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

Sticking out, trying to fit in.

The cute old men who got right to drinking and contributing their sideline advice :)

I take down the gauzy mosquito tent strung from the hangar in front of my house and as I do, I see old men stumble over my front “gate,” a criss-crossed tree trunks that keep out the wandering goats, cows and donkeys from my compound. The sun has just stretched it’s first rays onto another day in Zana and these men are here to break ground on a tree-branch fence in my front yard. I saw the homebrew association (my name for them) put up Kadia Dembele’s fence and asked if they could do the same in my area. Their requests are simple and few. 500 cfa (about $1) per donkey cart of branches, enough millet beer for the crew, kola nuts and tobacco snuff. Not unlike a moving party in the states except instead of take-out pizza and beer we have millet homebrew and caffeine-rich kola nuts. Eight donkey carts of tree branches are unloaded in front of my house. Bundles of dead and dying wood lying like tired skeletons on the ground waiting to mark the border of another garden.
Taking a break drinking millet beer by my house.

The old men ask for the millet homebrew before the hand trowels have made a dent in the hard, packed dirt. I’ve been asking them to build this fence for about a month and a half and only recently got a confirmation it would happen. Once the rains really get going here I know I won’t be able to get anyone to come help me around the house since everyone will be farming. But soon enough my weeks of nagging will be validated and the work will be done. I expressed to Annie that maybe the old men’s association didn’t want to build the fence since my repeated requests were going unanswered but she insisted that’s just how Malians are, that you have to ask 3 or 4 times for things to get done so people know you’re serious. I told her Americans would call that kind of persistence annoying. Every moment an opportunity to share our cultures! ☺
The uniform of the day are old man skull caps, loose t-shirts, tattered pants and leather satchels made from goat skin. The bags are worn soft from years of farming and sitting under mango trees drinking tea and millet beer. They’re my favorite old man accessories and even though I’m a young, single woman I got one made by the village tanner and sport it to the weekly market and when I wander from compound to compound. A few men have biked to my house this morning and their trusty one-speeds lie tired and rusted against the mud walls of my house; their muted colors and chipped paint blending with the sepia wash and natural colors of, well, everything around me.
The younger of the homebrew club are on labor detail and as soon as they’ve all assembled they begin to delegate tasks while the older men settle in by the millet beer jug and proceed to make peanut gallery comments and dole out the sweet, heady chimmy-chammy (Bambara nickname for homebrew) to those thirsty from hard fence work. The smell of the millet beer is intoxicating at first and brings to mind warm cider on fall days. But be careful you don’t inhale too long as the rubbing alcohol undertones sweep into your nostrils, making you recoil from the harshness and wondering what volume of alcohol per calabash bowl we’re talking here.
Digging the trench for the fence

I peek in on the garden work with my camera glued to my hands. The men speak quickly and animatedly with one another, one story blending into the next and interruptions and addendums frequent. I don’t bother to ask folks to slow down anymore when they talk to each other – I’ve rescinded my unquenchable curiosity concerning casual conversations in favor of the don’t-need-to-ask-they’ll-tell-if-they-want policy. If they want me to understand what they’re talking about they’ll be able to read the lost look on my face and will retrace the steps of the conversation until I’m caught up to speed. If that doesn’t work, they can always call Annie over to translate their old man, mumbled and jumbled Bambara into what Annie fondly calls her Toubab-Bamabra.
I weave in and out between the men working, sitting, drinking and talking, snapping pictures and trying to get the lighting and composition just right in the mid-morning sun. I lend a hand when heckled by one of the old men but do so knowing they’ll ask me to stop as soon as I reach for a tool or to pass over a bundle of branches. They make such requests to get a good laugh and dissolve into themselves with their chuckles and guffaws when I try to show that I actually can pass sticks and contribute to the cause. They wave off my efforts and instruct me to sit in the shade or refill an empty (gasp!) calabash bowl with more homebrew.
Adama fashions fence ties from tree bark to keep my fence in line.

The work is well under way as I plop down next to Yacou Coulibaly. He’s wearing a pill box hat with a blue circle-brown square pattern and is fashioning fence ties out of freshly stripped and soaked tree bark. Yacou and Adama are working on the ties while Dramane delegates the fence tasks to the younger men– you, go to get more tobacco, you, start digging the trench over there, you, haul over another load of branches. A seamless operation of tasks that, once started, couldn’t be better organized by a Ford assembly line.
The number of men working on my fence is proportionate to the amount of homebrew left. As the supply dwindles, Dramane, Adama and Yacou are the only ones who remain at work. What was once a crew of 20 men has now decreased to 3 and the work that started with the rising sun is now, 2 hours later, all done and I have another garden to cultivate! Another protected parcel of land to try out leafy experiments and technologies for farming in the Sahel.
Chuckles erupt from the bellies of men finishing off what’s left of the chimmy-chamma. Girlish giggles and hearty old man laughs as calabash bowls are passed. The jokes, I don’t understand. But the laughter; that is universal and while I don’t catch the punch line of most jokes (hey, kind of like in the States!) I’ve come to feel that having a complete understanding of life here does not, cannot in fact, matter in a place where I don’t truly belong. Trying is what matters here since I’ll never be a seamless fit in this complex, yet inviting, culture. No matter how much I study Bambara or how many Malian outfits I get made I’ll always be seen, at first, as the Toubabu muso (foreign woman) and Djelika Coulibaly, second. I’m like these branches being stuck into my lawn – from the same material as everything around me but sticking out in a place I don’t belong. As I look around my front yard at the finished fence, emptied calabash bowls and tipsy old men I’m OK with sticking out like the branches as long as these men keep laughing at my efforts to fit in.
A throwback to Marija's visit:
Marija and I in Malick Sidibe's studio

Sweet visit from a sweet lady

Marija's first night in Bamako

Even after over 24 hours of travel, Marija looked fresh as a daisy coming out of the airport in Bamako (not exagerrating, she looked lovely!) and was a real sport going out to dinner right after even though I know she was exhausted. The next morning we got on a bus to San (see previous post) and spent the afternoon getting to know San and hitting all my "regular" spots.
Our "uniformu!" we wore to the wedding celebrations in village and in Bamako

Monday morning we made my usual market-day circuit in San visiting the tailor, shopping for groceries and visiting the fabric section of market. We got our portrait taken at a studio (only $1 a picture!) in our new outfits tailor made for us by Vincent Diarra. I went to the tailor the week before she came and got my measurements taken and guessed on Marija's. Of course, when we tried on our dresses on Monday, hers fit perfectly and mine had to be altered. Ah, the joys of tailor made clothes!
Baby Christine makes a good joke

One of Marija's goals was to spend as much time as possible holding this sweet baby (she let me hold her for this picture :) I think she successfully achieved her goal as we spent a fair amount of time just hanging out with my host family, Annie and the kids. Marija biked over 10 miles out to my site and really held her own especially for being a self-proclaimed non-exerciser. Way to go girl!
The world through rose colored...frames!

Emma(nuel) is a character who, though quiet, likes to be the center of attention. Whenever Marija would try to take a picture of something or someone in the compound Emma would sneak into the back of the picture wearing his shades.
Sunset piroque on the Bani/Niger rivers

We made it up to the Mopti/Sevare area (as well as Bandiagara, the delta of Dogon country) and took a sunset cruise on the Bani river which feeds into the Niger. Sunsets here really are breathtaking and I'm glad that even though the restaurant we wanted to go to was closed we were able to take this boat ride with Cassie.
Marija's visit was a great time to reflect on my service thus far (wow, already almost a year in??) and the year and a half I have left. It felt very strange seeing Marija get swallowed up by the airport doors and me staying on the other side of the roped-off ticket line. We had an incredible time visiting my site and travelling around Mali together. Seeing her enjoy the same aspects of the culture that make everyday here fun for me (bean jokes, marriage proposals, friendly people) made me feel even more attached to the Malian people and culture and even though it was hard to say goodbye I know the next year and some change will go by even faster than this first one and soon enough, I'll be saying hello again.

World Wise School connections

One of the greatest joys of my Peace Corps service in Mali comes from sharing my life and experiences with those I love most through letters, emails and blog posts - and also with those I don't know well at all! Since I installed in my village in September and the American school year coincedentally began I've been keeping a correspondence with two schools back in Virginia: North Landing Elementary School in Virginia Beach and Stone Bridge HIgh School in Ashburn.
Mrs. Shellnutt at NLES and her 3rd grade class studied ancient Mali in January and we skyped with one another where I talked about modern Mali and the students asked about what elements from ancient Mali are still around such as the salt trade, the ancient library in Timbuktu and if there are camels and elephants in Mali (there are up North!). Her class also collected school supplies and treats to share with the kids at the school in Zana (thank you so much, the kids love them!). They sent great letters and sweet valentine's and birthday cards. Thank you for bringing me so many smiles NLES 3rd graders!
Ms. Doughtery at SBHS had her 9th grade class write me letters asking questions about Mali and my life here and it was refreshing to hear what questions were on their mind and neat to see them reflect on their lives in comparison to young adults their age in Mali.
One of my best friends, Marija, flew in from America last night where my friend Khadi and I picked her up. and is here safe and sound. Khadi is a banker in Bamako and knows some folks at the airport so Marija was whisked through the visa line (big time saver) and escorted out with her bags (she's the best packer, a small duffel bag and a carry on bag; I would have brought waaaay too much). We made it safe to San today after an initial bus break down and are ready to embark on the adventures Mali and Zana have to offer. Wedding festivities in village, hiking in Dogon country, shopping for souvenirs in Sevare, dinner on the Bani river, meeting Malick Sidibe in Bamako and maybe even a camel sighting if we're lucky. On the bus today a man asked where we were going and I explained that my best friend was here to visit me from America. "All the way from America??" he asked. "That's right," I said, "over 14 hours in an airplane!" "She's good, she is very, very good," he said. I'm going to have to agree on that one.

Let's baroke! (let's talk!)

Me and baby Christine in my most recent knitting creation.
Communication and community are the centerpieces of my life here in Mali. Everyday I work to navigate my way through Malian culture and chores using Bambara while striving to be connected to the village in which I live by being apart of ceremonies and getting to know my neighbors by compound hopping and peeking in on gardens. The heat and tight-knit nature of the people here mean that a lot of time is spent outside. Relaxing under a shaded hangar, drinking tea, applying fertilizer to the fields in preparation for farming season, pounding millet for the day's meals, washing clothes - everything is done together and it's this sense of community that I revel in and try to transfer to my own relationships with other American Peace Corps volunteers and my sweet family and friends back home.

Cheese!
After almost a year here, it's just in the past few weeks/month that I'm starting to feel not only a part of the community but that my presence at village events and ceremonies isn't a novelty - it's expected. This past week brought the deaths of two older men in village and funerals here, like in the states, mean a coming together of loved ones of the deceased. The difference here is that every single person in the village is considered a close family friend and therefore comes to the funeral to pay their respects to the grieving family as soon as they find out. The night of the death, all the women bring their mats to the family's compound and set up to have a sleepover of sorts as well as to dance and sing in honor of the dead. Talk about a true celebration of life. Annie and I headed over to the compound this past week around 10 p.m. and set up our mat with Aminata, Annie's sister-in-law and Marte, our neighbor. With their babies nestled us and fast asleep we settled down for the night as other women set up the generator, microphone and lights for an evening of celebration. While the attitude of the women was somber and tear-filled during the day, the night was filled with laughter and women lining up to dance. When I woke up at 5 a.m. Annie was sitting up next to me, knitting away and unable to sleep with the women's singing and loud dancing. Baby Christine's arm was sticking straight out into my face and her little leg kicked in my direction as I rolled over to see the sun rise on our sleepover.

Here you can see the little booties
As farming season gets ready to kick off again and Peace Corps Mali gears up to welcome another group of volunteers (including another UMW grad - Jeremy Jordan!) I'll continue to work hard to be aware of my surroundings and live in the present as I continue to learn about Mali and all the nuances that make up this rich culture.
Also, can hardly contain myself that in only 6 days Marija will be here! Wedding season is upon us (in Mali as in America) and one of the first things Marija and I will do together is go to my village's wedding party, pictures to follow!

eggplants and bubbles, is there a better combination? Thank you Heather for the bubbles and Mrs. Shellnutt for my oh-so-cool organic gray t-shirt
Pictures for the previous blog post - the internet was being slow and wouldn't post them so here they are!

Shea butter- whipping the mix

this is what ground shea nuts look like

Cooking lunch for 40 women isn't easy! here's rice and sauce

Shea nuts on our homemade solar dryer

I've got to admit it's getting better...shea butter that is!

I picked Umu up at the bus station at 3:30 - only a couple hours behind schedule since her bus broke down on the way from Bamako. We found a boy with a push cart to load her bag and rice sack filled with shea nuts and headed over to the taxi area to catch a van to meet Esayi who was waiting on his moto to take Umu back to Zana (I followed on my bike which was safely secured, sort of, onto the roof of the car). Once enough people had reserved all the seats in the van about 8 men threw their weight into the back of the 10 seater van (comfortably filled with 20 people) to kick start the alternator (I'm assuming). Once the engine caught, the driver threw the van into reverse and and we scrambled to get our seats before the car decided it didn't want to run anymore. We sputtered and jerked through a flash rain and wind storm to get to a village on the paved road about 5 miles from Zana where we unloaded our bags and I proceeded to huff and puff on my bike behind Umu and Esayi to get to Zana. A project proposal was approved to buy food for the shea butter formation the money for which I had given Annie before I left for Guinea. Once I arrived, Annie showed me the itemized list with all the purchases she and Esayi made for the formation and how much each item cost. We settled in our formatrice, Umu, who travels around Mali during the hot season doing formations on improved shea butter practices and how to start associations and shared a hot meal before collapsing under our mosquito nets and going to bed. Umu and I got up early Wednesday morning to prepare for the formation. Annie and Baissata, the head of the informal women's association, invited 10 women from each quartier in Zana (there are 4) and 10 extra women to cook the lunch. Esayi and Bachary set up extra desks from the school under the shade of mango trees by the village bank and a chalkboard for talking points. About 6 women pound millet in this area each day and since the mortars in which they pound the grain are so heavy and shade is at a premium, we had a nice rhythm of thump thump thump throughout the formation. By 10:00 a.m. only about 20 women had showed up. Annie was acting nervous and called me over to help pound some millet and shared her concern that no one else was going to show despite her repeated instructions to the women about when and where to show up. She said, Djelika, I'm going to cry! If these women don't want to learn new things, so be it! Annie doesn't normally have a flair for the dramatic so I panicked a little but tried to hide my concern and calm her down by saying that surely the women would show. Sure enough, by 10:15 most of the women had come, though 2 hours later than expected. Umu expressed her dissatisfaction with the women's tardiness and set a ground rule that if they were late again tomorrow each person who came after the start of her formation would have to pay 50 cfa (about 10 cents). However, once Umu got rolling talking about why shea work is important, how proper collection of shea nuts leads to the creation of good shea butter and why it's important to preserve shea trees, the women were all ears. I kept notes during the formation and marked names when women spoke out of turn (another finable offense of 50 cfa). It was pretty funny how the women would hold one another accountable and point out to Umu women who were nodding off or speaking without raising their hand. It's pretty incredible to see women sitting and learning something when they've never had the opportunity for formal education. I hope that their children, especially their daughters, see them learning and say, yeah, me too! I want to learn! I couldn't help but beam at Annie who did an incredible job orchestrating the formation. Ever tried making rice and sauce for over 40 hungry women in pots the size of mini-bathtubs over wood? Me either, but I know it's not easy but no big deal for Annie!
Day one taught us about associations and how Together Everyone Achieves More (doesn't exactly translate in Bambara into such a clean acronym - Nogon Fe An Be Barra Caman Were Ke!) and that pooling our resources (namely, labor) you can get some pretty good butter our of those shea trees. Day two of the formation consisted of taking the ground up shea nuts Umu brought from Bamako and whipping them into a paste similar to the consistency of marshmellow fluff (yum!). It took about 30 minutes to hand whip the 20 kilos of shea nuts and we then put the mixture into a big pot to separate the oil from the residue. This took awhile and Umu used the opportunity to re-emphasize the importance of cleanliness and that all the pots and bowls used were cleaned with soap and water, hands washed similarly and hair wrapped up and sleeves pushed back. Annie had seen this method of shea butter extraction twice: Once with Tamara, the volunteer I replaced, and then again with me this past January at our training in Bamako. The other women usually just boil the shea mixture they get once they grind the shea nuts without whipping it and once they saw the oil that came out of just a few minutes of whipping (per woman) and then boiled they were truly amazed and kept coming up to me saying, i ni baara! (Good work!) An nenya kosebe! (Really cool!). At the end of the formation, Umu spoke to all the women to encourage them to pursue this technique (it's not as radical as I'm maybe making it out to be but education is all about repetition, right?). Then Annie got up and made my heart swell a little. She's such a beautiful woman who works tirelessly to provide for her family but also for her village. She told the women how she'd wanted them to see this technique since she and Tamara had seen it first together in Bamako and now that they finally had, how excited she is to move forward and start an association. She told the women how at the beginning of the formation she wanted to cry but now she was happy again and proud of the work they did.
In the end, Umu collected 1,000 cfa (hey, that's kind of a lot!) in late fees from the women so we were able to buy candy at the end for everyone to enjoy. As rainy season fast approaches (thank goodness, the heat is getting oppressive!) and shea work will begin again, I'm crossing my fingers the women will keep Umu's formation tucked in the back of their minds when collecting shea nuts and processing their butter so they can increase the quality and yields of their work thus providing more and better butter for their family and potentially, an outside market.

A trip to Guinea and Sierra Leone

Seeing the sites of Guinea and Sierra Leone on a recent vacation with fellow volunteers Joe, Ashley and Cassie - River #1 & #2, Banana Island, both capital cities Freetown and Conakry, the Fouta of Guinea opened my eyes to the raw beauty in West Africa and also how from one country to the next life can be so different. It's easy to lump regions together from a distance and even from within Mali I thought things wouldn't be much different in Guinea or Sierra Leone but I was in for a wake-up call! Sporadic running water and electricity in Conakry, the capital of Guinea and a bustling Freetown with big buildings and colonial architecture still intact drew stark contrasts to Bamako where there's almost always electricity/street lights and running water in hotels.
It was worth spending over 30 hours in a tightly packed car with red dirt coating our entire bodies and bags to get to the beach in Freetown, Sierra Leone and then spend 5 days on the beach, turn around and head back to Mali through Guinea, stopping in the Fouta Djallon for hiking and site-seeing.

I'll let the pictures speak for me because words are failing and no matter how hard I try to describe what I saw, it can't come through!

the Fouta Djallon in Guinea


Tokeh Beach near Freetown, Sierra Leone

Banana Island, Sierra Leone

River #1, Sierra Leone

Our taxi from Bamako, Mali to Kankan, Guinea. We were celebrating making it through all the border check points.



See more pictures here :)

(every) 6 days a week...

Catherine Dembele - the pastor's wife and a crocheter with a pretty smile and inviting laugh.

Market is every six days in my village and I always look forward to weaving in and out of the small hangars to greet the old women and men who hang around chatting with one another, greeting folks they only see on market day who come in to sell their various treasures. Things get started as the day cools off so around 4:30 I peek in the direction of the two dead baobabs that designate our market to see if all the vendors have gathered. Go too early and run the risk of lingering too long. Go too late and all the best produce could be snatched up by the early birds. Timing is everything and I'm looking to fill my canvas bag with tasty treats to last me a few days as well as some gifts for Annie, Esayi and the kids.
Commerce is always going on in village and it's fascinating to see the laws of supply and demand at work. Annie is on constant commission to knit baby outfits for new and soon-to-be-born babies and business is booming as evidenced by the little ones sporting her handiwork around town - dainty hats, tops and booties knitted into delicate patterns of red, yellow, green and white - colors favored by the women and the colors of Mali's flag. Annie also buys peanuts, okra and yarn in bulk and resells them for a small profit. Esayi fills a 20 liter jug with gas in San and then redistributes it into recycled, one-liter wine bottles he sells to moto owners who find themselves in the middle of the bush and with no gas station for at least 15 miles. Catherine, the pastor's wife, crochets large doiley-esque pieces for women to lay on the cement benches at church so their fancy fabric doesn't get mussed by the dirt and dust that coats all surfaces this time of year; a souvenir from the persistent harmattan winds whipping around.

These two were hanging out in Esayi's horse cart - had to snap a photo.

The market in my village is different than San by leaps and bounds. Whereas San is humming and buzzing with people and all kinds of trinkets, village market is subdued and the variety is limited. You can find small stacks of tomatoes, onions, hand carved stools, tightly woven straw mats, bread, dried fish, baggies of salt and women who repair broken calabash bowls in exchange for millet. As I buy stacks of tomatoes or dried fish, the women selling it will load them in my bag, pick up an extra tomato or scoop of fish, and then knowingly look at me as they add it to my bag; an encouragement to come back to their spread the following week with an unspoken promise of another gift for her "terimuso" (girlfriend). Women also make fried dough balls and spaghetti which they sell in little plastic baggies for pennies a pop. Traveling salesmen bike in from neighboring villages and San, peddling things like rope, medicine, baby clothes and powdered soap; an ever-expanding market for their goods found in distant villages like mine.
After making my rounds I make one last loop of the market to make sure I've greeted everyone and gotten everything I need. Satisfied with my purchases and carrying my "shopping" bag filled with the deals of the week I wave goodbye to the crowd of women and children and navigate the dirt path back home, carefully dodging traffic along the way - cattle and donkey carts crowding the way, indifferent to shoppers like me.

Technical training in Segou

Joel is a volunteer in the San region, like me. His counterpart developed the Plasa method which is a tree planting method for the dry season. Here he demonstrates how to do it for other volunteers and their counterparts. The man helping him has a tree nursery and hadn't heard about the method before - he's now really excited to try it out on his own trees.

Esayi and I went to Segou this past week along with other volunteers from the region and their counterparts for a more focused technical training on things like tree grafting, soak pits, the Plasa method (a method for planting trees in dry/hot season developed by Jude Thera), shea work and solar dryers as well as how to draft project proposals and funding sources. It was a great opportunity for volunteers to share what projects they are trying to get started in their villages and for our counterparts to meet one another and discuss their ideas. We did a lot of round table discussion and also met with over 15 NGO's represented in the Segou region.

It's incredibly fascinating seeing our counterparts get so excited about projects and also talk with one another about work going on in different areas of Mali. Communication isn't easy here - electricity is sparse and while lots of people have cell phones, that doesn't mean they have a disposable income to make a lot of calls. With volunteers all over Mali there's an instant network of people and volunteers who are well connected to one another and can work to connect people who specialize in tree grafting or planting and shea work to come and do formations in our village and vice versa.

Happy Easter

Anne's beautiful niece Nema came to celebrate Easter with us "en brusse" She said that in San, they only celebrate Easter on Sunday (the audacity!) but in Zana it's a three day celebration. We danced Saturday night-Sunday morning, church on Sunday and then more dancing on Monday.

Sweet baby Christine in her Easter dress. Her bottom two teeth are coming in (Anne says her kids teeth come in slower than others) and is a speedy crawler!

Anne looked better in this outfit than I could ever hope to so we traded Easter outfits. Jackie, please note the green t-shirt that says "Sweet Baby." Made me think of all the sweet babies back in the states, namely you!

the whole fam damily as Memaw says. And folks may look grumpy/not smiling; don't worry, that's just the Malian way! I'll bring out my camera to a group of laughing kids and as soon as they group up for the picture they give me the saddest frown-y face you've ever seen. Then, when I show them the picture they smile and say what a great picture it is...guess I just cheese it a lot!

A lot of the kids get matching outfits - here is Ibrahim, Emmanuel and Samuel. Emma is my host brother and the other two are his cousins.