me, just extreme discomfort. So I called my sister, the most socially outgoing person I know, took a walk alongside the Niger river, and then gradually settled in to the social scene. It ended up being a fun weekend. Oh yeah, so these are “my people”.
My new sitemate, Lauren Biggs, arrived in town this past Sunday. She is stationed in the town of Koyan, part of the commune of Dombila, just about 5k away from me. I admit, I was skeptical about the decision to put a volunteer in Koyan. It’s out there. Reeeaaaallly out there. No market. No store which means no bread or biscuts, no CSCOM or Mayor’s office, no real center of town, and the houses are all so spread out that you need to wander through a corn-maze for a good chunk of time before you get to another concession of huts. Only about 1,000 people spread out along the gradually rolling hills of millet and corn, the little river in the gully of shady mango trees, and a three-room school-house- where Lauren will begin her service as an education volunteer. Beautiful, friendly, as cute as can be… but out there.
I waited for her in Dio and together we biked the 8k bumpy path to Koyan, at one point having to forge a small stream of water with a decent current. I tried to imagine what she was thinking as we walked our bikes through water up to our knees. But she kept a calm exterior, and I never let my smile down.
“How do you get shisto?” she asked, a common disease that can infect anyone wading in the dirty waters of Malian streams.
“Don’t think about it,” I said, “we don’t have much choice.”
She took the first step into the gray, cloudy, rushing water. “Oh,” she exclaimed, “this actually feels pretty good!”
Peace Corps learned from last year. After volunteers came back from their villages during site visit week, it was obvious that those who had a “buddy” (another volunteer to show them the ropes for the first couple of days) had a much better experience than those who were sent out into the wilderness on donkey carts alone. I remember how hard of a week that was for me last year, so the least I could do was be as positive and helpful to this new girl as I could be. Koyan is out there, but who knows, she may learn to love it.
I learned that Lauren was actually born in Rochester, NY, then moved to Saudi Arabia, returned for a few years to go to Pittsford Middle School, and then moved to Hawaii for high school. She found herself back on the East Coast until this spring where she graduated with a philosophy degree from Columbia University. A bit shy, with a cute little giggle to cover up her nervousness, but as sweet as can be, I felt really lucky to have another buddy around here. When I told Dalfinie that I had a new friend, a girl who’s working in Koyan, she was happy but said, “They couldn’t have made it a boy? To be your new BOYfriend?” That would have kept the villagers gossiping for months! Not that I didn’t consider that possibility.
I already have a lot of friends in Koyan, and knew that her host family was fabulous. Actually, her host family is the family of N’tossama Diarra, Health Education Program Assistant for the Peace Corps, so I’m sure that connection with the Peace Corps helped the little hamlet of Koyan get on the volunteer site map. N’tossama’s older brother, Fablen, is Lauren’s host dad. Fast-talking, big toothy smile, little gotee, and surprisingly naïve about the outside world, Fablen is a loveable character, and just sitting with him makes me laugh. His two young sons are like “Thing 1” and “Thing 2”- Fablen doesn’t even use their real names, but calls them “Old” and “Small”. His dog also has the very affectionate and creative name of “Dog.”
I stayed two nights with Lauren, introducing her to people, talking to her host family about little improvements for her house, answering her questions about life out in village, and translating. It was a bit weird because I already had all of these preconceptions about her site and experience with these people but I wanted to keep my comments neutral. As much as it’s nice to have a buddy, there’s nothing more important than exploring and discovering on your own. I wanted desperately to get inside her head- when they put the green-slime toh in front of her for lunch, when she stumbled upon her Bambara, when she insisted on drawing her own bath water from the well. “Oh I’m fine!” she’d happily chirp whenever I’d ask her how she was doing. Koyan’s out there, but I think she genuinely likes it. And the village is estatic to have her. All of the old men of the village gathered for a meeting one of her first mornings there with their round Muslim caps sitting cross-legged on the colorful mats under the straw hanger. They gave endless Bambara blessings, and spent a good time of the meeting discussing how during this week, she has no food. “We must all give her food. Warm food. Much food. Not cold food, but warm, good food.” I translated to Lauren and she shot me a worried but amused look- Does this mean everyone in the village is going to constantly be bringing me toh? Probably.
Even I was presented with a chicken for my good work. I tied it to my handlebars to bike back the winding bush road to Dombila. Worked out nice- I got to have a nice chicken dinner for my 23rd birthday. “That is Allah’s work,” the villagers would commonly say, “born in the same village, separated, and then brought back to the same village in another part of the world.” Lauren quickly changed her last name to Diarra- she’s one of us now.
Back in Dombila, I walked the small market, remembering my disappointment during my site visit last year. They weren’t kidding about the scarcity of our market during rainy season- froo-froos (fried milled dough) only. And it was honestly a strange moment. I’m different. I speak the language, I know these people. I’m not trying to impress, to fit in, this is my home, and I’m comfortable here. But as much as I have changed, the thing that suddenly struck me was that Dombila has not. This is the same market I walked last year. These are the same malnourished kids I saw last year, the same people frustrated that the have no money to buy malaria medicines. I’ve been here for a year and nothing has changed. That morning, I felt as out of touch with my purpose as I did that very first market day last year. With one difference, I went in to talk with Irene, my eyes welling up, to be comforted by her and another friend Josephine.
“The whole village knows of your good work. Don’t you see? Mothers come from far off villages to see you, the wells are clean, the people are understanding new things.” And I look at Boare, the motivated doctor of the CSCOM and feel ashamed for having these delusions of grandeur. He has the most unwavering dedication and optimism I have ever seen, and he has been here for years. And he believes in his work and boy does it show. Us second-years need a reminder, a burst of new energy, and we’re lucky to be able to have this group of new, enthusiastic volunteers to give us that boost. I asked a couple girls how they liked their rural sites. “Oh!” they said with loving eyes, “it’s like an African fairy land!” For us veterans, not quite a fairy land. But we like it well enough.
My new sitemate, Lauren Biggs, arrived in town this past Sunday. She is stationed in the town of Koyan, part of the commune of Dombila, just about 5k away from me. I admit, I was skeptical about the decision to put a volunteer in Koyan. It’s out there. Reeeaaaallly out there. No market. No store which means no bread or biscuts, no CSCOM or Mayor’s office, no real center of town, and the houses are all so spread out that you need to wander through a corn-maze for a good chunk of time before you get to another concession of huts. Only about 1,000 people spread out along the gradually rolling hills of millet and corn, the little river in the gully of shady mango trees, and a three-room school-house- where Lauren will begin her service as an education volunteer. Beautiful, friendly, as cute as can be… but out there.
I waited for her in Dio and together we biked the 8k bumpy path to Koyan, at one point having to forge a small stream of water with a decent current. I tried to imagine what she was thinking as we walked our bikes through water up to our knees. But she kept a calm exterior, and I never let my smile down.
“How do you get shisto?” she asked, a common disease that can infect anyone wading in the dirty waters of Malian streams.
“Don’t think about it,” I said, “we don’t have much choice.”
She took the first step into the gray, cloudy, rushing water. “Oh,” she exclaimed, “this actually feels pretty good!”
Peace Corps learned from last year. After volunteers came back from their villages during site visit week, it was obvious that those who had a “buddy” (another volunteer to show them the ropes for the first couple of days) had a much better experience than those who were sent out into the wilderness on donkey carts alone. I remember how hard of a week that was for me last year, so the least I could do was be as positive and helpful to this new girl as I could be. Koyan is out there, but who knows, she may learn to love it.
I learned that Lauren was actually born in Rochester, NY, then moved to Saudi Arabia, returned for a few years to go to Pittsford Middle School, and then moved to Hawaii for high school. She found herself back on the East Coast until this spring where she graduated with a philosophy degree from Columbia University. A bit shy, with a cute little giggle to cover up her nervousness, but as sweet as can be, I felt really lucky to have another buddy around here. When I told Dalfinie that I had a new friend, a girl who’s working in Koyan, she was happy but said, “They couldn’t have made it a boy? To be your new BOYfriend?” That would have kept the villagers gossiping for months! Not that I didn’t consider that possibility.
I already have a lot of friends in Koyan, and knew that her host family was fabulous. Actually, her host family is the family of N’tossama Diarra, Health Education Program Assistant for the Peace Corps, so I’m sure that connection with the Peace Corps helped the little hamlet of Koyan get on the volunteer site map. N’tossama’s older brother, Fablen, is Lauren’s host dad. Fast-talking, big toothy smile, little gotee, and surprisingly naïve about the outside world, Fablen is a loveable character, and just sitting with him makes me laugh. His two young sons are like “Thing 1” and “Thing 2”- Fablen doesn’t even use their real names, but calls them “Old” and “Small”. His dog also has the very affectionate and creative name of “Dog.”
I stayed two nights with Lauren, introducing her to people, talking to her host family about little improvements for her house, answering her questions about life out in village, and translating. It was a bit weird because I already had all of these preconceptions about her site and experience with these people but I wanted to keep my comments neutral. As much as it’s nice to have a buddy, there’s nothing more important than exploring and discovering on your own. I wanted desperately to get inside her head- when they put the green-slime toh in front of her for lunch, when she stumbled upon her Bambara, when she insisted on drawing her own bath water from the well. “Oh I’m fine!” she’d happily chirp whenever I’d ask her how she was doing. Koyan’s out there, but I think she genuinely likes it. And the village is estatic to have her. All of the old men of the village gathered for a meeting one of her first mornings there with their round Muslim caps sitting cross-legged on the colorful mats under the straw hanger. They gave endless Bambara blessings, and spent a good time of the meeting discussing how during this week, she has no food. “We must all give her food. Warm food. Much food. Not cold food, but warm, good food.” I translated to Lauren and she shot me a worried but amused look- Does this mean everyone in the village is going to constantly be bringing me toh? Probably.
Even I was presented with a chicken for my good work. I tied it to my handlebars to bike back the winding bush road to Dombila. Worked out nice- I got to have a nice chicken dinner for my 23rd birthday. “That is Allah’s work,” the villagers would commonly say, “born in the same village, separated, and then brought back to the same village in another part of the world.” Lauren quickly changed her last name to Diarra- she’s one of us now.
Back in Dombila, I walked the small market, remembering my disappointment during my site visit last year. They weren’t kidding about the scarcity of our market during rainy season- froo-froos (fried milled dough) only. And it was honestly a strange moment. I’m different. I speak the language, I know these people. I’m not trying to impress, to fit in, this is my home, and I’m comfortable here. But as much as I have changed, the thing that suddenly struck me was that Dombila has not. This is the same market I walked last year. These are the same malnourished kids I saw last year, the same people frustrated that the have no money to buy malaria medicines. I’ve been here for a year and nothing has changed. That morning, I felt as out of touch with my purpose as I did that very first market day last year. With one difference, I went in to talk with Irene, my eyes welling up, to be comforted by her and another friend Josephine.
“The whole village knows of your good work. Don’t you see? Mothers come from far off villages to see you, the wells are clean, the people are understanding new things.” And I look at Boare, the motivated doctor of the CSCOM and feel ashamed for having these delusions of grandeur. He has the most unwavering dedication and optimism I have ever seen, and he has been here for years. And he believes in his work and boy does it show. Us second-years need a reminder, a burst of new energy, and we’re lucky to be able to have this group of new, enthusiastic volunteers to give us that boost. I asked a couple girls how they liked their rural sites. “Oh!” they said with loving eyes, “it’s like an African fairy land!” For us veterans, not quite a fairy land. But we like it well enough.
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