Sickness in Mali - In All the Gory Details

*Disclaimer: I’m giving you my real experience here. So if you don’t want to hear all the finer points of various illnesses, skip this post.

Being sick in Mali sucks. I mean, it really sucks. Being sick anywhere sucks, but in Mali it could be one of a million things most people have never even heard of. It’s a wonder PCVs make it through service without becoming hypochondriacs.

      “Oh my god my head hurts!! I must have malaria!!”
   “Oh no, my pee is red! I have schisto!!....Oh wait, I ate beets tonight.”

 Plus you don’t have the comforts of home, like vegging on the couch in front of the TV, toast, the sick blanket, easy-to-make-soup, temperature control, and a proper toilet to be sick in.

I made it 6 months without anything more than a cold, which I felt was pretty successful, considering the amount of germs that are passed around in a society where one of my main roles as a health educator is teaching people to wash their hands with soap. I hadn’t even had diarrhea once, a major feat!

But when it rains, it pours.

Sickness #1

All the PCVs in my group went to Bamako in June for 2 weeks of In-Service Training. Post-IST, many of us went to Manantali, a town in the southwest of Mali, to celebrate the 4^th of July. I’ve written a little bit about that experience. Tragically, I got sick the day Michaela and I left Bamako to go to her regional capital, Kita, and then on to Manantali. In a country with no roadside rest stops, being sick while traveling can be pretty terrifying. Luckily I was able to sleep most of the way to Kita, and Michaela The Pharmacy gave me some Imodium to get me to ‘Tali. The Mr. D (as PCVs fondly refer to diarrhea) tapered off for my vacation, which I was incredibly thankful for!

But it never really went away… I continued to have on-and-off Mr. D, mostly on, for the next 8 weeks. I woke up several times during the night to throw up my dinner. To be honest, none of this ever struck me as odd. I figured it was just my time to have the real Mali experience. PCVs are so constantly in a state of not-so-perfect health, that it really just becomes our way of life. So my gastrointestinal issues never really registered, until about 6 weeks later. Actually, Cisse, the CSCOM’s (health center) head doctor’s wife, noticed first. I was over at her house one day and she kept asking me what was wrong. I said I was fine, and she responded that I was quiet and something was wrong. I was annoyed by her persistence, but as it turned out, she was right. I was falling sick with my first major Malian illness.

A few days later I went to San for a Girls Night, a party to welcome our newest San volunteers, and several PC-related meetings. I was supposed to be gone for 4 days. That night I started to feel even more unwell than I had the previous weekend, and although I tried to go to bed early, it turned out I couldn’t sleep at all. I was unbelievably hot, later sweaty, with stomach pains so bad I couldn’t fall asleep. I was up until 6am when I finally managed to catch about an hour and a half of sleep. The next day I was on and off functional. Sometimes I felt ok, sometimes I couldn’t even sit up. Unfortunately, that was the night of the party to welcome the newbies, so all the San Kaw volunteers were at the house so we could do one giant meet-and-greet. It was pretty overwhelming, but I managed to buck up enough to chat with everyone. I did get some sleep that night, and in the morning I felt great, and was totally ready to go back to village the next day.

But then the next day came and I could barely move again. For the next 4 days I planned every day to go back to village, then realized I couldn’t eat, was barely sleeping, and for most of the day could barely walk to the bathroom the every hour that I needed to go. Life quickly got more miserable.

A silver lining, I discovered yet again what great friends I have! Where else can you find a group of friends willing to discuss with you the best way for taking a stool sample, and who will continue to give advice during the process? Or who will then transport your sample 8 hours and 3 days away for testing? Much love, San Kaw! :D

My first real Malian holiday, Selini (celebrating the end of Ramadan, the month of fasting) fell on a Tuesday, and I really wanted to be in my village for the celebration. I was determined to go no matter how I was feeling. Four of us were in the house together, and we made plans to take early-morning transport to our sites on Tuesday. Of course, it never once occurred to any of us that there wouldn’t be any transport on one of the biggest holidays of the year. We were sadly disappointed when we walked to the bus station early in the morning, only to find the doors locked, the benches put away, and not a soul in sight. I ended up celebrating the holiday by cleaning the house, which was probably for the best as I could still barely walk and would’ve been pretty miserable trying to celebrate with my village.

I finally made it back to my village after 10 days in San, rather than the original 4. I was exhausted – that sort of sickness just drains you – but I thought maybe I was doing better. The PC doctors in Bamako, whom I’d been in contact with, thought I was doing better. But for 3 days I basically slept at my house all day, only venturing out to have lunch at the CSCOM. That 3^rd night was another sleepless night, and unfortunately a rainy one, which meant I had to sleep inside where it was excruciatingly hot and humid. That was also the week I had my first and only mouse in my hut, so I heard it rummaging around in my trash a foot from my head (I was on the floor, safely zipped in my bug hut) the whole night. At 3am a migraine hit, and I finally passed out around 3:30, probably to escape the pain. When I woke at 7 the headache hadn’t passed. This was the last straw for me. I called the doctors and we agreed that I needed to come to Bamako. My village was great in helping me get ready to go. They had, of course, been checking up on me everyday. Djeneba sent Alima over to help me get my house ready to go. The women’s doctor came over with 2 malaria tests to make sure I didn’t have malaria (I didn’t). The head doctor came to check up on me. I was in San by early afternoon, and the next morning I left for Bamako.

As it turned out, I had somehow contracted both amoebas and amoebic cysts. Amoebas come from ingesting unsanitary water or food, and in the lifestyle we live here, that could have been any number of things. Amoebic cysts form when amoebas are in a hostile environment. They basically roll into a little ball and hibernate until they deem they can survive – which means if you don’t know you have them, you can suddenly get sick at any time. I finished a 3-day course of meds for the amoebas and started a 10-day course for the cysts. They do a number on your system, but it’s all worth it in the end! Most PCVs in Mali end up with amoebas at some point or another. The good thing is I now know the symptoms and can hopefully catch and treat it earlier next time – the bad thing is, I can almost be sure that there will be a next time. =/

The doctors continued to check up on me until I was totally better. I’m thankful that they understand it’s cause for celebration when you have your first solid bowel movement in 3 weeks!

Just as a side note, during my amoebas stint, my scalp started coming off in chunks for awhile. Never did figure out what that one was…

Sickness #2

In mid-November, only a few days after the biggest holiday of the year, Seliba (for which I WAS present!!), I was marveling one day at how great it was to be healthy again. Amoebas and I just did NOT get along. But as fate would have it, I visited a friend in a nearby town for a day, came home, chatted with my family, and in an instant, fell sick. I’ve never experienced such a rapid change, from healthy to sick. All I could think was, “I have to get home, I have to get home.” This sickness was different than the last time. All of a sudden I just felt off. My body hurt. I got hot. I barely ate that night, and sleeping was also a challenge.

But in the morning I felt great, only slightly off. I was hoping my sickness of the night before had been just that – the night-before only! I went about my day just fine, until late afternoon, when again, my body just sort of suddenly shut down and my temperature rapidly shot up. When that happened, I thought I knew what was wrong – malaria. Malaria is a tricky disease. The symptoms are cyclical, meaning, as in my case, you can feel perfectly healthy during one part of the day, such as the mornings and early afternoons, but feel awful during another part of the day, such as late afternoon and evening. By the end of the day I was pretty much non-functional. My fever would spike quite high and my body ached so badly I could hardly move. Alima came over that afternoon to get my water as usual, took one look at my courtyard, and admonished me for how dirty it was (not so much “dirty,” just leaves everywhere). I told her I couldn’t sweep – I couldn’t even stand – so she immediately got my broom to do it for me. My host brothers came over to sit with me while I layed on the ground, immobile. It was actually quite sweet; I’d explained to my family that one of our volunteers had recently been sent home to Amεriki because she was sick all the time in Mali. My brother Shina asked me if I had to go to Amεriki. I promised him that I didn’t, but when he asked if I had to go to Bamako, I said I probably would have to go, and he looked sad.

Sure enough, morning came and I felt just fine. I went to the CSCOM (health center) first thing to ask for a malaria rapid test, but we just so happened to be out of them. And so I was on the first transport to San. I actually started to wonder in San if I was imagining things; if I was just nervous about something or imagining symptoms that weren’t there. But I went to the CSREF (hospital) and had a blood smear done. (I was SO proud of myself for navigating the CSREF with my Bambara!) And sure enough, I tested positive for malaria. Crap.

Funny side note, several years ago I was on my way home from a 2-week visit to Niger (Mali’s neighbor to the east) when I became really ill. My symptoms indicated that I might have malaria, but in my town in Ohio, doctors aren’t really trained to read malaria blood smears, so we had some trouble getting lab results for awhile. Here in Mali, any doctor, even those with limited training, can read a malaria blood smear. It’s as common here as something such as strep throat is in Amεriki.

I was really annoyed that I had managed to come down with malaria. I’m quite good about taking my daily prophylaxis on a regular and consistent basis. I sleep under a net at night, and I often wear longer clothing to cover more skin. Plus, I’d really been trying to make this my longest run at site without leaving – 23 days!! That may not seem like much, but remember that I have to go to San to buy food at the market, which runs out within 7-10 days back at site. This was going to be a big challenge for me, requiring creative problem solving to find ways to eat. But nope, a mere 10 days in, and I come down with malaria. Go figure. (Chrissy and I later decided Allah did not agree with my plan for creative cooking).

Ironically, I’d just received a package from my sister as well as a few letters, all of which were written during my amoebas phase, and all of which wished I was back to good health! Whomp whomp.

Those malaria symptoms are just so peculiar. I didn’t have much to do to get ready to go to Bamako, but I procrastinated a bit (shocking, I know) and around 4:30 I suddenly started to feel the aches and knew I had to run to get all of my tasks done. Sure enough, I was hobbling before I was finished, and by 5 I was on the couch, immobile for the next several hours. The PC doctors knew I’d tested positive, knew I was coming, and so had started me on the prescribed treatment for malaria, Coartem. It didn’t kick in that first night but by the second day I was functional at night, and by the time the weekend passed and I saw the doctors on Monday, my blood tests came back clean and I was able to go back to San the following day. A miracle drug, for sure!! I’m extremely thankful I caught the malaria early and was able to start treatment early. I’m sure I saved myself a lot of pain that way. Again, I’m even better prepared to recognize the malaria symptoms next time, although unlike amoebas, I’m not as likely to get malaria again. Fingers crossed!

Malaria side note: During this sickness, I ended up with a boil on my arm. I had no idea people other than witches and Biblical Egyptians get boils. They are not cool.

Sickness #3

For Thanksgiving, over half of the PCVs in country met up in a city in the southeast of Mali called Sikasso. Chrissy and I stayed in San for the actual holiday, where we celebrated family-style with 6 other people, but went to Sikasso the day after to meet up with the other 80+ volunteers for an Amεriki-people fix. It was a great gathering; some people I hadn’t seen since IST in June! On Saturday, one of our girls was leading an overnight trip to her site, to see nearby gorgeous waterfalls. It was totally worth the horrendous 3 hour bashe ride with the Shaggy album on repeat. For me, anyway. Probably half of the 30 of our group were sick by the time we arrived at the falls, and most people spent the afternoon lounging and snoozing at the base of one of the falls. Some elected to go home in the afternoon, the rest of us spent the night at the base of the falls. It’s amazing, we could hardly believe we were still in Mali. So different from San!

By the time we got back to Sikasso on Sunday, more people were sick. It was starting to get suspicious. We spent the rest of the day just hanging out catching up on Internet and Grey’s Anatomy. It was a great, restful day. The next morning Chrissy and I woke up early to go back to San. I actually woke up really early, and rushed straight to the bathroom. Mr. D had struck again. To make a long story short, for many reasons, that day was by far my worst travel experience in Mali. And as you’ll realize in an upcoming blog, I’ve had a lot of not-so-great travel experiences here. While it had only taken less than 4 hours to get to Sikasso in a PC car, it took 8 hours by public transport.

I could barely walk by the time we got to San. Chrissy took pity on me and carried my second bag on her head, and we started off slowly walking toward the house. Unfortunately, the road we have to take is very uneven, and with the bag on her head, Chrissy misstepped and twisted her ankle, an ankle she’d previously broken. She landed on the dirt road, unable to get up. I could barely get myself home, let alone her and our bags, so I left our stuff with her and hobbled off in search of help. Thank Allah one of our house guards was just getting off duty, saw me, and came over on his bike to greet me. I pleaded with him to help us, and of course he did. With Jean-Baptiste’s help, Chrissy and I managed to make it home where we both collapsed onto couches and barely moved for the next 3 days. Turns out I ended up with an intestinal bacterial infection – aka food poisoning. Something at one of our group meals in Sikasso must have not been fully cooked or something, because so many of us ended up sick in that 5-day window. Although much more short-lived than the amoebas or malaria, this sickness was by far the most painful. But at least it didn’t have any side issues, like scalping or boils! Just Chrissy, equally as pathetic as me. :)

Overall thought: after all of those Infectious Diseases classes at BU, now I’m experiencing them…that makes me more legit, right??

Fingers crossed for staying healthy!!

In My Head - Sat, Aug 20

An excerpt from my blogging journal:

Saturday, August 20

Today was the first day of another polio vaccination campaign, so it was another early morning for me.  Djeneba, Madu (a health center relais, or community liaison), and I were out by 8am, walking from concession to concession to vaccinate all the kids under the age of 5. The process itself gets pretty boring but I enjoy going out into the village and surrounding villages, and seeing lots of people.  Now that I’ve been here for 4 months and recognize a lot of faces, I take the opportunity to have Djeneba remind me of their names since I’ll now have a chance at remembering.  We worked until noon; at that point Djeneba told me (as she always does) to go to the CSCOM to eat and rest while she and Madu finish the rounds.

Back at the CSCOM I hung out with the head doctor’s wife, Cisse, and the kids.  Fanta and I ate together since everyone else is fasting for Ramadan.  After lunch Fanta (who is 4 years old) cleaned up everything and noticed I was tired, so she took me into the house, got me a pillow, and ordered me to take a nap – I happily obliged!  After my nap we were hanging out under the gwa (wood and millet/corn stalk sheltered area) until all of a sudden rain started pouring down.  We all ran to get everything under a less permeable cover and then got ourselves onto the house porch under the awning.  I carried Fanta over and set her down; suddenly her head whipped up and caught me smack in the chin.  I hit the ground on my knees in pain as my mouth filled with blood.  Usually when the Toubab gets hurt people freak out; luckily these people have spent so much time around me that I’m more or less a normal person and they didn’t go ballistic. Binke grabbed my water bottle so I could wash my mouth out and Cisse got me some cotton to help stop the bleeding in my lip where my tooth had gone through.  I couldn’t believe how much it hurt!  Poor Fanta looked horrified, so I tried to smile at her and tell her I was fine.  After the bleeding stopped (my lip was already swelling) I settled into a chair and waited with everyone else for the pounding rain to stop.  I looked at Cisse and she told me Fanta, who had her back to me, was crying, so I picked her up and sat her on my lap until she settled down.  It didn’t surprise me that she wasn’t hurt; this is the girl who once head-butted me (her head against mine) twice just for fun…not so much fun for me!

Later that night I needed to go to the main road to buy bread but I was waiting for Alima to come over, as she usually does every evening to get me water from the pump, so we could go together.  She never came, and as the sky grew darker with approaching rain clouds, I eventually had to go by myself. Not a big deal, except that the afternoon storm had created new streams, including one that completely cut me off from the main road.  It was a very narrow stream, but the place where I normally ride my bike through a small ditch was going to be impossible to cross, and I had to carry my bike over it.  I had no idea how I was going to get back again once the bike was loaded with my heavy water container. 

I stopped at my favorite macaroni lady’s place by the side of the road (she cooks food there and sells it) and gave her daughter some money to buy me bread if the bread-seller-on-a-bicycle came while I was at the pump.  Fanta and Fatim helped me fill my jerry can, but the new pump takes forever and I was growing more and more anxious every moment with the approaching rain and darkness.  Finally I made it back to the macaroni lady only to find the bread guy hadn’t come yet. (He rides his moto to San to bring back bread, so you have to try and catch him at the right moment before he jets off to another village). Since the rain had started and it was almost dark, the macaroni lady told me to go home and send one of my jatigi’s (host family) kids back later to pick up the bread that she would buy and save for me…really, there are just some things you gotta love about Mali!  The men sitting there instructed me to go home a different way than I’d come; I would still have to cross the stream but I would be able to ride through it.  That part worked out ok, but the other side was a mess of sloppy mud, and I had to get off my bike to push my way through, hurrying as much as possible to get home while I could still see a little. 

At home I struggled to get my heavy water container off my bike and into the house, get the bike in the house without tracking mud everywhere, and find a place to store my giant lounge chair in the house (out of the rain).  At this point it was almost totally dark and I was really regretting not having my headlamp, which I’d forgotten in San.  I finally finished and headed over to my jatigi’s house to ask one of the Sinalis to come with me to pick up my bread.  Shina, Seydou, and I headed out together.  With it raining, water everywhere, plus the animal poop that couldn’t be swept out of the road earlier because of the rain, finding our way was difficult.  My second-best flashlight had inexplicably stopped working that morning.  My fourth-best flashlight is an electricity powered one I bought in Bamako and after 5 months of using it the electricity only powers it for all of about a day anymore.  So we were using my third-best flashlight, which was giving off a pretty weak light with only 4-day-old batteries. 

After turning back once to find a better way across the stream/pond, the three of us finally made it to the macaroni lady, who had my bread ready and waiting.  We turned right back around, now in complete darkness, to go home again.  It was like picking our way through an obstacle course in the dark with only the faintest light.  I needed to make one more stop at the butiki to buy phone credit, so I dragged the boys along with me.  I wanted to buy them (and me!) a treat for helping me, so I asked the street-food lady at the butiki if she was selling my favorite fried dough.  She wasn’t, but my usual fried-dough lady was selling it from her house next door.  We went there, only to realize I was out of change and she didn’t have any.  So we traipsed back to the butiki to get change, then back again to buy the fried dough.  When we finally made it home, an hour after I’d originally left to get water and bread, I gave the boys enough fried dough for their whole family and headed home…to start dinner.  I made eggplant dip to go on my bread, and I got to use my new Malian mortar and pestle – fun!!  I’d just finished cooking when Safi knocked on my door, bringing over a plate of macaroni…two dinners!  I decided to take full advantage of having a night all to myself and used precious computer battery to watch an episode of Friends while I ate my two dinners… sometimes life is really good. :)

Update on My Kids

I was finally able to add some photos to the blog about my kids! Make sure to check it out. :)

Rainy Season Stories Part 4: Planting

Planting

More on planting. My second “hands-on lesson” was in planting peanuts. Again, Alima and I went out to the peanut field, just the two of us. This time we tied pieces of cloth around our waists and put the peanuts in the cloth. Peanut planting is great because the nuts are the seeds, so you get to snack as you work! Planting peanuts is similar to planting millet and beans: shoes off, whack the dirt with a club, drop in one peanut, cover the peanut with dirt, stomp on it, move forward a few inches, repeat. A lot.

We actually did a good amount of work in the field that day. We planted for awhile, took a break, and then Djeneba and a few other women came out with the toh for lunch and to help us plant some more after lunch. Back while it was still just Alima and me, she started singing a song I’d heard her sing before while counting the number of bracelets I wear. I asked her to teach it me, so while we went up and down the rows she taught me the words. It’s a counting song much like Amεriki counting songs: it starts with the number one, a few rhyming lines, then moves on to the number 2, etc. I didn’t understand most of the words, but I was able to pick up on the whole song, and with a little practice I had it memorized and we sang together while planting. The lyrics for number 5 were tricky and I had to practice them more than the rest – it was something about the dugutigi (village chief). For some reason, everytime I sang this line Alima would gasp and tease me, “The dugutigi is going to hit you!” Of course I had no idea what she was talking about so I just teased her back by singing it louder and more often. We continued working and planted a whole field before heading home for the day.

Back at home, I went over to my jatigi’s (host family) house to chat for awhile. Alima came over after awhile and told me to share my new song with the family. I did, but when I got to that line about number 5, my host dad started cracking up! I didn’t understand. Alima said again that the dugutigi was going to hit me, and my dad joined in with the joke. Whatever was so funny was made even funnier by the obvious fact that I had no idea what it meant. A bit later my neighbor, the head women’s doctor, came over as well, and of course I was instructed to sing for her. She also started laughing, and eventually she and my host dad were both practically doubled over in tears, they were laughing so hard! I gave up on trying to understand and let them have their fun, but I did refuse to go over to the dugutigi’s house to sing for him! (Although Alima promised me he couldn’t possibly hit me, as his leg had been bothering him and he was using a crutch to walk, and therefore would not be able to catch me).

Later in my house I decided to see if I could find out what the lyrics meant. Chrissy didn’t know when I texted her, but I dug out my old-fashioned print Bambara-English lexicon and looked up anything that might be close to what I’d learned by ear. As I’d heard it, the lyrics were Durru, dugutigi bele kili ba. After some search, I discovered in my lexicon the word kilibara: testicles. And bele is a form of saying “big.” Which means I’d been going around singing about the dugutigi’s big balls. Crap.

Since no one would tell me what the lyrics meant, I decided not to let on that I knew now. Instead, everytime anyone brings it up, I shake my finger at them and say “Amiɲε! N ma famu, n’ga n b’a don k’o amiɲε!” “Bad! I don’t know what it means, but I know it’s bad!” They just crack up and tell me again to sing it. And that the dugutigi is going to hit me.

A few days after I learned the song, I was at the CSCOM (health center) when the head doctor sent his kids to the fields surrounding the CSCOM to plant peanuts. Since I had new skills, I decided to join in. These fields parallel the main road between the two villages, so a lot of people pass by them as they go back and forth. Which means a lot of people saw me planting peanuts. I must’ve really made their day! People would stop walking, talking, and biking to stand in the road and watch me plant. “Michelli! I be se ka dannike?!” “Wow, Michelle, you can plant?!?” (Remember, we state the obvious here). I should really have my own TV show in Mali…apparently I’m entertaining enough!

Anyway, the women’s doctor came out to watch – and started telling everyone about my new song. And of course they all wanted to hear! What could I do? Well, no way did I sing for them! Instead I told everyone she was lying and that I had no idea what she was talking about – which made them laugh all the harder. There’s just no winning!

They still bring it up. Alima and I walk through village and she’ll start to sing the song, and when we get to number five, I change the lyrics to mean, “Alima is BAD!” Then she starts giggling and tells me to sing the real lyrics. When I refuse, she sings it herself, very quietly, and then I yell really loudly, “What? What did you say? I can’t hear you! What did you say about the dugutigi?” and she breaks into giggles and runs away.

Rainy Season Stories Part 3: Market With Virginia

Background:

I come into San usually every 10-16 days to buy groceries, check my email, and catch up with other volunteers. San has a market everyday of the week, but the main market day is Monday. On Mondays people come from all over the area to both buy and sell goods. For my usual, basic needs, I can go to market on any day to get what I need. I only need to go to the Monday market if I want something special. In fact, for the most part the PCVs try to avoid the Monday market. It’s just so crazy, with tons of people shouting at you to come look at their display, tons more people pushing all around you to mingle and shop, and tons of animals for transport and sale. Not worth the stress and hassle on a regular basis, although I do enjoy the atmosphere and the wider selection every now and then.

The Story:

Backup to late August. I came into San for shopping and a few PC meetings, and I ended up getting stuck there much longer than I’d intended due to illness. Monday rolls around and it’s lunch time – I’m hungry. My friend Virginia and I want to go out for street food, which is a pretty typical lunch in San. Unfortunately, we’re still in the middle of Ramadan, when Muslims refrain from eating or drinking during daylight hours. Which means street food is a lot harder to find during the day, and we have to go beyond our usual places to find food. Luckily the San area happens to have a lot of Christians, so it wasn’t going to be impossible to find food, just harder.

It had rained all night and most of the morning and in general was a dreary day. Dreary is good for market though; it can get really exhausting to shop around outside under the hot sun in 100°+ weather. So V and I set out to look for food and stop at the hardware store so I could buy some paint brushes. We made it just fine to the main street through the center of town, but then we had to veer off onto side roads. Side roads. Unpaved. It had rained a lot. And now thousands of people were tramping around all over. It was SOOOO muddy!!! We realized this quite quickly, as we picked our way around giant puddles. We must’ve looked so goofy walking, picking our feet straight up off the ground, high knees, then gingerly placing our feet down again.

Soon our sandals started to get stuck in the mud. They got stuck so much that I had to resort to bending down and lifting them up and out of the mud. Unfortunately I did this with my right hand, leaving it covered in mud, and only my taboo left hand free for exchange. Malians do not give and receive with the left hand. Remember? Since there’s no toilet paper here, the left hand is used for cleaning one’s self. I mean, the left hand isn’t completely taboo. But certain things, like eating and exchanging money, are just not done with the left hand. Now I’m sure the people I was dealing with understood why I was using my left hand – my right hand was clearly a muddy mess – but I was sooo awkward about it and I felt like such a dumb toubab! During one awkward transaction, I dropped my wallet in the mud. As V and I walked down the street, I continued to get stuck. People were pushing past me everywhere. I got so frustrated. It started to drizzle again. I wasn’t feeling well. I started yelling out random curses and “I hate Mali!” (in English) as I walked.

My tipping point came when both of my sandals got stuck at once in a particularly deep pit of mud. Forget this. I stepped out of my sandals, reached down, and plucked them both out of the mud, then continued down the street barefoot. And I kid you not, the entire street started laughing at V and me. The whole street! Not a mean laugh, more of a wow-you-look-silly-but-I-totally-understand! laugh. There was nothing else to do but laugh along with them. Eventually V’s sandals broke and she carried hers, too. People would look at us and laugh and say, “Why are you carrying your shoes, toubab?” We’d laugh and say we couldn’t walk in them! And so, barefoot, we picked our way the rest of the way out of the side streets and back onto the main street where my hardware store is. Thank goodness I’m a frequent customer there. The guys who run it know me and Chrissy and are always really nice to us. V and I approached laughing, muddy, wet, and generally a giant mess, and one of the guys immediately started laughing at us and brought out a bench for us to sit on, then found a selidaga (plastic teapot) and some water so we could wash off our hands and feet. Honestly, we must’ve looked like mud monsters.

The trip home was much less eventful. We were able to stick to paved roads and unpaved roads that were less frequented. We eventually did make it safely. I do have a souvenir – I was never able to quite get all of the mud out of my favorite pair of Malian pants – battle scar!

Quick Update

Just a quick update to let you all know that I haven't stopped blogging intentionally! Our Internet provider is having a satellite problem and all of Peace Corps Mali has not had Internet for the last 3 weeks. I'm writing this from an Internet cafe, which is expensive and painfully slow. Although I do have new blogs to post, I finally have pictures to include and I'm not willing to post the blogs without their accompanying photos! Not yet anyway. :) I'll give it a few more weeks, and hopefully our Internet will be back up and running, Inshallah! (God willing!) Happy Halloween and an upcoming Happy Thanksgiving to everyone! To those of you in Ameriki...good luck with Snowtober. =/  Kan sooni, See you soon!

xoxo

Michelle

Rainy Season Stories Part 2

An excerpt from my blogging journal on August 19:

Today I woke up early and got my act together in a reasonable time, because Alima and I had planned to do my laundry this morning.  Usually we do it once a week or so, but somehow it’d been awhile and I had nothing clean left; I had to recycle dirty clothes to even do laundry.  I noticed the sky was dark, which is actually pretty normal in the early mornings during this time of year, but I’m learning to tell the difference between a normal morning sky and a rainy sky, and this looked like a rainy sky.  It was hard to tell though, it was changing so often – literally every few minutes – that I couldn’t really decide what it was going to do.  Either way, I was annoyed.  The gloomy weather meant even if we were able to do laundry, my clothes would dry even slower than usual.  Back during hot season it could take less than an hour for clothes to dry.  These days it can take 24+ depending on the clothing, which is frustrating with my lack of hanging space.

The rain started around 9:30 and soon was pouring down.  By 10:30 it had let up significantly and I heard a knock at my door.  During Training, I learned that Malians are afraid of the rain.  Well, that just goes to show you can’t generalize an entire population, because there was Alima knocking at my door to come do laundry.  I put on my rain jacket and slowly picked my way through the mud that was my courtyard, opened my door and said, “What the heck are you doing here? It’s raining!”  Alima was convinced this was a great time to start.  I could potentially deal with the light drizzle, but the dark clouds and still-near-sounding thunder were a dealbreaker for me.  (Interesting, since Alima isn’t particularly fond of thunder, or “Allah” as they call it).  For once I stood up for myself and said there was no way I was about to go do laundry now – we could do it soon when the storm had actually passed. 

I retreated to my house for 20 minutes or so until the worst had passed.  Rather than wait for Alima to come back again, I decided to brave the walk to her house alone.  I say “brave” for several reasons: the village can transform during a rainstorm and become quite the slippery slope, plus, for the first time, I’d have to carry 3 buckets, 2 weeks of laundry, and the soap all by myself.  Done!  I balanced the giant bucket (I can comfortaby sit in it) and clothes on my head and carried the other two buckets in my free hand.  That’s right, I’m a Malian woman now!

Alima was surprised to see me.  I swear, sometimes I think my community thinks I’m totally useless.  I’ll give it to them that I’m mostly useless when it comes to Malian-ish things, but I’m working on it!  Alima grabbed a giant bucket of her own and some clothes, took my two smaller buckets, and we headed out to the well together.  

A Rainy Season lake (NOT the one I crossed)

We skirted around the outside of the village, and as we rounded the side to the back of the village, I saw just what an hour and a half of rain had done.  The small lake (only a pit in the ground during dry season) had become a much bigger lake, and there was a river separating us from the well.  Seriously – fast-running water, an 8-inch waterfall into the lake…Allah had done some serious business.  We had no choice but to walk through the river, which luckily was only about 3 feet wide.  But then I saw our next obstacle: the entire path to the well had become its own pond.  Not a single dry patch on the way there.  Picture this: when I first came to Sourountouna, the village appeared to be completely surrounded for miles by nothing but dust, dirt, and some trees.  It was SO barren!  For the last 2 months, the scene has slowly shifted into one of green and life.  The fields have been planted, the crops are growing.  The rains made small ponds.  Now as far as I can see, for miles, everything is green.  Water is everywhere.  I wish I had “Before” and “After” pictures to show you.  It would knock your socks off. 

Now picture this: me, balancing a giant, heavy bucket on my head with one hand, using my other hand to help me balance as I wade my way through water mid-calf high, at times to my knees.  Alima and I have both tucked up our clothing (her a skirt, me pants) and I am purposely, publicly showing my knees for the first time in almost 7 months (other than the few times I’ve been in strictly American company).  Alima is in front of me, this tiny 12-year old girl, doing the same thing.  The whole way across, I’m teasing her about all the frogs and toads that must be hiding nearby, and she’s teasing me that I’m going to fall – a likely possibility at any moment in time, let alone this one!  At this point I was thanking my lack of total stupidity for earlier in the morning having finally settled on wearing the sandals that don’t break at least once a day.  Seriously, I’ve literally sewed the plastic on the other pair to help keep them from breaking.   (Give me a break, I’m a poor Peace Corps Volunteer!)  

We finally get to the other side, and Alima puts the buckets down on the “edge” of the pond.  Except there really isn’t an edge.  It’s just shallower water before it runs into the millet field.  My bucket is basically floating.  I can’t help but think how ridiculous this is – but what can I do, all of my clothes are dirty!  We decide to wash the clothes inside the fenced-in garden by the well.  The remaining path is dry but a jungle of overgrown plants.  We finally get to the well – and realize we’ve left the juru, the leather pouch used to draw water from the well, at Alima’s house.  There’s no other way; we have to go back.  So we head across the pond again.  Then the river.  This time we actually walk upstream for about 50 feet before exiting to enter the village.  Black beetles the size of peach pits are happily swimming around in the water around us.  (They might actually be bigger than that.  I don’t eat peaches so I don’t really know how big their pits are, but the only other pits I can think of are mangoes and those are way too big).  We go to Alima’s house, grab the juru, and head back into the river again.  I’m walking down the river, hoping there aren’t any worm-breeding snails chilling out in the river, because if there are I’m probably going to end up with schistosomiasis, a disease in which a worm lives in you and makes you pee blood.  Bummer.  Of course, I probably already have it from my trip to Manantali… 

This time as we cross the pond we don’t have heavy buckets on our heads and we’ve been joined by two little girls who have come along for the fun.  (Ps I saw adults working in the fields who stopped to stand up and stare at me plodding my way through the water.  I provide so much free entertainment!)  Alima put my arm around her shoulder, and the 7 year-old grabbed my other hand, and the 3 of us started across the pond together.  I’m not really sure who was holding up or pulling down whom…should I be embarrassed if a 7 year-old kept me from wiping out?  We skittered and slipped our way across together and finally made it to the well with everything we needed.

After that it was a pretty normal laundry experience.  Alima’s older half-sister came out to join us with her own laundry.  It was pretty funny listening to her shrieks as she crossed the pond.  It continued to drizzle for maybe the first hour we were out there.  It was kind of surreal being out there, doing laundry at a well, with half the sky looking completely normal and half the sky looking like the Apocalypse.  Luckily the dark and ominous side was moving away from us.

We finished in pretty record time for how much clothing there was.  Nothing, of course, had dried, so we loaded it all in the buckets to traipse back to my house and try to figure out a way to hang it all up.  This trip across the pond was much more nerve-wracking.  I again had a heavy bucket balanced on my head, but this time if I fell it wouldn’t be dirty clothes tumbling into the muddy water, but rather the clean clothes we’d just spent all those hours washing!  I was totally nervous while crossing the pond – forget my dignity, my hands were tired and it was well past lunch!  I was much slower than everyone else, but eventually I made it safely across.  And I safely forged the river and the second, smaller pond on our way back to Alima’s house and then mine.

I wore the other, crappier sandals to the CSCOM.  They broke, finally irreparably, while walking across normal ground, and I had to walk home with only one shoe.  Thank Allah for the occasional smart decision. 

*A note on ending my day.  I went to Alima’s house at 8:30pm to chat.  I wore a T-shirt covered by a long-sleeve shirt and I was cold!  When I got home, I pulled out the hooded sweatshirt that’s been in hiding since February and sat comfortably outside, wearing 3 shirts and reading my newly arrived People magazine.  It was a 74° heaven.