During a visit from my mom, I was chastised multiple times for not keeping up with this blog. Apologies. Catch-up -- August was spent drawing and painting world maps, see below for more on that. September somehow passed by without a lot happening. In October, I spent the first week in Bamako, working on changes to the health volunteer manual. The rest of the month passed in a blur, waiting for the end of the month when I met my mom in Morocco (!!!). Vacation was wonderful, I had fresh orange juice daily and, of course, got to spend some quality time with my momma. After a week in Morocco, mostly in the beach town Essaouira, we flew into Mali and spent a week here. We were in my village for Seliba (also known as Tabaski), the big fête. All in all, we had a wonderful time together. I then spent Thanksgiving in Sikasso with a lot of other volunteers, catching up and eating good food.
And that brings us to now. I will be helping with a research project in Koutiala during part of December, and then heading to Dogon country for Christmas before coming back to village to focus on my big project of the year, a well at my maternity. Today marks 17 months in Mali, I can't believe it's come this fast and I'm already doing my second set of holidays in Mali. Promise to try to keep up with this more regularly!
(12/1)
My arms itch from the sorghum particles floating in the air. Nearby are the whistles and thumps of sticks whacking a huge pile of the harvest. Even the 6 year old joins in - if you want to eat, you have to work. I am the exception, of course, their token white person. A few good whomps with a stick and it's taken away from me, too strenuous. I can't say that I really mind. The fluid rhythms passing through the group are mimicked in my legs, bouncing the 4-month-old my family is taking care of.
Making faces and cooing to calm the hungry child, (actions, I might note, that once made me painfully self-conscious) I contemplate my afternoon. There are small preparations for vague, future projects, but I know after this many months that little of those will happen today. Self-motivation is a slippery creature when you lack deadlines and expectations. More likely, I'll visit with friends- the list of people I need to go drink tea with grows despite how social I think I'm being. I list and categorize things that need to be done, many of which would not make sense right now and are just further put off. In this way, days slip into weeks, floating complacently by me.
Kindling (11/18)
"Kolomousso," Sali started as she calculated the numbers for the meningitis vaccination campaign, "is the cleanest of all the villages we serve." We sat on her porch in the late afternoon, her making tea while I enjoyed the break from heat as the sun went down
"Why?" I asked, my attention was momentarily distracted from the doves fighting on the wall.
She mumbled numbers before answering simply, "The women clean it every week." I smiled. So obvious. Kolomousso is a couple of miles 'into the bush,' as they say. There are a couple huge, beautiful baobob trees, but besides that it is an average Malian dustbowl. The village closest to it, N'Tarla, is lush by comparison, with gardens and a lot of vegetation, but many of the children there are sick and/or malnourished. They run around with rotting teeth, reddish, brittle hair, inflated bellies, and sticks for arms and legs - all signs of malnutrition. The children in Kolomousso, on the other hand, are all healthy and happy.
"Sali! The babies there are all so healthy and fat, that has to be why!" She glanced up at me, amused at my realization on a topic I'd been going on about for months. I was having a slow day. Thoughts swirled and wheels turned as I considered the neighboring villages, how they could help each other. I conjured up plans of formations, womens groups, sanitation practices. "Sali," I said hesitantly, "if we could get the Kolomousso women to talk to the women in N'Tarla, and maybe the other villages, they could explain how they organize the village cleaning, and the other villages could use them for an example, and then start their own organizations, and then..." I stopped myself from rambling too much.
She set her pen down, considering me for a minute before softly saying, "sometimes different groups or villages don't get along, and this prevents them from helping each other..." The nice way of saying, "no." I nodded, focusing on the doves that were once again in battle. I grumbled about people's interest extending as far as their front door and stopping there. She made empathetic noises. It was nice, I mused, that Sali would answer me honestly, rather than just encourage whatever hair-brained schemes I come up with. This, I decide, could be very useful in a question I've been trying to answer by myself the last few months.
"Sali... When I give animations to people, nothing changes. For example, if I talk to a group of women about what nutritional needs their kids have, they don't cook anything differently, or if I explain why soap is necessary, they don't really -" I stopped, a lump forming in my throat. Where the hell is that coming from? I screwed up my eyebrows, forcing it to go down. "So my question for you," I continued, "is if I should even continue doing animations at all?"
I know how this sounds. Not at all like your average cheerful, optimistic Peace Corps volunteer who perseveres through all of the trials of the developing world and comes out the other end having impacted the lives of villagers in countless ways. I realized, at some point, that it is not that simple. I've spent the last few months sifting through a lot of existential crisis (in relation to Peace Corps) questions with myself, and yet find myself with few answers to those questions. Motivation packed its bags and slammed the door for a while, despite efforts to reclaim it by painting maps. To coax it to come back, I've acknowledged to myself that the people I work with in my village will work for and bother me about building a well at the maternity, but leave me be besides that. With this I acknowledged that almost any other projects, any other work, is going to have come from self-motivation with the understanding that things might not change. Because people don't always want to change, it turns out. I taped a quote to my wall, "It is possible, even desirable, to give 100 percent effort to an activity without having any stake in the results." (The quote, I believe, came from The Geography of Bliss, by Eric Weiner.) Motivation poked it's head in the door, it is listening at least. That's a step in the right direction.
Sali blinked at me for a minute, confused by what I was asking. Finally, she blurted out, "Yes! Mariam [that's me], sometimes people don't have the money to change right away, or they listen but then go home and are too distracted by taking care of their families to remember to do anything differently. Or you talk to children, and they can't change anything in their parents' home, but they will remember and change how things are when they are in charge. Mariam, people are listening when you talk to them. You have to keep talking to them, to repeat yourself until they can't forget."
Her conviction, her belief in not only me but also what I was trying to do, surprised me. She had never before mentioned that she approved of and really cheered on the small things I did around the village. Then again, I never asked. I was left speechless, nodding. I expected a tentative "maybe this isn't helping," or a superficial "yay Peace Corps!" but I did not expect real fire. That fire seems to have been lit under where Motivation was sitting, bumming on my front door. It's come back inside, though the bags are still half packed. It's probably my job to unpack those bags.
Translations (11/7)
In a way, I'd forgotten what it was like, being thrown into a place where virtually no one spoke the same language as you. Watching my mom interact with my villagers for her few days in the strange place I now refer to as home, I recognized her smile as the same one that was glued to my face when I first walked down this dirt road last August.
We're blessed continuously (literally). Eventually, I don't have the energy to translate line-for-line to my mother's constant 'what are they saying?' 'They greet, they bless,' I respond. I can't begrudge her craving a translator: I've been there, I know the infuriation of not understanding anything and not having any basic connection to the words, as there are between romance languages. You're suspended in an alternate world, and your translator is almost your umbilical cord.
Sharing tea at my host family's, a younger man walks in and greets us. "This is my mother," I explain. He says something that I think references my mom's chest, so I ask him to repeat himself.
"Truly, you're drinking breast milk right now," he repeats.
"Ah," I respond, not knowing what else to say.
"Your mother is here, she always takes care of you so you are drinking breast milk again," he continues, "I too am visiting my mother."
"So we're both drinking breast milk!" I finish for him, understanding and unfazed. My mom asks what he said. I turn to her but stop myself, imagining her reaction. "He's just greeting, I'll explain later," I say. Mom smiles and nods at him.
Later I do tell her what he said, explaining that breasts are not sexualized here, that it's a Malian way of saying I don't have to worry and am being cared for. Mom nods, but she can't hide the shocked and slightly appalled look on her face. Really, I find this all pretty amusing.
World Map Project (10/12)
I've spent a lot of time thinking about this blog entry. Literally hours as I drew lines and squiggles, stared at a wall, and sniffed paint fumes, trying to come up with the right antic to draw you all into the story. Eventually, however, I gave up. Eventually, I didn't want to think about maps or painting for a long time. Still don't, really.
The first map I helped paint was in a friend's village. The homologues kept taking the paintbrushes from us, and then at the end a few men couldn't help themselves from critiquing our painting abilities.
"This is so messy! Look at all of these random dots!"
"Those are supposed to be there, those are islands," we explained, slightly piqued
"No, no. Those can't be real. What are they doing there?"
"Well, people live there."
At this they burst out laughing and slapped each others backs. One finally gasped out, "But where do they put their houses!?" This is what we refer to as a cultural exchange. or something.
Bethany and my world map project evolved slowly. In time, we decided that we would draw out the maps, local 6th graders would do the actual painting, and then we would come in to do any touch-ups in the end. The process worked well, all in all. I learned to let the little things go. And honestly, I was frustrated in August. All of it. Handing over paintbrushes to a group of kids who are not in the habit of coloring can have... exciting results. But when we handed over those brushes and told them we would put their handprints and their names on the wall, each one was so excited. Made me feel fortunate for all of the art classes throughout my life, the fact that my school list at one point included some sort of apron so I wouldn't dirty my clothes while painting and playing with clay.
Without a template to go by, the international fair portion of the project had a number of kinks that will eventually be worked out in reproductions (hopefully). Due to forces outside of our control, the fair was put on hold after the first day, which was enough to leave me exhausted in and of itself. I spent the morning cooking rice, beans, and corn in different forms with women from my village. They laughed when I wasn't sure how to cook rice. Exhasperated explanations (pleas, really) that I knew how to cook rice for myself and just didn't know how to cook 15 kilos of it at once over an open fire... this didn't help my cause.
But in the end we served up giant bowls of a rice and bean dish to represent Mexico and a corn and bean dish to represent Cameroon (both were slight alterations on the original recipes, but the idea was there). "I've been to Mexico, I've been to Cameroon!" the women crowed as they stirred and taste-tested the giant vats of food. We had to keep reminding them how to say both words as well as that the two places were different countries. Still, who knows - maybe they'll start altering some of their own beans-in-a-bowl-of-oil dinners now that we've showed them they could be adding other ingredients.
It was decided that a panel discussion would be much easier than a fair with booths, and keep us somewhat within time constraints, though we still took 2 hours as opposed to the 1 we were allotted. There were many confused faces among the children. We told them to let us know if they were ever confused - one little boy continuously repeated, "I don't understand." But the teachers were helpful and seemingly appreciative, and the kids devoured the food. We had noted how one would have to travel to get to each country we talked about during the panel; right before we left, a little boy came up and asked if we were going to get on our planes and go home now that we were done - he'd misunderstood and thought we'd each come in from the countries we talked about and would then fly away. Explaining the world and it's many cultures, it turns out, is not an easy feat.
(10/9)
I can hear Bethany shuffling behind me, echoing my snails pace as we walk to market. Only 10:00 AM and we are both already silently cursing the heat. Some girls giggle as they walk past, shouting "Tubabu! Waari di yan!" (White girl! Give me money!). I contemplate the amount of energy it would take to tell them off, then contrast it to the energy needed to shake them up a little. I immediately wince at my own thoughts - I would never hit a child, but Mali makes you think hard about it a little too often for comfort. I can imagine the empathetic expression of a volunteer at this versus the scandalized expression of people back home. Maybe it's the heat.
Returning to my mono-colored surroundings, punctuated only by vibrant fabrics, I decide the majority of the year should be called hot season. April-May should be called 'get the hell out of Mali' season. 'Hell,' for short. I sigh and plod along, knowing all will be well when I can find some cold ginger juice and used-clothing piles.
Peace & Love
Elyse
December 2, 2011
September 18, 2011
Please help with our world map project!
During the month of August, my sitemate, Bethany, and I painted 3 different world maps with the help of a few other volunteers and many eager 6th graders. More on the process of this later, once I have had some time away from it. The maps went into the elementary schools in my village, her village, and a 3rd village nearby. Not to toot my own horn, but the maps look really good. Still, what's a pretty map if no one knows about it or cares about it?
Thus, the second part of our project will be a 3-day international fair held at each school. Volunteers in the area will come in to talk about different countries around the world (highlighted on the maps) and explain both cultural similarities and differences. We want to cover all of the continents (well, maybe not Antarctica) and open the minds of both students and the villagers to the global community. We'll talk about fun things like how people can live on islands, how you would get from Mali to the other countries, the weather, ethnicity, language, and food.
One thing that volunteers bounce back at each other is WHY Mali can have the same main ingredients as many other countries but some how come up with Malian cuisine (We all laugh in that haha-but-seriously way). For example, they have rice. They also have beans. But do they put the two together? Why of course not! We would like to provide samples of food eaten in other countries at the international fairs, as well as simple, accessible, reproduce-able recipes. This would provide a tangible way for our communities to consider healthier options for feeding their families, and reaching a broad audience while doing so.
While we don't need very much money to do this, we need more than a volunteer's stipend can provide (here's where you come in...). For all three villages to have samples of food from 4 different countries, we need only $200. Anything you can contribute would help. Thank you.
More information and the way to donate can be found here:
https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=688-362
Peace & Love
Elyse
Thus, the second part of our project will be a 3-day international fair held at each school. Volunteers in the area will come in to talk about different countries around the world (highlighted on the maps) and explain both cultural similarities and differences. We want to cover all of the continents (well, maybe not Antarctica) and open the minds of both students and the villagers to the global community. We'll talk about fun things like how people can live on islands, how you would get from Mali to the other countries, the weather, ethnicity, language, and food.
One thing that volunteers bounce back at each other is WHY Mali can have the same main ingredients as many other countries but some how come up with Malian cuisine (We all laugh in that haha-but-seriously way). For example, they have rice. They also have beans. But do they put the two together? Why of course not! We would like to provide samples of food eaten in other countries at the international fairs, as well as simple, accessible, reproduce-able recipes. This would provide a tangible way for our communities to consider healthier options for feeding their families, and reaching a broad audience while doing so.
While we don't need very much money to do this, we need more than a volunteer's stipend can provide (here's where you come in...). For all three villages to have samples of food from 4 different countries, we need only $200. Anything you can contribute would help. Thank you.
More information and the way to donate can be found here:
https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=688-362
Peace & Love
Elyse
The rains, the night, and the sunkalo (8/12)
The Rains
For the past month and a half, my eyes have never strayed far from the horizon. I watch as puffy clouds with luminescent white tops and flat, make-you-pout-grey bottoms roll by, wishing for them to bring rain. My tin roof sounds like a bowl of rice krispies as you pour milk on them, but I rush out to find a beautiful blue sky and mocking sun. These clouds that look like you could pluck them from the sky and eat them, spun sugar melting on your tongue, are just for show. I continue with my daily business as the Malians do, until the winds announce their arrival. Trees bend, sheep scatter, and newly washed clothes hung up to dry are cast into the dirt. At the signal of the winds, Malians rush frantically to move everything important under cover as I twirl around in my yard and watch the rain clouds - now giant, smoldering grey masses tinged with lightning - gallop across the sky. I don't even mind the dust clawing at my face.
Last night I tossed and turned fitfully, finally waking at 1:00 AM, drenched in an obscene amount of sweat, unable to make myself lay back down on my heat-radiating foam mattress. I grumbled and whimpered as I stumble-crawled to the floor in my middle room, curling up and praying more of a breeze would find me there. It was somewhere in the 80ºs, a warm but nice nighttime temperature, but the humidity held the air in its hot, slippery fingers. 1/2 an hour later I was startled awake and for a second thought I was back home in the summer, acorns crashing onto the sunlights. As more drops started falling and the wind ripped past my house, I realized a storm was finally coming, releasing the pressure. Getting back into my bed, I felt the spray of a leak. Too relieved to be upset that my mattress was quickly soaking through, I grabbed a bucket to catch the drops and turned to sleep on the other side, cooled by a breeze and soothed by the rain rushing onto my tin roof.
Rainsticks never made sense to me until I came to Africa. Stretching my young imagination as we poured rice into nail-riddled paper towel tubes in girl scouts, I could almost see it. But the first time I woke up to a storm gathering force on our metal roof in Cameroon, swelling into a thunderous surge, that's when it clicked.
The rains here are people's lifeline. Like farmers the world over, Malians stand in their fields, looking to the sky to tell them when to plant. They need the rains to work with them, need the storms to fall enough but not too much and not too early. These few, precious months are the only rains we get here. If they fail or change drastically, the country would starve.
As the heat reaches disgusting levels and the humidity gathers its troops, idle wishes of rain turn into pleas to the heavens for a short reprieve. They acquiesce, but at a price. With the rains come the flies, more than you can imagine, carrying micro-things-you-don't-want-inside-you to everything they touch. Then come the mosquitoes, annoying and also dangerous, injecting malaria into as many people as they can. The roads and the paths turn into muddy rivers, and all of the animal droppings -from cow down to chicken - scattered there mingle with the mud, leaving your feet splattered with questionable materials.
The Night
The night belongs to the children. When the moon is hiding, the only sounds are the croaks and chirps of toads and crickets, and you can lose yourself in the stars. Not held back by light pollution, they twinkle and gleam. The big dipper often rests on it's handle to the west, but other constellations are blurred in the innumerable sea of lights, the cotton swath of the milky way.
But then as the moon returns, so do the noises of human habitation, of children. Somewhere, someone is blasting music. Chores are rushed and hasty explanations are babbled as everyone who still lays some claim to childhood bursts out into the night. The giggles, screams, and pounding feet are in my ears well past midnight. The moon I am used to is calm, motherly, quietly beautiful. Here, the moon shows a different face; radiant, she fills the night with light and you squint when you try to look at her. When I sleep outside and the moon is full, I wake up in the middle of the night, my eyes tricked into believing it's the sun.
The Sunkalo
(Soon-cal-oh) is Bambara for the month of fasting, or Ramadan. Every day, my village wakes up at 4:00 to eat their first meal. It can't be labeled breakfast for it scorns simple coffee and porridge, instead claiming large servings of toh or rice and sauce, hopefully with some form of protein. Malian women, who'd be up by the end of the meal anyways, just start the rest of their day. Those fasting aren't supposed to have food or drink (that includes water) until about 7:00 PM, when the sun sets.
Early in July, Drissa mentioned how all 3 of the previous volunteers fasted for a day, but then didn't bring it up again. The rest of my village teased me before and now during the fast, when they see me take a bite to eat or a sip of water while the sun is awake. Many volunteers spend at least a day fasting to better understand and connect with their villagers. For me, the 2 days I joined them were for the pride in Drissa's face as he told other people, and their further nods of approval as they passed the information on. They recognized that I was fasting not out of any religious obligation but rather because I am theirs and they are mine, so we're all in this together. My fasting was a sign of respect, of community.
Still, I've found this month exhasperating. Based on the lunar calendar, the dates of Ramadan change about 10 days every year. This year, it fell exactly in August. August is a big month in Mali. The rainiest month of the year here, most Malians go out to work in their fields all day, each day, to prepare for and plant their main cereal crops. As they are planting for the coming year, families try to stretch the extremely low stores from the previous year - here, August is known as the hungry month. The days, usually noisy and full of people chatting and drinking tea, turn quiet between people out working and others sitting, too exhausted and hungry to do much more. Pregnant women, young children, and older people are exempt from fasting, but everyone else is expected to do so, even if they are doing manual labor in the fields all day. I respect my villagers' piety, but can't help wrinkling my eyebrows in concern for their health.
Peace & Love
Elyse
For the past month and a half, my eyes have never strayed far from the horizon. I watch as puffy clouds with luminescent white tops and flat, make-you-pout-grey bottoms roll by, wishing for them to bring rain. My tin roof sounds like a bowl of rice krispies as you pour milk on them, but I rush out to find a beautiful blue sky and mocking sun. These clouds that look like you could pluck them from the sky and eat them, spun sugar melting on your tongue, are just for show. I continue with my daily business as the Malians do, until the winds announce their arrival. Trees bend, sheep scatter, and newly washed clothes hung up to dry are cast into the dirt. At the signal of the winds, Malians rush frantically to move everything important under cover as I twirl around in my yard and watch the rain clouds - now giant, smoldering grey masses tinged with lightning - gallop across the sky. I don't even mind the dust clawing at my face.
Last night I tossed and turned fitfully, finally waking at 1:00 AM, drenched in an obscene amount of sweat, unable to make myself lay back down on my heat-radiating foam mattress. I grumbled and whimpered as I stumble-crawled to the floor in my middle room, curling up and praying more of a breeze would find me there. It was somewhere in the 80ºs, a warm but nice nighttime temperature, but the humidity held the air in its hot, slippery fingers. 1/2 an hour later I was startled awake and for a second thought I was back home in the summer, acorns crashing onto the sunlights. As more drops started falling and the wind ripped past my house, I realized a storm was finally coming, releasing the pressure. Getting back into my bed, I felt the spray of a leak. Too relieved to be upset that my mattress was quickly soaking through, I grabbed a bucket to catch the drops and turned to sleep on the other side, cooled by a breeze and soothed by the rain rushing onto my tin roof.
Rainsticks never made sense to me until I came to Africa. Stretching my young imagination as we poured rice into nail-riddled paper towel tubes in girl scouts, I could almost see it. But the first time I woke up to a storm gathering force on our metal roof in Cameroon, swelling into a thunderous surge, that's when it clicked.
The rains here are people's lifeline. Like farmers the world over, Malians stand in their fields, looking to the sky to tell them when to plant. They need the rains to work with them, need the storms to fall enough but not too much and not too early. These few, precious months are the only rains we get here. If they fail or change drastically, the country would starve.
As the heat reaches disgusting levels and the humidity gathers its troops, idle wishes of rain turn into pleas to the heavens for a short reprieve. They acquiesce, but at a price. With the rains come the flies, more than you can imagine, carrying micro-things-you-don't-want-inside-you to everything they touch. Then come the mosquitoes, annoying and also dangerous, injecting malaria into as many people as they can. The roads and the paths turn into muddy rivers, and all of the animal droppings -from cow down to chicken - scattered there mingle with the mud, leaving your feet splattered with questionable materials.
The Night
The night belongs to the children. When the moon is hiding, the only sounds are the croaks and chirps of toads and crickets, and you can lose yourself in the stars. Not held back by light pollution, they twinkle and gleam. The big dipper often rests on it's handle to the west, but other constellations are blurred in the innumerable sea of lights, the cotton swath of the milky way.
But then as the moon returns, so do the noises of human habitation, of children. Somewhere, someone is blasting music. Chores are rushed and hasty explanations are babbled as everyone who still lays some claim to childhood bursts out into the night. The giggles, screams, and pounding feet are in my ears well past midnight. The moon I am used to is calm, motherly, quietly beautiful. Here, the moon shows a different face; radiant, she fills the night with light and you squint when you try to look at her. When I sleep outside and the moon is full, I wake up in the middle of the night, my eyes tricked into believing it's the sun.
The Sunkalo
(Soon-cal-oh) is Bambara for the month of fasting, or Ramadan. Every day, my village wakes up at 4:00 to eat their first meal. It can't be labeled breakfast for it scorns simple coffee and porridge, instead claiming large servings of toh or rice and sauce, hopefully with some form of protein. Malian women, who'd be up by the end of the meal anyways, just start the rest of their day. Those fasting aren't supposed to have food or drink (that includes water) until about 7:00 PM, when the sun sets.
Early in July, Drissa mentioned how all 3 of the previous volunteers fasted for a day, but then didn't bring it up again. The rest of my village teased me before and now during the fast, when they see me take a bite to eat or a sip of water while the sun is awake. Many volunteers spend at least a day fasting to better understand and connect with their villagers. For me, the 2 days I joined them were for the pride in Drissa's face as he told other people, and their further nods of approval as they passed the information on. They recognized that I was fasting not out of any religious obligation but rather because I am theirs and they are mine, so we're all in this together. My fasting was a sign of respect, of community.
Still, I've found this month exhasperating. Based on the lunar calendar, the dates of Ramadan change about 10 days every year. This year, it fell exactly in August. August is a big month in Mali. The rainiest month of the year here, most Malians go out to work in their fields all day, each day, to prepare for and plant their main cereal crops. As they are planting for the coming year, families try to stretch the extremely low stores from the previous year - here, August is known as the hungry month. The days, usually noisy and full of people chatting and drinking tea, turn quiet between people out working and others sitting, too exhausted and hungry to do much more. Pregnant women, young children, and older people are exempt from fasting, but everyone else is expected to do so, even if they are doing manual labor in the fields all day. I respect my villagers' piety, but can't help wrinkling my eyebrows in concern for their health.
Peace & Love
Elyse
July 10, 2011
July 1st, 2010
It is 10:30 pm, June 30 2010, and I'm sitting on my living room floor. I chat on the phone with a good friend as I pack the last of my things into my suitcase. For the past week, the living room has been sacrificed to piles of my things as I finalize my packing list. I tell my friend that I should focus on packing, that I'm almost done. At 1:30, I tear myself away from obsessing over a computer that's coming with me anyways and crash into my bed.
Somewhere around 3:00 am, my alarm bites into sleep that was fragile and superficial at best. I drag my body out of bed, knowing my mom will be upstairs in 5 minutes to make sure I've gotten up and didn't just hit the snooze again. (I ignore the thought that she won't be there to do that for the next two years.) Downstairs, we get ready mutely, both of us exhausted physically and emotionally. I wander the house frantically, bordering on manic as I pick up things only to cast them aside the next minute, opening and closing rooms, shuffling through methodically packed bags. Our "by the latest" mark comes and I'm not any closer to walking out.
"Elyse, we have to go," my mom's voice is hoarse but firm, and I pick up my backpack to follow her down the hall. She stops and turns abruptly, pulling me in tight. My sobs surprise me. She gently pulls away and tugs me out the door. The world is dark, quiet as we slice through it, echoing its silence. I will myself not to scream at her to stop at least 10 times, fearful I'd forgotten something or other. The bagel I'd bought the day before sticks in my throat. It takes a lot of swallowing and coughing for me to realize that the lump I feel is a mass of emotion, not bagel.
At the airport, I hesitantly ask the man printing my ticket if my mother can come to the gate, ever the polite Iowan. Waiting to board, we sit quietly, holding each other. There's a group of people my age laughing and joking in the terminal, no doubt about to embark on some adventure. I couldn't feel farther away from them in that moment. The last boarding call comes over the intercom and my mom and I embrace, a word too carefree and happy for our actions. We mumble "be safe's" and "I love you's", our tears mixing on our cheeks. It's my turn to pull away and give her a smile, stay strong. As they check my ticket and I step into the flyway, I don't look back. I know she'll be standing there, crying, and I don't think I'm strong enough to walk away from that. I tune into my iPod after I take my seat and my mind skirts around its only thought: What am I doing here?
My fear and uncertainty were overwhelmed by excitement with each step. O'Hare, Philly, JFK, Charles de Gaulle, and finally the dingy rooms of the Bamako airport. Hard to believe that was a year ago. Parts of the preparations and the beginning, conversations, are hazy, but parts stand out bright, tangible, my mom at the center. I'm fortunate to have a really good relationship with her, and going from talking to her almost every day to this was one of the hardest adjustments, a void.
As this past June ambled on, I've compared the dates with their twins from the previous year, the contrast of comfort, certainty, and understanding. I keep going back to that hug in the hallway, so many thoughts and emotions tumbling in me that I felt like a washing machine, and all that came out was a sob. A few days ago, I sat in the maternity, knees to my chest, rocking slightly. With no women coming in to vaccinate their infants, the 2 women I was working with were chatting. I stared into space, cocooned in my thoughts, once again dominated by a simple, "what am I doing here?"
My village likes to remind me that the last year has slipped through my fingers, quick as sand though there were many days that inched forward, and that this next year will pass by me even more swiftly. I shush them, well aware that my time here is now "downhill." 1 year is starting to look so small, I can't figure out if I'm happy about that or not. Days, weeks, even months pass before I realize, busy just living here. Looking around, I feel comfortable, content. This is my village and these are my people. Yet that does not quell my nerves, my inner proddings of what I am doing here and, past that, why did I come here?
I create plans, schedules (guidelines, really) for the coming months, searching out what information is missing in my community, what needs to be reiterated, always with the maternity well they so want held in my mind's eye. But still my questions, questions that seem ancient, new, and eternal simultaneously, remain unanswered. For now, I ignore them, incapable of fully answering myself. They will return, pop up like a jack in the box - always surprising, even when you know it's coming. I hope blindly that by this time next year, I'll have some sort of answer.
Some Things I've Learned (AM Learning) in a Year
- 8 glasses of water a day isn't actually that much water
-Don't let pride and vanity keep you from letting kids - or anyone - help you. And sometimes you're going to have to ask for that help.
- Large mice and 10" lizards are amusing. Scorpions as small as your thumbnail, however, should be beaten to a pulp and dropped down the nyegen.
- If you give a mouse a cookie...
- Saying "I can't" or "I won't give you that" in relation to both personal and project items is healthy for everyone involved. This won't make people hate you.
- Explaining 'why' is even better.
- Not buying something small you want - like that fluffy towel - because no one in your village has it, they might judge you, and really you don't need it isn't always reason enough. It's the little things that make all the difference.
- Share, be generous, it will make everything brighter and taste better. On the same token, don't feel guilty for keeping that whole bag of M&Ms to yourself.
- Yes, it's hot, and yes, you're tired, but it's rarely too hot and you're rarely too tired.
- When they laugh at you, laugh with them. Don't take it so personally.
- Donkeys are some of the loudest, most wily, and most annoying creatures. But they have some of the cutest babies.
The More You Know (6/17)
While at Knox, I spent a little time volunteering with the Boys & Girls Club. There was a woman who came once in a while to give health lessons - how to properly brush your teeth and floss, hand washing with that cool blacklight soap. I always cringed a bit when she came, imagined talking to kids who clamored to be the special helper, who asked and answered questions for attention, only to forget the point of the lesson immediately after. Ironically fitting, I suppose, that I now do and go through those same things here.
I prepared for this last lesson with pictures carefully inked onto sketchbook sheets - like the woman at the B&GC, I was attempting to use something novel to grab the kids' attention (note that novel here is a story with cartoon pictures, not a sweet blacklight machine or giant teeth). Though I could read through my presentation in 10-15 minutes, I anticipated it would take much longer - it took about 45 minutes all together. Again, I could see my own language improvements - instead of the teachers interpreting and repeating me line for line, the kids repeated my lesson back to me (except for the really confusing parts, like the pictures of blood cells fighting malaria cells).
With these kids, the hardest part is helping them connect parts of the message to make a whole - explanation and understanding rather than automatic, hollow memorization. If you were to empty a child's "backpack" here, you'd often find a pen, a notebook, and maybe a flimsy workbook. No binders full of notebooks and colorful folders, or 20 lost pens at the bottom, mixed with tattered notices intended for parents, nor planners, rulers, and markers. More importantly, no schoolbooks. Because of the lack of books, everything is learned through rote memorization. The kids turn into squawking parrots at a very young age and learn to avoid in depth investigations of anything, or to really just ask "why?" After every sentence of my animation, I paused, knowing the teachers would ask what I'd said. If a student had the right idea but not my exact wording, another child was asked. I wondered if they'd get bonus points for using the same tone and inflection as me, but I never found out - students physically leaned forward to force the words out faster. Stutterers where shamed and left behind.
I'm still trying to puzzle out how to get across a message and create behavior change from that message in both children and adults. While I cannot change the whole school system and it would be almost unthinkably rude to contradict a teacher for their "help" during my animations, I can ask questions throughout the talk, requiring at least a few students to link together ideas. And I can (carefully) talk to the teachers about their methods while we talk after my animations.
"Are there any questions?" I asked at the end of my malaria animation, hoping to wrap things up. The director took this too literally, forcing the kids to come up with bad questions that elicited bad, exasperated responses from me (Ex: What sicknesses can kill you? What if someone doesn't have enough for malaria medicines? How do you cure sickness?) and little help from the director. They're on vacation now, but I'm hoping to be better armed with materials, ideas, and answers for them in October. It's a learning process.
Peace & Love
Elyse
Somewhere around 3:00 am, my alarm bites into sleep that was fragile and superficial at best. I drag my body out of bed, knowing my mom will be upstairs in 5 minutes to make sure I've gotten up and didn't just hit the snooze again. (I ignore the thought that she won't be there to do that for the next two years.) Downstairs, we get ready mutely, both of us exhausted physically and emotionally. I wander the house frantically, bordering on manic as I pick up things only to cast them aside the next minute, opening and closing rooms, shuffling through methodically packed bags. Our "by the latest" mark comes and I'm not any closer to walking out.
"Elyse, we have to go," my mom's voice is hoarse but firm, and I pick up my backpack to follow her down the hall. She stops and turns abruptly, pulling me in tight. My sobs surprise me. She gently pulls away and tugs me out the door. The world is dark, quiet as we slice through it, echoing its silence. I will myself not to scream at her to stop at least 10 times, fearful I'd forgotten something or other. The bagel I'd bought the day before sticks in my throat. It takes a lot of swallowing and coughing for me to realize that the lump I feel is a mass of emotion, not bagel.
At the airport, I hesitantly ask the man printing my ticket if my mother can come to the gate, ever the polite Iowan. Waiting to board, we sit quietly, holding each other. There's a group of people my age laughing and joking in the terminal, no doubt about to embark on some adventure. I couldn't feel farther away from them in that moment. The last boarding call comes over the intercom and my mom and I embrace, a word too carefree and happy for our actions. We mumble "be safe's" and "I love you's", our tears mixing on our cheeks. It's my turn to pull away and give her a smile, stay strong. As they check my ticket and I step into the flyway, I don't look back. I know she'll be standing there, crying, and I don't think I'm strong enough to walk away from that. I tune into my iPod after I take my seat and my mind skirts around its only thought: What am I doing here?
My fear and uncertainty were overwhelmed by excitement with each step. O'Hare, Philly, JFK, Charles de Gaulle, and finally the dingy rooms of the Bamako airport. Hard to believe that was a year ago. Parts of the preparations and the beginning, conversations, are hazy, but parts stand out bright, tangible, my mom at the center. I'm fortunate to have a really good relationship with her, and going from talking to her almost every day to this was one of the hardest adjustments, a void.
As this past June ambled on, I've compared the dates with their twins from the previous year, the contrast of comfort, certainty, and understanding. I keep going back to that hug in the hallway, so many thoughts and emotions tumbling in me that I felt like a washing machine, and all that came out was a sob. A few days ago, I sat in the maternity, knees to my chest, rocking slightly. With no women coming in to vaccinate their infants, the 2 women I was working with were chatting. I stared into space, cocooned in my thoughts, once again dominated by a simple, "what am I doing here?"
My village likes to remind me that the last year has slipped through my fingers, quick as sand though there were many days that inched forward, and that this next year will pass by me even more swiftly. I shush them, well aware that my time here is now "downhill." 1 year is starting to look so small, I can't figure out if I'm happy about that or not. Days, weeks, even months pass before I realize, busy just living here. Looking around, I feel comfortable, content. This is my village and these are my people. Yet that does not quell my nerves, my inner proddings of what I am doing here and, past that, why did I come here?
I create plans, schedules (guidelines, really) for the coming months, searching out what information is missing in my community, what needs to be reiterated, always with the maternity well they so want held in my mind's eye. But still my questions, questions that seem ancient, new, and eternal simultaneously, remain unanswered. For now, I ignore them, incapable of fully answering myself. They will return, pop up like a jack in the box - always surprising, even when you know it's coming. I hope blindly that by this time next year, I'll have some sort of answer.
Some Things I've Learned (AM Learning) in a Year
- 8 glasses of water a day isn't actually that much water
-Don't let pride and vanity keep you from letting kids - or anyone - help you. And sometimes you're going to have to ask for that help.
- Large mice and 10" lizards are amusing. Scorpions as small as your thumbnail, however, should be beaten to a pulp and dropped down the nyegen.
- If you give a mouse a cookie...
- Saying "I can't" or "I won't give you that" in relation to both personal and project items is healthy for everyone involved. This won't make people hate you.
- Explaining 'why' is even better.
- Not buying something small you want - like that fluffy towel - because no one in your village has it, they might judge you, and really you don't need it isn't always reason enough. It's the little things that make all the difference.
- Share, be generous, it will make everything brighter and taste better. On the same token, don't feel guilty for keeping that whole bag of M&Ms to yourself.
- Yes, it's hot, and yes, you're tired, but it's rarely too hot and you're rarely too tired.
- When they laugh at you, laugh with them. Don't take it so personally.
- Donkeys are some of the loudest, most wily, and most annoying creatures. But they have some of the cutest babies.
The More You Know (6/17)
While at Knox, I spent a little time volunteering with the Boys & Girls Club. There was a woman who came once in a while to give health lessons - how to properly brush your teeth and floss, hand washing with that cool blacklight soap. I always cringed a bit when she came, imagined talking to kids who clamored to be the special helper, who asked and answered questions for attention, only to forget the point of the lesson immediately after. Ironically fitting, I suppose, that I now do and go through those same things here.
I prepared for this last lesson with pictures carefully inked onto sketchbook sheets - like the woman at the B&GC, I was attempting to use something novel to grab the kids' attention (note that novel here is a story with cartoon pictures, not a sweet blacklight machine or giant teeth). Though I could read through my presentation in 10-15 minutes, I anticipated it would take much longer - it took about 45 minutes all together. Again, I could see my own language improvements - instead of the teachers interpreting and repeating me line for line, the kids repeated my lesson back to me (except for the really confusing parts, like the pictures of blood cells fighting malaria cells).
With these kids, the hardest part is helping them connect parts of the message to make a whole - explanation and understanding rather than automatic, hollow memorization. If you were to empty a child's "backpack" here, you'd often find a pen, a notebook, and maybe a flimsy workbook. No binders full of notebooks and colorful folders, or 20 lost pens at the bottom, mixed with tattered notices intended for parents, nor planners, rulers, and markers. More importantly, no schoolbooks. Because of the lack of books, everything is learned through rote memorization. The kids turn into squawking parrots at a very young age and learn to avoid in depth investigations of anything, or to really just ask "why?" After every sentence of my animation, I paused, knowing the teachers would ask what I'd said. If a student had the right idea but not my exact wording, another child was asked. I wondered if they'd get bonus points for using the same tone and inflection as me, but I never found out - students physically leaned forward to force the words out faster. Stutterers where shamed and left behind.
I'm still trying to puzzle out how to get across a message and create behavior change from that message in both children and adults. While I cannot change the whole school system and it would be almost unthinkably rude to contradict a teacher for their "help" during my animations, I can ask questions throughout the talk, requiring at least a few students to link together ideas. And I can (carefully) talk to the teachers about their methods while we talk after my animations.
"Are there any questions?" I asked at the end of my malaria animation, hoping to wrap things up. The director took this too literally, forcing the kids to come up with bad questions that elicited bad, exasperated responses from me (Ex: What sicknesses can kill you? What if someone doesn't have enough for malaria medicines? How do you cure sickness?) and little help from the director. They're on vacation now, but I'm hoping to be better armed with materials, ideas, and answers for them in October. It's a learning process.
Peace & Love
Elyse
June 7, 2011
Mirror, mirror, on the wall...
So, I buzzed my head (I can practically hear both parents going, "Elyse, NOooo!" Actually, when my mom saw it, she said "Oh, well that's not so bad," which is the same thing she said when she saw my tattoo). My legitimate excuse is because it's HOT. Since I got rid of my hair, I've woken up to a very sweaty head, neck, and pillow significantly less. Plus cooling it off and washing it in a bucket bath are both much easier tasks. But, to be honest, I did it because I've always been curious what it would be like and now seemed as good a time as ever.
But that's not the point.
The contrast in mirrors in Mali versus in America has become more apparent with my baldness. It's been a couple weeks now, so I'm used to it, but for a few days I would completely forget I had shaved it until a Malian pointed it out, concerned for my sanity. So that got me thinking. If I was in the US, I would be used to my hair almost immediately because I would be surrounded by things reflecting my beautiful baldness back at me. Mirrors come in all shapes and sizes in the US, they're hung up as decorations. Car windows are tinted so that you can see yourself quite well - so are doors going in and out of many public establishment. If you're waiting for an elevator, you can usually find a full length mirror disguised as a metal panel. Americans check themselves out regularly, constantly. On the off chance you aren't around a mirror, you probably have a pocket size one with you.
In Mali, I can probably count on my fingers the number of times I've seen myself in a full length mirror. Mirrors just aren't around as much, don't have the same place. For many of my villagers, if I take a group photo they point each other out or recognize themselves from their own clothing - they don't have their portrait memorized like we do. Bathrooms, even, aren't expected to have mirrors (nor are they expected to have actual toilets, so that may have something to do with it). I bought a small mirror a few weeks ago. It is a nice reminder that I now resemble an imp, but it has also opened my eyes to the heat rash and acne, my body telling me it does not like hot season, thank you very much! so I don't actually like looking at it very often.
I suppose that if I were interested, I could delve into the meaning of mirrors, branch into narcicism in the US, and then discuss the affect of having so few mirrors in my life. But, it's hot. Mirrors had become one of those things that had become part of the background, part of the white noise. Like many other things, I didn't realize how obsessed Americans are with them until I lived here and was no longer able to check myself out constantly. Think about it next time you're standing at that elevator, or fixing your hair in the bathroom mirror, only to turn around to see another one, to turn the corner to see yet another. When you wake up tomorrow and glance at yourself as you walk by your bedroom mirror, think about not seeing that, about going out in public without 'fixing' yourself first.
General life update:
Things are good, quite busy by Malian standards. All 11 Koutiala volunteers got together about 2 weeks ago to hold a "Take Our Daughters To Work Day" in the city. We each brought 2 girls from our villages and then took them to tour a few places that women work and then spend a day shadowing working women in the city. To me, it was a tremendous success. The rate of educated women, let alone working women, in Mali is appalling, so volunteers all over the country are holding these events, encouraging young girls to stay in school. I'll write more about it sometime.
I've also recently finished helping with a project between the Koutiala hospital and a US partner - though I didn't play a major part in it, it allowed me an opportunity to meet and get to know people at the hospital and see how maternities in Mali can/should be functioning. I'm extremely appreciative that I was able to help with the project, it was, like much of this life, quite an experience. I'm also finishing up a small funded project, a house for the matrone in F. to sleep in during night births, and working on animations with groups of women. Soon I will be doing a world map project with my sitemate, Bethany, and writing health moral stories to tell at the school after vacation ends.
The rains are starting to come and I cannot truly tell you how excited I am. Every time it starts getting windy, I go stand in the road, gauging the likeliness of rain following. I will be sad to no longer have fresh & free mangoes daily, but I think I've dried enough to last me a few months. Last week, Bethany and I were on our way to some function or other and she mentioned, "We're so lucky." That's how I'm feeling about life right now - incredibly fortunate that I get to have all of these experiences and live here.
The More You Know (6/2)
This afternoon, I put on dressy Malian clothes and big earrings. I moved benches into my yard, bought tea and peanuts, and filled my water filter. I'd invited my women's group over so that I could talk to them about solar drying. They were supposed to come at 2, so I was ready by 1:45 with a book to read, knowing they'd be late. A little before 3 they started arriving.
Tea was set to boil and we chatted as we peeled nere pods, our fingers dusted yellow from the seeds. An hour later, I shuffled my papers and the women quieted, expectant. My stomach went through an olympic acrobatics routine as it does before every animation, my head cruelly whispering rejection and incompetence. I forced a smile and greeted, the routine calming me. "Now, if you don't understand me..."
The first animation I gave as a Peace Corps volunteer was October 15th, International Hand Washing Day (who knew?). No one understood me. I wrote a little script to read for 1st - 3rd graders, my audience, but relied on Adiaratou and the teachers to translate my fumbling-mumbling into Bambara. That wasn't SO bad, I'd thought as we walked away, I should get into a routine of these, but I wouldn't do that until January.
Animations are one of the easiest ways for volunteers to connect with their communities and facilitate behavior change. Personally, I find this prevailing idea that all volunteers are outgoing leaders, that we step out of the Peace Corps truck and into life-changing, learn something every day, 'the more you know' discussions. In truth, we spend a lot of time in our huts, binging on squirreled away candy and cliff bars. (See: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1-wDq17zyN0 )At least, I don't think it's just me.
It can be hard to get up there. I regularly wonder who the hell I am to waltz into their lives and tell them they need to change. But, then again, they do need to change. I go through a bit of a cycle. Before I start an animation, I get worried and nervous, wondering what I'm doing. As I talk, I now add-lib, joking and asking questions, checking their comprehension, and then finish abruptly - I've never been good at conclusions, any of my past professors can vouch for that - and stand there, unsure where to go from there. Again, I wonder what I'm doing. But then the spell is broken by a woman who asks a question and another who answers her, and all of the sudden they're talking about my health topic. I nod along, following 1/2 of what they say, while I do a wiggle dance in my head. I'm not saving the world, but it's a start. I walk away feeling good, wondering why I don't give animations more often, knowing I'll be nervous as soon as I prepare to give another.
The animation today, following the above pattern, went rather well. Easy stuff, talking about food groups, how the sun bleaches vitamins out, etc. But, as Bethany mentioned later, getting the information out isn't the problem, it's the implimentation. They have to change and understand that it's better even if the results aren't right in front of them, a concept even I struggle with at times. You can't push, pull, or carry them to the next step. So you explain the how and the why, making yourself available and setting down stepping stones, hoping it's enough.
This Heat (5/25)
This heat is alive. Its breath is slow and shallow, rarely stirring a leaf, but you can still hear the buzz of life. This heat is stagnant, oppressive, unrelenting. It moves in early in the morning like a giant, sedated bear, overbearing and overwhelming, then lays down to nap the whole day, disturbing and disrupting everything. After the sun has set, it raises its head and lumbers away. You breathe a sigh of relief only to realize it left a musky odor, a stale shadow form of itself that torments you throughout the night.
There is no way to beat the heat, to cheat it. It seeps in through your pores and drugs your brain. Hours later, you realize you wasted a day listlessly dozing and frowning in your chair, unable to muster the motivation nor the energy to stand and walk. Promises of tomorrow morning console you, convincing yourself that it's ok to spend another afternoon on your porch, engaged loosely in a book and avidly in a war against flies that, like the heat, seem invincible and eternal.
The (Money) Giving Tree (5/21)
Let me give you a few scenarios. First, say you're working with a woman you've just met the previous day. Fingering your outfit, she says, "This is pretty nice. How much did you pay for it?"
Second, you're visiting an extended relative or a family friend. You bring a bottle of wine and desert. Appraising her gift, your hostess says, "Did you make this? And how much was the wine? I've seen it for X."
Even closer, say you buy your daughter a nice outfit for a holiday or big event. At the party she wears it to, your child and all her friends run up to you. The friends pester you about how much you spent on the outfit and tell you how much their parents spent, just curious about the comparison.
Uncomfortable? Yeah, me too. The taboo on talking about money is very different in Mali. You talk about how much you paid for everything and compare prices. This includes the bucket and veggies you bought at market as well as the watch and bug-hut you brought from America. It's taken some time for me to get used to this. I now appreciate some of it - I can have a better idea for what to bargain shop owners down to. It's still hard, however, to field questions about my American things - how do you tell someone your music player cost more than your current monthly stipend, a stipend that they cannot imagine having at their disposal?
Money has been on my mind lately. I was recently helping with a program between the Koutiala hospital and a U.S. partner. Each matrone who attended the program workshop received a small "per diem." When Malians attend some sort of formation, they expect food, a break with tea, and per diem. Or they won't come. It's easy for me to wave my hand, finger extended, and say "blame those foreign NGOs and aid groups for throwing money at problems until Malians expect it to just fall from foreign trees," but I realize nothing is that simple. If I wanted to put on a big workshop and the only way I'd get attendance was if I paid them, I might. In fact, we do - Peace Corps volunteers are advised to budget in per diem when planning a big formation.
Yesterday, I gave a short presentation at my primary school (it was a story about an elephant and a germ and it went very well, but that's another story). Afterwards, I was chatting with the director and teachers. There was a pause in the conversation as they glanced at each other. Then, one of the teachers started in with "Mariam, you see our school. After the rains, it will fall apart, ... you will pay to fix it?"
My stomach flip-flopped as he spoke. conversations where I'm asked for money directly or to get money from America are my least favorite. there are the people I don't know who tell me to go get them money because I have so much, exchanges that leave me disappointed and angry. But then there are the conversations with people I know and care about, where someone asks for just a little help or for something big, like school building repairs. Those conversations hurt, because I do want to clap my hands and make it easier for them, and they truly deserve it, but I know 'yes'' isn't the right answer.
Back at the school, I answered slowly. The school was not that bad off and I was not going to give them the money, but a flat out "no." would not be appreciated. "It's not that easy," I explained, "money isn't just there. Plus, you should not rely on foreign aid for everything forever."
They nodded and clicked in agreement. "That's true," the director countered, "but the money is not here. I have filed reports to my boss and written requests, but nothing. We are not asking you for the money, you live like us, but you can write a report to America and they will send the money"
He's kind of right, I thought, Jesus. Where is this coming from? I recently applied for a $300 grant for my maternity. One thing I like about Peace Corps funded projects is that the community has to provide a significant % of the funding (not necessarily monetary) to show they're invested. For SPAs (Small Project Assistance), it's 33%. My ASACO started building this matrone house themselves in 2007, but ran out of money. That being their contribution puts us at about 50-50%. But the rest of the village doesn't see that, they just see that I've written to America and now we're buying materials. Also, I recently had a nice, cement hand washing station built at my maternity. I thought of it after I'd submitted my SPA proposal, so I told Adiaratou that I would pay to have the cement basin built (and buy the cement) if they'd build a base for it. Total, I spent under $25. I can debate the pros and cons of spending my own money here for a long time. It does not necessarily reflect well that I just gave it to the community, but I feel it was important and I know Adiaratou is very appreciative. Still, it has dawned on me that between the SPA and the cement basin, the Peace Corps and I might seem like money bags. Scrooges, at that. The politics of spending money in your village, either in a funded project or from your personal funds, is a topic that continues to surface in conversations between Peace Corps volunteers, and I'm sure between those working for international aid organizations. There is no easy answer, no basic "you should" or "you shouldn't." Like many aspects of this work, it comes down to a personal decision if it's right for you and, more importantly, right for your village. You have to consider and question both the positive and negative impacts of your funding as well as the sustainability of those actions.
I'd become really quiet in the conversation at the school. After a few awkward starts on his part and non-commital responses on mine, the director let me off the hook by saying, "when you leave Mali to go to America, you should find someone to help us."
I nodded. Smiled. Next time, I told myself, next time I can talk to them about behavior change and IGAs and how they can get around this. When I'm less busy, I'll help them figure it out." I stared at my toes, my head a storm of emotions and thoughts.
The director chuckled, "Because really, you can't do everything, right?"
Pretty, Pretty Princess (5/13)
Sometime in August 2009, Ariel and I were invited to a traditional wedding where we were living in Cameroon. The only non-western clothes we had were orange mumus given to us by our previous host family. When our friend picked us up that night (it was an overnight kind of thing) and saw our dresses, she exclaimed, "Ah! African women!" We managed to preen and shuffle our feet simultaneously, both embarrassment and pride in our actions.
I suppose every culture has its own version of beauty, of what makes you a women ready to go out. Here, my Malian female friends notice when I wear earrings and my whole village comments when I wear a Malian outfit. I elicit exclamations when my hair is done (cornrows) and murmurs of appreciation from strangers in the market when my feet have been dyed with henna. It's like that game Pretty Pretty Princess. Alone, the rings, earrings, necklaces, even the crown are nice but don't make you a princess. But put it all together and BAM! Pretty, pretty princess. Or, in my case, "Eh, Mariam! Mali muso! Wula de ina, e ye ce ka nye!" (Eh, Mariam! Malian woman! This afternoon, you are beautiful!)
As always, beauty comes at a price. Not a monetary one - though the nicer fabrics and fancier outfits can be rather spendy - but a painful one. This afternoon, a friend of mine did my hair. The first few rows done, she giggled and rocked back and forth in her chair, obviously pleased with the way my white girl hair braided. "Does it hurt?" she asked, picking out the next row
"No," I liked out of a mix of vain pride and not wanting to hurt her feelings. She just chuckled. A few more in, she asked again. "Ok," I conceded, "It hurts a little bit." In fact, my eyes stung and my toes curled, it hurt so bad. I switched between day dreaming of a western salon and stringing together expletives while she did her best at pulling out all of my hair. A few hours later, it no longer stings but it is sore. And I have a headache. But the wind feels nice on it and I've already had multiple women comment and little girls pet my head.
About a month & 1/2 ago, a bunch of women in F. were walking around with red stained fingers. Henna time! Djelika grows the henna plant they use and offered to do my feet - how could I refuse? First you tape your feet with boundary lines and pretty patterns (the more complicated, the more beautiful). Next, you cover your feet with a henna paste (dried plant powder and water) and let it sit for hours (preferably overnight). After that, lather, rinse, repeat. When the second coating has been rinsed, a grey paste is rubbed on. The henna itself stains skin a lovely but splotchy red color, but the Malians really like a nice full black color. To get that, you next cover your feet with a mix of water, ash, and rat poison and put plastic bags on them for 1/2 an hour. Go ahead, read that sentence again. It assaults your nose, stings, and itches, and if you have any cuts on your feet, it freaking hurts - it is, after all, rat poison. Then it dries out your feet and makes them crack. But your feet are then black and all of the women you know tell you how pretty you are, so it's worth doing every once in a while, right? As they say - no pain, no gain.
Peace & Love
Elyse
p.s. sorry this was so long...
But that's not the point.
The contrast in mirrors in Mali versus in America has become more apparent with my baldness. It's been a couple weeks now, so I'm used to it, but for a few days I would completely forget I had shaved it until a Malian pointed it out, concerned for my sanity. So that got me thinking. If I was in the US, I would be used to my hair almost immediately because I would be surrounded by things reflecting my beautiful baldness back at me. Mirrors come in all shapes and sizes in the US, they're hung up as decorations. Car windows are tinted so that you can see yourself quite well - so are doors going in and out of many public establishment. If you're waiting for an elevator, you can usually find a full length mirror disguised as a metal panel. Americans check themselves out regularly, constantly. On the off chance you aren't around a mirror, you probably have a pocket size one with you.
In Mali, I can probably count on my fingers the number of times I've seen myself in a full length mirror. Mirrors just aren't around as much, don't have the same place. For many of my villagers, if I take a group photo they point each other out or recognize themselves from their own clothing - they don't have their portrait memorized like we do. Bathrooms, even, aren't expected to have mirrors (nor are they expected to have actual toilets, so that may have something to do with it). I bought a small mirror a few weeks ago. It is a nice reminder that I now resemble an imp, but it has also opened my eyes to the heat rash and acne, my body telling me it does not like hot season, thank you very much! so I don't actually like looking at it very often.
I suppose that if I were interested, I could delve into the meaning of mirrors, branch into narcicism in the US, and then discuss the affect of having so few mirrors in my life. But, it's hot. Mirrors had become one of those things that had become part of the background, part of the white noise. Like many other things, I didn't realize how obsessed Americans are with them until I lived here and was no longer able to check myself out constantly. Think about it next time you're standing at that elevator, or fixing your hair in the bathroom mirror, only to turn around to see another one, to turn the corner to see yet another. When you wake up tomorrow and glance at yourself as you walk by your bedroom mirror, think about not seeing that, about going out in public without 'fixing' yourself first.
General life update:
Things are good, quite busy by Malian standards. All 11 Koutiala volunteers got together about 2 weeks ago to hold a "Take Our Daughters To Work Day" in the city. We each brought 2 girls from our villages and then took them to tour a few places that women work and then spend a day shadowing working women in the city. To me, it was a tremendous success. The rate of educated women, let alone working women, in Mali is appalling, so volunteers all over the country are holding these events, encouraging young girls to stay in school. I'll write more about it sometime.
I've also recently finished helping with a project between the Koutiala hospital and a US partner - though I didn't play a major part in it, it allowed me an opportunity to meet and get to know people at the hospital and see how maternities in Mali can/should be functioning. I'm extremely appreciative that I was able to help with the project, it was, like much of this life, quite an experience. I'm also finishing up a small funded project, a house for the matrone in F. to sleep in during night births, and working on animations with groups of women. Soon I will be doing a world map project with my sitemate, Bethany, and writing health moral stories to tell at the school after vacation ends.
The rains are starting to come and I cannot truly tell you how excited I am. Every time it starts getting windy, I go stand in the road, gauging the likeliness of rain following. I will be sad to no longer have fresh & free mangoes daily, but I think I've dried enough to last me a few months. Last week, Bethany and I were on our way to some function or other and she mentioned, "We're so lucky." That's how I'm feeling about life right now - incredibly fortunate that I get to have all of these experiences and live here.
The More You Know (6/2)
This afternoon, I put on dressy Malian clothes and big earrings. I moved benches into my yard, bought tea and peanuts, and filled my water filter. I'd invited my women's group over so that I could talk to them about solar drying. They were supposed to come at 2, so I was ready by 1:45 with a book to read, knowing they'd be late. A little before 3 they started arriving.
Tea was set to boil and we chatted as we peeled nere pods, our fingers dusted yellow from the seeds. An hour later, I shuffled my papers and the women quieted, expectant. My stomach went through an olympic acrobatics routine as it does before every animation, my head cruelly whispering rejection and incompetence. I forced a smile and greeted, the routine calming me. "Now, if you don't understand me..."
The first animation I gave as a Peace Corps volunteer was October 15th, International Hand Washing Day (who knew?). No one understood me. I wrote a little script to read for 1st - 3rd graders, my audience, but relied on Adiaratou and the teachers to translate my fumbling-mumbling into Bambara. That wasn't SO bad, I'd thought as we walked away, I should get into a routine of these, but I wouldn't do that until January.
Animations are one of the easiest ways for volunteers to connect with their communities and facilitate behavior change. Personally, I find this prevailing idea that all volunteers are outgoing leaders, that we step out of the Peace Corps truck and into life-changing, learn something every day, 'the more you know' discussions. In truth, we spend a lot of time in our huts, binging on squirreled away candy and cliff bars. (See: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1-wDq17zyN0 )At least, I don't think it's just me.
It can be hard to get up there. I regularly wonder who the hell I am to waltz into their lives and tell them they need to change. But, then again, they do need to change. I go through a bit of a cycle. Before I start an animation, I get worried and nervous, wondering what I'm doing. As I talk, I now add-lib, joking and asking questions, checking their comprehension, and then finish abruptly - I've never been good at conclusions, any of my past professors can vouch for that - and stand there, unsure where to go from there. Again, I wonder what I'm doing. But then the spell is broken by a woman who asks a question and another who answers her, and all of the sudden they're talking about my health topic. I nod along, following 1/2 of what they say, while I do a wiggle dance in my head. I'm not saving the world, but it's a start. I walk away feeling good, wondering why I don't give animations more often, knowing I'll be nervous as soon as I prepare to give another.
The animation today, following the above pattern, went rather well. Easy stuff, talking about food groups, how the sun bleaches vitamins out, etc. But, as Bethany mentioned later, getting the information out isn't the problem, it's the implimentation. They have to change and understand that it's better even if the results aren't right in front of them, a concept even I struggle with at times. You can't push, pull, or carry them to the next step. So you explain the how and the why, making yourself available and setting down stepping stones, hoping it's enough.
This Heat (5/25)
This heat is alive. Its breath is slow and shallow, rarely stirring a leaf, but you can still hear the buzz of life. This heat is stagnant, oppressive, unrelenting. It moves in early in the morning like a giant, sedated bear, overbearing and overwhelming, then lays down to nap the whole day, disturbing and disrupting everything. After the sun has set, it raises its head and lumbers away. You breathe a sigh of relief only to realize it left a musky odor, a stale shadow form of itself that torments you throughout the night.
There is no way to beat the heat, to cheat it. It seeps in through your pores and drugs your brain. Hours later, you realize you wasted a day listlessly dozing and frowning in your chair, unable to muster the motivation nor the energy to stand and walk. Promises of tomorrow morning console you, convincing yourself that it's ok to spend another afternoon on your porch, engaged loosely in a book and avidly in a war against flies that, like the heat, seem invincible and eternal.
The (Money) Giving Tree (5/21)
Let me give you a few scenarios. First, say you're working with a woman you've just met the previous day. Fingering your outfit, she says, "This is pretty nice. How much did you pay for it?"
Second, you're visiting an extended relative or a family friend. You bring a bottle of wine and desert. Appraising her gift, your hostess says, "Did you make this? And how much was the wine? I've seen it for X."
Even closer, say you buy your daughter a nice outfit for a holiday or big event. At the party she wears it to, your child and all her friends run up to you. The friends pester you about how much you spent on the outfit and tell you how much their parents spent, just curious about the comparison.
Uncomfortable? Yeah, me too. The taboo on talking about money is very different in Mali. You talk about how much you paid for everything and compare prices. This includes the bucket and veggies you bought at market as well as the watch and bug-hut you brought from America. It's taken some time for me to get used to this. I now appreciate some of it - I can have a better idea for what to bargain shop owners down to. It's still hard, however, to field questions about my American things - how do you tell someone your music player cost more than your current monthly stipend, a stipend that they cannot imagine having at their disposal?
Money has been on my mind lately. I was recently helping with a program between the Koutiala hospital and a U.S. partner. Each matrone who attended the program workshop received a small "per diem." When Malians attend some sort of formation, they expect food, a break with tea, and per diem. Or they won't come. It's easy for me to wave my hand, finger extended, and say "blame those foreign NGOs and aid groups for throwing money at problems until Malians expect it to just fall from foreign trees," but I realize nothing is that simple. If I wanted to put on a big workshop and the only way I'd get attendance was if I paid them, I might. In fact, we do - Peace Corps volunteers are advised to budget in per diem when planning a big formation.
Yesterday, I gave a short presentation at my primary school (it was a story about an elephant and a germ and it went very well, but that's another story). Afterwards, I was chatting with the director and teachers. There was a pause in the conversation as they glanced at each other. Then, one of the teachers started in with "Mariam, you see our school. After the rains, it will fall apart, ... you will pay to fix it?"
My stomach flip-flopped as he spoke. conversations where I'm asked for money directly or to get money from America are my least favorite. there are the people I don't know who tell me to go get them money because I have so much, exchanges that leave me disappointed and angry. But then there are the conversations with people I know and care about, where someone asks for just a little help or for something big, like school building repairs. Those conversations hurt, because I do want to clap my hands and make it easier for them, and they truly deserve it, but I know 'yes'' isn't the right answer.
Back at the school, I answered slowly. The school was not that bad off and I was not going to give them the money, but a flat out "no." would not be appreciated. "It's not that easy," I explained, "money isn't just there. Plus, you should not rely on foreign aid for everything forever."
They nodded and clicked in agreement. "That's true," the director countered, "but the money is not here. I have filed reports to my boss and written requests, but nothing. We are not asking you for the money, you live like us, but you can write a report to America and they will send the money"
He's kind of right, I thought, Jesus. Where is this coming from? I recently applied for a $300 grant for my maternity. One thing I like about Peace Corps funded projects is that the community has to provide a significant % of the funding (not necessarily monetary) to show they're invested. For SPAs (Small Project Assistance), it's 33%. My ASACO started building this matrone house themselves in 2007, but ran out of money. That being their contribution puts us at about 50-50%. But the rest of the village doesn't see that, they just see that I've written to America and now we're buying materials. Also, I recently had a nice, cement hand washing station built at my maternity. I thought of it after I'd submitted my SPA proposal, so I told Adiaratou that I would pay to have the cement basin built (and buy the cement) if they'd build a base for it. Total, I spent under $25. I can debate the pros and cons of spending my own money here for a long time. It does not necessarily reflect well that I just gave it to the community, but I feel it was important and I know Adiaratou is very appreciative. Still, it has dawned on me that between the SPA and the cement basin, the Peace Corps and I might seem like money bags. Scrooges, at that. The politics of spending money in your village, either in a funded project or from your personal funds, is a topic that continues to surface in conversations between Peace Corps volunteers, and I'm sure between those working for international aid organizations. There is no easy answer, no basic "you should" or "you shouldn't." Like many aspects of this work, it comes down to a personal decision if it's right for you and, more importantly, right for your village. You have to consider and question both the positive and negative impacts of your funding as well as the sustainability of those actions.
I'd become really quiet in the conversation at the school. After a few awkward starts on his part and non-commital responses on mine, the director let me off the hook by saying, "when you leave Mali to go to America, you should find someone to help us."
I nodded. Smiled. Next time, I told myself, next time I can talk to them about behavior change and IGAs and how they can get around this. When I'm less busy, I'll help them figure it out." I stared at my toes, my head a storm of emotions and thoughts.
The director chuckled, "Because really, you can't do everything, right?"
Pretty, Pretty Princess (5/13)
Sometime in August 2009, Ariel and I were invited to a traditional wedding where we were living in Cameroon. The only non-western clothes we had were orange mumus given to us by our previous host family. When our friend picked us up that night (it was an overnight kind of thing) and saw our dresses, she exclaimed, "Ah! African women!" We managed to preen and shuffle our feet simultaneously, both embarrassment and pride in our actions.
I suppose every culture has its own version of beauty, of what makes you a women ready to go out. Here, my Malian female friends notice when I wear earrings and my whole village comments when I wear a Malian outfit. I elicit exclamations when my hair is done (cornrows) and murmurs of appreciation from strangers in the market when my feet have been dyed with henna. It's like that game Pretty Pretty Princess. Alone, the rings, earrings, necklaces, even the crown are nice but don't make you a princess. But put it all together and BAM! Pretty, pretty princess. Or, in my case, "Eh, Mariam! Mali muso! Wula de ina, e ye ce ka nye!" (Eh, Mariam! Malian woman! This afternoon, you are beautiful!)
As always, beauty comes at a price. Not a monetary one - though the nicer fabrics and fancier outfits can be rather spendy - but a painful one. This afternoon, a friend of mine did my hair. The first few rows done, she giggled and rocked back and forth in her chair, obviously pleased with the way my white girl hair braided. "Does it hurt?" she asked, picking out the next row
"No," I liked out of a mix of vain pride and not wanting to hurt her feelings. She just chuckled. A few more in, she asked again. "Ok," I conceded, "It hurts a little bit." In fact, my eyes stung and my toes curled, it hurt so bad. I switched between day dreaming of a western salon and stringing together expletives while she did her best at pulling out all of my hair. A few hours later, it no longer stings but it is sore. And I have a headache. But the wind feels nice on it and I've already had multiple women comment and little girls pet my head.
About a month & 1/2 ago, a bunch of women in F. were walking around with red stained fingers. Henna time! Djelika grows the henna plant they use and offered to do my feet - how could I refuse? First you tape your feet with boundary lines and pretty patterns (the more complicated, the more beautiful). Next, you cover your feet with a henna paste (dried plant powder and water) and let it sit for hours (preferably overnight). After that, lather, rinse, repeat. When the second coating has been rinsed, a grey paste is rubbed on. The henna itself stains skin a lovely but splotchy red color, but the Malians really like a nice full black color. To get that, you next cover your feet with a mix of water, ash, and rat poison and put plastic bags on them for 1/2 an hour. Go ahead, read that sentence again. It assaults your nose, stings, and itches, and if you have any cuts on your feet, it freaking hurts - it is, after all, rat poison. Then it dries out your feet and makes them crack. But your feet are then black and all of the women you know tell you how pretty you are, so it's worth doing every once in a while, right? As they say - no pain, no gain.
Peace & Love
Elyse
p.s. sorry this was so long...
May 1, 2011
The Shift
"There came a time, he realized, when the strangeness of everything made it increasingly difficult to realize the strangeness of anything." -James Hilton, Lost Horizon (found in The Geography of Bliss by Eric Weiner)
There's been a shift. Not a sudden, unexpected earthquake tremor. More like the way I imagine slow glacial movements to be - a few people map it out as they go along, but most of us don't notice things are changing until we look up to find that everything already has. As I packed to come into Koutiala a few days ago, 3 little kids (I'd put them at about 4 years old?) wandered over to say hello and play in my yard. For a time, all of the young children were scared of me, what with me being white and funny looking, but recently they've begun to come talk to me, ask me questions, play with me. In a way, I consider this the most distinct and tangible evidence that some change has occurred, that I've settled into my home here.
I have spent a measurable amount of my service planning when I would next get out, 'get a break' from village. I now am looking forward to spending months at village speckled only with short interruptions in Koutiala. I spent a lot of time reading alone in my hut, forcing myself out every once in a while and then not knowing where to go. I now have places to go, friends to visit, and the number of books I eat through has made a marked decline. I spent months just listening, trying to understand and inevitably losing myself in daydreams. I still spend much time up in the clouds, but I also take part in conversations, tell my own stories. My villagers encourage me, telling me how much my Bambara has improved.
As I write this, I'm realizing that words are failing me in explaining what has changed. Whatever it is, I now feel much more settled, rooted, comfortable, and content. It makes me wonder what things will look like in another year and after that, what things will look like when I return to the U.S.
I'm heading back to F. today to really dig into some work over the next few months. A small grant I applied for was recently approved, so we'll be using that money to finish the matrone house. At the same time, I'll be working on a 'Take Our Daughters To Work Day' in Koutiala, cement hand-washing stations, murals, my solar dryer, and - as always - lots of animations. I'm feeling very positive about the near future. There will, of course, be bumps, but at the same time I'm hopeful that this will be a very positive, productive time.
Late Night Gatherings (4/18)
Last night, I was sitting with Djelika when a neighbor, Moussa came over to buy some tea. This was our conversation:
Moussa: Mariam [that's me, by the way], you should come to the mosque tonight
Me: Uh-huh... Why?
Moussa: You can come watch!
Djelika: (laughing) Yes, we'll go watch together!
Me: Haha, yes, we'll bring chairs and come watch you all pray.
Moussa: Yes! you can watch and listen and then tell everyone in America about it.
I thought htis was all a joke, but about 15 minutes later, Na, my host sister, came to take my chair to the mosque.
Soon enough I was walking with my homologue. I stopped at my house first to grab a scarf. Malian women cover their hair all of the time. Since my village is less conservatinve, they don't require me to, so I'm usually bareheaded. But when going to the mosque, even itty-bitty girls cover up, and I wanted to be respectful. As we walked, I gnawed on my lip and twisted my hands, touching my scarf, my dress, my glasses, whatever. To me, my anxiety was blatantly apparent, but none of the women I was with seemed to notice.
You can't just intrude on their religious ceremony to watch, I scolded myself. I adjusted my scarf around my head and arms, thinking Maybe they won't notice me, maybe I'll blend in. I looked down to remember I was wearing a bright orange dress and, more importantly, I'm the only white person in the village. So here goes nothing.
Our mosque is a small mud building with an equally small courtyard. The courtyard has 2 doorways - one for men and one for women. I took off my shoes and bowed my head as I entered, completely unsure how to act. The ceremony hadn't started, but there were 2 men singing in front. My plan was to quietly sneak in and out, but as I walked to my chair, every woman greeted me and I was forced to return each of their greetings. The men sat on benches and chairs in the front corner, the women sat in the opposite back corner. Mats were rolled out across the entire courtyard - the boys sat in front, the girls in back.
The ceremony itself was more singing and preaching, nothing interesting for me to say here because I couldn't understand. What did leave an impression on me was the integration of Malian culture into the religious ceremony. Everyone was greeted as they arrived, someone started making tea towards the beginning. Even the preaching - when Malians talk to large groups, on the radio for example, there has to be a second person there making "I'm listening" noises. As I left 2 hours later (Djelika and I were both nodding off, so she used me as an excuse to leave early), the women all made a point of saying goodnight. Sometimes still, the overwhelmingly welcoming nature of Malians catches me off guard and humbles me. I know that I am a part of this community because of the words and actions of my neighbors.
Mangoes (4/17)
The last few nights at site, I've woken up to a loud crash on my tin roof or a 'thunk' near by - ripe mangoes falling from the trees.. When I first got to F., I had visions of walking down the street, or walking out of my concession and picking a mango or 2 to eat for breakfast - the road here is lined with mature mango trees and there's a tree on all 4 sides of my house. That isn't exactly what's happening... I blame the kids.
A lot of the mango trees in Mali are owned by someone, even if that tree isn't aywhere near their house. There may be a mango tree in your field, but it's owned by your neighbor, passed on from his grandfather's cousin or something (actually, now that I think about it, there was a similar right of possession in Cameroon). I asked Djelika about this, not wanting to get in trouble for eating someone else's mangoes. She said that although each tree had an owner at one point, they're all dead. Instead, the trees here all belong to the CAA (the local ag tech school). Everyone is welcome to pick the fruit, eat it, give it to family and friends, throw it at your neighbor's cow that keeps wandering over, whatever, as long as you don't sell them.
So the adults here eat some mangoes, but the majority go to the kids. On weekends, afterschool, and even during recess, I can see large bamboo rods bobbing along as groups of kids run around picking mangoes. The idea is very similar to apple picking, except it's a wobbly bamboo stick 2 or 3 times my height with a Y shaped stick on the end to snag the fruit. All the mangoes within reaching distance are long gone, picked prematurely by greedy, impatient little hands. For a while,t he paths around were littered with half-gnawed unripe mango. Now I can't take 5 steps without seeing yellow-tinged white mango seeds. Instead of competing with the kids, I buy a few mangos at market each week. Right now they're 4 bigger-than-my-fist size mangoes for about 20¢. They're sliced, diced, dried, juiced, cooked, baked, and eaten straight up with little rivulets of juice running down your hands and your face. And they always taste delicious.
I suppose I know how this will end, though this is my first mango season. Growing up in a world of instant gratification and supermarkets, I objectively understand seasons quite well, but I still tend to forget that once something is out of season, it isn't going to come back for a while. Like the guavas, oranges, and funny artichoke-looking fruit, the mangoes will stop. Right now it's hard to imagine - market roads are lined with mango sellers, donkey carts FULL of mangoes pass me in the street. I take the mangoes for granted. But sometime sooner than I think, I'll get to market and see only a few women with wrinkly looking mangoes. I'll turn up my nose at them, and then the next week when they are all gone, I'll lament the days I didn't appreciate my mangoes to their full extent. Until, at least, there's another fruit to distract me.
Peace & Love
Elyse
There's been a shift. Not a sudden, unexpected earthquake tremor. More like the way I imagine slow glacial movements to be - a few people map it out as they go along, but most of us don't notice things are changing until we look up to find that everything already has. As I packed to come into Koutiala a few days ago, 3 little kids (I'd put them at about 4 years old?) wandered over to say hello and play in my yard. For a time, all of the young children were scared of me, what with me being white and funny looking, but recently they've begun to come talk to me, ask me questions, play with me. In a way, I consider this the most distinct and tangible evidence that some change has occurred, that I've settled into my home here.
I have spent a measurable amount of my service planning when I would next get out, 'get a break' from village. I now am looking forward to spending months at village speckled only with short interruptions in Koutiala. I spent a lot of time reading alone in my hut, forcing myself out every once in a while and then not knowing where to go. I now have places to go, friends to visit, and the number of books I eat through has made a marked decline. I spent months just listening, trying to understand and inevitably losing myself in daydreams. I still spend much time up in the clouds, but I also take part in conversations, tell my own stories. My villagers encourage me, telling me how much my Bambara has improved.
As I write this, I'm realizing that words are failing me in explaining what has changed. Whatever it is, I now feel much more settled, rooted, comfortable, and content. It makes me wonder what things will look like in another year and after that, what things will look like when I return to the U.S.
I'm heading back to F. today to really dig into some work over the next few months. A small grant I applied for was recently approved, so we'll be using that money to finish the matrone house. At the same time, I'll be working on a 'Take Our Daughters To Work Day' in Koutiala, cement hand-washing stations, murals, my solar dryer, and - as always - lots of animations. I'm feeling very positive about the near future. There will, of course, be bumps, but at the same time I'm hopeful that this will be a very positive, productive time.
Late Night Gatherings (4/18)
Last night, I was sitting with Djelika when a neighbor, Moussa came over to buy some tea. This was our conversation:
Moussa: Mariam [that's me, by the way], you should come to the mosque tonight
Me: Uh-huh... Why?
Moussa: You can come watch!
Djelika: (laughing) Yes, we'll go watch together!
Me: Haha, yes, we'll bring chairs and come watch you all pray.
Moussa: Yes! you can watch and listen and then tell everyone in America about it.
I thought htis was all a joke, but about 15 minutes later, Na, my host sister, came to take my chair to the mosque.
Soon enough I was walking with my homologue. I stopped at my house first to grab a scarf. Malian women cover their hair all of the time. Since my village is less conservatinve, they don't require me to, so I'm usually bareheaded. But when going to the mosque, even itty-bitty girls cover up, and I wanted to be respectful. As we walked, I gnawed on my lip and twisted my hands, touching my scarf, my dress, my glasses, whatever. To me, my anxiety was blatantly apparent, but none of the women I was with seemed to notice.
You can't just intrude on their religious ceremony to watch, I scolded myself. I adjusted my scarf around my head and arms, thinking Maybe they won't notice me, maybe I'll blend in. I looked down to remember I was wearing a bright orange dress and, more importantly, I'm the only white person in the village. So here goes nothing.
Our mosque is a small mud building with an equally small courtyard. The courtyard has 2 doorways - one for men and one for women. I took off my shoes and bowed my head as I entered, completely unsure how to act. The ceremony hadn't started, but there were 2 men singing in front. My plan was to quietly sneak in and out, but as I walked to my chair, every woman greeted me and I was forced to return each of their greetings. The men sat on benches and chairs in the front corner, the women sat in the opposite back corner. Mats were rolled out across the entire courtyard - the boys sat in front, the girls in back.
The ceremony itself was more singing and preaching, nothing interesting for me to say here because I couldn't understand. What did leave an impression on me was the integration of Malian culture into the religious ceremony. Everyone was greeted as they arrived, someone started making tea towards the beginning. Even the preaching - when Malians talk to large groups, on the radio for example, there has to be a second person there making "I'm listening" noises. As I left 2 hours later (Djelika and I were both nodding off, so she used me as an excuse to leave early), the women all made a point of saying goodnight. Sometimes still, the overwhelmingly welcoming nature of Malians catches me off guard and humbles me. I know that I am a part of this community because of the words and actions of my neighbors.
Mangoes (4/17)
The last few nights at site, I've woken up to a loud crash on my tin roof or a 'thunk' near by - ripe mangoes falling from the trees.. When I first got to F., I had visions of walking down the street, or walking out of my concession and picking a mango or 2 to eat for breakfast - the road here is lined with mature mango trees and there's a tree on all 4 sides of my house. That isn't exactly what's happening... I blame the kids.
A lot of the mango trees in Mali are owned by someone, even if that tree isn't aywhere near their house. There may be a mango tree in your field, but it's owned by your neighbor, passed on from his grandfather's cousin or something (actually, now that I think about it, there was a similar right of possession in Cameroon). I asked Djelika about this, not wanting to get in trouble for eating someone else's mangoes. She said that although each tree had an owner at one point, they're all dead. Instead, the trees here all belong to the CAA (the local ag tech school). Everyone is welcome to pick the fruit, eat it, give it to family and friends, throw it at your neighbor's cow that keeps wandering over, whatever, as long as you don't sell them.
So the adults here eat some mangoes, but the majority go to the kids. On weekends, afterschool, and even during recess, I can see large bamboo rods bobbing along as groups of kids run around picking mangoes. The idea is very similar to apple picking, except it's a wobbly bamboo stick 2 or 3 times my height with a Y shaped stick on the end to snag the fruit. All the mangoes within reaching distance are long gone, picked prematurely by greedy, impatient little hands. For a while,t he paths around were littered with half-gnawed unripe mango. Now I can't take 5 steps without seeing yellow-tinged white mango seeds. Instead of competing with the kids, I buy a few mangos at market each week. Right now they're 4 bigger-than-my-fist size mangoes for about 20¢. They're sliced, diced, dried, juiced, cooked, baked, and eaten straight up with little rivulets of juice running down your hands and your face. And they always taste delicious.
I suppose I know how this will end, though this is my first mango season. Growing up in a world of instant gratification and supermarkets, I objectively understand seasons quite well, but I still tend to forget that once something is out of season, it isn't going to come back for a while. Like the guavas, oranges, and funny artichoke-looking fruit, the mangoes will stop. Right now it's hard to imagine - market roads are lined with mango sellers, donkey carts FULL of mangoes pass me in the street. I take the mangoes for granted. But sometime sooner than I think, I'll get to market and see only a few women with wrinkly looking mangoes. I'll turn up my nose at them, and then the next week when they are all gone, I'll lament the days I didn't appreciate my mangoes to their full extent. Until, at least, there's another fruit to distract me.
Peace & Love
Elyse
April 3, 2011
Some Like It Hot
My boss, Sali, for example, says that hot season is good because it means she doesn't have to oil her skin [because she sweats so much]. My PST language teacher, on the other hand, would suddenly turn serious and depressed and say "I hate it." That was amusing back in rainy season, but now that I'm in it, I'm more inclined to agree with him.
The hot season is descending, my friends, and I do not like it. Every day right now hits 110º F and it's still rising... the nights might dip into the 80ºs. I down more water than I ever have and sweat it all out constantly, I pass out in the middle of the day from heat exhaustion, and I'm pretty testy. fun fun.
Houses here are made of mud bricks and/or cement. If you lit a fire in my house, the things inside would be gone and I'd have no door, but the house itself would remain (that's a lie. There's a propane tank inside for my stove, so lighting a random fire has the potential of creating some major problems). The mud bricks make sense, really. They are affordable, easily repaired, and more accessible than wood here. Plus, they don't succumb to termites like wood does. Brilliant. But before we get too excited, let's consider what else is made of a large box of bricks. Ovens. My house right now is one hot little box, an oven, a sauna if you want it to sound exotic. The cement floor that's provided sweet, cool relief since September now radiates heat back at me. Forget the stove, I could probably fry an egg on my metal roof.
But I prefer to stay as upbeat as possible. So, after creating the first list (below, made 3/20), I tried the second. ...
10 Things I Hate About Hot Season
1.) Scorpions yala. Into my house (NOTE: there is no good translation for the Bambara word, 'yala'... it's somewhere between 'to go on a walk' and 'to wander'
2.) No matter how much I drink, I'm dehydrated
3.) I shower multiple times a day and yet feel dirty constantly
4.) Clothes can only be worn once because of sweat and dust. Out of laziness and disliking sitting outside doing laundry midday, I break this rule. Which is gross.
5.) Everyone is cranky and no one wants to do anything.
6.) People on public transit smell that much more and rub it all up on you
7.) Waking up in a pool of sweat
8.) When I go outside with a cool water bottle, it's instantly HOT.
9.) My feet are dry and cracking and peeling and sweaty and smelly. Buh.
10.) Water sources dry up
10 Things I Like About Hot Season
1.) Mangos
2.) ...
At least it's only for a few months.
Transitions (3/28)
I had a strange moment earlier today. Starting tomorrow, we have regional IST, so I cae into Sikasso this morning. I then biked to a nice hotel with a few friends to spend all afternoon at the pool. I was sitting at the poolside, one leg dangling in te water, reading Glamour. The taste of pina colada was still on my lips. I looked up and was watching a man re-tile the floor. As I watched, I thought about what the man was paid, where he came from, where he was going home to. The man was probably a mason, living a life very similar to that of my host father, also a mason, and in some ways, a life very similar to my own.
Drissa is a quiet man. He likes to listen to men argue about silly things and then wander off, pondering.He's shark with his kids, but only when he's in a bad mood, and then not nearly as much as many Malian men. He likes to know how things work, to learn. He provides for his family and listens to his wife. He, as a Malian in a tiny village, is very poor by our standards, but he is someone I turn to for support and someone I respect a great deal.
Back at the pool, I realized that my friends and I had not greeted the man working right next to us. Somewhere between F. and that pool, I'd transitioned away from what I consider my Malian self and into my American self. As PCVs, we make this sort of switch constantly and now without thinking about it. We go from shitting in a hole (sorry for being crude) and functioning happily by headlamp to bitching to each other about unreliable electricity and searching for who has the latest Jersey Shore.
For me to survive and really thrive in F., I have to step away from my "American" self, to some extent. You have to be able to deal with all of the little things, the dirt, laugh at the bean eating jokes every day, and enjoy greeting and just sitting to be able to make it. But once I step out of F., I step onto the first rung in a ladder towards the western world (though I suppose I don't like that metaphor, it suggests that I hold my American life in higher esteem than life here, which isn't true). Koutiala, Sikasso, Bamako, and then Dakar... in some way, they're further transitions toward being fully Americanized. I suppose since Senegal and since Philippe came, I've been more aware of the little switches in my thoughts and behaviors based on where I am and who I am with. Still, it bothered me to some extent that I was able to tune out the Malian working beside me at the pool, as if he was no longer worthy of a simple "i ni ce" when I was behaving in a more American way.
Smoke Out (3/21)
A few months back, I went behind my house and was attacked by some bees. I told Drissa, hoping he would magically get rid of them, and he responded with a "Oh? They do that sometimes." Ok, fine, I figured, I just wouldn't go behind my house anymore. A couple of days ago, I got back from a trip to San and saw that the hole in the structure support where the bees live (right under my bedroom window, I might add) was surrounded by soot - Djelika said that kids had done it. Whatever that means.
Yesterday, when I got back from the market, I was told to hang out at my host family's place for a while - the bees were swarming. I suppose it shows how accustomed I have become to life in F. when I nodded and sat down to wait for an undetermined amount of time calmly, even contently. Later, after dinner, my host brother ran over and said something to Djelika. She in turn got up immediately and said, "Mariam [that's me[, come look. The bees are swarming." I followed, wondering why we didn't go in the opposite direction.
As we neared the backside of my house, I could smell smoke and saw a glow coming from the area. Stepping around the house, I found a crowd and 2 young men with lit cornstalks by the bee hole. We looked on as one man stuck the fire in the hole for a minute and then pull it out, jumping back as the second man rushed in, thrusting his whole arm into the bee cave, pulling out big chunks of wax and brushing away embers. Both men were wearing shorts and tank tops. Besides the chance of my window frame catching on fire, my house was in no danger, so I looked on with some amusement. After deciding they'd pulled all of the comb out, the men filled and covered the hole with mud. Again, I was told not to go home for a while. So it goes.
Desire (2/12)
I'm coming to realize that even when I have sudden cravings for very specific things, my want and my frustration are aimed at the option, not the thing. To be in the states, I could say, "I really want a frosty," but that doesn't mean I'd go get one - the option of being able to and then talking myself out of it for this or that reason was satisfaction enough. Here, the inability, the lack of options, comes alive by doing a mocking jig in my mind daily. Strange. It's like there's a glass wall. I know what's on the other side, and I can even see what's over there. I don't beat at it or burst into tears at the site of it. It's not a 'grass is always greener' kind of wall (though truly, the grass is greener over there). It's more that I'm sitting on this side and think of thing X on that side. No problem, I'll just get up and go get it - and then I remember that wall. Or run into it. So I just continue on without thing X. There are times when it gets quite old, I must say, but often, it's just the way things are.
Also, I'll find myself craving X and then realizing I have X (with love, shipped across the world), and then I'll lose myself deciding how badly I want it now as opposed to a future time & then decide I didn't want X but wanted... something undetermined. And moreso than that, I'm conditioning myself to instead crave semi-available things, cook food with (almost) all Malian ingredients, create local snack mix, solve whatever issues with local supplies, etc. It makes me feel better about myself in some way.
Thus, it can be hard (though not at all impossible) to come up with what I want sent if put on the spot - how do you say you want everything and whatever they send will be VERY appreciated, but you can't give them specifics right now because you're happily chatting and swinging in your hammock and don't really want the disturbance of remembering what all you're without? Complicated.
It's quite trying at times, this unspecified yearning. [edit: this yearning extends to seasons, as well. During January, I was craving sweaters, hearty soups, and hibernation. Now that April is starting, my cravings are turning towards spring shopping, italian sodas, and parks. I'm curious to see if this internal seasonal clock continues.] This evening, I was happily going about my business when the weight of it caught up with me and my shoulders drooped. It would be impossible for me to even get a banana until the next day, after biking 3 miles. But that won't do, so I shook myself out of it, continued on, and soon enough I was fine again, munching on local peanuts and package- gummy bears.
Peace & Love
Elyse
The hot season is descending, my friends, and I do not like it. Every day right now hits 110º F and it's still rising... the nights might dip into the 80ºs. I down more water than I ever have and sweat it all out constantly, I pass out in the middle of the day from heat exhaustion, and I'm pretty testy. fun fun.
Houses here are made of mud bricks and/or cement. If you lit a fire in my house, the things inside would be gone and I'd have no door, but the house itself would remain (that's a lie. There's a propane tank inside for my stove, so lighting a random fire has the potential of creating some major problems). The mud bricks make sense, really. They are affordable, easily repaired, and more accessible than wood here. Plus, they don't succumb to termites like wood does. Brilliant. But before we get too excited, let's consider what else is made of a large box of bricks. Ovens. My house right now is one hot little box, an oven, a sauna if you want it to sound exotic. The cement floor that's provided sweet, cool relief since September now radiates heat back at me. Forget the stove, I could probably fry an egg on my metal roof.
But I prefer to stay as upbeat as possible. So, after creating the first list (below, made 3/20), I tried the second. ...
10 Things I Hate About Hot Season
1.) Scorpions yala. Into my house (NOTE: there is no good translation for the Bambara word, 'yala'... it's somewhere between 'to go on a walk' and 'to wander'
2.) No matter how much I drink, I'm dehydrated
3.) I shower multiple times a day and yet feel dirty constantly
4.) Clothes can only be worn once because of sweat and dust. Out of laziness and disliking sitting outside doing laundry midday, I break this rule. Which is gross.
5.) Everyone is cranky and no one wants to do anything.
6.) People on public transit smell that much more and rub it all up on you
7.) Waking up in a pool of sweat
8.) When I go outside with a cool water bottle, it's instantly HOT.
9.) My feet are dry and cracking and peeling and sweaty and smelly. Buh.
10.) Water sources dry up
10 Things I Like About Hot Season
1.) Mangos
2.) ...
At least it's only for a few months.
Transitions (3/28)
I had a strange moment earlier today. Starting tomorrow, we have regional IST, so I cae into Sikasso this morning. I then biked to a nice hotel with a few friends to spend all afternoon at the pool. I was sitting at the poolside, one leg dangling in te water, reading Glamour. The taste of pina colada was still on my lips. I looked up and was watching a man re-tile the floor. As I watched, I thought about what the man was paid, where he came from, where he was going home to. The man was probably a mason, living a life very similar to that of my host father, also a mason, and in some ways, a life very similar to my own.
Drissa is a quiet man. He likes to listen to men argue about silly things and then wander off, pondering.He's shark with his kids, but only when he's in a bad mood, and then not nearly as much as many Malian men. He likes to know how things work, to learn. He provides for his family and listens to his wife. He, as a Malian in a tiny village, is very poor by our standards, but he is someone I turn to for support and someone I respect a great deal.
Back at the pool, I realized that my friends and I had not greeted the man working right next to us. Somewhere between F. and that pool, I'd transitioned away from what I consider my Malian self and into my American self. As PCVs, we make this sort of switch constantly and now without thinking about it. We go from shitting in a hole (sorry for being crude) and functioning happily by headlamp to bitching to each other about unreliable electricity and searching for who has the latest Jersey Shore.
For me to survive and really thrive in F., I have to step away from my "American" self, to some extent. You have to be able to deal with all of the little things, the dirt, laugh at the bean eating jokes every day, and enjoy greeting and just sitting to be able to make it. But once I step out of F., I step onto the first rung in a ladder towards the western world (though I suppose I don't like that metaphor, it suggests that I hold my American life in higher esteem than life here, which isn't true). Koutiala, Sikasso, Bamako, and then Dakar... in some way, they're further transitions toward being fully Americanized. I suppose since Senegal and since Philippe came, I've been more aware of the little switches in my thoughts and behaviors based on where I am and who I am with. Still, it bothered me to some extent that I was able to tune out the Malian working beside me at the pool, as if he was no longer worthy of a simple "i ni ce" when I was behaving in a more American way.
Smoke Out (3/21)
A few months back, I went behind my house and was attacked by some bees. I told Drissa, hoping he would magically get rid of them, and he responded with a "Oh? They do that sometimes." Ok, fine, I figured, I just wouldn't go behind my house anymore. A couple of days ago, I got back from a trip to San and saw that the hole in the structure support where the bees live (right under my bedroom window, I might add) was surrounded by soot - Djelika said that kids had done it. Whatever that means.
Yesterday, when I got back from the market, I was told to hang out at my host family's place for a while - the bees were swarming. I suppose it shows how accustomed I have become to life in F. when I nodded and sat down to wait for an undetermined amount of time calmly, even contently. Later, after dinner, my host brother ran over and said something to Djelika. She in turn got up immediately and said, "Mariam [that's me[, come look. The bees are swarming." I followed, wondering why we didn't go in the opposite direction.
As we neared the backside of my house, I could smell smoke and saw a glow coming from the area. Stepping around the house, I found a crowd and 2 young men with lit cornstalks by the bee hole. We looked on as one man stuck the fire in the hole for a minute and then pull it out, jumping back as the second man rushed in, thrusting his whole arm into the bee cave, pulling out big chunks of wax and brushing away embers. Both men were wearing shorts and tank tops. Besides the chance of my window frame catching on fire, my house was in no danger, so I looked on with some amusement. After deciding they'd pulled all of the comb out, the men filled and covered the hole with mud. Again, I was told not to go home for a while. So it goes.
Desire (2/12)
I'm coming to realize that even when I have sudden cravings for very specific things, my want and my frustration are aimed at the option, not the thing. To be in the states, I could say, "I really want a frosty," but that doesn't mean I'd go get one - the option of being able to and then talking myself out of it for this or that reason was satisfaction enough. Here, the inability, the lack of options, comes alive by doing a mocking jig in my mind daily. Strange. It's like there's a glass wall. I know what's on the other side, and I can even see what's over there. I don't beat at it or burst into tears at the site of it. It's not a 'grass is always greener' kind of wall (though truly, the grass is greener over there). It's more that I'm sitting on this side and think of thing X on that side. No problem, I'll just get up and go get it - and then I remember that wall. Or run into it. So I just continue on without thing X. There are times when it gets quite old, I must say, but often, it's just the way things are.
Also, I'll find myself craving X and then realizing I have X (with love, shipped across the world), and then I'll lose myself deciding how badly I want it now as opposed to a future time & then decide I didn't want X but wanted... something undetermined. And moreso than that, I'm conditioning myself to instead crave semi-available things, cook food with (almost) all Malian ingredients, create local snack mix, solve whatever issues with local supplies, etc. It makes me feel better about myself in some way.
Thus, it can be hard (though not at all impossible) to come up with what I want sent if put on the spot - how do you say you want everything and whatever they send will be VERY appreciated, but you can't give them specifics right now because you're happily chatting and swinging in your hammock and don't really want the disturbance of remembering what all you're without? Complicated.
It's quite trying at times, this unspecified yearning. [edit: this yearning extends to seasons, as well. During January, I was craving sweaters, hearty soups, and hibernation. Now that April is starting, my cravings are turning towards spring shopping, italian sodas, and parks. I'm curious to see if this internal seasonal clock continues.] This evening, I was happily going about my business when the weight of it caught up with me and my shoulders drooped. It would be impossible for me to even get a banana until the next day, after biking 3 miles. But that won't do, so I shook myself out of it, continued on, and soon enough I was fine again, munching on local peanuts and package- gummy bears.
Peace & Love
Elyse
March 18, 2011
Mix it up.
So, sometime last fall... October/November-ish, my iHome died for no apparent reason. Since then, I found a radio at my market with an aux jack to play my iPod (thus the world is in balance). Funny thing about radios in Mali, they're a little behind in the technology. And when I say a little behind, I mean my radio doesn't play CDs, it plays tapes.
SO. Know all of those tapes from back in the day that you have stored in a box in the basement? The ones that you don't throw away but you really should because what are you going to do with them? Well now you have a solution. Send them to me!
I promise I'll make a better blog entry next time.
Peace & love
Elyse
SO. Know all of those tapes from back in the day that you have stored in a box in the basement? The ones that you don't throw away but you really should because what are you going to do with them? Well now you have a solution. Send them to me!
I promise I'll make a better blog entry next time.
Peace & love
Elyse
February 26, 2011
American Tourist
This morning, a bus dropped me off in Bamako after being in transit for over 36 hours. I am sleep deprived, my back is a lovely shade of lobster, my nose is peeling, and I'm pretty sure there's sand and salt embedded in my head. Yet, life is absolutely fantastic... that probably has something to do with a week spent on the beach in Senegal.
Every February in Dakar is WAIST - the West African International Softball Tournament (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/WAIST). Now, if you know me very well, you'd be quite surprised to find me at a major sporting event, especially that of softball. Not to worry, I managed to avoid the game entirely (though I did play a couple of innings of kickball before we decided to go drink instead). For me, this vacation was a way to step out of life here and really just be an American tourist for a few days. Most times when I go on a vacation, I like to do things - experience the local culture and food, buy and do tourist-y cultural-y things, and just GO. Walk and wander for hours until the sun is setting and I almost cry when I recognize the front door of my hotel. I suppose there was a fair amount of walking, but the majority of my time was spent next to a pool or on a beach, soaking up the sun and breathing in sea air. I suppose my everyday is so culturally vivid that I really just needed a break from it. So I had a few days in Dakar, ate delicious food, saw a beautiful island, and then went to a resort-ish town a little south of Dakar called Touba Diallo to hang out on the beach and eat amazing fish. Plus I picked up some sweet sea shells. Now it's time to pass out.
Seeing Double (2/8)
Yesterday, a woman I didn't know and her children stopped by my house. We went through the requisite greetings and then she said something along the lines of "Look, I have twins." To which I said something like, "Oh... yeah." I recalled a conversation I'd had with a friend, Salif, a few months before when a woman and her twins came to his boutiki:
Me: Salif, what do Malians think of twins?
Salif: Yes, that woman had twins!
Me: Right, but do you think they're good or...?
Salif: Oh! Well, if they beg, they're good. If they don't beg, they're very bad. You understand?
Me: Ummm... sure. I understand.
So thus I assumed the woman had come to beg, though she didn't come out and say it. After a minute, she asked if they could sit (squashing my hope that they would just wander off so I could get back to my book). Her older daughters chatted as the woman fed her twins. I, meanwhile, was trying to figure out what to do since I didn't know the proper amount to give them and didn't have any food to give them instead. Plus, they were all well dressed and healthy looking, so they were obviously begging out of cultural formality rather than necessity, so did I want to give them money? Conundrum.
One of the babies finished eating, looked over at me, and smiled. Naturally, the mother handed the girl to me as the other continued eating. Now, most babies here REALLY don't like me (unless they're newborns and thus don't care) because they rarely see white people. If handed to me, I get about 2 seconds of "what are you..." before fear and crying take over. I've learned not to take it personally. The only exception thus far is twins. I have come across 4 sets of baby twins and all 4 not only weren't scared of me, but actually reached for me. This little girl was no exception and I bounced her on my lap as she giggled. I understand that it makes no sense for Malian twins to like white people, but I plan to keep track of any other (baby) twins I come across and their feelings toward me. I'll keep you posted.
So anyways, my visitors sat for about an hour before heading out... weird. I later asked Djelika about it (she had stopped by somewhere in that hour and laughed when she say us all just sitting there, squashing my hopes that she'd somehow politely shoo them away). She told me not to worry, they were just walking and begging & that some people give them millet or corn or even money. Not important, don't worry about it. I told her that it was weird that twins are just expected to beg. As often happens, she just laughed at me.
Elbow Grease (2/4)
This afternoon, we cleaned the CSCOM. Jara handed me a broom and directed me to the back room, where I found Adiaratou sweeping the windows/smearing cobwebs into the screens. I stood there, head cocked, wondering something along the lines of "what the..." when she turned and saw me.
"Do you know how [to clean]?" she asked, not intentionally being rude.
"Of course!," I said instantly. I scanned the room, fantasizing about what I could do given a week and some very strong cleaning supplies. Given 2 hours, however, I didn't even know where to start. "Ok," I admitted grudgingly, "I guess I don't know how." Adi had me sweep windows. After about 20 minutes, she and Sali asked if I wasn't tired and didn't I want to rest? I teased them, saying they thought white people didn't know how to work.
Besides window sweeping, almost all energy was put towards washing the floor. Which definitely needed some love, don't get me wrong, but so did... well... everything. In the sick room, Sali and Abi were washing the floors around the beds. I offered to wash the counter tops. They agreed in an, "OK weird, white girl, whatever you say" way. I went about my business turning the tiles from brown to white, though they didn't seem to notice.
Just over 2 hours from when we started, Sali beamed at me, "It's clean now, yes?" I found it ironic that the word for "clean was literally "whitened" as I looked around, but I nodded my approval anyways.
Cleanliness here is hard to describe. Consider that if you gave a Malian woman that white shirt of yours with year old pit stains that only get darker no matter how many chemicals you pour and scrub into it, she'd hand you a dry, folded, blindingly white shirt with no stains a few hours later. Malians are dedicated to a clean appearance and often think we (foreigners) are dirty because we don't bathe or even wash our feet nearly enough. Plus we use our left hands. Eww, right? Westerners think Malians are dirty because they have a strong aversion to soap. Malians religiously sweep their concessions because that's where they do everything, but they also pour out bad water in the concession and allow children and animals to urinate and sometimes defecate wherever they want. The majority of the few times I've been inside a Malian home, I've been quite bothered by the amount of dirt in the air.
At the end of the day, I have to shrug and just kind of smile about the majority of this. I lecture on human defecation, flies, and soap to whoever will listen, and I try to push the CSCOM staff to clean and sanitize as much as possible, but at some point I have to just walk away and try to lead by example. Lately, I suppose, I've been missing American standars of cleanliness. Particularly, the idea of showering, not feeling dirty immediately after, and of then stepping on carpet has entertained my daydreams. It's the little things...
For My Bad Days (2/2)
This morning, I watched a malnourished 9 month old eat Plumpy Nut for the first time. I've seen the girl over the last few months and my eyes are always drawn to her. She's obviously too skinny, isn't growing properly, and is always crying. I saw her smile for the first time today. As I monitored the amount of Plumpy Nut she ate, I advised her mother on what she could do to help her daughter back up to a stable weight. The way that the girl all but attacked the Plumpy Nut made all of my service and all of the shitty parts worth it.
Hitchhiking (1/31)
Travel in Mali is always interesting. If I'm leaving from a city, I usually go to the bus gare (station) and try to find whichever is leaving soonest (if they say "soon," you've probably got a few hours to kill. If they say "now," you'll probably leave soon. If they say "now now," grab a ticket - you might even head out in the next 15 minutes). The bus tigis (NOTE: A "tigi" is an owner/seller. In this instance, a person selling bus tickets. A woman walking around with bananas on her head is a banana tigi. White people are sometimes called money tigis in half jest) sell every seat as well as the entire aisle on the bus - one ride, I spent 2 1/2 hours straddling a rice sack in the aisle; another, the bus door left a giant bruise on my leg when I sat in the stairs. You have a general idea of how long your ride will take, but don't bank on it - your bus may break down, get stopped for an indeterminable amount of time for no good reason at a check point, or you might have a driver who likes to stop for prayers.
When leaving from a village, a town, or even a city if you don't want to go to the gare, you go to the side of the highway and wait for a bus or a mobili - a sketch van overcrowded and doubled in weight from all of the stuff packed on top. As they near, you stick your arm out and some man leans out flipping his hand - where to? A quick shout of the destination as they pass you and then they speed up or slow down. If they slow down, you grab your bags and jog over... when you're seated, you can't remember if they even came to a complete stop, but at least you're on.
From F., I sometimes find a ride almost as soon as I sit on the asphalt to wait. Sometimes it takes hours before anything passes. A few weeks ago, Bethany and I were waiting for a ride in to Koutiala. A semi came around the curve and a guy leaned out, flapping his hand like a fish. We both waved halfheartedly, figuring he was playing a not-so-funny joke. But then they stopped. I grabbed my stuff and as Bethany said, "should we really be doing this? REALLY?," I just kept saying, "it's a ride." When we got to Koutiala, the driver waved off our money as we got down. We thanked him and went on our way. This wasn't my first random ride, and I suppose one could say I'm now a hitchhiker.
State-side, I never would have hitchhiked. I'm sure that Ariel, my college roommate, tried to convince me to but I've always had a fear of being picked up by a crazy in a hockey mask. Here, I'm just excited to get somewhere - the fact that I'm technically hitchhiking doesn't always enter my mind.
This last time I was waiting to go into the city, a car slowed down and I hesitated as I grabbed my backpack - it was just me this time, maybe this wasn't the best idea? My convincing arguement? "It's a ride." The driver turned out to be a gendarms (police) man from my market town who needed the gas money. I've been reading some Jack Kerouac while in Mali and was reminded of something he said about all of the personalities you can find in drivers. Some, like the semi-truck drivers, have no motive and just want to listen to the radio. Some, like the gendarms guy, heed the money and/or want to talk the entire way - great excuse to work on my Bambara/French mish-mash. When we got to Koutiala, the guy turned off the main road. I started to protest and he gave some explanation about his office that I didn't really catch. A few minutes later, he pointed to our right and said, "see? there's the gendarms post!" though I still didn't get why he was showing me the back side. After we passed it, we turned back onto the main road and it clicked - "Oh!" I said, "You're late for work!" he laughed with me and repeated what he'd said earlier - if he drove past the front, they'd recognize his car.
For all of the family members reading this that also have daymares of crazy men in hockey masks, don't worry. I'm not about to hitchhike to Bamako and I'm not making choices without thinking about the repercussions. It's just... life here.
Peace & Love
Elyse
Every February in Dakar is WAIST - the West African International Softball Tournament (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/WAIST). Now, if you know me very well, you'd be quite surprised to find me at a major sporting event, especially that of softball. Not to worry, I managed to avoid the game entirely (though I did play a couple of innings of kickball before we decided to go drink instead). For me, this vacation was a way to step out of life here and really just be an American tourist for a few days. Most times when I go on a vacation, I like to do things - experience the local culture and food, buy and do tourist-y cultural-y things, and just GO. Walk and wander for hours until the sun is setting and I almost cry when I recognize the front door of my hotel. I suppose there was a fair amount of walking, but the majority of my time was spent next to a pool or on a beach, soaking up the sun and breathing in sea air. I suppose my everyday is so culturally vivid that I really just needed a break from it. So I had a few days in Dakar, ate delicious food, saw a beautiful island, and then went to a resort-ish town a little south of Dakar called Touba Diallo to hang out on the beach and eat amazing fish. Plus I picked up some sweet sea shells. Now it's time to pass out.
Seeing Double (2/8)
Yesterday, a woman I didn't know and her children stopped by my house. We went through the requisite greetings and then she said something along the lines of "Look, I have twins." To which I said something like, "Oh... yeah." I recalled a conversation I'd had with a friend, Salif, a few months before when a woman and her twins came to his boutiki:
Me: Salif, what do Malians think of twins?
Salif: Yes, that woman had twins!
Me: Right, but do you think they're good or...?
Salif: Oh! Well, if they beg, they're good. If they don't beg, they're very bad. You understand?
Me: Ummm... sure. I understand.
So thus I assumed the woman had come to beg, though she didn't come out and say it. After a minute, she asked if they could sit (squashing my hope that they would just wander off so I could get back to my book). Her older daughters chatted as the woman fed her twins. I, meanwhile, was trying to figure out what to do since I didn't know the proper amount to give them and didn't have any food to give them instead. Plus, they were all well dressed and healthy looking, so they were obviously begging out of cultural formality rather than necessity, so did I want to give them money? Conundrum.
One of the babies finished eating, looked over at me, and smiled. Naturally, the mother handed the girl to me as the other continued eating. Now, most babies here REALLY don't like me (unless they're newborns and thus don't care) because they rarely see white people. If handed to me, I get about 2 seconds of "what are you..." before fear and crying take over. I've learned not to take it personally. The only exception thus far is twins. I have come across 4 sets of baby twins and all 4 not only weren't scared of me, but actually reached for me. This little girl was no exception and I bounced her on my lap as she giggled. I understand that it makes no sense for Malian twins to like white people, but I plan to keep track of any other (baby) twins I come across and their feelings toward me. I'll keep you posted.
So anyways, my visitors sat for about an hour before heading out... weird. I later asked Djelika about it (she had stopped by somewhere in that hour and laughed when she say us all just sitting there, squashing my hopes that she'd somehow politely shoo them away). She told me not to worry, they were just walking and begging & that some people give them millet or corn or even money. Not important, don't worry about it. I told her that it was weird that twins are just expected to beg. As often happens, she just laughed at me.
Elbow Grease (2/4)
This afternoon, we cleaned the CSCOM. Jara handed me a broom and directed me to the back room, where I found Adiaratou sweeping the windows/smearing cobwebs into the screens. I stood there, head cocked, wondering something along the lines of "what the..." when she turned and saw me.
"Do you know how [to clean]?" she asked, not intentionally being rude.
"Of course!," I said instantly. I scanned the room, fantasizing about what I could do given a week and some very strong cleaning supplies. Given 2 hours, however, I didn't even know where to start. "Ok," I admitted grudgingly, "I guess I don't know how." Adi had me sweep windows. After about 20 minutes, she and Sali asked if I wasn't tired and didn't I want to rest? I teased them, saying they thought white people didn't know how to work.
Besides window sweeping, almost all energy was put towards washing the floor. Which definitely needed some love, don't get me wrong, but so did... well... everything. In the sick room, Sali and Abi were washing the floors around the beds. I offered to wash the counter tops. They agreed in an, "OK weird, white girl, whatever you say" way. I went about my business turning the tiles from brown to white, though they didn't seem to notice.
Just over 2 hours from when we started, Sali beamed at me, "It's clean now, yes?" I found it ironic that the word for "clean was literally "whitened" as I looked around, but I nodded my approval anyways.
Cleanliness here is hard to describe. Consider that if you gave a Malian woman that white shirt of yours with year old pit stains that only get darker no matter how many chemicals you pour and scrub into it, she'd hand you a dry, folded, blindingly white shirt with no stains a few hours later. Malians are dedicated to a clean appearance and often think we (foreigners) are dirty because we don't bathe or even wash our feet nearly enough. Plus we use our left hands. Eww, right? Westerners think Malians are dirty because they have a strong aversion to soap. Malians religiously sweep their concessions because that's where they do everything, but they also pour out bad water in the concession and allow children and animals to urinate and sometimes defecate wherever they want. The majority of the few times I've been inside a Malian home, I've been quite bothered by the amount of dirt in the air.
At the end of the day, I have to shrug and just kind of smile about the majority of this. I lecture on human defecation, flies, and soap to whoever will listen, and I try to push the CSCOM staff to clean and sanitize as much as possible, but at some point I have to just walk away and try to lead by example. Lately, I suppose, I've been missing American standars of cleanliness. Particularly, the idea of showering, not feeling dirty immediately after, and of then stepping on carpet has entertained my daydreams. It's the little things...
For My Bad Days (2/2)
This morning, I watched a malnourished 9 month old eat Plumpy Nut for the first time. I've seen the girl over the last few months and my eyes are always drawn to her. She's obviously too skinny, isn't growing properly, and is always crying. I saw her smile for the first time today. As I monitored the amount of Plumpy Nut she ate, I advised her mother on what she could do to help her daughter back up to a stable weight. The way that the girl all but attacked the Plumpy Nut made all of my service and all of the shitty parts worth it.
Hitchhiking (1/31)
Travel in Mali is always interesting. If I'm leaving from a city, I usually go to the bus gare (station) and try to find whichever is leaving soonest (if they say "soon," you've probably got a few hours to kill. If they say "now," you'll probably leave soon. If they say "now now," grab a ticket - you might even head out in the next 15 minutes). The bus tigis (NOTE: A "tigi" is an owner/seller. In this instance, a person selling bus tickets. A woman walking around with bananas on her head is a banana tigi. White people are sometimes called money tigis in half jest) sell every seat as well as the entire aisle on the bus - one ride, I spent 2 1/2 hours straddling a rice sack in the aisle; another, the bus door left a giant bruise on my leg when I sat in the stairs. You have a general idea of how long your ride will take, but don't bank on it - your bus may break down, get stopped for an indeterminable amount of time for no good reason at a check point, or you might have a driver who likes to stop for prayers.
When leaving from a village, a town, or even a city if you don't want to go to the gare, you go to the side of the highway and wait for a bus or a mobili - a sketch van overcrowded and doubled in weight from all of the stuff packed on top. As they near, you stick your arm out and some man leans out flipping his hand - where to? A quick shout of the destination as they pass you and then they speed up or slow down. If they slow down, you grab your bags and jog over... when you're seated, you can't remember if they even came to a complete stop, but at least you're on.
From F., I sometimes find a ride almost as soon as I sit on the asphalt to wait. Sometimes it takes hours before anything passes. A few weeks ago, Bethany and I were waiting for a ride in to Koutiala. A semi came around the curve and a guy leaned out, flapping his hand like a fish. We both waved halfheartedly, figuring he was playing a not-so-funny joke. But then they stopped. I grabbed my stuff and as Bethany said, "should we really be doing this? REALLY?," I just kept saying, "it's a ride." When we got to Koutiala, the driver waved off our money as we got down. We thanked him and went on our way. This wasn't my first random ride, and I suppose one could say I'm now a hitchhiker.
State-side, I never would have hitchhiked. I'm sure that Ariel, my college roommate, tried to convince me to but I've always had a fear of being picked up by a crazy in a hockey mask. Here, I'm just excited to get somewhere - the fact that I'm technically hitchhiking doesn't always enter my mind.
This last time I was waiting to go into the city, a car slowed down and I hesitated as I grabbed my backpack - it was just me this time, maybe this wasn't the best idea? My convincing arguement? "It's a ride." The driver turned out to be a gendarms (police) man from my market town who needed the gas money. I've been reading some Jack Kerouac while in Mali and was reminded of something he said about all of the personalities you can find in drivers. Some, like the semi-truck drivers, have no motive and just want to listen to the radio. Some, like the gendarms guy, heed the money and/or want to talk the entire way - great excuse to work on my Bambara/French mish-mash. When we got to Koutiala, the guy turned off the main road. I started to protest and he gave some explanation about his office that I didn't really catch. A few minutes later, he pointed to our right and said, "see? there's the gendarms post!" though I still didn't get why he was showing me the back side. After we passed it, we turned back onto the main road and it clicked - "Oh!" I said, "You're late for work!" he laughed with me and repeated what he'd said earlier - if he drove past the front, they'd recognize his car.
For all of the family members reading this that also have daymares of crazy men in hockey masks, don't worry. I'm not about to hitchhike to Bamako and I'm not making choices without thinking about the repercussions. It's just... life here.
Peace & Love
Elyse
January 21, 2011
On Sustainable International Development
A.k.a. Sometimes, I work. (1/17)
So I spend a good amount of time reading and doing sudokus, but I am actually trying to do something here, so I thought I'd tell you about it.
The idea behind the Peace Corps is that we will not always be here to help people, so any help we give should be sustainable 0 we can leave knowing that the work we started will be continued. A major part of this is the promotion and facilitation of change rather than being the one changing, especially the facilitation of behavior change. As Peace Corps volunteers, we live like and with the locals, learn their language(s), and spend a long period of time with them. We build relationships, develop a rapport and a reputation, and form an in-depth understanding of our specific communities. In this way, we can understand what the village needs and have people listen to us as one of their won rather than some random foreigner coming in to preach at them and throw money at them.
In Peace Corps Mali, the sectors are Health Education, Water Sanitation, Environment, Education, and Small Enterprise Development - each volunteer has a sector and a job title. What that entails is pretty much at the volunteer's discretion. There are, of course, guidelines, general goals and focuses as a volunteer in Mali, but what I put in to the next two years, as well as what the village and myself get out if it, is up to me. From my understanding, each volunteer is expected to do what they can. No two villages in one country have the exact same needs, let alone two villages on different sides of the earth. Two of the three Peace Corps goals are focused on a cultural exchange. Plus, you might get to site expecting to weigh babies only to realize teh school is in desperate need of a latrine, or the local women's group could really use training on gardening techniques, or, or, or. A Peace Corps volunteer's role is to work with her/his community with what they need - the volunteer's sector and sector projects are guidelines, not rules. And you can always connect anything back to your sector somehow.
So let's talk about me. I am a Health Education Extension Agent, which looks very pretty on all official, important documents. My first three months at site (September - November) were for integration, language acquisition, and observation/ information gathering. After that was two weeks of training, then the holidays (and I admittedly did very little at site during that period), and now here we are. I still spend a lot of time doing very little and am hoping to tackle War & Peace sometime this year, but there are a few things that I am working and/or planning on. In my mind, I separate my work into basic small, medium, and big sections. The small stuff is work I can just do, medium requires other people's cooperation but little if any money, and big is, well, big projects.
Starting with the small... I've set up and started giving animations on basic health topics (NOTE: an animation is like a small presentation and/or demonstration that can benefit those listening. The translation for the Bambara word, baronike, is literally 'little chat). We have vaccinationa nd baby weighings every Wednesday and pre-natal consultations every friday at the maternity, so I am presenting one topic a month at all of those as well as once a month at the local elementary school and once a month in two near-by villages where we do vaccinations. The topics are simple enough: food gropus and eating a balanced diet, germs and hand washing, diarreah and oral rehydration salt, malaria prevention... I've made a schedule of these for the next 9 months, after which I'll start back at the beginning. A Peace Corps manual of mine has a ton of useful animation examples (and translations!), so this was easy for me to get started. The animations focus on small behavior changes - eating veggies that haven't had all of their nutriets cooked or sun-bleached out of them, drinking treated or at least safer water, sleeping under mosquito nets, hand washing. People do not jump to change after I have explained why they need to once, so I'm planning on teaching them to relais (NOTE: relais are local volunteers who help with health campaigns and bring health information to the community. Outreach, basically) to then continue the messages after I've left. I considered teh lesson on food gropus at the shcool this past week productive when the director, who was helping repeat and explain my message, nodded and said, "yes, this is interesting, very interesting," as the groups of kids rotated.
Other small activities I want to start include starting monthly growth monitoring at a nearby maternity, painting murals at the school and the maternities (easy way to broadcast a message, cheap, and fun for everyone!), and getting the nutritional supplement, Plumpie Nut, back to my maternity where it should be since it's free for us to provide to malnourished children. On a tangent, I am lucky enough to live in a village where child malnutrition is not an immediately apparent problem. The local health staff decided that since our rates of kwashirokor and marasmus are low, we don't need Plumpie. I've come to realize that we do still get some cases of severe malnoutrition and a number of cases of moderate malnutrition and am now really pushing them to carry it again. Anyways. I am also having my own solar dryer built and considering trying to get my local women's group to build one after mine does exceptionally well (which it, of course, will). These projects are all fantastic for me because they're easy to get started, somewhere between cheap and free, and - most importantly - can have a considerable impact on people. If everyone washed their hands with soap regularly... oh man, I'd be in heaven.
On the next level, I'd like to help implement more regular meetings of my ASACO and get them to write out a plan d'action for 2011 (NOTE: an ASACO is like the board of directors at the local health level and kind of manage the CSCOM, a.k.a. the clinic). I also want to promote the involvement of the relais in more activities. I've talked with the ASACO about the plan d'action as well as about fixing up the maternity courtyard. The courtyard turns into wet and mucky malaria-carrying mosquito breeding grounds during the rainy season. I want them to cut down the trees, get rid of the bug-infested plants, create a raised path to the maternity door, and slope the ground of the courtyard so the standing water has somewhere to go. I am cautiously hopeful that things are slowly moving forward for this, but we'll see. I also want to change the waste management practices of the students at the local technical school - right now there's a big burnt trash pile on the side of the road - and one holding used needles and meds right behind my CSCOM.
Now onto the big guns. Inevitably, there are projects that require funding. As Peace Corps volunteers, we are expected to think about these projects critically. For example, let's say your village wants you to build them a school. Legitimate, yes? But once you do, how will supplies be bought each year? Who will teach there and who will the director be? How will they be trained, and then how will they be paid? How do the local government personel feel about all of this? Or let's say your women's group wants a well in their garden. Will they maintain it and fix it in the future? And do they actually need it or just want one because they know of another women's group that has a well? In effect, how is the project sustainable?
All funding for Peace Corps funding requires a community contribution - skilled labor, materials, or straight cash - which helps ensure that the community is truly interested and invested in the project. A necessary but somewhat tedious conversation many of us have with villagers is along the lines of "no, I'm not here to just give you money and things. Why do you need X? Can't you use Y? How will the community contribute? What will you do if X breaks in the future? No, I will not just fix it." Having said all of that, I'm considering putting a well in at my maternity and eventually putting in soak-pits all over my village (NOTE: soak-pits are catchment pits for drainage water. In my case, drainage water from latrines that is currently out in the open, breeding disease).
So. I'm tired just from writing that. But I've got a year and 1/2 to make it happen, insh'alla it all actually will.
Childhood (1/12)
This afternoon, I was visiting with some friends when I noticed the two little boys in front of me were playing with one of those old Disney story books - the ones that I played with when I was a child. The book had seen better days; it was missing a cover, as well as a few pages, all of the pages there were ripped, and there had obviously been an unfortunate run-in with some termites. Still, there was Peter Pan fighting Captain Hook in front of my face. I wondered at how the book had found its way to my Malian village - possibly in a care package for one of the previous volunteers, or maybe it was tucked into the third-hand clothing boxes that get shipped all over this continent.
Earlier in the day, I was coloring pictures of food for an animation I will be doing later this week. My 11 year old host sister and her friend sat almost on top of my, glittery eyes watching my colored pencils. "When she goes back to America, maybe she'll give those to me," my host sister half whispered to her friend.
As will happen, I've spent the evening considering and comparing Mali and Ameriki, tonight's ideas centering on childhood. The privileges of being an American are often lofty and broad - we have 'opportunities' - but those privileges extend throughout the most minute details of our entire lives. As a child, I had to get a new box of crayons (with specific colors) every year for school. The worn down, broken crayons were no use to me anyways - why would I want to use those? Few children in F., if any, have ever seen crayons and will never own a box of 64 pointy, shiny new crayola crayons. That Peter Pan book is part of a Disney culture - there were (and are) movies, TV shows, books, dolls, toys, costumes, etc. As an American child, I had a part in that culture, owned various paraphernalia, and wanted even more if it. The kids here don't go to movies, don't have TVs to watch, and don't own more than a few outfits, let alone all of that... stuff. The boys here play marbles with 3 marbles total; the girls play a strange game of trying to rearrange shoes while someone else throws a homemade ball of plastic bags at you. This past fall, I helped my little brother attach a string to a box for him to drag around.
Most of the time, I am not turning idle watching into searches for a deeper meaning. Most of the time, there is not a Peter Pan book around to spark a mental ven-diagram on childhood as I watch kids play; I'm just enjoying their fun and their laughter. It's easy for me to not think about how much they're wanting in those moments. But they are, constantly, and in vast forms - from an 11 year old girl waiting a year and 1/2 in hopes of a mini box of colored pencils to a small child staring hungrily as I buy food from his mother. There are times when I think, "I should ask someone to send X toy for the kids," but then lose myself debating if I should instead be looking to get them something more meaningful. Instead of the little scrap metal car I saw in the Koutiala market, should I be saving up to send my itty bitty host brother, Ardnet, to school for a year? But then, if I did that, he'd stop going when I left, so maybe I ought to just buy him that car.
I suppose that in the end, I don't have any major insights to impart you with, or any conclusive thoughts at all, really, it's just been on my mind today. I randomly will think about how lucky I was to be born in middle-class America rather than here for a whole plethora of reasons... today's reason is the extent to which I never went without and never had to want like these kids do.
I'll probably end up buying that car for Ardent, if you were wondering.
So I spend a good amount of time reading and doing sudokus, but I am actually trying to do something here, so I thought I'd tell you about it.
The idea behind the Peace Corps is that we will not always be here to help people, so any help we give should be sustainable 0 we can leave knowing that the work we started will be continued. A major part of this is the promotion and facilitation of change rather than being the one changing, especially the facilitation of behavior change. As Peace Corps volunteers, we live like and with the locals, learn their language(s), and spend a long period of time with them. We build relationships, develop a rapport and a reputation, and form an in-depth understanding of our specific communities. In this way, we can understand what the village needs and have people listen to us as one of their won rather than some random foreigner coming in to preach at them and throw money at them.
In Peace Corps Mali, the sectors are Health Education, Water Sanitation, Environment, Education, and Small Enterprise Development - each volunteer has a sector and a job title. What that entails is pretty much at the volunteer's discretion. There are, of course, guidelines, general goals and focuses as a volunteer in Mali, but what I put in to the next two years, as well as what the village and myself get out if it, is up to me. From my understanding, each volunteer is expected to do what they can. No two villages in one country have the exact same needs, let alone two villages on different sides of the earth. Two of the three Peace Corps goals are focused on a cultural exchange. Plus, you might get to site expecting to weigh babies only to realize teh school is in desperate need of a latrine, or the local women's group could really use training on gardening techniques, or, or, or. A Peace Corps volunteer's role is to work with her/his community with what they need - the volunteer's sector and sector projects are guidelines, not rules. And you can always connect anything back to your sector somehow.
So let's talk about me. I am a Health Education Extension Agent, which looks very pretty on all official, important documents. My first three months at site (September - November) were for integration, language acquisition, and observation/ information gathering. After that was two weeks of training, then the holidays (and I admittedly did very little at site during that period), and now here we are. I still spend a lot of time doing very little and am hoping to tackle War & Peace sometime this year, but there are a few things that I am working and/or planning on. In my mind, I separate my work into basic small, medium, and big sections. The small stuff is work I can just do, medium requires other people's cooperation but little if any money, and big is, well, big projects.
Starting with the small... I've set up and started giving animations on basic health topics (NOTE: an animation is like a small presentation and/or demonstration that can benefit those listening. The translation for the Bambara word, baronike, is literally 'little chat). We have vaccinationa nd baby weighings every Wednesday and pre-natal consultations every friday at the maternity, so I am presenting one topic a month at all of those as well as once a month at the local elementary school and once a month in two near-by villages where we do vaccinations. The topics are simple enough: food gropus and eating a balanced diet, germs and hand washing, diarreah and oral rehydration salt, malaria prevention... I've made a schedule of these for the next 9 months, after which I'll start back at the beginning. A Peace Corps manual of mine has a ton of useful animation examples (and translations!), so this was easy for me to get started. The animations focus on small behavior changes - eating veggies that haven't had all of their nutriets cooked or sun-bleached out of them, drinking treated or at least safer water, sleeping under mosquito nets, hand washing. People do not jump to change after I have explained why they need to once, so I'm planning on teaching them to relais (NOTE: relais are local volunteers who help with health campaigns and bring health information to the community. Outreach, basically) to then continue the messages after I've left. I considered teh lesson on food gropus at the shcool this past week productive when the director, who was helping repeat and explain my message, nodded and said, "yes, this is interesting, very interesting," as the groups of kids rotated.
Other small activities I want to start include starting monthly growth monitoring at a nearby maternity, painting murals at the school and the maternities (easy way to broadcast a message, cheap, and fun for everyone!), and getting the nutritional supplement, Plumpie Nut, back to my maternity where it should be since it's free for us to provide to malnourished children. On a tangent, I am lucky enough to live in a village where child malnutrition is not an immediately apparent problem. The local health staff decided that since our rates of kwashirokor and marasmus are low, we don't need Plumpie. I've come to realize that we do still get some cases of severe malnoutrition and a number of cases of moderate malnutrition and am now really pushing them to carry it again. Anyways. I am also having my own solar dryer built and considering trying to get my local women's group to build one after mine does exceptionally well (which it, of course, will). These projects are all fantastic for me because they're easy to get started, somewhere between cheap and free, and - most importantly - can have a considerable impact on people. If everyone washed their hands with soap regularly... oh man, I'd be in heaven.
On the next level, I'd like to help implement more regular meetings of my ASACO and get them to write out a plan d'action for 2011 (NOTE: an ASACO is like the board of directors at the local health level and kind of manage the CSCOM, a.k.a. the clinic). I also want to promote the involvement of the relais in more activities. I've talked with the ASACO about the plan d'action as well as about fixing up the maternity courtyard. The courtyard turns into wet and mucky malaria-carrying mosquito breeding grounds during the rainy season. I want them to cut down the trees, get rid of the bug-infested plants, create a raised path to the maternity door, and slope the ground of the courtyard so the standing water has somewhere to go. I am cautiously hopeful that things are slowly moving forward for this, but we'll see. I also want to change the waste management practices of the students at the local technical school - right now there's a big burnt trash pile on the side of the road - and one holding used needles and meds right behind my CSCOM.
Now onto the big guns. Inevitably, there are projects that require funding. As Peace Corps volunteers, we are expected to think about these projects critically. For example, let's say your village wants you to build them a school. Legitimate, yes? But once you do, how will supplies be bought each year? Who will teach there and who will the director be? How will they be trained, and then how will they be paid? How do the local government personel feel about all of this? Or let's say your women's group wants a well in their garden. Will they maintain it and fix it in the future? And do they actually need it or just want one because they know of another women's group that has a well? In effect, how is the project sustainable?
All funding for Peace Corps funding requires a community contribution - skilled labor, materials, or straight cash - which helps ensure that the community is truly interested and invested in the project. A necessary but somewhat tedious conversation many of us have with villagers is along the lines of "no, I'm not here to just give you money and things. Why do you need X? Can't you use Y? How will the community contribute? What will you do if X breaks in the future? No, I will not just fix it." Having said all of that, I'm considering putting a well in at my maternity and eventually putting in soak-pits all over my village (NOTE: soak-pits are catchment pits for drainage water. In my case, drainage water from latrines that is currently out in the open, breeding disease).
So. I'm tired just from writing that. But I've got a year and 1/2 to make it happen, insh'alla it all actually will.
Childhood (1/12)
This afternoon, I was visiting with some friends when I noticed the two little boys in front of me were playing with one of those old Disney story books - the ones that I played with when I was a child. The book had seen better days; it was missing a cover, as well as a few pages, all of the pages there were ripped, and there had obviously been an unfortunate run-in with some termites. Still, there was Peter Pan fighting Captain Hook in front of my face. I wondered at how the book had found its way to my Malian village - possibly in a care package for one of the previous volunteers, or maybe it was tucked into the third-hand clothing boxes that get shipped all over this continent.
Earlier in the day, I was coloring pictures of food for an animation I will be doing later this week. My 11 year old host sister and her friend sat almost on top of my, glittery eyes watching my colored pencils. "When she goes back to America, maybe she'll give those to me," my host sister half whispered to her friend.
As will happen, I've spent the evening considering and comparing Mali and Ameriki, tonight's ideas centering on childhood. The privileges of being an American are often lofty and broad - we have 'opportunities' - but those privileges extend throughout the most minute details of our entire lives. As a child, I had to get a new box of crayons (with specific colors) every year for school. The worn down, broken crayons were no use to me anyways - why would I want to use those? Few children in F., if any, have ever seen crayons and will never own a box of 64 pointy, shiny new crayola crayons. That Peter Pan book is part of a Disney culture - there were (and are) movies, TV shows, books, dolls, toys, costumes, etc. As an American child, I had a part in that culture, owned various paraphernalia, and wanted even more if it. The kids here don't go to movies, don't have TVs to watch, and don't own more than a few outfits, let alone all of that... stuff. The boys here play marbles with 3 marbles total; the girls play a strange game of trying to rearrange shoes while someone else throws a homemade ball of plastic bags at you. This past fall, I helped my little brother attach a string to a box for him to drag around.
Most of the time, I am not turning idle watching into searches for a deeper meaning. Most of the time, there is not a Peter Pan book around to spark a mental ven-diagram on childhood as I watch kids play; I'm just enjoying their fun and their laughter. It's easy for me to not think about how much they're wanting in those moments. But they are, constantly, and in vast forms - from an 11 year old girl waiting a year and 1/2 in hopes of a mini box of colored pencils to a small child staring hungrily as I buy food from his mother. There are times when I think, "I should ask someone to send X toy for the kids," but then lose myself debating if I should instead be looking to get them something more meaningful. Instead of the little scrap metal car I saw in the Koutiala market, should I be saving up to send my itty bitty host brother, Ardnet, to school for a year? But then, if I did that, he'd stop going when I left, so maybe I ought to just buy him that car.
I suppose that in the end, I don't have any major insights to impart you with, or any conclusive thoughts at all, really, it's just been on my mind today. I randomly will think about how lucky I was to be born in middle-class America rather than here for a whole plethora of reasons... today's reason is the extent to which I never went without and never had to want like these kids do.
I'll probably end up buying that car for Ardent, if you were wondering.
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