Currently reading: The Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac
So apparently, it's the 21st of December. WHAT? The thing about December in this heat - it's confusing me. I'm used to snow, ice, and cold, so I keep forgetting that it's December and almost Christmas. This is probably a good thing because it's keeping me from feeling homesick about missing the holidays at home. So I'm not really sure if I'm going to get used to the lack of seasons (besides, you know, really hot and raining a lot) or if some internal thingamabob will just keep telling me it's summer. For all 27 months. 820 days of summer is a lot of summer.
So brief recap. After my last blog post, I went to Sikasso for Thanksgiving with about 60 other volunteers. It was really nice. Good food, good people, nice break. I was back at site for 1 week before in-service training (IST) began, which is where I've been for the last 2 weeks. Training invloved me getting pizza 5 times (as compared to... once in the last 3 months. that was hard.), lots of sessions on a blur of subjects, going out on the town a couple of times, and a lot of time speaking English. I didn't realize how much I wanted a break from having to be "on" all of the time until I get to Tubani so. So that was really nice. I was back at site for a hot second and am now in Koutiala, in transite to go to Sikasso and hang out at some waterfalls for Christmas. I'm excited for next month and digging into work, whatever form it takes.
Also, quick shout-out for all of the letters and packages!!! I cannot adequately express how warm and fuzzy they make me feel. so yay.
Kansas (12/19)
For the past two weeks, I've been living at the PC training site, Tubani so, for 'in-service training' with 79 other volunteers (my whole stage). It was exciting to see everyone, though a little overwhelming, but that quickly wore off and boredom set in as we sat through session after session. Eventually, life at T-so became somewhat enjoyable and comfortable. Pre-service training felt a lot like latchkey - we gave up a lot of freedoms, were monitored, and generally felt like we were being treated like children. We've apparently grown up since then, being allowed to choose our sessions to some extent and being able to leave the site. And leave we did. People went out for dinner, dancing, and drinking (I do love alliteration...), spent a lot of money, and took late-night cab rides home. Morning sessions sometimes found people catching up on the gossip of the last night and nursing hangovers.
But despite the occasional fun night, I was ready to come back to site - come back home - a couple of days in. Then, at some point last night, I realized that I kinda liked seeing all of these people and going out for good food. I started to worry that I didn't want to go back, that I'd get to F. and crash in a 'what the hell am I doing living in a Malian village' kind of way. This morning, I ran on autopilot as I packed, ate breakfast, and said goodbyes. I was scared that I didn't want to go, that a few fun times in the city somehow stole my motivation instead of replenishing my energy.
Pretty early on in the trip, I had a TIA (This is Africa) moment. We were stuck in traffic in a market area and I was admiring the fruit being sold on my right when my view of the bananas was obstructed by a kid - around 16 years old - pushing a wooden wheelbarrow with a dead cow in it. Just doing his thing, probably bringing said cow to a butcher not too far away for 50 ¢ or so. The people around him didn't bat an eye at the boy and his cow; nothing out of the ordinary for them. The whole scene made me laugh ('cause seriously, wtf.), but also jolted me. I am here and this IS reality. I have a tendancy to view my life in America as "the real world" - as if the next 2 years are just a mirage, a game. As if I am on pause while here and we're all just playing house. But this house, this village, and these people aren't some part of an elaborate dream - this is real and this place is really my home.
I spent a lot of that car ride thinking about the tendency to treat Africa - as a whole continent - as a neverland or Oz: Africa is wild, a jungle, a safari. It has been raped and pillaged, it's war-torn, its children are starving and have flies on their faces. Africa is what you think about when you want to give back to the world, when you don't finish all the food on your plate. Africa is up on an exotic pedestal while at the same time unable to get up and out of the mud. And in reality, all of those things most definitely exist here. But there's that word again - reality. And in reality, there's a Malian village called F. with people just living their lives.
I think that if I am going to make it through my entire service, I need to accept that this is my life without stamping an expiration date on it so quickly. I want to become invested, entangled in these people's lives, to really know them and from that knowledge help them. I don't think that I can do that if this is my Oz - this has to be my Kansas. But, you know, easier said than done.
Firelight (12/2)
At night, my host family pulls up a few logs under the gwa (hangar) and we sit around a small fire. My host dad nods off listening to his radio while I deal out the Skip-Bo cards for the next round with my host mom. Looking across the road, the darkness is dotted with small fires; the sound of laughter and murmurs floats and swirls in the air. On my other side, the sky stretches out, endless. Some nights, the moon illuminates the ground like a floodlight. Other nights, like tonight, the milkyway sits like a cloud of spun-sugar on an sea of stars, each glittering and winking at me. These nights make me feel stress-free, feather-light, invincible, eternal. These nights, I am not an American trying to prove something in the African bush; I am just another person warming my feet at the fire, another beating heart, just breathing.
(12/1)
Yesterday, I went into Koutiala ("the city." ha.) for a few hours and got home in the early evening. When I got home, some things were scattered on the floor and one of my windows was slightly ajar - I assumed that my kitten had just gone a little crazy from being cooped up all day and went about my business. About an hour later, something made me check the place where I was keeping my cash. The money, as you've probably anticipated, was gone. I frantically searched my house as I calculated how much I'd left in the house, about $80, or 1/3 of my monthly stipend. I freaked, there may have been crying - the loss of money I could deal with, but the thought that someone in my tiny village would break into my home and go through my things was a little much.
So I want you all to pause here and consider what you would do in this situation in the U.S. I'm going to guess that you would call the police. They'd come over, a report would be filed, and then... nothing. The plan of action in a Malian village is, not surprisingly, a little different. I walked over to my host family's house in the calmest way possible (reminding myself to take deep breaths the entire way), and tried to explain to my host mom what had happened. She came over shaking her head incredulously - the last 3 volunteers in F. were all bad about locking up their windows and door and had no issues what-so-ever. I always lock my door and windows when I will be gone overnight, but there is one screen with a bitch of a lock, so I left that window open and the screen closed but not locked, thinking that I would be gone for less than a day so it would be fine. Not true. Anyways, Djelika went to get Drissa (host dad) as I stood there, suddenly unsure and uncomfortable about everything around me. Drissa reiterated that this has never happened to a volunteer in F. and that we would figure everything out.
Thinking there was nothing left to do for it at 7:00 pm, I went to call my mother and eat dinner at my host family's. After dinner, Adiaratou, my homologue, showed up - apparently while I was talking to my mom, my host dad got her and they told the village chief as well as the other 'important' people around. Adiaratou told me that everything would sort itself out. When I just nodded mutely, she said, "Mariam (my Malian name, btw), you are not hurt, no one is hurt, and we will find out who did this, so don't cry." The similarities between this and what my mom said on the phone earlier that night made me smile, though I ignored the "we will find them" part. I went to bed that night uneasy. Everyone I saw used to be a neighbor, a friend. I tried not to, but I couldn't help seeing everyone I passed as a thief as I went to bed.
In the morning, I was still in my pjs when Adiaratou stopped by. She was grinning at me, which made no sense until she pulled out her wallet and handed me my money - all of it. Overnight, word had gotten out in the community. A few boys tried to buy a phone in the next village and were "caught." Just as suddenly as it disappeared, my feeling safe here returned. The town where the boys were caught is 6 km away and has a few thousand people in it, yet they still knew overnight and, more than that, even the store owner cared enough to get the money back to me when he could easily have pleaded ignorance and gained a nice chunk of change out of the experience. I know that I'll sleep well tonight, and every night that I'm in F., because I truly feel protected.
Peace & Love,
Elyse
Oh, and Happy Holidays!!!
