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...
