Fun With Food

Related to cooking, a few experiences with Malian food:

Foronto

Hot pepper.  Should NEVER be ingested by someone who can’t tolerate even medium salsa.  A tiny bit on the end of my fry and I had to chug my entire Nalgene and leave the CSCOM early that day since I ran out of water.

Chicken Spam

I tried to make chicken curry with chicken spam.  I managed to eat half, and gave the rest to the kids.  At 2am I threw it all up.  The next morning the chickens ate my puke.  Full circle.

Koró

Malians claim it isn’t a basa (lizard), but that’s exactly what this 3-foot monster is.  And apparently, this was a small one.  (But don’t worry, they aren’t mean!)  Alima came out of her house holding it by its tail, its throat slit.  With an expression of horrified fascination, I held it and touched its leathery skin and toenails.  And then she told me we were going to eat it.  My portion was one of the “arms.”  It wasn’t bad, except it was cooked with the skin on, which is thick and scaly, and the texture alone distracts you from the taste.  While picking small bones out of my mouth, I wondered if I was actually picking out toenails.

Waste

Food is not wasted in Mali.  Early on when Alima was living with me, I once threw semi-stale bread in my trash can.  Alima took my trash out and came back with the bread, wondering why on earth I had put it with the trash?  I tried to explain that the bread was bad, but in the end I just took it back and threw it down my ɲεgεn later when she wasn’t looking.  The next morning I found our leftover breakfast bread in the trash can, neatly wrapped in a plastic bag and waiting for the next meal.  Then I had to try to explain to Alima that the trash can does not double as bread storage.  Sigh.

Poop Nuts

A few months ago, the kids started collecting hard brown seed-things that they would crack open between two stones and then eat the nuts inside.  The nuts look a little like cashews and taste a little like walnuts.  I didn’t think much about them at the time, other than to eat them when offered.  Later, I found out from other PCVs that the seed-things actually pass through animals’ digestive systems, and the brown balls get pooped out.  And then the kids collect them and we eat the nuts inside.  Sure enough, a few weeks later when I learned how to crack the seeds myself (it’s actually quite a challenge!), my hands had a familiar and distasteful aroma…

Cooking (mis?)Adventures

I’m sure those of you who know me well are cringing just reading the title of this blog.  For those of you who don’t know me as well, let’s just say my cooking leaves something to be desired.  And that’s in Amεriki where I have ingredients and equipment widely available.  Mali…well, that’s a different story!

In my mud brick hut, I have a gas stove.  Which, let me tell you, is a big step up from cooking over a fire like the Malian women do.  I like to refer to my stove as the Death Stove.  I light it at least twice a day, once for morning oatmeal and tea, once for dinner; and each time I nervously stretch the lighted match slowly toward the burner, then quickly pull my hand back, often not getting close enough in the process, and always praying I come away with my hand fully intact.  Because when I DO light the burner, often the flame quickly shoots out to momentarily encompass all of the other burners, and occasionally anything that I’ve left too close to the stove, like a matchbox.  (That was interesting).  My mom and my friend Chrissy both claim I should be able to light the stove with less danger, but I challenge them to try!

As for ingredients, I journey to San every 10-16 days to restock on oatmeal, potatoes, and whatever veggies I can find.  These days I’m limited to onions, garlic, eggplant, and cabbage.  I have a collection of Amεriki  spices and some precious Amεriki treats: tuna, grated parmesan cheese, and Pop-Tarts.  I also have sugar, powdered milk, and chocolate powder, and “macaroni” (aka spaghetti) can be bought at the butiki down the street.  I don’t have refrigeration, so I can’t store leftovers, and my veggies usually go bad within about 4-6 days.  The remaining time until my next trip to San tends to involve a bit more creativity.

Cooking adventure #1

Early on in my cooking adventures, I decided to make french fries.  My handy-dandy Malian PC cookbook says to let the oil in the skillet get nice and hot, which I did before dropping in the first 4 potato slices.  Immediately a flame shot up a good 3 feet, scaring the crap out of me, and somehow not lighting on fire the Human Rights Campaign banner I have hanging above my table, although the flame did run up the front of the red flag.  Needless to say, I boiled the rest of the potatoes.  The original 4 fries I left in the oil, but it started splattering so badly I had to turn off the gas and let them fry in the heat that was already there.  At the end of the night, I had 4 yummy fries, and a bunch of much more boring boiled potatoes.  Fries have not been attempted again.

Cooking adventure #2

Then there was the time I was cooking on the Death Stove and innocently grabbed a rag to hold the pot handle to stir the contents.  Moments later I noticed a funny burning smell.  Check the flame: nope, totally under control.  Check the pot: nope, cooking nicely.  Well what the heck is it?  Look down…ah crap!  The rag I’m holding is on fire!!!  So what do I do?  Slam it against the wooden table of course!  Don’t worry, all ended well.  (Alima did the exact same thing a few months later while cooking at my house.  Her eyes got huge and I think maybe she thought I was going to beat her or something, until I showed her my identically burned rag.  And then we laughed).

Cooking adventure #3

Not so much an adventure, but I have on 3 occasions now completed cooking a meal only to find that I somehow managed to cook a match along with the food.  Do you think there’s protein in phosphorus sesquisulphide?  (Ha, look that one up!)

Cooking adventure #4

This past week I was out of oatmeal and scrounging for breakfast ideas until I could get to San.  I discovered a pancake recipe in my cookbook that I could make without eggs and thought that would be a delicious idea.  Unfortunately my frying pan is AWFUL, and combined with me as Cook, it quickly turned into a disaster.  I was up to my elbows in batter and smoke when I heard a knock at my door; my jatigi.  I yelled back, “I’m cooking right now, I can’t come to the door!”  Later, after forcing down half of the pancakes and throwing the rest down my ɲεgεn, I went over to greet my jatigi.  Apparently he’d seen smoke coming from my house and came over to make sure I was ok. 

After all of these adventures, I’m often left with burned pots and pans.  But it’s ok, because Alima taught me how to use dirt as an abrasive to scrub them clean.  (You heard me, dirt).  And if all else fails, her arm muscles are far superior to mine and she can clean them in a jiffy.  I don’t let her in my compound anymore when I’m washing dishes because she hovers over me like a mother hen, itching to take the dishes from me and do a better, faster job.

Laundry

Laundry may seem like a boring thing to talk about, but it’s a lot more interesting when you don’t have a washing machine, or even running water.  Back in Mountougoula, my host mom or aunt always did my laundry for me.  Here, Alima does it.  Many PCVs do their own, many others pay someone to do it.  While I’m able and willing to do my own, I and all of the Malians know that I’ll never be able to get my clothing as clean as a Malian woman could, and it would take me at least 3 times as long.  So I’m happy to let Alima do it for me, and I try to help as much as I can.  My attempts to help have been quite the process…

A quick overview.  Alima and I load up all of my laundry (we usually do it once a week or so), 2-3 buckets, and soap, both powder and bar, and head to the pump or the well, usually the well because it’s closer.  We draw a bunch of “juru” (leather pouch) fulls of water to fill the buckets, then carry them a short distance away from the well.  The big bucket gets a handful of dirty clothes and the powder soap, which smells awesome by the way.  Sometimes Alima uses a washboard, sometimes she just uses her hands.  Her hands fly as she washes!  After an article of clothing is washed it goes in another bucket of water.  When all the clothes in the big bucket have been cleaned, Alima washes them again, then transfers them to a third bucket where they soak in clean water.  Sometimes they soak in a 4^th bucket.  Sometimes she put my white/light clothing in a mixture of water and a blue dye which is meant to brighten dull clothes.  The first time she did this I was super annoyed that all my whites ended up blue – and they stay that way until the next washing, when all of the blue mysteriously disappears and my whites are super-white again.  Malian magic!  When the clothes are clean and rinsed, I hang them up on the stick-and-thorn fence surrounding the well.  (There’s also a garden within the fenced area, hence the fence).  During hot season all of the clothes, except the last few, would be dry by them time we finished.  These days, about half dry, and the other half get hung up on the clothesline in my courtyard after I return home.

Laundry drying in my courtyard.

My attempts to help:

At first I think I was entertainment for Alima.  I guess you could say I’m clumsy when I try to wash clothes by hand.  For the first several weeks I was only allowed to was rags and bandanas, or the occasional T-shirt.  If I tried to wash something else, even a bigger T-shirt, Alima would take it out of my hands and replace it with something less cumbersome.  I don’t have many small things like that, so soon I was left with nothing to do, and I would literally stand around for hours while Alima did my laundry.  Hanging up the clean clothes became an exciting event!  I’m sure I wasn’t expected to accompany her to the well, but it gave me something to do and I refuse to let other people do so much work for me without any kind of retribution, so at least by tagging along I could try to feel useful.

Sometimes other kids would accompany their moms to the well and I could play with them.  The moms, by the way, thought this whole process of doing my laundry was hilarious.  They’d look at me and say, “You can’t do laundry?”  I’d respond, “Yes I can!”  But Alima tells me to sit!”  So they’d say, “Show me.”  I’d march over to the bucket and start scrubbing clothes, and after a few moments of watching, the women would crack up and say, “Ok ok!” meaning I could return to my post of standing around doing nothing, and if I didn’t, Alima would tell me to do it anyway.

Once we went to the pump to do laundry 8 other pre-teen/early-teen girls were there, getting water and playing around.  Alima started doing my laundry and of course I tried to help.  And of course, all 8 girls started laughing at me.  One came over and literally took the shirt out of my hand and started washing it.  So I moved to another bucket and started working there.  A second girl came over, took the shirt out of my hand, and started washing that one.  This proceeded until 6 of the 8 girls were doing my laundry for me while I was reduced to hanging up the clean clothes, as usual.  The girls only stayed and helped for 30 minutes or so but my laundry was done in an hour, as compared to the usual 1½ - 3 hours!  Malian women are unbelievable. 

On another occasion, Alima and I were at the pump to do laundry.  Soon after we got there she sent her younger brother home to get me a stool and a bowl of brusse (bush) grapes.  But I still wanted to help.  I could just see Alima thinking, “I bring you a chair and food and you still won’t leave me to get the work done?!”  Later the cows stole all the grapes while we were hanging up clean clothes.  There’s a thought: when have cows ever interrupted your laundry?  Until rainy season came and the fence was rebuilt around the well (and before the cows were busy in the fields) we’d literally have to stop working to shoo away cows and donkeys who came to drink at the well – or eat my grapes. 

My attempts to help are improving.  Alima decided I can now learn how to help, so she started by letting me draw water from the well, something I learned how to do during homestay.  (Watching me do this is another form of entertainment for the average Malian woman).  Two weeks ago she decided to do everything herself, and I was reduced to crouching on the ground and playing in the mud (literally) while the 12 year old did my laundry.  Life sure is different here…  Last week was the best: we did everything together and took our time, chatting as we worked.  Apparently I’m starting to prove my worth!  During this time I also learned that Alima, like many Malians, is afraid of toads (apparently sorcerers can transform into toads and practice their evil magic that way).  Since it’s rainy season, toads just so happen to be everywhere, including next to the well.  Now I tell her I’m a toad and I’m going to eat her, and then I flick my tongue out at her and snap my teeth.  Usually she screams, and it cracks me up everytime!

The Kids

I can’t possibly talk about my life in village without talking about the kids. They’re everywhere! Partly because I’m a Toubab and I’m fascinating as such, but partly also because I enjoy their company. I’ve found that hanging out with kids is a great way for me to integrate here. I can practice my language with them. They know I don’t understand a lot, so they’ve gotten pretty good at repeating things slowly, many times if I need it. They’re great to have around for the company, and I don’t have to make sure I’m entertaining them – they’re used to entertaining themselves, plus they can talk to each other. They often introduce me to new things. And they are always willing to help, whether it’s useful, like throwing out my yard waste everyday, or not so useful, like insisting on pulling the needle each time after I’ve stuck it through the cloth while sewing a patch on my skirt. (That particular incident ended with both sides of my skirt being sewn together).

So here’s an overview of some of my favorite kids:

My host family*:
*A note on my host family. All PCVs’ living arrangements are different. The way mine works, I have my own concession, not part of another family. My jatigi (literally “guest owner”) lives with his family in a concession about 30 feet from mine; technically they face each other, kind of like on a cul-de-sac. I prefer to call this family “my jatigi’s family,” wife, kids, grandkids, etc. rather than host dad, sibling, etc. because they don’t feel like “my family” in the same way I had a family I lived with in Mountougoula. However, they are the family I’m closest with and pretty darn fabulous.

Sinali (See-‘nah-lee): My jatigi’s nephew. At 11, he’s the oldest kid who lives at my jatigi’s concession. He can be really helpful, but also really hard to understand for some reason. He’s very funny and charismatic, and very protective of the younger kids. He could kick my butt on the dance floor. He’s also decided that my 14 year old cousin is his muso (woman/girlfriend/wife).

Sinali: Yep, another one. This is my jatigi’s youngest child; he’s 10. I differentiate the two by calling this one Shina (Sheena). He has a lot of patience with me, and with the younger kids, and he’s always willing to try and explain things over and over. He’s really helpful; he offers to cut down my fallen tree braches and hoe the ground where I want to plant sunflowers. He makes sure to check on the sunflowers’ growth every day with me!

Aminata (Ah-mee-‘na-tah): “Minata” is 7 and my jatigi’s granddaughter. (Her parents live in my jatigi’s concession). She’s shy at first but gets super giggly once she opens up. She likes to keep up with the boys. She has perhaps the biggest eyes I’ve ever seen, and combined with her giggle, she can melt hearts!

Seydou (‘Shay doo): He’s 5, and Minata’s younger brother. At first I thought he was kind of sullen all the time, but I think he was just shy. Now he never stops talking! “Michelli, look at me! Michelli, guess what I did today!” Like most little kids, he can be really whiney. But when he’s not whining, it’s hilarious watching him try to keep up with the older kids.

Ami (‘Ah mee): Ami is another grandchild, although her parents do not live in my jatigi’s concession. She is in the running for one of my favorite Malians. She’s 3. She rarely smiles but also rarely cries. Until her mom came for a visit recently, I never heard her talk. I call her my “terimuso” or my female friend. She responds to that now just like her name, and when the family and I talk about her we just call her Terimuso. She gets the biggest, awkward grin and laugh when I throw her in the air, which I do as much as possible because I love to see her smile! I’ve already told everyone I’m taking her back to America with me.

Bourama: Bourama is 2 and Minata and Seydou’s youngest brother. Like his big brother, I used to think he was grumpy all the time, but now I’ve decided that was initial shyness. Now his face lights up into a huge smile when he sees me and he runs over to me and throws his arms around my legs, then raises them up to be tossed in the air. He rarely wears clothes and is usually covered in dirt from rolling around on the ground, so I tend to swing him by his arms only! I’ve recently started calling him Terike, or “male friend.” He doesn’t say much at all, mostly he bounces and screeches, but he does try to say my name, and it comes out as “EeeYell!”


My homologue’s kids:

Alima (‘Al-ee-mah): Alima is my homologue’s daughter, and my Sourountouna equivalent of Moussa; my main sidekick. Or, more than likely, I’m her sidekick. She’s 10 or 12, but I’m leaning toward 12. Sometimes it’s hard to remember she’s that young; with most of my issues or questions I go to her first. I usually take her along when I go for a walk or to the butiki, and she usually takes me along when she plays games with her friends at night, or when she goes to a community social event. People are used to seeing us together and will often come to my house looking for her, or ask her where her “toubab muso” is when I’m not with her. She’s made it her mission to help me do whatever work I’ll allow her to do (she takes my bike to the pump once an evening now) and also to help me learn all the things every self-respecting Malian woman can do: wash clothes, cook Malian food, dance like a Malian woman, etc.

Yaya: Yaya is Alima’s younger brother. He’s somewhere between 5 and 7. He will do whatever it takes to help me (he’s the one who helped me sew my skirt to itself). He tends to get jealous of all the time I spend with Alima and the special privileges she has (like permission to go inside my house), so he tries to make up for it by “helping” and showing off. Like his older sister, he’s quite beautiful; unlike her he’s very shy!



The Coulibaly Boys: They live around the corner from me. All of the Coulibaly kids are spitting images of each other, each with a beautiful smile that’s almost always showing. They have a large family, and all the kids have ventured over to my house at some point or another, but 3 of the boys in particular are at my house every day and were the kids who initially took the most interest in me.

Sidiki (See-‘dee-kee): He’s 10 and has the biggest crush on me. He likes to angle my mirror so he can see both of our faces in it at once. He’s a bit on the quiet side and would rather sit and look through my photo album than play with my soccer ball like his younger brothers. I think “sweet” best describes him.






Amadou: At 8, he is the biggest show-off of all the kids, and has the most mischievous grin to go with it! His was the first name I learned, because he was always in the foreground trying to catch my attention. He's extremely energetic and loves to plan and run around, soccer ball or no. He loves to joke but occasionally his temper flares up and i have to remind him that hitting is not allowed at my house. (I have 3 rules; No hitting, No Speaking Minyanka, and don't lock my door!)

Solo: Solo is 4 and is usually found tagging along with the 2 older boys. He rarely talks to me but he has no problem yelling at his brothers when I’m not looking! His grin is the most captivating. When we play ball, he’s completely silent but his entire body is expressive: grinning, throwing his hands over his eyes, jumping up and down. During Hot Season, he took it upon himself to fan me at every moment; he would take my fan in both of his hands and just pump his little arms up and down over and over and over! He’s always wearing a shirt at least 3x too big, and he’s the kind of kid you could take home with you even if you don’t like kids.



The head doctor’s brood:
Papu and Papu Were: The doctor’s oldest son, and his son’s friend, who has the same nickname. (All his kids go by nicknames). “Were” (where-ay) means “other,” so I just interchangeably call both of them Papu and Papu Were. They’re in their late teens and students in Segou, a city about 4 hours from San , and too old to count as kids, but I’m including them anyway. They’re home on summer break, so I’ve been hanging out with them listening to music, playing cards, and drinking tea while they’re home. It’s nice to have friends closer to my age, and both of them know a little English which can be useful. They’ll head back to Segou in September, unfortunately.

Kolo

Yacou and Kolo: The doctor’s nephew and second-oldest son. Also not really part of the “kids” category, both are in their mid-teens. They more or less keep to themselves other than greeting me and passing over tea when they make it. Both of them are away visiting other family during the summer holiday.

Binke (‘Bin-kay): The doctor’s 13 year old son. He calls me fail muso, “donkey-woman,” and I call him tumuke, worm-boy. He’s a good soccer player, and we occasionally play until I get tired. He’s very easy-going and always in a good mood, as are all of his brothers. He and I joke around a lot. He recently asked me to help teach him English, in addition to the English he learns at school.

Tata: The doctor’s 13 year old niece. She’s a handful! She likes to give me a hard time. Sometimes I sit with her while she does dishes, or I walk around town with her while she goes door-to-door selling clothes. She has no problem ordering me around: “Sit here. Talk to me. Come sell clothes with me!” Ok! :D

Levie (‘Leh-vee-ay): The doctor’s 11 year old son. Like Binke, he calls me fail muso and I call him fali ke (donkey-boy). He’s very mischievous! He’s the one who will come up behind me and steal my head scarf, then come outside a few minutes later wearing my scarf and his sister’s skirt and talking in a high-pitched voice like a girl.

Fatim (Fah-‘teem): The doctor’s 9 year old niece. She’s a troublemaker! She can most often be found making faces at me, which I promptly reciprocate. I have also proven on more than one occasion that I can run her down when need be, even while wearing an ankle-length skirt. She also tries to climb on me like a monkey. If only she had a tail, she could really pull off the act quite well!

Fanta: The doctor’s youngest child and only daughter, and as such, has perfected the skill of “crocodile tears” down to an art. She’s somewhere between 4 and 7, I’m thinking 4. She’s one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen, and very petite. I’ve told her she can come to America with me, but because she’s small she has to go in my bag. She has a wicked grin and loves to show off, especially by dancing. Once I got used to her high-pitched little-girl voice, she became a great conversation partner since we keep it simple!

So those are “My Kids.” There are a lot more that pass in and out of my life on a daily basis, but these are the ones whom I spend the most time with. The kids here really are great. Anytime I need an ego boost, or a morale-raiser, all I have to do is go for a walk, and soon I’ll hear, “Michelli! Michelli! Ça va? Michelli!” from all sides as kids come running toward me to shake my hand and giggle at me. I had a language tutor come stay with me for a week at the end of July and he declared Sourountouna has a new dugutigi (village chief) in addition to the old one – me! He said I’m the dugutigi of the kids – I like that!

The time I spend with the kids has already shown me that kids are the same no matter where you go. They tease their siblings, they love to be the center of attention, and they think farting and fart jokes are hilarious (luckily there’s always a baby or small child around that I can use as a scapegoat for my farts). My favorite times are the dark, moonless nights when all but my favorite kids have gone home, and we all lie in a circle on my big mat, crowding around my lantern. Their dark skin blends into the night and all I can see are their faces and big eyes looking at me as we chat and giggle in the small circle of light. Or when I’m really tired and I collapse on my mat after dinner, and they gather around me, pushing to be the one closest to me and to stroke my arm, play with my hair, and tickle my feet. These are the nights when it’s hard to kick them out! They have really shaped my experience so far.

A Look At My World

I know it’s really hard for people back home to try and picture my village and my home, so I’m going to attempt to describe it. So far I haven’t had the courage to get my camera out, knowing I’ll be listening to endless demands of “Take my photo, Michelli! Can I see? Can I see?? But I have snuck a few photos here and there, and I’ve promised to “bring my camera back from San” this time, so perhaps soon I’ll have more pictures to share.

The Villages

My village is technically divided into 2 villages, the Fulani side and the Minianka side (two different ethnic groups). The main road runs right down the center of the two villages. A note on roads, there are very few national, paved roads in Mali. For example, one road goes from Bamako to San, passing through Segou. One road goes from San to Sikasso, passing through my village, Kimparana, and Kuchiala. So when you picture me living right on a main road, it’s kind of a big deal.

Sourountouna Peuhl, or “Flawere” as the locals call it, is the Fulani village. It’s on the left side of the road as I’m approaching from San, and the village itself is set back from the road about a 10 minute walk. Between the village and the road, running parallel to the road, are the school, the Mayor’s office, the sous-préfets’s office and house, and the CSCOM (health center).
Sourountouna Bambara is on the right side of the road, and the village starts right where the road ends.

To Get to My House
To get to my house, I pass the macaroni lady, Assana’s butiki, and several houses where I’m daily accosted by kids. Then I cross a small field (next to a pond during rainy season) and here I have 2 choices: I can go straight ahead or straight and off to the left. The first option is the more direct way to my house. I cross a ditch, pass a well, pass the old lady who always gives me lots of blessings, pass a few more houses, pass a big open space and Ousseman’s butiki, and then turn left. A short distance ahead I pass my jatigi’s (host “dad”) house on the left, and then run straight into my house.

If I take the other route, I cross the ditch at another spot, walk under the mango trees, pass the papaya garden, and walk around the edge of the pond. Then I enter the narrow, twisty streets, more like alleys, that make up the majority of Sourountouna Bambara. I twist through several turns and eventually end up walking straight into my jatigi’s compound (Safi and Sali's houses are to my left, completing the circle the 4 compounds form), where I’m accosted by the whole family. Here I stop to greet everyone, toss around the kids, and maybe drink some tea or tell a few bean-eater jokes to my jatigi’s wife, the only Coulibaly in the family. Then a quick succession of left, right, and left again takes me “across the dirt” and about 20 feet right into my house!

Walking into my jatigi's compound.

My House

My house is special, as I’ve mentioned, because my compound is completely surrounded by tall, non-crumbling walls, and I have a door with a lock on it. Entering through my concession door you walk into the far right corner of a small courtyard – small by Malian giant-family standards, but large and spacious by living-alone PCVs! The courtyard is surrounded by mud brick walls on 3 sides, and my house runs the length of the 4th side, straight ahead. My ɲεgεn is its own little “room” off to the right. To the left is my beautiful, wonderful Neem tree, the pride and joy of my house. I was heartbroken in May when someone came to trim the branches and butchered my poor tree, but now that it’s rainy season I understand why: the branches have already grown an incredible amount since May, and because of rainstorms I’ve had 5 large branches (I’m talking 15 feet long and full of smaller branches) break off. One landed on my wall, another on my roof, and the other 3 in various weird angles into my yard and in front of my ɲεgεn. The kids or my jatigi always come and take the branches away for me. Anyway, my beautiful tree provides shade to the majority of my courtyard most of the time.

To the far left, adjacent to Sali’s house, is where I spend the majority of my time. My brusse (“bush”) lounge chair sits in the shade under the lowest tree branches, and next to it is my concrete platform where I sleep and sometimes hang out during the day, and at night with the kids.

The door to my house is on the far left, next to my concrete ledge. Walking in my house you enter my “kitchen.” Here I keep my table, and on it my water filter, stove, dishes, food, and anything else related to cooking/eating. I also keep in here my bike, my buckets, my mats, and a small table with all sorts of books, PC manuals, and general crap on it. This room is fairly light as it has both the door and a window, although they’re both on the same wall and face into the shady courtyard, so it’s not ever very light inside.





The door to my second room, my bedroom, is on the right. (There’s also an adorable little window between the two rooms). My bedroom has my bed, my trunk, my suitcases, my clothes, and my over-the-door shoe rack where I keep all my toiletries. This room has one window, which also faces into the courtyard, so it’s almost always quite dark and doesn’t get much air circulation either. A few months ago I tried to paint the room bright yellow to lighten it up a bit. The paint I bought failed miserably on the wall material, so I painted the wooden door instead. Someday I’ll try to fix the walls!










As far as landscape goes, all of the streets and open areas are dirt. The village “streets” are more appropriately called paths, and are twisty and turny in the manner of what my language tutor called an “ancient” village. In some places you actually have to walk through a family’s concession in order to continue along your way. Most concessions either have one or more sides that are completely unwalled or parts of walls that are crumbling. If nothing else, each concession has a large “door” area that allows for easy viewing into the concession. (See why mine is so different?) Wells occur every so often throughout the village and are usually surrounded by giant puddles of water. Some have a protective tire or clay barrier around the edge to prevent things like animals and children from falling into them.

During dry season it’s all dirt and dust with trees in some concessions and out in the fields. During rainy season, the village is still pretty much all dirt, but the open areas and fields, and areas surrounding the wells are green with grass, bushes, and crops. Small gardens are placed throughout the village and on the outskirts and occasionally in the fields. The smallest ones are mud-brick lined rectangles with lots of leftover millet and corn stalks piled on top to prevent the animals from eating the plants. The village tree gardens (bananas, papayas, oranges) are usually attached to people’s concessions and are little mini-forests. The bigger veggie gardens are usually surrounded by a fence of tree branch posts with thorns in between, to deter the animals.

The fields undergo complete transformation between seasons. During dry season you’d have no idea that these are the “fields.” (I certainly didn’t!) During rainy season, you can see that the “fields” are any open space. For instance, the head doctor has peanut fields that run right up to the CSCOM walls. The fields become a beautiful landscape of green, spotted by brown dirt when the plants are still short enough to see through. Villagers plant millet, field corn, millet, peanuts, millet, sorghum, millet, rice, millet, and cotton. The fields extend for miles! More on the fields later, but I’ll walk 30-40 minutes away from town, always through fields, to get to my homologue’s husband’s fields, and there are still more fields as far as I can see in every direction.

Address Update - Revised

Apologies, Dear Friends. When I posted my address update, I mistakenly forgot to include the post office box number. The only change should have been to add "West Africa" at the end of the label. My correct address is as follows:

Michelle Surdyk
Corps de la Paix
BP 75
San, Mali
West Africa

If you sent anything without the "BP 75" I wouldn't worry too much; San has all of about 10 post office boxes and our box is specifically labeled as "Peace Corps" so that's the main indicator.

Thanks for all of your support!