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.