In smaller towns, the market is somewhat ordered. Shanties of wooden beams and cornstalk roofs lean against each other, creating a block formation maze of brown. When it's not market day, the place is absolutely abandoned, tables overturned and discarded plastic bags blowing across the paths. On market day, each stall is filled with giant ricebags full of stuff, the territory staked out long ago. In the city, the market blossoms out of the streets, women arriving early to get a good spot. The market twists and turns through the streets, diving under plastic tarp and corrugated metal roofs one minute to flood back into the sunlight the next.
I love the experience of a market. All of my senses are assaulted as I wander through the stalls. Women sit behind vegetables and spices, trying to get me interested in their wares. If a seller with something unusual sees me, she goes right for me - they seem to have figured out that the foreigners like the strange fruits. There's a crush of people in front of and behind me and I feel like I'm swimming in a school of fish, just going wherever the mob pulls me. Children weave through the crowd, calling out "Tubaboo!" as I pass, just to see if I'll look. Sometimes, they follow me for a few minutes, ordering me to give them money until I order them to go away. My mind wanders as I focus on the smells and colors around me; the smells can change drastically and suddenly - one minute, I can smell pepper and crushed spices, but then the air around me is filled with the smell of dried fish or fresh meat, and then just as suddenly it switches to a perfume of soaps and new fabrics. My eyes are in constant motion, flitting from one stall to the next, straining to make out what's in the shadowy shops behind the stalls. It doesn't matter if a whole side street is just tomatoes, onions, and cabbage, I still watch, searching for the elusive carrot, avocado, or fruit.
In town, I can expect to start at one place and end at another, with the ability to get back to any stall I wish to. In the city, I find myself completely turned around and lost, using my senses to guide me back to the noisy, sunlit main road. I wander from fresh vegetables into meat into jewelry and fabrics. The fabrics always give me pause, just staring at the vibrant colors. I keep moving, drinking up the patterns with my eyes and listening to the whir of old Singer sewing achines. In another section, different sized metal cauldrons and clay pots are stacked next to rows upon rows of brightly colored plastic dishes. In still another section, I find myself surrounded by prayer mats and religious items, while one street over there are dried animal skins and bones, talismans, and strange powders for people still practicing animism. I love the possibility of finding something new and surprising, of asking what something is and having to use charades to understand the answer. I love being lost in the crowd and just wandering with them, deciding which way to turn at an intersection on a whim. I come out at the end of the day, berating myself for spending too much money, but feeling refreshed and excited despite it.
On a related note, I bought a hammock.
September 17, 2010
September 4, 2010
Team America
So it’s official, I’m a volunteer and tomorrow I move into my new home. The ceremony was yesterday (Friday) morning. It was pouring all morning, so we were all soaking wet and pretty unhappy when we got to the embassy. I figured that the ceremony would be more or less just something that I had to sit through, as ceremonies often are, but I actually enjoyed it. It was a strange feeling to be looking up at the ambassador as she gave her speech and realizing that I’ve actually gotten myself here and can now call myself a Peace Corps volunteer. I must admit, I’m pretty freaking proud of myself :-P
After the ceremony, a lot of pictures were taken (and eventually, I will have some on here. It might be a while) and we went to the American club for a few hours. Lunch was burgers (I had a veggie burger that left a lot to be desired. Anyone have a good black bean burger recipe?), salad, and really good chocolate stuff for dessert. Then I put on my swimsuit and hung out at the pool for 3 or 4 hours. Very relaxing. Then we bussed over to the hotel we stayed at for the night to shower, change, get ready, etc. I had a hot shower and put on jeans and makeup. It was pretty crazy. I went to a Chinese restaurant with a bunch of people and had some really good potstickers. After that we went out to a couple of clubs and literally danced the night away. It was at the club that our trainers (current PCVs) revealed our stage (training class) name - Team America. I got back to the hotel at 4:30 AM, and then woke up about 3 hours later. Pretty exhausted now.
Today involved a lot of walking around Bamako in search of a music store to buy a guitar. I’ve decided that I’m going to have a lot of free time, so I might as well try to actually learn to play a guitar. I am now a proud owner of a blue acoustic. Hopefully I’ll be able to play it in 2 years.
So the next three months are kind of in-site on your own training. I’m not allowed to start any projects and am supposed to focus on language and integration stuff, as well as conduct a survey with as many families as possible. I’ll probably be back around the internet world in a month or so. Maybe less, I’m not really sure. Below are a couple of stories from homestay. The first one isn’t written well, but I don’t feel like editing it. Maybe another day.
Lessons in Anger
The last few days that I’ve been with my host-family had gone really well. I’d enjoyed being with them, talking to them. Today, I got back from class early and decided to finally do the laundry that’s been piling up (some volunteers give it to their families to was, but I feel awkward doing that). It took about half an hour to wash my underwear in the privacy of my room – everyone is expected to wash & dry underwear privately. As for my actual clothes, I estimated that I had about 2 buckets worth to wash. I bring out my buckets, clothes, and soap, lugged water out of the well, and go about washing the clothes without any issues. While my 10 year old sisters (or some relative, somehow) help me hang the clothes to dry, the rack holding up the line falls over and a few things get dirt on them. My sisters exclaim and whisk the clothes away to be rinsed again while I grab the rest of my laundry and bring it over. They snatch the bundle from me and dunk it all in a bucket of water, sprinkling some powdered soap on top. Some sense of unnecessary pride makes me shoo them away. My sisters watch skeptically as I put my hands on my hips and stare at the buckets – they have messed up my system and I’m hesitant as to where I should go from here (I should have bought a 3rd bucket a few weeks ago…). I have barely put my hands in the bucket when they rush in, pointing emphatically and jabbering on about what I can only guess is the top 10 things I’m doing wrong.
“I’ve got it,” I insist, possibly too harshly. They get my point even if they don’t understand the English. After this many weeks, they’ve figured out that sometimes it’s best to just let the Tubab do her backwards thing (besides, they can always fix it later, when I’m not around). As I continue, the 24 year old washing dishes next to me chuckles a little at my lack of expertise. She’s been doing this for the last 19 years and I’ve only got a few months under my belt, but whatever. She continues to laugh and shouts something across the compound. Just ignore it; she isn’t trying to be mean. Patience. I ought to stand up, demand to know why she’s laughing, and join in. I know I’ll feel better if I do, but I just keep going, staring hard at my laundry. Still laughing, she comes over to take away your personal space and your laundry, telling you what you’re doing wrong. “I know, it’s fine,” I tell her, unable to come up with the simplest Bambara sentence through my frustration. Just laugh, my mind whispers. NO, I argue with myself, I am hot, I am tired, and I know how to do my goddamned laundry. This is not funny. The woman stands up and gasps out that I don’t know how to do your laundry AND I don’t understand her between bursts of laughter.
“Ayi, N y’a faamu (No, I understand). The skirt is bleeding color into the water and you want me to get new water, but I think it’s fine. It’s fine. N y’a faamu, but it’s fine,” I insist. If I tried, I could tell her that in Bambara, but I just want her to leave. She’s just trying to help… just laugh with her! “I’m not an idiot, it’s fine. Go away.” Something in my voice makes the woman let me be (though still laughing), and I finish my laundry. My hands shake as I hang up the last of it. I’m upset and frustrated at myself for being upset.
One of the 10 year olds follows as I head to by room to eat. I close the screen door behind us and realize that flies invaded my room because someone left the screen open. If I was being honest with myself, I would admit that it was probably me, but I’m too overwhelmed by thoughts of amoebas and parasites and how the hell to get rid of the flies. “Fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck. Shit. Goddamnit. Fuck!” I mutter as I grab some folded paper – a makeshift flyswatter. My sister, wide-eyed from surprise at my sudden anger, grabs a handheld fan to help. She whispers to a girl who comes over laughing – probably something about how the Tubab has gone crazy and should not be teased right now. I eventually give up and sit down to eat. The girl joins me cautiously, opening the bowl to reveal one of my least favorite sauces, though I can’t turn it down because there is no other option. I concentrate on the floor in front of me as I feel the tears gathering. This is ridiculous, I’m being ridiculous. I shake my head and look up, exasperated by my lack of control over my own emotions. I catch my sister wringing her hands and flitting her eyes around the room. Something in her face – her fear at my own bizarre behavior – amuses me, and I can’t help but smile. She cautiously smiles back and giggles, which makes me smile more, and suddenly we’re both laughing. My mind clears as I remember that it isn’t me against the world & that I have a whole country of people happy to laugh with me whenever, at whatever, if I just let them.
Lessons in Attachment (8/26)
Last night, I sat in front of the kitchen and stared at the full moon rising over my family, gathered for the evening prayers of Ramadan. I guessed shapes in the clouds and meditated to the sound of my father chanting for the group of silent, pious bodies. My 23 year old sister-in-law sat next to me, designated to cook the fish while everyone else prayed.
“Mamu,” she called me by my Malian nickname, drawing my attention back to the present. We chatted for a few minutes about my approaching final departure from Banankoro, though I just got back a few days ago, and about what I’ll be doing over the next few months. We both stared into the fire for a few minutes, all of my attention on how good the frying fish smelled. “Mamu, I nyenan fin bena n na.”
“N ma faamu…” I don’t understand…
She repeated herself, and I turned the verb she used, nyenan fin, around in my mouth. I recognized the way it sounded, the way it felt, but the meaning wasn’t coming to me. Eventually, I shrugged and she nodded – mutual agreement to drop it because I wasn’t going to understand. I went back to staring at the moon and mulled over the last couple of months. During PST, we never really knew what was going on. We were shuffled around, put through an emotional rollercoaster, and weren’t always nice people. I realized that through all of it – the sudden coming and goings, the mood swings, and the inability to communicate – my family had stood there, encouraging me, making me wake up for class & bathe, guessing at food I would enjoy, and brushing it off when I offended them. I wasn’t always easy to deal with, but they always smiled when I came home.
It was at this point that I realized this place and my little sky-blue bedroom had become a home for me, and that my host-family had somehow become my family. It happened both suddenly and quietly – they immediately accepted me with open arms and then won me over by loving dependableness. Then I realized that I wouldn’t be able to see them for some months, and that I would really miss them.
“Miss,” I mused, “I never remember that word. Starts with an ny, has two words… oh!” I touched my sister-in-law’s arm, “Batouma, N fanna. I nyenan fin bena n na.” Batouma, me too. I’ll miss you too.
After the ceremony, a lot of pictures were taken (and eventually, I will have some on here. It might be a while) and we went to the American club for a few hours. Lunch was burgers (I had a veggie burger that left a lot to be desired. Anyone have a good black bean burger recipe?), salad, and really good chocolate stuff for dessert. Then I put on my swimsuit and hung out at the pool for 3 or 4 hours. Very relaxing. Then we bussed over to the hotel we stayed at for the night to shower, change, get ready, etc. I had a hot shower and put on jeans and makeup. It was pretty crazy. I went to a Chinese restaurant with a bunch of people and had some really good potstickers. After that we went out to a couple of clubs and literally danced the night away. It was at the club that our trainers (current PCVs) revealed our stage (training class) name - Team America. I got back to the hotel at 4:30 AM, and then woke up about 3 hours later. Pretty exhausted now.
Today involved a lot of walking around Bamako in search of a music store to buy a guitar. I’ve decided that I’m going to have a lot of free time, so I might as well try to actually learn to play a guitar. I am now a proud owner of a blue acoustic. Hopefully I’ll be able to play it in 2 years.
So the next three months are kind of in-site on your own training. I’m not allowed to start any projects and am supposed to focus on language and integration stuff, as well as conduct a survey with as many families as possible. I’ll probably be back around the internet world in a month or so. Maybe less, I’m not really sure. Below are a couple of stories from homestay. The first one isn’t written well, but I don’t feel like editing it. Maybe another day.
Lessons in Anger
The last few days that I’ve been with my host-family had gone really well. I’d enjoyed being with them, talking to them. Today, I got back from class early and decided to finally do the laundry that’s been piling up (some volunteers give it to their families to was, but I feel awkward doing that). It took about half an hour to wash my underwear in the privacy of my room – everyone is expected to wash & dry underwear privately. As for my actual clothes, I estimated that I had about 2 buckets worth to wash. I bring out my buckets, clothes, and soap, lugged water out of the well, and go about washing the clothes without any issues. While my 10 year old sisters (or some relative, somehow) help me hang the clothes to dry, the rack holding up the line falls over and a few things get dirt on them. My sisters exclaim and whisk the clothes away to be rinsed again while I grab the rest of my laundry and bring it over. They snatch the bundle from me and dunk it all in a bucket of water, sprinkling some powdered soap on top. Some sense of unnecessary pride makes me shoo them away. My sisters watch skeptically as I put my hands on my hips and stare at the buckets – they have messed up my system and I’m hesitant as to where I should go from here (I should have bought a 3rd bucket a few weeks ago…). I have barely put my hands in the bucket when they rush in, pointing emphatically and jabbering on about what I can only guess is the top 10 things I’m doing wrong.
“I’ve got it,” I insist, possibly too harshly. They get my point even if they don’t understand the English. After this many weeks, they’ve figured out that sometimes it’s best to just let the Tubab do her backwards thing (besides, they can always fix it later, when I’m not around). As I continue, the 24 year old washing dishes next to me chuckles a little at my lack of expertise. She’s been doing this for the last 19 years and I’ve only got a few months under my belt, but whatever. She continues to laugh and shouts something across the compound. Just ignore it; she isn’t trying to be mean. Patience. I ought to stand up, demand to know why she’s laughing, and join in. I know I’ll feel better if I do, but I just keep going, staring hard at my laundry. Still laughing, she comes over to take away your personal space and your laundry, telling you what you’re doing wrong. “I know, it’s fine,” I tell her, unable to come up with the simplest Bambara sentence through my frustration. Just laugh, my mind whispers. NO, I argue with myself, I am hot, I am tired, and I know how to do my goddamned laundry. This is not funny. The woman stands up and gasps out that I don’t know how to do your laundry AND I don’t understand her between bursts of laughter.
“Ayi, N y’a faamu (No, I understand). The skirt is bleeding color into the water and you want me to get new water, but I think it’s fine. It’s fine. N y’a faamu, but it’s fine,” I insist. If I tried, I could tell her that in Bambara, but I just want her to leave. She’s just trying to help… just laugh with her! “I’m not an idiot, it’s fine. Go away.” Something in my voice makes the woman let me be (though still laughing), and I finish my laundry. My hands shake as I hang up the last of it. I’m upset and frustrated at myself for being upset.
One of the 10 year olds follows as I head to by room to eat. I close the screen door behind us and realize that flies invaded my room because someone left the screen open. If I was being honest with myself, I would admit that it was probably me, but I’m too overwhelmed by thoughts of amoebas and parasites and how the hell to get rid of the flies. “Fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck. Shit. Goddamnit. Fuck!” I mutter as I grab some folded paper – a makeshift flyswatter. My sister, wide-eyed from surprise at my sudden anger, grabs a handheld fan to help. She whispers to a girl who comes over laughing – probably something about how the Tubab has gone crazy and should not be teased right now. I eventually give up and sit down to eat. The girl joins me cautiously, opening the bowl to reveal one of my least favorite sauces, though I can’t turn it down because there is no other option. I concentrate on the floor in front of me as I feel the tears gathering. This is ridiculous, I’m being ridiculous. I shake my head and look up, exasperated by my lack of control over my own emotions. I catch my sister wringing her hands and flitting her eyes around the room. Something in her face – her fear at my own bizarre behavior – amuses me, and I can’t help but smile. She cautiously smiles back and giggles, which makes me smile more, and suddenly we’re both laughing. My mind clears as I remember that it isn’t me against the world & that I have a whole country of people happy to laugh with me whenever, at whatever, if I just let them.
Lessons in Attachment (8/26)
Last night, I sat in front of the kitchen and stared at the full moon rising over my family, gathered for the evening prayers of Ramadan. I guessed shapes in the clouds and meditated to the sound of my father chanting for the group of silent, pious bodies. My 23 year old sister-in-law sat next to me, designated to cook the fish while everyone else prayed.
“Mamu,” she called me by my Malian nickname, drawing my attention back to the present. We chatted for a few minutes about my approaching final departure from Banankoro, though I just got back a few days ago, and about what I’ll be doing over the next few months. We both stared into the fire for a few minutes, all of my attention on how good the frying fish smelled. “Mamu, I nyenan fin bena n na.”
“N ma faamu…” I don’t understand…
She repeated herself, and I turned the verb she used, nyenan fin, around in my mouth. I recognized the way it sounded, the way it felt, but the meaning wasn’t coming to me. Eventually, I shrugged and she nodded – mutual agreement to drop it because I wasn’t going to understand. I went back to staring at the moon and mulled over the last couple of months. During PST, we never really knew what was going on. We were shuffled around, put through an emotional rollercoaster, and weren’t always nice people. I realized that through all of it – the sudden coming and goings, the mood swings, and the inability to communicate – my family had stood there, encouraging me, making me wake up for class & bathe, guessing at food I would enjoy, and brushing it off when I offended them. I wasn’t always easy to deal with, but they always smiled when I came home.
It was at this point that I realized this place and my little sky-blue bedroom had become a home for me, and that my host-family had somehow become my family. It happened both suddenly and quietly – they immediately accepted me with open arms and then won me over by loving dependableness. Then I realized that I wouldn’t be able to see them for some months, and that I would really miss them.
“Miss,” I mused, “I never remember that word. Starts with an ny, has two words… oh!” I touched my sister-in-law’s arm, “Batouma, N fanna. I nyenan fin bena n na.” Batouma, me too. I’ll miss you too.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)