I’ve been doing a lot of reading in Mali. Awhile ago I read a book called Dancing Skeletons: Life and Death in West Africa by Katherine Dettwyler. Dettwyler is a biocultural anthropologist who traveled to Mali twice in the 1980s for research on nutritional anthropology. I decided to read it because I recognized it; I’d read it a few years back for my medical anthropology class. Of course, back then reading a book about Mali didn’t mean anything special to me, so this time around I found it even more fascinating than I had the first time. It was cool to hear her talk about places I know and ethnic groups I’ve heard of; to read her Bambara and understand it without looking at the translations. She inserts some really excellent descriptions of Malian village life, as well as descriptions of Bamako, and I highly recommend the book for anyone who would like to know more about Mali (this means you, parentals!), or about international public health work. At 172 pages it’s a quick and interesting read.
Another book I recently read is called Mango Elephants in the Sun: My Life in an African Village by Susana Herrera, an RPCV (Returned Peace Corps Volunteer) who served in Cameroon from 1992-1994. While I don’t think this book is particularly well written, she’s blatantly honest about a lot of the feelings she had, particularly at the beginning of her service, and I was really able to relate to her. I also enjoyed reading about the similarities and differences in PCVs’ lives nearly 2 decades apart. I’m including a passage from a letter she wrote to her mom a few months into her service:
“The only possible time you can reach me at the number of the PC house in Maroua [a big city in Cameroon] is on the date I gave you. The telephone is a six-hour journey from my village. Since I have to wait for a bush taxi to appear out of nowhere in the desert in order to get out of Guidiguis [her village], there’s no way of telling whether I’ll even be able to travel to the phone. If the lines are busy again, I’ll wait at least four hours at the phone. If we don’t get to talk, I’ll send a message the following month with another volunteer’s parents with the date and time I’ll be in Maroua.”
Isn’t that awful?!? I feel so lucky that my village received cell phone service a few weeks before I moved to site. I’m able to talk to both of my parents once a week for an hour each from the comfort of my courtyard, and we arrange the day and time in advance via text message. It’s kind of funny though, Herrera didn’t have great means of communication (but then who did in the early 90s?) but she did have electricity, a refrigerator and an oven. What I wouldn’t give for a cold glass of water or, Heaven forbid, a pizza! somedays! However, given the two scenarios, I’d rather have my situation. As much as I’ve been dreaming about pizza these days, talking with people from home is way more important for my mental health than the occasional crusty, cheesy, saucy, gooeyness of a fresh-from-the-oven pizza. (*Whimper*).
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