So I haven’t been doing nothing but sitting and drinking tea for 2 months. Yes, that is a large part of what I do every day, but I have also participated in CSCOM activities. Here’s an overview of what I’ve done:
1. Polio Vaccination Campaign
My second week at site coincided with Mali’s polio vaccination campaign. A friend explained to me today that Malians are extremely proactive when it comes to polio vaccinations. In the two months I’ve been at site, we participated in the campaign twice. During the campaign, CSCOM (health center) staff as well as relays (local volunteers who are trained in basic health education outreach) go out into all of the villages in our commune (28 in total) and administer the polio vaccine to every child under the age of 5. It takes my commune 2 days to complete the campaign.
Many children and their parents don’t know exactly how old the children are, so for kids who look like they’re on the borderline, we have them stretch their arm over top of their head and try to touch their ear on the opposite side. If they cannot touch, they are considered under 5 and eligible for the vaccine. Sometimes we vaccinate anyway just to be on the safe side.
The vaccine is in oral liquid form, so it’s an easy process. In groups of 2-3 people, we walk from compound to compound, and at each home identify the children under 5. Each child is given 2 drops of the vaccine, their left pinky nail is colored with a purple marker, and we record how many children have been vaccinated on a sheet of paper. As we leave, a worker will mark a chalk symbol on the outside wall of the house. The different symbols indicate which campaign it is, if eligible kids are present, and whether or not the kids were vaccinated. Most of the kids are totally used to the process, and immediately tip back their heads and then stick out their left pinky. Some are thrown off by the presence of the white girl and get a little nervous and/or completely terrified. The babies are the cutest. The vaccinator squeezes their little mouths into a fishy mouth (the babies are often still asleep on their mom’s backs when this process starts) and squeezes in the drops. Sometimes the babies continue to sleep. Sometimes they wake up and blink sleepily. Sometimes they start howling. And every now and then they immediately throw up. That part is not so cute, especially since I’m usually the one trying to find their tiny pinky nail amidst all the cloth they are wrapped in, and therefore I’m in prime projectile range. So far I’ve escaped being a target (knock on wood!).
It’s a long process to go from house to house, and it takes all day with a short lunch break. Especially when it’s 100°+ outside. But it’s a good chance for me to go out into the community in a health setting, see people’s homes, and try to get the community used to the idea that I am here as a health worker. I think it’s also helpful that I’m with health workers not doctors and that I’m never the one administering the vaccine, just marking fingernails or recording on the paper. Sometimes people think I’m a doctor, and it’s important that I make the distinction.
2. Prenatal Consultations
I briefly mentioned these in another post. Although women can come in any day for a PNC, Tuesdays are PNC day and that’s when we get the majority of our women. One by one, women come into the consultation room where they sit down and talk with the matrone (head women’s doctor) and health workers. Basic health information is gathered as well as height, weight, and blood pressure. I can help with the first two. Then the women lay down on a examining chair and the matrone measures the growth of the belly and listens for the baby’s heartbeat. If a need is determined, the matrone can do a more thorough pelvic exam. Women are given malaria medication twice during their 4th and 8th months of pregnancies and also receive tetanus shots.
One thing I’ve noticed is just how small most of the women are. You don’t always notice it under all of their clothing, but I’ve weighed women who are 8 months pregnant who way several kilos less than I do, which is a result of poor nutrition. You also just don’t really see fat people in Mali; only very rarely. Most people – women especially – do so much manual labor that there isn’t much extra fat on their bodies.
3. Baby Weighing
The same day as PNCs is also Baby Weighing/Vaccination day. This is where I prefer to be – bring on the babies!! I already talked about baby weighing in a previous post, so I won’t repeat myself. I did mention that we’d been low on babies because we were out of a vaccine. It turns out it’s a combined vaccine for diphtheria, tetanus, hepatitis, meningitis, and whooping cough. We got a supply in late May and had more than 90 women show up with their babies. The week before, with no vaccine, we had 5 babies. A week later we were out of the vaccine again, and down to very few babies. It’s a shame that we have so many women willing to come the distance to the CSCOM and vaccinate their children, and such a low supply of the vaccine.
4. Health Animations
Animations are something that all Health PCVs are trained in, and often a good place to start for Volunteers. My CSCOM actually already does animations, so right now I’ve been on the sidelines, watching and listening.
An animation is anything from a talk about a topic to a skit. We do talks. Every Tuesday morning the matrone does a PNC animation and the vaccinator does a vaccination animation. Additionally, the CSCOM women go out into the nearby villages to give talks on the importance of PNCs and delivering at the CSCOM. I’ve gone with them on several occasions. Anywhere from 12-30 women show up at each village, and the matrone speaks for about an hour on the topic. She brings along a few picture posters to aid her talks but she honestly doesn’t need them. She has a great personality for public speaking. Even I can tell that, and I can’t understand much of what she’s saying! I’m hoping eventually I can help expand the animation topics into other areas such as nutrition, breast feeding and weaning, HIV/AIDS, etc.
I like having the experience of going to other villages, despite the sometimes struggle to get there (See my post on Stating the Obvious, #4). Some of the villages are off the main road in the bush and very, very small. It’s interesting to see how they compare to my own village. In places like these, it’s easy to tell that many of the children have never seen a white person before. They stare at me in the same way you would stare if you suddenly saw a 7 foot giant with 3 heads standing in front of you. What is this thing?! Why is it here?! What is it going to do?! I must be pretty disappointing; I don’t do much!
These kids have a tendency to gather around me in an increasingly tighter circle until I’m surrounded on all sides within a 6 inch radius. It wouldn’t be so bad if they would talk to me, but instead they just stare, no matter how much I smile and greet them in whatever language I can manage. Every now and then a brave one will come forward and shake or high-5 my offered hand, to which everyone nervously giggles. I’ve taken to openly staring back at them. It’s funny to watch their reactions. Some continue to stand and stoically stare but many will immediately try to make themselves as small and invisible as possible. For some that means hiding their face behind a tree or a friend; for large groups it means immediately tightening into a small cluster. It’s quite an effect!
5. Baseline Survey
The only PC related project I was required – or even expected – to do during my first two months was my Baseline Survey. The survey is meant to give us a general idea of where our community stands regarding health knowledge and practice, and where we can fit into the picture. I first wrote my survey in English and then translated it into Bambara. Then I read it out loud to my homologue and the other CSCOM women and they helped me correct my Bambara and phrase the questions in an appropriate way. On two different days, my homologue and I went out into the community, from house to house, and administered the survey.
My survey included questions on Family Info, Education, Nutrition, Wat/San, Illnesses, Maternal Health, Vaccinations, Malaria, and Sex Ed. I tried to be as well rounded as possible and touch, if only briefly, on as many topics as I could. I was hoping this would give me a “big-picture view” of what my community knows, wants, and needs, generally speaking.
Like the polio vaccination campaign, I enjoyed going out into the community in a health setting. With my homologue accompanying me, I was immediately given more credibility in my role, and she was able to help correct any language misunderstandings. I’m not really sure yet how I’ll use the results of my survey, but if nothing else, it was a good community integration and language experience.
These are the kinds of things I’ll continue to focus on for several months, and possibly continue through the length of my service. It’s still too early for me to be starting any big projects. First I need to continue working on my language skills and integrating into the community. It’s normal for PCVs to wait until they are a year into their service to start bigger projects. This is why it’s so important for us to be here for 2 years. It takes awhile to become integrated into a new culture, and 2 years gives us an appropriate amount of time to do that before starting major development work. So babies, here I come!!
Friday, July 8, 2011
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Mango Mania
Perhaps some of you will recall how thrilled I was to be coming to Mali around mango season. And how much I anticipated all the mango trees ripening throughout homestay. How I excited I was when Moussa gave me my first Malian mango. Oh how times have changed!!
Don’t get me wrong, I still love mangoes. But holy crap, they are abundant in Mali! And since they grow on trees, and the trees apparently thrive here, anyone can go out and pick a million mangoes. Including the kids – especially the kids since they have the time and the enthusiasm to climb the trees and spend forever shaking them down. Mango trees are quite pretty, even when they aren’t bearing fruit. When they are, they look rather like Christmas trees from a distance. All green and pretty with big orange bulbs hanging from every possible branch. Just waiting to be picked an given to the toubab.
Right away when I moved to site, people started giving me mangoes. Djeneba brought me my original batch – a bowl full of 13 or so mangoes. I thought that would be great for the week, but I didn’t anticipate being given more mangoes – every day! I got mangoes from Djeneba, mangoes from her daughter, mangoes from her son, mangoes from her mom, mangoes from my neighbors, mangoes from the neighborhood kids, mangoes from people I didn’t know. I figured I was being given at least 7 mangoes a day, so even if I ate 3 a day (which seemed like a lot to me), I was still gaining at least of 4 a day – which very quickly adds up!! I was telling my dad about this and he asked how many I currently had, so I counted: I believe 37 was the final total. 37 mangoes. For one person. Is it even possible?!? I did lose some every day to overripeness, but it wasn’t enough to keep me at an even somewhat normal amount. I was throwing mangoes down my ɲεgεn, not knowing what else to do with them. After about a week, Djeneba came over and saw my mango bowl and said, “You aren’t eating your mangoes?” I responded that I was trying, but the kids kept bringing me more!! So she took pity on me and brought me 8 more. Just kidding. She did bring me 8, but she took away my bowl of several dozen and gave them to my neighbor. Before I left for Bamako I gave another entire bag full to my host family.
This went on for at least a month. Some days I’d get 3, some days the kids would come over with a bag of 15. One day I pawned off a good 20 to the Peace Corps staff who took us on a tour around San – my “thank you present.” I was so relieved when my mangoes were finally gone! Alima came over and said, “Your mangoes are gone?” To which I proudly responded, “Yup! All gone!!” Wrong answer. We were on our way to do my laundry. We left my clothes and buckets at the well and traipsed out into the fields, followed by the usual assortment of children, who then proceeded to climb the trees and fetch their 30 ft long hooked mango sticks and collect for me another 15 mangoes. I accepted them with a smile and a thank you, thinking, “Arrgh!! When will it end!?!?”
Perhaps the most confusing part of all this is that every day, women would sit next to the main road and sell mangoes. I kept thinking, who on earth buys them?!? All you have to do is send a little child out to a tree!! The best was when the women would come to my house carrying mangoes on their heads and ask me if I wanted to buy some. “No thanks, I have 30 inside my house. No seriously. I really do!”
Mango season finally seems to be over. I can still buy them from the women by the road, but they’ve stopped appearing at my door in the hands of small children. Next up: a fruit called becoum that grows on trees and is referred as “brusse grapes” (“bush grapes”) by the PCVs. Their season appears to have arrived, as they’ve started arriving en masse at my door via the kids. They’re a lot of work for a little bit of fruit, but the seeds are great to practice spitting, and other PCVs’ tents make great targets since the seeds stick to the tent walls.
Don’t get me wrong, I still love mangoes. But holy crap, they are abundant in Mali! And since they grow on trees, and the trees apparently thrive here, anyone can go out and pick a million mangoes. Including the kids – especially the kids since they have the time and the enthusiasm to climb the trees and spend forever shaking them down. Mango trees are quite pretty, even when they aren’t bearing fruit. When they are, they look rather like Christmas trees from a distance. All green and pretty with big orange bulbs hanging from every possible branch. Just waiting to be picked an given to the toubab.
Right away when I moved to site, people started giving me mangoes. Djeneba brought me my original batch – a bowl full of 13 or so mangoes. I thought that would be great for the week, but I didn’t anticipate being given more mangoes – every day! I got mangoes from Djeneba, mangoes from her daughter, mangoes from her son, mangoes from her mom, mangoes from my neighbors, mangoes from the neighborhood kids, mangoes from people I didn’t know. I figured I was being given at least 7 mangoes a day, so even if I ate 3 a day (which seemed like a lot to me), I was still gaining at least of 4 a day – which very quickly adds up!! I was telling my dad about this and he asked how many I currently had, so I counted: I believe 37 was the final total. 37 mangoes. For one person. Is it even possible?!? I did lose some every day to overripeness, but it wasn’t enough to keep me at an even somewhat normal amount. I was throwing mangoes down my ɲεgεn, not knowing what else to do with them. After about a week, Djeneba came over and saw my mango bowl and said, “You aren’t eating your mangoes?” I responded that I was trying, but the kids kept bringing me more!! So she took pity on me and brought me 8 more. Just kidding. She did bring me 8, but she took away my bowl of several dozen and gave them to my neighbor. Before I left for Bamako I gave another entire bag full to my host family.
This went on for at least a month. Some days I’d get 3, some days the kids would come over with a bag of 15. One day I pawned off a good 20 to the Peace Corps staff who took us on a tour around San – my “thank you present.” I was so relieved when my mangoes were finally gone! Alima came over and said, “Your mangoes are gone?” To which I proudly responded, “Yup! All gone!!” Wrong answer. We were on our way to do my laundry. We left my clothes and buckets at the well and traipsed out into the fields, followed by the usual assortment of children, who then proceeded to climb the trees and fetch their 30 ft long hooked mango sticks and collect for me another 15 mangoes. I accepted them with a smile and a thank you, thinking, “Arrgh!! When will it end!?!?”
Perhaps the most confusing part of all this is that every day, women would sit next to the main road and sell mangoes. I kept thinking, who on earth buys them?!? All you have to do is send a little child out to a tree!! The best was when the women would come to my house carrying mangoes on their heads and ask me if I wanted to buy some. “No thanks, I have 30 inside my house. No seriously. I really do!”
Mango season finally seems to be over. I can still buy them from the women by the road, but they’ve stopped appearing at my door in the hands of small children. Next up: a fruit called becoum that grows on trees and is referred as “brusse grapes” (“bush grapes”) by the PCVs. Their season appears to have arrived, as they’ve started arriving en masse at my door via the kids. They’re a lot of work for a little bit of fruit, but the seeds are great to practice spitting, and other PCVs’ tents make great targets since the seeds stick to the tent walls.
Stating the Obvious
Malians have a habit of stating the obvious. Let me give you some examples.
#1. Setting: It’s morning. I’m walking with an empty bucket.
Malian: Michelli, where are you going?
Me: I’m going to the pump.
Malian: Oh, you’re going to get water?
Me: Yep, I’m going to get water.
(That evening. I’m walking with an empty bucket)
Same Malian: Michelli, where are you going?
Me: I’m going to get water.
Same Malian: Oh, you’re going to the pump?
Me: Yep, I’m going to the pump.
(Repeat conversation every day, twice a day).
#2. Setting: I arrive at the CSCOM in the morning, panting and drenched in sweat already at 9am.
Malian: It’s hot today.
Me: Yep.
Malian: You’re sweating a lot. It’s really hot today.
Me: Yep.
Malian: Hey, (insert friend’s name here), look at Michelle, she’s sweating a lot. It must be hot today.
Malian’s Friend: Wow, she really is sweating. It’s hot. Michelle, you’re sweating!
Me: Yep.
#3. Setting: I arrive at the CSCOM, my arms covered in bug bites.
Malian: Whoa! Michelle! You have mosquito bites!
Me: Yes, I know.
Malian: You didn’t sleep under your mosquito net?
Me: No, I did.
Malian: But you have mosquito bites. Why didn’t you sleep under your net?
Me: I have 55 bites on my arms alone, to be exact. And I did sleep under my net.
Malian: But you have bug bites.
Me: Yes, I’m aware. (Scratch)
#4. Setting: I’m on my way to do health education outreach in a nearby village, which is 3km off the main road on an unpaved “road.” The 2 women I’m with are on a motorcycle. Since PCVs are forbidden to ride motos, I’m riding my bike, currently panting and pouring sweat and looking quite miserable).
Woman #1: Michelle! You’re tired!
Me: Yep.
Woman #2: Michelle, are you tired?
Me: Yep, I’m tired.
Woman #1, speaking to Woman #2: Wow, look at Michelle, she’s tired.
Woman #2: Michelle, you’re really really tired!
Me: (Thinking to myself: Why yes, I AM tired. It’s 2:30 in the afternoon, the hottest part of the day, and I’m riding my bike through SAND in the direct sunlight. Yep, I’m tired! And asking me every 5 seconds if I’m tired is sapping what little energy I have left!) Out loud: Yep. I’m really really tired.
Woman #1: Wow, you’re really tired.
Despite the repetitiveness and occasional annoyance (aka Scenario #4), I actually appreciate these seemingly pointless conversations. I can’t say much else, so at least conversations like these give me interaction with the community! You have to start somewhere, right?
#1. Setting: It’s morning. I’m walking with an empty bucket.
Malian: Michelli, where are you going?
Me: I’m going to the pump.
Malian: Oh, you’re going to get water?
Me: Yep, I’m going to get water.
(That evening. I’m walking with an empty bucket)
Same Malian: Michelli, where are you going?
Me: I’m going to get water.
Same Malian: Oh, you’re going to the pump?
Me: Yep, I’m going to the pump.
(Repeat conversation every day, twice a day).
#2. Setting: I arrive at the CSCOM in the morning, panting and drenched in sweat already at 9am.
Malian: It’s hot today.
Me: Yep.
Malian: You’re sweating a lot. It’s really hot today.
Me: Yep.
Malian: Hey, (insert friend’s name here), look at Michelle, she’s sweating a lot. It must be hot today.
Malian’s Friend: Wow, she really is sweating. It’s hot. Michelle, you’re sweating!
Me: Yep.
#3. Setting: I arrive at the CSCOM, my arms covered in bug bites.
Malian: Whoa! Michelle! You have mosquito bites!
Me: Yes, I know.
Malian: You didn’t sleep under your mosquito net?
Me: No, I did.
Malian: But you have mosquito bites. Why didn’t you sleep under your net?
Me: I have 55 bites on my arms alone, to be exact. And I did sleep under my net.
Malian: But you have bug bites.
Me: Yes, I’m aware. (Scratch)
#4. Setting: I’m on my way to do health education outreach in a nearby village, which is 3km off the main road on an unpaved “road.” The 2 women I’m with are on a motorcycle. Since PCVs are forbidden to ride motos, I’m riding my bike, currently panting and pouring sweat and looking quite miserable).
Woman #1: Michelle! You’re tired!
Me: Yep.
Woman #2: Michelle, are you tired?
Me: Yep, I’m tired.
Woman #1, speaking to Woman #2: Wow, look at Michelle, she’s tired.
Woman #2: Michelle, you’re really really tired!
Me: (Thinking to myself: Why yes, I AM tired. It’s 2:30 in the afternoon, the hottest part of the day, and I’m riding my bike through SAND in the direct sunlight. Yep, I’m tired! And asking me every 5 seconds if I’m tired is sapping what little energy I have left!) Out loud: Yep. I’m really really tired.
Woman #1: Wow, you’re really tired.
Despite the repetitiveness and occasional annoyance (aka Scenario #4), I actually appreciate these seemingly pointless conversations. I can’t say much else, so at least conversations like these give me interaction with the community! You have to start somewhere, right?
Sunday, June 5, 2011
ID Crisis, Continued
My ID Crisis continues. I made a point to keep introducing myself as Damadje rather than Michelle when I came here. But of course some people had already learned me as Michelle. And for awhile the health center staff continued to introduce me to new people as Michelle, although they’re trying to call me Damadje now. The kids usually call me Michelli – a lot of French words become Bambara words by adding “-i” at the end – (“Banki” and “posti” for bank and post) although the ones who hang out at my house switch back and forth pretty regularly. My host family originally wanted to name me Mariam, and the dugutigi (village chief) of the village on the other side of the road decided I should be “Mam,” a nickname for Mariam, so occasionally one of them will joke around and call me Mariam or Mam. Just last week the head of the health center joked that I need a Minianka name – he suggested Niere.
As for last name, when I first visited, I was introduced as a Doumbia. After I moved here I switched my name to Sogoba, as I was the only Doumbia in village and my new host family are Sogobas. However, it seems that Sogobas are also pretty rare in this area of Mali. Instead, we have tons of Coulibalys. Besides, since Coulibalys are the butt of all Malian Joking Cousins jokes, everyone always asks if you’re a Coulibaly anyway.
On top of everything else, Damadje seems to be difficult to remember/pronounce. So I get any combination of Michelle, Michelli, Damadje and all of its variations (Samadje, Damagay, etc), Mariam, and Mam, Niere; and Doumbia, Sogoba, and Coulibaly. And of course, Toubab. The littlest kids are learning that I won’t respond to Toubab anymore, but usually they’re so excited to see me walk by that they start jumping up and down and yelling “Toubabu! Toubabu!” until they remember they have to call me Michelli to get a response.
While we’re on names, have I explained why my name, Damadje (pronounced Dah-ma-jay, and spelled Damadiaye by some people) is such a difficulty? Apparently I was named after my homestay great-great-great grandmother. So the way I figure, I’m kind of like the American equivalent of a Muriel. One of those old-time names that no one really names their kids anymore. I got so frustrated with people here not understanding my name that finally one day I complained, “You know, Damadje is a Malian name – it’s not American!!”
It could be worse. Two other girls from my stage also were placed in the San area. One was given the Malian name ɲamanto Sako, the other Buguri Coulibaly. ɲamanto means “trash pile” and Buguri means “dust/dirt.” Malians – and Africans in general, as far as I know – will give their kids terrible names if several children have previously passed away young. It’s supposed to be a deterrant to Death – “Nope, you don’t want this one, this one is ‘Trash!’” Which is great and all, but why would you name your American “child” a crap name? Buguri at least was named after her homestay grandmother, but ɲamanto seems to have come from nowhere in particular.
The three of us were walking in San one day when a man stopped us in the street (as often happens to us toubabs) to say hi and ask our names. I went first, and it took him a couple of tries to get it right. ɲamanto went next, and the man started to giggle. Finally Buguri went and the man doubled over laughing – poor girl is named “dust” and has the last name that is most made fun of out of any Malian last name! In addition, her village’s name is Samakele Buguru, which just makes it that much worse, since it sounds like she named herself after her village.
ɲamanto has since changed her name. She is now Nana Traore (chosen by her new host family). Buguri is sticking it out. Power to you, “Dust Bean-Eater!”
As for last name, when I first visited, I was introduced as a Doumbia. After I moved here I switched my name to Sogoba, as I was the only Doumbia in village and my new host family are Sogobas. However, it seems that Sogobas are also pretty rare in this area of Mali. Instead, we have tons of Coulibalys. Besides, since Coulibalys are the butt of all Malian Joking Cousins jokes, everyone always asks if you’re a Coulibaly anyway.
On top of everything else, Damadje seems to be difficult to remember/pronounce. So I get any combination of Michelle, Michelli, Damadje and all of its variations (Samadje, Damagay, etc), Mariam, and Mam, Niere; and Doumbia, Sogoba, and Coulibaly. And of course, Toubab. The littlest kids are learning that I won’t respond to Toubab anymore, but usually they’re so excited to see me walk by that they start jumping up and down and yelling “Toubabu! Toubabu!” until they remember they have to call me Michelli to get a response.
While we’re on names, have I explained why my name, Damadje (pronounced Dah-ma-jay, and spelled Damadiaye by some people) is such a difficulty? Apparently I was named after my homestay great-great-great grandmother. So the way I figure, I’m kind of like the American equivalent of a Muriel. One of those old-time names that no one really names their kids anymore. I got so frustrated with people here not understanding my name that finally one day I complained, “You know, Damadje is a Malian name – it’s not American!!”
It could be worse. Two other girls from my stage also were placed in the San area. One was given the Malian name ɲamanto Sako, the other Buguri Coulibaly. ɲamanto means “trash pile” and Buguri means “dust/dirt.” Malians – and Africans in general, as far as I know – will give their kids terrible names if several children have previously passed away young. It’s supposed to be a deterrant to Death – “Nope, you don’t want this one, this one is ‘Trash!’” Which is great and all, but why would you name your American “child” a crap name? Buguri at least was named after her homestay grandmother, but ɲamanto seems to have come from nowhere in particular.
The three of us were walking in San one day when a man stopped us in the street (as often happens to us toubabs) to say hi and ask our names. I went first, and it took him a couple of tries to get it right. ɲamanto went next, and the man started to giggle. Finally Buguri went and the man doubled over laughing – poor girl is named “dust” and has the last name that is most made fun of out of any Malian last name! In addition, her village’s name is Samakele Buguru, which just makes it that much worse, since it sounds like she named herself after her village.
ɲamanto has since changed her name. She is now Nana Traore (chosen by her new host family). Buguri is sticking it out. Power to you, “Dust Bean-Eater!”
Hot Season, Part 2
How I know Hot Season is (still) here:
*I have to wear a bandanna around my neck while writing in my journal. Otherwise the sweat collects under my chin and drips onto the pages. Seriously.
*I have to have not 1 but 2, and sometimes 3 “sweat rags,” one of which I carry around with me at all times wherever I go. The reason I have several is because I have to let them dry out every now and then, as they become quite soaked.
*I wake up at 3 in the morning with my pillow soaked all the way through, and it’s still 95 degrees.
*Cheaper jewelry that I never had a problem with before turns my skin green from all the sweat pouring out. The nicer jewelry is all turning black. The only other time it ever did that was after a nice long soak in the sulfur hot springs of Rotorua, New Zealand.
*After a particularly fierce dust storm, I have lines of dust imbedded into my shirt across my stomach, where I previously had lines of sweat from sitting and the shirt-cloth folding.
*I come home in the middle of the day, walk into my house, and think “Ah! Much cooler!” It’s 95 degrees in my house.
*The best one: One day after leaving Bamako, post-Swear In, my nighttime mouthpiece melted in the sun at the San stage house. That’s right. I hadn’t even made it to site yet. Two weeks into site, I had to go back to Bamako to go to the dentist and get the mouthpiece fixed. Which meant another 8 hour bus ride, no air conditioning, one stop. And since I was alone this time, I didn’t feel comfortable being out of the bus and leaving my things any longer than necessary, so even during our stop I was sitting in the stationary bus in 120 degree heat. Argggh.
Speaking of Bamako, that was a great break from the frustrations of adjusting to site! My room had air conditioning, I could sit inside all day and watch movies and TV, and soft serve ice cream was only a 5-minute walk around the corner. Paradise.
Bamako is an interesting place, I’m starting to realize the more time I spend there. You really have two very different worlds coming together. For instance, my first night there some friends took me out to a legit Italian restaurant, where I ate real pizza and drank real wine and finished it all off with real chocolate mousse. I’m drooling just thinking about it. The meal cost me $22 American dollars. The next night I went to the lady selling rice and sauce on the street just around the corner from the PC house and had a meal, just as filling, for 40 American cents. I went to the American Club one night to play Pub Trivia with other PCVs and ex-pats. It was perhaps the best trivia experience I’ve ever had – for once I was useful!! I’m looking forward to spending more time in Bamako and seeing what other kinds of surprises are out there. I hear there’s a salsa club…
Back to hot season. I’m starting to wonder if coming to Mali was a bad choice for the effects it will have on the rest of my life, temperature-wise. I decided long ago that I’m cold-blooded – anything under 78 and I’m cold! I always liked mid-80s the best. When I have my initial Peace Corps interview (in November of 2009!) I strongly “hinted” that I wanted to be placed in sub-Saharan Africa, but I did say that I would go anywhere in the world – as long as it wasn’t cold! Five years of living in Boston had killed my appreciation for winter and I came to dread the approaching 6 months of being continuously cold. So I was thrilled to learn Mali was my placement, especially when I read Mali’s climate is most comparable to Arizona – my favorite place in the US.
And then I moved to Mali. Hot season definitely takes some adjustment, and I’m glad we worked our way into it slowly. But now that I’ve been living in it for awhile, I’d say I’ve definitely adjusted. Sure, it’s still ungodly hot, and all those points I made above can be unbearable at times. But overall, I much prefer this to 6 months of cold in Boston! And I think my tolerance for cold has decreased even more. Take, for instance, sleeping. My first night in Mali is was 75° and I was happy. My second night in Mali it was 85° and I could barely sleep. After living here for 4 months, I now think anything 95° or hotter is pretty awful to sleep in. 90°-95° is tolerable. 85°-90° is great. Below 85° is cold, or at least chilly enough for me to use my light blanket. I woke up half an hour early one morning last week after a rain storm and it was 80° and I couldn’t get back to sleep because it was too chilly. Even the other PCVs think I’m nuts. So now I’m wondering…what on earth am I going to do when I go back home and 10 months out of the year are guaranteed below 80°?!?
*I have to wear a bandanna around my neck while writing in my journal. Otherwise the sweat collects under my chin and drips onto the pages. Seriously.
*I have to have not 1 but 2, and sometimes 3 “sweat rags,” one of which I carry around with me at all times wherever I go. The reason I have several is because I have to let them dry out every now and then, as they become quite soaked.
*I wake up at 3 in the morning with my pillow soaked all the way through, and it’s still 95 degrees.
*Cheaper jewelry that I never had a problem with before turns my skin green from all the sweat pouring out. The nicer jewelry is all turning black. The only other time it ever did that was after a nice long soak in the sulfur hot springs of Rotorua, New Zealand.
*After a particularly fierce dust storm, I have lines of dust imbedded into my shirt across my stomach, where I previously had lines of sweat from sitting and the shirt-cloth folding.
*I come home in the middle of the day, walk into my house, and think “Ah! Much cooler!” It’s 95 degrees in my house.
*The best one: One day after leaving Bamako, post-Swear In, my nighttime mouthpiece melted in the sun at the San stage house. That’s right. I hadn’t even made it to site yet. Two weeks into site, I had to go back to Bamako to go to the dentist and get the mouthpiece fixed. Which meant another 8 hour bus ride, no air conditioning, one stop. And since I was alone this time, I didn’t feel comfortable being out of the bus and leaving my things any longer than necessary, so even during our stop I was sitting in the stationary bus in 120 degree heat. Argggh.
Speaking of Bamako, that was a great break from the frustrations of adjusting to site! My room had air conditioning, I could sit inside all day and watch movies and TV, and soft serve ice cream was only a 5-minute walk around the corner. Paradise.
Bamako is an interesting place, I’m starting to realize the more time I spend there. You really have two very different worlds coming together. For instance, my first night there some friends took me out to a legit Italian restaurant, where I ate real pizza and drank real wine and finished it all off with real chocolate mousse. I’m drooling just thinking about it. The meal cost me $22 American dollars. The next night I went to the lady selling rice and sauce on the street just around the corner from the PC house and had a meal, just as filling, for 40 American cents. I went to the American Club one night to play Pub Trivia with other PCVs and ex-pats. It was perhaps the best trivia experience I’ve ever had – for once I was useful!! I’m looking forward to spending more time in Bamako and seeing what other kinds of surprises are out there. I hear there’s a salsa club…
Back to hot season. I’m starting to wonder if coming to Mali was a bad choice for the effects it will have on the rest of my life, temperature-wise. I decided long ago that I’m cold-blooded – anything under 78 and I’m cold! I always liked mid-80s the best. When I have my initial Peace Corps interview (in November of 2009!) I strongly “hinted” that I wanted to be placed in sub-Saharan Africa, but I did say that I would go anywhere in the world – as long as it wasn’t cold! Five years of living in Boston had killed my appreciation for winter and I came to dread the approaching 6 months of being continuously cold. So I was thrilled to learn Mali was my placement, especially when I read Mali’s climate is most comparable to Arizona – my favorite place in the US.
And then I moved to Mali. Hot season definitely takes some adjustment, and I’m glad we worked our way into it slowly. But now that I’ve been living in it for awhile, I’d say I’ve definitely adjusted. Sure, it’s still ungodly hot, and all those points I made above can be unbearable at times. But overall, I much prefer this to 6 months of cold in Boston! And I think my tolerance for cold has decreased even more. Take, for instance, sleeping. My first night in Mali is was 75° and I was happy. My second night in Mali it was 85° and I could barely sleep. After living here for 4 months, I now think anything 95° or hotter is pretty awful to sleep in. 90°-95° is tolerable. 85°-90° is great. Below 85° is cold, or at least chilly enough for me to use my light blanket. I woke up half an hour early one morning last week after a rain storm and it was 80° and I couldn’t get back to sleep because it was too chilly. Even the other PCVs think I’m nuts. So now I’m wondering…what on earth am I going to do when I go back home and 10 months out of the year are guaranteed below 80°?!?
A Day In the Life, Part 2
Ok. now that I got that out of the way, I can give you a summary of a day in my life.
I get up at 6am. I know, you can’t believe it, right? Well, let me remind you that I’m smack in the middle of hot season, and 6am just so happens to be a lot cooler than, say, 10am. I enjoy the cooler weather enough to get up at 6. There’s also the added bonus of the extra time alone before the kids come clambering at my door, or Djeneba comes to get me to go to the CSCOM (health center).
So up at 6, I usually take some time to stretch and do some basic yoga. I started this because my back was in a lot of pain from sleeping on my camping air mattress every night and not doing much physical activity. Although I now sleep on a real mattress, and I try to move around more, I still do my morning stretching. Daily stretching was something I always wanted to incorporate into my life but never had the time. And it feels good to start the day off with stretching and get-up-and-go music: aka Akon. I finish off with my inspirational yoga music and sun salutes, which are way cooler when you’re doing them facing the rising sun in Africa.
The rest of my morning is busy: I make my breakfast (usually oatmeal which I never ate in the US), I make tea, I wash my dishes from dinner the night before (too hard to do at night with no light), I take down my mattress/mosquito net setup, I sweep my house and courtyard, and I take a bucket bath and get myself ready for the day. I can easily fill up 3 hours this way and still be rushing to be ready by 9. (Or by 8:30 or 9:52 or 7:15 or whatever time I’m picked up. Watches aren’t very popular here).
Djeneba and I head to the CSCOM where, unless it’s Tuesday, we’re in for a pretty uneventful day. Not much happens at the CSCOM most days. We sit inside or outside. We talk. We nap. We sit. I read or study Bambara. Someone makes tea. We sit. I think you get the picture. There’s a lot of down time. And since my current Bambara skills make me a pretty poor conversationalist, I sit quietly…a lot!
I’m learning, as I’m sure every PCV learns, that sitting is a skill, as is thinking. I spend a lot of time in my own head these days. For instance, last week I attended a community meeting with about 20 other people, to discuss my commune’s official 15 year plan. There was a PowerPoint and everything! It was also in French, which I don’t speak. Luckily French is fairly readable if you know English, which I do, so I was able to follow along and get the main picture. But past the health and gender topics, I lost interest, somewhere around how many kilos of millet are grown in the commune’s 28 villages every year. So I sat. Did I mention the meeting lasted for 7 hours? We had a 45-minute lunch break, in which I clumsily spilled rice all over the floor since I’m totally out of practice eating with my hands. But yes. I sat. For 7 hours. And thought. A lot. I’m learning how to not think, which Buddhists would applaud. I’m reading a book about meditation – I feel like this is an excellent point in my life to learn the skill.
But I digress. I mentioned that Tuesdays are different. Tuesdays are both Prenatal Consultation day as well as baby-weighing/vaccination day, so the mornings are full of pregnant women and babies. Often together. I can’t imagine being a Malian woman. Since I’m 24 – rapidly approaching 25 – I would be married with at least 3 kids by now. The kids here are shocked when I tell them how old I am – I’m practically ancient!
Anyway, I’ve learned how to help out with both activities. If I’m with the PNCs, I’m weighing women, taking their height, and measuring pregnant bellies. If I’m with the babies – which I prefer! – I’m weighing babies and recording information on growth charts. My first time helping I got to weigh 15-day old twins – they were sooo tiny! I also almost let another baby fall out of the “weighing pants” – think of a pair of plastic shorts hanging off the bottom of a fruits-and-veggies scale. That’s what a baby scale looks like. And even if you properly follow procedure for weighing a baby, they’re squirmy little buggers! Thankfully one of the doctors caught the little guy before he face-planted on the cement ground, 3 feet down. I about threw up.
We’re pretty low on babies these days. Normally every week our baby vaccinator spends 3 days traveling to each of our commune’s 28 villages to vaccinate, but we’re currently out of one of the standard medicines (I haven’t figured out which one). So he’s not traveling, and moms aren’t coming. We’ve been out of this med for over a month, since the day before I arrived. Naturally I asked why we don’t get more from San. Apparently San is out, as is our entire region of Segou! It’s hard for me to grasp this – that would never happen in America. That’s what happens when you live in one of the poorest countries in the world…
Lunch is at the CSCOM, and afternoons are usually more of the same: sit, read, nap, chat, study, sit, etc. I usually leave somewhere between 3 and 5. It’s a toss up: if I go home, I can maybe nap or get some things done around my house, but the kids will soon realize I’m home and start clambering to come in. If I stay at the CSCOM, I can maybe nap, maybe read, not get any alone time but probably be more productive. Lately I’ve been opting for the CSCOM. It’s not that I don’t like the kids, it’s just that I still have several hours ahead of me of their company!
The neighborhood kids have found me fascinating from the start, and spend every available moment at my house in my courtyard. I realized shortly into living here that I would need a way to entertain the kids. Otherwise they would just sit around me and stare at me, and that gets old after awhile (For me, that is. Not for them. They’re perfectly content to stare at me all day). Since the majority of the kids who come over are little boys, I bought a soccer ball. What a stroke of genius! The ball serves several purposes. It gets the kids out of my way and occupied with something else so I can get things done. It gives the kids something to do since they have nothing else to do all day. It gives me an excuse to run around and interact with the kids, it gives me a form of community socialization, and it’s a great bribe. “Nope, no ball today, you wouldn’t leave me alone long enough to nap!” It’s also made me quite popular, especially since they’ve never seen a 24-year old white girl do a header – that gets applause everytime!
Slowly slowly we’re learning how to live with each other. If the kids leave me in peace in the mornings and in the afternoons if I come home early, they get to play with the ball for several hours, look through my photo album for the millionth time, look at themselves in the mirror while wearing my bike helmet, play with my radio (somehow they have a special knack for finding the worst stations), and hang out at my house while I’m cooking dinner, eating, and well past dark until I finally kick them out so I can go to bed. It’s an interesting lifestyle but I’m getting used to it. I realized I don’t always have to entertain them; I can go about my business and they’ll entertain themselves. When I’m cooking dinner it’s usually a competition of radios: they have my Malian radio outside and I have my iPod inside.
Later, I bring my iPod outside and we do the Chicken Dance, also for the millionth time. I learned during my 2-week stint in Niger several years ago that kids of all backgrounds love the Chicken Dance! Sometimes the adults come by to watch and laugh at the ridiculous site we must make: me standing on my front step, closely circled by 10-15 little boys, all of us flapping our wings and wiggling our butts by lamplight. Sometimes I share cookies or candy, and I lay on the ground on my mat while they crowd around and draw pictures in the dirt and show off their “karate skills,” and pull my toes and make their hands into whistles and generally show off in whatever way they can think of. I wish I could understand them better; they’d be a great way to get accustomed to the language here. Although I’ve banned them from speaking Minianka at my house, even when they speak Bambara I find it extremely hard to communicate. Several times I’ve asked my 11-year old host brother, Sinali, “Do you speak Bambara?!” For some reason with him I can’t even recognize the sounds! It’s a shame, because he’s the oldest kid I hang out with and he’s very animated and lively and always wants to chat. I feel like I could learn so much from him if I could just figure out what he’s talking about!
That’s pretty much my day. Sometimes I go out in various areas around the village to play clapping and chanting games with the girls, but I tend to draw a crowd and being surrounded by 40 screaming and giggling girls at the end of the day starts to wear on me, so I don’t play with the girls as much. After I’m alone for the night, I drag my bed setup outside, take my bucket bath, write in my journal, and read parts of several books. I have special “bedtime books” where I’ll read a chapter a night to make them last longer. Always inspirational things, like Chicken Soup for the Volunteer’s Soul or a collection of Peace Corps stories. It seems like a good way to end the night.
I get up at 6am. I know, you can’t believe it, right? Well, let me remind you that I’m smack in the middle of hot season, and 6am just so happens to be a lot cooler than, say, 10am. I enjoy the cooler weather enough to get up at 6. There’s also the added bonus of the extra time alone before the kids come clambering at my door, or Djeneba comes to get me to go to the CSCOM (health center).
So up at 6, I usually take some time to stretch and do some basic yoga. I started this because my back was in a lot of pain from sleeping on my camping air mattress every night and not doing much physical activity. Although I now sleep on a real mattress, and I try to move around more, I still do my morning stretching. Daily stretching was something I always wanted to incorporate into my life but never had the time. And it feels good to start the day off with stretching and get-up-and-go music: aka Akon. I finish off with my inspirational yoga music and sun salutes, which are way cooler when you’re doing them facing the rising sun in Africa.
The rest of my morning is busy: I make my breakfast (usually oatmeal which I never ate in the US), I make tea, I wash my dishes from dinner the night before (too hard to do at night with no light), I take down my mattress/mosquito net setup, I sweep my house and courtyard, and I take a bucket bath and get myself ready for the day. I can easily fill up 3 hours this way and still be rushing to be ready by 9. (Or by 8:30 or 9:52 or 7:15 or whatever time I’m picked up. Watches aren’t very popular here).
Djeneba and I head to the CSCOM where, unless it’s Tuesday, we’re in for a pretty uneventful day. Not much happens at the CSCOM most days. We sit inside or outside. We talk. We nap. We sit. I read or study Bambara. Someone makes tea. We sit. I think you get the picture. There’s a lot of down time. And since my current Bambara skills make me a pretty poor conversationalist, I sit quietly…a lot!
I’m learning, as I’m sure every PCV learns, that sitting is a skill, as is thinking. I spend a lot of time in my own head these days. For instance, last week I attended a community meeting with about 20 other people, to discuss my commune’s official 15 year plan. There was a PowerPoint and everything! It was also in French, which I don’t speak. Luckily French is fairly readable if you know English, which I do, so I was able to follow along and get the main picture. But past the health and gender topics, I lost interest, somewhere around how many kilos of millet are grown in the commune’s 28 villages every year. So I sat. Did I mention the meeting lasted for 7 hours? We had a 45-minute lunch break, in which I clumsily spilled rice all over the floor since I’m totally out of practice eating with my hands. But yes. I sat. For 7 hours. And thought. A lot. I’m learning how to not think, which Buddhists would applaud. I’m reading a book about meditation – I feel like this is an excellent point in my life to learn the skill.
But I digress. I mentioned that Tuesdays are different. Tuesdays are both Prenatal Consultation day as well as baby-weighing/vaccination day, so the mornings are full of pregnant women and babies. Often together. I can’t imagine being a Malian woman. Since I’m 24 – rapidly approaching 25 – I would be married with at least 3 kids by now. The kids here are shocked when I tell them how old I am – I’m practically ancient!
Anyway, I’ve learned how to help out with both activities. If I’m with the PNCs, I’m weighing women, taking their height, and measuring pregnant bellies. If I’m with the babies – which I prefer! – I’m weighing babies and recording information on growth charts. My first time helping I got to weigh 15-day old twins – they were sooo tiny! I also almost let another baby fall out of the “weighing pants” – think of a pair of plastic shorts hanging off the bottom of a fruits-and-veggies scale. That’s what a baby scale looks like. And even if you properly follow procedure for weighing a baby, they’re squirmy little buggers! Thankfully one of the doctors caught the little guy before he face-planted on the cement ground, 3 feet down. I about threw up.
We’re pretty low on babies these days. Normally every week our baby vaccinator spends 3 days traveling to each of our commune’s 28 villages to vaccinate, but we’re currently out of one of the standard medicines (I haven’t figured out which one). So he’s not traveling, and moms aren’t coming. We’ve been out of this med for over a month, since the day before I arrived. Naturally I asked why we don’t get more from San. Apparently San is out, as is our entire region of Segou! It’s hard for me to grasp this – that would never happen in America. That’s what happens when you live in one of the poorest countries in the world…
Lunch is at the CSCOM, and afternoons are usually more of the same: sit, read, nap, chat, study, sit, etc. I usually leave somewhere between 3 and 5. It’s a toss up: if I go home, I can maybe nap or get some things done around my house, but the kids will soon realize I’m home and start clambering to come in. If I stay at the CSCOM, I can maybe nap, maybe read, not get any alone time but probably be more productive. Lately I’ve been opting for the CSCOM. It’s not that I don’t like the kids, it’s just that I still have several hours ahead of me of their company!
The neighborhood kids have found me fascinating from the start, and spend every available moment at my house in my courtyard. I realized shortly into living here that I would need a way to entertain the kids. Otherwise they would just sit around me and stare at me, and that gets old after awhile (For me, that is. Not for them. They’re perfectly content to stare at me all day). Since the majority of the kids who come over are little boys, I bought a soccer ball. What a stroke of genius! The ball serves several purposes. It gets the kids out of my way and occupied with something else so I can get things done. It gives the kids something to do since they have nothing else to do all day. It gives me an excuse to run around and interact with the kids, it gives me a form of community socialization, and it’s a great bribe. “Nope, no ball today, you wouldn’t leave me alone long enough to nap!” It’s also made me quite popular, especially since they’ve never seen a 24-year old white girl do a header – that gets applause everytime!
Slowly slowly we’re learning how to live with each other. If the kids leave me in peace in the mornings and in the afternoons if I come home early, they get to play with the ball for several hours, look through my photo album for the millionth time, look at themselves in the mirror while wearing my bike helmet, play with my radio (somehow they have a special knack for finding the worst stations), and hang out at my house while I’m cooking dinner, eating, and well past dark until I finally kick them out so I can go to bed. It’s an interesting lifestyle but I’m getting used to it. I realized I don’t always have to entertain them; I can go about my business and they’ll entertain themselves. When I’m cooking dinner it’s usually a competition of radios: they have my Malian radio outside and I have my iPod inside.
Later, I bring my iPod outside and we do the Chicken Dance, also for the millionth time. I learned during my 2-week stint in Niger several years ago that kids of all backgrounds love the Chicken Dance! Sometimes the adults come by to watch and laugh at the ridiculous site we must make: me standing on my front step, closely circled by 10-15 little boys, all of us flapping our wings and wiggling our butts by lamplight. Sometimes I share cookies or candy, and I lay on the ground on my mat while they crowd around and draw pictures in the dirt and show off their “karate skills,” and pull my toes and make their hands into whistles and generally show off in whatever way they can think of. I wish I could understand them better; they’d be a great way to get accustomed to the language here. Although I’ve banned them from speaking Minianka at my house, even when they speak Bambara I find it extremely hard to communicate. Several times I’ve asked my 11-year old host brother, Sinali, “Do you speak Bambara?!” For some reason with him I can’t even recognize the sounds! It’s a shame, because he’s the oldest kid I hang out with and he’s very animated and lively and always wants to chat. I feel like I could learn so much from him if I could just figure out what he’s talking about!
That’s pretty much my day. Sometimes I go out in various areas around the village to play clapping and chanting games with the girls, but I tend to draw a crowd and being surrounded by 40 screaming and giggling girls at the end of the day starts to wear on me, so I don’t play with the girls as much. After I’m alone for the night, I drag my bed setup outside, take my bucket bath, write in my journal, and read parts of several books. I have special “bedtime books” where I’ll read a chapter a night to make them last longer. Always inspirational things, like Chicken Soup for the Volunteer’s Soul or a collection of Peace Corps stories. It seems like a good way to end the night.
Welcome Back!
It’s hard to believe that I’ve been at site for nearly 7 weeks now! Sometimes the time seems to crawl by, but mostly it flies. To speak honestly of my experience up till now, it’s been tough. The beginning was really hard – hard enough to make me constantly think about throwing in the towel and coming home. But I really do want to be here, and I’m determined to make it work. Besides, I keet telling myself I can’t come home until I finish the requirements for my Master’s, because otherwise I’d have to go back to school and I am NOT doing that!! So here I am. :)
A brief summary of my struggles:
1. Language.
Oh my, the language. It’s so overwhelming! I was doing really well with language before I came to site. You’d think here I would be forced to get better, and I hope someday that turns out to be true. But for right now, it is a daily struggle to get through basic communication. First of all, Minianka is most people’s first language here, and therefore the one they tend to speak with each other in village. I’ve finally reached a point where I can tell when they’re speaking Miniaka instead of Bambara, but that doesn’t get me anywhere.
Furthermore, Bambara isn’t really an “academic” language. When kids go to school in Mali they learn French. Bambara is learned at home – often as a second language – so unless someone goes way high up in education – university-level – which an obscenely small number of Malians do – Bambara isn’t learned as a written language. In fact, there was no written language for Bambara until the 1970s. Because of all these reasons, Bambara has developed differently in different areas of Mali. I told my friend, who also lives in the area, that I feel like a foreigner who had learned basic English with the “standard American accent” and then been sent to live in the Deep South. She took it a step farther and said she felt like we were living in the Louisiana Bayou – so at least I’m not alone in my struggles! And as my PC supervisor reminded me, it’s this way for all PCVs. Bambara is different everywhere, so we all have to just suck it up and deal with it and learn to live with it. Which I’m trying to do. I’m a lot better now at communicating with the people I see everyday, which is encouraging. I still can’t get much past greetings with anyone else, but hey, it’s progress.
2. Privacy
This is such a cultural-based problem! As an American adult (stop laughing, Aunt Mel!) I am accustomed to privacy – lots of it. Even though I lived in a large dorm for my 5 years at BU, for the last 2 years I lived alone in my little room. I could put my headphones in while taking the bus to class. At the library I went into cubicles and cocooned myself away for hours on end. As much as I enjoy spending time with my family and friends, I’m a person who really likes and needs my alone time.
Mali and Malians are very, very different. Village life is extremely communal. Families are large and often extended. Unless it’s raining, life is happening outside. Virtually nothing happens inside. You know the expression “It takes a village to raise a child”? That had to have come out of Africa. I swear, I’m raising kids here! Kids come and go as they please in and out of anyone’s home, including – and especially! - mine. It’s not unusual for me to wander over to my host family’s house and be followed by 10 kids who then plant themselves all over my family’s courtyard, furniture, and occasionally laps. To which no one bats an eye.
And speaking of homes and courtyards, they are also very public. Virtually no one has an enclosed, private home. I’m the only one in village with walls on 4 sides that are higher than a person’s head. I’m the only one with a door to my compound, and on top of that, the door locks. If I don’t lock it, even if it’s closed, at any point during the day or night, someone will inevitably walk on in, usually within 5 minutes of it being unlocked. So while yes, I have things to help ensure my privacy, these things make me different, and that makes people curious. Which means they come over. And if they can’t get in, they knock till I let them in. Which makes napping hard. =/
The kids were especially difficult at first. The adults are busy with their own lives, but the kids literally have nothing to do except go check out the new attraction in town – the white girl. I’ve had to train the kids not to climb my walls, not to walk into my house when I’m sleeping, not to bug the crap out of me by climbing their own walls and yelling into my compound, and not to knock on my door at 6:30 in the morning or 10:00 at night. It’s an ongoing process, and we’re still working on it. I’ve found bribery to be a great tool, but more on that later.
So in summary, it’s hard to get alone time, which most Americans really do need.
3. Self-Sufficiency
That whole privacy thing I just talked about, I didn’t mention that I’m pretty sure I’m also the only person in the whole village who lives alone. People just don’t do that here. The way Malians think, why on earth would anyone want to live alone? Like I said, life is communal and public. Privacy is not much of a concept here, and therefore neither is living alone.
My homologue (Djeneba), bless her heart, decided to save me from such an awful fate by sending her 10-year old daughter (or 12, depending on what day you ask) to live with me. Now, I love kids. But this was not an ideal situation for me. It sounds like I’d be baby-sitting, right? Well, not really. It occasionally felt like that, but most of the time it felt like I was the one being baby-sat. Alima (Djeneba’s daughter) did everything for me. Djeneba cooked my dinner every night which Alima and I would eat. Alima would heat up the leftovers in the morning for breakfast, and make tea. She’d sweep the courtyard. She’d get everything ready for the day – all starting an hour before I wanted to wake up, and all about 5 feet from my head. After breakfast, Alima would get my bathwater for me. She or Djeneba would walk me to the health center. One of them would walk me home in the afternoon, and Alima would immediately be back at my house to entertain me and take care of everything for me. And at night, she’d lay her mat a foot from my bug hut and sleep next to me – in between me and the door, you know, to protect me in case any bad guys scaled the wall, I suppose. Basically I was under 24-hour a day supervision. It got to the point where I started taking my keys out of the door after I unlocked it, just so I could be the one to relock the door later. I had to have something to do all by myself!
The major problem here was just a different way of thinking. If nothing else, a BA in Anthropology taught me how to think differently. That’s all well and good in the classroom, but in real life, in circumstances like these, it’s hard to remember that not everyone thinks alike! To make matters more difficult, I didn’t know if this was a temporary arrangement to ease me into life here, or if it was meant to be permanent – and I didn’t have the language skills to ask. I was also really wary of somehow causing offense – after all, I’m going to be living here for the next 2 years, and Djeneba is my main counterpart!
After 8 days of increasing frustration and unhappiness, I had to get some peace. Thankfully, I was due for a trip into San to get some groceries so I could start cooking for myself (a step toward independence). As luck would have it, the bank was closed for Easter Monday (let me take this moment to remind you 95% of the country is Muslim and most of the rest are Animist) and I was forced to spend the night in San so I could go to the bank the next day, then go to market to buy my food. It was a much-needed break, and I also got the chance to talk over my situation with some veteran PCVs.
I came away from San feeling more peaceful, and with a better understanding of the Malian point of view. I’m the first PCV to ever be in my site, so as new as this whole experience is for me, it’s new for all of the Malians as well. That’s a lot of pressure for them! Everyone, but especially Djeneba was doing their best to do everything possible to make me feel as comfortable as possible – she even gave up having her 10-year old daughter at home to be with me. That’s pretty awesome. I mean, it drove me nuts, but it’s the thought that counts, and that was a lot of thought!
In Peace Corps we talk a lot about opportunities for cultural exchange. This was one of those. I could share American culture with my community by explaining that not only do Americans often live alone, but we like it. I really wanted to live alone! They may not understand it, just as I don’t understand everything about Malian culture, but they respect it. As a friend explained, it’s ok to tell my community what I want and need. I’m meeting them more than halfway on most cultural things, and they’ll be willing to make some adjustments for my comfort as well.
And I can now say that I am happily living alone – a huge step forward for me! So there are days where I can totally see myself living here for 2 years, and days when I can’t imagine making it till the end of the day. Often both feelings happen in the same day. Luckily, the good is starting to outweigh the bad, and I am confident that it’ll be uphill from here.
A brief summary of my struggles:
1. Language.
Oh my, the language. It’s so overwhelming! I was doing really well with language before I came to site. You’d think here I would be forced to get better, and I hope someday that turns out to be true. But for right now, it is a daily struggle to get through basic communication. First of all, Minianka is most people’s first language here, and therefore the one they tend to speak with each other in village. I’ve finally reached a point where I can tell when they’re speaking Miniaka instead of Bambara, but that doesn’t get me anywhere.
Furthermore, Bambara isn’t really an “academic” language. When kids go to school in Mali they learn French. Bambara is learned at home – often as a second language – so unless someone goes way high up in education – university-level – which an obscenely small number of Malians do – Bambara isn’t learned as a written language. In fact, there was no written language for Bambara until the 1970s. Because of all these reasons, Bambara has developed differently in different areas of Mali. I told my friend, who also lives in the area, that I feel like a foreigner who had learned basic English with the “standard American accent” and then been sent to live in the Deep South. She took it a step farther and said she felt like we were living in the Louisiana Bayou – so at least I’m not alone in my struggles! And as my PC supervisor reminded me, it’s this way for all PCVs. Bambara is different everywhere, so we all have to just suck it up and deal with it and learn to live with it. Which I’m trying to do. I’m a lot better now at communicating with the people I see everyday, which is encouraging. I still can’t get much past greetings with anyone else, but hey, it’s progress.
2. Privacy
This is such a cultural-based problem! As an American adult (stop laughing, Aunt Mel!) I am accustomed to privacy – lots of it. Even though I lived in a large dorm for my 5 years at BU, for the last 2 years I lived alone in my little room. I could put my headphones in while taking the bus to class. At the library I went into cubicles and cocooned myself away for hours on end. As much as I enjoy spending time with my family and friends, I’m a person who really likes and needs my alone time.
Mali and Malians are very, very different. Village life is extremely communal. Families are large and often extended. Unless it’s raining, life is happening outside. Virtually nothing happens inside. You know the expression “It takes a village to raise a child”? That had to have come out of Africa. I swear, I’m raising kids here! Kids come and go as they please in and out of anyone’s home, including – and especially! - mine. It’s not unusual for me to wander over to my host family’s house and be followed by 10 kids who then plant themselves all over my family’s courtyard, furniture, and occasionally laps. To which no one bats an eye.
And speaking of homes and courtyards, they are also very public. Virtually no one has an enclosed, private home. I’m the only one in village with walls on 4 sides that are higher than a person’s head. I’m the only one with a door to my compound, and on top of that, the door locks. If I don’t lock it, even if it’s closed, at any point during the day or night, someone will inevitably walk on in, usually within 5 minutes of it being unlocked. So while yes, I have things to help ensure my privacy, these things make me different, and that makes people curious. Which means they come over. And if they can’t get in, they knock till I let them in. Which makes napping hard. =/
The kids were especially difficult at first. The adults are busy with their own lives, but the kids literally have nothing to do except go check out the new attraction in town – the white girl. I’ve had to train the kids not to climb my walls, not to walk into my house when I’m sleeping, not to bug the crap out of me by climbing their own walls and yelling into my compound, and not to knock on my door at 6:30 in the morning or 10:00 at night. It’s an ongoing process, and we’re still working on it. I’ve found bribery to be a great tool, but more on that later.
So in summary, it’s hard to get alone time, which most Americans really do need.
3. Self-Sufficiency
That whole privacy thing I just talked about, I didn’t mention that I’m pretty sure I’m also the only person in the whole village who lives alone. People just don’t do that here. The way Malians think, why on earth would anyone want to live alone? Like I said, life is communal and public. Privacy is not much of a concept here, and therefore neither is living alone.
My homologue (Djeneba), bless her heart, decided to save me from such an awful fate by sending her 10-year old daughter (or 12, depending on what day you ask) to live with me. Now, I love kids. But this was not an ideal situation for me. It sounds like I’d be baby-sitting, right? Well, not really. It occasionally felt like that, but most of the time it felt like I was the one being baby-sat. Alima (Djeneba’s daughter) did everything for me. Djeneba cooked my dinner every night which Alima and I would eat. Alima would heat up the leftovers in the morning for breakfast, and make tea. She’d sweep the courtyard. She’d get everything ready for the day – all starting an hour before I wanted to wake up, and all about 5 feet from my head. After breakfast, Alima would get my bathwater for me. She or Djeneba would walk me to the health center. One of them would walk me home in the afternoon, and Alima would immediately be back at my house to entertain me and take care of everything for me. And at night, she’d lay her mat a foot from my bug hut and sleep next to me – in between me and the door, you know, to protect me in case any bad guys scaled the wall, I suppose. Basically I was under 24-hour a day supervision. It got to the point where I started taking my keys out of the door after I unlocked it, just so I could be the one to relock the door later. I had to have something to do all by myself!
The major problem here was just a different way of thinking. If nothing else, a BA in Anthropology taught me how to think differently. That’s all well and good in the classroom, but in real life, in circumstances like these, it’s hard to remember that not everyone thinks alike! To make matters more difficult, I didn’t know if this was a temporary arrangement to ease me into life here, or if it was meant to be permanent – and I didn’t have the language skills to ask. I was also really wary of somehow causing offense – after all, I’m going to be living here for the next 2 years, and Djeneba is my main counterpart!
After 8 days of increasing frustration and unhappiness, I had to get some peace. Thankfully, I was due for a trip into San to get some groceries so I could start cooking for myself (a step toward independence). As luck would have it, the bank was closed for Easter Monday (let me take this moment to remind you 95% of the country is Muslim and most of the rest are Animist) and I was forced to spend the night in San so I could go to the bank the next day, then go to market to buy my food. It was a much-needed break, and I also got the chance to talk over my situation with some veteran PCVs.
I came away from San feeling more peaceful, and with a better understanding of the Malian point of view. I’m the first PCV to ever be in my site, so as new as this whole experience is for me, it’s new for all of the Malians as well. That’s a lot of pressure for them! Everyone, but especially Djeneba was doing their best to do everything possible to make me feel as comfortable as possible – she even gave up having her 10-year old daughter at home to be with me. That’s pretty awesome. I mean, it drove me nuts, but it’s the thought that counts, and that was a lot of thought!
In Peace Corps we talk a lot about opportunities for cultural exchange. This was one of those. I could share American culture with my community by explaining that not only do Americans often live alone, but we like it. I really wanted to live alone! They may not understand it, just as I don’t understand everything about Malian culture, but they respect it. As a friend explained, it’s ok to tell my community what I want and need. I’m meeting them more than halfway on most cultural things, and they’ll be willing to make some adjustments for my comfort as well.
And I can now say that I am happily living alone – a huge step forward for me! So there are days where I can totally see myself living here for 2 years, and days when I can’t imagine making it till the end of the day. Often both feelings happen in the same day. Luckily, the good is starting to outweigh the bad, and I am confident that it’ll be uphill from here.
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