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