IST

A year later, I find myself back Tubani So, the Peace Corps training center just outside of Bamako, this time as a trainer. From December 6-13, I helped to lead technical sessions for the newest batch of Heath Education volunteers. We’ve covered everything from pre- and post-natal consultations to STI’s and moringa. The volunteers got to go to a local school to do health animations (interactive education) at the end of last week. The group I was with spoke to a 9th grade classroom about HIV and AIDs as well as contraceptives. The kids were much more knowledgeable than I would have expected. Surprisingly, the teacher was also very knowledgeable, and was extremely helpful in making sure the students understood the volunteers’ Bamabara and French. The volunteers themselves gave great presentations and were able to keep relatively straight faces when talking about some very sensitive topics. The hardest part seemed to be answering questions about where AIDS came from. Not just how you get it, but how people got it in the first place. Of course, they also wanted to know if people in America have it too, and whether or not the rates of infection were the same there as they are in Mali.

The rate of infection in Mali is actually quite low, around 1.3%, while in America it is about .3%. Of course in other African countries, the rates can be much higher, which is why it seems that Africa as a continent is highly affected. Regardless, it is still an issue here, and many organizations are working to fight it and to raise awareness of it. It is interesting to go to a school, or even to talk about it with people in village over tea and hear about what they know. In my village specifically, people know that one man is infected, and they know that he cannot marry because he will infect others. In a Muslim culture that puts emphasis on multiple wives as a status symbol, it seems quite progressive to have a whole community stand behind one man’s choice to stay single. The village was one of many that received HIV/AIDS education and sensitization from a past volunteer, one of the biggest reasons why they have chosen to support this man and why he has chosen to avoid infecting others. Other villages might not be so inclined, but through our interaction and education, perhaps we really are making a difference.

Garden Project

After quite a few months of back and forth, we finally started the garden project on November 19th. All week, we planned to start work on Friday morning. My host dad, Sekou talked non-stop, as he is known to do, about the project, and there was much excitement from the teachers at the school that I am working with. So come 8:30, I was up and out with the teachers, ready for work. The first thing we had to do was put up the fencing, which required putting posts into the ground, cementing them in and then putting up the actual fencing to surround the garden space, which is about 18 meters by 18 meters. I was prepared for the fact that this project would be on West African International Time (W.A.I.T.) but when I looked up from my conversation with Barou, one of the teachers, I saw Sekou across the school yard with Yakouba, one of the village men who had offered to come help. They were already out, measuring the land and marking where the posts would go. I spent most of the morning trying to be helpful, pulling water for them to mix with the cement, collecting big rocks to help anchor the posts, and going to the boutiki to get sugar and tea to keep the men going. Through the whole morning, the only people working were Sekou and Yakouba, along with the occasional young man who stopped by to watch and got sucked in to help. It was more than frustrating to me that the teachers and the school director were sitting around while the community members, who really have no connection to the school, were doing all the work. Finally, Barou followed me to the field to see how things were going, and then once he came over others followed. While it was frustrating that the teachers weren’t more involved in the building of the fence, I am excited that they seem to be more interested, and hopefully therefore more involved in the teaching of the gardening skills and the work in the actual garden.

The goal with this project is to transfer gardening skills to the kids in the first cycle school, as well as to use the garden and the vegetables we harvest as an income generating activity (IGA). Ideally, the kids will sell their produce at our local market, the profits of which will be used to purchase things for the school or to fund small repairs at the school. I am looking forward to using the garden as a health education tool by teaching about nutrition and the benefits of adding the different vegetable to their diets. Perhaps we can even use the project as a math education tool by teaching the kids how to calculate what to charge for the different vegetables in the market and how to keep track of the profits and expenses of the garden. Selfishly, I am looking forward to getting to work in the garden with the kids. I have started my own garden in my concession, but more often than not, Sekou has done the “dirty” work and I have been left to stand by and watch. Another perk will be the new variety of produce available at Niasso’s market, which currently sells tiny shriveled onions on occasion along with fried dough balls, batteries, and peanuts. A little variety would benefit everyone. As the project progresses, I will continue to post updates.

Thanksgiving, San Style

We celebrated Thanksgiving this year in San with all of the new San volunteers. I spent all day in the kitchen with Alyssa and Lindsey, prepping and cooking the traditional Thanksgiving fare, or at least as traditional as we could make it here in Mali. We were able to make stuffing from dried bread crumbs and maggi cubes, pumpkin pie from a squash very similar to pumpkin called dje in Bambara, and corn bread and mashed potatoes from the fresh produce we got in market. We were also able to make salad, baked squash, fruit salad, and cake! Luckily, we had a house full of people to help with the chopping and the innumerable trips to market. When it was finally time to sit down to a family style dinner, with every one dressed up and sharing what they were thankful for, Ameriki didn’t feel quite so far away.

Tabaski

Tabaski, or Seli-Ba which comes 70 days after the end of Ramadan was celebrated in the middle of November this year. It is a Muslim holiday, but is comparable to the story of Abraham’s sacrifice of Isaac. In the Muslim religion, many will say that it was Muhammad who was asked to sacrifice Ishmael. Which ever version you subscribe to, the point is that at the last minute, God sent and angel down to stop him and told him to sacrifice a sheep instead. The traditional Tabaski fare features a sheep which is slaughtered by an old man, muttering benedictions as he slides the knife over the throat of the sheep, which is held down by the other male members of the family. After being in DC last November, I was able to take part in my village celebrations this time around and have posted some of the best pictures from the day, including the slaughtering of the sacrificial sheep and pics of Niasso Kaw in their Seli-Ba best.

The goat we sacrificed with my host brothers and the ce koroba (old man).
Just before cutting the goat's throat. Bakaary, the ce koroba is repeating a benediction as he kills the goat. It is saying thank you for this year and asking for good health in the next.
Bakary, the same man who killed the goat, after cleaning up for the fete.
The school teachers and other friends having afternoon tea.

Marathon Stuff

Results are up on the Accra Internaational Marathon website. Men's and women's full and half marathon results are posted, as are photos!

Mali in the news

I was reading a few news pieces recently that I thought might be interesting. The first focuses on Nigerian women being kidnapped and brought to Mali for prostitution, something that the Malian government is working to stop. To read, follow this link

The second article talks about the French asking for Mali's help in releasing hostages captured in Niger and help in northern Mali by Al-Qaeda. The area that they are supposedly being held in is quite far north, an area that Peace Corps does not occupy because of the instability of the area. The kidnappings occurred in mid-September. To read this article, click here. Last July a hostage was killed in the north after an invasion of the French to free him. Ironically, the French worked with Mauritania to facilitate that movement instead of working with Malian officials. This article can be found here.

Finally, a third article speaks to how the kidnapping threat has affected aid and specifically local aid in Mali. Peace Corps has already had to close down many sites in the last few year that were far enough north to be affected by terrorist activity, or that were deemed unsafe by our safety and security officer. This article goes further to touch on other aid campaigns and how they will be changed as a result of the newest activity. To read more, click here.

Ghana Marathon

It's come and gone, and two weeks later I am still a bit fazed that I did it.

On Sunday, September 26th, I ran in the Accra International Marathon in Accra, Ghana. As new volunteers, my friend Jeremy and I had heard about this marathon and talked about doing it. This April, our friend Colleen put together training info and we started our training in May. Through the heat of hot season (think mid-90's to 110/115 daily) and the down pour of rainy season, we trained with this day in mind.

Jeremy and I decided to go to Accra a bit early while everyone ele came into town on the Saturday before the race. When we arrived in Accra, we were thrown by the language (English!) and the fact that the YMCA hostel really was only for young men; I spent the first two mights of our trip hiding, sneaking in and out of the hostel so that the other "young men" wouldn't see me. We explored the city - which is enormous - discovering the following: in fact there is not a zoo in Accra, but there is a large prayer forest that is home to previous zoo animals and their respective enclosed habitats, a journey to which our taxi driver accompanied us; the markets in Africa tend to all be the same, but the Accra market was far and away the most overwhelming market I have ever been in; Accra is so huge, it is necessary as a tourist to take a taxi most everywhere, and they are not cheap; there are more ice cream shops, Chinese and Indian restaurants and cell phone companies per capita than any other city I have ever been to; and surprisingly, there were almost no motorcycles, although the drivers were just as scary.

By the time our friends arrived in Accra, we were almost experts on the area of Osu. In addition to the Mali volunteers, were joined at our hostel by volunteers from Ghana and Togo. PC/Ghana had ten runners, as did PC/Togo, a mixture of marathoners and half-marathoners. Our group was made up of 4 marathoners, 2 half-marathoners, and a large group of "rowdy spectators." As we prepped for the race the night before, Gloria and Chris prepped their own bags with water sachets, bananas, power gels, cameras and extra clothes for the runners. the runners prepped with a dinner of pizza, pasta, and ice cream.

The night before the marathon, I was anxious and didn't really get much sleep, but the next morning as we took our "before" photos and loaded the bus that was to take us to the starting line, I began to feel less sleepy and more excited. Wishing Ali and Josh, our half-marathon runners good luck, we dropped the 200 or so half runners at their starting line. After what felt like much more than 13 miles, we disembarked the bus and got assembled at the start line. An hour late and 3 false starts later, the gun finally went off and the race began.

I am known for starting too fast, so I was careful to go out at a steady pace. Through out the whole race, I felt pretty good, and at about mile 6 I began to pass a few people here and there. Of course, the problem of passing other runners on a poorly labeled course, is that they were your markers and now you become lost much more easily. Many times I wondered where I was going, and where I was leading the people running behind me, and just when I was sure I had gone the wrong way, I would see someone in the orange shirt we were given running ahead of me.

In this manner, I made my way through the run, passing a huge group of our friends hanging at a beach bar around mile 16 and later, Chris and Gloria at mile 20-something passing out water, bananas, and GU. Before I knew it, I was passing more milage signs, although they were not really marked so all I knew was that I was putting more miles behind me. Around what I think was mile 24, I hit my wall. My legs got tired, and my mantra of "this doesn't hurt, you're not tired, you're almost there," turned into something much more obscene and much less optimistic. It was around mile 25 that another volunteer caught up to me, a woman that I had thought was way ahead of me. After struggling to keep up for a bit, she passed me by, and just behind her was a Ghanaian woman. I watched them ahead of me, both in bright green shirt, waiting to see when they stopped running, thinking it had to be close.

Finally after running for far too long through traffic and smog, with random people telling me to "try hard, run fast," telling me the other runners went that way, I came to the turn off, to mile 26. I was able to pick it up a little bit, finish in good form, and crossing the finish line, I felt strong. It wasn't until I was lead to the race tables that I realized that those two women were the only other two ahead of me, and that there had only been 10 people total ahead of me.

I met up with Ali and Josh, both of whom finished their half strong, and we waited for the other Mali marathoners. Soon enough, Colleen, Kat and Jeremy came into view, and we watched them cross the line. Although we were hot, sweaty, sunburned and blistered, we all made it. After all of our training, all the sore muscles and dehydration through training, the early mornings of waking up before the sun, the nights we turned in early while others stayed up, the ways we sacrificed our bodies and our sanity, we all finally made it.

I am so proud of us all, proud to say that I did it. While I set a new personal record and placed for the first time, I am more proud of the time I put into training and the fact that I ran it all. I was also really proud to say that I was part of such a supportive and determined team of runners and spectators. And of course, not an hour after crossing the finish line, we were discussing the rumor of another marathon in January...

Food Security Conference

I came into Bamako to present at a conference on food security in the middle of September. I was asked to represent the Health Education sector by presenting on my garden project to many NGO representatives who have an interest in food security and in working with the Peace Corps in this capacity.

Alima, my counterpart came with me and we were the first to present. After a few technical difficulties, I had to begin my presentation sans power point and photos, but the presentation was still a success. Alima began by greeting the crowd and explaining who we were, where we were from, and our working relationship. Then together we explained the process we used to assess the communities need and the ways that we started our project.

We began by using PACA, the participatory analysis for community action model. This is a series of activities and sessions that first ask the community to identify what they are proud of as a community. Then we move on to what the community sees a need for, the priority of the different needs they identify, and their ability to fill that need.

Through this series of activities, we identified a need for school and medical supplies, for food security, and the interest in working to teach the children at the first cycle school gardening techniques. This directly coincided with my interest in teaching the children about healthy eating and nutrition.

From this meeting, we also identified a community partner in the director of my first cycle school, Djakary Dja, who helped us to develop a budget and a plan of action. I applied for the grant through Peace Corps while also working with Djakary Dja and Alima to discuss the community's contribution to the project. Through this specific grant, the community is responsible for 33% of the total budget.

With our approved project proposal, we are getting ready to begin the building of the fencing and when school has started and the ground is ready, we will start the planting of vegetable. The children will be able to learn about the different planting techniques and options while working the land themselves. The goal is to educate the children on gardening practices, which they will use to cultivate the land and harvest their crop. The vegetables will be sold at our local market, providing a new variety of available foods, and a source of income for the school caisse. Initially the money will be used to purchase the medical supplies that the school needs, a basic first aid kit that will help with small cuts and bruises, things that would usual send the child and teacher all the way across town, if the family could even afford the treatment.

Eventually, monies will be used to purchase school supplies, and then be kept in the school caisse to help to meet the schools needs for things like pump repair and other minor needs. The garden will continue to be a source of learning and achievement for the children.

Our project was well received by the group and Alima was proud to have been invited to present on our work. She was eager and able to answer all kinds of questions from the crowd, shedding the shyness she sometimes resorts to among strangers and important people.

I just finished reading The Cruelest Journey by Kira Salak. It is about the author, Kira’s kayak trip on the Niger river in Mali from Segou to Timbuktu. I had started it at home, so it was hard to get into and I had put it off until I got back to Mali. While in country, I have devoured books about other volunteers and other people’s experiences in Mali or other African countries. As I read this book, I really identified with Kira on a few points, especially on a few things that I have had a hard time putting into words.

For example, she talks about one of her encounters with a Malian friend, and how when she was quiet and reflective, he thought something was wrong. “But I get tired of trying to explain to some people that I value privacy and solitude as much as they value socializing. If I don’t have time to myself each day, I get stir-crazy. I’ll just run off, needing to escape from a place. But in countries like Mali, with strong tribal traditions, that must sound virtually incomprehensible, as family, religion, and social order provide a crucial structure that sustains people and prevents discontent. Back home, being alone might be considered a kind of independence, but here it is pathology.” This was such a hard concept to get across to my host family in home stay during my first few months of training.

Another thing that really struck me in her book was Kira’s observations on the heat. Strangely, the night offers no respite from the hot temperature, and only the occasional whiff of a breeze gives faint relief. At any rate, it is better to remain outside at all costs. The stifling heat lasts well into the night. She writes this while in Timbuktu, but I can tell you that North or South, it is the same. Hot, hot, hot.

Kira talks about her traveling habits and this journey specifically, and how a lot of times she is quick to look onto the next thing, especially when things are hard. “There are times when I am traveling when I forget that things pass, and then the so-called benefits of an experience elude me, and I can think only of the difficulties. I find it hard to appreciate anything with the sweat running off my face and burning my eyes, the sun’s heat scorching my skin, my body aching from holding the paddle. What room for ‘experience’ when there is only a wish to get to the next place faster, so that the end might be nearer?” I have found myself looking forward to events and ultimately the end of my service, especially when I am having bad days or when time seems to drag on. I have to make myself focus on the moment that I am living in, knowing that these moments are a part of the greater whole, but no less a part than the big moments.

When telling people about Mali, I am sometimes at a loss because most months of the year, Mali is dry, brown, dusty. When I first arrived, I was constantly taken aback at the sights surrounding me, the people, the hills around our home stay village, the sunset skies after the rowdy rainstorms. Of course, when you spend as much time somewhere as we spend here, those things can be lost. “I was on the hill. You see? Over there.” he points to the east, to a distant, high hill, its top outlined in the moonlight. “Kira, it was so beautiful. I climbed the hill and I was taking pictures from the top. Ah, it was incredible! The sun was setting… it was perfect.” There are still moments, perhaps riding my bike from village to San, or when I am out for a morning run as the sun is coming up, that I am in awe of the fact that I am in Africa, I am living in Africa.

Thank you

Well its September already, I can’t believe it. This last year has gone by so quickly! I wanted to take some time to say thank you to everyone who has supported me this last year.

Whether it has been through letters, emails, packages, phone calls, thoughts and prayers, it has meant the world to me to know how many people are there for me. It has made my time here easier, and it has made it fly by as I get to hear about graduations, engagements, weddings, babies, retirements, and all sorts of other good and exciting news. Even the day to day news, that wouldn’t seem to make headlines, has I have loved hearing. It makes me feel less than a world away from everyone and everything. I could not even begin to list all of you, because the number of family and friends who are looking out for me is so great, but know that I am grateful for you, and for the ways you have helped me. I feel blessed and lucky to have such amazing people in my life. So thank you again, for everything.

Maternity and Women's Center Project

As a health volunteer, most of my work takes place in or around my health center, or CSCOM. We do animations, which are educational talks or informational, hands-on learning sessions, about pertinent health topics like hand washing, mother and child health, weaning practices, anti-malarial practices, and nutrition. We spend every Thursday doing vaccinations, and I do my part weighing the babies, keeping track of their weights on a chart that indicates the general nutrition of the baby. The CSCOM is where women come for prenatal consultations, for births, and for help with health problems they or their children may encounter postnatal.

The CSCOM is also where people of the 26 surrounding villages come for their own vaccinations, for treatment of all assortment of ailments, for prescriptions, emergencies, and social hour should school be in session.

When asked as a village what Niasso wanted me to help them with, they voted unanimously that a maternity was wanted. A maternity is specifically a birthing center. When I asked about the current birthing situation at the CSCOM, I was informed that after a birth, the mothers must shuffle across the courtyard to the recovery room, blood dripping down their legs, their faces screwed up in a grimace of pain. Anyone sitting in the courtyard that doubles as the waiting room is privy to the happenings of the women who come in for prenatal consultations and births, which they said quite accurately is not clean, does not respect their privacy and just “is not beautiful.”

While beauty is not a real concern, what is alarming is the rate at which mothers are sent home early after giving birth to free beds for other mothers or for people needing to use beds in the recovery room for other treatment. When the mothers are only held for 6 hours after delivery, they need this critical time to rest and recover before going home to return to chores left undone before the approach of birth. Also concerning is the rate at which new born infants are exposed to any germs or bacteria that come into the CSCOM on patients being treated for TB, flu, infections, or the common cold. Furthermore, when Thursday roles around and women come from the surrounding villages by foot for vaccinations and baby weighing, there is not enough space to hold everyone, meaning that many mothers chose to return home as opposed to standing out in the sun and heat until a space frees up. Not only is the women’s health at risk in the current situation, they lose valuable opportunity for learning about health topics covered on vaccination days that would help them to better provide for their families and themselves.

In that vein, I am asking for your help. Currently, my project is on the Peace Corps website, listed under my last name. Please follow this link to donate to the building of a new maternity and women’s center in my village. I know many of you have already helped me in other projects or though your support for me and my time here, but any little thing that you can give can help. This is a big project, but would make a difference infinitely larger. My sincerest thank you for your help.

Birth

Wednesday morning, I had gone to the CSCOM to greet Alima, the midwife and the rest of the CSCOM employees. When I arrived, it was quiet and I was able to greet the people I wanted to, including our pharmacist, Bah and our secretary and vaccinator, Koniba. We also recently got a new Chef de Poste (CSCOM boss) and I was surprised to see her in the office, already at work. I spent a few minutes with Alima’s children, Bonnie, Abu, Laji and Le who were playing around the house, excited to show me the new Tungaro babies (ducklings).

I was getting ready to head back to my house after talking with Alima for quite a while when a man and woman drove up on a moto. Alima took one look at the woman and looked at me, quietly informing me that she was there to give birth. I have only seen one birth before and it was a bit traumatic. Te baby had been a still born and the process was harsh and sad, and I had been pretty apprehensive about having to be around the CSCOM afterwards. While it had lead to a great conversation with Alima about the way they do things here and why, it was an experience I will be happy to never repeat, one that I wish I hadn’t experienced to begin with.

But that was months ago, and this was the first birth I had been around for since coming back to village. I timidly asked Alima if I could be involved, which really just means watching since I can’t actually handle any tools and frankly, probably couldn’t help if I was allowed to. Of course, she said I should follow her, and while Alima prepped the tools and the area, I spoke with the mother, asking her name (Bintou) and where she was from (Solosso). Bintou had two other sons, Mamadou and Bakary, and although I didn’t ask her age, I would guess she was about 22. She patiently answered my questions, quiet otherwise, grimacing every so often with the pain of the impending delivery.

Alima checked the baby’s positioning and spoke softly to the mother, who was still laying quietly on the table, her hand searching for something to grip to steady herself against the pain. While I could tell that she was obviously hurting, she never let on that she was anything more than uncomfortable, her breathing short and even, her voice never lifting about a whisper.

Alima pawed gently at Bintou’s protruding belly, “calling the baby out,” and continued to check the progress of the delivery. With out much notice, suddenly the woman’s face screwed up in a spasm of concentration, and the birth commenced. As Alima was able to see the baby coming, she instructed me to place the fabric that would be the baby’s first blanket on the floor, the only other smooth and even surface in the room. When I looked again at the pair, Alima was receiving the baby’s head, cradling it in her left hand. With a quick motion, se stabilized the baby’s head and shoulders and began to pull gently, as the mother did her part, pushing silently. While her movement reminded me briefly of a game of tug of war with the family dog over a rope toy, Alima was practiced and ready, pulling the baby all the way out. She quickly checked the baby’s breathing, and began to work to clamp the umbilical cord. The baby was silent, and fearing a repeat of last time, I held my breath until I heard a faint whimper. The baby was a boy, and as I brought the fabric to the table, Alima wrapped him up, and gently scrubbed his head and body. She placed the wrapped baby on the floor again, then finished up the birth, collecting the placenta in another large piece of fabric to be taken by the midwife.

I asked about the baby not crying, since my only other experiences with birth were through movies when the baby screamed immediately after meeting the world. Alima wisely said that the baby might not be crying now, but that in a few minutes he’d begin to make noise. And she was right. The mother’s help, an older woman from her family had come just after the baby did, with clothing, extra food and blankets for the mother and baby who would be spending the next 6 hours at the CSCOM. I watched the baby as Alima and the other woman helped the mother to dress. While he had been quite pale when I first saw him, he was beginning to gain some good color, and I wiped the afterbirth still in his hair. He squirmed and made some noise, though he never cried out. The mother and baby were relocated to the recovery room, and that was it. Twenty minutes from the moment the woman pulled up on the back of the moto, she was laying in the recovery room, dozing with her new baby boy in her arms.

In a society that seemingly values women as baby production units, it was amazing to watch this young woman fulfill her duty, her sense of pride and obligation twined together. While it would be easy to fault this society for its treatment of women, it took be by surprise, and made me step back to reevaluate my feelings. Malian women are the gateway to life and are valued as such, given a gift that the men will never have, the ability to provide their larger family units with invaluable life, a new link in the chain.

Back in Mali/1 year in

Today, August 7, is my second day back in Mali, after a 4 week visit home. I have not really had time to fully process the whole thing, but I can certainly say this: coming back was hard. Well, I suppose it is more that leaving home again was hard. I have only had a couple of days here, and they have only been in Bamako and in San, so I cannot really say how the transition will go.

As many people reassured me before I came home, nothing there has really changed. I suppose a few businesses had closed, and each of my friends had gone through a year’s worth of events. But everyone is still there, still healthy, still living their lives. I was lucky enough to have the chance to see a bunch of friends that I wasn’t sure I’d be able to, as well as the chance to spend time with my closest friends and family. The wedding was beautiful, and all of the event leading up to it were so much fun.

In leaving again, I know better what I am getting myself into. I know the language better than I did a year ago. I know my village, my work partners, my fellow volunteers, and I know that I only have a year to go. I know that according to other volunteers, the second year goes by much faster and can hold some of the best times of a volunteer’s service.

Knowing all of these things and more gets me excited to be back. But of course, it didn’t really make it any easier to leave or to say good bye. Because with the knowledge of language and culture that comes as a second year volunteer, I also know the sad and hard parts of being a single volunteer in a small village in the middle of West Africa. I don’t look forward to reliving some of the harder moments of being alone, or not being able to connect or having absolutely no control of 90% of my life.

I hope that in the time I have had here and in the time that I have had away, I have gotten stronger and will be better equipped to deal with the not so great days. I am certain that this year will bring change and excitement and new experience, just as the last year did.

Stepping off of the plane on Thursday night, I could smell the same smells that hit me a year ago. The rainy season scent will always remind me of our first months of Mali, the trainings, the time at Tubani So (our training facility), the excitement of new relationships and learning. The smell that comes in with rainy season brings memories of moving into my new home, of running through torrential downpours on my way to the bus, of traipsing through my first San market.

So here’s to one more year, one more cold season, one more hot - thank goodness! - and all that this next year will bring.

Fundraiser

While I was at home for the month, I was able to have a fundraiser to help out my local first cycle school purchase school supplies. With a lot of help from my mom and good friend Christo, we were able to have live music and drinks at The Anchor Tavern in Everett on Hewitt. A very big thank you to everyone who came or who donated after the date. Thanks to all of you, we were able to raise over $1000 to help supply the children of Niasso with school supplies. An extra big thank you to my mom, Pam Jones, along with Christo Sedgewick and the Sepals and The Anchor.

4thof July, Manantali

Its strange to think that a year ago, I was spending Independence day with my family on Stretch Island. Of course, this year was much different, but it was still a great time. A large group of us all traveled to Manantali, a town on the west side of Mali. Manantali is located on the Bafing River, and the Peace Corps house, our base for the weekend, is like a camp site, looking out over the river, and surrounded by trees. The ride out to Manantali takes you through Kita, and then about 100k past it. The road to Kita is paved and while windy, is really pretty nice. Just past Kita, though, the road turns into a bumpy, tumultuous dirt road. On our journey, while we were lucky to have Peace Corps transport, we got drenched with seasonal rains. Our car, a relatively new 4x4, swam through the muck and mess. We finally arrived, the mattresses atop the car soaked through.

We spent the first evening watching the World Cup games at the local American club. The next day, we went for a hike up into the hills around the village, where we got to see some great views of town and the river. On our way down, we saw monkeys up where we had been sitting, playing in the trees. Later, we went to the river, until the hippos across the way disappeared under the water, which we took as our cue to take our leave. Apparently hippos are extremely territorial and aggressive, even though they are not carnivorous.

The next day was July 4th, which we spent hanging out, recovering from the day before and then playing down at the river. The current was fast, and if you planned it well, you could jump in up stream and float down past the rocks to a prefect resting point. After lunch, we played games, went to the American club for ping pong and foosball and pool, and then spent the rest of the day having our own Olympics and dancing the night away.

The ride back to Bamako was much less fun and exciting as the ride out, but we made it back in one piece, and in one day.

Sangue Mo

Every year, as the rains are looming, the town of San gathers for their Sangue Mo festival, which loosely translated means ripe waters. It is a week-long, fishing festival held from Sunday to Sunday in the middle of June. The whole town, and residents from closely neighboring towns as well as the few who come over from Burkina Faso, gather to celebrate the harvesting of the Niger river. All week, the town is ripe with the sounds of motorcycles, blazing up and down the roads, louder than usual having taken off their tailpipes. The young men on the bikes have even taken all of their extra parts off so that they can go faster, popping wheelies and all sorts of other maneuvers. I can honestly say that I have never been so close to getting run over in my whole life.

On the Thursday of the festival week, everyone of the town gathers together at the edges of the Niger, waiting for the fishing to begin. Many people are dressed in the festival clothing, a blue and purple fabric with the images of the festival printed on it, as well as images of the sacred tree and well of San. First, we wait on the bank of the river, as the crowds begin to multiply, their nets and flags in the air. The dugutigi (village chief) comes forward with his net, into the water. It isn’t deep, but he trudges further in, until the water is to his knees. He makes a loud cry, swings his net up into the air and then back down to the water, a massive cheer rising up from the surrounding crowd. The nets that they are using are made from a wood frame, a circle with four pieces of wood rising up from the edges to meet in a sort of triangle. From this structure hangs a net made of rope. To catch the fish, the frame is pushed into the water and deep into the mud, then hands are used to find the fish in the net and trap it between the net and the ground.

As soon as the dugutigi had caught his first fish, the crowd erupted into a giant cheer, thee official fired his gun, and the rest of the crowd rushed the waters. The rest of the town spent the remainder of the afternoon in the water, the men and children catching fish, the women celebrating each catch and anointing themselves in the water. Many of the people continued the festivities late into the afternoon and evening. Everyone passing on the street wanted to know if we had caught fish, and were excited to hear that we at least went in the water.

Djenne

I am just returning from a trip up north to Djenne with some friends. Djenne is a small island surrounded by the Bani river. The architecture is very distinct, very un-Malian. The northern African influence on the city is evident in the two story buildings reminiscent of Morocco or Tunisia. It is also the home of the world’s largest mud mosque. We took transport from my friend Esther’s village to Djenne on Monday, their market day. Our transport was a cattle truck, filled up to the brim with sacks of charcoal and beans and millet, and boxes of tea. We sat atop the market wares, the wind in our hair. (Don’t worry, mom, I wore sunscreen.) The ride itself really only took a couple hours, including the barge trip to cross onto the island. As we waited in line, we watched the men on horseback forge the river. The horse in the back of the line was obviously less healthy and seemed to struggle to cross the water, but they all made it through, prancing out of the water on the other side.

When we got to Djenne, it was mid morning. We strolled around the town as the people were beginning to set up their market stalls. Immediately, we were pegged as tourists and so many people began to follow us around, selling random souvenirs and offering their guide services. It was funny that even when we spoke to them in Bambara, they didn’t relent. Usually that works for us here in San, or even in Bamako. We were able to connect with two other volunteers who live in the area, or near it, and they played our guides for the rest of the day. We had lunch at a campemont, and then went to the center of market to look around. We wandered around the mosque, which is supposed to be closed to non-Muslims, although for the right price off course, the rules can be bent.

We got to see the library, which is in the middle of a project to collect ancient manuscripts that have been left in homes around the city. They estimate that there are about 10,000 manuscripts through out the whole area, but they have only been able to collect about 3,000. The project is about 2 years old, and will continue as more manuscripts become available. The works are written in Arabic characters, but in the languages of Bambara, Djenneke, and Peul. The man at the library explained that at the time the manuscripts were written, the languages used hadn’t been alphabetized yet and therefore were not in written form yet. He also explained that they are in the process of scanning all of the works to be electronically catalogued. Currently, the books are being housed in cabinets organized by family. More manuscripts will become available as families allow them to be. The families must locate all members and get them to agree to relinquish the works before they can be taken in by the library. Our guide also explained that one of the more difficult parts of the project was finding someone who could type, read, and translate the Arabic characters and the languages they are written in, as well as use a computer.

Our journey to Djenne concluded as the rains began. The men began to load the trucks up, and once they were loaded, we scrambled up on top of the goods and pulled a tarp over ourselves. The ride home was extremely long on account of the wait at the river crossing. We were treated to some very cool lightening storms, had a great sing along to the amusement of the Malians on the ride with us, and were witness to a fight over the tarp covering us and protecting us from the rain, which was most unusual because Malians tend to be some of the most level headed people. I guess everyone gets cranky at the end of a wet, muddy ride, especially when that 40k ride took about 4 hours. Suffice it to say we had an adventure.

Teriya Bugu

I just got back from a little San Kaw vacation (Kaw is people of, like people from my village, Niasso, are Niasso Kaw) to Teryia Bugu, a resort-type place located on the Bani River, between San and Bla. Jen had been before with her mom when she was here for a visit. Since part of our group is getting ready to finish their service, we went for a weekend together.

Teryia Bugu, described to me by our cross cultural trainer in pre-service training as paradise, was just that. With beautiful river views and a multitude of big, leafy trees, we spent three days relaxing by the pool, walking through the jatropha groves, and just generally enjoying ourselves. There were peacocks wandering around the grounds, and lots of other beautiful birds singing from the trees surrounding the pool. Which, might I mention, had a huge slide!

After spending most of the second day at the pool, reading, playing, napping, we strolled through the town of Teryia Bugu, down a road lined with Eucalyptus and mango trees. Later, we treated ourselves to a very nice dinner, and ended the night with a bon fire under the stars and s’mores.

Of course, it had to come to an end. The HoBo’s, the volunteers who came to Mali the year before us, had a COS conference to get to. (COS - close of service) Amazing to imagine that we’ll be in their shoes a year from now!

If you're interested in more info, check out http://www.tb-mali.com/e-welcome.html

Mango rains

Its raining. And its glorious and beautiful, and the wind is Wizard of Oz, Kansas huge, and the thunder is reminiscent of huge drums with tight heads being pounded right above the house. The skies are dark and would be ominous, except that they are so welcome. I wish they’d stay for a long weekend of late mornings and closed shutters and lazy days with a good book.

I don’t care that I’ve now got more dirt in my ear than a dog on the beach. Or that my body is freckled with raindrops made obvious by the splotches they’ve left in the white heat-rash powder on my arms. The power has gone out, meaning all my work on the computer - the sole reason for my trip into town today - is probably lost, and the floor of the house is covered in a heavy layer of dust blown in the windows, and there will be huge puddle in market. But I don’t care, bring it on. The cool air and the smell of fresh rain and the sight of Jean Baptiste, our Malian guard in a bright yellow Paddington Bear-style rain coat are all worth it.

I’m sure at home, Ill never look at weather in the same way. How can I? This was literally less than 20 minutes of rain, the concrete patio is already starting to dry, and soon you’ll not have any clue it was ever here.

cleaning the bathroom

When we use the toilet here, we use a nyegen, or a pit toilet. It’s a small hole in the ground which leads to a bit pit, and with all of the people using the toilet, it will eventually get full. Then what happens? Well…

It must be emptied. If the toilet is a composting one, there are two compartments, side by side, each one sealed off from the other. When one is filled, it is sealed off and the other is opened up for use. The full compartment is left to sit for a while and after a time, it is emptied and the substance is used for fertilizer. In the big cities, I have heard that some companies run a removal service, sucking the waste out with a big machine.

In my village, there are no composting nyegens. The other day, I was approaching my host family’s compound when I noticed my host brother, Isa’s head poking over the nyegen wall. Usually you do not talk to people when they are in the nyegen. They are either bathing or going to the bathroom; it is not polite. But Isa greeted me and we talked about the soccer game he’d later be playing in.

I discovered later that afternoon that he had been helping my host dad to empty their nyegen, the contents of which are currently piled up next to the compound wall. Its funny too because right now, most people are remudding their houses before rainy season gets here. I had seen the big pile earlier in the day, but I had just thought that it was mud mixed for that purpose. In fact, the pile will be sitting there for a while. When it is ready, it will be loaded up into a donkey cart and trucked out of town to the fields to use as fertilizer. Already my host dad has recemented his nyegen floor, starting the cycle over again.

Hi all,

Sorry, I've not been so good lately about posting. Things here are hot as an oven, which means we all spend a lot of time doing as little as possible-Malians and volunteers alike. You can check on google.com anytime to get the temperature in San, which is close to my village. Today, we had a cool 42`c, which means about 107.6`f. Jealous?

As you can guess, I'm really looking forward to coming home in 9 weeks. We just finished a polio vaccination campaign, walking and biking village to village, door to door, vaccinating any children under 5. My job was to mark the pinky nail of the children that had received their vaccine. It was a 3 day campaign, and while it was nice to be out and working, feeling busy, it was a reminder of how much I miss home. Children were scared of me, dogs were scared of me, and I wilted faster than usual when I ran out of water in the 2nd of 6 villages on Sunday. Which meant that I was none too thrilled to be teased by Malians about my lack of a husband. Or to be chased around a compound by a mother with screaming child, frightened for his life of the white woman-me.

But I just spent a few days in Bamako, the capital, eating ice cream and cheese burgers, enjoying air conditioning and the illusion of being anywhere but Mali. I am feeling rested and ready to go back to village, excited even to see my host family and homologue. So wish me luck, friends, as I embark on my longest stint in village. I'll be back in three weeks, lots of love to you until then!

Confusion

So I was running the other day while I was in village. I was out running on the main road, and was about 30 minutes into my run. I'd wave at cars when they passed me and yell a greeting to people out in the fields. Suddenly, a car passed me, going my same direction, and slowed to a stop just ahead of me. The driver never turned off the engine, and as I approached, I was pretty uncertain about what was going on. Cars in Mali aren't reliable so perhaps the car was having issues. But as I got closer, and eventually came up even with the car, the driver popped out. And offered me a ride to San.

Of course, I was running that direction, and people don't often go for runs like that. Especially not in the farm lands where people are out in the fields all day, working in the heat and the sun. But never have I ever had someone stop to offer me relief from my run. It was a surprise to him that I would be out running for exercise. Cross cultural exchange!

Niasso to San

When I am in my village, I am at home. It is comfortable in my house (emotionally, since no one could call 108` comfortable) and I find my routine easily. My neighbors happily greet meet and I am always welcome at the houses of my colleagues and village friends. Children know my name and want to help me with anything and everything, from pumping my water and shooing random animals out of my compound, to sweeping my dusty yard and watering my garden. After 10 months of being in Mali, and over 8 months of it in Niasso, my site is really becoming my town, my neighborhood, my home. When I have been away, I look forward to returning, and the feeling that washes over me upon reentering my village, pulling off onto my dirt road, passing all of my familiar places, is overwhelmingly comforting.

When I leave village to come to San, the town I go to for my banking and market, I usually go by bike. The ride is about 20k (12 miles) and usually takes me about an hour, depending on the wind and how much sleep I got the night before. On my ride, I pass lots of other villagers biking to and from markets with any number of random things packed on the back of their bikes - bags, market buys, children or other passengers, sheep, chickens, goats. We greet each other, exchange a brief wave. Sometimes, if we are traveling the same direction, we will talk a bit. “Where are you from? Where are you going? What village do you live in? What work do you do there? Do you know Bakary Coulibaly, he lives in the village near yours?”

My route is along a main road, frequented by not only other bike riders, but motos, cars, buses, and freight trucks as well. When these huge trucks rush past me, going the opposite direction, I am treated to a face full of dust and head wind so fierce, I seem to be suspended on the spot, my peddling only keeping me from being blown backwards. We also share the road with donkey and horse carts, piled high with goods for market and women who are headed to sell their wares there. As I pass them, the women return my greetings with enthusiastic smiles and questions. “How’s your family? How are your children? How are the people from your village? How is your man?” As I ride by, I grin, answering as many questions as I can, trying to juggle my greetings while weaving between the carts, the traffic in both directions and the multitude of potholes that make up the majority of the road.

Now, after the Tour d’Afrique has come through town, the road is labeled with distances; 10k, 5k, and 3k from San. Although we recently confirmed our doubts that the distance from 10k to 5k is in fact more than 5k (7.5 at least!), as I approach the 3k mark, I start to feel a little lighter. I have entered the San city limits and suddenly the wind and the heat don’t matter. As I pull around the corner, almost to our house here, the same feeling of comfort comes over me. It is my home away from home. When I come in, I know that there is a good chance that at least one other of our 8 volunteers will be in town, all of whom I look forward to seeing, which I know is a feeling I am so very lucky to have. We volunteers know our neighbors and the people who run different businesses in town. We have clean, running water, which means showers, real toilets and filling up our cistern, a concrete hot tub of sorts. We also have electricity, which means movies, music, and a running refrigerator aka cold water.

Talking to another volunteer recently, I thought of a perfect comparison. Growing up, we used to go to my grandparent’s beach house on Stretch Island. We’d pack up the car and after at least 4 checks and rechecks of the house, we’d be on our way. When, two hours later or three with traffic and stops, we got to the bridge that connects Stretch Island to Grapeview, I felt excited. Happy to be back there, happy to have endured the long ride in the car next to my little brother who knew my buttons and just how to push them. Even the dogs would know when we were close, smelling the beach and the ocean, rushing to get to the window.

Of course, we all know the feeling of returning home after a vacation. While the vacation was probably awesome, the minute you step foot on the plane or in the car, the minute you start heading back , its over. And you’re eager to get back to the routine, your own bed, the comfort of home. When you finally pull into the neighborhood, get the car in the driveway, it’s a relief. You are home. For me, San is the beach house on Stretch Island and Niasso is home. While in reality, nothing in Mali could ever replace my home in Washington, and definitely not my favorite place on the Pudget Sound, it is nice to have some places to help to fill the gap. And to feel like home.

Pump Project Completed!

We finished our first project yesterday! Our health center has a water pump out front that has not worked for months. Its been inactive at least as long as I have been in village, and undoubtedly much longer. Apparently, it was fixed once, but then broke again soon after. My village has three pumps, but the only one working properly was at the mayor's office. The health center is near the mayor's office, but it is still quite a walk and when you need water, you need water. So we decided it should be repaired.

We had a meeting on Sunday, the ASACO members (ASACO is the board of community members that oversee happenings at the CSCOM), the CSCOM workers (the CSCOM is my health center), my homologue, Alima and I, and came up with a plan. On Monday, the ASACO president, Sidi, called into San, and by Wednesday, the engineers were in Niasso.

The two engineers, with the help of all male staff of our CSCOM, pulled the pump apart, including the about 80 feet of pipe that they pulled out of the ground. The offensive parts were identified and a price was named. To my surprise, the CSCOM paid for the fixing of the pump with money from the pharmacy. It was a surprise because a lot of times I hear about a village relying on volunteers for money or help with financing. Because we are outsiders, Americans, and seen as aid workers, we must have money that we are just itching to throw out. But this time, Ba, my pharmacist, suggested that the funds be provided by the pharmacy, which everyone else agreed on.

By the time the men were putting the pump back together, new parts and all, a small crowd had gathered. Boys from the middle school had come to watch the activity, and stood grouped around the pump, transfixed by the parts and tools and action. When the pump was finally finished, the kids were filling up any bucket they could find just to have a chance to try the "new" pump.

A day later, I am still excited about the project and how smoothly it all went. It was uncharacteristic for Malians to take such initiative. As a true procrastinator, even I had thought we'd be waiting around on the project for weeks. But now it is done, and everyone is so proud of their work. I am proud them, too.

Easter in Sokoura

As you know, Mali is a largely Muslim country. That said, I live in an area with a very large population of Christians. San is known as the place to get pork and chimi chama (millet beer) and to be able to enjoy them with other Malians. Many of my volunteer friends have been placed in Christian villages, or villages with a substantial Christian population. My village is mostly Muslim; as far as I can tell I am one of two Christians, the other being my Chief of Post at my CSCOM who was hired from outside the village.

My friend Cait, the volunteer in the village closest to mine, lives in a Christian village. She’d invited me to her village for Easter this year, which came the weekend after our most recent training in Segou. Of course, leave it to me to get sick the day she was biking out to her village, a nice ride that averages about an hour and a half for her, but can be a bit treacherous if you aren’t feeling well. So yesterday, around 11am, I went to Sokura, a Christian village near my friend Shelby’s village of Fangasso. There were three of us going, Brad, another volunteer from my stage, and Nicole, a friend working with Cornell and an NGO in San. We set out for transport, and as usual, spent a good two hours waiting for a bus out of town.

When we had finally caught our ride and had made it to Sokoura, Shelby was waiting for us by the road. We met her friends, and made our way into the heart of Sokoura. The village has a strong Catholic presence, with a large mission built just on the outside of town. Apparently, during August, there is a large St. Mary’s Day celebration, with visitors from all over. Shelby has asked us to come back for that because usually the town is overrun with Italians, and as volunteers who live in the surrounding communities, we have to represent!

As we walked past the mission into the heart of town, we greeted people here and there, those sitting under the shade of the trees and the eaves of the mission. Through out town, people were sitting in small groups, chatting and enjoying the day. The center of town was set up for the dancing that would come later. In the center of the area were two large balaphones, a xylophone type instrument with gourds hanging under them to supply the sound.

We stopped first at a house near the center of town. Immediately, we were handed calabash bowls about the size of cantaloupes with tall bottles standing in the middle of them. The bottles held the chimi chama, and the women running the house poured each of our bottles into our calabash bowls with a grin. After a taste, she questions, “a ka di?” Is it good? it’s a warm liquid, about the color and consistency of hot apple cider, that tastes a bit like apple cider with a twist. The smell of it is a bit off, but we can’t quite identify why. As we drink our chimi chama, seated on rice sacks overstuffed with millet, surrounded by crucifixes, photos of Jesus and buzzing flies, more children and young people begin to fill the house, curious as to why the tubabs are in town. Visitors stop by to greet us, people from Sokoura and the surrounding villages. In Sokoura, the people speak Bomu, and even though Shelby gets an extra big grin from those she greets in Bomu, we are just as warmly welcomed when we speak Bambara.

Through out the day, we wander through town, stopping at different compounds to greet and even sit for a while to chat and enjoy some more chimi chama. At one house, the women are grinding the millet that is fermented to make chimi chama, and she happily smiles for a picture. One man playing cards at a table near us is from Togo, employed at the mission and speaks fantastic English. Girls in still another compound are braiding hair, starting off by pulling the youngest girl’s hair out of the braids it was in, a process that does not look pleasant.

At the last house, I find myself wearing a whole calabash bowl of chimi chama, the result of being inexplicably startled by Brad as he was passing me the bowl. Sticky, but much cooler, we headed for the center of village, where we found dancing and music. We were lead into dancing circles by Malian women with moves you’ve never seen before. Our circle dancing continued for some time, with small breaks for sips of chimi chama, which we noticed was much stronger than the first bowls we enjoyed.

We finally found ourselves back in the center of the village, with the balaphones playing and lots of singing and dancing. Thirsty, our feet covered in dirt, and with great stories to take home, we set off for San. Our ride home, on top of a freight truck carrying people and their cargo, including huge bags of fish, was less than comfortable, but an experience all the same. Needless to say, upon arriving home, there were showers all around and well deserved rest. Definitely an Easter to remember.

Segou Regional IST

We just completed a regional in-service training (IST) in Segou on April 1st. The training was put together to address issues we might be having in our service, to talk more about food security, and to help us get in contact with NGO’s in our areas that we might work with in the future.

While the training itself had many great points, my favorite part was getting to spend time with the other people in our region, as well as other San Kaw. Even though I am only 4 hours (about) away from Segou, I have not traveled there much. On bus trips to San, we’ve stopped for lunch or a bathroom break, but that’s the extent of my time there. It is a fun city!

Originally the capital of Mali, it also boasts the birthplace of Bambara. The city is on the river and attracts a decent number of NGO’s, ex-patriots, and tourists. The streets are paved, and many are tree lined. You can get anything you could ever need or want there, including cheese, pizza and ice cream, the true measurements of a good city.

But, all of this was only complimentary to the best part of being in Segou for our training. Each morning, I got to run on paved, tree-lined roads-sometimes sidewalks-with friends! What a great change of pace. As someone who has been putting in more and more miles lately, it was such an awesome feeling to be able to do it with other people. Ok, yeah, sometimes I get the occasional child in village who will trail me on my run, but somehow it just isn’t the same. To be able to set out at a steady pace, carry on light conversation, and field yelling Malians with someone. I’d forgotten how much I missed it!

Of course, I am still pounding the pavement (or uneven, sandy path) back in San and in village, getting tuned up to start marathon training in May. But I dream about the days when I’ll be able to run with friends again.

PACA

In the middle of February, when I thought my language skills were finally good enough, we did PACA. PACA, Participatory Analysis for Community Action, is a tool we use to discover a community’s assets, accomplishments, needs and wants. It is a good way to become familiar with a community’s motivation and also to find out which projects would be good for your service.

We set aside a Saturday morning to meet as a community. In attendance were some very key members of my community; my homologue (counterpart), my host dad, our dugutigi (village chief), the matrone (midwife) for my CSCOM (health center), the director of the first cycle(elementary) school, women from our women’s group, the older men from our men’s group, a representative from our youth group, and various other village members.

We started by identifying what our village had done already, what they were proud of. The list was awesome. They talked about their schools, their respective men’s and women’s group, their children, their market, and their gardens. The next two activities were done with the meeting members split into a group of men and a group of women. We did a village map, where they drew out a map of the village as they saw it. Next, we made daily calendars to show what the men and women did each day, from waking up to going to bed.

We compared these maps and lists, focusing on the differences and similarities. We talked about why certain places in town were on one map and not the other, why they might be bigger or more central on one map, and how the duties that men and women perform through the day are different, yet complimentary.

From here we began a list of the things that the community wanted to accomplish. The list was about twelve items long, with ideas coming from both the men and women. After we came up with our list, we prioritized the items. When we had agreed on the final list, we talked about who would want to work on which projects. Some of the projects could be done sooner than others, so we identified people that might work together at a later date to accomplish projects that would need to happen in the rainy season or that would be secondary to more important projects.

What was on the list, you ask? The first item was help with food security. Other items included school supplies, first aid supplies for the school, and a school garden. The women want a well in their garden and the whole town agreed that pump repair, at both the school and the CSCOM were very important. Less important, but still on the list were items like solar panels for the school so that adult literacy classes held there after dark would have light and building a new maternity.

I learned that although my language was getting better, it wasn’t perfect. There were plenty of times when I was trying to explain something and just ran myself into a wall. That said, I was working with some of the most patient and understanding people I’ve ever met. If I was stuck, I had support from numerous people who helped me say what needed saying. I also learned that my purpose seems to be understood very well. A lot of volunteers seem to have issues in their villages with people expecting them to be a money source. While there were definitely things on our list that will require money, they were not things on the top of the list, and the people suggesting them were open to talk about ideas for fundraising. The whole process was less painful than I had anticipated and was so very helpful.

Its official

I will be home, for a nice 4 week visit, on July 8, 2010. Excited? Just a little!

8 mars, 2010

Yesterday was International Women’s Day. Here in San, there was singing and dancing, a huge gathering of women celebrating women. And there is a lot to celebrate. Women here, just like women across the world, deserve to be celebrated.

Women in Mali have so many responsibilities, from childbearing and rearing to cooking and cleaning, collecting water and gathering wood for fires, the list goes on and on. In the hierarchy of Malian society, women occupy a rung that does not do them justice.

Occupying the highest point of the pyramid are older men. These are the dugutigis, or village chiefs, the elders that in village life, make the important decisions, and the heads of families generations deep.

Following behind them are middle-aged, educated men, and then middle aged men with responsibilities as farmers, herders, or blacksmiths, in addition to the responsibilities they may have taken on in starting a family and joining a men’s group or other village cooperative.

Behind these men are the eldest women and then the educated women, who are most likely also mothers and grandmothers, taking on the tasks and responsibilities that come along with those roles.

Women who have not been educated, as many of them aren’t, fall behind the young men on the social climb. These may be the women who have not left their village because at age 15, they were married off and expecting their first children.

These women may have been expected to take care of their family, doing work that their mothers gave them when they themselves got too busy to do it all on their own. This may have prevented them from making it to school on time everyday, or even at all, which would mean that they probably never progressed past the 6th grade and had no real chance of ever getting out of their village, except for the possibility of marrying a man in a near by village.

What ever a women’s age or education, the fact remains that Malian women have never been equal to their male counterparts. I’d love to believe that this is slowly changing. Maybe it is. During International Women’s Day, many villages celebrated their women, some with singing and dancing like San. In some villages, volunteers talk about the men taking over household chores for the day, or the Mayor’s office providing lunch for the women of their commune.

There is a special Women’s Day fabric that is sold in the weeks leading up to March 8th. Walking around market yesterday in my Women’s Day outfit, I got lots of compliments and was excited to be able to talk to the women who were also wearing the fabric.

I’ve also been lucky enough in the past few weeks to be able to have conversations about the differences between men and women with people in my village. I hear from men in village all the time that women work so much, that they have so many responsibilities. But the general thought is that men do their part, working the fields, farming to provide a harvest that will sustain the family.

To be able to talk to Malian men and women about their differences and their roles is eye opening. Additionally, it is great to be able to share with them how men and women have interchanging roles in American society. I know I will not change anybody’s mind with one conversation, but I like to think that this sharing will help them to see that there is more than one way to live this life. I am learning that lesson every day.

WAIST

Sitting beach side, drummers sounding off behind me, the wind blows the scent of seawater my way. There are children playing soccer up the shore, racing up their makeshift field parallel to the older men playing their own game, neither caring if their sidelines are erased by the rush of waves, their ball carried off in the surf. I’ve strolled up and down the coast all morning, watching the stray dogs dig in the sand and the fishermen pull in their nets, gathering up their catch. In between a few pages of a good book and enjoying a cold drink, I’ve tumbled around in the furious waves of the Atlantic and swallowed far too much salt water. But I’ll never complain. I am at the beach.

At the beach in Mali? No, that would paint a much different picture, sans ocean breezes and knee baring dresses. I am in Senegal, at a beach town called Tubab Dialau, about two hours out of the capital of Dakar. Staying at a small resort on the beach with about 12 other Peace Corps volunteers, all of us are enjoying a much deserved break from life in our villages.

We came to Dakar for WAIST, the West African International Softball Tournament, which is held each year over President’s Day weekend and draws a crowd of expatriates, volunteers from other countries, little leaguers and Senegalese. This year, Mali put three teams into the mix, calling ourselves the Dessert Kawboys. (Kaw sounds like cow and means ‘people of’ or ‘the people.’ We call ourselves San Kaw or Segou Kaw when talking about the people of San or Segou.) We had an A, B, and C team, respectively described as competitive and in it to win it; leisurely and up for a drink in between innings; and playing with a glove on one hand and a beverage in the other. I was placed on the competitive team to fill the female quota, although I hadn’t asked to be. The excuse was that I had played before and it was assumed that meant that I knew to run counterclockwise around the bases and wasn’t afraid of the ball. I played second base, switching innings with Gloria, while Sam and Ali killed it as catcher and right field respectively.

Over two days of games, we played 4 times. After a strong showing in the beginning of our first game, we went on to tie it and losing momentum, lost our second game to a team of Senegalese high schoolers with nick names like Snoop and Trick. Knowing that we’d have to pull it together on day two to advance to the finals, we came through with a win in the first game of the day. In a team decision, we decided to play our later game, the last of the day, to win. This meant interrupting our afternoon of debauchery for a rematch against the same Senegalese high school team. Although we found out that we would not advance even with a win, due to the tie we’d had the day before, we decided to give it a go. And it was a good thing we did. We played one of the best games all tournament, winning by a landslide 9-1. We had spectators from our other PC/Mali teams as well as PC teams from other countries all of them putting together a pretty exciting cheering section. Everyone was on their game, making some great plays and generally having a good time doing it. In the long run, a PC team from the Gambia won our division of the tournament.

Dakar itself is a busy city, with just about any ethnic restaurant you could think of, boasting the best ice cream in West Africa. We tested it out, and after some deliberation, we had to agree. Off the coast of Dakar are a few islands. One island was a part of the slave trade, with original historical buildings still standing, while others are more beachy. Unfortunately, I did not have the chance to see them, all the more reason to go back. I did get to hit up the beach off of Dakar near where we were staying, enjoyed playing in the pool at the American club our games were based out of, and had a few good runs on the sidewalk along the beach leading downtown.

Amazingly, I even ran into an old friend that I had bunked with at Camp Killoqua in middle school who is a volunteer in the Gambia. Seeing each other, we each did a double take. She looked the same as she had years ago, and as I was assured, so do I. It just reminds me what a small world we live in, and how much I am my father’s daughter as he’s always running into someone he knows from somewhere in the most random places.

Soon after, we were on our way to the beach, packed into a string of taxis. Over the next few days, more people arrived, and many of us extended our stay, all of us threatening to permanently relocate to Senegal. Over meals of freshly caught seafood we talk about where we will be this time next year and what we’ll do in the time between.

On a morning stroll, Jeremy, Josh, Billy and I come upon a team of fishermen pulling in a large rope. The boys stop to help while I play photographer and provide entertainment for the children, who eagerly return the favor. 45 minutes later, it becomes evident that the “boat” they are pulling in is in fact not a boat at all but a large net filled with jellyfish, sea eels, random debris like salidagas and flip-flops, and the occasional fish.

Most evenings we were treated to a show, the local dance studio practicing on the beach below our hotel, while each night was spent in a lounge chair, bundled up in sweatshirts or blankets to protect from the chilly ocean air, listening to the waves crash against the beach. Aside from the ridiculously long bus ride home, the whole trip was marvelous. Writing about it here in San, in 107` heat, I am wishing I was back on the beach.

Friday

It was Friday. And every Friday is usually a good day. I mean, it’s Friday. The last time I had a “bad” Friday, I think I must have been in 7th grade. A Friday meant it would be a whole two days until I got to see most of my friends again. Or which ever boy I happened to have a crush on at the minute.

And Fridays here are usually great too because they are a holy day. People dress up a little bit and the nightly call to prayer, which in my village is sung by a single man sans horrible mega phone (thank goodness) in a little louder and draws more of a crowd. For kids, it’s the last day of school for the week, which means the same thing it does for kids at home; hanging out with family, a few extra chores, and playing outside with the kids in the neighborhood.

All of this and yet, I was having a “bad” Friday. I’d woken up, made my morning coffee (thanks Mom and Dad!), sat on my perch -the steps leading up to my roof, and watched the kids gathering for school. But I was tired, having spent the day before biking in and out of the market in a town about 25K away. And for some reason, I was in a mood. I was grumpy, tired of being the outsider, tired of struggling to have a “real” conversation, or any conversation I’d understand. And I was dreading the meeting I’d scheduled with my village for the next day.

I spent the morning writing letters, journaling, reading, lounging in my hammock, telling myself I needed to at least attempt to at least facilitate some sort of social contact. I made my own lunch, which I don’t often do anymore, ate on my own, and then spent the afternoon reading and feeling glum. And then feeling sorry for myself because I was feeling that way.

I’d almost resigned to forgo my daily run, thinking I felt too tired and it was so much effort. But, I reasoned, if nothing else it would get me out of my compound and away from the inquiring eyes of the random people at the well just next to my wall.

I set out, music up so loud I couldn’t hear anyone greeting me. I put on my business face, the one that says “don’t mess with me, please. I’m not in the mood.” Of course, I’d set out just as school was getting out and all the kids were walking home. On my running path. I was trying to ignore them, eyes forward, on my mission. But I couldn’t keep my grumpus face on for long when I noticed that one boy was running with me, drafting off my left shoulder. No smile on his face either, all business. All of the other children were biking home, but this boy, who was probably about 12 was running with me. In sandals and jeans, the whole 25 minutes from Niasso, my village to Cinzo, his village.

I couldn’t help but feel silly for having felt so crabby and upset. I’d turn my head, unable to hide my ever widening grin from my friend, and he’d flash one right back. We never said a word until we reached Cinzo, where he took a right and I took a left to turn back home. No “customary” greeting, no “I ni barra” (good work). I don’t even know his name. and some how he know just what I needed. With out a word, he’d lifted my mood, brightened my outlook for not only the rest of my run, but my whole day. Maybe even more than that. It will always be the little things.

Visitors

Having my parents here for a week was so good in so many ways. There are the obvious reasons of course; I missed them and enjoyed spending time with them. But having them here also opened my eyes to how much I like being Mali. Introducing my parents to the different people I am surrounded by daily gave me renewed appreciation for them and the ways that they look out for me.

Spending time with my host family in my village has always been fun for me. I have always enjoyed talking to my host dad, learning new vocabulary, hearing new stories. So when I brought my family to village, acting as their interpreter, helping them through the greetings and the customs, it made me feel proud. I could use the language that he taught me to introduce my parents and to act as the go between, changing my mom’s thanks in English to Bambara. My host dad, my homologue and the women’s association all presented us with chickens, which is a form of great thanks. It was sad that we had run out of time and could not sit and share in the meal with them, and yet it was funny to me that both my parents and my adopted parents thought on the same lines, suggesting in two different languages that the chickens be saved for when I came back to village.

I also took them to meet my host family from my homestay village. I am sure they were not surprised to see that the family dog took to my mom just as quickly as he had to me. It was one of the first things my host dad pointed out upon entering the compound. Standing in their yard, Awa, my host mom, pointed out how much my mother and I looked the same. I thought this was quite ironic because this was the very same woman who had once told me that a lot of Malians do not recognize the differences in Tubabs the way they did in Malians. She had said that we might all look the same to Malians. Yet she immediately commented that we had the same face. Returning to their home for the first time since my training had ended, I was excited to see my host sisters and was overcome with a feeling of the familiar. Again, pressed for time, we had to leave shortly after arriving, but I am looking forward to going back for a longer visit.

Playing interpreter for my parents, I was surprised at how much I could understand, and how much I was understood. Because I was sent to DC for 3 weeks and then didn’t immediately return to site, I felt my language suffered. I am sure it has. But I was still able to ask many of my dad’s questions and even understand some of the answers. I got us all around Bamako, which I will tell you is no small feat, with the taxis and the different cartiers and the millions of cars and motos.

And of course, my parents were constantly impressed with the friendliness of the people of Mali. I know, have known, that I am surrounded by good people. But it’s a good reminder of just how open and friendly and helpful Malians are, to hear it from someone else. From people on the airplane, to people at the hotel, the staff at many of the places we had lunch or dinner, the cab drivers, the random people in the market, the people in my village and in the other villages we went to. We were warmly welcomed, and even more so when I spoke Bambara. It seemed to blow some of them away, to meet a Tubab who didn’t want to speak French. I set them straight, telling them I couldn’t speak it. Which really only really became a problem when we were trying to find a non-existent water fall.

I felt it was a successful trip. I’ve learned that the measure of success is different for everyone, but no one was sick, we had minimal bug bites, no sun burn, no one was forced to squat over a latrine hole (a miracle!) and we took away some great memories and some good stories. I know I’m half a world, and lots of shots away, but the gate is open; visitor’s are being accepted.