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