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
