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). 

Moussa eventually answered that he wants 3 wives: Umu, Aramata, and Abi.  And so I discovered Moussa’s crushes.  This has since been a reoccurring topic of conversation and teasing, and apparently Abi is now out of the picture.  Moussa says he wants 2 kids: one with Aramata, his first wife, and one with Umu, his second wife.  This is all to annoy me; he knows how I feel about more than one wife, and like I said, that’s not really the trend in his family anyway.  He also insists that I’m going to have at least 10 children, and between Moussa and Madu, all of my future children have already been named.  First will be Madu fitini (Madu Jr.) and then Moussa fitini.  After that I’m free to go in whatever order I want of naming my children after my Malian family.  In turn, Moussa has promised to name his first daughter Damadje fitini.  Speaking of Damadje fitini, I finally learned that the grandmother I’m named after was actually my great great great grandmother!!  I’m impressed that Moussa’s generation even knows her name, let alone that her skin was light.  I guess that’s living proof of how important family is in Mali.