Theodor Geisel

Who was Theodor Geisel? He was a captain in the army during World War II, where he created this poster. He is awfully famous, but goes by a different name. Do you know who he is? (hint: check out that sexy little mosquito)...

  

Figure it out? Geisel is most well known by his pen name, Dr. Seuss. Fun fact that I learned today: Along with some of my favorite children's books, he wrote many political cartoons as well as this lovely malaria pamphlet. Fascinating. I want that poster...

Peace & Love

Elyse

On Mornings, Mushrooms, and mHealth

Hemingway once said, "I never knew of a morning in Africa when I woke that I was not happy." This quote is painted on a wall at a backpackers' that I've stayed at in Livingstone. It's a lovely quote and a great thing to have painted at a backpackers place, but honestly? I'm betting that Hemingway's happy mornings had more to do with what he was slipping into his coffee than anything else.

After over 800 mornings waking up on this continent, I can confidently say there have been many I have not been happy that I was waking up in Africa. Sometimes I'll think, "screw this, I want to go to..." and realize there's nowhere I'd actually rather be. Then I feel all warm and fuzzy. But sometimes, I'll wake up and think, "screw this, I want to be in America. Right. Now. Or Europe. Australia. On a beach. I'd even take the moon, just NOT HERE." Those are not good mornings. But because of the donkeys braying, guinea hens screeching  and children making 1000 strange noises, you have no choice but to get your ass out of bed and go along with your day.

When PC volunteers end their service, a frequent question is 'How was it?" As you are trying to sum up two really intense, life-changing years into a few words, things get skipped over. Those mornings when you woke up keening for home while sitting on your floor because heating water seemed too daunting -- you don't really mention those. At least, not until you really get into it with someone. Ask me about giardia sometime. The key, I think, is not to wake up every morning happy that you're in Africa. Rather, it's to keep going until you get to a point, even just a second in your day when you are happy to be here. And to recognize that after a few days back in the land of plenty, you'd be wishing for Africa. In a couple of weeks, I'm getting on a plane back to the states, to brave the first winter I've seen in a few years (I'm terrified.); I'm practically vibrating with excitement at the thought of seeing my family. Right now, I'm hitting that pre-vacation phase when your only coherent thought is, "get me out, oh please get me out, I want to LEAVE." But I know that after a few weeks, I'll be more than happy to come back. There's something about this life that makes it hard to walk away.
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I want you all to know that it has taken a lot of will power for me to not turn this into a food blog. I've wanted to tell you about my deep infatuation with curd (lemon curd, mango curd, banana curd...), my hesitant curiosity in okra (how do I make it not slimy???), my amazing pumpkin pie brownie recipe. As well as the pesto-zuccini-tomato tart I made for dinner a couple of nights ago. But no, this is about Africa, not my kitchen. Still, I've decided to indulge a little ...

My general rule is that travel goes hand in hand with trying new things. New experiences, new people, new food. I actually really enjoy it (and really need to get my hands on some crunchy caterpillars soon...). That being said, I've never been a mushroom person. Something about the texture, I believe. I'm basing this almost exclusively off of those gross mushrooms in a can. Any time 'good' mushrooms enter my periphery, everyone else gets so excited that I feel bad taking their happiness away only to spit it out 5 seconds later. That's just cruel. So a couple of weeks ago, when children started popping up along the road holding big bunches of giant mushrooms, I decided to go for it. Especially since it was only 40 cents. I started with cream of mushroom soup in order to get to know the flavors without the sponginess getting in the way. It was delicious. Which means that on some level, I do like mushrooms, and I'm just going to have to brave the sponge.
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The last couple of weeks, my focus (in terms of work, at least) has been on doing field visits to meet with clinicians reporting weekly aggregate data via a mobile client. More simply put, using cell phones to send information. A while back, cell phones took developing Africa by storm, and now almost every adult has at least one (they're connected through sim cards, so if you have 2 sim cards for networks that operate in different areas, you often also have 2 cell phones). In recent years, these cell phones have been providing not only a connection to other people, but also a connection to important health information. The use of mobile technology for these purposes is referred to as mHealth. As this blog post is already getting rather long, here are some interesting articles on mHealth:
Developing countries lead the way in deploying mobile technology
How Mobile Technology is a Game Changer in Developing Africa
mHealth Summit 2012
and if you're really ambitious: mHealth for Development (UNFoundation) (I think there's a cliffnotes version somewhere)

mHealth is something that I get rather excited about. Having lived out there in the bush, knowing people who have lacked critical information just because they're in rural Africa, it can be (extremely) frustrating to know that if they just had a little more access... this kind of thing is what changes the game. The program I'm working with uses mobile technology to send weekly rates of RDT (rapid diagnostic test) use, positivity rates, and usage/stock available of RDTs and treatment drugs. Whereas paper copies of what is going on in a rural health facility can take months to make it up the ladder to the ministry in Lusaka, these reports are uploaded into a cloud and available on the server immediately. This means that decisions regarding anything involving malaria, from drug allotment to net distributions to insecticide targets, can be decided using current information instead of rates from the previous year and estimations. There are, of course, days when I work with someone who isn't very invested, who's phone hasn't been working for months but doesn't care to ask anyone about getting it fixed. There will always be those people. But for every negative experience I have, there are positive ones (plural) where someone has taken hours to fill out backlogs from the previous clinician, where you can see a person's concentration as I explain how to access the program on the phone. Those are the people that are making me love my life right now.

Things of interest: How to yala yala (Mike was a volunteer in Mali with me, this post really hit home.)
Peace Corps in a nut shell

Peace & Love
Elyse

Gratitude

I sat on my back door step, the smell of garlic and rosemary a heady cloud around me. Luundu sat the same, separated only by a wall. We talked as the night closed in, each occasionally getting up to check our ovens. The conversation flowed in and out of silences, twisting and turning along new threads as it does when you're getting to know someone, moving from acquaintances to friends. Our laughter floated into the lemon branches hanging above our heads.

We talked of what we want to do, who we want to be when we grow up (and agreed that neither of us have really grown up yet). My own self assurance of finding a school I like and getting in, of then finding a good job, came out sounding not confident but cocky and presumptive. I work with many people who are just as intelligent and driven as me, but what often seems luck of the draw has left many doors open to me and shut to others just as deserving. I was born with a full house while many people I know are betting on a pair.

I've seen people posting 'daily thankfuls' on facebook, getting in the spirit of the holiday, I suppose. I decided at the beginning of the month to make some sort of grateful post, but staring at this paper, I'm overwhelmed by all there is to be grateful for. It can be easy to lose ourselves in complaints and wants, easy to blur the line between want and need. But it's also easy to drown in the mass of need that is out there, to find yourself one of the lucky few with no justification of why life is intrinsically and naturally unfair. There are times when all you can do is be grateful, humble, and pay it forward.

So to you, reader, I have two requests. First, I ask that you close your eyes and take a breath. Savor it, the way it feels, the way you feel. Be grateful for that, because living is pretty amazing. Second, I ask that somewhere in this crazy season of love and friendship, commercialism and glittery lights, you take a moment to pay it forward.

I am thankful for: Getting this opportunity to work and learn in Zambia; all of the time I was given in Mali and the pace of life at which I was able to slow down, recognize it, and appreciate it; love and support from family and friends back home; people scattered around the world that I can call family - the generosity of the human spirit continues to awe me; being born in a place where I'm given so many opportunities, so many little things we take advantage of; clean water; skype; being able to go back to Iowa for Christmas; travel; my health; so much more. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

Peace & Love
Elyse

On Food and Photos

I've been fairly good about putting on my professional face, partly because I have the clothes to match. Until someone casually says, "oh, the monkeys are here!" and I turn to squeal at the monkeys. And once again I'm a 12 year old.

I started this post with the best intentions a couple of weeks ago, but here we are in November with elections over and I still haven't published it. Ah, well.

This morning (a couple of weeks ago, now), I was chatting with a few people about an upcoming meeting in Livingstone; a co-worker mentioned that we might need to look for our own accomodation. "Oh!" I started, my hands a-flutter, "there's this lodge I know that has muffins!" Blank faces surrounded me. Wrong demographic; one person going back to the states and 2 living in Lusaka (both just having been in the US). I realized they wouldn't get it, but barreled ahead. "The muffins, they're um... well, they're really big. AND, the last one I had was chocolate!" The blank faces were bordering on amused; I threw up my white flag.

My life pretty much revolves around food - it's a Peace Corps thing, or maybe just a living-in-rural-non-western-wherever thing. Last month, I skipped off to Livingstone with a friend for a night.
"Did you go to the falls?" my mother asked.
"No," I answered, "we... well, first we went swimming. There was a pool at the lodge! And then we ate. Then we got drinks. Then we ate again. The next day, we um... ate. ... That was about it. It was fantastic."

A staff member in Mali joked (in that 'no, seriously' way) that PCVs are the first in line for food and the last to leave, and that it never changes. In Mali, I ate meals with my host family. I was content, but really good food was a rarity. When we (PCVs) got good food - holidays, restaurants in the city, thoughtful group meals at the house - we loosened our belts, undid our top buttons, and packed it in. Because really, who knew the next time you'd be eating something so good?

But then I was in the states for this 'transition,' and I ate a lot of good food. And here... I'm a decent cook, a solid baker when resources are available. In Mali, they weren't. Here, they are. I can get fruit, veggies, and cheese every day (except Sundays... the world shuts down on Sundays). A couple of days ago I made cheesy leek muffins; tomorrow I'm planning on a ginger pear galette. But I somehow haven't let go of the "quick, eat it all!' mentality. Good restaurants are revered and my food baby pops up whenever I visit them. My excuse is that there aren't any good restaurants in K-town, but considering how well I'm cooking, does that really matter? The point to this all, if there even is one, is that something in my life is going to have to change. When discussing what I was making for dinner one night, my mom said, "Well you certainly aren't going to come back as skinny as you did coming home from Mali." And she's right; either I need to stop eating like a starved PCV all of the time, or I need to commit to exercising. The likelyhood of either of those options is slim, especially with muffins calling my name.

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What with all of the fancy cell phones floating around, strangers here sometimes take pictures of me. Some of them try to be covert, act like they're texting (who texts like that!?), but some of them are blatant about it. I'm usually pretty rude, turning my head in the other direction, or even walking away. My feathers get ruffled, I act all indignant - Who are you to take a picture of me just because I'm white? But the real question is Who am I to act all righteous?

 In the western world, it would be weird if you started taking pictures of strangers. Imagine the reaction if you went to a small town where almost no one knew you and you started taking pictures of their kids. How well do you think that would go over? But in developing countries around the globe, we do just that. And somehow, it's become normalized. So of course people here pull out their phones to take pictures of you.

Previously, all pictures I took were for my own use. The vast majority were of people that I knew - family and friends in whichever country - and I assumed that they would say something if they didn't want their picture taken. Here, I don't know that many people, and my photos how have the potential of being used by other people and organizations. Suddenly, I'm considering consent forms, carrying around an ink pad for finger prints of people who don't have a signature.

When someone takes your picture in the states, you understand the ramifications. You know it could end up circulating the web, that many people will see it. This will sound silly, but I don't think I've ever sat down and hashed out the ethics of taking someone's photo when they don't have that understanding.  I've never really considered that someone might not mind their picture taken, even like it, but they may mind it going up on facebook, being emailed out, etc., if they knew that was a possibility or - in some cases - understood what that meant. So then what?

I'm trying to let it go when random people take photos of me with their phones. And I've become much better about asking if I can take someone's photo, of showing it to them afterwards. The response is positive more often than not. But when I ask that question, should I be explaining that I may or may not put the photo on facebook, use it in a future presentation, etc? And when I take a photo for work and request a consent form - how do you explain to someone that their photo has the potential of being in some form of mass media? It isn't realistic, so instead we stick with a simple "Can I take your picture," or pointing at the camera and then pointing at them. It seems to be going well, that's all I can really ask for right now.

Also, if you have a moment, read this article on Peace Corps guilt

Peace & Love
Elyse

On Shake-Shake Lane

When I walk by at 3 PM, the boys on Shake-Shake Lane are still inside, discretely taking pulls from their cartons and playing pool. A few "Hey, mama!"s and kissing noises escape as I walk past. These boys, they're full-grown, but they didn't come here to be grown-ups. They come to Shake-Shake Lane to be boys pretending to be men.

When I walk by at 5:30, the boys on Shake-Shake lane have spilled into the street. They sit on benches drinking their dinner and laughing at everything. I traipse over flattened cartons and am trailed by enough "Hey! Hey mamahhhhh! Heeey-ooooh! Hey sistahhhh! Hey!" to float a hot air balloon. I look straight and will myself to stoicism, but a slight smirk plants itself on my face. This is followed by a nose wrinkle as stale malt wafts up from the soaked sand. A few girls teeter by on sky-high heels, arm candy for the boys. The neighbor women nod, greet me as I pass, faces betraying little emotion to what must be a nightly ritual outside their homes. You could set your watch, serve meals by the routine of drunks on Shake-Shake Lane.

At 10:30 I ask Shari's guard to walk me home, and she sweetens the deal with the promise of coffee on his return. He brings a large stick and I wonder if it's for the men or the dogs. I expect racketeering as we leave the compound. Outside, though, there are only night noises. I'm enveloped by crickets and frogs, dog barks bouncing back and forth. In the states, in Dakar, probably in Lusaka, we would be far from the beginning, but in small K-town the night has already settled down. Shake-Shake Lane greets me with stock trucks and quiet bar tenders.

Arriving home, I thank the guard and go inside. Turning on my light and turning up my music, I start to tidy my kitchen. I pause to savor the moment -- this is the best part, feeling fully present in my own life. Soon I will split again - American/PCV/foreigner/professional. I'd considered adding seeker to that list, but I'm no longer sure that description fits. Best to let it be.

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I moved the weekend before last. I was expecting a month long, ache-ingly drawn out process, but a few days after I said that I loved the house, my landlord called to tell me to move in that day. And I do love this house. It's clean and tiled and I can do with it as I wish. The only downside is that the house is right off of what I've dubbed shake-shake lane - a row of greasy, seedy small town bars selling beers and shake-shake. I'm slightly fascinated. Repulsed, to be sure, but also fascinated.

There have been some issues with electricity in K-town recently. I've developed a pattern. When the electricity is going to be out all day, I get a little pouty and lazy and I sigh a lot. Then I go into the field and remember how good I have it and resolve to work around the electricity issues. When I get back, I try extra-hard for a good 10 minutes before falling asleep on my floor (it's all so tiled and cool and inviting). Upon waking, I feel bougy (bougie?) and bad about myself, at least until I see something like this. Then I don't know what to feel.

Whenever there isn't electricity, there isn't water (and when there is electricity, water still seems to be a crapshoot). I stand in my pretty little house, chewing my nails as I look at my (useless) shower... to an empty bucket... then back. Eventually I shrug and decide not to bathe. I could just fill the bucket from the tank 5 feet outside my front door and heat the water on my nice stove, but no. I decide instead to pout and feel bad for myself. A voice in my head mocks me, "Hooker, please. You just lived in a village for 2 years. Showers weren't an option. Getting water from a tap wasn't an option. What are you complaining about?!" I find myself trying to box up the things that I complain about, but it's difficult to delineate between first world problems and peace corps problems, living in Africa problems or just me being crazy problems. The more I have, the more 'developed' a place I'm in, the easier it is to complain and get upset when things don't work out the way I was hoping. I'm going to need to work on that. And now I've just used up a bunch of computer battery on an electricity-less day. Time for a floor nap.

Peace & Love
Elyse

Bootcamp, acronyms, and lasers

Have you ever taken a step back to evaluate how your life has changed in a year? The beginning of October in 2011, I had no idea that my life was taking me where I am now. Not only that, but I feel like my thoughts now occupy a very different space. Maybe I have grown up.

I'm on a plane soaring across Africa (fun fact, it takes almost 9 hours to get from Dakar to Johanesburg.) Even though it's the middle of the afternoon, the flight stewards have decided to make the plane dark and not bring me lunch - guess how happy I am about that. But I suppose it just gives me a good excuse to eat in Joburg. I've spent the last 10 days at Stomp Out Malaria bootcamp in Senegal. We spent every day (except for beach day) talking about anything involving malaria, from entomology to net distribution to co-infection, and doing skype calls across the world. It was long and my tired self wants to play it off, laissez-faire like. But truly, the training was a great experience and I have learned so much - many thanks to the trainers who worked so hard to make it all happen. So I guess this is my excuse to tell you all about malaria.

Almost 1 million people still die from malaria every year. Due to enormous efforts by organizations all over the world, the mortality rate has dropped by 25% since 2000. But I want to try to put this into perspective. More people than live in Alaska, North Dakota, Vermont, or Wyoming die a preventable death every year. Most of those are children. It's easy to make the statement at the beginning of this paragraph and not fully recognize its impact. Because these are not just numbers, these are people. Luckily, there are also many people working tirelessly to save that population, and I'm fortunate enough to work with them. There are a lot of organizations that have their hand in malaria. A short gamet - PMI, Global Fund, Malaria No More, United Against Malaria, Roll Back Malaria, and, obviously, Stomp and MACEPA. Big players that are making large impacts.

I'm going to take a rather large pause to explain malaria itself. Malaria is a parasite that is transmitted between humans and anopholes mosquitoes. The parasite goes through a 2 week long (ish) cycle in the mosquito and then uses the mosquito saliva transferred during a mosquito bite to enter the human. Once in the human, the mosquito goes through another cycle involving your liver and blood stream. Once in the human, the parasite stays in the liver for a while before making its way into the blood stream and attacking red blood cells. This is where the infection happens. Malaria is associated with (among other symptoms) fevers and chills that come in waves - you might feel horrible in the morning and then absolutely fine in the afternoon, making you think that you got over whatever it was you had until the fever comes back the next morning. The infection is more dangerous for anyone with a weaker or weakened immune system - children, elderly people, pregnant women, and people living with HIV/AIDS, for example. Malaria is also strongly associated with anaemia - it's dangerous for those who are already anaemic, and it can make a person anaemic because of the rates at which it kills your red blood cells. These videos are quite helpful if you're interested in any of the plasmodium falciparum (parasite) life cycle.

So what are the organizations involved in malaria doing? A lot of them can be divided into groups giving technical support or groups providing a financial backbone (or both), most of which is funneled into interventions for malaria control and elimination. There are different kinds of interventions. The first area is known as 'vector control,' which means dealing with the parasite-carrying mosquito. Distribution of ITNs, or insecticide treated nets, is probably the most important aspect of this. Nets cost less than $5 each and have been shown to significantly reduce malaria infections. The other major vector control initiative is IRS, or indoor residual spraying. In normal words, spraying chemicals on walls. Different chemicals can be used - DDT is the most common because it lasts longer and is a little cheaper, but many places are showing signs of resistance. On my good days, I'm a hippie, and I can imagine every hippie I know shuddering at 'DDT'. We'll have to get to that some other time; the point is that it's safe and it makes a difference. When you spray, the rates of infection drop significantly. There are other forms of vector control - larvicide, or treating water where mosquitos breed, is one - but ITN distribution and IRS are the key vector control interventions.

Other interventions focus around case management - RDTs, ACTs, and IPTps. My life is so full of acronyms these days, it's a miracle I can still form real words. The major prevention techniques focus on using rapid tests (RDTs) to confirm malaria cases and then correctly treat those cases. Previously, the only way to test for malaria was using microscopy. As you can imagine, this causes a lot of issues out in rural Africa (yep, generalizing). The majority of cases coming through rural clinics were diagnosed as clinical malaria - malaria without any sort of test - and treated as such, resulting in over-treatments and a higher risk of resistance. For a few years now (I want to say since 2007, but I'm not sure if there's any truth in that), RDTs have become available and made everything much easier. ACTs, or artemisinin-based combination therapies, are the drugs most commonly used to treat malaria. They're often provided for by donor groups, making them free for clients. The last group of letters at the top of this paragraph (IPTp) stands for intermittent preventative treatment in pregnancy. Placental tissue provides a new site for the parasite to breed, so even if a woman has built up resistance to the parasite, she and her fetus won't be resistant during pregnancy. Infection can cause anaemia in the woman and interferes with the transmission of nutrients, oxygen, and general growth in the fetus.

The third group of interventions are labeled as 'supportive interventions.' This includes things like surveillance, behavior change communication, and supply chain management. We aren't going to go into any of those right now.

The problem with these interventions is that they are not permanent. You cannot have a big push to get nets to every sleeping space and IRS in every house and then call it good; you cannot just go treat everyone and walk away - history has taught us that this can and will lead to a resurgence of transmission and infection. Instead, it's necessary to have a 'scale up', where intervention is kept at high levels over a long period of time to control the parasite or, better yet, eliminate transmission. This kind of scale-up is not simple nor cheap, but it is arguably necessary.

As I started writing this (a couple days ago - I'm now sitting at my desk in Kalomo), my intention was a short blurb about the basics of malaria. Instead I've ended up skipping over quite a bit of information in the interest of keeping you all riveted (are you riveted!?) There's a lot more to say, but I don't want to make this post too long. You'll note, I'm sure, that I haven't touched on specifically what Peace Corps is doing, or what I am doing. Lucky for all of us, I'm spending the next 10 months thinking in terms of malaria acronyms, and you get to be along for the journey. Don't panic, this will still be chalk-full of anecdotes about my life here, - not like I'm running out of material - I'm just trying to throw in a little education.

Speaking of, lasers. How cool is that?!

Peace & Love
Elyse

Band-aids

Do you remember the 'tattoo' band-aids that were so cool 15 years ago? I begged my mom to buy me some, then squirrled them away, rarely using one. They were too cool, I didn't want to waste them on mosquito bite scabs. Maybe I was waiting for a more bad-ass scrape to match the band-aids, but it didn't come (I was never really the sort of child that got myself into those situations). In the following years, I'd find a few randomly stashed in a linen closet or bathroom drawer, but I haven't seen them in years. Haven't really thought of them either.

This week I'm tagging along on performance assessments at rural clinics. By rural, I mean take a land cruiser and travel for 2 hours on random dirt roads. 'Roads' that tip your car enough that you push against the far wall and squeeze your eyes, hoping you don't just tip over. 'Roads' that will be washed out when the rains come, unusable and inaccessible mud swamps for months. 'Roads' that crisscross through tan, dried grasses, barely distinguishable. Not really roads, just you, your driver, and the rather vast bush.

But I digress. As we sat down in an office at the first clinic of the day, I glanced absentmindedly at posters on the wall. Health messages generated by the Ministry of Health, USAID, UNICEF, WHO, and so many other organizations, logos discretely displayed across the bottom of the paper. The posters were surrounded by bright tropical frogs and ferocious tigers - with a shock I realized they were tattoo band-aids. And they were everywhere - I counted 20+ posters held up by the band-aids. My first thought, I confess, was remorse that the band-aids weren't being used for something more fitting of their status. But I came around.

Like Mali, it's difficult to stick things to the walls here. Even the nice painted cement of clinics seems to reject adhesive, years of dust that's been blown in seaping through the walls and overpowering weak tape. In a place lacking the wonder that is duct tape, you do what you can. So when some American group gives you a bumper-crop of what is essentially strong tape with strange pictures and you've been trying to keep the HIV prevention promotion on the wall, it seems like a match made in heaven. That's the way it works, sometimes. You give something with a specific thought of the need and the use, and then people get it and use it for something entirely different. I decided not to trip myself for an excuse to ask for one of the band-aids. I'm regretting that decision now.

Fun things: How to Write About Africa
I wish my blog could be this cool

Peace & Love
Elyse

Authenticity

The jacaranda trees are blooming in Lusaka. I turn my head to continue my unabashed gawking. I want to surround myself, paint myself in the vibrant yet delicate lavenders hanging on their branches. As I twist to watch the trees, I chat with the driver about education in Zambia and subtly sidestep his casual inquires about my relationship status. We stop for me to pick up a reed mat that I've been eyeing on every trip into the southern province. I step out of the car preparing myself to bargain hard, but the merchant surprises me with his offer - about $3 for the simple, 5'x6' mat - and I agree without thinking. I turn to the woven baskets, everything from small, shallow bowls to large picnic baskets, all in stunning patterns. Outfitting yourself for 2 years is easy, but the question of "do I really need that?" when you'll only be around for 1 year (less, now) is more difficult.

I sleep through 1/2 of our drive to Kalomo, thank the driver, and start unpacking my things before I come up with an excuse not to. I sit on my new floor mat and impatiently wish it was Monday, when my new furniture is supposed to arrive. That evening I crawl into my bed, sighing contentedly that there is a bed, a room, a house here that I can call my own.

I've spent the last week in Lusaka for a very long, very informative meeting. The question I heard most throughout the introductions and handshakes was, "Where are you from?" or, worse yet, the informal "Where is home?" These questions, the simplest of those I am asked to answer, knock me off balance. From? I guess I am from Iowa; I will always be from Iowa. But I haven't lived there for more than a few months at a time since 2006. And home? Home is a mud hut in rural Mali. Home is the feeling I get when I step off a plane into Alaska. Home is throwing my arms around my sister, dancing with my mother in the kitchen, laughing with my father. And now, home is the purple & brown comforter on my bed in Kalomo. My problem isn't that I lack a home, my problem is that I seem to be collecting them.


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 "Africa is a habit breaker. It teaches that the ideal of unalterable tradition is an illusion, that change itself is a tradition, maybe the great modern one. It teaches that now is as authentic as then, and already is then. If, on an African visit, such thoughts kick in at all, chances are they'll grow larger and realer. As you gradually - confusedly, delightedly - come to realize, the basic experience of being here is learning how much you don't know."

I've been thinking about what makes an 'authentic experience' quite a bit lately. This quote, posted on facebook by a friend, immediately grabbed my attention. By now, I've read over those 5 sentences at least 20 times and am still lacking a concrete thought to lay down in written form. This passage excites me. It makes me want to curl up with a glass of wine and have a lively discussion about the ins, outs, and inside-outs of tradition, authenticity, and being in Africa. Unfortunately, as I write this I'm sitting alone at a rather nice lodge outside of Lusaka, so a blog entry will have to do.

A week or 2 into my time in Cameroon, we went hiking with Peter, our host father. I pointed to a bird in the sky and asked what it was. "Oh, that?" Peter stalled, "That's the um... the Cameroonian crow... the national Cameroonian crow." We looked at him doubtfully. "It is," he insisted. I think this came partly from Cameroonian hesitancy to say "I don't know" (to us, at least), but also partly from him earnestly wanting our experience there to be entirely authentic.

A couple of weeks ago, I was shopping in an artisan market here in Zambia when one of the sellers beckoned me over. "These carvings," he started out, picking up a pretty little wooden hippo," are a tradition in my native village. You see, I come from the village, and my grandfather taught me how to carve wooden statues. He is very old. When I need more wood, I go back and get it from the forests around my village." His face was very serious as he told me his little tale, but I couldn't help myself. I laughed. I wasn't trying to be mean or rude, but the situation amused me. As I walked away, I'm pretty sure he swore about me to his friends.

The crow I saw first in Cameroon I have since seen in every sub-saharan country I've been to. It is not a national Cameroonian bird, it is a white breasted crow. And the statues that man showed me were no doubt hand-carved, but who carved them and what wood they're made of (most likely something local, covered in shoe polish) will remain a mystery, as no craft-peddler here is about to tell me the whole truth. Still, I can't really blame the people feeding me these stories. The man with the hippo was painting a picture for me, trying to make my experience more 'authentic.' This version of authenticity, however, was dreamed up by tourists wanting to get everything they can for their money, wanting the 'real deal'.

So how do you define authenticity? Doesn't just being present automatically make your experience authentic? In Ghana, I barely left the resort our transition conference was held at and never left Accra, so I don't feel I can say I've really been to Ghana. Never had an authentic experience, never saw the real Ghana. And yet, if I were to go to a more developed country and have a similar experience, I wouldn't have the same qualms. I can say I've been to France, though I only saw Paris. I can say I've been to Turkey, though I've only been to Istanbul. So why is Africa any different?

These thoughts have me arguing with myself on personal habits and judgments, scouring my mind for what, precisely, has led me to define a "real African experience" for myself. A bad habit that I've had a hard time kicking is judging people based on the experiences they're having. Why do I look at tourist experiences and find them less authentic than my own? Rather than judging others, we (I...) should be celebrating each others experiences and learning from each other. Because your, his, her experiences are as real as my own, and the differences are relevant only in helping us form a more holistic picture, not in ranking who's experience was more real and less adulterated. We want to step into a moment and have it be unadulterated, unaffected by time and by the world, but our own presence disturbs what was and helps form what is to be. (I should note that I do not include people in 'safari clothing' as those I should try not to judge. If you come to visit me, do not buy a special safari hat, and please do not buy one of those vests.)

Part of what delights me about being in a foreign country is the possiblity of throwing up my hands, admitting that I don't have the answers and am there to learn. We seem to prefer going through life as if we already have it figured out. "Do you know of XYZ?" Someone will ask me. "Oh, yes!," I answer, "but not as well as I should," when truly I don't know anything about XYZ and make a mental note to google the answer later. What is so wrong about not knowing, about admitting to our own ignorance? It must be better to honestly accept and admit that we have more to learn. Because really, there is always so much more to learn.

I had every intention to keep up with this more regularly, put up pictures, etc, and here I've failed by the second post. I'll try harder in the future.

Peace & Love
Elyse

Transitions

When I started this blog and packed my bags for Mali, it all seemed very temporary. 2 years and then I was done, back to living in America. I assumed as well that my blog would end at the two years - what else would I write about? I can honestly say that I had no idea that this was the direction I was heading at 'the beginning'. And in some ways, I still don't fully comprehend what direction that is. But my gut, my heart, or some other important organ is telling me that I'm not finished, so here we are.

I had little interest in blogging in the states, especially since I was so unsure of... everything. I considered turning this into a temporary food blog due to how much time I spent in the kitchen, but never found the time nor the energy. It wasn't until I sat down to write a bit of an introduction today that I realized that I have plenty to say, and that's only from 1 week here; who knows what the next year will bring. The following started at the end of June and leads up to today. Enjoy!

----- JUNE -----

They say that reverse culture shock (coming 'home' to America) is one of the worst parts of Peace Corps service. Considering how many volunteers are currently serving (9,095) and how many RPCVs (returned peace corps volunteers) there have been (200,000+), that is quite a generalization.

We are all changed, all somehow marked by our time - it would be impressive (yet also appalling) for a person to come out of 2 years in the developing world unchanged. We have grown. Still, there are many RPCVs who come back and want to kiss the airport tarmac because there IS a tarmac and because you don't go near it, you exit your large plane onto a fancy flyway. There are volunteers who come back and dive back into American life, ducking and blocking the blows of reverse culture shock. These are the RPCVs who dive into the wave, come up on the other side to swim on contentedly, a few more stories under their belts. I know those volunteers, and I am impressed by them.

But I am not one of those volunteers. I was reluctant to dive and found myself instead crashing into the wave. And, truthfully, I let that happen. I did not and do not want to come up the other side and swim on - I want the wave to carry me back. This is not to say I didn't appreciate coming to America. Jumping over a man's suitcase to reach my sister and hug her on an airport escalator after 2 1/2 years - that was amazing. Carpet. Sushi. Being surrounded by green. Personal cars. Good alcohol. Wanting something - whether it be a loofa and new soap, a bag of lime tostitos, or a new shirt, and being able to get it. The list goes on. But where I could have jumped into the fast-paced American life, gotten a job, and carried on business-as-usual, I dug in my heals. I applied to a few positions in Zambia and balked from the rest. "What's your backup plan?" people would ask. A legitimate question that I normally would have 5 answers to. Instead I smiled uncomfortably, responded vaguely. I didn't have one, couldn't create one. Leaving again was all I wanted.

How to explain that? In the simplest words, I'm not finished. I planned for a 3rd year and wanted it so badly that I now need it. I didn't prepare, didn't gear myself up to come back to America and now that I'm here, I find it jarring, lacking. I want to go back to a place where life is in constant motion and a constant assault on the senses, but where the pace of it is somehow slow and rhythmic. I want to go back to where generosity is natural, where people don't complain about the slightest affront and instead embrace the positive. I want to go back to a place where life is considered a privilege, not a right.

So now we come to the reason for this blog post. As I left Ghana, I did not intend to continue writing in this. But I've found that I have more to say and I know that in the next year I will have many more things to share with you. I considered sharing anecdotes about my time back in the US, but I think they will come out better in person. Ask me about the grocery store next time you see me. For the next 6 weeks, my energy is turned to the 27th of July, when I leave for a Peace Corps Response position in Zambia. I think that by then my wings will be tired of stretching, as it were, and I will be ready to live in this crazy, opulent country that is now only one of my homes. We'll see.

----- JULY -----

"And she's going back!" is a phrase that, I've found, makes people rather anxious. "No," I or my parents explain, "not to Mali, to Africa. She's going to Zambia."
"Is it safe?" They ask
My parents eyes dart to me, their tough 'proud of you' shell cracking. They want it to be safe, will it to be safe. "Well," I start, "Mali was safe. Mali was a solid democracy for 21 years and they were about to hold elections, and look what happened there."
This makes people uncomfortable as they look for the right words. After a few seconds, I save them, smiling confidently and stating with authority, "But I'm sure nothing like that will happen in Zambia." Everyone smiles back, relieved. 

"And she's going back" is truly a silly phrase for us to use in this situation. I am going back to a continent. Imagine you just came from Norway and you're now going to Greece. Or you ended a assignment in Mongolia and are jetting off to Laos. Going back? That's not really possible. To use a more correct phrase, we should say "And she's moving forward!" but no one says that, it sounds somehow ridiculous. Still, that's what this is. My assignment in Zambia will be to manage a pilot program for malaria prevention and control. I spent the last two years working to find and create my own projects; a lot of time went to reading in my hammock. Now, instead, I will be partnered with an organization - PATH MACEPA  - and will have assignments, jobs, direction. I will act as a liaison with health authorities, manage and help direct a program, work to solidify and better the program. I do not feel like I am 'going back' anywhere, but that I am starting down a new road, one that I didn't realize I wanted to take 2 years ago. Funny how everything can change.

Some people told me that I was different when I came back to the states, that I'd grown up. I assume they based this (unconsciously, most likely) on my haircut - I look older, more mature with short hair. The first thing one of my closest friends said was "you've grown." It was true - I grew less than an inch. Maybe that's why everyone thinks I'm now grown up. Besides, everyone changes when given 2 years. Still, I have noticed changes within myself since coming home. Mali taught me that I have something to give and that I should be confident in myself for that. Among the many gifts Mali revealed to my inner self, one of the biggest was a shift toward self-satisfaction in what I am doing and where I am going. I'm bad at decisions - the question 'what if...' enters my mind often. I never felt truly secure in my life plans and goals, what if I was choosing the wrong thing? Then what?This may partly be from being (almost) 24 rather than 21 and just-graduated, but it has slowly appeared to me that I no longer worry about that. The details, yes (what school, what program, when to go), but the direction doesn't worry me, it just feels right.

----- AUGUST -----

When I received my flight details, the date was still 6 weeks away. I lamented to my mother that it would take forever (have I told you how much more patient I've become!?) but when I looked at a calendar, I suddenly only had a few days left. Leaving for Mali, my excitement was met and shadowed by my trepidation (anxiety, really). Leaving for Zambia, I was almost exclusively filled with excitement. The shortened time frame probably help - 1 year is not nearly as daunting as 2. Landing in Lusaka, the dust in me that had kicked up when we suddenly left Mali started to settle. Based on 1st impressions, it will continue to do so.

If I'd come straight from Mali, I don't think I could have embraced this experience in the same way. I was still heartbroken over our exit, longing for my village - I would have tried to turn this experience into closure for the last, which truly wouldn't have done justice to Zambia. Having time in between, I can start my service knowing I am here because I want to move forward and do (learn) more, not because I'm trying to recreate Mali. I will inevitably compare Zambia to Mali, but I will try to do so in a constructive manner, building a framework of how things change in different cultures rather than pouting because the grass is surely greener in my favorite hot-as-hell desert country.

Coming as a Response volunteer, a few things are different. I applied for this specific position working with another organization rather than a general pool application. I did not 'stage' with Peace Corps in the US but met my new PC program director at the Lusaka airport. And I trained only a week with PC, rather than 2 months. During that first week, I met with the people I will be working with at PATH-MACEPA, my partner organization. My breath caught and my heart sped up as Sally and I stepped into the PATH office. Don't screw this up, I told myself as I steadied my hands in the waiting room. I sat down to 'chat' with a couple very intelligent people about the program and my role in it. My eyes must have widened, my mind trying to wrap around a caliber of language I had rarely used in the last 2 years. I tried to form intelligent, poignant responses, but I just said 'OK' a lot. I was rusty. Between that and the accelerated learn-what-you-can-in-a-week language lessons, I felt like I was dragging my brain behind me, little bits giving up and falling off.

Peace Corps service is difficult in a peculiar way. On the one hand, you aren't doing the 9-5 grind and you have a lot of free time. On the other, you spend that free time shitting in a hole and repetedly explaining that you came to work with poeple, not to give them money (which can really dissapoint them). Then you have to find something within yourself to motivate you and your village to work together on a project. This can feel like casually hunting for mushrooms or like going down a shaft into a coal mine labrynth in search of a diamond. You find yourself bipolar, oscillating between exhasperation and exhileration. OK so maybe you don't oscillate, but isn't it a great word?

Still, you have plenty of time to read and 'work' includes things like going to a clinic to chat or painting a mural. It's the Minor Leagues. As I walked through the PATH office, it dawned on me that I was no longer in the minor leagues. I'd been given a year contract with the big kids and I was terrified that I'd screw it up on the 1st day. I made it through without sounding too brain dead, and am now getting into training on my program and on malaria itself. So, in short, here we go again. Soon, when I have more of an idea what I'll be doing, etc., I'll let you know.

Peace & Love
Elyse

Closing Remarks

Note: this will be emo.

Today, I am officially a returned Peace Corps Volunteer. I suppose that is as good a time as any to write this. The ferocity of my emotions astounds me, has left me exhausted for weeks now. I am not really processing what's happened. When I can curl up in a corner in my mom or my sister's house, I might dig it all up. But for now I'm burying most of it. When it floats back up to the surface, I just push it farther down. This is how I sleep, how I don't cry, how I don't lose it. Volunteers are always weird when they get back to the states - you can't return from an experience like this unchanged (or so I'm told). Those of us in Peace Corps Mali that are about to go back are going to be even more strange. Being wrenched from your home will do that to you (See? told you it'd be emo).

I'm assuming that by now you have all seen Mali splashed across the news. Hint: there was a coup d'etat. If you're still confused, I would suggest searching BBC, Reuters, or the Associated Press. If you're interested in personal opinions on what the Malian population is going through, there are also many useful blogs. This, however, is not directly about the current events in Mali but about what I personally have been going through.

What would you take with you? I looked around my house (MY house) after saying goodnight to my mom on March 21st, wondering how one packs almost 2 years into an evacuation bag. That evening, my mom had called to tell me there was shooting in Bamako, the first I'd heard of anything. It shook me, but I didn't actually believe anything would happen. The next day, I imagined writing this entry, how I would commemorate my time in Mali, but I didn't actually believe anything would happen. Days went by and things got so much worse. I had many conversations in which I said that they couldn't keep us in Mali, we'd eventually have to evacuate. But in my heart I didn't actually believe anything would happen. On April 2nd I was allowed to return to village and then on April 3rd I was told to go back to Koutiala. I said goodbye to Adiaratou and Drissa, but not real goodbyes. I didn't tell anyone else because even though we were being consolidated to Bamako, I didn't actually believe anything would happen. I would be back. I think they call that denial.

I spent 11 1/2 days consolidated (coup-ed up, if you will) in the Koutiala stage house. That is a rather small house and there were 10 of us there... not exactly the best situation. We occupied a couple of days by painting murals at the Women & Children's hospital, but mostly we just sat around, watching tv, napping, reading... listless. My emotions were on what I thought was a roller coaster. After the last few days here (think one of those roller coasters where they strap you in, your legs are left dangling, and you spin and swoop and dive so much that your head is swimming afterwards), I would say that those days of consolidation was more like driving over large hills. Waiting was horrible. We reloaded news pages constantly, wanting something consistent and definitive. It was incredibly frustrating and irritating to not know what you were planning for or when you'd be allowed to go home.

Then, on Sunday (April 1st), we were told we could return to site the next day. A few people left as soon as the sun was up to lead the way; I had a few things to do so I waited until afternoon. A wave of relief washed over me as I walked down the mango tree flanked road leading into my village. I used the time as if it were any other time at home, like my future wasn't up in the air. The morning of the 3rd, a friend called to tell me that we were being sent to Sikasso or possibly Bamako. I registered that this was the beginning of the end, but I didn't accept it. I explained to Drissa and Adiaratou that I might not be able to come back, but when I left we said "see you soon!" I didn't say goodbye to my village, take last minute pictures, or try to 'tie things up' - that would have made it too real, too difficult. I was lucky because I was able to go back and get some sort of closure - many volunteers weren't allowed to return to site. But I realized as I locked my door for the last time (actively ignoring that it might be the last time) that if I was being forced to leave, it would be impossible for me to truly find closure.

That night, we received the email of evacuation. Reading it, I just felt numb. I suppose there was some relief at having a definitive answer to all of the waiting, even if it wasn't the answer I wanted. The next day was horrible, full of goodbyes and harsh realities. When we arrived at the training center that evening, I put up my tent and collapsed, drained from the emotions of the day. The next few days were spent at the training center outside of Bamako, preparing to leave. There was quite a bit of drinking. On Sunday we flew to Accra, which is in itself quite a culture shock when coming from Mali. Peace Corps has put us up in a really nice hotel where we spent the week doing processing stuff, having what they call a 'transition conference.' As I noted earlier, my emotions the last few days have mirrored one of those roller coasters with a superhero name. Again, there's been a bit of drinking. I've spent the week trying to figure out what I'm going to do with my future, ignoring what has happened the last few weeks. Dealing with one is enough, I don't think I could handle emotions attached to both the past and the future. Much easier to compartmentalize. At this point, the conference is over and we all have some basic idea of what we're doing next, even if that plan is to fly somewhere else. I, for example, will be flying to Istanbul and a few other places before returning to the states and applying to become a response volunteer. Hopefully within a few months, I will be jetting off to some other place and adventure. I am excited to see family and friends in the states and to have a few small luxuries back, but understand that right now I want to be home, in my village, so I might be a little weird. Understand that a part of me will always be in Mali and that I will always carry Mali with me.

Mali,
The last 21 months have flown by. I was planning on another 17 months with you, I wasn't prepared to leave like this. You have taught me so much, helped me grow in so many ways, I can't begin to express my gratitude. I came to you wanting to make a difference, but it's me that you have changed. I will never forget:
 sitting with my Drissa drinking tea; laughing at my dancing with my women; the first time Ina smiled and called out my name; the shy excitement of my siblings; waking up and looking out across the fields, feeling overwhelmingly content and lucky; giggling with Sali; holding Safiatou's hand as we greeted; the way young mothers nervously fretted over their babies; the way older, experienced mothers would toss their babies around like it was nothing; Djelika's laugh; joking with strangers about completely inappropriate things; taking a bucket bath under the stars; the stars; feeling safe just because it's Mali; the woman who sold sweet potatoes at market; the protective-ness of Bwa & Salif when I went to market.... So many people, so many things.
You have taught me many forms of patience. You've taught me the goodness of people, the importance of basic education, and how truly fortunate I am in so many ways. You've taught me to acknowledge my weaknesses, but you've also taught me how I am strong. I am forever indebted to you, and I promise to return, even if only for a visit. Mali, i nyenanfin be n na kelen. I be n miiri la kosebe ani hakiliw te na jigi, u te na bo.

Peace & Love
Elyse

Back and Forth

Recently, I've found myself in a nail-bitten conundrum of choosing between spending impressive lengths of time at site or going in to Koutiala regularly to get work done.

Going to site and disconnecting from the world can actually be kind of nice. Peaceful, even. It gives me the chance to think a lot, do a little soul searching. It can also be excruciatingly boring or infuriatingly useless. After this many months in Mali (I've topped 20, how crazy is that?), going back to site is 'going home.' When there, I have comfortable routines, things to do and places to go when my nerves get jittery and I need to walk around. I have no patience and refuse to listen to people who come to my village and ask me the basic questions (Toubab, can you make toh? Toubab, do you know how to wash laundry? Toubab, give me money) or laugh at my Bambara, because I live there, and my villagers wouldn't do that. I've put in the time and people in F. respect that. This has created a bit of a wedge between myself and the new pharmacist, but I'm sure we'll be fine once she and her children stop coming over to stare at me. 

So that's great. I've spent a month straight at site, and I could do it again. In fact, I've made a commitment to myself multiple times in the last few months that I WOULD just go and stay in F. for a long, long time. This has been continuously disrupted by enticements from (American) friends to come in and hang out and cook, or by the need for technology for work related purposes. Usually it's a combination of the two. For what I'm focusing on currently, I can only do so much in F. before I'm left stagnant, unable to make any true progress without accessing email, google, or volunteer resources oh-so-helpfully stored on my computer. So I find myself looking around and asking "...Now what?" Do I go into Koutiala for the weekend to read up on relevant information (and indulge hours into facebook and West Wing at the same time), or do I stick it out in village so that I can get my full 2 to 3 weeks, a standard I set back when I wanted to flee to the city and needed standards?

I've been rather frustrated with F., with living in a Malian village, as of late because of how disconnected it makes me. If I could live in my village but also have my computer, be able to access the internet, everything would be perfect. Instead, I'm left shuttling back and forth between village and Koutiala, feeling guilty every time I tell Adiaratou that I'm leaving, though she is not upset and understands that I'm leaving in order to help them more. This dichotomy is leaving me feeling somewhat bipolar - I bounce between a distinct lack of amenites and conveniences and being plugged into my computer for entire weekends, straight. The calm that washes over me every time I come back home drains away more quickly than it used to, as I realize I forgot to look up one thing, or that some key part of a project has changed and I once again could really use internet or just electricity for just an hour, but will have to just sit tight for at least another week.

2/29  Cue that scene from the Lion King
Gross, I thought, wrinkling my nose at the scene before me. I glanced at the other end of the delivery table and found the woman staring at me. I offered a feeble smile, knowing she deserved much more. The woman, like the majority of Malian women, gave birth without the support of any pain killers or even the support of loved ones. She did not cry out, only moaned softly, as is expected of a good Malian woman.


Turning my attention back to the two women working and the little white sea-monkey taking its first gulps of air, I focused on the technical, listing things I'd want to talk to Adiaratou about later. At least they were wearing gloves. This was the second time I'd watched the 'miracle of life' in Mali (or ever), and the second time I found myself slightly repulsed. I had no intention of venturing further than my spot in the corner.

Sometimes, I get it into my head that I do want to be a doctor or a midwife or something - this often stems from books about said doctors and midwives saving the world, or from the alluring adds of med schools in the Peace Corps magazine. There's nothing like a birth to remind me of my aversion to bodily fluids. But it's only 10:30 AM, I'm sure I'll work my way back to doctor fantasies or some other pipe dream by the end of the day.

2/23  3 Small Words
I'm getting far enough into my service that I can look back and wish I'd done things differently. Much of this stems from 3 small words that I didn't say enough. People - mostly Djelika and Adiaratou - have stopped by throughout the last 17 months to tell me where they were going, what they were doing. I often nod, smile, move on. Should have said, should be saying, "Can I come?" I reasoned that they would ask me if they wanted me there, ignoring the knowledge that really, they were asking me. I go places, I do, but in this village where everyone is always social but always forgiving of me, I can let hours slip by reading. I should have gotten out more. So there is a resolution of mine for the coming months.


Yesterday, Djelika stopped by to say hello, telling me she'd been out at a random compound making shea oil all day, that they'd keep going the next day. So... I said it. She laughed and said we would leave around 10:00 AM (really meaning noon). Of course.

When we got there, women were finishing their toh; wonderful hostmom that she is, Djelika made me really good zamé before hand. After I pled full, the women seperated the ground shea and got to work. Let me pause to tell you that processing shea is not simple. You start by gathering the fruit, these weird green mushy balls that I've been craving lately, and squishing the nut thing out. You then crack the kernal out of the nut and roast them. The kernals are then pounded, crushed, and put through a machine to come out with a thick, dark brown paste. And that is where we started today. I watched women knead water into the paste in giant bowls for a minute before pulling my stool up to a friend's bowl. They all chuckled appreciatively. The courtyard filled with rhythmic thumping from the women and a more erratic slap from my bowl as we beat the shea paste.

The cruel thing about proceessing shea is how much it looks like something delicious. As you start, you have a thick brownie batter. Once it has emulsified (a word I can use but cannot actually define), you have what looks like marshmallow fluff or the top of a dirt cake (the one made of oreos). In between, you add water little by little and beat the crap out of the mix. By the time we were swirling our hands in marshmallow fluff, my arm hurt. I washed off the oil as the women chattered around me, fully aware that I could understand them.
"The tubab knows how to beat shea!"
"She must be tired. Djelika, give her that chair"
"She likes to be called American, not tubab"
"Look at her clothes and her feet, she didn't wash them off! They're covered in shea! Give her more water to wash."
"American! Are you tired? You worked hard!! Come sit over here."

We sat for a couple more hours, drinking tea and eating a second helping of toh. There's no way to report this to Washington, and I suppose it really wasn't work. But they  way the women - my women - smiled at me, pride in their eyes, I can't help feeling like I did something small today.


2/20 Look At All The Tam-Tams!
I hesitate to write this post because it's going to be a slap-dash ramble rather than a put-together musing. Be warned. Still, I felt it deserved a moment.


Music is an artery of Malian culture, dating back to a very long time ago, back when there were kings and empires. Present day, you can still find griots at major events, such as weddings, that are more than happy to sing to you and make up things about your family for a little money. When the women of my village gather, sometimes they coerce a husband to lend them a radio and a car battery. If not, one woman beats on a kalabash floating in a tub of water while another sings and the rest of us clap and dance. There are different dance steps to take as we all shuffle in a circle. I stick out my tongue in concentration as I go through the steps, the rest of my body stiff as I focus on my feet. The women around me sway and swing their whole bodies to intricate rhythms, and I swear it is pounding in their blood.

You should probably skim these wikipedia articles, as I can't seem to will myself to paraphrase them for you (and I'm rather nervous about misinforming you, which I trust wikipedia will not do):
griots
Malian Music

Besides wooden bowls floating in water, there are all sorts of beautiful musical instruments and musicians in Mali. For a few days this month, I went to a music festival in Segou to experience some of this. I spent days wandering the artisal market, enjoying shows on the smaller stage, and eating some really delicious food (I focused on cheese and avocados). At night - after nap time - I met up with a very large group of volunteers to hang out, have a beer (or two...) and listen and dance to some fantastic music. The full program of the festival can be found here. The main stage was set up on the Niger river, so we sat on a large cement embankment or danced on the beach in front of it to watch. The performers were all extremely good. Baba Sissoko brought out about 20 members of his family, each with a tam-tam drum (I call them tam-tams, in Bambara they're called Tamanin, and wikipedia refers to them as talking drums). The performance was incredible. Most music I hear in Mali is blasted from broken speakers. Singers seem only to yell way too far into the microphone, making me wince. I can easily forget how impressive the music culture here is. But Mali truly has some fantastic musicians, and I'd like to share a few that I got to see.
Baba Sissoko
Heather Maxwell
Abdoulaye Diabate
Salif Keita
Rokia Traore


2/13 Ugu ugu - Retail Therapy
You may not know this, but I have a thing for jeans, as in I had at least 10 pairs in the states - my mother tells me this is a lot. I only brought 1 pair because, well, Mali is usually a bit warm for jeans (and that may be a bit of an understatement). Still, I've been able to bump that up to 4 pairs in the last 19 months. Yesterday, I realized 2 pairs are getting pretty threadbare and decided to take myself shopping.

Koutiala, for some mysterious reason, has great second hand clothes (called ugu ugu in Bambara and dubbed dead toubab by volunteers), right next to our house in fact. When I first came to Mali (really for the first 6 months or so), I was intimidated by these clothes. Big piles spread on tarps on the ground, speperated broadly and lorded over by young, smirking boys that shout numbers and toss pieces around at random. Too much to deal with when you're already having enough trouble dealing with being in the country. But once I embraced the ugu ugu, getting on my knees to reach in and pull out a fabric that seemed promising, there was no turning back.

This brings us to my recent venture over to the jean boys (other side of town, by the woman who sometimes has Moroccan oranges, if you are wondering). I hate the jean boys. Cocky, 20 somethings... I want to smack the smirks off their faces and choke of their obnoxious yelling. This is a strong reaction for me, even in Mali. But. They have the best jeans. Today, for example, I found a pair of perfect-fit, barely worn Diesel jeans. Had to be mine.

As I started to bargain, I made myself play nice and crammed down the need to slap the smirk off of the seller's face. He wouldn't budge from $2, so I tried walking away. I turned back and he just smirked. "Oh, come ON, please???" I asked in English, knowing he'd get the sentiment. Nothing. Just as I was going to give in, the man's friend got in my face and yelled about how I'm a rich white girl and should pay $20 just for that. They all laughed. I think that I once had patience for moments like this, but it's been chipped away by constant hassling. "Fuck you," I said, flipping them off before stalking away. I assumend they wouldn't understand and was rewarded with the sound of them mimicking my crazy English and laughing. Serves them right.

5 minutes down the road and I was regretting my actions. I am here in part as an example of America to help Malians understand the U.S.; I should have tried to talk to that man, explain what I do, blah blah blah. And those jeans were really cute. I sighed, turning around. When I got back, I ignored everyone else and handed the man my $2. As he folded my jeans, I smiled sweetly and tried to explain that I was a poor volunteer who'd been living here quite a while. "No," he laughed, "you're a rich foreigner." At least I got my jeans.

Peace & Love
Elyse

Inspiration

I wrote the following for an article in the Peace Corps Mali newsletter, and liked it enough that I've posted it on here as well. You can learn more about Mali Midwives on their website, http://www.malimidwives.org/index.php

This past April, I assisted two doctors from the Koutiala CSRef on supervision visits to rural maternities. I was asked to do this by a woman named Nicole Warren. I really had no idea who Nicole was - I had heard she had been a PCV in Mali in the 90's and that she ran a small NGO that provides funding for training and supervision of rural matrones in the area. Bouncing along a dirt road on the way to one of these visits, one of the doctors turned to me and said, "Nicole was a volunteer here, and look at what she has done after returning to America. How will you help us once you are finished being a volunteer?" I must have shrugged, unable to come up with a decent response. Part of me wanted to say, "isn't this enough?" while part of me recognized that in some ways, my service is not, could never be, enough. So no, this is not my success story. This is about a woman who’s shown me that Peace Corps does affect you for the rest of your life and that you really can do so much more.

I finally met Nicole Warren when she came back to Koutiala to hold another round of matrone trainings in December.  At this point, I’d gathered a few more details about the project, but really came to understand its purpose during the weeks of the trainings. The December trainings focused on AMTSL  (active management of the third stage of labor), and partographs, while being funded by the small charitable organization Warren founded, Mali Midwives soon to be an official NGO. I spent part of December and January assisting Nicole and a student of hers to conduct research and facilitate the trainings at the CSRef. I was impressed to see the matrones show up early every day in their nicest outfits to discuss their homework, excited to have the chance to get more training.

A little bit of a background – Warren was a volunteer in Mali from 1994-1996. Working with matrones in Mali helped her see the importance of maternal health in the community and in a broader public health context. Her interest tuned to the public health realm, Warren turned to nursing specifically because, as she says, “… nurses collaborate on a plan of care and then are with the person while it is playing out. They’re in that intimate setting where the person is experiencing a birth, a death, an illness.” After getting degrees in nursing, public health, and midwifery, she developed an interest in research on the matrones, and pursued a PhD in nursing.

While working on her dissertation, Warren found that each matrone was all but begging for more help and further training - she found it impossible to ignore that plea. Malian Midwives was born out of the matrones’ need for better training and Warren’s own need to work with and research these women; it was “a way to respond to their request for help after how much they’d helped me”. Nicole Warren founded the organization between 2007-2008 to facilitate continuing education for rural auxiliary midwives. In 2009, ’10, and ’11, it sponsored formations for matrones in a USAID training called “Essential Newborn Care” for the matrones’ literacy and skill level as well as AMTSL. When asked about matrones in Mali, Warren becomes animated and passionate when discussing how once a matrone is chosen, she can’t get out of it and is all but branded, even if she does not receive the training, help, or salary that she needs. These women, who give all they can with the little they’re given, are what inspire and compel Warren.

Today, Mali Midwives facilitates trainings for matrones implemented by the CSRef. Warren is adamant that the trainings are dictated by the needs and wishes of the matrones themselves. Warren envisions bringing the matrones to the level of a skilled birth attendant, an internationally recognized provider position. This requires augmenting the matrones’ skill level and assuring they have an ‘enabling work environment’ – definitely a daunting task. While working with these women, Warren is also conducting research on the needs of the matrones as well as the impact of the trainings being held. This, as she always carefully explains to them, is so that she can tailor the projects to specific needs, create the most effective program, and in the long term support the continued funding and possible expansion of the project. “What I’d like to demonstrate,” Warren explained, “is that if you invest in matrones, you can see a difference in maternal health and neonatal outcomes, that they are the key and are worth investing in. If we could show that in Koutiala, it can be a model to apply to the rest of the country…. If we can learn more about how to recruit, train, and support providers like matrones here, that information could be used in similar settings [internationally]”. It’s a lot of work, but she is certain that it is worth it.

Nicole Warren continues to impress me with her ability to stay motivated and focused on long-term goals to improve the lives and work of matrones in Mali. Before joining Peace Corps, I assumed that after the 27 months, I would just move on to the next phase of my life. Being here, I’ve come to realize that it will not be that easy to let go. Working with Nicole I can see how it is possible to continue your service in a broader sense, and that all of the energy put in to this service can be transferred and maintained after leaving Mali. This doesn’t mean I’m about to apply to nursing school (though, honestly, Warren did suggest it more than once), nor have I come up with any sort of answer for the doctor who asked me what I will do after I COS, but that I recognize that there are available options to nourish whatever it is that drew me to Peace Corps in the first place and that I can chose not to just walk away next fall.  


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A little extra...

As of 2008, UNICEF rated the maternal mortality rate at 830 per 100,000 births, and the lifetime risk of maternal death at 1 in 22. The most frustrating thing about those numbers is that there are very simple procedures that could substantially cut them down. AMTSL consists of 3 steps that a matrone can take to protect the mother from post-partum hemmoraging, one of the major killers of women in Mali. One of these steps is simply to massage the woman and make sure the uterus is contracting correctly. A partograph monitors a woman in labor and if/when she needs to be evacuated to a better equipped facility. When used correctly, this little piece of paper can save lives. It was haunting to see how many matrones at the trainings did not know to take the most basic steps, how few recognized the actual purpose of the drugs they administer to women in labor, how many filled in a partograph with nonsensical marks and numbers. Simultaneously, I was inspired by how intensly these women wanted to learn as well as the conditions they work in. As with any sort of training or class, they became tired, bored, restless. But they were all very careful with any materials given to them, and recognized that learning these things could help them save lives. We talked to women who had not been payed in years, who do their best without important tools and materials, who don't receive nearly enough respect nor support from their superiors and communities. These women are what drive Nicole, and I can understand why.

Between this project and the holidays, I've spent about 2 1/2 days in F. since the 10th of December. I'm heading back tomorrow morning to hopefully stay for a month straight (really, I am so excited to get out of cities and back into my tranquil little village). Most of that time was spent in Koutiala on this project with Nicole and as much as I miss village, I feel so privileged for being able to be a part of a project on the ground that has the potential to affect so many women. I'm still blown away by the motivation and will-power Nicole possesses, as well as her warmth toward all of the matrones. Hopefully that will motivate me in my own projects in the coming months.



It Takes a Village

One evening a couple weeks ago, I was taking a cab back to the stage house in Bamako. As the car pulled up to a stop sign in the middle of the city, the driver rolled down his window to ask a little girl - 3 or 4 years old, I'd guess - where she was going. She said she just needed to cross the street, so my driver flagged down another person to go with her before we drove away. As we continued, I smiled at how Malians automatically look out for children, strangers or not. I realized that situation wouldn't take place in the states not only because the random taxi driver wouldn't take note of a child on the corner, but also because very few young children would be out on a city street corner alone.

Seeing children walking down the dirt paths by themselves is normal in F. I might ask Adiaratou where Ina, her 2 1/2 year old, is and get the answer that she's wandering. Now Ina is still a little young to go off by herself, even by Malian standards, but it's OK because her 5 year old sister and friends are there to hold her hand. Children are let lose in the village because there is always someone there to take care of them, always someone watching. If a young child falls and starts crying, any adults - and older kids - nearby actively assume the roll of care-taker. I should note, however, that unless there is a serious problem, the adults usually just yell at the kid to stand up and go home, or yell at one of their own children to go take care of the one that fell. Still, every child here has multiple people to run to - adults as well as other kids, again - when in need of comfort. Everyone has a family nucleus, but when you step outside of that, you still know everyone around and have little to no privacy from them - they're kind of an extended family. So then you let a child who's still waddling when he walks careen off out of your sight - the village will take care of him, and he'll be back.

I'm fairly certain this is how my village sees me - I'm their adopted child and it's their job to raise me - all of them. They must think that I've grown up in the last 18 months; I no longer get passed around at large gatherings but am allowed to wander and come and go as I please. Still, when they bring out the food I have at least 10 women telling me which bowl I will be eating out of and where I will be sitting. These women are my friends, but they can't seem to help themselves from mothering me as well. I suppose that in some way they are raising me in that this experience is changing me so much. Some days I think of myself as a group pinchpot art project, and they're all leaving their imprint on me. Then again, some days I just think they're all crazy. 


'Tis the Season

A few weeks before Christmas, I spent the night at Bethany's place. We made American food for dinner, brownies, and watched Elf - it was December, after all. And really, I had a wonderful night, besides being uncomfortably full from WAY too many brownies. But as the movie ended, I felt a wave of homesickness building up, rolling towards me. I spent the next few days craving random things - snow, Christmas tree hunting, the smell of evergreens, Christmas lights, all sorts of food and drinks - but mostly missing my family. Elf, like many Christmas movies, has that underlying message that you should spend the holidays with your family (in a loving and forgiving mood at all times, of course). And if I could chose to be anywhere during the holidays, it would always be with my family, hands down.

Celebrating American Holidays is strange here, and each volunteer deals with them differently. I handle Thanksgiving by gorging myself on food and quality time with friends, though this year it was harder, knowing my extended family on my mom's side was all sitting together and I couldn't be there with them. I deal with Christmas mostly by ignoring it, which is easier than it sounds. Think about how much of the holiday season is about the build up. We spend December surrounded by decorations and advertisements (many coyly disguised as well-wishes from major companies), listening and singing along continuously to the same songs each year. Everything is red, green, or metallic and shiny. You're surrounded by men dressed up as Santa and people wishing you happy holidays. We each have traditions and spend a lot of time - whether last minute or not - looking for a 'perfect gift.' Now imagine that's all gone.

That's how my December becomes just like any other month. I never put Christmas music on my iPod in the first place, because sitting in my hut alone, it actually just makes me sad. The plastic ornaments and snowflakes my Aunt sent last year are hanging all year long and have lost their holiday significance. I'm not a grinch or anything - when I'm with other volunteers, I'm more than happy to listen to Christmas music or watch a Christmas movie, but I've found that doing those things when I'm not with other Americans just makes it harder for me.

But before you go feeling sorry for me, let me explain that another way I cope with not being home for Christmas is going somewhere really cool instead. I'm still celebrating the holidays, I'm just trying to do it in a way that I can keep seperate from Christmas in Iowa. Being in Mali, that isn't too hard. Last year, I camped out at some beautiful waterfalls with a small group of friends. This year, I went on a 3 day hike through Dogon country, whcih is considered one of the top 10 hikes to do. In the world. Christmas eve, I was climbing around and taking photos of homes built into the cliffs and then sharing a large, delicious Mali-style meal with other volunteers. This allows me to still enjoy the holiday and not get stuck wishing I was at home. Whenever a volunteer tells me s/he spent Christmas in village, I can't help but be impressed. You can always make it your own, of course - have a party, go to the Christmas service at the local church, hang out with any nearby Christians for the day. But still, I think that would make it so much harder.

So now it's January. The holidays are over, apparently - facebook told me all about how everyone took down their Christmas trees. Like much of my time here, December flew by and I'm looking forward to projects in 2012. I am also really looking forward to spending the next holiday season at home with my family (and I really hope there will be snow!)

Peace & Love
Elyse