Nothing like a Coup to make you think

The last few weeks in Mali and Ghana have been a glossed over blur of loss, anxiety, and unhealthy coping mechanisms.  Mali's sudden fall into what appears to be chaos plucked me cleanly out of the life I had planned to grow for the next two years in a fashion indicating complete disregard of all the preparation, both mentally and physically, that I packed in before stepping onto the plane that first time.  My ideas of preparation, control and ccertainty have been trampled a few times over in this long process, and I have somehow ended where I began. 

So where am I?  Physically, Asheville, North Carolina.  Mentally, in a state of release.  I am mourning for Mali and for Toumou, my little village.  I'm homesick!  And worried!  The chaos of my life has nothing on Mali, however.  Their government is scrambling to re-tie itself into a neat democratic knot again as every other nation watches; ethnic groups continue to wreak havoc in the north in hopes of creating Azawad, a new nation; and the hunger season looms, now fueled by last year's drought and this years quick withdrawal of all the world's aid after the coup d'etat last month.  (Back ground info: This coup was an effort by Mali's military to take their current president, known as ATT, out of power.  Unfortunately, this instability allowed for an ethnic group in the north, called the Toureg, to re-open a long disagreement about their right to Mali's northern most lands.  The last two weeks I was in Mali, the Toureg where in the process of capturing the cities in the north such as Gao and Timbuktu.  Most nations pulled their aid organizations out of Mali at this time.  Santions were also set on Mali to force the coup leaders to hand down power again.  Although most volunteers with the Peace Corps in the south were not in any kind of physically danger, the Peace Corps ability to serve it's volunteers would have been hampered.  Thus, we were evacuated to Ghana for one week.)

But all of that is an ocean away from me and out of my control.  So what I am left with are snapshots of my fleeting time in my little village:  Worokiatu, my homologue Youssouf's wife, dressed to the nines on her way to the market with an extravagant piece of cloth tied around her head and another around her middle to hold her new baby, Balakisa, on to her back; the beautiful kapok tree in our market looming over the stalls of tomatoes, onions and noisy vendors; the full body laugh of Youssouf when I told him I'd like to take three husbands since he could have three wives; and especially my last bike ride out of Toumou when I found my self completely lost in the bush of Mali, and then suddenly oriented by complete strangers on a trail beautifully lined by baobab and flamboyant trees.  All I can keep from Toumou is a bitter sweet little collection of memories and characters that flitted across my path for a short while.  Their transience is in part what makes them beautiful.  Its not all bad to have something good and to let it go, knowing you won't get it back, but happy you could have it for a little slice of its story. 

In the meantime, I'll be floating on to new adventures.  I hope to love Burkina Faso, my next placement with the Peace Corps (in June) as much as I loved Mali, but differently.  I'm sure I'll find new sights, sounds, and characters to add to my collection, each one more marvelous than the one before!

Until then, Alla k'an hamina ko nogoya, ka here di an ma.

May Alla quiet our thoughts and give us peace.

Amen!

Camels, Scorpions, and Termites, Oh My!

As the title would indicate, a couple of exciting things have happened to me in Toumou the last few weeks.  All ended in much flailing of arms and the unsuppressed giggles of the Malians of my village and a reminder on my part that this is, indeed, an adventure…just incase I forgot and thought things were normal or something.

First off, I have begun a regular study of French with a tutor in my village who works diligently to polish my lack-luster skills in French in the balmy afternoons under a millet-stalk hanger in his concession.  Not exciting—unless a damn camel walks into your classroom.  As we sat conversing, Draman suddenly told me rather vehemently to go, go, go, look, look, look at word unknown outside his house. I walked over, not expecting much, only to see a huge camel come traipsing along beside my house and up the road, his rider swaying rhythmically atop his vehicle in a purple turban and uncharacteristically light skin for my little part of Mali.  If this wasn’t good enough, they sauntered casually right into the house and up to our class.  The camel looked down at us haughtily, through thick black eyelashes and over a ringed and leashed nostril from 10 feet in the air, and then seemed to tip precariously forward and crash onto his front two knees to the ground.  His sandy colored rider leaned back, awaiting the next crash backwards, where the camel finally rested and the rider hopped off quickly.  He had to pee.  Guess I’d hop off too. 

In the mean time, I’m freaking out, running around this beast, mouth ajar, hands flailing, Malians giggling at the spectacle (and probably the camel too) with dares to me of jumping on.  Not.  Even. A. Chance.

Next incident.  I decide one night that I will delve into my classical guitar book which has been resting complacently against my wall since my arrival in Toumou, just awaiting my much needed attention.  I tug at the book—and the pages on the back crumble into holy pieces.  Holy.  Literally.  Like, holes.  Termites. Stupid, stupid termites.  They ate my book!  Little did I know that this was forshadowing of a future event in which I would witness the unceremonious eating of a termite mother at my homologue’s house.  As I sat under a rather wimpy mango tree, making tea for the men working on Youssouf’s new wife’s future house, the men working began a frantic dig-toss-dig-toss of a termite colony’s house under the future people house’s foundation.  Chickens began to peck greedily at the disheveled pile, scoring a protein rich breakfast out of the clayey holes.  I noticed over near the former insect home that an old man is gingerly holding a white, mucusey looking mass between his callused index finger and thumb, cleaning it carefully.  And then…slurp. Yes slurp.  He ate it.  I screamed, loudly, my scream answered by an eruption of laughter by the workers and ladies making lunch.  He ate the mother! Protein he said! Protein my ass, that’s gross.

The last event occurred on a dark evening, under my thatch covered cooking hut where I often read after I make and eat dinner.  As I poured transfixed over a Neil Gaiman paperback upon my mat on the floor, I hear a little swish from the roof followed by barely audible tap and rustle on the mat next to me.  I picked up my lamp and gazed uninterested around the cement floor, saw nothing, and reverted to my book, slightly disquieted, but blaming my anxiety on the jittery effects of mefloquinn (see my first blog!).  After a few minutes, still unnerved, I glanced around again to see a little hook shaped being under my chair two feet away. Leaf—no, scorpion—yes. Big scorpion.  Big, big scorpion.  Here’s the part where I make a bafoon of myself again and run over to my homologue’s house, and explain frantically, not knowing the word for scorpion “Thing, bug, house, floor, fell, going to kill me!” My homologue manages to unvelcro himself from the t.v. as Mali was currently playing Cote D’Ivoire in a big soccer game and everyone is all kinds of excited about it.  He barely avoids running to my house in his need to get back to the game and we search frantically for the little beastie. Alas, he had hidden himself, in my hut, and did not want to be found, but rather to wait and torture me with his haunting presence.  Very, very half-heartedly, I tell Youssouf to go ahead and go back to the game…guess we’ll look tomorrow. He shuffles out with apologies and promises of strong insect killer in the morning.  I stood in the middle of my round hut, with my lamp, for a full fifteen minutes, gazing around horrified—he could be anywhere! Like an invisible axe-murder, laying in wait, ready to attack.  I finally spot him on the wall, run back out, flailing again, to another neighbors house, who, without any fear, whips off his sandle and splats him against the wall, then picks him up and carries him out for the kids to look at.  Phew. Crisis averted.  That got two days of giggles.

Otherwise, I must admit, I’m pleasantly surprised to find myself encountering more moments of what feels like, what I can only describe as…normal.  I’m getting it, dooni dooni as Malians say. I started a ‘garden’ if you can call it that.  I bought a little shovel and dug a bunch of holes in my yard, and much to my surprise, this has gotten me more street cred than anything else I’ve done so far.  Malians are farmers and they like hard work and by-golly I did some, even if there are only holes to show for it.  I’m getting water, making tea, diggin’ holes, playin’ blues on my guitar, reading books, talking about the miracle tree Moringa (which the Peace Corps is all kinds of excited about), and even making a couple of friends.  I have to admit, it’s getting better…its getting better all the time.  Oh wait, I didn’t create that line.  Still apt.

I’ll be in Toumou for a couple of weeks, gonna try to stick it out until mid March!  Can’t wait to get back and read aaaalllll about Republican political slaughterings! Oh wait, yes I can.

A Very Sandy Sand County Almanac

As my Kindle was unfortunately lost to me before its due time to a hotel in Bamako, I have serendipitously had the pleasure of reading a book called “A Sand County Almanac,” by Aldo Leopold.  Reading this book every night before I fall asleep to the sounds of braying donkeys and humanoid goat voices is not unlike having Sigourney Weaver dictate an episode of “Planet Earth” to me in bed, except that this book is set in the boonies of Wisconsin instead of the Amazon and, most importantly to me, no electricity is required to enjoy it.

One quote seems to aptly describe my experience in these last few weeks in my village in Toumou, Mali, as I try to navigate my way around a very not middle class America new home:

 “There are two spiritual dangers in not owning a farm. One is the danger of supposing that breakfast comes from the grocery, and the other that heat comes from the furnace.”

I see the validity of this quote all the time in Toumou.  This is what everyone is doing.  The day is an endless hunt for food, although it never appears that way.  Fires are tended, wood is foraged, beans sorted, rice washed, sauce made, millet pounded, fruits harvested, compost managed, shea butter beaten and drained, water hauled, and mouths counted, all covered in greetings, blessings, and good ol’ village gossip.  It’s all about food and how to make it. 

No one has a “job” per say, but food is surely everyone’s career here.  It has become mine too, although in no way to the extent of the Malian women.  Women wake at 4 and 5am to get water and start the fires to make porridge.  Men wander to the fields and poke around in the dirt to try to get something growing.  After one meal ends, the next’s preparation begins.  You can’t just buy a bag of rice and cook it—you have to sort it for rocks and foul pieces, rinse it thoroughly, start a fire to cook it on, and already have the pot washed to cook it in. Shwew.  It’s exhausting!

I fair better with a gas stove, which significantly decreases my kitchen work.  I also have the means to just buy products that are already prepared for cookin’—Toubab items for sure.  Thus, the ladies just can’t figure out what I am doing all day long and are always calling me over to help them work.  This usually goes something like this.  Some one yodels “Sako Diarra! Na yan!—“ this being my Malian name, followed by a vehement ‘Come here!’  Then the torture begins.  “Sako Diarra, help us pound this corn, here take it—“ followed by the offering of a three and a half foot long mallet, the match for a thigh-high, 25 lb. wooden pestle.  The mortar is placed in hands, heavy and solid.  I get about three thwacks in before their eruption of laughter at my poor technique and its snatching out of my hands quickly puts a stop to my pounding. 

Women spend hours everyday at this.  We Americans buy flour in the store—they make the flour. The sound of two women pounding in these pestels sounds surprisingly like a heartbeat.  It reverberates all over town—thump thump clap, thump thump clap (they somehow manage a clap at peak of their beat, something I think I could seriously injure myself doing if I tried)—intermingled with shrieks of laughter and animated speech.  Every morning I know its time to wake up because I can hear the dull thuds echoing all around my house. 

I’m often on my way to get water when I'm arrested.  I am learning to successfully balance that big ol' bucket on my head and walk for ten minutes back to my house without a spilling a drop.  Once again, this greatly to the amusement of all the Malian women. 

Most days, I sit at Youssouf Kone’s house, my work partner and also the owner of a boutique that sells peanuts, matches, bouillon, etc.  It is also conveniently where everyone hangs out to drink tea and chat chat chat, Malians’ two favorite hobbies.  The Malian tea set consists of two little shot glasses, a shiny metal tray, and two tea pots, one bigger, one smaller.  Green tea is boiled to death in the big pot, then doused with sugar, and rapidly tossed back and forth between the two little cups to produce an inch-thick layer of foam, which has, as admitted by Malians, no other appeal than aesthetic value.  This could take over an hour, and perhaps no one says a word to each other.  But it seems that for Malians, being in the company of others is the key point.  One other Peace Corps Volunteer told me that the strangest thing I could do (which is amazing, out of all the strange things I could do as a very not Malian) is sit in my house by self.  It might be dull, but you have to be present.  I bring a book, something to draw, or something to sew as my threshold for Bambara absorption can only go so far.  I’ve also been delving into some blues guitar which my new Toumou friends seem to be all about.

This slow approach to life with no real product made my German sense of work and accomplishment stand on end the first couple days.  I never thought it would be so hard to just—sit.  I paced, made lists, started plants in plastic bottles, and nested in my house like a crazy person.  It IS starting to grow on me now though.  It's mostly charming!

I’ll be back in Toumou soon for another few weeks, working on my Bambara, observing, and of course greeting greeting greeting, chatting chatting chatting, and drinking tea.

All about Toumou

Happy New Year from Mali to everyone! All is well here…

Since last we met, I have seen where I’ll be spending my next two years!  A few weeks ago all of us new Peace Corps Trainees took a week-long visit to see our new homes all over the enormous country of Mali.  Some people had very, very long trips, including several hours on buses with animals on top (and inside for that matter), quality time in sotramas (a bicycle/ motorcycle led caravan that holds 4 people comfortably but 10 normally), and for some people even a trip on a donkey led cart.  There were stories of vomit, animal excrement, and even some plowing right through whole herds of animals.  I faired well though and had only to contend with an hour and a half bus-ride, followed by an hour and a half bike ride (15 km) to my new little town of Toumou.

I traveled with Youssouf Kone, who will be my work partner (called my homologue in Peace Corps lingo) while I stay in Toumou.  Youssouf is a tiny, tiny tailor (he is the same size as me!) and boutique owner (butigi tigi in Bambara) in Toumou, with a new second wife and 8 children.  He was amazingly helpful and somehow managed to understand my crazy Bamabara incredibly well throughout my visit.  I looked at him incredulously as we stepped off the bus in Kwale, however, and as he began to load our bicycles with all my stuff—two back packs, a box of water, and bananas, eggs, and bread in large quantities that Youssouf bought to bring back to his family. 

Have you every tried to ride a bicycle in a skirt? In the sand? With luggage and a stranger?   It was a little too bizarre to contend with rationally so I just looked at all the trees along the way and tried not to fall off my bike or flash anyone passing by.  The insanity only continued as I arrived in Toumou, 100% disoriented, as zillions of Malians grabbed all my things and led me somewhere.  Drums, at least 40 people, crazy stringed instruments, and all kinds of people singing my Malian name, picking up my hands to dance, and generally making a scene, awaited me in what I found out later was my new concession (house).  The similarity between what was happening in Toumou and what had happened when I had come to my homestay village just two months ago for the first time was striking, only this time there were no Americans to glance at with a look of ‘Oh this is so crazy, look how much fun we are having being crazy white people prancing around to drums in this village and not knowing what anyone is saying! Ha ha giggle giggle!’ Nope.  Just me.  Wishing someone could see this craziness and laugh at me!  So I just laughed at me instead—oh and all the Malians laughed at me too.  Like I know how to dance to that crap.  It was awesome.

Everyone eventually left, and Youssouf and I ate lunch together—a delicious meal of To! In case you don’t know about to, it is a common West African dish which consists of a starchy paste that you ball up in your hand (no forks or spoons here!) and dip in an okra sauce that, not surprisingly if you have tried okra, has a texture and consistency impressively similar to snot.  That description aside, it’s kinda growing on me. After lunch I took a bucket bath in my brand spanking new nyegen (outdoor bathroom) and took a little time to scope out my house.  It consists of three mud one room huts, surround by a shoulder height wall, with a nice corn stalk covered hanger in the center. 

And then the tour began!  Youssouf, being the excellent homologue that he is and despite my selfish desire to duck away in my room and process my surroundings, brought me to ALL the important places in town, beginning with the dugutiki’s house.  The dugutiki is head of the village, typically a really, really old man.  I mean really old.  Youssouf so kindly explained to the dugutiki in Bambara of a quality that I can only one day hope to achieve, what I would be doing in Toumou, where I would live, what organization I was working with, and that the dugutiki and his family were also responsible for ensuring my safety and well-being.  At least I think that’s what he said.  It sounded like nice things anyway. 

And then we did that same conversation, at least 8 more times, all over town, with farmers, school headmasters, organization leaders, etc.  I was so checked out by the end people had to say my name 3 times before I even knew they were talking to me.  The only thing I really remember and was the most excited about was, not surprisingly, the trees and rocks.  But really!  As I walked out of the dugutiki’s house and out towards the market, my eyes found a tree trunk the size of a house, stretching out huge, vine-like roots with branches that reached up well beyond the comfortable point for my neck’s range of motion.  I was flabbergasted.  It has got to be the biggest tree I’ve ever seen.  It looks like the tree on Avatar. Oh man.  And also on trees, Toumou has an IMPRESSIVE number of mango trees that seem to wall in the town on all sides with all shades of waxy, shiny green leaves and what appears to be red fuzz from a distance, the beginnings of the fruits that await my belly in the next few months.  Yummm.

Toumou overall looks (I may be biased because its mine) like a perfectly African tour-guide book village. Most of the houses have thatched roofs that look like some one grabbed a bundle of good-looking, straight hay, tied a string around the top, and shoved it onto a mud cup.  Some of these little huts appear to be filled with copious amounts of marshmallows, much to my momentary excitement upon seeing them bulging out over the rims of their containers.  Alas, magic puff it is not, but rather cotton, which is far less tasty and a lot more prickly.

Everybody seems to be a farmer of some kind in Toumou, much like most Malians.  After my first three months at site (during which time I will be gardening, starting a chicken coup, and generally nesting in my new abode!), it seems that I’ll be trying to help Toumoucaw (Toumou people) with the following things:

--Rice production, particularly growing rice and raising fish…at the same time… in the same place…amazing!

--Nutritional information (namely, getting people to eat this plant called Moringa which is a magic food for malnutrition)

--Hand-washing (so simple,

--Working with a women’s organization on shea nut production (that stuff that's in all your lotion! This is where it comes from!)

--Tree nurseries (the have baobobs too! Yay! Big as a church)

--Overall increased food production (gardening and farming!)

--Fruit preservation and drying (have you had dried mango?  It’s delicious)

--Bees! (I’m pretty terrified of bees, but maybe the fact that I don’t want to be but counts for something)

So, that’s the run down for now!  I will be swearing in as an Official Peace Corps Volunteer hum hum on January 6^th, my birthday!  Sounds like it will be a lot of fun with a fancy ceremony and a night on the town afterwards.  I got some sweet new clothes made just for the occasion.  I’ll head to Toumou the second week in January.  Can’t wait to get started!

Happy New Year again!

Distances

I had an idea of what one of the poorest countries in the world should look like based on commercials about starving African children and National Geographic specials about tribes out in the boonies doing incomprehensible rituals usually involving stretching necks, walking on poles, killing animals with spears, walking on fire, or performing some other unfathomable craziness. 

Sometimes, I see or hear about exactly what I thought I’d see and hear about—there are places that make crazy masks, in which people dance around huge bonfires.  There are some (to our ears) crazy clicky sounds.  There are children that show signs of malnourishment with incredible outies atop bloated little bellies and stringy limbs. People get sick and don’t have money to get taken care of.  A child in my village died a few weeks ago from malaria.  Kids are really dirty a lot of the time and wear some of the most incredibly tattered clothes I’ve ever seen (pants with the bum blown out, pieces of fabric, pants worn as shorts, holes in everything, with breakfast, lunch, and dinner from yesterday still on it—impressive really).  There isn’t running water in my village.  There isn’t electricity in my village.  These things make me go woah! I am way in the developing world right now, and that it is a gazillion miles away from the developed world.  The difference between that ING and ED can seem pretty profound, far more than a three-letter difference would lead one to believe. 

So I think, oh, this is a developing country! So many people (women specifically) can’t read or write.  Just last week, I spotted my host sister, who is 22, carefully tracing the letter H over and over again in a paper manual, with her tongue between her teeth in a look of deep concentration.  Needless to stay, I lavished applause and pride on her for learning how to write.  My 12-year-old sister also somehow always seems to evade attending school.  When questioned why, she either tells me that she has to help cook, it's a holiday, or just laughs and looks at me, and I assume I must have missed something and drop it.  Hmmm.  Ok, yes, developing.

But, then that same 12 year sister is spouting all the numbers in French, a few of my brothers speak worthy spatterings of English, and by god everybody knows who Barack Obama is (not only know his name, but sport shirts with his face and ‘Obama girl’ inscribed on them; eat cookies called “Obama Bisiki”; and ask if I live near the white house). 

I also saw that same sister who was meticulously practicing her Hs with the light from her cell phone shining out in my compound at 8 o’clock at night as she and my host mom’s huddled over it watching some, from what I could deduce, Malian soap opera on the internet.  She’s not the only one with a phone--everyone’s got one it seems.  

Further evidence of my proximity to civilization is, for one thing, the proximity of a cold soda, which is just a bike ride away.  Many women wear make-up and get henna tattoos.  Most families seem to have flashlights.  Kids do eat three meals a day, at least in my village.  Everyone in my village lives in a house of some kind.  There are many, many ways to make not having running water no big thing (I personally am now a bigger fan of bucket baths than conventional showers).  People have some really spectacular clothes that they wear for holidays and pretty cool clothes that they wear day to day.  Even kids get sweet braids and new threads for holidays and dress reasonably well if they go to school and such.  They all have shoes.  There are many professionals and business people in Mali.  Bamako is a bustling capital, no doubt about that, where everyone zips around on scooters and motorcycles and where markets, restaurants, and music abound. 

So maybe I’m closer to the modern world than I thought.

I feel the distance between the two worlds as a very Toubab (white) lady in a very West African place sometimes though.  I feel high maintenance frequently, which is just downright frustrating as one who has before prided myself on my flexibility and necessity for little.  Now all the sudden I need shots so I don’t die, my family has to be super duper careful about everything they cook for me, I have to have a special water filter where I get my special drinking water; I have to bleach all my vegetables, I have fancy sandles with buckles and colors, I have a watch and earrings, I have a bicycle that I whiz around town on (and that, more importantly, actually fits me—I saw a five year old riding a bike the other day that was clearly made for someone at least 6 feet tall—it was a little comical, he had to ride really fast not to tip over), I have to have a special room with a special lock, a mosquito net to rest my fragile body under at night with a mattress and pillow, I have a frickin’ loofah to scrub my self with--I mean come on.   

I know, I know, from America, you’re thinking Uh, duh, of course you have to have those things so you can have your basic needs met.  I know I know I know.  But man do I feel overly privileged and rather pampered.  I feel a common twinge of frustration amongst my fellow Peace Corps Trainees is the constant feeling of being demoted to childhood again, where we have no participation in making our own food, washing our clothes, and getting our basic needs met.  Only this time we feel bad that our mom’s do everything for us but sure as hell don’t want to do it ourselves! Making all food from scratch, washing clothes without a machine, and hauling water long distances on your head, for example, is no easy feat.  Malian win the toughness award, hands down.  Truly, all they can do is laugh when I try!

I think the family I’ve been staying with has gotten used to my delicate nature and many needs.   This week I’ll be heading to my new village, which is between Sikasso and Bougauni, in the southeastern part of Mali.  We’ll see what this new village things of my delicate nature!  I am the first volunteer they’ve ever had and I may legitimately be the first white person and definitely American that some of them have ever seen!   

Well aren’t they in for a surprise.  

 I guess I am too.   

Wish me luck! 

And a bon voyage!

A day in the life....

 

Unbelievably, it was only a month and amazingly already a whole month ago that I stepped off the plane in Bamako, Mali!  Just a little more than a month ago, I was in Asheville, spending time with my lovely friends and some irreplaceable family!  Before I left, my day to day life consisted of first waking up to the noisy cricket alarm on my smart phone, pushing snooze a couple of times, and crawling out of bed to a shower and toilet (with a seat and all), and hopefully coffee very soon after.  I drove to work and hung out with crazy kids at the YMCA.  Most afternoons, I went to my French class at UNCA or spent time at my (gracious!) friend Sallie’s house in which I lived to hang out with all the neat housemates on the porch.  I cooked my own dinner every night, under a light, with an electric stove, pulling items like cheese out of the refrigerator.  Oh how things have changed!

Here in Mali, needless to say, my day-to-day life is, ahem, different shall we say.  Every morning, I wake up at 5:30 am as the call to prayer rings through my Malian families compound.  That’s snooze.  Sunrise is last call at 6:15.  Soon after, either Sira or Mamine (my host moms) calls softly at my door “Sako,” that’s my Malian name, “I b’I ko?”  If I answer “Owo,” which means yes, she’ll put hot water in a bucket in the outdoor bathroom for me to use.  The negen, as this outdoor potty is endearingly called, sounds unpleasant but is truly awesome.  My negen is a large, cement walled roofless room that consists of a hole in the ground for business, and ample space for taking a bucket bath.  Don’t knock it till you try it.

After I make myself presentable in a knee and shoulder covering outfit, I greet everone in my family.  This is the marathon.  It has to happen pre-coffee and breakfast and it has to occur between myself and every family member.  Here’s the translated dialog: 

Good morning!

--Good morning!

Was there peace in the night?

--There was only peace in the night.  Was there peace in the night?

There was only peace in the night.  How is your family?

--No problems at all.

How is your father?

--No problems.

How are you children?

--No problems.  How is your family?

No problems.

--How are your children?

No problems.

--May Allah increase the peace of the day!

Amen!

This is not skippable!  It’s super important to everyone!  After breakfast I walk to school and literally go through the same dialog with at least 10 people, whether you know them or not, anyone you pass.  And you also swap where you’re coming from and where you are heading to. But it doesn’t stop there.  Oh no.  At noon you must greet people again when you meet them.  Afternoon, you must greet them again when you meet them and ask the same questions!  At night, no different!  I think I must seriously spend an hour and a half a day just greeting people!  It’s kind of nice and dispels any of that awkward, “oh I’m walking past this person, should I say hi?”  Yes.  Always.  Every time. Being friendly can be rather time consuming.

My school is a large compound on the other side of town.  Since families are much larger in Mali, “houses” are set up differently in something called a concession or compound.  Basically, a family has a block of land, which has cement rooms surrounding a central congregating area, not so different from an outdoor living room.  It’s pretty cool.  There are big trees usually for the family to sit under and eat and hang out.  My school is at a house similar to this.  I have two teachers who are both Malian.  There are six other volunteers in my class who are all close to my age.  We learn Bambara together, painfully, as none of us have any experience in a language quite like this!  French is the “official” language of Mali, but only those who have gone through high school or further have any real grasp of French, and that is usually confined to men and some women whose families may have had a little more money. 

At noon, I return back to my families concession for lunch.  I eat almost the same thing EVERYDAY for lunch.  It’s good…but everyday is everyday!  A Malian meal is basically a starch of some kind like potatoes, rice, millet, grits, etc. with a sauce over top.  At lunch, for me, I usually have rice with an okra sauce.  I wash my hands really good because we don’t use silverware around here!  Right hands only please, and try not to make a mess.  When I first started eating with my hand, I was a mess.  Really.  I had to bathe after I ate because I had rice EVERYWHERE, shoes, skirt, face, hair.  I can’t even imagine what my family thought!  I’ve got some skills now though.

After that, I try to sneak in a very, very warm nap.  West African afternoons are toasty as the mornings are chilly.  Then it’s back to school with all gajillion greetings along the way!

After two more hours of Bambara, I come back home, greet, and try my best to help them make dinner though I am pretty useless as far as actual manual labor.  It really doesn’t matter though because just the act of me trying to do it is entertainment enough for everyone in my compound, including myself especially.  These women are amazing, for real.  They pick up fiery pieces of charcoal without flinching.  They cook outrageous quantities of rice without burning it.  They somehow manage to use this huge mortar and pestil sort of contraption to pulverize corn, sorghum, millet, etc. without hurting themselves or anyone around them, with rhythm.  Holy crap.  One day, one day.  But probably not.

After we eat dinner, men eating together in one place, women in another, and children in another, everyone chats while the goats clean up the mess.  It’s already dark by 6.30 pm, so I am pretty much zonked by 8, and also quickly deteriorating in my ability to comprehend Bambara in anyway.  So I go through the reverse greeting process, give zillions of blessings, and head to my little room, where my comfy bed, big green mosquito net, and Kindle await.  I filter out donkey brays, rooster calls, and Malian dance tunes throughout night for a peaceful, lovely sleep. 

I’ve gotta say, it’s really a pretty great day. 

Just a few overall high lights of my life these days:

-People eat porridge every morning and sometimes its mashed corn, which is grits! It’s just grits! But, fresh! They look at my funny for putting salt and powdered milk in but it just makes me so happy.

-I have secret stashes of chocolate and candy in my room that my Malian family doesn’t know about.  Mwahaha. I’m not sharing.

-Goats really, really sound like people.  When a goat looks at me on the street, it opens its mouth, sticks its tongue out, and the voice of a man imitating a goat comes out.  Its uncanny and really, really funny.

Also on goats, there are baby goats everywhere.  They are smaller than shoeboxes and very fuzzy, and also sound like people, but very small.  Equally hilarious as the adult goats but far more adorable.

-There are really cool bugs.  And rocks. 

More soon, must sleep

OH Mefloquine!

Yesterday was not such a good day.  For three days, I've been taking a medication called Mefloquine which protects my feeble little self from big scary mosquitoes with malaria.  Mefloquine, however, has some strange side effects.

For example, many people experience very vivid dreaming while they are on mefloquine or sometimes night terrors.  Many people have a hard time sleeping--some of the other volunteers didn't sleep more than a few hours over the course of three days, but still felt very energized every day.  I also met someone who experience bleeding of the eyes! Eeek!

My side effects were perhaps not as intense as bleeding of the eyes, but the first strange effect was a coppery, irony taste in my mouth all the time as if I had a penny hiding under my tongue.  The other sensation was a dull throbbing pressure behind my eyes that didn't really hurt but made it a little hard to focus.  However, yesterday, it really got to me!  Mefloquine can also play with your emotions and anxiety and that's just what I got.  By the middle of the day I couldn't sit in the session due to some pretty intense anxiety so I went to the nurse's ward where I was very loopy and feeling drugged without a way to come down.  After a couple hours, I felt better and I feel good now though I couldn't sleep much last night. Bah!


HOWEVER!  Today is a big huge day!! Let the awkwardness begin!! I will be moving in with my homestay family this morning.  My homestay family is a Malian family that lives in Bamako, and apparently my host dad is the chief of the little village outside Bamako in which he lives.  I"ll be staying in their house, taking meals with them, drinking tea with them, using the negen (hole toilet! it's really not that bad though!), and using their Malian-ness as a base for me to learn all about Malian culture, including improving my Bambara and French.  WooohoOo!

Also, this weekend is a festival called Tabaski! It is a Muslim festival (most of Mali is Muslim) that celebrates that story of Abraham.  If you are not familiar with this story, it's the same story as in the Bible!  Some may not know that Islam and Christianity share many stories, similar to Judaism and Christianity.  So, this story is the tale of Abraham's faith to God through his willingness to sacrifice his own son.  However, just as he was about to do it! Bum bum bum!
His son was saved and God told him to sacrifice a sheep instead, much to the joy of Abraham's son!



So Tabaski entails, I hear, eating lots of sheep, going to Mosque, big markets, music....all the wonderfulness of a festival!

So, most importantly to those of you who keep up with me and worry for my safety, I will most likely be internet free for a couple weeks, until Thanksgiving or so.  Don't worry!!  I'm not dead yet.

One other little story to tell....after my awful day yesterday, I went for a shower in one of the little cement structures outside of our huts.  I was pretty exhausted, freaking out a little, under the grey glow of the florescent lights.  As I closed the door, a praying mantis freaked out and began launching itself against all four walls of the little room in an attempt to get out, which also freaked me out, of course.  He finally settled down across from me as a started washing my hair and I took my eyes off him for a minute.  When I looked back, he also seemed to be washing his "hair,"  pulling his mantis-arms over his eyes, not unlike a cat, and not unlike me at the moment. 

Ok gotta go pack for homestay!

Lots of love, talk to you soon