One more quick post for an address update. From now on, any mail can be sent to the following address:
Michelle Surdyk
Corps de la Paix
BP 75
San, Mali
I LOOOOVEE getting letters/postcards/cards, hint hint! And packages don't seem to be too expensive in San, plus none of the San PCVs has ever had a case of a missing package or stolen items. Score!
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Journey to Sourountouna
I’ve made it safely back from my site visit! Let me tell you, Malian public transportation is no picnic. Thank goodness I was lucky enough to have Bambara-speakers guide me both ways.
Sunday morning I left the Training Center with my homologue, the two other girls from my stage placed in the San region, and their 2 homologues. We left at 6:30am but I can’t complain – I’d much rather leave early than spend the entire heat of the day on a public bus. (Which I did anyway, but it’s not always like that). The bus was scheduled to leave at 7:30, and it left at 8 which was pretty good. Our bags were loaded below, the bikes were strapped to the top of the bus, and we were off.
Imagine an American charter bus without a toilet in the back, and looking like it’s 40 years old and badly in disrepair. That is a Malian bus. There are holes where the overhead lights and air conditioner vents should be, but sadly, holes are all they are. A few tiny windows open near the ceiling in the back of the bus, and we had 3 roof vents that were open; so despite the 100+ degree weather and a bus crammed full of people, the heat was tolerable as long as we were moving. But when we stopped moving, that’s when you felt like you had suddenly dropped down to Hell. And unfortunately, we stopped a lot. I have no idea why. I think sometimes it was at checkpoints and sometimes it was to let a few men off for a pit stop on the side of the road (sorry, ladies) but lots of the time I didn’t have a clue why we’d stopped. Stops lasted anywhere from 1 minute to 20+ minutes. I basically slept the whole way to San, but every time we made a stop, I immediately woke up from the heat. Oh, and from the men, women, and kids bombarding the bus to hawk their wares. That may be my absolute least favorite part about Mali so far. The heat here is oppressive but tolerable; the bus hawkers are not. The moment we stopped, people would flood the bus and start yelling out their goods and prices. Bus riders could buy anything from peanuts to water to rice sifters. (Lord only knows why you would want a rice sifter on a public bus). Then arms and faces and veggies and sifters get shoved in your face since the woman selling them can’t get past the seller in front of her but absolutely has to give her product to the dude behind you. So you sit there pressed up against your seat mate, cringing at the noise and smelling sweaty people all around you and then cringing again when you realize you smell exactly the same. Finally, praise God, the bus starts to move again, and all the sellers have to hurry up and finish their sales so they can hop off of the moving bus before it starts going too fast. And don’t forget that in the midst of all this, the woman are balancing giant trays on hands and heads. It’s all quite overwhelming.
So like I said, I slept almost the whole way. Did I mention it was 8 hours? We made one 10 minute pit stop in the city of Segou halfway between Bamako and San. I t might seem like 1 bathroom stop on an 8 hour trip is a problem, but remember I sweated out at least 15x the amount of water I consumed, so it really wasn’t a problem at all. My homologue, bless her heart, bought me a cold soda in Segou which revived me for about 12 minutes. I think she thought something was wrong with me, since I couldn’t stay awake long enough to even try to formulate a Bambara sentence or 2. It’s the age-old problem with me: keeping conscious. Plus, my feet had swelled up to about twice their normal size and my sandals were cutting into them. I had cankles up the wazoo. I also had slightly less swollen legs and knees. Not to mention I was drenched in my own sweat. It was not a pretty picture.
We went on this way for another 4 hours. Along the way we dropped off both of my friends and their homologues. It was a little bit hard to see them exit the bus, and realize that for the first time, I was completely alone with Malians. Not that I have a problem being alone with Malians, but the lack of any English at all for the next few days was daunting. We finally made it to the “city” of San (my friend John had earlier described San to me as a truck stop) around 4pm. I loaded up with my two backpacks and the 2 of us walked about 5 minutes to the next bus stop (aka people sitting outside in front of a butiki) where we waited for just a few minutes. The guy across from me gave me a bag of peanuts which was really nice of him. Our next bus was ready to depart pretty quickly, so again we loaded up for the 20 minute drive.
Or so I thought. First we stopped for gas. Then we stopped for who knows what. Then, 15 minutes down the road, we stopped again. Almost everyone, including my homologue, got off the bus to chill at the side of the road. I had no idea what was going on (I didn’t understand her explanation) but I couldn’t leave my bags and they were too awkward to transfer in and out of the bus again. Besides, we’d never stopped for more than 20 minutes. Until this time. After 10 minutes I pulled out a book. After 30 minutes I started to get restless. After 45 minutes I started to worry, not only about why we were stopped, but also about my diminishing water supply. We finally got moving again after more than an hour. I still have no idea why we had stopped. Potentially for prayer? But I didn’t see anyone praying… So after that obnoxious hour-long stop (thank goodness it was late in the afternoon and not so hot, although I was annoyed we wasted my favorite part of the day sitting on the side of the road) we drove for another 5 – yes, FIVE – minutes before we reached my town, Sourountouna!
My homologue, Djeneba, took me straight to the Sous-Prefect, a government employee appointed to his position, which is basically to supervise the goings-on of a specific area. He’s fat and jolly and speaks a little bit of English and was very welcoming, but I was exhausted and hot and confused and probably not very entertaining. Thankfully we didn’t stay there long before we hiked back across the road, past the butiki, over the ditch, past another butiki, around some windy paths, and finally to my new house for the next 2 years.
Joined along our walk by a few men and an entourage of kids, we entered the courtyard where they opened the door for me and proudly showed me my new home. It’s a cute little house, built of mud (and cow poop) with 2 rooms. I have my own courtyard which is largely filled by a beautiful Neem tree. My ɲεgεn is brand new and very clean and a wall surrounds my compound. There’s a window in each room of the house, which, since covered by screen and metal shutters, don’t let in a whole lot of light, but that’s ok. After showing me around, the rest of the night was a blur of awkwardness as I went to another house and my homologue left me with a woman I didn’t know (I know her now and Djeneba had gone to get me water, but I didn’t realize that at the time), panicked as I used my iodine water purification tablets and didn’t realize the water was supposed to turn yellow, sat around my courtyard awkwardly for a long amount of time with the Sous-Prefect (I was just too tired to even try for much conversation!) both before and after dinner, and finally went inside to go to bed.
At this point I was tired, barely clean (I’ll explain later), still dehydrated, overwhelmed, and feeling kind of lonely. Then I walked into my house and noticed a roach skittering across the floor. I managed to kill it, then decided to check for any more intruders. Glory be, in my second room there were two! I started to freak out, and when I moved the door I noticed a big, Phinneas-style spider on the door. I killed one of the roaches but the other escaped into the plastic covering my ceiling. Then my flashlight swung around and there was another spider. And another. And another roach. It felt like a horror movie. I was already stretched to my mental limits and now each time my tiny flashlight beam hit a new spot on the wall, another 1 or 2 or 5 creepy crawlies were illuminated. I counted 28 spiders and 13 roaches in the two rooms and stopped counting to flee the house. Good thing I had already decided I would be sleeping outside!
I set up my bug hut in the dark and crawled inside. It was a beautiful night. I was lying there, ready for sleep, when I was hit with a crushing thought. Earlier, when I had the yellow-water crisis, I wanted to call the PC doctor to make sure it was ok to drink but realized I had no cell service at all on either of my carriers. (I drank the water anyway. It was fine. Later it occurred to me that iodine probably turns clear water yellow). But now as I was lying there in my bug hut, I realized no cell service means no regular contact with my parents, who have each been calling me several times a week, and no texting my mom when I’m feeling down. I’ve been texting my mom for 4 years and I’ve always talked regularly with my parents. That was kind of the last straw for me that night, and it just about killed me to think I was losing that communication with my best support system. I was too exhausted even to cry about it - all I could do was wait for sleep and a new day.
I was just about asleep when Djeneba came back, unexpectedly, with a mat. She handed me a fan, laid her mat next to my tent, and slept next to me all night on the hard ground. She didn’t do that any other night I was there, but I think that first night she realized I could use some company. It’s amazing how much communication can happen without words, without intention, between an African mom and a lonely American girl a million miles from home.
I have to stop here with my blogs for a few weeks because it’s late and I’m exhausted! But let me just reassure you all that despite a tough first night, sleep and water and a new day made a huge improvement, and I had a really good stay in my new site, with a lot of promise for the next 2 years. I’ll be posting more about my site when I return to the Training Center in 2 weeks…training is almost finished, and in 3 weeks I’ll be swearing in!! I’m looking forward to the next stage in this process, and I can’t wait to tell you more about it!
Sunday morning I left the Training Center with my homologue, the two other girls from my stage placed in the San region, and their 2 homologues. We left at 6:30am but I can’t complain – I’d much rather leave early than spend the entire heat of the day on a public bus. (Which I did anyway, but it’s not always like that). The bus was scheduled to leave at 7:30, and it left at 8 which was pretty good. Our bags were loaded below, the bikes were strapped to the top of the bus, and we were off.
Imagine an American charter bus without a toilet in the back, and looking like it’s 40 years old and badly in disrepair. That is a Malian bus. There are holes where the overhead lights and air conditioner vents should be, but sadly, holes are all they are. A few tiny windows open near the ceiling in the back of the bus, and we had 3 roof vents that were open; so despite the 100+ degree weather and a bus crammed full of people, the heat was tolerable as long as we were moving. But when we stopped moving, that’s when you felt like you had suddenly dropped down to Hell. And unfortunately, we stopped a lot. I have no idea why. I think sometimes it was at checkpoints and sometimes it was to let a few men off for a pit stop on the side of the road (sorry, ladies) but lots of the time I didn’t have a clue why we’d stopped. Stops lasted anywhere from 1 minute to 20+ minutes. I basically slept the whole way to San, but every time we made a stop, I immediately woke up from the heat. Oh, and from the men, women, and kids bombarding the bus to hawk their wares. That may be my absolute least favorite part about Mali so far. The heat here is oppressive but tolerable; the bus hawkers are not. The moment we stopped, people would flood the bus and start yelling out their goods and prices. Bus riders could buy anything from peanuts to water to rice sifters. (Lord only knows why you would want a rice sifter on a public bus). Then arms and faces and veggies and sifters get shoved in your face since the woman selling them can’t get past the seller in front of her but absolutely has to give her product to the dude behind you. So you sit there pressed up against your seat mate, cringing at the noise and smelling sweaty people all around you and then cringing again when you realize you smell exactly the same. Finally, praise God, the bus starts to move again, and all the sellers have to hurry up and finish their sales so they can hop off of the moving bus before it starts going too fast. And don’t forget that in the midst of all this, the woman are balancing giant trays on hands and heads. It’s all quite overwhelming.
So like I said, I slept almost the whole way. Did I mention it was 8 hours? We made one 10 minute pit stop in the city of Segou halfway between Bamako and San. I t might seem like 1 bathroom stop on an 8 hour trip is a problem, but remember I sweated out at least 15x the amount of water I consumed, so it really wasn’t a problem at all. My homologue, bless her heart, bought me a cold soda in Segou which revived me for about 12 minutes. I think she thought something was wrong with me, since I couldn’t stay awake long enough to even try to formulate a Bambara sentence or 2. It’s the age-old problem with me: keeping conscious. Plus, my feet had swelled up to about twice their normal size and my sandals were cutting into them. I had cankles up the wazoo. I also had slightly less swollen legs and knees. Not to mention I was drenched in my own sweat. It was not a pretty picture.
We went on this way for another 4 hours. Along the way we dropped off both of my friends and their homologues. It was a little bit hard to see them exit the bus, and realize that for the first time, I was completely alone with Malians. Not that I have a problem being alone with Malians, but the lack of any English at all for the next few days was daunting. We finally made it to the “city” of San (my friend John had earlier described San to me as a truck stop) around 4pm. I loaded up with my two backpacks and the 2 of us walked about 5 minutes to the next bus stop (aka people sitting outside in front of a butiki) where we waited for just a few minutes. The guy across from me gave me a bag of peanuts which was really nice of him. Our next bus was ready to depart pretty quickly, so again we loaded up for the 20 minute drive.
Or so I thought. First we stopped for gas. Then we stopped for who knows what. Then, 15 minutes down the road, we stopped again. Almost everyone, including my homologue, got off the bus to chill at the side of the road. I had no idea what was going on (I didn’t understand her explanation) but I couldn’t leave my bags and they were too awkward to transfer in and out of the bus again. Besides, we’d never stopped for more than 20 minutes. Until this time. After 10 minutes I pulled out a book. After 30 minutes I started to get restless. After 45 minutes I started to worry, not only about why we were stopped, but also about my diminishing water supply. We finally got moving again after more than an hour. I still have no idea why we had stopped. Potentially for prayer? But I didn’t see anyone praying… So after that obnoxious hour-long stop (thank goodness it was late in the afternoon and not so hot, although I was annoyed we wasted my favorite part of the day sitting on the side of the road) we drove for another 5 – yes, FIVE – minutes before we reached my town, Sourountouna!
My homologue, Djeneba, took me straight to the Sous-Prefect, a government employee appointed to his position, which is basically to supervise the goings-on of a specific area. He’s fat and jolly and speaks a little bit of English and was very welcoming, but I was exhausted and hot and confused and probably not very entertaining. Thankfully we didn’t stay there long before we hiked back across the road, past the butiki, over the ditch, past another butiki, around some windy paths, and finally to my new house for the next 2 years.
Joined along our walk by a few men and an entourage of kids, we entered the courtyard where they opened the door for me and proudly showed me my new home. It’s a cute little house, built of mud (and cow poop) with 2 rooms. I have my own courtyard which is largely filled by a beautiful Neem tree. My ɲεgεn is brand new and very clean and a wall surrounds my compound. There’s a window in each room of the house, which, since covered by screen and metal shutters, don’t let in a whole lot of light, but that’s ok. After showing me around, the rest of the night was a blur of awkwardness as I went to another house and my homologue left me with a woman I didn’t know (I know her now and Djeneba had gone to get me water, but I didn’t realize that at the time), panicked as I used my iodine water purification tablets and didn’t realize the water was supposed to turn yellow, sat around my courtyard awkwardly for a long amount of time with the Sous-Prefect (I was just too tired to even try for much conversation!) both before and after dinner, and finally went inside to go to bed.
At this point I was tired, barely clean (I’ll explain later), still dehydrated, overwhelmed, and feeling kind of lonely. Then I walked into my house and noticed a roach skittering across the floor. I managed to kill it, then decided to check for any more intruders. Glory be, in my second room there were two! I started to freak out, and when I moved the door I noticed a big, Phinneas-style spider on the door. I killed one of the roaches but the other escaped into the plastic covering my ceiling. Then my flashlight swung around and there was another spider. And another. And another roach. It felt like a horror movie. I was already stretched to my mental limits and now each time my tiny flashlight beam hit a new spot on the wall, another 1 or 2 or 5 creepy crawlies were illuminated. I counted 28 spiders and 13 roaches in the two rooms and stopped counting to flee the house. Good thing I had already decided I would be sleeping outside!
I set up my bug hut in the dark and crawled inside. It was a beautiful night. I was lying there, ready for sleep, when I was hit with a crushing thought. Earlier, when I had the yellow-water crisis, I wanted to call the PC doctor to make sure it was ok to drink but realized I had no cell service at all on either of my carriers. (I drank the water anyway. It was fine. Later it occurred to me that iodine probably turns clear water yellow). But now as I was lying there in my bug hut, I realized no cell service means no regular contact with my parents, who have each been calling me several times a week, and no texting my mom when I’m feeling down. I’ve been texting my mom for 4 years and I’ve always talked regularly with my parents. That was kind of the last straw for me that night, and it just about killed me to think I was losing that communication with my best support system. I was too exhausted even to cry about it - all I could do was wait for sleep and a new day.
I was just about asleep when Djeneba came back, unexpectedly, with a mat. She handed me a fan, laid her mat next to my tent, and slept next to me all night on the hard ground. She didn’t do that any other night I was there, but I think that first night she realized I could use some company. It’s amazing how much communication can happen without words, without intention, between an African mom and a lonely American girl a million miles from home.
I have to stop here with my blogs for a few weeks because it’s late and I’m exhausted! But let me just reassure you all that despite a tough first night, sleep and water and a new day made a huge improvement, and I had a really good stay in my new site, with a lot of promise for the next 2 years. I’ll be posting more about my site when I return to the Training Center in 2 weeks…training is almost finished, and in 3 weeks I’ll be swearing in!! I’m looking forward to the next stage in this process, and I can’t wait to tell you more about it!
Monday, March 21, 2011
Video of My Homestay House
After countless hours of attempts (sadly I'm not exaggerating!) I finally managed to load a 3 1/2 minute video of my Homestay house! I wanted to give you an insight to the environment where I live. Hopefully this video will help create a better understanding of my life in Mali. You can find the video by clicking here.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Health Mural
Ashley, Andrew, Clare and I painted this mural on the wall of the Health Center to promote healthy nutrition for children.
My room in Mountougula
I've discovered I can post pictures at 2 in the morning! Videos are not so easy. :( I'll keep trying!
Friday, March 11, 2011
Your Permanent Site Is..
The last few days have been pretty awesome. On Tuesday, the PCTs in my village took our Mid-Training Language Test. I was super-nervous and fumbled around a lot, but in the end I was given the level of Intermediate Mid, which is actually the level I needed to achieve by the end of training in order to be sworn in as a Volunteer. So while I still know I have a lot to learn, the pressure is reduced a little bit!
Since the Mountougula volunteers took our language tests a day early, we were able to come back to the training center in the morning, several hours before everyone else. INTERNET!!! (That’s when I posted 11 blog posts at in one go). It was still painfully slow and constantly went in and out, but at least it was a little bit better! (The following day the Internet was down for over 24 hours).
On Wednesday, the day we got back to the training center, we were scheduled to find out our permanent sites starting at 4pm. By 5pm we were still waiting for one of the buses to arrive with the rest of the PCTs. Needless to say, we were all getting very restless. They finally rolled in around 5:30 (poor kids had gotten stuck in traffic and the air conditioner died – have I mentioned the temperature is up around 100 degrees during the day?) and were immediately shuttled by the rest of us straight toward the main hangar.
The event was kicked off with awesome news from our Country Director, Mike. I mentioned in my very first blog post that 2011 is Peace Corps’ 50th Anniversary, Peace Corps Mali’s 40th Anniversary, and for that matter, 2010 was Mali’s 50th Anniversary of Independence. So we’re here at an awesome time! Because of all of this awesomeness, Mike made a special request to the President of Mali: to have the Peace Corps Swearing-In Ceremony at the Presidential Palace. And the President agreed! He even said it would be totally fine to have the usual 400-500 people in attendance!! So sometime in the 2nd week of April, I will be in the presidential palace in Mali, swearing in as an official Peace Corps Volunteer!!
A recent talk with my mom made me realize that I’ve never really explained the Peace Corps Swearing-In process. Before I went to Washington, DC for Staging I was an Invitee. After completing Staging and flying to Mali, I became a Trainee. And at the end of our 9 weeks of training, I will officially swear to uphold the US Constitution as a representative of the US government, to uphold the Peace Corps policies and mission, and to commit to serving the next 2 years in Mali. It’s a big, fancy deal and we all have the opportunity to get fancy Malian clothes made for the event. I’m even planning to wear contact lenses!! It’s kind of our next goal to reach. We’re all constantly aiming for the next “checkpoint” as we try to get through the current struggles. Basically, Lights at the end of the Tunnel. This one is our biggest one yet, so we’re all excited/nervous about it. And how awesome is it that we get to go to the presidential palace?!?!?
Back to Site Announcements: Mali is divided into 8 regions: Kayes, Koulikoro, Sikasso, Segou, Mopti, Gao, Kidal, and Tombouctou. Peace Corps has volunteers placed in the first 5 of those regions – the other 3 are off-limits to the rest of us for security reasons. My particular stage (pronounced “staj” and refers to the 62 of us who came together to Mali) is made up of volunteers in 3 sectors: Health Education, Small Enterprise Development, and Environment. So when sites were announced, we started in the Kayes region and all the Health volunteers going there were announced, and then the SED, and Environment…and then we moved onto Koulikoro and followed suit, all through the 5 regions.
Up until this point I honestly hadn’t been thinking too much about my site. I know a lot of people were concerned – either they wanted to be placed somewhere specific, or they were concerned about their particular community, etc. I wasn’t at all worried about it. I don’t know a whole lot about the country at this point and I figured no matter where I go I’ll have an experience, plus it’s out of my hands so why worry? The thing I was most excited about was finding out who would be near me – this will be my closest support network for the next 2 years, and although that’s not the most important aspect of my service, or why I’m here, it is something that I can understand right now and look forward to as a tangible part of my new life. But all of a sudden, as names started to be called, my heart started to beat faster – this was so exciting!!!
My name was finally called in the 4th region: Segou. My friend Ashley’s name was called, and there were only 2 health volunteers left for Segou, so I squeezed my eyes shut and crossed my fingers…and mine was the next name called!! I’m having a hard time posting any sort of media on this blog, so you’ll have to Google image search Mali yourself to see my area. But let me tell you a little bit about my soon-to-be new home!
I will be living in a small town in the Segou region called Sourountouna. If you Google that name you’ll find a brief Wikipedia blurb. Don’t be fooled by the info; the stats refer to the commune of Sourountouna. Mali’s government levels are divided as such: National, Region, Circle, Commune, Town. My town just so happens to also be the center of the commune. So I will be living in the town of Sourountouna, in the commune of Sourountouna, in the circle of San, and in the region of Segou. My community is divided into 2 parts: Sourountouna Bambara (my language/ethnic group) has about 1,700 people and is on one side of the road; and Sourountouna Peulh (a different language/ethic group) has about 1,200 people and is on the other side of the road. The climate is sahelian, the main religion is Muslim, and major occupations are farmers, cattle breeders, and artisans. I’m 26km south of a big city called San, so I’ll be able to get there pretty easily, which was kind of a requirement for me since I need fairly regular access to Internet so I can finish my Master’s Degree. (Fingers crossed for a September graduation date!)
A CSCOM (Malian health center) is in my town, and my Malian counterpart (aka “homologue”) is a Relais for the CSCOM, named Djeneba Dembele. A Relais is basically someone who is trained by the government to do community outreach regarding public health. So I’ll be spending the next 2 years working with Djeneba and the Sourountouna CSCOM. Potential activities that my town wants me to be working on include: Mobilizing the community, especially pregnant women, to attend CSCOM services; Improve growth monitoring activities; Sensitize the community to family planning; and Mobilize the community to refer malnutrition cases to CSCOM. Secondary projects could include: Working with women’s associations on gardening and health education, promoting health education at schools, and collaborating with NGOs on their projects.
All of our homologues came to the training center so we could meet them and do 2 days of workshops with them. Djeneba seems pretty wonderful, but we haven’t had much of a chance to talk yet. But on Sunday, we all leave to visit our sites! Sunday is our travel day. My town is about 250 miles from Bamako and will take me 7+ hours to get there. Luckily I’ll be traveling with Djeneba on the way there – but on the way back I’m on my own. It’s pretty intimidating! But I’m looking at it as just another challenge to overcome that will help me survive – and thrive – here.
So to wrap things up, I’m here at the training center for one more day and then I’m heading east for a week. I’ll be back on Saturday, I think, and hopefully we’ll have enough internet for me to update you on my new home!!
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Robin Sparkles
I can’t leave you all without giving the latest ɲεgεn update. Obviously.
Phinneas is gone. I haven’t seen him since I got back to Mountougula. I can’t say this is a disappointment. I have, however, discovered new spiders to be my fascination. I call them “sparkly spiders” because I notice them at night when the light from my flashlight catches them. Something on their head area catches the light and sparkles like diamonds. If you catch them at the right angle, you can see them from quite a distance. So far I’ve only seen them in 2 places: near the wall outside my door and in the ɲεgεn. The one in the ɲεgεn has a little hole in the ground that it hides in. It comes out only at night and it sits in its hole with only its front 4 legs poking out. I’ve never seen a spider quite like ithome in a hole and glimmery. I’ve decided to name this one Robin Sparkles.
Every night during my ɲεgεn trip, I would notice what looked like small crickets hanging out in front of the ɲεgεn hole. I always wondered why I only saw the little crickets there and nowhere else. Finally I had an “aha!” moment when I realized the “crickets” are actually baby cockroaches. It was the antennae that gave it away. Longer than the body and able to move in any direction – duh, Michelle. I was initially thrown off by the size and the translucent coloring, but I really should’ve known. I thought for awhile about killing them and preventing new generations of ɲεgεn creepers, but eventually I realized my efforts would probably be futile and I’d end up with baby roach goop all over my shoes. Not worth it.
Last creepy crawlie story: a few nights ago I had a run-in with the pinnacle of ɲεgεn-creature-nastiness. I walked in the door only to find a roach directly in my path to the hole. This roach was different: it was dead. And it was being eaten by about 15 ants. I guess my reaction is a pretty good testament to how much I’ve changed already in the last 4 weeks. I saw the death feast, was momentarily grossed out/horrified, and then shrugged and stepped over the whole thing and continued with my nightly routine. Really, what else was there to do?
Courtyard Camping
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Last night I was determined to sleep outside. It is way too stinking hot in my room to survive another night, so I told Moussa I wanted to sleep outside. He set about getting things ready: the dirt ground was swept and sprinkled with water to settle some of the dust. The drain hole in the wall was plugged up with rocks. Nails were pounded into the outside walls to hang my mosquito net. A pole had to be erected in the ground to hang the 4th corner of the net. This meant a hole had to be dug, a pole found, the hole filled with dirt and tiny rocks pounded into submission, and water poured over the top to cement it. I thought Moussa was planning to sleep under the net with me, otherwise I never would’ve allowed him to do so much work just for me when I have a bug hut. But then the same process started to hang Moussa and Salif’s net. All so I could sleep outside! But they’ve never once treated any extra work that I bring as a burden. It’s just all part of life. Before we went to bed, Moussa and Salif wheeled over the wagon cart and wheelbarrow and upended them in the entranceway to our half of the concession, to protect me from wandering donkeys. I protested that they hadn’t gone to so much trouble when they had slept outside the night before. Moussa said it was because I would be scared of the donkeys and they wouldn’t (not entirely false). I defended myself, saying the donkeys still might have stepped on them, but Moussa made punching motions and said he and Salif would beat the donkeys. There’s no arguing with him! Besides, I was glad for the extra safety.
I fell asleep listening to the sounds of Mountougula at night: people chatting and laughing, music playing in the distance, donkeys bellowing their horrendous seizure-brays. It was wonderful. I was excited to sleep under the stars, but quickly realized sleeping means removing my glasses, and that means I can tell there are maybe 15 lighter splotches in the sky. Not exactly a vision worth writing about! Admittedly I woke up a few times because I wasn’t totally comfortable. But I’ll take a too-full air mattress over stifling, choking heat any night. And in the morning, we silently took the whole thing down, with only the nails in the walls and the poles in the ground remaining to await the next night.
Sunday
This entry is for all of you who worried that I would turn into a stick frame while living in Mali.
Breakfast everyday is a type of corn porridge, which my dad saturates with sugar. One day I was ahead of schedule, so when he offered me more porridge I decided to make him happy and eat it. But first he and his daughter went out to the butiki to buy another baggie of sugar. My dad dumped the entire thing into the leftover porridge! And then he sat there and watched happily while I gorged myself. I literally sloshed my way to school. Nearly every day since then, I’ve been expected to eat the leftovers from everyone else’s breakfast. My dad guilts me into it. He says, “I go into town and everyone says, ‘Sirafa, why aren’t you feeding Damadje? She’s so skinny!” Being called fat is a compliment here, since being bigger shows you have the wealth to buy a lot of good food. So my dad tells me every day that I have to eat a lot so I can get fat. I think the sugar in my porridge and the sugar in my tea will take care of that even without all of the other food. But in case anyone isn’t convinced yet, let me tell you about my day last Sunday.
Some weekend days I escape Mountougula. I go to a neighboring town to visit other friends and have a drink in the bar. Last Sunday I decided to stay home with my family. I started the day by eating my normal giant portion of sugary porridge, plus a few miniature bananas from a giant batch my dad gave me. Then my mom and I went to the market. We bought all the ingredients for the day’s menu, and she bought me 2 oranges and a treat of a type of fried dough called falani. (It was fabulous). Back at home, I spent the morning “helping” her cook lunch. By helping, I mean I watched and occasionally dozed off on my stool. And she peeled one of my oranges for me so I ate that.
Shortly before noon, my mom, her 2 kids, and I left to make the 40-minute trek to the women’s garden. My mom packed up the entire lunch and balanced it all on her head, only steadying it with a hand when we walked under low-lying trees. When we arrived at the garden, everyone was there: Badini and her 2 kids, Salif, my grandmother, and Moussa, who was supposed to go to Bamako with Madu but somehow ended up at the garden while I was at the market. My mom had just carried lunch for 10 people on her head for 40 minutes.
After a rice and vegetable sauce lunch, I was sent to go lie on a mat in the shade while everyone else worked in the garden. I protested that I wanted to help, but Moussa repeatedly told me that my toubab status meant I couldn’t work. Somehow being my main sidekick got him out of most of the work too. We spent the afternoon lying on mats in the shade, chatting, and napping. My other orange was peeled for me at some point. I woke up in the late afternoon with Moussa snoozing next to me and read for about an hour before it was time to go home. Badini and her kids had already left to go home and start dinner, and Moussa left to escort my grandmother to the mango grove. (Side project?) So it was just Bintou, Lemin, Ma and I heading home. Along the way, Bintou stopped to buy fried bean mush from a woman along the side of the road. Basically it’s fried dough wrapped around bean mush. It also exists in millet, rice, and corn form. I’ve only had the bean and millet form. I’m not a huge fan of the former, but I love the fried millet! My mom bought 2 bags: one for her and the kids, and one for me.
Shortly after we arrived home, my dad pulled in on his moto. He’d gone to Bamako and brought me back a bag of fried bean mush. An hour later we were eating dinner – toh – and after dinner I was given a hunk of bread stuffed with french fries, with extra fries in a bowl. It’s funny how now that I’m in Mali, I’m finally experiencing the Sunday that I always wanted in the US but never had time for – relaxing, talking, reading, and eating lots of treats! So there you go. Sometimes I feel like all I do is eat. So please, don’t worry! (But always feel free to send me cookies!)
Observations
Some things I’ve noticed.
* I like living in a small village. I suppose every place has its pros and cons. I only have access to one cell phone provider here, and it’s not the one that everyone else is on, so it’s a common mistake for our friends to send messages to our phone numbers that don’t work. We don’t have a very extensive market, and some things that can be bought in bigger towns can’t be found here. Everyone knows everyone else’s business, and we can’t even stop by Mountougula’s one bar for a cold beer every now and then because that could potentially be scandalous!
But at the same time, everyone knows our names. No one calls me Toubabu, except for one little kid who just finds it funny. Everyone else calls me by name (or by Ashley’s name, Kanje. I’ve learned to answer to both). Everyone knows where I live, and where all the other PCTs live. If by some chance I would ever get lost in this small place, anyone off the street would be more than happy to show me my way home. At our market we don’t have to bargain down prices from sellers trying to overcharge you. Prices tend to be fixed at a fair amount, and we’re all buying from each others’ families anyway. I like it here.
*Village women spend their lives bent over double. I haven’t decided if that’s good for their backs because they end up so flexible, or bad for their backs because it’s not a natural posture. From the time they are little girls, females are assigned as babysitters for their little siblings and carry around the babies on their backs. In order to get the baby in this position, they have to bend over double, arrange the baby, and wrap a pagne around both of them to secure the little one. Daily household chores include sweeping the dirt courtyard to remove the trash that is carelessly thrown there throughout the day. I’m not sure why no one ever thought of attaching a handle to the broom, so women bend over in half with their little broom, often with a baby on their back. Well water is drawn using buckets or leather bags that are dropped down 30 feet and pulled up hand over hand. Food is cooked in a squatted position (this takes several hours), and moving from one pot to another usually means stretching the legs to slide over, still squatting. Often women are responsible for having a small business to earn money to buy sauce ingredients for the family’s daily meals. So the women in my family, like many women here, walk 40 minutes to their garden every day (baby on the back, lunch carried on the head) and spend the afternoon watering and weeding green onions – bent over double. Even my grandmothers weed and water onions, draw well water, sweep, and tote grandchildren on their backs, and they must be anywhere from 60-80. Meanwhile, the men sit around and drink tea.
*I learned in one of my Anthropology classes that globally speaking, black, white, and red are the only colors that all cultures identify and differentiate. That was kind of hard to understand until I came here. Things are changing as Mali becomes more modernized, but previously, many illiterate people only identified things as “fin” (dark) and “jε” (light). The only colors that have their own adjective form are black (ka fin), white (ka jε), and red (ka bilen). All the other colors only come in a modified adjective form. And while there are two separate names for green and dark green, orange and yellow are called by the same name unless you use the new frambara word for orange. Purple also only has a frambara name. This seems so crazy to me given how many colors are in Malian fabric, dishes, and everything else! Speaking of fabric, the specialized Malian fabric, bazan, has a special name when its blue. Anything else that’s blue goes by the umbrella term for blue, but blue bazan has its own name. My friends and I are were talking about what Malians might think if they saw all the crayons in a Crayola box of 96 and how each one has its own name: “cerulean,” “burnt sienna,” “tickle me pink,” “macaroni and cheese.” How different we all perceive what seems so basic!
*We learned the words for cardinal directions last week. I really like their origins. “Kɔrɔn” is the word for east, and means “sun rises.” “Tilebin” is the word for west, and means “sun falls.” “Kɔkɔdugu” is north, and translates as “salt city.” Timbuktu, a city in the north of Mali, originally earned its wealth and fame as a main stop on the salt caravan that traveled from the north (Algeria-ish) to the south. And “worodugu” means south. “Woro” is the Bambara word for kola nut (and also thigh), which are important in ceremonies and when asking for pardon or giving thanks. They originate in the Ivory Coast, which is directly south from Mali.
Of course, you have to remember that not everyone uses the same words for things. For instance, my family didn’t have a clue what I meant by kɔkɔdugu, and informed me that the proper term for north is “ba fε.” *Sigh.* What can you do?
*Malians are impressively resourceful. One day Lemin dropped Moussa’s cell phone in the dust and it was recovered, broken. Determined to fix it, Moussa took the whole thing apart and found a wire loose when it should have been attached. I then watched as Moussa pulled a coal out of the tea maker, picked a trashed piece of plastic off the ground, and secured the rogue wire by using the coal to melt the plastic against the wire. This was a long process full of trial and error, but amazingly when the wire was successfully soldered into place, the phone worked again! All part of a lunch break…
Anecdotes
1. Omar
I came home for lunch one day, and as usual, was greeted along the way with excited voices yelling my name and tiny legs flying to catch up to me for a high-5. We toubabs are something of a celebrity here, especially among the children, and since I pay attention to them and call them by name, they have a particular fondness for me.
One little boy of about 2, Omar, lives a few houses away from me and usually tags along behind the neighbor girls, Ema and Mariam. This particular day, Omar was wearing a shirt but no pants. (Malian babies also don’t wear diapers/loincloths/underwear). This is quite a common practice for kids under the age of about 5, but unlike other cases, Omar had pants with him – only they were sitting on top of his head. I giggled as I walked past but didn’t think much of it. Until Omar and the girls followed me home. (Also a common practice). I sat down to eat lunch with Moussa and after a few minutes noticed Omar a few feet away, still wearing his pants on top of his head. I started to laugh, and Moussa gave me a Look, so I stifled my giggles. But then I looked at Omar again, just hanging out by my dad wearing his usual sweet smile and his pants on his head. I started to laugh again and Moussa finally asked why I was laughing. I managed to choke out my reason, and Moussa laughed a little bit too, but he apparently didn’t find it as funny as me because he got over it and kept eating. I tried to follow suit but every time I looked over at Omar, or even thought about him, I had to bite my lip to keep from cracking up. He was wearing his pants on his head! Finally Moussa noticed my struggles and started to laugh at me and I totally lost it. I was started to leak out tears as I gasped, “He’s wearing his pants on his head!” Moussa still didn’t think it was that funny but he certainly thought I was funny and he started laughing harder too. My dad was just staring at us with a confused half-smile, probably wondering why the toubab was ruining a perfectly good lunch. Moussa finally yelled at Omar to put his pants on so that I could calm down and finish my meal. But for the rest of lunch, I couldn’t look at Omar or Moussa without having to bite my lip again.
2. Nail Polish
I had had another tough morning of language and after lunch I decided to paint my nails. Apparently nail-painting is turning into one of my therapeutic tactics, and this time I painted my fingernails bright blue. They did help to cheer me up, especially because they matched my new Malian outfit of blue flowers on an orange background. But then at dinner Moussa looked at my polish and said, “Amiɲi!” (Bad!) But he was only directing his admonishment toward my right hand. To clarify, he picked up my left hand and said, “Akiɲe!” (Good) and then my right, “Amiɲi!” The message was clear. I didn’t totally understand why though, so I asked my LCFs about it later. Have I mentioned the left-right hand thing yet? In the Muslim culture, the left side of the body is considered dirty in favor to the right side. This is supported by (or perhaps founded upon) the lack of toilet paper. The left hand is used for those efforts, and therefore is not used for things such as shaking hands and eating food. I’ve been pretty good about remembering, even though I stick to my Westernized TP whenever possible. Anyway, my LCF, Abu, told me that because of the left-right hand dichotomy, Malians take very good care of their right hands. By wearing nail polish on my right hand I was risking contaminating the communal food bowl. (Most people eat communally, men and women separate. I eat solely with Moussa). At lunch before I had a chance to take it off, my dad also commented on my nail polish and told me it was bad. I find it so strange that out of everything that they consume – number 1 being their unfiltered water – and knowing most people rarely wash their hands at all, the thing they’re most worried about is my nail polish. It seems so ironic. So now I wear nail polish only on my left hand. I’m not sure if this is normal here, but I wasn’t ready to give up all of that happiness!
3. Moussa the Yogoro
I learned the word “yogoro” my first day in Mountougulua because one of the PCTs accidentally called my teacher, Yagore, “yogoro.” Turns out “yogoro” means a goofy person, and it’s my latest favorite phrase. “Moussa ye yogoro ye!” (Moussa is so goofy!) Moussa has started a new act where he ties a scarf on his head like a woman and imitates me walking, sticking his butt out and swinging his hips and staring way up before (purposefully) tripping. In turn, I then get up and imitate him walking, which is even better because my impersonation is funny and accurate! (Although in all fairness the tripping tends to be correct). Moussa is tiny – he’s 15 and barely reaches my shoulder – but he walks as if he’s 7 feet tall. He throws his shoulders back and his chest out and strides along confidently, swinging his arms in big half-arcs, as if he owns the world. I’ve got it nailed down and while people may chuckle when he imitates me, they practically roll on the ground when I imitate him.
Going back to me tripping, Moussa has learned how and when to say the English word “Oops!” because I keep tripping and running into things. It’s so funny to hear him say it, because like most English words, he doesn’t pronounce it quite correctly. (Not so funny when I realize that’s probably how I sound when I speak Bambara). Instead of the extended “ooo” sound, it’s more of an “uhps!” I’ll be sitting outside reading and from the other side of the courtyard I’ll hear an “uhps!” and look up to see Moussa grinning sheepishly. I’m so proud that of all the English words I’ve taught him – head, neck, palm tree, Mr. Potato Head – the one thing he remembers and can say without hesitation is “Oops!”
4. How Many Wives?
Moussa and I were eating dinner one night when I casually asked him, “How many wives do you want?” Although the Koran allows a man to have up to 4 wives, all the men in my family only have one wife, an as far as I can tell, that’s the way it’s been for several generations. Moussa thought my question was hilarious. He burst into laughter and relayed my question across the courtyard to the rest of the family. My uncle Madu called back, “I want 2 wives! Badini, and your Indian friend!” (The first time Madu looked at my photo album, he declared that an Indian friend of mine was going to be his next wife. I put in a good word for him with her).
Fun With the Family
The night before I left for PC, my dad gave me a game called “Left Center Right Dice Game.” (Whoever created the game could definitely have used some marketing advice). I’d never played it before, but it was compact, so my dad thought it would be good to take.
I was hanging out at my house one night trying to think if I had enough language skill for my brothers and I to play any of the games I brought with me. A lot of nights my brothers sit around with me as I fumble around, trying to make sentences stumble out of my mouth, and I really didn’t want them to get tired of that and abandon me, or worse, continue to sit with me out of pity/obligation and miss out on fun of their own. I happened to think of the Dice Game, and decided to give it a shot. Coincidentally, we had just learned that day how to say the words “left,” “right,” and “center.” How convenient! So I pulled out this game and managed to teach my brothers the rules, and we started playing.
It was such perfect timing; I was able to practice my new vocabulary while providing my family with some entertainment, a small return for everything they give to and do for me. It was a hit! My family loves this game, all the more so because for the first 4 nights, I gave out Jolly Rancher candy to the winners of each game. (Sadly the JRs are gone now). In fact, I think this game was the gateway to the hearts of my adopted sisters, who never seemed to like me before. That in itself was something that has been bothering me, but after a few nights of playing together they finally seem to like me! Even my uncle likes to play, and occasionally my aunt will also join in the fun.
After the first night of JRs, each night I would try to hide the bag of candy as I brought it outside to the game bench. It never worked; my brothers always knew it was behind my back. So one night I tucked the bag into the folds of my pagne against my stomach. I walked outside and at first my brothers were confused – no bag behind me! But quickly they noticed the bulge at my belly and tried to call me out. I denied their accusations, saying, “Everyday you all tell me to eat more! In the morning: ‘Damdje, eat more!’ In the afternoon: ‘Damadje, eat more!’ In the evening: ‘Damadje, eat more!’ Well, I ate more, and now I’m belebeleba (fat) like you wanted!” I don’t think I’ve ever heard a group of people laugh so hard as they did when I said that.
Later a girl sitting next to me was trying to tell me something, but of course everytime I told her I didn’t understand, she would repeat herself using the exact same words and going to exact same pace of lightning-speed. When that happens, immediately 4 other nearby children chime in: “Damadje!” “Damadje!” “Listen to me!” “I can explain!” “Damadje!” It’s like a never-ending round, and let me tell you, 5 people yelling at you is no easier to understand than one person. So this was getting kind of out of hand this particular night, and I found myself, yet again, caught in the middle of several earnest voices all trying to explain the same thing. Finally Moussa yelled loudly, picking out the one word I had actually understood, “Damadje! ‘Kelen’…’One!’” Now Moussa knows very well that I know my Bambara numbers. I knew those even before I came to Mountougula. And at this point I had had enough of people yelling in my direction. So I turned to him and yelled back slowly and very pronounced, “N Y’A FAMU!” (I understand!). Of course, the entire group started cracking up, and another danger-zone of frustration was avoided by laughing around it.
Another night, I had taken my evening bucket bath early and it was still light out by the time I was dressed again and sitting outside. My 6-year-old brother, Papis, tried to make up for annoying me earlier by showing off his dancing skills. He’s quite impressive! Of course, all the other boys had to show off as well. Moussa walked on his hands. Lemin did cartwheels. The little ones ran around trying to imitate the older ones. Somehow this turned into a game of crossing the courtyard in a ridiculous manner: hopping like a frog, jumping on one foot, high-knees track-and-field style. At first I just watched but eventually I couldn’t resist joining in the fun. It’s probably not very appropriate for a 24 year old girl to be doing bell kicks across the courtyard with a bunch of little boys, but my family thought it was hilarious, and I wanted to play! My American friend came over to study and just watched us with a slightly bemused smile. Her family is mostly older and the only children are few and mostly babies, so courtyard races aren’t exactly part of her daily life. I think she probably thought I was a little crazy for getting sweaty again after taking my bucket bath, but I thanked my lucky stars that I was placed up with Sirafa Doumbia’s family.
Moussa
Saturday, March 5, 2011
I’ve mentioned Moussa before. My “younger brother” who is really my uncle. (Reminder: Moussa is my dad’s youngest brother but since he’s 15 I call him my younger brother). And technically by Malian perceptions, he’s my “fa fitini,” my “little dad.” I mentioned that my dad and my uncle Madu will both include each others’ kids as part of their own brood – that’s how it works here with fathers’ brothers. So technically I have 4 Malian dads: Sirafa, Madu, Moussa, and their other brother, Oussaman, who used to live in my room but moved to another town – I just met him recently.
Anyway, back to Moussa. For the rest of my life, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to think of Mali without thinking of Moussa. He’s kind of my other half here. If he’s not around, I can feel that something is missing. He and I have reached the point where we’re comfortable enough with each other – and I have enough language skills – that we’re constantly joking around together. I have to admit, I don’t always know what’s going on, but even then the joking still makes me feel more a part of the family and of the community, and essentially way more comfortable in my own life.
It’s easy to feel like an outsider here. I suppose we are outsiders anyway, and we’ll always be separate; but there’s a fine line between occasionally feeling those differences and falling into a trap where you’re bogged down by the weight of those differences. I know there’s a difference between the way that I feel in the Mountougula community and the way some of my counterparts feel in their Malian communities. I attribute much of my comfort to Moussa. Let’s face it, he’s 15. He goes to school during the week, and on weekends, and many times after school, he goes to work in the family garden. He has a lot of commitments as it is, and in his little free time you’d think he’d want to spend it living his own life, not hanging out with a 24-year old whose conversational skills are far outdistanced by the 6-year old. And occasionally Moussa does do his own thing. He’ll play soccer with his friends, or he’ll “yala yala” (walk around) with the girl he likes. But most of his free time he spends with me, and I am endlessly grateful for that.
My friend Andrew and I went for a bike ride one day, and when we got back into town, Andrew stopped at my place to borrow something. We came to my house and Moussa asked where we had gone. Since neither Andrew or I actually knew, we threw out a couple of possibilities and Moussa and I started a conversation that included a lot of gestures and a little bit of dirt drawing. Before Andrew left, he commented, “It’s so funny how he gets you.” I nodded and smiled and passed it off, but later on I thought about it more. I really am very lucky to have Moussa. Not every PCT has someone like him; someone who always has time for you, who knows which words and expressions you know, who doesn’t treat you like a show pony, a fragile doll, or someone important and formal. He’s become just like a real brother to me, and I will be genuinely sad to say goodbye to him in just 4 short weeks.
Today was by far the hottest day so far*. Yesterday my door blew shut during my afternoon nap and it was 93 degrees inside when I woke up. Today my door stayed open for my whole nap and it was 95 degrees inside when I woke up. As the afternoon progressed, I started craving a cold drink, but somehow I just never made it to the butiki to buy a soda. After dinner, Moussa took me back into town to pick up my phone battery from the guy who was charging it. God only knows how Moussa knew my soda-craving, but before we went back home, we stopped by the butiki and Moussa bought me a drink. This 15 year old who goes to school full-time, works alongside the adults, helps look after/raise his nieces and nephews, always gives me the best food and eats the boring stuff himself, and who has run out of money to operate his nightly butiki and didn’t have enough money to buy himself a drink bought me one and told me “because you’re my friend.” With a brother/uncle/friend like that, how can I ever feel alone here?
First Return to TSO
February 22, 2011
TSO is about an hour drive from my village. It’s kind of a cool drive because it goes through Bamako, so there’s always a ton of activities happening and lots of interesting people/animal watching. I don’t think I’ve mentioned much about animals yet! Animals are everywhere. The streets, my house, school. It’s totally normal for donkeys to wander into my family’s courtyard, drink out of one of our buckets, and wander out again. Or for a door to the health center to be accidentally left open and a herd of goats charge in and have to be chased out again. Or for class to stop so my teacher can chase away the chickens. On top of all that, all of these animals also make a lot of noise. The donkeys in particular occasionally emit a sound, usually at night, that I can only describe as what I imagine a donkey sounds like when seizing while being beaten. I was legitimately fear-filled the first time I heard that noise! Anyway, back to the animals. My point was, even in Bamako we had to stop to let a herd of sheep cross the road in front of us.
Coming back to TSO was like a long awaited reunion, both with the other PCTs as well as with the conveniences of TSO! I made a beeline for the showers, barely even stopping to talk to anyone I hadn’t seen in 2 weeks. I had forgotten to take my razor to Homestay, and I was feeling soo gross by this point. Plus, TSO showers have actual shower heads! It certainly isn’t like showers at home, but it’s a giant improvement over bucket baths on slanted floors. Post-shower, I learned that the internet was down (figures) but the kitchen staff had made us crepes with jam for a snack, and that totally made up for the lack of Internet as I shoved 4 down my throat in a matter of seconds. (The Internet came back later on and all was well with the world again!) Other than dinner, we had the rest of the night to ourselves which was awesome of Peace Corps!
The next day I woke up freezing as usual. Before we went to Homestay I was often wearing my fleece hoodie till 11am or later. During breakfast, however, I started getting warm and out of nowhere had to take off my two “cold-weather” layers. We moved to the main hangar for our first class, and somewhere in the middle I got really hot again all of a sudden. Of course my first thoughts were, “Oh no, I’m getting sick! I’m having hot flashes! I’m too young for this…maybe I have malaria. It has to be malaria!” Nope, none of those were true. After a few moments of observation, confirmed by an actual person, I discovered that I wasn’t sick, it’s just getting HOT outside! March is basically the beginning of the hot season, and we haven’t even gotten that far yet! I can’t imagine what April will do to me.
Last story: before dinner on Monday night, I was feeling a little queasy so I was unsure how much I was going to attempt to eat. Earlier in the day I had weighed myself and saw that somehow I managed to lose 4 pounds, which I didn’t understand since I’ve been eating tons of millet, potatoes, rice, and pasta for the past 3 weeks. So when I walked into the refectoire and saw: wait for it…roasted chicken legs, fried plantains, and FRENCH FRIES! waiting for us, there was no holding me back! I ate a good 2 full plates of french fries plus lots of meat and potatoes. It was like heaven. The funny thing is, I probably would’ve rejected that meal back in the states. I never liked leg or thigh meat on poultry, and the fries were a bit soggy. But: I. Was. In. Heaven!!! Also, I found out later that the scale is 5 pounds off, so it turns out I’d actually gained a pound, and after that meal, I should probably just add on another 2 or 3. :D
“Where there is no Home Depot…”
Coming back to Tubaniso (TSO) the first time for 2 ½ days was so exciting – we all couldn’t wait to go! We didn’t leave our village for TSO until 3pm, and I just so happened to have the most awkward morning of my stay earlier in the day. The night before, I was on the phone with my dad when this stupid cricket started cricket-ing right outside of my door and wouldn’t stop. It kept going and going and I was really getting annoyed, so several times I stomped over to my door to open it and potentially scare away the cricket. It never worked, but the second time I tried to scare it, I opened my door and the top of the doorframe started to come away from the wall – not good! There wasn’t much I could do about it at 11pm so I ignored it, locked my screen door, and went to bed.
Next thing I knew, Andrew came to pick me up for church (we’d gone to a Malian Christian church the week before) and I forgot to set my alarm and was still in bed, half-asleep. I mumbled a response and by the time I stood up and covered my knees (in order to avoid Malian scandal) Andrew was gone. But as I opened the door to talk to him, not knowing he was gone, the entire top 7/8ths of my door and the doorframe toppled over into the courtyard. My mom and grandma ran over to help me catch it as I grabbed at it from the inside. Since I hadn’t washed my face yet I couldn’t talk to them and they couldn’t talk to me, so I had to resort to making a lot of horrified and confused faces. They helped me set the frame back into the hole and motioned that I should continue on with my morning bath, so I did.
When I finished, I headed back to my room and I needed to close the main door so I could change, so I tried to push the door back into place. It immediately started to fall again, and this time my dad ran over to help me catch it. He motioned that I should hold it in place, so I awkwardly pushed up the door with one hand while clutching my bucket and holding up my pagne around me with the other. At this point my face was washed, so I was allowed to talk; however, my language classes just haven’t covered how to say, “Holy crap! My door fell off the wall!! What do I do?!?” My dad instructed me to hold it up while he jetted off and came back with a machete. So now I was standing there, still holding my pagne in place, while my dad macheted the rest of the doorframe off of the wall. He finished and set the whole door+frame against the wall, said a lot of Bambara in my direction, and took off. I didn’t have much of a choice what to do next so I went in my room, hung another pagne over the screen door for some privacy, and got ready for the day.
I just assumed that my dad was taking care of the problem, but several hours later he comes back with none other than 3 of the other PCTs. They don’t understand anymore Bambara than I do, and our LCFs have already gone for the weekend, so we’re all kind of just confused what to do next. I think maybe all the Malians were asking me what I was going to do and I was just nodding and smiling back at them. Luckily Hannah got on the phone and made some calls to Peace Corps personnel who promised that my door would be fixed before I left at 3pm. Crazily enough, it actually did get fixed on time! Jasmin’s dad really helped me out; he came over and looked at it and then translated to me that the mason would be coming after lunch, which he did. The mason was just cementing the last bit of door into place when I had to leave to catch my transport. The whole time I was at Tubaniso my fingers were crossed that my door would still be standing when I got back – and it was! No more problems, I’m glad to say!
The Funnies
1. Joking Cousins
Remember how I mentioned that Malians love to joke? I wasn’t kidding. Joking is a very important part of Malian culture, particularly regarding a tradition called Joking Cousins. JC is based off of family names which are fairly common, particularly within ethnic groups, and your family name determines which other families you can joke with. For instance, my family name is Doumbia, so I can joke with the Doumbia joking cousins, and it doesn’t even have to be someone I know. Joking cousins is important because it can help establish friendships and relationships, resolve conflict, and get one out of a tricky situation… There are also specific jokes that are typically used.
Example: I meet a person in the street and we go through the greeting process. When we introduce ourselves, I’ll ask the person what their last name is. Let’s say they respond, “Koulibali.” (Everyone jokes with Koulibalis!) My next statement is: “Koulibali? Koulibali amaɲi! Koulibali ye fail ye!” (Koulibali? Koulibali = bad! Koulibalis are donkeys!”). And immediately everyone around, including the person I just called a donkey, breaks into fits of laughter, egged on by the fact that I’m a toubab. Another common joke is “Koulibali bε sho dun.” (Koulibalis eat beans). Don’t ask me why these particular jokes are used. And the best part is, I’m new to this, so it’s pretty entertaining to call a stranger a donkey and get away with it. But Malians have been calling each other donkeys their whole lives, and they’ll continue to call each other donkeys for the rest of their lives, and it never gets old!
2. Michelley Come Home!
I’ve never kept the neatest room in the world. In fact, my mom has developed kind of a line about my messiness. Everytime I would come home from college, within a matter of minutes my stuff would be everywhere. My mom would look around and say, “Michelley come home!” My room in Mountougula is no different, partly because I only have one small trunk to keep all of my belongings. So everything else is spread out in various places on my floor, and although I try to keep it fairly organized, sometimes that doesn’t always happen! It’s not a big deal because no one ever goes into my room, other than the occasional kid who carries my chair in at night.
One day Ashley and I went to get water from the pump. Her 28 year old brother, Ussef, came with us. He speaks nearly-fluent English, so he’s great to have around for the occasional translation; plus, he’s really funny and sometimes it’s nice to joke in English about things other than donkeys and beans. We came back into town and passed Ashley’s house first, so she stopped off there while I continued to my house accompanied by Ussef who was carrying my bucket. He took it in my room for me and then looked around and said, “You’ve been busy!” That made me laugh because I knew it was his way of saying, “Michelley come home!”
3. Superstitions
This one is all hear-say so I can’t verify the details. Mali has a lot of ethnic groups, traditionally living in different parts of the country. The Dogon people in the north are known to kind of keep more to themselves rather than integrating into contemporary Malian culture as much as the other groups. One of our PCV trainers lives in Dogon, and she told a friend of mine that the Dogon believe that if you meet a midget at night, you have to battle him to the death. If you win, you get everything you’ve ever wanted. And if you lose…well, you’re dead. Moral of this story from my point of view? Dogon midgets, don’t go out at night! Hello Ice!
PCTs like to torture themselves. We like to sit around and talk about all the food we wish we were eating. Ice cream…pizza…cookies. The possibilities are endless! After the first week at Homestay, we decided we needed a little normalcy in our cuisine, so we made plans with our LCFs to cook dinner at their house one night.
We were soo excited about planning this! And our LCFs turned it into an educational experience for us. We had been learning about the Malian money system (unnecessarily complicated) and how to bargain at the market, so in the middle of class the morning of the planned dinner, we all went to the market together to buy some of the ingredients for the dinner. We weren’t able to find some of the things we needed, so after class finished for the day the LCFs (Abu and Yagore) took 3 of us in Abu’s car to a bigger neighboring town, Dialakorobulu, to get the plantains, lettuce, potatoes, and meat.
The 5 of us were wandering around the Dialakorobugu market, following Yagore’s lead as she found the things we needed. Abu wandered off for a few minutes and came back with a bag. After a few minutes I asked him what he bought, and he casually responded, “ice.” The 3 of us immediately jumped on him, “WHAT?!? ICE?!? There’s ICE here!?!? How?!?!? Can we touch it?!?” He started laughing as we all reached for the bag. Hannah cooed, “Helloooo ice!!!” and Abu lost it. He was completely doubled over laughing as we all lovingly stroked the ice bag. Apparently it’s brought in from Bamako every day and kept in coolers. I was soo tempted to buy some just to put it on my forehead and then put it in my water filter, but I restrained myself, mostly because we were already in the car and driving away by the time the idea occurred to me.
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