When your arms get tired pulling water from the well...

Buy a Nafasoro pump!  A few weeks back I committed to something I had been thinking on for awhile.  I forked over 37,500 CFA (about $80) to buy a Nafasoro pump produced by the people at Kickstart

and sold throughout Mali at various shops.  The pump I purchased was made in Kenya and operates just like a bicycle pump and, once started, is just about as easy to operate.  With three people at it, one pumping, one watering and one on hand to relieve tiredness, it is a lot faster and can cover more land than watering by hand from well bags.

The longer I am in Mali the more I realize that for anything to succeed here it needs to be in terms of business and profit.  Kickstart seeks to combine fighting poverty with business sense.  They understand that people respond to investment and not hand outs.  That for development to work there needs to be a sense of ownership on the part of the village or person on the receiving end of that development.  I have been curious how the pumps actually work (there are signs for them all over, see below) and so said what the heck, there are worse ways to spend $80.

A sign in San outside one of the shops that sells Nafasoro pumps (there are step ones that operate like a stairmaster = you look real goofy in your garden but have great thighs and a pump one which works just like a bike pump = you look a little goofy in your garden but have great arms). 

I'm pretending I'm in America here and that the hose is attached to a faucet...what you don't see is someone sweating at the well!  There's a handy attachment that makes the water come out like a spray hose which is great because the pressure from pumping means the water comes out hard and would probably uproot the plant if applied directly.

Annette, Nicole and Kim (working for and doing research with Cornell) came to visit my site to see what it is a Peace Corps Volunteer in Mali actually does... I had a great time sharing with them my home away from home and using my Nafasoro pump for the first time.  Thanks for the pictures and the visit ladies!

Here I am sweating away at the pump and hoping someone will come up real soon and ask if they can try.... : )

 

Cassie came to visit and helped water the okra and hibiscus plants.  She was a top-notch waterer and her gardening skills are sorely missed since she had to return to site...

My complete verdict is still out on the Nafasoro pump (Nafasoro means, roughly, "to find a lot!" as in, to find a lot of profit and fruits and veggies).  The pump has proven to be frustrating if the tubes aren't tied properly on but with a little patience it gets to working in no time.  It is ideal for a gardening association but not just for one person.  I'm glad folks are getting a chance to see how it works in my village and though the cost is prohibitive for a family unit (while relatively low, still out of reach for a Malian family) perhaps people will want to band together and purchase one as an association. 

Here's a video taken in my garden by the one and only Cassady Walters - thanks Cassie!

See more pictures from Cassie's visit and the shea nut selling session I talked about a few entries back here

Gao now brown cow!

                                                      

Ready for travel in San and then at a potty break on the way to Gao

This past week Cassie and I packed our bags and hopped on a bus to visit Gao which is a city far in the north of Mali uniquely situated on both the Niger river and the frontier of the Sahara desert.  Soon after arriving we realize there is not much to see or do in the city aside from visiting what turns out to be a disappointing artisan market and climbing a sand dune and so we decide to make our visit a short one.  Docked outside our hotel is a large passenger boat bound for Mopti and it leaves the afternoon after we arrive.  Cassie and I book two one-way tickets on the luxury(esque) liner and a little more than 24 hours after arriving bid farewell to Gao and say hello to the Niger river.

Cassie and I paid 3,000 CFA to tent on the roof of this hotel but they ended up providing us with mattresses and mosquito nets. 

The Rose Dunes are comparable (from my mid-Atlantic point of view) to Jockey’s Ridge in Nags Head, NC except they are on the Niger river and part of the Sahara desert. 

The bus ride to Gao from San takes 16 hours (if you make good time) with potty breaks in the bushes and limited selections of street-side snacks. The river barge, on the other hand, promises three meals a day, bunk beds for somewhat comfortable sleeping and latrines (if not hygienic at least private).  We opt for third-class tickets at the modest sum of 42,000 CFA per person (about $85) which for a 5 day 4 night cruise on the Niger river gets you what you pay for.  The room (or, since Cassie thinks I am being a little generous, the holding cell) comes equipped with four bunk beds which we share with another girl, Fatumata, the first night and the last night with cousins going to Bamako to sign up for university.  Situated behind the hull of the ship we enjoy not only the lulling melody of lapping waves as we snuggle in our bunk beds but also the bleating of livestock since the front of the ship doubles as a pen for goats, donkeys and cows bound for market in Mopti or Koulikoro. 

The other third-class passengers :)

First and second-class passengers (tickets ranging from 71,000-101,000 CFA) are a mix of policemen and army personnel along with students heading back to Bamako for classes.  The least expensive ticket runs for 9,000 CFA (about $18) and guarantees you a spot in the cargo space. Owners of this ticket are either Malian families traveling on the river because it is expensive or difficult to access their village by land or hippy travelers with Therma-rest mats who find it romantic to sleep under the stars on a riverboat (which it is!).  Another class of ticket owners are entrepreneurial women traveling up and down the river for the market it provides.  At each stop the women, baskets balanced precariously on their heads, carefully maneuver the drawbridge off the boat and set up their wares on the cobblestones, sandy dunes or dirt paths that make up the various ports.  They sell goods brought to Gao by bus while the captain loads and unloads passengers and other goods from non-descript villages and boat stops along the river.  Bananas, limes, plantains and dried tea leaves – the women bring fresh produce and goods to remote villages along the Niger while residents of the remote villages make a reverse exodus onto our boat hawking flat bread, fried cakes and dried pieces of tough desert animal cheese to those of us unwilling (or unable) to get off the barge. 

After breakfast each morning (sugar water with some milk and bread) Cassie and I move to the upper deck and alternate from starboard to port depending on the sun with our plastic mat, sunglasses and reading material in tow.  As third-class ticket holders we take all our meals, which are announced by a bell, in our cabin.  After retreating to our corner of the ship to eat lunch (rice and sauce) we reclaim our places on the top deck and continue to watch the riverscape slowly change from the sandy dunes of the North to tawny dirt with shrubs and, finally, endless marshes dotted with mud homes as we approach the Mopti region.  The dinner bell, promising pasta or potatoes, rings a little after sunset and we collect our things and retire for the day.  As we pass the kitchen on the way to our room we carefully navigate a path between market women (whose meals are not included in their ticket price) and their pots of first-class quality food tended over tiny charcoal-fire stoves.  Seasoned river travelers – these ladies have the trip down to a science.  In between ports they prepare their goods to sell, braid one another’s hair and keep someone stirring the pots so their meals are ready once they re-board.  By day two on Voyage of the Mali most of the women and almost all of the boat staff know our (Malian) names and call out to us teasing that we are not tending our own fires or that we are women traveling without men and would our husbands in America mind if we took a Malian husband on our boat trip? 

When Cassie and I tire of our books or magazine articles we turn to one another and talk about what we are reading or thoughts on our hearts or minds.  If we do not have anything to say we simply sit and watch the river pass us by. The boat chugs along at about 10 km per hour which allows us ample time to enjoy the birds swooping in and out of rice patties and even catch four hippo heads (complete with cute twitching ears!) sticking out of the water near one marsh.  At night our roommates keep us giggling as they urge us to sing songs from America or do our makeup as though we are Malian (not exactly attractive on our skin tone but fun nonetheless).

On our last day heavy rains and cold winds keep most of the passengers and crew bundled in their rooms.  Cassie finishes a book in the upper deck lounge room and I stand in a sheltered corner of the balcony just outside.  I scan the river as I have done nearly 8 hours every day each of the past 5 days and catch a glimpse of something in the distance.  I call to Cassie and she runs out of the cabin and we stand, huddled together under an iron awning with rain pouring down in sheets, and watch together as a hippo sticks its entire head out of the water.  I give Cassie a squeeze as I squeal in delight – we may not have first-class tickets but Mali continues to provide first-class experiences.  

It's not easy being green (or is it??)

The women's association (plus me!) in the village next door to mine at the formation in July

Here's a photo series of the process of shea nut work from nut to butter:

(left to right) Shea nuts on a solar dryer, Shea nuts ground up and finally, whipping the paste into butter

Money is cold, impersonal and prompts a fatiguing internal dialogue for many.  How much do I make?  How much do I spend?  How much can I save?  As an environment volunteer in Mali I expected that internal dialogue to quiet down a little bit as I began to live "green" and think largely in terms of gardens, compost piles and increased seed yields and that has proved, in part, to be true.  Throughout my training in Mali (we have spent close to 4 months of our 14 months in-country in technical and language training) we have learned methods to improve the environment through Sahel-specific tree planting, to improve nutrition through moringa tree formations and to improve soil quality and plant yield through urine fertilizer.  And yet, as much as the focus remains on all things environmental, my thoughts keep turning to the green that does not grow on trees - money.  How do Malians make money?  On what do they spend it?  How can they make more to better provide for their families? 

Before coming to Mali I thought I would throw myself into whatever work I was assigned with only the thought of helping people in mind.  However, "helping people" has proved a difficult concept to not only justify my being here but also to quantify for others and myself.  The longer I am in Mali the easier it gets to talk about planting trees in order to improve air quality and the amount of water in wells and that improving shea butter means less toxins in your food and, potentially, more money in your pocket.  Yet even as my Bambara improves words can still get fumbled and at times it seems actions are not quite so loud.  However, there is still one language that needs no translation - money.  Number crunching and cost analysis are games I play with myself to justify my own purchases but it feels a lot better to be able to put that to good use and show that work like starting a tree nursery and selling the saplings does not only help the environment - it can help make you money; that using urine fertilizer not only speeds up the growing time (organically) of your banana tree - it also increases the yield leaving more bananas to sell or consume; that drying your shea nuts with the sun rather than tossing them in water-filled pits yields not only a higher quality of butter - it also yields a higher quantity which means consuming less carcinogens from rotted or smoked fruit and also a little extra butter to sell. 

Within each of our sectors in Peace Corps we have specific goals beyond the cultural and into the technical aspects of our work.  One of the environment sector objectives is to improve the commercialization of non-timber forest products (timber forest products meaning wood which is cut and then collected to sell as fuel.  This is not only costly in terms of the environment, expediting desertification, but also time - women and men exert a lot of effort bundling sticks and then transporting it in precariously stacked horse carts into their market towns which can be up to 20 miles away).  In July I coordinated with a shea nut and butter buyer, Sara, in San to come out to the village 2 kilometers from mine to do a formation on improved shea nut collection techniques as well as how to whip the ground shea nuts into butter.  The day after the formation when I biked in to greet some of the women a handful of them proudly showed me they had already begun to adopt the practices.  That felt huge!  Could this one formation really make a difference in the lives of these women?  Would the properly stored nuts garner a higher price when it came time to sell them in October?  Fast forward to this past week to find out!

Cassie and I biked to Dah (the village) around 9 a.m. to wait for Sara's younger brother, Jean, to come and see if the nuts were up to par.  I was nervous because not only was this meeting the culmination of all our shea formation efforts but Cassie was also there to witness it (success or failure, stay tuned!).   Would enough women show to sell?  Would their nuts be up to this buyer's standard?  Despite being a few hours late by my clock, Jean eventually showed up and so did the women.  I expected a handful of women to come with a few baskets of shea nuts each.  Instead, 12 women came out of the woodwork with 626 kilos of nuts between them!  (1,380 pounds for all of you out there operating on the Imperial system like me :)  Jean, impressed with the quality of nuts, called his sister and confirmed that they could buy all the nuts at 150 CFA/kilo (Annie, my host mom, said "bad" nuts sold for 75-100 CFA/kilo last year - a marked improvement - "good" nuts are definitely worth the extra effort!)  At 150 CFA/kilo the women received 93,300 CFA among them (about $204).  As an association (of which there are about 40 members) the women paid 10,000 CFA to join Sara's shea cooperative allowing them access to a higher price, continued shea formations and also help them to formalize their association with papers from San (called a "recipisse" here). 

 

Korotime Sogoba's good shea nuts dried in the sun and Jean weighing the shea nuts with Kadia

Two of the three overarching goals of Peace Corps involve sharing culturally and on that front I feel fulfilled.  Malians love hearing about America and I spend about 3/4 of each waking hour learning about Mali.  The third goal, technical exchange, is arguably the most important to the American desire for quantifiable results and on that front I have only recently begun to feel satisfied.  "Helping people," instead of being an abstract humanitarian concept, has become real to me through days like these where I see money changing hands.  When I see women pocketing cash they can spend on their families.  When improved environmental practices prove to be worth that extra effort.  With money coming into the villages where I live and work as a result of improved environmental efforts living "green" has never felt so good! 

 

Dooni, Dooni (little by little)

Life here continues to uncover lessons to me about people and relationships as well as development and foreign aid in one of the poorest countries in the world.  In spite of all I've been taught about urine fertilizer, moringa trees, composting and gardening it sometimes feels like the greatest lessons I am learning are the ones about myself.  As other volunteers often discuss, I think patience is the largest obstacle I have had to conquer and I thought I was pretty patient before I got here!

Sunsets like these make even tough days feel OK

Malians are relentless jokesters and every time I talk with a man or woman they tease me non-stop with bean jokes, offers of marriage to their [insert male relative] and when I say that I have lived here a year and I have one more to go, they scoff at the short time and say, “Mali ma di wa?”- do you not like Mali?  It can get pretty tiring, especially when you’re having not-so-hot days, to grit your teeth, put on a smile and patiently say no, I don’t eat beans, no, I'm not interested in this random male relative and no, I do like Mali.  I think how I may be the only American this person ever meets or at least has a longer than head nod conversation with and so, even though I have had this same conversation at least 5 times already today, I try and make a good impression and not lose my cool (spread that American love, right?)  The last question about not liking Mali because I’m only here two years really gets under my skin.  I think how when you tell someone in America you’re doing anything for two years they look at you like it’s an eternity.   So when folks here tell me I don’t like Mali because I won’t accept their older brother/widowed father/toddler son as a husband or since apparently I am here for a two-week stint instead of two years I patiently explain that while I love Mali, it is not my home.  That while I love speaking Bambara, meeting Malians and my little mud hut, I will never be 100% at ease here.  I will never be able to walk down a street without some kid yelling out “Toubabu musoni!” (Foreign girl!) I will never be able to stop comparing life here to life as I know it in America.  I will never be able to stop missing, even if it is just a little bit, the comforts and familiarity of my real home. 

Annie's Dad Lamine - one man I don't mind spending a lot of time with!

Life here continues to open wide my green eyes to a new (to me) culture, a new (to me) way of living and a new (to me) language.  And even though the repetition of jokes, marriage proposals and doubting of my commitment to Mali can wear me down and make me want to avoid eye contact rather than have the same conversation one more time all it takes is one person to compliment my Bambara or to tell me I look like a"Bamana muso"(a Malian woman) in my outfit to lift my spirits and say, you know what, I may not ever feel completely at ease here but with a smile and a little patience, it sure comes close.   

Give or gain?

Cassie, Esther and I sit on plastic lawn chairs as light spills out of the radio studio and Malian music pours out of the speakers. I begin to wonder when our radio show will begin and as if the DJ can read my mind, he starts playing a country song and Cassie says that’s our cue. We do-si-do our way inside, settle into our seats and adjust the microphones. On the other side of the glass the DJ rocks his head to the familiar twang, large headphones cocked to the side. He gradually lowers the volume, gives us a thumbs-up and a head nod to let us know we are on air in Mali.

 a griot from Cassie's village sings the praises of their mayor and village

For the end of Ramadan and Malian Independence Day Esther, another San volunteer, and I both made the trek to Cassie’s site to celebrate with her predominately Muslim village (Esther and I are with Christian host families). Cassie is a health volunteer who does a weekly radio show on various health topics and when visitors come to see her she makes a point to introduce them on the radio with their own show. The radio is a past project of business Peace Corps volunteers that came before and even though Cassie is “assigned” to work at the local clinic, she continues to work with the radio and former counterpart, Adama, of the Peace Corps volunteers she replaced. For tonight’s show Cassie and I have prepared a lively Bambara script on the importance of washing your hands with soap. The dialogue is short and peppered with giggles and line-forgetting-pauses but Adama comes in after we are done and quickly recaps our message just in case folks didn’t catch every word. We all greet our respective villages and families and then Adama asks us to sing a song from our villages. Cassie pulls out a piece of paper with the words to a song about the harvest she has learned from a friend in village. Esther has a song written down about bean cakes she learned in her Bomu village (Bomu is one of the 12 ethnicities in Mali, Bambara people are the majority). I have yet to learn a song and so Adama encourages me to sing a song from my “dugu yere yere”, my real village in America, and I choose an excerpt from my favorite lullaby from my mom about the moon and how even when you are far from the ones you love, even over the ocean, the moon still sees them and sends them your love. We wrap up our songs and greetings and Adama scoops in, takes up one of the microphones and with a radio voice announces the end of our show with blessings for a peaceful night. The DJ cues a song from Olivia Newton John’s Physical album and we exit the studio to go home for dinner and tea.

Posing in Cassie's compound (me, Cassie and Esther pictured)

Throughout our long weekend the people of Cassie’s village extended warm hands of welcome from around every mud wall and millet-stalk-covered hangar. Her numerous friends and host families kept a steady stream of heaping bowls of rice, meat, pasta and porridge streaming into the compound she shares with Banta, a widowed older woman who lives on her own and supports herself selling peanut butter cookies in town. As food arrives during the day and at dusk we peek under the covers and cheer for the tastiest dishes like zame, a rice dish made with hot peppers, oil and tasty spices. We wash our hands and then pull our stools around the communal bowl to dig in. Cassie and Esther are pros at eating with their hands. Cassie fully embraces the sticking of your hand in your mouth and Esther has experience from eating Indian food with her family. I, on the other hand, have yet to master the technique and frequently find myself throwing more rice onto my lap than into my mouth. Banta finishes first tonight and rises from her lounge chair, satisfied hands raised up and says “Ca c’est bien ca, Banta Traoure, champion!” and then goes into her hut to get her flashlight and radio as we giggle and continue to scoop rice into our mouths.

 Banta and me after Banta went to the mosque to pray

The next morning brings the first day of breaking the fast of Ramadan. After our breakfast with Banta we don our complets and troop over to the Dao family compound to eat with all the Daos of Cassie’s village. Last names are a big deal in Mali and the Daos are the Kennedy equivalent in Cassie’s village. Greetings and blessings spill from everyone’s mouths along with praises of our radio show and the songs we sang.

The big wigs of the village with their drums and fancy clothes

The last day of Ramadan this year, September 22, was also Malian Independence Day. After the Dao family breakfast we make our way to the paved road, giving and receiving blessings along the way that God will see us through another year together, and join Cassie’s host father, Lamine, along with the chief of the village, before heading over to the ceremony. The men and women are all wearing their nicest and newest clothes. Yards of fabric with embroidery and lace flowing through the streets of the village, djembe drums setting the tempo and motorcycles speeding dangerously close as they dart in between pedestrians. We let ourselves, the toubabs, fall to the back of the village parade and enjoy the view from behind as we try not to impose on the celebration. There is always a precarious balance (as a toubab) to strike here of participating in festivities and celebrations and not being the center of them. The Independence day parade enters the sous-prefet’s compound and we all shake his hand before Maffa, one of the mayor’s counselors, ushers us to our seats beneath a hangar under the shade of a tree. The irony of our presence does not escape us. Maffa’s voice crackles through multiple microphones about the importance of today. He talks about how 49 years ago Malians took control of their government and sent the French back home and then, in practically the same breath, he warmly welcomes “les cheres volontaires du corps de la paix.” We greet the crowd of children and respected elders and quickly deliver our prepared thoughts before taking our seats once again and enjoy watching instead of being watched. The event is well-organized and demonstrates the strong leadership present in Cassie’s village. Surrounding villages perform dances and youth groups sing the Malian national anthem.

 No one on the corner has swagger like Cassie's village: the mayor, sous prefet and Moustaffa


Tired from the heat of the day and full from a delicious rice lunch we leave the ceremony, greet family we missed earlier in the day, and then make it home in time to take our bucket baths as dusk falls heavily around us. The last night in Cassie’s village it is just Cassie and me; Esther returned home to celebrate Independence Day with her village (mine didn’t celebrate). We pretend to eat dinner with Banta but after a few bites retire to Cassie’s hut for girl talk. In the distance there is a radio playing and as we eat lemon drops and dried fruit from Cassie’s care packages, I realize how much I miss conversations like this. Fluid, mother-tongue conversation that covers a breadth and depth of topics unattainable in Bambara. From relationships and parents to development, our work here in Mali and post-Peace Corps life (the big question mark!) we discuss our work at site, our successes, our frustrations, our joys and our sorrows.

Sucking on our lemon drops as we let the silence between our thoughts do the talking I think about a conversation I had with one of the men in my village, Daniya, the week prior. He asked me why I had come to Mali and I explained I wanted to live in another culture, travel and do some good if I could. He shook his head and asked how I could leave America with all its good food, big houses and easy living to come here. He said, “Djelika, you’re giving up so much.” As I sat in Cassie’s hut, the sliver of moon and a votive candle leaving us in amber shadows, the generosity and fun of my visit to Cassie’s village fresh in my thoughts, I can only think of all I am gaining.

More pictures from our visit here.

Women's rights in Mali

I am currently in a dry-spell for blog topics (suggestions welcome via comments or email!) and am also much less well-versed in Malian current events and so will take this opportunity to reference the wonderful blog of my dear friend Cassie Walters, another volunteer from the San region, who wrote an incredible entry about the most recent women's rights bill in Mali.  Did I use enough positive adjectives in that sentence?  You really should check her entry out if you're interested in women's rights and womens' role in Malian society.  Until next time!

It almost seems sacrilegious not to put a cute pic of Christine in a post if I have one.  Here she is in her fave pair of hot pants and her sassy little pose. 

Let's Dance!

The rains are here and the crops are steadily growing along with the anticipation of harvest in a month or two.  Corn, millet, beans, sorghum and rice fields rippling out from the center of villages as far as people can walk or bike to farm.  August and September are known as the “hungry” season in Mali; the time when family granaries are emptying from last year before the harvest of the present one.  And so, although the farmers must be at their best to weed their fields, they are at their hungriest because there is less millet and, as the laws of supply and demand guide with their invisible hands, millet is also at its most expensive.  It is also the middle of Ramadan, which for Muslim Malians means a month of fasting, but for the Christians in my village it’s just a month where you eat less and don’t have a religious reason. 

Kalifa with a test plot of ameliorated seeds from Bamako.

Nonetheless, Malians, like (dare I make a gross generalization?!?) everyone, everywhere, love any reason to party.  (Please comment if you feel differently, and hey, even if you don’t!)  Late night celebrations are springing up throughout village, the sound of drums pulling the young and young at heart from their straw and plastic mats to play cards, drink tea and of course, dance.  Believe it or not, I often resist the temptation to roll out of bed at 1 a.m. to dance in a miniature dust bowl with teenage boys and young guys preening for the ladies.  “But how, Jennifer?”, I am sure you are asking yourself right now.  Well, it’s nothing personal.  Teenage boys are cool and young guys aren’t so bad either.  But I tell you, 1 a.m. is no time to start a dance party and so, aside from big celebrations, I often politely decline the drums’ invitation to come and dance.

Publish Post

 Christine likes to ham it up for the camera and Annie is knitting in the background.

But one night this past week, Annie, nodding off in her plastic string chair, knitting needles poised at the ready in her tired hands and Christine snuggled up in the crook of her arms, I decide I have the energy for a late night party and so quietly slip away and venture into the darkness that envelopes the village each day at sundown.  I follow my headlamp into the maze of crumbling mud walls, side-stepping cow pies and braying donkeys to find the source of the thumping beats and laughing voices.  This particular party was thrown by the “kamaleh” (young guy) association.  They pool their physical and fiscal resources together each year to farm fields outside those of their families; they divvy up the proceeds but also put them towards parties to rent a car battery for little strip lights and to buy tea and sugar (alcohol is reserved for cute old men who wear leather satchels and are missing most of their teeth – the homebrew association is the one who made my fence this past June). 

 

As I turn the bend into the party area I not only side-step mud puddles of questionable content but also young couples sneaking away from the party for a tete-a-tete.  The fete was held in a clearing where, during the day, kids can be found making mud castles and women pounding millet into the fine flour that is the base of all their meals.  But tonight the area has been transformed with desks and tables dragged from neighboring huts and mortars and pestles rolled to the side.  By the time I arrive, the kamalehs and bogotigis (young women) are absorbed in their card games set up around the dance floor and barely notice the toubab with muddy feet.  I sit down at one of the desks and start tapping my feet to the wailing voices pulsing out of the stereo still in its Styrofoam protective blocks and perched precariously between two desks pushed together for a makeshift DJ table.  Ipods, vinyls and scratch boards are missing from this dance party and are instead replaced with an old cardboard box filled with tapes.  Also, instead of a DJ with a rock-star lip ring and headphones cocked to the side, there is a guy who reaches over from his card game, dips his hand into the box of tapes and puts one in the tape deck before throwing down a spade to win the game.  I am not a music connoisseur and do not claim to be.  I also know shamefully little about popular Malian musicians like Ali Farka Toure and Isa Barayago,  But the music that plays at these parties is not those musicians (I know that much!) and to be honest, it all sounds pretty much the same.  The voices are shrill and, to my American ears, sound a bit whiny, but the kids here love to boogie and far be it for some wonky music (in my opinion) to prevent feet that want to dance! 

 

Two little girls who live near me sashay over to where I am sitting next to two tuckered out boys who are slumped over one another and taking a party nap (pre-party naps key to the success of any party but I usually like to take them before coming to the actual party…).  “Wuli, Djelika!”, they command, their cuteness turning into little girl ‘tudes as they implore me to join them on the dance floor.  I’m not really feeling the song (you know, the one that sounds just like the one that played before it and the one that will play after) but surprise of all surprises, the DJ puts in a tape with a reggae beat that I can actually shake my toubab hips to and I follow my neighbors out to dance.  Some of the kamalehs and bogotigis look up from their game and tease me for dancing, “Djelika, you’re going to dance?”, they holler and dissolve into giggles before shaking their heads and turning back to their cards. 

 

The floor is divided invisibly between young guys showing off their fancy dance skills, pre-teen boys right next to them imitating their older counterparts in style and footwork and then finally the pre-teen girls (and me) giggling at the outer reaches of the dance floor, furthest from the stereo and the spread of the lights.  Dancing in the near shadows, the girls teach me their dance moves and laugh as I imitate them while the peacocks near the stereo show off for the older girls bordering the dance floor, who try (and do a good job of it!) to look uninterested and unimpressed.  The girls are beautiful; their dancing is subtle and more for their own enjoyment rather than to garner the attention of others.  The boys on the other hand are dancing with moves so erratic and choppy I find myself catching my breath as they throw their legs around like they are disconnected from the rest of their body, keeping time to a rhythm I cannot seem to hear. 

 

Then, just as I make my debut, the girls decide it is time to pull away and take a break.  They funnel out and like at a middle school dance gone wrong, I find myself the only girl on the dance floor just getting into my groove.  I keep dancing as my neighbors, once so eager to get me to dance, are now just as eager to get me out. 

 

“I be se ka sigi sisan Djelika,” they say.  You can sit down now Djelika.  I laugh and, not wanting to embarrass them any more, retreat with them into the outer circle where we become the spectators.  The girls forget I am there and turn to one another for little girl conversations.  I look around and, as quietly as I slipped in, decide to quietly slip away.  I murmur my goodbyes and retrace my muddy steps back to Annie, still fast asleep next to her kerosene lamp, hands still ready to knit. After giving her and Christine goodnight kisses on the cheek, I crawl into my own bed for my post-party nap before waking up to raindrops splashing outside and another day of muddy field and garden work.  

Passing through and on my way

Each Sunday after church I collect the used tuna and corn cans and un-compostables from my hut, load books to return to the volunteer library and letters to mail over oceans into a blue plastic basket before biking the 25 kilometers to San for my weekly sleepover and grocery shopping.  I notice my back tire is low and I call out my kitchen window to Esayi to ask if he can repair it.  He laughs at me as I roll my mountain bike out of my hut and into his work area where he patches it with a smile and the tenderness of a father.

“You are not used to riding in Mali,” he gently admonishes as he heats a metal ruler to seal the patch. 

I assure him that even in America I manage to get flat tires and smile at Esayi’s continued doubt at my ability to do things like bike riding, even after one year of my biking weekly the over 30- mile round trip ride into San and back to village. 

Esayi finishes up the patch job and I stand in front of my corrugated iron door and go over my mental check-list one last time.  Typically it comes down to if I have the vitals – bankcard, ID card, helmet, journal.  I strap my basket to the back of my bike with a pink bungee cord that has reached its stretching limits with my loaded goods.  I secure my Camel-bak water backpack to my shoulders and click my helmet into place and begin the 2 hour bike ride into San.  The first half hour to 45 minutes are the most trying as I navigate sandy paths that do not provide much traction and, now that we’re in full-on rainy season, deceptively deep mud puddles that leave me in a mud wrap women would pay big bucks for at a fancy spa in the states. 

Madou at the rest stop in Sienso, one of the markers on my bike ride into San each week

These weekly bike rides are one of my favorite parts of life here as I travel from “en brusse” (in the bush) to “dugu-ba” (the big city) and then back again.  I push hard through the sand and dirt, gears straining under my heavy pushes and my quickening breath and streams of sweat signs that I am getting a real workout.  Once I reach the paved road I reward myself with long drags from the straw connected to the water backpack that Mr. Shellnutt so generously provided me before coming to Mali.  As my body re-hydrates I find a rhythm and a pace on the un-marked pavement while I count the revolutions between baobab trees.  My mind relaxes as my muscles burn and my thoughts wander from what happened in village this past week to how the crops are doing roadside to what I need to get done in San.  Motorcycles pass me every 15 minutes or so and I brighten up and snap out of my trance when they call out “Djelika!” if they know me or simply wave if we are strangers.  I focus on the road – it is a busy day if 2 or 3 cars pass me the entire trip – and enjoy the various flora and fauna surrounding me.  Colorful birds and (now that it is rainy season) lush trees with all their gloriously verdant leaves are my landscape and I relish the solitude and silence broken up only by the infrequent passing of a horse cart or a speeding passenger bus in serious need of an alignment and an oil change. 

I know I've posted this picture before but I do love these trees so much that remind me of two friends belly laughing together.  

There are multiple marking points along my route that indicate to me, in absence of mile markers or a speedometer, the duration of my trip.  The first is when I reach the paved road (only one hour left!), next, when I reach the “laughing trees” (just 45 minutes to go!) and finally, when I reach Sienso, a truck stop that marks the junction between heading North to Mopti,  South East to Koutiala or straight on into San.  Once I reach this point, women and children approach my bike and vehicles passing the police check point to sell cooled drinks in plastic baggies and tasteless cakes from large Tupperware bins.  There is a covered “rest stop” where men cook goat meat in mud ovens for passengers who are either waiting for a car to come by or for their broken-down bus to be repaired. I stop to greet and take a seat next to an old man named Madou.  Sienso is only a 20 minute bike ride from San but the heat of the sun (even though it is the afternoon) encourages me to stop and I strike up a conversation with this cute man.  I see him each time I pass by this thatched hanger of a food-stop chatting with the cooks and voyagers.  After greeting, I asked what he does here since he does not partake in the cooking of the meat and he surely could not always be waiting for a bus.  He said he just likes to come and sit here.  Talk with friends, watch the world pass by.  I asked if I could take his picture and he carefully situated himself on his token chair, cane at his side, turquoise boubou in bright contrast to his drab and monotone surroundings.  I show him the result on the screen of my digital camera and he beams at his princely portrait.  He pulls at his white chin hair, an indication of his esteemed old-man status, and asks God to bless the rest of my trip as I regroup for the last leg of my journey.  I answer with a blessing for the rest of his day and with a wave of our hands, I am on my way.  Pulling onto the paved road once again, I get back into my rhythm and look for the final marker of my trip – a cold glass of water from the refrigerator at the volunteer house. 

Did you say Wine and Cheese...?

Dinner a la guinguette with Alain, Marthine, Sarah and Anthony*

For reasons I cannot understand my plane ticket to Rgizlaine's wedding was over $100 cheaper if I made a multi-day layover in France. So I did what any clear thinking, Sarah loving lady would do and got the cheaper airplane ticket and then a train ticket with the money "saved" to visit my dear friend Sarah Perry who lives in France with her boyfriend, Anthony.

Sarah is a(nother!) treasure of a friend whom I also met my sophomore year in college as we stumbled through learning French at Hyperion, a coffee shop in downtown Fredericksburg. She embodied everything I wanted to learn about - art, bicycles, French and France. I spent many a treasured moment making pancakes in her kitchen and having sleepovers at her well-populated house on Charles and Faquier Street.

At the chateau d'Angers *

When I arrived at the train station in Angers, France, Alain, Anthony's mom's boyfriend (whew, that's a mouthful) was waiting for me on the quai. I was not expecting him and as he explained that Sarah and Anthony were on the road still and who he was I looked at him with a combination of wonder and exhaustion from travel as I processed what he was telling me. Alain interpreted my pensive expression for misunderstanding and gently asked me if I actually spoke French...I laughed and quickly explained my confusion and then off we were to the house.

Sarah and Anthony showed up a couple hours later and the fun really kicked off. We spent the next four days seeing the best of Angers and also a lot of quality time catching up on the past couple years. Letters are incredible (hint hint :) but there is nothing like real time together.

Picking strawberries at the Jardin d'Avenir (Garden of the Future :) *

On Sunday we went to a cute little cafe on the Loire river and sampled what seemed to be almost every dish (cheese platters, charcuterie, soupettes and wine, oh my!). The next day we made a plum tarte with fresh plums from the neighbor's yard and then visited a 103 meter tapestry at the Chateau d'Angers. Tuesday brought an incredible mini-textile exhibit with guided tour and a great dinner at Cami and Jean-Francois's - two friends of Sarah and Anthony's.

Wednesday we visited an organic garden/farm where you can pick your own veggies. We picked cherry tomatoes, potatoes, onions, peppers, chives, strawberries, rasberries, lettuce and more tomatoes.
I felt pretty sick much of the visit but that didn't hamper the fun! Sarah sent me off with a brown bag lunch of fresh bread, cheese, berries and chocolate. It was hard to leave her and France (hopefully a tres bien tot!) but it's time to be back in Mali and I'm eager to see baby Christine's cute cheeks once more.

*(all photos courtesy of Sarah's beautiful camera)

Ghizlaine and Brahim's wedding in Morocco

Her first dress and on the throne in the reception hall

Arriving in Casablanca I looked around the airport, breathed in the smell of fresh croissants and coffee from the cafe and thought, I could get used to this.
I met Ghizlaine my sophomore year of college at Mary Washington when she was a French teacher and lived on campus. She has a captivating personality and is certainly my most well traveled friend. Before I studied abroad in Grenoble, France in the fall of 2006 Ghizlaine invited me to spend three weeks with her family in Morocco at their summer house (they live in France) and to travel the country together. (Pictures here) When she announced her engagement last summer I immediately made plans to come to Morocco for the wedding.
On Tuesday Ghizlaine had a traditional henna party where the women of both her and her husband's families came together to begin the marital festivities. It began with her siblings going out to greet Brahim's family outside the house. We carried out platters featuring all the gifts from Brahim received during their courtship and danced in the street to trumpets and drums played by men in traditional garb. Once we had danced sufficiently we made our way inside to eat tasty little cakes and drink Coke and Fanta. At the henna party most of the guests received delicate tracings of flowers and leaves on their hands and feet. I was a little slow on the uptake and did not realize I had to make a mini-appointment with the lady doing the henna. While everyone got decorated there was dancing for those already done and music by a live band. The dancing was beautiful and fun with women shaking their hips and trying to teach me to not knock over things as I dance all over the place.... :)

The bride and me


With bride and groom at the henna party

Wednesday brought wedding day! I went with Ghizlaine to get her hair and makeup done and tried to do my own as Ghizlaine, lying on the stylist's chair, kept calling out "More black eyeliner!" We finished up around 9 p.m. (on purpose!) and made our way back to her parent's house to get dressed. I borrowed one of her sister's dresses as Ghizlaine got glammed by her outfit-changing-helper ladies. She had three women help her all night to navigate the 7, that's right - 7, dress changes that typically occur at a Moroccan wedding. Brahim's family came to retrieve us from the house around midnight and after a quick tour of El Jadida where her family lives we made it to the reception hall for dancing, food and more pictures and video than thought possible!

The marital throne

A band played upbeat, don't-stop-until-the-wee-hours music for the guests who danced for the bride and groom and in between dress changes. We had delicious food including: pastries, a shrimp dish, lamb and an ice cream dulce de leche cake with fresh fruit. The wedding lasted until 8 the next morning - those dresses are elaborate! - and the next morning saw tired but happy guests waving Ghizlaine and Brahim off to Casablanca for a mini-honeymoon before their real one to Turkey next month.

Rgizlaine in her last dress

As Ghizlaine and Brahim dropped me off at the airport a couple days after the wedding I looked around and realized it wasn't warm croissants and cafe au laits that I could get used to. Being around her family as they celebrated one of the most important days in her life made me ache for my family and friends back home and really drove home that it is sharing moments like this with those you love most that makes up the best times.

See more pictures from the big day here.

FIFA finds a fan in me!

Last month, Mali, a serious contender for the March 2010 World Cup soccer tournament, welcomed Benin to their soccer stadium in the capital for a World Cup finalizing match. Soccer borders on religion for many in West Africa and with the World Cup in South Africa less than a year away the soccer mania in Mali is reaching fever pitch.

I met with three other volunteers at a restaurant in the afternoon to take a taxi over to the stadium. We were in varying degrees of support for our team – Antony and Kate in Mali soccer jerseys, me in my Barack Obama dress and Mali cap and Natalie representing for the casual Bohemians of America in jeans and a black tank. The cab driver insisted on driving us straight into the mob of people lined up outside the stadium, dropping us off as close to the entrance as possible. Once we were able to get our doors open against the pressing mob, we fought our way to the back and absorbed into the long, militant line of people trailing out and around the stadium. We weaved in and out of cake sellers and children hawking cool drinks in plastic tubs. People were offering to let us cut in line which I took to be an extremism of Malian generosity but later learned to be a line cutting scheme. For a mere 1,000 CFA (about $2) I could cut almost the entire mob of people behind me. As I lingered for a moment by one of the welcoming schemers, Kate grabbed my arm and pulled me to the back of the line. Seeing the intensity with which the people towards the back took the line, I agreed with Kate and decided it was not worth saving a few minutes only to face the angry mob once inside the stadium. Malians would throw a fit immediately if someone did cut and threaten to turn the wrong-doers into the police waiting in complete raid gear at the front of the line.
Posing with one of the police men - the flash makes him look like a wax model but he was real!

Stories of the Ivory Coast finalizing match game where 22 people died in a stampede and 130 people were left injured made me think twice about going to the Mali-Benin game. I reasoned that I would stay far from stampede-like situations and hold hands crossing the street like my Mom always says ☺. I also banked on the love of Barack Obama by wearing my dress in hopes that any conflicts could be smoothed over by erupting into chants of "Yes we can!" (It works outside of soccer stadiums here!) The line was deceptive in its length and we breezed through in about 20 minutes to the front where the police did in fact throw out line cutters to the back of the line with a threatening wave of their night sticks. While intimidating, it was refereshing to see justice in action. The police, decked out in terminator-like raid gear, called out for those entering the stadium to hold their ticket above their head. They yelled out “billet, billet!” I beamed with pride at my forethought to wear such a peace making outfit thinking they were saying “bien, bien!” at my Barack Obama dress since the dress is usually met with big thumbs up from Malians. Ah, the funny confusions that occur when language and vanity get in the way. Once inside we merged into the excited mass of people vying for the best of the numberless seats. A wave of red, green and yellow clad consumers waving flags, beating drums and buying snacks. The field looked small and our ringside seats felt illegally close for the price of the ticket (1500 CFA, about $3).

Kate and I field-side during warm-ups.

Benin scored the first goal after team Mali practically threw the ball into the net for the Beninois – chalk it up to home turf nerves. We recouped at half-time to even the score before rain clouds that had been threatening all afternoon let loose over the stadium. As the teams retreated to their respective locker rooms for orange slices and Gatorade (or whatever it is professional soccer teams eat at half-time) male fans took off their shirts and everyone shook their hips and hands to the Malian music blaring over the loudspeakers. I’m always cognizant of the fact that I am not from here. I stumble over words in Bambara. I am white. I am an outspoken, brazen, unmarried (gasp!) woman. But there are times like when the rains fall on a filled-to-capacity soccer stadium in Bamako and the music draws the spirit from everyone that I can forget for a minute that I don’t belong and the community that surrounds me makes me feel at home.


Radiant smiles post-game as we pose with other volunteers we found at the game and their Malian friends/co-workers.

The second half brought more rain and 2 more goals for Mali bringing the final score 3-1 Mali Eagles. As we bled out of the stadium with all the other exhausted soccer fans whistles bought only hours before already losing their steam, tired flags waving from tired hands, it was the first time I had to fight to flag down a taxi. As I unloaded from the car in front of Khadi’s house, my voice hoarse from cheering on my team, feet tired and dirty from dancing in the rain, I looked back to my cabbie and bid him good night and we gave our final hurrahs that Mali – our team – had won the night.

Only a drop to drink...

Christine in her "toubab" bath

Annie cocks her head to the side and frowns.
“Is today Friday?” she asks.
“No, Thursday,” I say, looking up from my slowly growing pile of shelled peanuts.
“Then why are the Muslims at the mosque?” she muses aloud, more to herself than to me.

Annie reflects on her question as her knitting needles click, click, click in the mid-day heat. Christine is splashing away in a green, plastic bucket; Annie calls it her “toubab bath.” I am sprawled out on a mat dividing peanuts into “good” and “bad” piles for planting Annie listens to the Imam a moment more, his gravelly voice broadcasted to our entire village over the loudspeaker, and nods.
“They’re praying for rain,” she explains. “Everyone is praying for rain now. The Muslims. The Protestants (Annie and her family), the Catholics, even the Animists,” she adds.

Rain has not come in almost a week. Over 80% of Malians are subsistence farmers and if one thing matters to their livelihood, it is rain. Crops are planted when the rains start (usually in early to mid June in the San region) and the fields are tilled until harvest time rolls around in late September through early December. Annie asks me if droughts happen in America. I immediately respond “yes.” Annie nods and keeps knitting. I continue to crack the dried peanut shells and think what a drought means to me in Virginia Beach. Does the faucet or well for drinking water every dry up? No, I’m never wanting for potable water. A drought means no car washing. It means we can’t water the lawn. It means don’t refill the pool. Annie points out that even if I don’t farm in America, surely others do. I agree but remind her we have machines to water plants when there is no rain. And while my family in America is not a farming one (though they produce a mean tomato plant!) when rains do not come it’s never a question of if we’ll be able to produce enough food to sustain ourselves for the upcoming year.

Christine helping me shell peanuts...or just moving around my piles :)

I have stopped dividing peanuts and feel a little panic rise into my chest. Annie and Esayi say I think too much, “Djelika, I be miiri ka ca!” they say to me. While I am usually thinking about cheese pizza, this time I’m running over a list of solutions to drought, surely I’ve learned something about this somewhere…. Hand watering? Too much acreage and too far from the wells. Drip irrigation? Too costly. Sprinkler systems? Not even close.

Reading development-themed books like The End of Poverty by Jeffrey Sachs or The White Man’s Burden by Willaim Easterly break everything down into numbers, statistics and heart wrenching anecdotes meant to stir the humanitarian spirit within us all. I wondered if living in a village where the $1 a day mantra is a reality would desensitize me to the effects of poverty – a year in and it is just the opposite. I cannot shake the feeling of concern and sometimes, like sitting with Annie talking about drought, the worry comes over me in waves and I have to steady my thoughts to keep from choking up. I am worrying about things over which I have no control. Rain, unemployment, health care, quality of teachers and schools. But how do you care about something without caring about it all?

Annie notices my frown and asks me if I think that by worrying I will add one hour to my life, referring to last week’s sermon. I smile weakly and let my furrowed brow relax as I agree that no, I will not be able to add one hour to my life. A smile breaks on Annie’s face revealing rows of white teeth with generous gaps. She shrugs her shoulders that swim under her oversize blue t-shirt and says there’s nothing we can do; the rains will come when they come. I think about all the things we can do something about – soak pits behind the latrines, moringa tree formations to improve nutrition, shea butter work, and ameliorated seed trials—as I listen to the closing remarks of the Imam at the mosque just across village.

That night, as though the gods of all the religions that co-exist in Zana put their heads together, I wake to the sound of wind rushing through my windows and the glorious sound of rain falling outside (and inside…) my mud hut. One night of rain does not mean the end of a drought, I remind myself, but it is better than no rain at all. I crawl out of my bed and take all my buckets outside to catch the rain falling from my roof. There’s nothing I can do to make the rains come but when they do, I’ll be ready.

Who would have thought?

Fourth of July 2009 at the Bisap Cafe in Mopti with other Peace Corps volunteers from all over Mali. We got matching hand bags from the tailor - can't go shopping in stores so I spend a lot of time getting new fabric and going to the tailor. I'm wearing my Barack Obama dress with fabric the American Embassy designed.


Who would have thought one year from today
I’d be Skyping with loved ones so far away?
Gone for a year, miss friends, pizza and treats.
But so much I’ve learned biking these dirt streets.

Who would have thought one year from today
I’d be conversing in Bambara, making mud stoves from hay?
Bike 15 miles to get all my groceries,
Love stopping at the 7-11 for ice-cold Slurpees (not!)

Who would have thought I’d make dinner by car battery, solar charged light?
Making dinner on a gas stove and sleeping under the stars each night.
I filter and bleach hand pulled well water to drink,
Such a different lifestyle but people are the same is what I think.

Who would have thought I’d devour People magazines and pop culture?
Eating treats from packages like a Sahelian vulture.
New American and Malian friends making me laugh every day,
Who would have thought my time here would slip so quickly away?

Easy to carry cute babies on your back

July 5th, 2008 in Virginia Beach,VA

July 6th, 2008 at Regino's in Virginia Beach


How to make a mud stove (I know you've been wanting to learn!)

The final product