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.