The month of November was chock full of celebrations, and reasons to party! I kicked off the month of celebrating by showing up to village with three boxes of school supplies donated by the attendees of Harrisonville United Methodist Charge Vacation Bible School. It was such a great feeling to walk around the school yard seeing the children showing off their brand new pieces of chalk, crayons, or pencils sent all the way from America! The kids were most impressed with the markers- tubes of paint like liquid they could color with that didn’t need to be sharpened. The elders of school board were simply in awe of pencil top erasers, obviously the greatest invention ever! Leaving the teachers to muse over the need for sticky notes, highlighters, and list all the possibilities one would need a glue stick.
The biggest Muslim Holiday of Tabaski is in November, and my village sure did celebrate! The day of Tabaski the morning is spent praying, and rest of day is spent greeting, blessing, socializing with friends, giving gifts, receiving gifts, and most importantly eating! In the days leading up to Tabaski, the village is full of nervous mewing and calling from goats and sheep who seem to know that their life on Earth is soon to be over.
I dressed in my Malian outfit, (matching Tenna’s ) headed to soccer field to in enjoy the peaceful scene of colorful Malians, bent in prayer as the sun is just peeking over the tree tops. As soon as the praying ended, I was bombarded with blessings for me, my family, my yet to be found husband, and children for years and years to come. I headed straight to Tenna’s with my bag of gifts, to greet and bless, and start chopping up veggies for our feast. Once all the garlic, onions, peppers, and tomatoes where properly peeled, chopped, and pounded I left to make my rounds in the village; timing my greetings perfectly, because just as I got to the Dugutiki’s house he was in the process of butchering, and dividing meat, setting aside a pile just for me! The same thing happened at the next two houses I visited. I returned to Tenna with handfuls and handfuls of raw meat, some goat, some sheep, and all packed full of glorious protein! After the cooking is finished, we spent the afternoon, evening and late hours of the night eating-no gorging ourselves on rice, sauce, meat, noodles, fried plantains, and sweet potatoes in-between courses greeting and blessing people and dancing. This continued for three days, by the third day I was so full from eating meat, my body loved being overwhelmed by protein so much that I hardly cared that I was eating, unrefrigerated three day old meat! I really think the Malians would continue partying for an entire week if it weren’t for all of sugared up children starting to get cranky, along with the old men, who cannot get any sleep as a result from drinking highly caffeinated tea for three days.
In the calm of celebration recuperation, I decided that painting my nyegen with my left over paint would fill the gap nicely before getting ready for my next celebration. My now, fun, happy, polka dotted neygen makes pooping in a hole so much more pleasant. I can’t even look at my neygen without cracking a smile-it is amazing how happy a little paint has made me!
The weekend before Thanksgiving, A small group of volunteers joined me in traveling to Segou to celebrate November birthdays. Segou is a beautiful city right along the Niger River full of artisans trying to sell you their over priced goods. The trip to Segou was quite long, and like any other trip on public transport in Mali, a little frustrating. The first hour of the ride was spent by us getting yelled at to close the window before the blowing air gives everyone malaria, but don’t worry, to make up for the stuffiness of a bus full of sweaty Malians with absolutely no air flow the driver played horrible Malian music at deafening volumes.-needless to say we were very much we ready to exit the bus and start our fun filled days yalaing around Segou. We spent time at a “bogolan” workshop where they weave cloth and die it with mud, wondering in and out of shops admiring wood carvings, beaded jewelry, leather wallets and shoes, all the while getting harassed to make purchases. While in Segou we ate lots of good food, and even spent one evening taking a boat ride up the Niger at sun set. All in all it was a great and enjoyable trip. After a few days we hopped a bus to Sikasso to celebrate Thanksgiving with 85 other volunteers. Thanksgiving was a huge success, complete with turkey, mashed potatoes, and all the fixings, followed by a day at the pool and a Mexican Fiesta .
I made it back to village in time to finish out the month of celebrations by throwing a huge birthday party for myself! The morning of my birthday Sekouba calls me over to ask if we can have wild rabbit instead of beef for my birthday supper- I readily agree, rabbit is by far the best meat I’ve eaten in Mali! In the evening I put my party dress on, and head to Sekouba’s to start chopping veggies for our rice dish, and buy all the other ingredients that are needed. While the meal was cooking, we listened to music, played cards and drank round after round of tea and hibiscus tea. As soon as the music starts kids swarm the butiki and dance their hearts out. When the meal is finished cooking, the women come join the party and we dance until 11:00pm, when Sekouba thinks it time to serve the food. Since it is my birthday I take all the women into the concession and make them eat with me before giving food to the men and kids. (this never happens in Malian culture!) When everyone is full, we then take the meal out to men and fill a few plates for the dancing children. The rice is followed up by water melon, and the night and month of celebrations ends with a seed spitting contest at midnight.
Now it is time to start planning December events, and all the festivities for my Mama’s visit!
12.04.2011
10.24.2011
I'm NOT a teacher!
Somehow, I managed not to get bitten by the education bug like so many of my family member and friends. As an education volunteer I am here to help the school run better, and teach people how to perform their roles better. I am not a teacher! I could not reiterate this statement enough times over the past year. Just when I thought everyone in my village got it, school started and somehow confused everyone again. I can’t remember how much I have written about the education system in Mali, but to say the least it’s flawed. First of all the children are being inconsistently taught in two languages. Secondly they really aren’t learning anything, unless you consider copying and memorizing so they don’t get beat learning. The government has created many groups, and organizations to benefit the education system, but has yet to provide any money.
The school in my village hardly has enough books to meet the needs of half the students per class. This school kicked off with the first week being spent cleaning and reorganizing the classrooms, and cutting the grass. A good and bad thing I suppose, because we only had four out of six teachers show up, so the those students would have just been hanging out anyway. The second week of school I thought it would be great to stop in and visit each classroom, see how things are going, hoping to see some teaching being done. I walked over to the school only to find all the teachers in a “meeting.” (meaning drinking tea) Why would I think the teachers needed to be doing their jobs, its only the second week of school-they have lots of other time to work! I was told to check in on the first graders and sit with them until the end of the meeting.
I walked into the first grade classroom and was confronted by 64 dirty little smiling faces, excited to learn, and write in their brand new (hand-me down) notebooks. After greeting them all, and sitting down, they wanted to know what I was going to teach them. Now, keep in mind, these children have never been to school before, they don’t know how to identify letters or numbers; they can’t read, write, or even hold a pencil. I do the only thing I can think of, I draw lines and circles on the board and have them count, only up to 5 because after that, they get confused. Well one can only count to five so many times in an hour, and once the children realized I wasn’t really going to beat them with the stick I was using as pointer things got quickly out of control! I made a run for it when children were standing on desks and jumping out windows to pee in the field! After sticking my head in to interrupt the teachers’ “meeting” telling them “I’m NOT a teacher!” I ran to the welcome peace and quiet sanctuary of Tenna’s cooking hut. Everyday for the rest of week I couldn’t conjure up the courage to make another appearance at the school for fear of being put in front of another out of control class.
Maybe next week I’ll venture back to the school…
The school in my village hardly has enough books to meet the needs of half the students per class. This school kicked off with the first week being spent cleaning and reorganizing the classrooms, and cutting the grass. A good and bad thing I suppose, because we only had four out of six teachers show up, so the those students would have just been hanging out anyway. The second week of school I thought it would be great to stop in and visit each classroom, see how things are going, hoping to see some teaching being done. I walked over to the school only to find all the teachers in a “meeting.” (meaning drinking tea) Why would I think the teachers needed to be doing their jobs, its only the second week of school-they have lots of other time to work! I was told to check in on the first graders and sit with them until the end of the meeting.
I walked into the first grade classroom and was confronted by 64 dirty little smiling faces, excited to learn, and write in their brand new (hand-me down) notebooks. After greeting them all, and sitting down, they wanted to know what I was going to teach them. Now, keep in mind, these children have never been to school before, they don’t know how to identify letters or numbers; they can’t read, write, or even hold a pencil. I do the only thing I can think of, I draw lines and circles on the board and have them count, only up to 5 because after that, they get confused. Well one can only count to five so many times in an hour, and once the children realized I wasn’t really going to beat them with the stick I was using as pointer things got quickly out of control! I made a run for it when children were standing on desks and jumping out windows to pee in the field! After sticking my head in to interrupt the teachers’ “meeting” telling them “I’m NOT a teacher!” I ran to the welcome peace and quiet sanctuary of Tenna’s cooking hut. Everyday for the rest of week I couldn’t conjure up the courage to make another appearance at the school for fear of being put in front of another out of control class.
Maybe next week I’ll venture back to the school…
9.23.2011
Put Your Watch Down...
As most of you blog followers know, nothing happens on time in Mali. This is something I am pretty sure I will NEVER get used to! This fact was only re-enforced upon me time and time again this past week, starting with hearing about a Malian telling another volunteer to “Put his watch down and don’t worry about it!” Sunday, myself, and two other volunteers were planning to head to another volunteer’s village to paint a world map mural. She had arranged special transportation for us from Bougouni to her site. We piled into the nicest car I’ve ever seen in Mali, and head south to her village. She doesn’t live near the main road so as we turn off onto a rough red dirt road, we are very thankful to not be on Mali public transport! The further we go, the quieter our conversation gets, and the harder we hang on to the sides, and each other! The past week’s rain sure did lots of damage to the road. Malian’s are horrible drivers, nothing happens fast in this country, except for driving! Malians drive with lead foots, and then when we come upon a bump, or huge ditch in the road they slide that lead foot over and slam it on the break. While we are trying to save ourselves from whiplash, and concussions, we notice lots of motos, and people heading the opposite direction waving to us to turn around. Finally we stop and ask what’s going on only to be answered with one word, “ji!” (water). Thinking well of course there is water in the road, its rainy season…only to be confronted with a running river of water crossing the road in front of us! Shocked! We jump out to get a closer look. Lots of people are standing around, offering to carry us across for $2 not realizing that once we got across that we would still need a ride the rest of the way to the village. We watched as they carried a moto over their heads through the chest deep water. We rode back to town, as our first day of working on the mural got washed away with the river. We made it back to house, put down our watches, and stopped worrying about the work that wasn’t getting done and wasted the afternoon away with old “chick flicks.”
The next morning we were up early and on the road! We were amazed to see a fast flowing river, safely under the bridge when we crossed and made it to village in good time and only suffering slightly from motion sickness and whiplash. Once there, we were greeted with open arms from everyone in the village, excited to see four white people! Ready and anxious to start working, we head to the school where we are to paint a world map in the 7th grade classroom, only to be told that the key to the classroom was in Bougouni (where we just came from) but someone was just sent to go get it. As we watched our work time shorten yet again, we put down our watches and took a nap until lunchtime. After lunch we still have no key to the classroom, but we do have a strong Malian, and a leatherman to open the school so we can finally start working, a day and a half later than planned.- Glad to report that after a few days hard work we had a beautiful world map completed and the Dugutiki even managed to come check it out!
By Wednesday, we were done painting, but exhausted, and ready to get back and celebrate Mali’s Independace Day. I decided to spend the holiday in my friend’s village because there, they celebrate with exciting bike, and donkey races. Due to the late arrival into town after the mural painting, we could not catch a ride to her village that evening. Waking in early in the morning we walk to the bus stop, only to be told that we were crazy to think that a car would be going that way on a holiday! Annoyed, we decided to bike to her village, in hopes we would make it in time to watch the bike, and donkey races planned for later that day. We get back to the house to grab our bikes, only to find out that my bike has a flat tire (that I attempted, and apparently FAILED to fix the previous night!) so I borrow another volunteer’s bike without asking, knowing she wouldn’t be in town for a few more days. Finally we head down the road, hoping to make good time. We have picked up a good pace, but we keep getting slowed down by all the hills, which after each one my friend assures me that this is the last one then it is free sailing from there, until we reach the next hill, by the fourth hill, huffing and puffing between bursts of laughter we decide to stop counting the hills. Almost half way there, and my borrowed bike starts acting up, and every third pedal my bikes falls out of gear. Click, click, clicking down the road, we finally stop to try to fix it but have no luck. We look up and see a crowd of bikers heading right for us! Moving quickly out of their way, we cheer them on and give each other a look that clearly means, “Aww man we’re missing the bike race but I don’t want you to know how disappointed I really am!” jumping back on my bike I click, click on to the next village when I realize that my handle bar is starting to get loose, and is sliding around. Finally I decide I need to stop biking before this bike falls apart in my hands. So we find someone who can fix my bike, and sit down and chat with a lady, who’s most exciting day of her entire life is Independence day and she talks for the next hour telling us about past winners of the bike race, and who she bets will win today. Our lovely conversation was interrupted by bursts of cheers, and hoots, and hollers, as the bikers have turned around and are now headed back to collect their winnings! As the next hour passes we decide it is now time to put down our watches and not worry about missing the events of the day. When my bike is finally finished, I go to get on only to find out that instead of tightening the screw to hold my handle bar on, he thought the best solution was to GREASE the handle bar!! I now have to use every muscle in my hands and arms just to keep the handle bar in the up right position, while pedaling. As far as I can tell my gears are working, and by working I mean they are not slipping in and out they are now stuck on the highest gear, making it quite a challenge to pedal up hills, and hold on to the handle bar, I can’t even attempt to change gears without loosing all control of my bike. We make it up the last mountain of a hill and come free sailing straight into her now empty village because all of the festivities are over.
Today (Friday) we woke up early, ate breakfast, and went to sit by the road to wait for a bus to stop and pick us up and take us back into town. After three hours of “patient” waiting, a bus finally stops. I then have to call the volunteer who’s bike I borrowed and tell her it no longer switches gears, and there is a small chance that her handle bar may come loose again! Afterward I head into to town to see the tailor only to have him ask me to sit and wait until he comes back from the mosque…so I put my watch down and waited…
The next morning we were up early and on the road! We were amazed to see a fast flowing river, safely under the bridge when we crossed and made it to village in good time and only suffering slightly from motion sickness and whiplash. Once there, we were greeted with open arms from everyone in the village, excited to see four white people! Ready and anxious to start working, we head to the school where we are to paint a world map in the 7th grade classroom, only to be told that the key to the classroom was in Bougouni (where we just came from) but someone was just sent to go get it. As we watched our work time shorten yet again, we put down our watches and took a nap until lunchtime. After lunch we still have no key to the classroom, but we do have a strong Malian, and a leatherman to open the school so we can finally start working, a day and a half later than planned.- Glad to report that after a few days hard work we had a beautiful world map completed and the Dugutiki even managed to come check it out!
By Wednesday, we were done painting, but exhausted, and ready to get back and celebrate Mali’s Independace Day. I decided to spend the holiday in my friend’s village because there, they celebrate with exciting bike, and donkey races. Due to the late arrival into town after the mural painting, we could not catch a ride to her village that evening. Waking in early in the morning we walk to the bus stop, only to be told that we were crazy to think that a car would be going that way on a holiday! Annoyed, we decided to bike to her village, in hopes we would make it in time to watch the bike, and donkey races planned for later that day. We get back to the house to grab our bikes, only to find out that my bike has a flat tire (that I attempted, and apparently FAILED to fix the previous night!) so I borrow another volunteer’s bike without asking, knowing she wouldn’t be in town for a few more days. Finally we head down the road, hoping to make good time. We have picked up a good pace, but we keep getting slowed down by all the hills, which after each one my friend assures me that this is the last one then it is free sailing from there, until we reach the next hill, by the fourth hill, huffing and puffing between bursts of laughter we decide to stop counting the hills. Almost half way there, and my borrowed bike starts acting up, and every third pedal my bikes falls out of gear. Click, click, clicking down the road, we finally stop to try to fix it but have no luck. We look up and see a crowd of bikers heading right for us! Moving quickly out of their way, we cheer them on and give each other a look that clearly means, “Aww man we’re missing the bike race but I don’t want you to know how disappointed I really am!” jumping back on my bike I click, click on to the next village when I realize that my handle bar is starting to get loose, and is sliding around. Finally I decide I need to stop biking before this bike falls apart in my hands. So we find someone who can fix my bike, and sit down and chat with a lady, who’s most exciting day of her entire life is Independence day and she talks for the next hour telling us about past winners of the bike race, and who she bets will win today. Our lovely conversation was interrupted by bursts of cheers, and hoots, and hollers, as the bikers have turned around and are now headed back to collect their winnings! As the next hour passes we decide it is now time to put down our watches and not worry about missing the events of the day. When my bike is finally finished, I go to get on only to find out that instead of tightening the screw to hold my handle bar on, he thought the best solution was to GREASE the handle bar!! I now have to use every muscle in my hands and arms just to keep the handle bar in the up right position, while pedaling. As far as I can tell my gears are working, and by working I mean they are not slipping in and out they are now stuck on the highest gear, making it quite a challenge to pedal up hills, and hold on to the handle bar, I can’t even attempt to change gears without loosing all control of my bike. We make it up the last mountain of a hill and come free sailing straight into her now empty village because all of the festivities are over.
Today (Friday) we woke up early, ate breakfast, and went to sit by the road to wait for a bus to stop and pick us up and take us back into town. After three hours of “patient” waiting, a bus finally stops. I then have to call the volunteer who’s bike I borrowed and tell her it no longer switches gears, and there is a small chance that her handle bar may come loose again! Afterward I head into to town to see the tailor only to have him ask me to sit and wait until he comes back from the mosque…so I put my watch down and waited…
9.13.2011
Clouds Clouds, Clouds
Rainy season has come once again, a little later than usual, but came none the less. Like all planters and farmers, my villagers welcomed rainy season with open arms like the long lost prodigal son; glad to have clouds over flowing with rain and promises of a fruitful harvest. I however was not quite as welcoming. For me, along with rain clouds came clouds of frustration, and boredom. Not to mention mud, mosquitoes and many other critters that wish to take shelter in my mud hut. My cloud of frustration burst open with a clap of thunder and first poured down on me (quite literally) on a bike ride home from Bougouni. Some how I managed to forget that the road to my village turns into a muddy, swampy mess in rainy season. I arrived to my road just as the down pour decided to turn my road into a river fast than my little legs could pedal. After a few failed attempts to walk and push my bike proved to be impossible, I dug my shoes out of the mud and decided I had no choice but to just keep pedaling. When I say river I literally mean running water river- covering the entire road, making it a guessing game as to where to steer the my bike. Thankfully I managed to keep my bike up right and only had to pedal through water up to my knees twice. I made it safely to my door absolutely covered in mud (even in my hair!) just as the sun came out to shine its witty little grin on my dirty self before sinking over the horizon. Shortly follow that misadventure, my cloud of frustration continued to rain down on me when my propane gas tank sprung a leak, my gwa fell down landing on my bike bending the tire rims.
All of the above happenings too place between my last blogpost and the 4th of July. As July rolled in, I finally finally began to see the cloud of frustration break up with sun rays of hope and project approval! My school has taken it upon themselves to create what we call a canteen, and provide students who travel from other villages with lunch. However the ladies cooking the lunch were cooking under a few mango trees. While mangoes provide great shade, they don’t do much in rain storms. So for my first funded project my village is building a cooking hut at the school. My work partner and the school director met me in Bougouni to purchase cement and tin for the roof. I happily went back to village, letting the bliss of productivity fill me…only to have dark cloud of boredom creep in. I haven’t blogged, in hopes that in my next blog I would have great things to report on, the longer I waited the less that happened. Week after week after week, I was told the brick maker was coming soon. Soon turned into two months and over those two months while the farmers were watching their fields grow, the only thing I watched grow was my personal library.
Since my villagers were not working, and holding up their part of the project, I decided to let them take their time for a while, and attempted to keep myself busy by painting murals. I decorated the wall surrounding the doctor’s office with health murals about spreading germs, hand washing, and the benefits of eating the leaves of the moringa tree. Along with the paintings I hosted a few informal education sessions on how to make oral re-hydration drink for children who suffer from diarrhea, and how to make a natural bug repellant called neem cream to a few women in village. All of which turned out well.
I have spent the past few days visiting the doctor in Bamako for my mid service medical exam, but before leaving my village I set my foot down and told my village that I was tired of waiting on their mason to come to make the bricks. I had explained time after time that I am unable to start a new project until this one is finished. Giving up hope on ever motivating them, I complained to Sekouba. He has politely been keeping his nose out of this project because he and the school director do not see eye to eye. Sekouba showed up at my house one morning introducing me to his friend, who just happens to make bricks! I followed the Malian protocol by introducing the school board members who were originally responsible for finding a mason. But gave them a very American ultimatum that if their mason did not show up on Thursday like he said he was (like every other Thursday for the past few weeks) than my mason friend would be back to make the bricks. Friday morning I called my mason, who in the end gave us a better price per brick anyway, making plans for him to come Monday morning. I left my village with full confidence that I will find rows and rows of freshly made bricks upon my return…
All of the above happenings too place between my last blogpost and the 4th of July. As July rolled in, I finally finally began to see the cloud of frustration break up with sun rays of hope and project approval! My school has taken it upon themselves to create what we call a canteen, and provide students who travel from other villages with lunch. However the ladies cooking the lunch were cooking under a few mango trees. While mangoes provide great shade, they don’t do much in rain storms. So for my first funded project my village is building a cooking hut at the school. My work partner and the school director met me in Bougouni to purchase cement and tin for the roof. I happily went back to village, letting the bliss of productivity fill me…only to have dark cloud of boredom creep in. I haven’t blogged, in hopes that in my next blog I would have great things to report on, the longer I waited the less that happened. Week after week after week, I was told the brick maker was coming soon. Soon turned into two months and over those two months while the farmers were watching their fields grow, the only thing I watched grow was my personal library.
Since my villagers were not working, and holding up their part of the project, I decided to let them take their time for a while, and attempted to keep myself busy by painting murals. I decorated the wall surrounding the doctor’s office with health murals about spreading germs, hand washing, and the benefits of eating the leaves of the moringa tree. Along with the paintings I hosted a few informal education sessions on how to make oral re-hydration drink for children who suffer from diarrhea, and how to make a natural bug repellant called neem cream to a few women in village. All of which turned out well.
I have spent the past few days visiting the doctor in Bamako for my mid service medical exam, but before leaving my village I set my foot down and told my village that I was tired of waiting on their mason to come to make the bricks. I had explained time after time that I am unable to start a new project until this one is finished. Giving up hope on ever motivating them, I complained to Sekouba. He has politely been keeping his nose out of this project because he and the school director do not see eye to eye. Sekouba showed up at my house one morning introducing me to his friend, who just happens to make bricks! I followed the Malian protocol by introducing the school board members who were originally responsible for finding a mason. But gave them a very American ultimatum that if their mason did not show up on Thursday like he said he was (like every other Thursday for the past few weeks) than my mason friend would be back to make the bricks. Friday morning I called my mason, who in the end gave us a better price per brick anyway, making plans for him to come Monday morning. I left my village with full confidence that I will find rows and rows of freshly made bricks upon my return…
6.11.2011
My Kaleidoscope’s Broken
As my one-year mark is quickly approaching, I seem to find myself stuck in a bit of a lull. It seems like a good time for a reflection on the past year. The first half of the year I spent getting to know the language, and way of life of the culture that surrounds me. The second half of the year I spent still learning the language, and strengthening relationships with people in my village. For the most part I was pretty much awestruck with the beauty of Mali, the excitement of being in a new place with new people and the simplicity of how the villagers lived off the land. Maybe now that I’ve been here for almost a year I’m starting to see things more like a local, (but isn’t that the point of becoming integrated?) but now I am very much less awestruck with my surroundings, the excitement is no longer new, and I would give anything to jump in my car and run to Wal-Mart in stead of live off of the land.
Most recently I have been initiated into, what I would call a Malian fraternity, and not by choice. I was told how all of my male friends, and coworkers pull off having multiple wives AND girlfriends on the side-thus loosing a lot of respect for a few people I consider my close friends. When I attempted to explain how wrong that is, I was only interrupted, and told that this is just the Malian Culture. Oh. Morals, commitment, loving relationships, and respect for your significant other are part of culture- who knew?
Now that I’ve been here, living, and not doing much work for an entire year, I’ve decided it is time to get down to business. I brainstormed, and talked with lots of people about needs and wants of the village, and came up with what I thought was a fantastic list of projects to keep myself busy for the rest of my service. I went to discuss my list with the director of the school in hopes that he would be just as excited as I was for my projects. As it turned out, he was rather disappointed with my super list, because I had no plans of building them a new school, big buildings, or giving them large sums of money to spend at their own will. Clearly this guy didn’t attend the meeting that explained what exactly Peace Corps is all about! I walked away with my hopes and dreams shattered. Later that night over a few rounds of tea I was discussing the projects and the director’s complaints with my friend and was once again reminded that this is the Malian culture. Malians are used to having people come in and build things, and buy things rather than teach the Malians how to accomplish and acquire such items on their own, after all that is how the doctor’s office and school were built in my village.
After lounging around in my hammock feeling a little hopeless, I realized that this is no longer an adventure-this is life. Like every hard, stressful situation in life you have to choose the way you want to look at it! In the beginning I was looking at the big picture. I was looking at Mali as if it were a beautiful kaleidoscope- the culture and the music mixing flawlessly into the food, and the dancing. It was beautiful. It was complex and fit well together. But when I start picking the pieces apart, and looking at each part by its self, the picture wasn’t so pretty- my kaleidoscope is broken. In hopes of cheering myself back up, I joined my friends in a dance party to celebrate one of the many weddings that have taken place over the past few weeks and as I looked around I could see the colors of my kaleidoscope slowly merging back together. Realizing that it may be possible to fit all the pieces of culture, music, food, and dance back together to create the beautiful mixture that I once saw, only this time with a bigger and better understanding.
Most recently I have been initiated into, what I would call a Malian fraternity, and not by choice. I was told how all of my male friends, and coworkers pull off having multiple wives AND girlfriends on the side-thus loosing a lot of respect for a few people I consider my close friends. When I attempted to explain how wrong that is, I was only interrupted, and told that this is just the Malian Culture. Oh. Morals, commitment, loving relationships, and respect for your significant other are part of culture- who knew?
Now that I’ve been here, living, and not doing much work for an entire year, I’ve decided it is time to get down to business. I brainstormed, and talked with lots of people about needs and wants of the village, and came up with what I thought was a fantastic list of projects to keep myself busy for the rest of my service. I went to discuss my list with the director of the school in hopes that he would be just as excited as I was for my projects. As it turned out, he was rather disappointed with my super list, because I had no plans of building them a new school, big buildings, or giving them large sums of money to spend at their own will. Clearly this guy didn’t attend the meeting that explained what exactly Peace Corps is all about! I walked away with my hopes and dreams shattered. Later that night over a few rounds of tea I was discussing the projects and the director’s complaints with my friend and was once again reminded that this is the Malian culture. Malians are used to having people come in and build things, and buy things rather than teach the Malians how to accomplish and acquire such items on their own, after all that is how the doctor’s office and school were built in my village.
After lounging around in my hammock feeling a little hopeless, I realized that this is no longer an adventure-this is life. Like every hard, stressful situation in life you have to choose the way you want to look at it! In the beginning I was looking at the big picture. I was looking at Mali as if it were a beautiful kaleidoscope- the culture and the music mixing flawlessly into the food, and the dancing. It was beautiful. It was complex and fit well together. But when I start picking the pieces apart, and looking at each part by its self, the picture wasn’t so pretty- my kaleidoscope is broken. In hopes of cheering myself back up, I joined my friends in a dance party to celebrate one of the many weddings that have taken place over the past few weeks and as I looked around I could see the colors of my kaleidoscope slowly merging back together. Realizing that it may be possible to fit all the pieces of culture, music, food, and dance back together to create the beautiful mixture that I once saw, only this time with a bigger and better understanding.
5.06.2011
Mango Madness and the Sweet Taste of Victory
Right now Mali is in the middle of hot season- also known as prime MANGO season!!! Recently I have been seeing women in my village carrying around big sticks, like 25 feet long! I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why. I was sitting with my friends, listening to the gossip while they braided each other’s hair, when all of a sudden we see old ladies run by the door carrying buckets, and their big sticks. My friend pops her head out the door and hollers to find out what is going on. I didn’t hear or even have time to process the answer before I was being grabbed, and drug out of the hut. I was handed a bucket and all my friend said was, “Come on! Hurry the mangos are ready!” Thinking she was crazy, I’ve been eating mangos for weeks, I obeyed and quickened my pace to keep up. We run out into the middle of a field where four mango trees stand side by side and are surround my fellow villagers. What happened next I like to describe as Mango Madness. I never saw anything like it. The trees were absolutely full of fresh, ripe- and by ripe I mean ready to eat and have juice run to your elbows ripe, mangos! As we got closer I realized that the trees were also full of children! The mango madness has taken over and children have lost all fear and suddenly have no problem climbing up a 50 foot mango tree to shake, and jump on branches, making the mangos fall down to friends with open arms and waiting buckets. The women also were over taken by the madness, they were hitting down mangos with their big sticks and actually fighting over whose mangos were on the ground! Older kids, who weren’t in the trees, were sent home with full buckets and returned for more mangos. For a while I just stood in amazement. I never saw anyone so excited over mangos.
When my friend realizes I’m just standing there, she yells for me to start filling her bucket. When I think the bucket is full, and tell her I’ll take it back and bring another, she walks over, clicks her tongue, shakes her head and says, “That bucket is NOT full!” After hours of collecting, and eating, eating, and collecting, we finally head back to my friends house, all of us with a bucket balancing on our heads. Well, I was holding mine in place, to the amazement of many villagers. So many tried to stop and talk to me, but I hurried along saying that I was only ½ of a Malian Muso because I can’t walk, talk, AND balance a bucket of mangos on my head. We enter her concession to find a cooking hut absolutely overflowing with piles and piles of mangos! She insists on my taking two big bowls home just for me to enjoy. After washing the sticky remnants of mango madness from my skin I head to the butiki for some rounds of tea. As I pour the tea from glass, to tea pot, and back I look around and take notice how the “mango madness” has now turned into “mango fullness” and watch as the old men sit with full bellies picking mango out of their teeth.
This week along with the sweet taste of mangos, I got to experience the sweet taste of victory. I went to visit the Dugutiki, to give him a gift from Italy, and let him know that I was back in village. To my surprise we was so happy to see me! Not because he missed me, but while I was gone my village played in a soccer tournament against surrounding villages, and tonight was the championship game! He was so glad that “The American Muso” was back in village to make an appearance at the game. He even for arranged for me to ride in his friend’s car so I did not have to ride my bike. Watching the soccer game was quite interesting. Having not played soccer myself, I really don’t know all the rules of game, and with no official uniforms, I had a little trouble remembering who was on our team and who was on the other. No one seemed to notice my lack of knowledge; they were too busy talking about me being there, and speaking Bambara with them. I’m not even sure whom, but someone made the announcement that since it was getting dark we needed to end the game soon. In the end the whistle blew, just as our village kicked the ball just out of the goalie’s reach scoring the winning goal of the game!
I have been in Mali long enough to be apart of lots of celebrations, babies being born, weddings, the 50th Anniversary of Independence, New Years, International Women’s day, to name a few, but NONE of those even compare to celebration that took place after wining the championship soccer game. The crowd went crazy and rushed the field to congratulate our players. I was quickly rushed to the car, being among the first to leave the scene. Wondering why we left so early, thinking the Dugutiki would want to celebrate, only to learn that we had to leave to tell all of the villages we pass through that we were the winners! We made it back to Sakoro with the sun setting behind us, only to be greeted by the ENTIRE village cheering for our victory! I was blown away by the noise, shouts, screams, music, drums, racing motos, revving engines, honking horns, someone even had an old rusty trumpet! I ran to my friend’s concession to tell her come celebrate, only to pass concession after concession of nothing but emptiness, -fires left to burn out, untouched bowls of toe and sauce. As I headed back to join the crowd I could see old ladies running in, late, from the fields with bundles of fire wood stacked on their heads, dancing and cheering their way into the crowd as if they were called by the beat of drums. As I got closer I could feel the heat radiating off of the hot bodies before me. I stood back and enjoyed the moment. Here I am, amongst a village of people who used to be strangers, and now all I see are friends, friends who are so full of pride-so proud of their village for winning a soccer game. The excitement is so strong, I can almost taste it!
Everyone was so full of prideful excitement the only thing they could do to express it was scream, shout, and dance. And boy did they dance! After dancing in one spot for a few hours they then paraded all around the village, they danced long into the night with the stars twinkling, and the a sliver of the moon smiling down on them. The next day I was surprised they weren’t all still dancing! I did greet a few people who had no voice from all the cheering. I’m pretty sure everyone in my village would agree when I say that the only thing sweeter than fresh, ripe mangos is the sweet taste of victory.
When my friend realizes I’m just standing there, she yells for me to start filling her bucket. When I think the bucket is full, and tell her I’ll take it back and bring another, she walks over, clicks her tongue, shakes her head and says, “That bucket is NOT full!” After hours of collecting, and eating, eating, and collecting, we finally head back to my friends house, all of us with a bucket balancing on our heads. Well, I was holding mine in place, to the amazement of many villagers. So many tried to stop and talk to me, but I hurried along saying that I was only ½ of a Malian Muso because I can’t walk, talk, AND balance a bucket of mangos on my head. We enter her concession to find a cooking hut absolutely overflowing with piles and piles of mangos! She insists on my taking two big bowls home just for me to enjoy. After washing the sticky remnants of mango madness from my skin I head to the butiki for some rounds of tea. As I pour the tea from glass, to tea pot, and back I look around and take notice how the “mango madness” has now turned into “mango fullness” and watch as the old men sit with full bellies picking mango out of their teeth.
This week along with the sweet taste of mangos, I got to experience the sweet taste of victory. I went to visit the Dugutiki, to give him a gift from Italy, and let him know that I was back in village. To my surprise we was so happy to see me! Not because he missed me, but while I was gone my village played in a soccer tournament against surrounding villages, and tonight was the championship game! He was so glad that “The American Muso” was back in village to make an appearance at the game. He even for arranged for me to ride in his friend’s car so I did not have to ride my bike. Watching the soccer game was quite interesting. Having not played soccer myself, I really don’t know all the rules of game, and with no official uniforms, I had a little trouble remembering who was on our team and who was on the other. No one seemed to notice my lack of knowledge; they were too busy talking about me being there, and speaking Bambara with them. I’m not even sure whom, but someone made the announcement that since it was getting dark we needed to end the game soon. In the end the whistle blew, just as our village kicked the ball just out of the goalie’s reach scoring the winning goal of the game!
I have been in Mali long enough to be apart of lots of celebrations, babies being born, weddings, the 50th Anniversary of Independence, New Years, International Women’s day, to name a few, but NONE of those even compare to celebration that took place after wining the championship soccer game. The crowd went crazy and rushed the field to congratulate our players. I was quickly rushed to the car, being among the first to leave the scene. Wondering why we left so early, thinking the Dugutiki would want to celebrate, only to learn that we had to leave to tell all of the villages we pass through that we were the winners! We made it back to Sakoro with the sun setting behind us, only to be greeted by the ENTIRE village cheering for our victory! I was blown away by the noise, shouts, screams, music, drums, racing motos, revving engines, honking horns, someone even had an old rusty trumpet! I ran to my friend’s concession to tell her come celebrate, only to pass concession after concession of nothing but emptiness, -fires left to burn out, untouched bowls of toe and sauce. As I headed back to join the crowd I could see old ladies running in, late, from the fields with bundles of fire wood stacked on their heads, dancing and cheering their way into the crowd as if they were called by the beat of drums. As I got closer I could feel the heat radiating off of the hot bodies before me. I stood back and enjoyed the moment. Here I am, amongst a village of people who used to be strangers, and now all I see are friends, friends who are so full of pride-so proud of their village for winning a soccer game. The excitement is so strong, I can almost taste it!
Everyone was so full of prideful excitement the only thing they could do to express it was scream, shout, and dance. And boy did they dance! After dancing in one spot for a few hours they then paraded all around the village, they danced long into the night with the stars twinkling, and the a sliver of the moon smiling down on them. The next day I was surprised they weren’t all still dancing! I did greet a few people who had no voice from all the cheering. I’m pretty sure everyone in my village would agree when I say that the only thing sweeter than fresh, ripe mangos is the sweet taste of victory.
4.29.2011
Time for a Vacation!
I know this blog is supposed to be about Mali and my Peace Corps experience, but I recently took a vacation to Italy and it was amazing!! -So amazing that I want to tell you all about! For those of you who don’t know my friend Jade and I couch surfed through three towns in Italy. Couch surfing is a way to see different parts of the world, and meet new and interesting people, while getting a free, or relatively cheap place to stay. Our vacation started late Saturday night (April 25) with a small emergency! All Volunteers have two passports a personal passport, and a Peace Corps passport. Whenever we leave the country we have to take our PC Passport because it has our Visa to get back into Mali. Around midnight Jade and I arrive at the door to the airport, take out our passports, only to have Jade ask me why I had my PC Passport!! She had her personal passport along with a denied entrance into the airport. With a frantic call to a Peace Corps worker with a plea to please bring her passport to the airport! A very long hour later we see a Peace Corps car round the bend to the airport entrance! We have a 3-hour flight to Casablanca airport in Morocco a two hour lay over then a 3-hour flight to Bologna Italy! With all the time changes, and flights, and lay overs, we arrive in Italy around 1 in the afternoon. We had some trouble getting into contact with out first couch surfing host due to the fact that African cells phone do not work in Italy-go figure! Luckily we have information about hostels in each of the city’s we are visiting so we find one and check into a “dorm room” for the night and head off to find ice cream and pizza!
The best way to get around in most cities in Italy is the Bus, or metro if there is one. However the Bus system is hard to understand, and it is very easy to get confused…needless to say we spent a good chunk of time happily ( or not too happily) lost. We climbed a HUGE watch town overlooking the city and were able to get some awesome pictures! After enjoying a wonderful meal of cheesy pasta we attempt to head back to the hostel. We have a tiny, not very helpful bus map, and the address of the hostel. We jump on the nest bus we think is heading out of town toward the hostel, only find out 20 minutes later we are on the bus going the WRONG way out of town. With the help of some very friendly English-speaking Italians we find our way back into town, to the right bus stop. The buses in Bologna do not stop at every stop, they only stop when there are people to pick up or a passenger pushes the STOP button. Not knowing exactly where the closest stop was to the hostel we accidentally push the stop button a little too soon. Leaving us with maybe a mile walk, in the cold dark night! Luckily, Italians are really nice and we are approached by an old man heading our direction and offers us a ride-well we are assuming that’s what he said because he only spoke Italian and the only thing we could say is “No Copicie” Anyway, we make it safely back to the hostel and melt into hot showers and beds loaded with blankets!
The next day we spend sight seeing, eating, and window-shopping. When we stop to buy post cards we see a big church we haven’t seen yet, we hop the next bus to see it, only to be dropped off at the bottom of a humongous hill, with built in steps. Preparing ourselves for a climb we take off in high spirits. An hour later, after a few breaks, we finally see the top! The view from the top is breath taking, and like most sites in Italy, taking a picture does no justice to the beauty of it! The inside of the church is just as breath taking, and like most churches in Italy, doesn’t not allow photos of the inside. As we descend we make our plans to meet our first host.
His name in Daniele and he lives a short bus ride just outside of Bologna. We meet up with him and are taken to a pretty nice apartment and shown to our bed- a futon in his kitchen. Daniele is no stranger to the couch surfing network; he hosts people at least 3 nights week. He was very entertaining, and told us that when God Created Italy he realized it was so close to being paradise so then he created the Italians. Not only is Daniele a successful lawyer, he is also a self-taught musician. I enjoyed a nice evening being serenaded by Jade, and Daniele’s lovely guitar playing.
The next morning after a “breakfast” of McDonalds burgers and fries (they didn’t have an actual Breakfast menu :-() we jump the train to Venice. Actually to Mestre, a town that is only a short bus ride away from Venice. We have a host for the next three nights with a family from Sri Lanka. We dump off our bags, head to the grocery store to pack a lunch and catch the next bus to Venice. Venice is AMAZING! It is the one of the most beautiful places in the world! No matter how many pictures I took I was always disappointed with their quality, because there is just no way to capture the true beauty! Over the next three days we visited almost all of Venice, including Morano, an island off of Venice known for its glass blowing, and hand made glass factories, and Lido, another island of off Venice. We toured almost all of Venice by third day, we headed back to rest our weary feet and tried to find a movie theater. We were lucky enough to find one within walking distance from the house we were staying in. We take off to check it out only to be completely mortified to walk in to an X-rated theater! Who watches that stuff in theaters??
The next day we wake up and head straight for the train station to catch a train to Rome. Once there we soon learn that all the train tickets are sold out until 3 in the morning. Doing pretty much the only thing we can, we take our luggage and find the next bus headed to the beach! A nice relaxing day sitting by the water, enjoying some ice cream was exactly what we needed in the middle of our busy vacation! Top the day off with some great Chinese food and we are all set to spend the night in a dreary train station. We entertained ourselves by taking pictures, playing cards, and eating left over Chinese, until we met Sasha. Sasha is a traveler from Ukraine who happened to be on the same train as us! She was traveling all over Italy, making her way to Rome to do some inner city volunteer work. The last few hours quickly filled with conversation, question, comparing this country to that, and it was time to board the train before we knew it! Once on the train we ended up sharing a section of seats with three young engineers from China, who design parts for John Deer. As I’m lulled off to sleep by the chug-a-lug of the train, I can’t help but be impressed with how many amazing people we’ve met on our journey so far.
We finally arrive in Rome around 9 in the morning, unable to contact our host for the next few days, we are once again stuck with our luggage. Having already missed one day in Rome, we did not wish to waste another, so we took off for the Roman Forum, and Spanish Steps, with luggage in hand-well technically mine was on my back. By 3:00pm we were absolutely exhausted and, getting a little grumpy. We finally connect with our host and hop the next train to his house. Once there we are greeted by by far the most interesting person we’ve met so far! Shaeeb, is an artist, who was raised all around the world. He is Indian, speaks English with a British accent, as well as 6 other languages. We shower, and rest while he gardens until it is time to cook supper. Over dinner he explains his artwork to us, maybe it’s the wine, but I soon find myself caught up in a dreamy conversation of world politics, lack of love for one another, and need for world peace.
The next day is Easter Sunday and Rome welcomes us, along with floods or other people, with warm weather. We head straight for Vatican City, to catch the Pope at work, unfortunately he is the only one working on this Easter Sunday, and we are unable to tour the museum, the Sistine Chapel, or much of the city its self. We spend the rest of the day wandering around some ancient ruins of a city just on the outskirts of Rome. Figuring we are so close to the beach, we may as well check it out a bit before heading back into the business of the city. Distracted by the calmness of the beach, we head back to the city a tad bit later than planned, and missed the train that takes us all the way to Shaeeb’s house. We find ourselves stranded one stop before we need off, with no way of contacting our host. We are happily informed that we can catch a bus that will take us to the next train station, however due the Easter holiday the bus stopped running the hour before. Unsure of what to do next we sit on the curb and wait. Finally we are once again approached by a nice guy going our way, and once again he only speaks Italian. Giving him directions to a house down a dirt road, back in the woods, proves to be a little difficult. After turning around three times, and a few shouted, “Mamamia’s” we finally are back at our host’s house.
We spend our last day in Rome enjoying the park, and seeing a few sights we have yet to make it to; one being the Capuchin Crypt, an chapel decorated (if you can call it that) with bones of Monks. There is a full wall of just skeleton heads. It was eerie, morbid, yet amazing to see! Ending the day with a real cappuccino, we catch the train just as the rain starts to fall. Reaching the train station in the middle of a down pour, we search for a phone to call our host to ask if he would be able to pick us up. Unable to reach him, we are left with the only option of walking.
Our very last day in Italy is consumed of a long train ride back to Bologna, a quick lunch, and one last ice cream before catching the plane to Morocco. Sad to be leaving the coolness of Italy, and all the tasty food, yet still satisfied with our fun filled vacation. Luckily, thanks to some flight changes, we get to ease our way back into Africa, with a one night lay over in Morocco-hotel accommodations, breakfast, lunch, and dinner thanks to AirMoroc. We literally have all day in Morocco seeing as our plane does not leave in 10:30pm on Wednesday night. We meet a girl in the lobby who is headed to the market and asked us if we wanted to join her. Jumping on the next train into the city, we soon are greeted with a much more developed city than we were expecting. Our friend tells Moroccans consider their country a tree; with their roots in Africa, but the branches and leaves are considered part of Europe. The market is full of color, and puts Canal Street to shame with its supply of knock off designer hand bags, shoes, and clothes. We truly enjoyed our jaunt through the market, and back to the hotel. We spent the last few hours of our vacation basking in the air conditioning, watching Home Alone 2- in English none the less!
We say goodbye to our friend, to our vacation, and board the plan to Bamako. Upon landing we gather our bags, and head out the door only to be confronted by the heat, dust, and Malian greetings that we’ve managed to escape for the last ten days.
The best way to get around in most cities in Italy is the Bus, or metro if there is one. However the Bus system is hard to understand, and it is very easy to get confused…needless to say we spent a good chunk of time happily ( or not too happily) lost. We climbed a HUGE watch town overlooking the city and were able to get some awesome pictures! After enjoying a wonderful meal of cheesy pasta we attempt to head back to the hostel. We have a tiny, not very helpful bus map, and the address of the hostel. We jump on the nest bus we think is heading out of town toward the hostel, only find out 20 minutes later we are on the bus going the WRONG way out of town. With the help of some very friendly English-speaking Italians we find our way back into town, to the right bus stop. The buses in Bologna do not stop at every stop, they only stop when there are people to pick up or a passenger pushes the STOP button. Not knowing exactly where the closest stop was to the hostel we accidentally push the stop button a little too soon. Leaving us with maybe a mile walk, in the cold dark night! Luckily, Italians are really nice and we are approached by an old man heading our direction and offers us a ride-well we are assuming that’s what he said because he only spoke Italian and the only thing we could say is “No Copicie” Anyway, we make it safely back to the hostel and melt into hot showers and beds loaded with blankets!
The next day we spend sight seeing, eating, and window-shopping. When we stop to buy post cards we see a big church we haven’t seen yet, we hop the next bus to see it, only to be dropped off at the bottom of a humongous hill, with built in steps. Preparing ourselves for a climb we take off in high spirits. An hour later, after a few breaks, we finally see the top! The view from the top is breath taking, and like most sites in Italy, taking a picture does no justice to the beauty of it! The inside of the church is just as breath taking, and like most churches in Italy, doesn’t not allow photos of the inside. As we descend we make our plans to meet our first host.
His name in Daniele and he lives a short bus ride just outside of Bologna. We meet up with him and are taken to a pretty nice apartment and shown to our bed- a futon in his kitchen. Daniele is no stranger to the couch surfing network; he hosts people at least 3 nights week. He was very entertaining, and told us that when God Created Italy he realized it was so close to being paradise so then he created the Italians. Not only is Daniele a successful lawyer, he is also a self-taught musician. I enjoyed a nice evening being serenaded by Jade, and Daniele’s lovely guitar playing.
The next morning after a “breakfast” of McDonalds burgers and fries (they didn’t have an actual Breakfast menu :-() we jump the train to Venice. Actually to Mestre, a town that is only a short bus ride away from Venice. We have a host for the next three nights with a family from Sri Lanka. We dump off our bags, head to the grocery store to pack a lunch and catch the next bus to Venice. Venice is AMAZING! It is the one of the most beautiful places in the world! No matter how many pictures I took I was always disappointed with their quality, because there is just no way to capture the true beauty! Over the next three days we visited almost all of Venice, including Morano, an island off of Venice known for its glass blowing, and hand made glass factories, and Lido, another island of off Venice. We toured almost all of Venice by third day, we headed back to rest our weary feet and tried to find a movie theater. We were lucky enough to find one within walking distance from the house we were staying in. We take off to check it out only to be completely mortified to walk in to an X-rated theater! Who watches that stuff in theaters??
The next day we wake up and head straight for the train station to catch a train to Rome. Once there we soon learn that all the train tickets are sold out until 3 in the morning. Doing pretty much the only thing we can, we take our luggage and find the next bus headed to the beach! A nice relaxing day sitting by the water, enjoying some ice cream was exactly what we needed in the middle of our busy vacation! Top the day off with some great Chinese food and we are all set to spend the night in a dreary train station. We entertained ourselves by taking pictures, playing cards, and eating left over Chinese, until we met Sasha. Sasha is a traveler from Ukraine who happened to be on the same train as us! She was traveling all over Italy, making her way to Rome to do some inner city volunteer work. The last few hours quickly filled with conversation, question, comparing this country to that, and it was time to board the train before we knew it! Once on the train we ended up sharing a section of seats with three young engineers from China, who design parts for John Deer. As I’m lulled off to sleep by the chug-a-lug of the train, I can’t help but be impressed with how many amazing people we’ve met on our journey so far.
We finally arrive in Rome around 9 in the morning, unable to contact our host for the next few days, we are once again stuck with our luggage. Having already missed one day in Rome, we did not wish to waste another, so we took off for the Roman Forum, and Spanish Steps, with luggage in hand-well technically mine was on my back. By 3:00pm we were absolutely exhausted and, getting a little grumpy. We finally connect with our host and hop the next train to his house. Once there we are greeted by by far the most interesting person we’ve met so far! Shaeeb, is an artist, who was raised all around the world. He is Indian, speaks English with a British accent, as well as 6 other languages. We shower, and rest while he gardens until it is time to cook supper. Over dinner he explains his artwork to us, maybe it’s the wine, but I soon find myself caught up in a dreamy conversation of world politics, lack of love for one another, and need for world peace.
The next day is Easter Sunday and Rome welcomes us, along with floods or other people, with warm weather. We head straight for Vatican City, to catch the Pope at work, unfortunately he is the only one working on this Easter Sunday, and we are unable to tour the museum, the Sistine Chapel, or much of the city its self. We spend the rest of the day wandering around some ancient ruins of a city just on the outskirts of Rome. Figuring we are so close to the beach, we may as well check it out a bit before heading back into the business of the city. Distracted by the calmness of the beach, we head back to the city a tad bit later than planned, and missed the train that takes us all the way to Shaeeb’s house. We find ourselves stranded one stop before we need off, with no way of contacting our host. We are happily informed that we can catch a bus that will take us to the next train station, however due the Easter holiday the bus stopped running the hour before. Unsure of what to do next we sit on the curb and wait. Finally we are once again approached by a nice guy going our way, and once again he only speaks Italian. Giving him directions to a house down a dirt road, back in the woods, proves to be a little difficult. After turning around three times, and a few shouted, “Mamamia’s” we finally are back at our host’s house.
We spend our last day in Rome enjoying the park, and seeing a few sights we have yet to make it to; one being the Capuchin Crypt, an chapel decorated (if you can call it that) with bones of Monks. There is a full wall of just skeleton heads. It was eerie, morbid, yet amazing to see! Ending the day with a real cappuccino, we catch the train just as the rain starts to fall. Reaching the train station in the middle of a down pour, we search for a phone to call our host to ask if he would be able to pick us up. Unable to reach him, we are left with the only option of walking.
Our very last day in Italy is consumed of a long train ride back to Bologna, a quick lunch, and one last ice cream before catching the plane to Morocco. Sad to be leaving the coolness of Italy, and all the tasty food, yet still satisfied with our fun filled vacation. Luckily, thanks to some flight changes, we get to ease our way back into Africa, with a one night lay over in Morocco-hotel accommodations, breakfast, lunch, and dinner thanks to AirMoroc. We literally have all day in Morocco seeing as our plane does not leave in 10:30pm on Wednesday night. We meet a girl in the lobby who is headed to the market and asked us if we wanted to join her. Jumping on the next train into the city, we soon are greeted with a much more developed city than we were expecting. Our friend tells Moroccans consider their country a tree; with their roots in Africa, but the branches and leaves are considered part of Europe. The market is full of color, and puts Canal Street to shame with its supply of knock off designer hand bags, shoes, and clothes. We truly enjoyed our jaunt through the market, and back to the hotel. We spent the last few hours of our vacation basking in the air conditioning, watching Home Alone 2- in English none the less!
We say goodbye to our friend, to our vacation, and board the plan to Bamako. Upon landing we gather our bags, and head out the door only to be confronted by the heat, dust, and Malian greetings that we’ve managed to escape for the last ten days.
3.19.2011
Just Another Month in Village
February passed so quickly, I hardly noticed a new month started until it was half over. In the past month (and a half) I have been learning more and more about the Malian culture- things that no one told me, and things I haven’t seen or heard of until now. I have chosen a few of my lessons learned to share with you:
1. I have learned that nice little old ladies, who usually are sweet and full of blessings- show NO mercy when is come times to getting a seat on the only bush taxi out of village to the big market up the road. I wish I was kidding –but they literally pushed and shoved me out of the way. Thank goodness my friend Tenna knew this would happen and magically managed to run faster (or push harder) than the old ladies and saved my seat right next to her. Of course since this story is about Mali transportation it goes without saying getting a seat on the rickety old van was the least of my problems. The row of seats Tenna choose for us was the third row- with a broken seat in the middle and tire hump (as if we weren’t already squished as sardines). Tenna was sitting by the window, then me, then the broken seat had been replaced by a sack of rice, occupied by an old man with two chickens (ugh chickens!) seated beside him was another old man, and a lady with a baby-thus filling our row. In case you have forgotten, the road out of my village is rather horrible-it is only 8K however it takes a van like this one about 45 minuntes to an hour to make it to the main road. As I sat enjoying the ride I was trying my best not sweat on and squish Tenna any more than I had to, while at the same time trying not to fall out of my seat on to the man (and his chickens) on the sack of rice. Hanging on to the seat in front of me for support and balance on this bumpy the road, I feel the van pick up some speed- thankful for the rush of air (not cool air, and not exactly fresh air-just air) I feel myself begin to relax a bit and start a conversation with Tenna about all the stuff she would buy at market if she money for everything she wanted. The next few moments were so full of commotion I don’t really even know what or how it exactly happened but the next thing I knew we hit a bump and the row of seats in front of me and all six old ladies crammed into them came falling backwards onto everyone in my row! Apparently when we hit the bump it caused the front legs of seats come unbolted from the floor. As we pushed the old ladies back into the upright positions, I couldn’t help but think HA! You fought me for that seat! Without stopping to check on anyone, or to fix the seats we finally made it the market. After a wonderful day of yalayalaing with Tenna we headed back home, and I’m glad to report that the ride home was surprisingly uneventful.
2. I have learned to ignore, and laugh at daily marriage proposals, however most recently I found out some people are not always joking. My friend Sekouba (Tenna’s husband) pulled me aside one day and said I just wanted to tell you that everyone in village really likes you, especially my family and my close friends and I really want you to meet my brother, Sumyla. Presently he lives and works in Angola but tonight we can call him. What do you think about that? Is that okay? You would just have to greet him and say whatever you like. Thinking sure no problem I can greet someone on the phone. Then as the day went on everyone seemed to be talking about Sumyla and me calling him, and Sekouba’s sister even dug out these old pictures to show me. Finally the time came for “the phone call” Standing under a big mango tree with Sekouba and his two sisters we call Sumyla and I learn that Sekouba, his wives, and sisters sent a picture of me from Sekouba’s son’s baptism party to Sumyla. I learned this because he told me how pretty he thinks I am and oh yeah, he thinks we should get married. I laugh and turn to look at my company who all have a silly grin on their faces, nodding their heads as if to say yeah! He’s serious!! Confused, shocked, and a little flustered I learned that they had a plan. They know how important it is to me that my parents approve of him, so he will write a letter, and send it to Sekouba’s friend who will then translate it into English and send it to my parents. I really don’t think I even replied, I couldn’t get past the fact that this was no a joke! Sumyla and Sekouba talked then and decided to give me four days to decide and then he would call back. Four days! I had four days to convince my very best friends in village why I couldn’t marry their brother, whom I have never met, or seen, and lives in another country. In America this would not be a hard task, however in Mali convincing someone that you can’t marry him is rather silly. I can’t even explain what really happened over the course of the next fours days. The air was so full of excitement and Sekouba’s head was swimming with party plans and future plans of me really being his sister, and family vacations to visit me and Sumyla in American. Every single excuse I came up with as to why I could not marry him, Sekouba had a plan and reason as to how it would work out. Finally I told him that Peace Corps said I cannot get married while I’m serving, I would either have to quit the PC (and at that they would send me straight home) or not get married. Sekouba was a little disappointed however he said Okay, okay we will just have to talk about again in two years. Pheww that was close!
3. I have learned that when a husband dies, the wife cannot leave her house for 40 days, and at the beginning of the 40 days everyone goes to visit, help out, cook, take care of kids and everything. But as the 40 days continues all this help, and company fades away and the wife gets very very bored. Feeling bad for my friend (because I know the feeling of boredom quite well) I tried to visit every other day and tried to think of some form of entertainment, however this gets hard when my language skills are limited. After a few days I ran out of things to talk about, and Abbie ran out of energy trying to explain things to me so we sat and listened to the radio. Then next day that I went for a visit as soon as I got there I knew something was up, Abbie was so excited to see me and offered me a big bowl of porridge and asked if I had been to see Tenna that morning. I said that I had and Abbie was anxious to know what Tenna was talking about. I answered that I didn’t really know, I heard her mention something about the doctor but I did not really understand it all. Smiling Abbie said well, let me tell you… and she continued on sharing the village gossip with me. So today I learned that no one actually comes out and tells you about the village gossip unless they know you already know something about it. I was glad to be in the loop.
4. I learned what the words “Hot Season” actually mean. It. Is. HOT. I have learned that in Africa I am capable of sweating buckets and buckets full while just sitting. It really is getting hotter and hotter by the day- uughh- if only the mangos would ripen a little quicker! All my sweating lead to a conversation with Sekouba about the heat! He warned me that this is just the beginning! I have three months of this heat to deal with! Sekouba went on to say that soon I’m going to be so hot that I’m never going to sleep. Its too hot at night to sleep, and too hot during the day to sleep. I’m going to call my Mama and say how much a HATE Mali. He said it is going to get so hot I’m going to cry and he is going to laugh! Shocked I said Sekouba you would laugh at me if I was crying? But he had no problem reminding me that a few months ago I was the one laughing as he sat around a campfire in long selves saying how much he hated the cold! My house at times is simply unbearable. The mud bricks hold in so much heat and my tin roof doesn’t let it out either so at night I am quite literally sleeping in an oven; or not sleeping, rather just laying there in a pool of sweat fanning myself. I have come to learned that at 2:00 am Malian radio stations play hilarious American music. The first song that threw me back to middle school was, Shaggy’s "It Wasn’t Me."- quite thankful I wasn’t listening to this with my friend who always asked me what the songs are about. The next two were unknown to me but had lyrics like, “Boom boom boom boom I want you in my room room” and “When your in a bad mood just think Sheewowwow!” Laughing I thought it’s a good thing Malians don’t really know what these horrible pop songs are talking about-but then ironically Nelly’s "It’s Getting Hot in Here” came on making think maybe they do know…
5. Most recently I have learned that even though I have been here for almost 9 full months, my “celebrity status” as yet to wear off when it comes to getting to work with me. I have a homologue, who technically is my “work partner” and by Mali standard this title holds a lot of pride. After returning to village from another trip to Bamako I was finally ready and able to start planning some projects. I came back and had a discussion with Sekouba, and my homologue at the same time, because at times I have trouble understanding my homologue’s Frambara (because he still continues to talk to me in French even though I have repeatedly asked him not to) and Sekouba has a way of explaining things to me so I understand them. After explaining that I needed someone to check the prices of materials so I could write up a budget and send it to PC, Sekouba steps up right away and says I’m going to Bougouni on Thursday I can check then. Thinking this is great, work is finally starting, I plan to hold a meeting with the school board on Saturday. Saturdays rolls along and I come to find out that everyone is up in arms about Sekouba helping me and not my homologue, I tried to explain that my homologue was there and could have stepped in and said no but he didn’t but this did not seem to matter. This drama continued for days as I was stuck in the middle of a chauvinistic male-pride roller coaster. Finally I called a meeting at the Dugutiki’s house and put it all out on the table and said this is what needs to be done, I don’t care who does it as long as it gets done! Not very pleased with my American outlook on work, and work roles- what I thought would be a short meeting turned in to a two and half hour long argument ending with Sekouba, and my homologue helping me do everything.
6. Lastly I have learned that as the days, months, and heat continue I will never stop learning (and sweating). I will never stop learning about Malian culture, and ways of doing things, nor will I stop learning more and more about myself.
1. I have learned that nice little old ladies, who usually are sweet and full of blessings- show NO mercy when is come times to getting a seat on the only bush taxi out of village to the big market up the road. I wish I was kidding –but they literally pushed and shoved me out of the way. Thank goodness my friend Tenna knew this would happen and magically managed to run faster (or push harder) than the old ladies and saved my seat right next to her. Of course since this story is about Mali transportation it goes without saying getting a seat on the rickety old van was the least of my problems. The row of seats Tenna choose for us was the third row- with a broken seat in the middle and tire hump (as if we weren’t already squished as sardines). Tenna was sitting by the window, then me, then the broken seat had been replaced by a sack of rice, occupied by an old man with two chickens (ugh chickens!) seated beside him was another old man, and a lady with a baby-thus filling our row. In case you have forgotten, the road out of my village is rather horrible-it is only 8K however it takes a van like this one about 45 minuntes to an hour to make it to the main road. As I sat enjoying the ride I was trying my best not sweat on and squish Tenna any more than I had to, while at the same time trying not to fall out of my seat on to the man (and his chickens) on the sack of rice. Hanging on to the seat in front of me for support and balance on this bumpy the road, I feel the van pick up some speed- thankful for the rush of air (not cool air, and not exactly fresh air-just air) I feel myself begin to relax a bit and start a conversation with Tenna about all the stuff she would buy at market if she money for everything she wanted. The next few moments were so full of commotion I don’t really even know what or how it exactly happened but the next thing I knew we hit a bump and the row of seats in front of me and all six old ladies crammed into them came falling backwards onto everyone in my row! Apparently when we hit the bump it caused the front legs of seats come unbolted from the floor. As we pushed the old ladies back into the upright positions, I couldn’t help but think HA! You fought me for that seat! Without stopping to check on anyone, or to fix the seats we finally made it the market. After a wonderful day of yalayalaing with Tenna we headed back home, and I’m glad to report that the ride home was surprisingly uneventful.
2. I have learned to ignore, and laugh at daily marriage proposals, however most recently I found out some people are not always joking. My friend Sekouba (Tenna’s husband) pulled me aside one day and said I just wanted to tell you that everyone in village really likes you, especially my family and my close friends and I really want you to meet my brother, Sumyla. Presently he lives and works in Angola but tonight we can call him. What do you think about that? Is that okay? You would just have to greet him and say whatever you like. Thinking sure no problem I can greet someone on the phone. Then as the day went on everyone seemed to be talking about Sumyla and me calling him, and Sekouba’s sister even dug out these old pictures to show me. Finally the time came for “the phone call” Standing under a big mango tree with Sekouba and his two sisters we call Sumyla and I learn that Sekouba, his wives, and sisters sent a picture of me from Sekouba’s son’s baptism party to Sumyla. I learned this because he told me how pretty he thinks I am and oh yeah, he thinks we should get married. I laugh and turn to look at my company who all have a silly grin on their faces, nodding their heads as if to say yeah! He’s serious!! Confused, shocked, and a little flustered I learned that they had a plan. They know how important it is to me that my parents approve of him, so he will write a letter, and send it to Sekouba’s friend who will then translate it into English and send it to my parents. I really don’t think I even replied, I couldn’t get past the fact that this was no a joke! Sumyla and Sekouba talked then and decided to give me four days to decide and then he would call back. Four days! I had four days to convince my very best friends in village why I couldn’t marry their brother, whom I have never met, or seen, and lives in another country. In America this would not be a hard task, however in Mali convincing someone that you can’t marry him is rather silly. I can’t even explain what really happened over the course of the next fours days. The air was so full of excitement and Sekouba’s head was swimming with party plans and future plans of me really being his sister, and family vacations to visit me and Sumyla in American. Every single excuse I came up with as to why I could not marry him, Sekouba had a plan and reason as to how it would work out. Finally I told him that Peace Corps said I cannot get married while I’m serving, I would either have to quit the PC (and at that they would send me straight home) or not get married. Sekouba was a little disappointed however he said Okay, okay we will just have to talk about again in two years. Pheww that was close!
3. I have learned that when a husband dies, the wife cannot leave her house for 40 days, and at the beginning of the 40 days everyone goes to visit, help out, cook, take care of kids and everything. But as the 40 days continues all this help, and company fades away and the wife gets very very bored. Feeling bad for my friend (because I know the feeling of boredom quite well) I tried to visit every other day and tried to think of some form of entertainment, however this gets hard when my language skills are limited. After a few days I ran out of things to talk about, and Abbie ran out of energy trying to explain things to me so we sat and listened to the radio. Then next day that I went for a visit as soon as I got there I knew something was up, Abbie was so excited to see me and offered me a big bowl of porridge and asked if I had been to see Tenna that morning. I said that I had and Abbie was anxious to know what Tenna was talking about. I answered that I didn’t really know, I heard her mention something about the doctor but I did not really understand it all. Smiling Abbie said well, let me tell you… and she continued on sharing the village gossip with me. So today I learned that no one actually comes out and tells you about the village gossip unless they know you already know something about it. I was glad to be in the loop.
4. I learned what the words “Hot Season” actually mean. It. Is. HOT. I have learned that in Africa I am capable of sweating buckets and buckets full while just sitting. It really is getting hotter and hotter by the day- uughh- if only the mangos would ripen a little quicker! All my sweating lead to a conversation with Sekouba about the heat! He warned me that this is just the beginning! I have three months of this heat to deal with! Sekouba went on to say that soon I’m going to be so hot that I’m never going to sleep. Its too hot at night to sleep, and too hot during the day to sleep. I’m going to call my Mama and say how much a HATE Mali. He said it is going to get so hot I’m going to cry and he is going to laugh! Shocked I said Sekouba you would laugh at me if I was crying? But he had no problem reminding me that a few months ago I was the one laughing as he sat around a campfire in long selves saying how much he hated the cold! My house at times is simply unbearable. The mud bricks hold in so much heat and my tin roof doesn’t let it out either so at night I am quite literally sleeping in an oven; or not sleeping, rather just laying there in a pool of sweat fanning myself. I have come to learned that at 2:00 am Malian radio stations play hilarious American music. The first song that threw me back to middle school was, Shaggy’s "It Wasn’t Me."- quite thankful I wasn’t listening to this with my friend who always asked me what the songs are about. The next two were unknown to me but had lyrics like, “Boom boom boom boom I want you in my room room” and “When your in a bad mood just think Sheewowwow!” Laughing I thought it’s a good thing Malians don’t really know what these horrible pop songs are talking about-but then ironically Nelly’s "It’s Getting Hot in Here” came on making think maybe they do know…
5. Most recently I have learned that even though I have been here for almost 9 full months, my “celebrity status” as yet to wear off when it comes to getting to work with me. I have a homologue, who technically is my “work partner” and by Mali standard this title holds a lot of pride. After returning to village from another trip to Bamako I was finally ready and able to start planning some projects. I came back and had a discussion with Sekouba, and my homologue at the same time, because at times I have trouble understanding my homologue’s Frambara (because he still continues to talk to me in French even though I have repeatedly asked him not to) and Sekouba has a way of explaining things to me so I understand them. After explaining that I needed someone to check the prices of materials so I could write up a budget and send it to PC, Sekouba steps up right away and says I’m going to Bougouni on Thursday I can check then. Thinking this is great, work is finally starting, I plan to hold a meeting with the school board on Saturday. Saturdays rolls along and I come to find out that everyone is up in arms about Sekouba helping me and not my homologue, I tried to explain that my homologue was there and could have stepped in and said no but he didn’t but this did not seem to matter. This drama continued for days as I was stuck in the middle of a chauvinistic male-pride roller coaster. Finally I called a meeting at the Dugutiki’s house and put it all out on the table and said this is what needs to be done, I don’t care who does it as long as it gets done! Not very pleased with my American outlook on work, and work roles- what I thought would be a short meeting turned in to a two and half hour long argument ending with Sekouba, and my homologue helping me do everything.
6. Lastly I have learned that as the days, months, and heat continue I will never stop learning (and sweating). I will never stop learning about Malian culture, and ways of doing things, nor will I stop learning more and more about myself.
1.29.2011
January Boredom, Pump, Projects, and Public Transportation
Since returning to village after training, and Christmas festivities nothing really exciting happened, actually to be quite honest I was fighting boredom with all my might. It is easy to get sucked into the everyday monotony of just sitting around drinking tea, not even saying much, just sitting. Finally the monotony was broken with the arrival of a new pump to be put in next to the Dugutiki’s house. Excited for a change in my daily routine of greeting, and sitting at the butiki drinking tea for hours, I switched up locations and sat and drank tea for hours at the Dugutiki’s house watching the men working. They built a wall, and a soak pit around the new pump- rather quickly too! Surprisingly it only took about two or three days for the project to be completed. One morning while yalayalaing around the village I decided to check the progress of the work being done on the pump. Joyously the dugutiki greeted me saying how glad he was I finally made it to his house because he was waiting for me all morning. I had to be there to witness the Dugutiki pump his first bucket full at the new pump! To the average person this may not sound very exciting, watching an old man pump water into a bucket, however to me it was exhilarating! It was so wonderful because he was so proud of the pump, proud to finally have access to clean water rather than grimy well water, and proud to know that his family and other villagers will be healthier too.
I was not the only spectator present, among us was Old Man Segou, who thinks it is absolutely hilarious that I walk around village telling people they should drink pump water instead of well water, or at least treat the well before drinking it. He ceases to understand that there is importance in this message, and only hears me saying “Kolon ji A min!” Well water is bad! Every time I see him around village he always makes a comment about me thinking well water is bad and laughs-hysterically.
I thought there is no better time to reinforce my message than now, while standing around a brand new pump! Of course I called Old Man Segou out of the crowd and said isn’t great that this brand new pump is so close to your house? Actually you have to walk by it everyday on the way into village, and to your field. You can stop here and fill your water jug every morning! You don’t have to drink dirty well water anymore and the pump water won’t make you sick, won’t make your stomach hurt, and won’t give you diarrhea like the well water does. He agreed that is was nice to have another source of clean water in our small village. Thinking he finally understood the importance of drinking well water I was happy that my message finally made it through to him.
Later in the week I was on my way to visit my host family and I see Old Man Segou chatting with friends who where about to make tea. I walked over eyeing his water jug. I picked it up saying how thirsty I was, and that I couldn’t wait to drink this clean pump water that I know is in his water jug. But before taking a big gulp I looked at him and said this is pump water right? Because if it is not I will get sick and you are going to have to call Peace Corps and tell them why I have diarrhea! Segou jumped up and took the jug out on my hands saying don’t drink it! Its well water! Attempting my most disappointed look, I ask did you walk by the new pump on your way here this morning? He said yes, but my jug was already full. I said oh okay, I understand, you would just rather have diarrhea than refill your jug. He laughed, not knowing that I was not about to back down. Segou then offered his money to buy sugar for the tea. I took the money from his hand and said you put this back in your pocket! I turned to his friends and said sorry fellas your friend here can’t buy sugar today; he has to save his money to buy medicine because he has diarrhea! Finally, for once, Segou is not the one laughing! He looks at me and says okay okay Marium. I won’t drink well water; tomorrow I will fill my jug at the pump. I said tomorrow, and the next day and the next day and everyday you walk by the pump stop and fill your jug! He agreed. I have decided that if getting Old Man Segou to drink pump water and actually understand why it is better for him is the only success I have living in Mali I will be happy!
Among the excitement of the new pump being put in, my village also was excited to see some Peace Corps visitors stopping in to check on my village and me. The PC Doctor stopped to see my village, my house, my water sources, and to check my mental status-which I am glad to report were all up to her standard! Also the education program assistant stopped in and met with me, my homologue, the director of the school, and the school board members to talk about possible projects that I could get started working on. It was nice to not be the only stranger in the village, and nice to have someone there to translate my still learning, broken, Bambara.
After the meeting, and discussing my village’s wants and needs, my head was swimming with hopes and dreams of funding and successful projects. I was ready to set plans into actions and really get the ball rolling, so I decided to venture to Bamako to further discuss my plans- however the only sucess I had was adding yet another funny story to my book of never ending Peace Corps Adventures. Getting to Bamako was quite the interesting ride as is every ride on Mali public transportation. Once a van stopped to pick me up I greeted everyone, as I squeezed into the second row of seats filling what I thought was the last available spot. I shoved my backpack under the seat between my legs and while doing so I noticed a chicken occupying the space under the seat in front of me. Muffling a giggle, thinking “Lord, this ain’t America!” I notice that there is more than one chicken…actually there are about five chickens hanging out under the seat. Just as I was settling in for my three-hour ride I start to feel little pecks at my feet. So as nicely as I can I say to the man next to me, excuse me sir, your chickens are eating my feet. He looks at me and says they aren’t my chickens. But he gently gives them a little kick and they settle down. At the next stop, since I am the closest person to the door, I am asked to hold a small child out the door so she can relieve her bladder, and then pass her back to her mother in the row behind me. After doing so, one last passenger enters the van and spots the three centimeters of seat next to me and squeezes in. Doing all I could not to just burst out in laughter, or tears from being stuck in the middle of six people shoved into seats for four and sweating like crazy, I start to feel a few little pecks at my feet. I once again turned to the man beside me and said Just whose chickens are these? Grinning he says nothing and points to the man in the front of the van. What? There he is sitting upfront, the best seat in the house, with a window that opens, not squished between six other people, and his chickens are two rows back eating MY feet? I couldn’t take it anymore! I holler up to him saying, “Hey Old Man! Why aren’t these chickens under YOUR seat eating YOUR feet?” Sending the vanload of people into a fit of laughter and comments about the white girl not liking chickens. Mali’s public transportation certainly is never boring!
After returning to village I made a hair braiding, tea drinking date with my best friend Tenna. Tenna is a twenty-three year old, second wife, with one child and one on the way and she is my very best friend in village! I have spent days and days sitting on a tiny stool next her in a smoky, round, mud hut with a thatched roof watching her cook over an open fire. I have listened to her talk about her husband, her daughter, the catty women in the village, and sing along to her always-present radio. My favorite days are the ones when she has a string of questions about America, I answer her the best I can, knowing she really doesn’t understand what it would be like to cook at a real stove, or throw a load of laundry into the washer. As my Bambara gets better I can see our friendship getting stronger.
Another month is closing in on us, now having survived living in Africa for almost 7 months, I am excitedly looking forward to my growing projects, and friendships that will take place over the next 20 months.
I was not the only spectator present, among us was Old Man Segou, who thinks it is absolutely hilarious that I walk around village telling people they should drink pump water instead of well water, or at least treat the well before drinking it. He ceases to understand that there is importance in this message, and only hears me saying “Kolon ji A min!” Well water is bad! Every time I see him around village he always makes a comment about me thinking well water is bad and laughs-hysterically.
I thought there is no better time to reinforce my message than now, while standing around a brand new pump! Of course I called Old Man Segou out of the crowd and said isn’t great that this brand new pump is so close to your house? Actually you have to walk by it everyday on the way into village, and to your field. You can stop here and fill your water jug every morning! You don’t have to drink dirty well water anymore and the pump water won’t make you sick, won’t make your stomach hurt, and won’t give you diarrhea like the well water does. He agreed that is was nice to have another source of clean water in our small village. Thinking he finally understood the importance of drinking well water I was happy that my message finally made it through to him.
Later in the week I was on my way to visit my host family and I see Old Man Segou chatting with friends who where about to make tea. I walked over eyeing his water jug. I picked it up saying how thirsty I was, and that I couldn’t wait to drink this clean pump water that I know is in his water jug. But before taking a big gulp I looked at him and said this is pump water right? Because if it is not I will get sick and you are going to have to call Peace Corps and tell them why I have diarrhea! Segou jumped up and took the jug out on my hands saying don’t drink it! Its well water! Attempting my most disappointed look, I ask did you walk by the new pump on your way here this morning? He said yes, but my jug was already full. I said oh okay, I understand, you would just rather have diarrhea than refill your jug. He laughed, not knowing that I was not about to back down. Segou then offered his money to buy sugar for the tea. I took the money from his hand and said you put this back in your pocket! I turned to his friends and said sorry fellas your friend here can’t buy sugar today; he has to save his money to buy medicine because he has diarrhea! Finally, for once, Segou is not the one laughing! He looks at me and says okay okay Marium. I won’t drink well water; tomorrow I will fill my jug at the pump. I said tomorrow, and the next day and the next day and everyday you walk by the pump stop and fill your jug! He agreed. I have decided that if getting Old Man Segou to drink pump water and actually understand why it is better for him is the only success I have living in Mali I will be happy!
Among the excitement of the new pump being put in, my village also was excited to see some Peace Corps visitors stopping in to check on my village and me. The PC Doctor stopped to see my village, my house, my water sources, and to check my mental status-which I am glad to report were all up to her standard! Also the education program assistant stopped in and met with me, my homologue, the director of the school, and the school board members to talk about possible projects that I could get started working on. It was nice to not be the only stranger in the village, and nice to have someone there to translate my still learning, broken, Bambara.
After the meeting, and discussing my village’s wants and needs, my head was swimming with hopes and dreams of funding and successful projects. I was ready to set plans into actions and really get the ball rolling, so I decided to venture to Bamako to further discuss my plans- however the only sucess I had was adding yet another funny story to my book of never ending Peace Corps Adventures. Getting to Bamako was quite the interesting ride as is every ride on Mali public transportation. Once a van stopped to pick me up I greeted everyone, as I squeezed into the second row of seats filling what I thought was the last available spot. I shoved my backpack under the seat between my legs and while doing so I noticed a chicken occupying the space under the seat in front of me. Muffling a giggle, thinking “Lord, this ain’t America!” I notice that there is more than one chicken…actually there are about five chickens hanging out under the seat. Just as I was settling in for my three-hour ride I start to feel little pecks at my feet. So as nicely as I can I say to the man next to me, excuse me sir, your chickens are eating my feet. He looks at me and says they aren’t my chickens. But he gently gives them a little kick and they settle down. At the next stop, since I am the closest person to the door, I am asked to hold a small child out the door so she can relieve her bladder, and then pass her back to her mother in the row behind me. After doing so, one last passenger enters the van and spots the three centimeters of seat next to me and squeezes in. Doing all I could not to just burst out in laughter, or tears from being stuck in the middle of six people shoved into seats for four and sweating like crazy, I start to feel a few little pecks at my feet. I once again turned to the man beside me and said Just whose chickens are these? Grinning he says nothing and points to the man in the front of the van. What? There he is sitting upfront, the best seat in the house, with a window that opens, not squished between six other people, and his chickens are two rows back eating MY feet? I couldn’t take it anymore! I holler up to him saying, “Hey Old Man! Why aren’t these chickens under YOUR seat eating YOUR feet?” Sending the vanload of people into a fit of laughter and comments about the white girl not liking chickens. Mali’s public transportation certainly is never boring!
After returning to village I made a hair braiding, tea drinking date with my best friend Tenna. Tenna is a twenty-three year old, second wife, with one child and one on the way and she is my very best friend in village! I have spent days and days sitting on a tiny stool next her in a smoky, round, mud hut with a thatched roof watching her cook over an open fire. I have listened to her talk about her husband, her daughter, the catty women in the village, and sing along to her always-present radio. My favorite days are the ones when she has a string of questions about America, I answer her the best I can, knowing she really doesn’t understand what it would be like to cook at a real stove, or throw a load of laundry into the washer. As my Bambara gets better I can see our friendship getting stronger.
Another month is closing in on us, now having survived living in Africa for almost 7 months, I am excitedly looking forward to my growing projects, and friendships that will take place over the next 20 months.
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