Toubabu-musoni!!!

The word I hear more than any other in Mali is, without a doubt, 'toubabu!'*  Children shriek 'toubabu' as I bike past villages and fields on my way into San.  Vendors yell 'toubabu' as I pass their stands in efforts to draw my attention to their spread of produce or appliances.  Annie shakes her head and sighs 'ah, toubabu' when she hears about customs in America or outside of Mali to which she is not accustomed.  Hearing the word so much makes it lose its meaning for me and at times 'toubabu' begins to feel like another way of saying 'hello'.  But at other times, like when I listen to the BBC or catch up on the news at the internet café, I am reminded of what 'toubabu' means to a Malian.  It means someone who is different and not of this place.  Someone who does not belong.  I have this strange sense of duality: being a 'toubabu' in Mali and trying to fit in but also seeing and hearing the news as a toubabu while living in Mali.  With only a few weeks left here before touching ground in the States after an absence of a little under two years I have started to think more about what it means to be a 'toubabu' in Mali and also what it will mean to be an anonymous Jennifer in America.

Listening to the BBC one evening a couple weeks back while whipping up a Laughing-Cow cheese white sauce on my bunsen burner stove the correspondent announced that the president of Venezuela, Hugo Chavez, a recent subscriber to Twitter, tweeted an official statement concerning the failure of a government project that had opened the week prior and subsequently failed.  My jaw literally fell open as my super-processed cheese tried to melt in the pan.  Have I been away that long that official announcements are made via Twitter?  I found myself muttering 'ah, toubabu' under my own breath, à la Annie, and feeling both disconnected from (the) America(s) and pondering what other novelties have developed during my absence.  News like this is shocking to me here in Mali not because I live in a 1,000 person village without electricity; Mali is connected with cell phones, internet and satellite TV (in bigger cities) and even has it's own version of Twitter (something called Orange Chat).  It's shocking because the story represents how many things, potentially, have changed since I have been gone and make me wonder what else is different and how will I feel being back home again in a few weeks. 

Chavez's story reminded me of similar news that reach me via packages, internet or the BBC and that make me feel like (the) America(s) are much further than the 5,000 or so miles that already separate us.  I took back a People magazine to village a few months back and gave it to the kids in my host family to look through.  The kids discarded the magazine after looking through the pictures and Annie, who normally ignores such things in favor of her knitting, asked me to explain the picture on front.  I took back the magazine and proceeded to try and explain the meaning of transgender and then how it is possible for a man to give birth to a baby; I had neglected to take care about what was on the cover before passing on the magazine.  Mind you, this conversation was all in Bambara which is not even close to my native language and on a subject that is awkward for most Americans and especially in Mali.  Annie shook her head, true to form, said 'ah, toubabu' and then said how every man should have to go through child birth at least once.  I've learned a lesson from Annie - even though things like the man giving birth to a baby and Chavez's Twitter story shock me here, they are also just stories and Annie's response reassures me that adjusting to strange news once I am stateside again will not be so hard.

In a small village 5 km from mine I slow down my bike on my way into San to take a corner and two children exit a compound.  The older girl takes the younger one by the hand while the little one opens her mouth and screams 'DJELIKA-AHHHHHHHHH!' as though I jumped from around the corner to scare her.  I laugh out loud and keep on biking after greeting them both, my name still ringing in my ears and my smile still beaming that she did not call me 'toubabu muso-ni**!!!'. 

I am 'toubabu' to Malians who don't know me, Djelika to those who do and Jennifer to those who know me best.  All that to say that after my plane lands in DC and my Djelika complet is tucked away in the suitcase and my Jennifer dress is taken out of my carry-on I'm sure I'll look around, take in all the once-again familiar sights, tastes and sounds and say, 'ah, toubabus!'.  If you're not there to see it, don't worry, I'm sure I'll Twitter about it later!



*The definition of toubabu is vague to me.  Some say it's a general term for a white person or someone from the West.  Others say that it comes from the 'tout' in French meaning all and 'babu' in Bambara which means to talk and together meaning one who talks a lot or asks many questions.  Either way, I fit the description!
**Toubabu musoni is funny too because it's like saying 'little foreign woman!!!'  The muso=woman and ni means little. 

Tailor made= A+grade

Before moving to Mali in July 2008 and beginning my service as a Peace Corps Volunteer I had a number of questions that plagued my preparations.  What will I eat in country? What language will I speak?  What work will I do? But the question that gave me the most cause for pause was the 80 pound weight limit on baggage and what I could/should pack and what would be left behind.  Moving to a predominately Muslim country in the Sahel I was concerned about dressing modestly while staying cool and comfortable.  I searched the racks of outdoor stores, thrift shops and friends' closets for linen tops, hardy capris and long skirts that could handle the wear and tear of two years roughing it in a West African country.  Almost two years later, most of the clothes I stuffed into space-saving zip-lock bags and squeezed into my two suitcases are tattered and on their last thread or forgotten on racks in my house, hanging under bolts of Malian fabric. 

After a month or so in country we were let out of our training site on the outskirts of Bamako and into the city and I saw that my REI wardrobe was woefully sub-par and even inappropriate.  While I had been concerned with sun protection and comfort I should have been more prepared to embrace Malian culture through clothes because of Malians high value on appearances.  Now I  cringe at the same outfits I religiously rolled and tucked into my bags and also the short shorts, midriff baring tops and safari outfits of toubabs seen in bigger cities.  It's not because I think their outfits are bad (from a Western perspective) but because they demonstrate such a blatant disregard for the high esteem Malians place on appearance. 

And so, in honor of Mother's Day and all the stylish moms in my life, I have made a 6 step plan (see below) for anyone planning to visit Mali.  Wear a nice outfit on the plane and then get yourself to 'sugu-ba' (big market) ASAP and get ready to rake in the compliments and feel at least a degree less foreign!  I kenne ka koro!

Step 1: An occasion! Annie's brother and his wife with their newly baptized baby girl

Step 2: Pick out your fabric - this is the San fabric for a fish festival in June 

 

Amadou Niangué, a fabric seller in San who always gives us a few CFA off the final price :)

Step 3: Visit tailor Mom hems one of the napkins we got made - Abu got a real kick out of seeing her at the sewing machine

Step 6: Our special occasion outfits - this is the uniform for a village wedding 

To re-cap
1. Determine the occasion for your outfit
2. Purchase at least 3 'tafés' of fabric in market (anywhere from 3,500 CFA - 12,000 CFA = $7-$24 USD)
3. Decide on the 'modèle' with your tailor with the aid of his/her photo album of outfits
4. Talk about style ad nauseum with said tailor to make sure you both understand what you want
5. Pick up outfit 1-2 weeks later and get alterations

6. Celebrate and/or walk around town relishing in the compliments from Malians and toubabs alike! 

 

See pictures from April in Mali here

I know we'll have a good time then

I am lying on a woven plastic mat rolled out on a packed-dirt clearing with my head cradled in Annie's lap as she works on yet another knitted baby hat and I absently swat at termite-sized ants scurrying around us.   My legs are tangled in between her children - Batuma, Emma and Le Vieux - who are working on a 100-piece parrot puzzle Mrs. Shellnutt sent while Christine is curled up on the other side of Annie's legs, fast asleep.  A single kerosene lamp lights the little cove in front of Annie's house and the warm, smoky smell of its fumes fill my nostrils as I snuggle closer to Annie and watch our shadows dance on her mud-brick wall. 

Soap production at Siby a Shea cooperative 45 km from Bamako

My thoughts wander to how everyone in village has been so busy lately.  Annie was recently in the bush everyday collecting firewood and now her days are filled with teaching women to read and write Bambara.  She comes home exhausted from long days of chopping wood or teaching to cook in a smoke-filled kitchen and pull water from the well for night baths.  Esayi has a steady stream of forlorn, blown-out horse-cart tires piled under his hanger waiting to be repaired and his duties as chief of the village, especially between January and May (the non-farming months of the year), frequently take him to meetings at the mayor's office in a village 2km away.  At night Esayi entertains a steady stream of neighbors who install themselves on various lounge chairs and stools in hopes he is brewing a pot of sugary tea to share.  I have been in and out of village since February attending various conferences, trainings and formations on food security and shea as well as planning and implementing our Segou regional training.  I try to be present, physically and mentally, at times when the family is together but the draining heat - it's sometimes still 105 degrees Fahrenheit at night these days - and my daily chores, few as they are, sap my energy and put me in bed by 10 each night just as guests are leaving and it is a prime time for sitting together as a family to talk.  

I think this is just after Esayi finished shaking his head at me for asking a silly question, as Memaw would say - he's a good sport 

When I complain to Annie about our lack of time together she looks at me and frowns - 'Wajibi-don, Djelika' she says - it [work] is an obligation.  While I would like to believe life here is slow and vastly different from life in America, the stresses of work and travel still manage to affect my relationships.  Long days, though not in an office, leave me drained and I struggle for balance between my 'dugu-ba' (big city) life and village living as I am sure I will struggle to balance living away from my parents in the States and my visits back home.  One thing that is different for me here that I will likely not encounter in America is how my work is so finely intertwined and dependent on my (Malian) family.  If I feel like work is not up to pace or that I am not doing enough I only have two places to turn for an explanation: myself and my work partners who also happen to be my host parents.  Thankfully work and family have reached a happy medium this past month with Esayi attending the Segou training and Annie and I traveling together to spend Easter with another volunteer and her Christian village before attending a formation together in Bamako.

Beautiful Easter balloons in the church in Monica's village!

A lonely yet comforting feeling washes over me as I think about the culmination of my work with Esayi and Annie and how I will soon be gone.  The cereal bank is complete (blog post pending!) and a Peace Corps trainer is coming to our village next month to train the council on how to properly manage the grain.  This past week I, along with Miriam, president of the newly formed women's association, and Annie, my host-mom and association secretary, attended a three-day shea butter workshop in Bamako (this one being for 'brusse' Mali women's associations whereas the conference that took place last month included international actors in the shea market).  Upon our return to San we met with a woman to file their cooperative papers thus formalizing their organization and bringing credibility to their future requests for credit to be put towards projects such as a community garden or cotton work.    

Ladies only party on Easter Monday

The flame in the kerosene lamp flickers down and the children abandon Mrs. Shellnutt's puzzle in favor of sleep while Annie sets aside her knitting needles and slides down on the mat, her body becoming a part of the mass, and I am the only one left awake.  I carefully untangle my legs from the collection of sleeping bodies and slip away to my own mosquito net and mattress where I snuggle into my chips-a-hoy sheets and count stars peeking through my straw hanger.  While the urgency of work can be overwhelming, travel for conferences and workshops exhausting and time away from home (both village and America) heart-wrenching, it is nights like this one, snuggled next to Annie and with Christine's little baby arms draped over me, that remind me why all those stresses are worth it.

Segou Regional Training

    

Segou-kaw at the Catholic Mission in Segou

Peace Corps Volunteers spend close to three of our 27 months in country in language and technical training.  This past week we held our Segou regional training in Segou-ville with both new and 'old' volunteers.  We learned about ameliorated porridge from Cassie and her homologue, soak pits from Alaric, neem cream (a mosquito repellent made from shea butter, soap and neem leaves - a tree found in Mali) from Veronique, various awesome projects from Monica, fish farming with Engineers without Borders from Therese and urine fertilizer from Esayi and me. 

It was an exhausting week but we learned a lot and it gave both Esayi and I some much needed energy to push through with the rest of our work in the few months I have left in village and to prepare him some more for the next volunteer who will move in come August!

See more pictures from training here

See more pictures from my past month in Mali here

Global Shea 2010

Here I am at the Global Shea conference 

West Africa Trade Hub works with people to improve transport, access to finance, business environment and ICT to make West African businesses more competitive*.  They recently sponsored a 4 day conference to improve communication and quality at all levels of the shea value chain at Hotel de l'Amitié in Bamako, Mali which touched on topics ranging from maximizing quality to business planning and improved management to research, development and production to bulk trade in shea and expanding opportunities.

a shea tree and shea products from a shea store in San

Actors from all levels of the shea value chain attended including producers, buyers and exporters, from over 22 countries.  Peace Corps Volunteers from 4 countries in West Africa (Mali, Ghana, Benin & Togo) who work with shea in their respective villages - from forming women on improved practices to working on exporting large quantities of butter - also made the journey to the conference.  All forms of transport were exploited from buses on their last leg to first class airplanes and accommodations ranged the gamut from bunk beds at the Mali Peace Corps transit house to 5 star rooms at Hotel de l'Amitié.  

Here a man demonstrates how to make a shea butter pomade with aloe vera - all materials found in Mali/West Africa

The first day of the conference was dedicated to registration, sorting out the kinks of rooms, name tags and orientation as well as informal meetings between participants about their work in the shea field.  Day two is when things really got juicy as conference participants attended sessions ranging from improving the quality of their shea products (soaps, pomades, raw butter) to getting their shea butter laboratory tested, to bulk exporting of nuts and butter.  Participants benefitted from translations in both French and English depending on the nationality of the speaker (or their second language as the case was for those from Japan, Germany and Holland) as well as local language translations by Peace Corps Volunteers into Bambara.  Walking into the conference center on Day 2 booths lined the  second floor where women and men had carefully arranged bars of soap, tubs of shea butter and pamphlets advertising their products.  The back row was filled with women's associations from Mali and bright pagnes of Malian shea fabric were tacked onto the wall displaying the number of women's groups in Mali working with shea.  Other booths were occupied by women and men from Ghana, Burkina Faso, Senegal, Nigeria and England and their respective organizations.  

 Funlayo Alabi is a Nigerian woman living in Maryland who has incredible shea products - check out her products here (she went to Regent University in Virginia Beach, too!)

Leaving the conference, the scent of various body butters and creams lingering on my skin, I thought about what this conference meant for me.  I have never been closer to the source of shea butter than living here in Mali - women in my village collect shea nuts in the fields surrounding our village and sell them to traveling salesmen or whip the ground nuts into butter - and I have never been closer to the raw business side of shea butter than at this conference - buyers coming to the source for a base ingredient included in many products, from cosmetics to chocolate.  At the end of the conference we (PCVs) sat down and talked about problems facing the shea industry.  We concluded that the nut market is unorganized, there is a lack of good business partners, a lack of product diversification and development, and also the number of NGOs with their fingers in the various shea pots is overwhelming.  Also, it is unfortunate that food insecurity forces women to sell their nuts at sub-market prices.  One of the most interesting things I learned at the conference was from The Body Shop representative for Africa who said that 90% of the shea market is for nuts and 10% for shea butter yet 90% of the information exchanged in the industry is about shea butter and only 10% for nuts.  An incredible imbalance!

With buyers for L'Oréal, The Body Shop, Ghana Specialty Fats, export facilitators from Ghana, Senegal and Mali and producers from Mali, Senegal, Burkina Faso and Nigeria (among many others) I saw how much shea really can do for women in West Africa.  That when women can sell their quality nuts and butter at fair trade prices, business and trade really can be key to sustainable development. 

*www.watradehub.com

 Mark, Chrissy and Sam in the hotel lobby

Michael is ready to give you a flash drive!

Drinks after a great week of work

Listening to the translated speeches

See more pictures from the conference here 

24 hours, 24 years

After 10 hours on a poorly ventilated, dusty bus, Sonef transport drops me, Cassie, Joe & Ashley off in  Hombori in an unlit gas station parking lot.  The village, between Mopti and Gao, is surrounded by sheer cliffs and staggering plateaus.  The moon is close to full at 1 am and we scan the horizon trying to pick out which rock formation is Hombori Tondo - the highest point in Mali at 1,155 meters - and the mountain we have come to climb.

Lelele, the owner of his eponymous campement, graciously wakes up and shows us to a terrace where, for 2,000 CFA/night (about $4), we sleep on lumpy mattresses and, after unloading our dusty daypacks, take showers from used oil drums with shower heads welded to the bottom.  Accommodations are sparse but for $4 a night we are not really in a position to complain.

 

Setting out with 6 liters of water each and treats for the trek 

By 6:15 the next morning I wake up to donkeys braying outside the compound (hoping for elephants - one of the last wild herds of them roams from Mauritania to Niger via Mali passing through Hombori) and a trickle of sweat down my cheek.  We lay out a spread of hard boiled eggs, laughing cow cheese and stale bread from San for breakfast and then head downstairs to haggle for a guide to the base of the mountain and gear to cable climb.  The bargaining is exhausting but in the end we settle on 2,000 CFA/person for a guide to the cables (and base of the mountain) and 2,000 CFA/helmet.  After a quick lunch of rice and sauce and double checking I have enough water we set out at 2 in the afternoon for our adventure.

 

All smiles before we clip in!

The hike to the base takes about 2 1/2 hours and I drink 2 of my 6 liters of water.  After a break to catch our breaths and secure our harnesses Joe clips into the first section of the cable and I follow.  Joe retraces his steps to help Ashley through a particularly tricky crevice and I continue on since it's too scary to stay still.  I move steadily but slowly until I come to an area I cannot pass (there is nowhere to put my feet!).  I check to make sure I am securely clipped to the cable and take a look around me.  A flock of birds swoops down and the collective rush of their wings makes me catch my breath.  I look down and hear Joe (a former Yellowstone National Park employee) coach Ashley through another tough spot and then let my eyes wander over the incredible landscape around me.  Silhouettes of imposing rock formations dot the horizon and dried river beds that will fill when the rains come in July snake below.  I have never been so isolated and the beauty of it all is overwhelming (the heights may have something to do with that, too!).  I hear Joe's voice and then he appears from the rocks below and clips in ahead of me to figure out the climb.  After spanning the rock Mission Impossible style I take a deep breath and follow, trusting my harness, carabeeners and the cable with my climbing companions' encouragement.

 

Mission Possible with Joe, Ashley and Cassie! 

After 2 1/2 hours of cable climbing (5 hours total) the sun has set, darkness gently falling around us and we have reached the summit.  After 'bathing' with wet wipes we prepare dinner - stale(r) loaves of bread, laughing cow cheese and a stick of gourmet, pinot grigio summer sausage (thanks Cassie!) with stars above and a handful of solar powered lights in Hombori below.

The night brings winds so gusty I find myself gripping the sloping rock on which I sleep and tucking myself tighter into my sleeping bag.  I wake up after the moon has set and catch my breath at the closeness of the stars weighing heavily above me, crowding one another as they fight to be someone's favorite.  A shooting star flashes by and I close my eyes to wish for more trips like this with these friends sleeping beside me.  In less than 2 years I have been to places I never thought I would go and places I will likely never go again (Sierra Leone, Guinea and Gao) with the Wollersheims and Cassie.  Risking my life on Hombori Tondo is another thing I will add to the list!

 

Joe was a great guide - and he didn't even sing annoying songs!
Soon after dawn, thighs aching from the climb up, we begin the descent.  Since I cannot rely on my (albeit minimal) upper body strength to move from one bolt to the next, as I could for the ascent, the climb down is scarier and I depend more on my faith in the cable and harness.  A group of boisterous Swiss climbers bound up the mountain and, after an animated rendition of a Malian song, continue to scramble up barely having broken a sweat.  It seems Hombori Tondo doesn't hold a candle to the Alps.

 

the summit of Hombori Tondo 

We reach Hombori-ville, dehydrated and delirious from the heat, and I guzzle a warm bottle of water in the gas station parking lot while looking back at Hombori Tondo where I pushed myself harder physically, and perhaps mentally, than ever before.  I make a wish on my bottle of mineral water that my next 24 years will include moments like the ones from the past 24 hours - adventures with dear friends, moments that take my breath away, meals savored to the last bite and water (or other delicious drinks) that quench my thirst.

Safely back in San after another exhausting bus ride, Cassie makes carrot cupcakes for my birthday and I have the chance to make another wish - that I won't have to take Malian public transport anytime soon!



See more pictures from our trip here

Muso sebe-ba!

Between quarterly reports, responding to letters from home about what I actually spend my time doing and the constant conversations with other Americans about our effectiveness as volunteers I spend a lot of time evaluating my Peace Corps work in Mali.  I ask questions such as: What work am I producing?  How many more meetings can we have about trees and shea butter?  How will I truly leave a mark on my village?  It is easy to get caught up in questions like this; questions that while necessary for reports sent to Washington sorely miss the mark on evaluating my Peace Corps service from the perspective of the people to whom my time here means most - Malians. 

On Friday morning Sidiki Coulibaly arrived in our compound in a wax-fabric boubou with a white, embroidered skull cap perched on his head in lieu of a helmet.  A black crate strapped to the back of his bicycle containing three saplings (grafted crab apple, mango and shea) let me know this was not just another cute old man passing by to visit his buddies in a neighboring quartier - this was Sidiki, tree expert extraordinaire, here to talk with us about trees!  After persistent conversations about desertification, firewood and rainfall my host dad, Esayi, called Sidiki to come to our village and teach a group of 25 men interested in starting their own tree nurseries the basics of sapling care and tree grafting.

Sidiki talks about grafted crab apple trees

A couple of months ago Esayi and I took a field trip to Sidiki's home, about 15 kilometers away, to ogle his tree orchard, hand-dug well and gas powered pump.  I had heard of his tree work (he sells saplings of all varieties in San) from other environment folks but still did not know much about how Sidiki got started in the tree business.  Once we toured the grounds he explained that he learned about tree nurseries and grafting from a 4-day conference he attended in San.  He said a Peace Corps Volunteer named Mamou Koné had come to his village, gauged his interest in tree work and subsequently invited him to take his past-time to the next level.  The name struck me as familiar but I couldn't put my finger on why.  After a few weeks and trips to the post-office I put the puzzle pieces together to realize the same RPCV (Returned PCV) who sends me packages each week as encouragement was the same woman who planned this tree conference (she sometimes signs her letters with her Malian name, Mamou - I thought it was her cat's name!).  Sidiki did not speak at length of her projects completed or the Peace Corps goals she met (likely because words are not necessary when you have one of the coolest tree orchards in Mali) but instead insisted on Mamou's sincere spirit and caring nature - something I continue to experience in her weekly boxes of treats (this week: granola, Samoa Girl Scout cookies, an organic blueberry chocolate bar and ketchup!)


Sidiki's hand dug well - over 20 meters deep!  He has a pump that connects at the bottom of this stairwell (and the beginning of where water rises) to water his tree orchard

The water gets pumped up the stairwell (in a tube) and into this cistern and then out again through the hoses connected at the base.  Pretty cool!

At the end of Sidiki's talk the twenty-five men who attended the meeting alternately blessed Sidiki and his work and then me for working with Esayi to get Sidiki to pass on some of his tree expertise.  I asked Sidiki to share his story of how he got started in the tree business with the men as a way of reinforcing the 'dooni dooni' (small, small) element of tree work and also to remind myself the impact one toubab can have.  Looking at Sidiki, head tilted back on his green plastic chair and a smile on his lips as he reflected on Mamou Koné, I captured a fleeting feeling of what will truly mark the success or failure of my time in Mali.  While projects and relationships are inevitably intertwined, Sidiki's crinkled eyes and gentle smile were not from thinking about all the hard work Mamou did as a volunteer.  The reverent way he said 'Ah, Mamou, muso-sebe ba don!' (rough translation: That Mamou is one hell of a woman!) was not because of the hours, weeks and possibly months she spent planning the tree conference in San.  For the success of a Peace Corps service in Mali, from a Malian point of view, is measured not in bags of cement or trees planted but in the relationships we build and the lasting impressions a genuine person can have.  I can only hope that one day when toubabs or America are brought up Annie and Esayi, two Malians that matter the most to me, will pull out their prized photo album, turn to my picture slid in between torn plastic-sheet protectors and, with their heads tilted on the backs of their plastic string chairs, say, 'Ah, Djelika, muso-sebe ba don!'

Dramane shows off two grafted crab apples 

Sidiki demonstrates how to graft trees with some neem tree branches

Tidbits from the Sahel

A random update for you my dear readers.  Dear friends - at home and abroad- make my life so sweet.  Here's some of my closest (Ameriki!) girlfriends here in Mali!

At a refined establishment in San with the San-kaw ladies (minus Caitlin) October 2009

Sharpened pencils, bottle of water, passport and registration ticket.  Cassie and I slide into wooden chairs behind wooden desks and, seated like sardines in a room the size of a broom closet, prepare to take the Graduate Record Exam.  Months of studying (well, more than one at least!) Cassie and I dive into the paper-based version of the GREs along with one other Peace Corps volunteer and a Malian who is hoping to attend graduate school in Washington DC.

Crammed in the back of a taxi on a hilly dirt road between Guinea and Sierra Leone, April 2009

After the test Cassie and I release huge sighs of relief and reward our efforts with a chicken sandwich and pizza at the Relax, a restaurant on the main drag in Bamako.  On Sunday we hang poolside at the American Club and pretend we are in Ameriki by ordering hamburgers, showing our knees and napping on lounge chairs.  There may be snow in Virginia but there is nothing but sunshine in Mali!

Even those this wasn't taken so long ago - January 2009 - I feel like Joelle and I look so young!

On Monday I Skype with my high school - Ocean Lakes - about what I am doing in the Peace Corps and what led me here (good questions!).  I don one of my Chiquita-Banana-Lady complets in hopes of impressing by appearance since I am not entirely sure what to say - it seems like it worked!  Once the call is over Cassie and I head out of the volunteer house here in Bamako to try West African Fried Chicken (my mom asked why it was called that and it's because it is fried chicken made in West Africa - quite tasty and I heartily recommend).  We then hop on a bush taxi (20 passenger vans that are gutted and fitted with benches around the interior perimeter) and for 125 CFA (about 25 cents) catch a ride into the grand marché.  In market we haggle for earrings and headscarves, bolts of fabric and piles of tomatoes.  A woman catches Cassie's arm and in the same movement pulls out her cell phone; 'N be se i ka photo ta wa?' she asks - 'May I take your picture?'  She likes the model of Cassie's complet and wants her tailor to have a picture from which to copy.  Cassie's couture is of the finest caliber - how often do you get stopped in the streets of America by someone who wants to photograph you to copy your outfit??  Pretty flattering! 

 

 

In a taxi in San after the World AIDS day concert by Nahawa Doumbia and Dousu Bagayogo, November 2009

Today I will meet with a man who works at the National Museum of Bamako about the possibility of doing a third-year in Bamako.  I am excited and hopeful about the prospect.  We came to Bamako for the GREs and have had a great long weekend with food, friends and laughter.  After fantastic Skype conversations with both family and friends alike (you guys don't know how much they sustain me!) I am looking forward to what the rest of February will bring!

 

Me and Marija in Malick Sidibe's studio in Bamako, June 2009 

With a knapsack on my back

Me and Mom looking fresh on Day 2 1/2 of our Dogon hike

Joelle and I wait anxiously at the airport for both of our moms, arriving on the same flight, to finally emerge from the terminal.  After 2 hours they finally appear with beaming smiles and gear bags and heavy suitcases hanging from their little frames.  We spend a few minutes hugging and then load into a 4x4 from the hotel and zip back to unload goodies and unwind from the long journey.  After a day of exploring Bamako, including the National Museum, we head to San on an afternoon bus with the Wollersheims , fingers crossed for no sickness and a lot of adventure.  

After packing and unpacking our bags in San, Mom and I are ready for village.  We strap baskets to the backs of our bikes and stop at Kadia's road side rice cake stand before heading out to village.  All the Malians around us, once we say we are biking the entire 15 miles, tell me I am crazy for making my bamuso (mother) bike the whole way.  This is a recurring exclamation throughout the duration of the trip from both Malians and Americans alike as Mom experiences my life here and how I navigate Mali from transportation to food to sleeping accommodations.  Mom brushes off their concern and assures me she will be fine, reminding me that she was a Girl Scout after all.  We spend 4 nights and 5 days 'en brusse' greeting those with whom I have grown closest in village and even those I do not know at all.  In between greetings and cat naps we gorge ourselves on Malian dishes Annie prepares including tigadega na (peanut butter sauce and rice), zame, koo (sort of like sweet potatoes that are not sweet), bean cakes and the numerous papayas various visitors offer as gifts.  As we say goodbye to Annie, baby Christine runs to Mom with her arms outstretched asking for a hug which you can only imagine helped to turn on the water works that much faster.   

 

It's amazing what a (cool/tepid) shower can do for you!  Here at Le Cheval Blanc in Bandiagara for a calzone and pizza with the Wollersheims

Safe in San once again with Mom's tears sufficiently dried away by the wind we celebrate Holly (another volunteer)'s birthday with a homemade carrot cake (including icing!) by Cassie and chicken and green beans.  Mom sits on the couch with her black-legging clad legs tucked under her, glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, reading trashy magazines as I dart between rooms collecting clothes and toiletries for the next leg of our journey.  We talk with Cassie, Holly and Bradley about our various Peace Corps services and their own visitors and vacation plans and it all feels so seamless - like Mom just belongs here.  

After a quick, but quality, day in Djenne to visit the largest mud structure in the world Mom and I head to Mopti and then to Bandiagara for a hike.  Once in Dogon country we let our conversations follow our footsteps as we navigate the tortuous trails through the cliffs of Bandiagara and the sandy paths in between the numerous Dogon villages.  We talk about Michael (my brother) and Courtney (his fiance)'s most recent engagement (we are beyond excited!!!), graduate school and extending my Peace Corps service to do a third year in Bamako.  While talking about all things American we also take the time to marvel at the carefully constructed stone huts at eye level and preserved Tellum villages nestled into the escarpments above us.  Mom's amount of communication is inversely proportional to our altitude and as we ascend into the cliffs to reach Indeli, where we will sleep for the night, we begin to silently (Mom) and aloud (me) question the shrewdness of this venture.  

 

Enjoying one of our last days in Mali together at Teriyabugu - a nature reserve on the Bani river

After a good night's sleep and a sunrise that lights up the rocks around us a terra cotta red we are reassured of our sanity and glad to be where we are.  With a breakfast of bread and jam in our bellies and our guide Samba leading the way we trek between Indeli and our final destination, Dourou, and Mom finally remembers the Girl Scout songs she has been trying to recall the entire trip. While she sings 'With a knapsack on my back', and 'Valderee, Valderah!' humming the verses she can't remember, I keep a close but comfortable distance between us and find myself in awe of this woman in front of me with her little white Keds and striped sun-hat.  Throughout our trip Mom sleeps on roof tops, squats to use the bathroom, squeezes into cars well beyond their expiration date with 8-20 other people - all without complaint.  Girl Scout training may have prepared her to pitch our mosquito tent and neatly roll our sleeping bag each night but it is my Mom's genuine heart and openness to others that made our time together here so special and truly a trip to remember.  

A quick picture update - Mom is in Mali!

poolside in Bamako

 

yay, we have money! can somebody tell me why I work so hard....thanks Johnny!

Mom did a little modeling at Malick Sidibe's studio

 

With my Malian and American mothers

 

sunrise at a campement in Dogon country - so proud of you mom for making it up here!

in the car on the way to Djenne - as you can see, i arranged for only the best transportation for my dear mother

 

making mud look good - the largest mud structure in the world, Djenne mosque

 

at one of our better moments on the Dogon hike...it was hard!

Mom and I still have a week left here in Mali together - the time is flying and we're having a blast!  More to come next week.

see more pictures from our trip thus far here

Just because

Annie, Christine and me in my hut

As I continue on the integration continuum in Mali I find myself constantly questioning the heightened emotions living far from home causes you to experience.  In America when I want to express gratitude I say I love you, buy a gift or send a letter.  But in Mali I find myself speaking a language where saying 'I love you' (N b'i fe) feels like marbles rolling around in my mouth, where gift giving feels expected because of my relative wealth and where, in the mostly illiterate village in which I live, written words cannot serve as a means of expression.  But feelings are complicated no matter where you are and so I have to I ask myself, do I feel this way just because I am in Mali?

On Christmas Eve Annie and I lie down on her mattress, baby Christine curled in between us, for a pre-party nap.  Around one in the morning we wake up to the din of the loudspeaker at the church and, pressing the wrinkles out of our complets, pick up chairs and head over.  Entering the clearing in front of the pastor's house and beside the church, a cloud of dust so fine you could sense it by sticking out your tongue rises from the feet of the dancers circling the speaker stand.  A girl darts in between us with an overflowing bucket of water balanced on her head to calm the storm by splashing water onto the packed earth.  Annie and I gravitate to familiar faces and huddle together next to a fire to keep away the chill of the night and every few songs I go in for a circle dance/shuffle.  On our way home the mosque's speakers cough to life with the first call to prayer and I think to myself - my feet and clothes aren't too dirty, the church served chicory tea and the generator powering the speakers and lights didn't give out - that was a fun party - but is it just because I am in Mali?

I fall asleep with visions of Baobab trees and mangoes in my head and after a few hours wake up to get ready for Christmas morning church service.  Bucket-bathed and teeth brushed I carefully wrap and tuck my pagne around my waist and tie my head wrap to lie just so around my unbraided hair.  I give myself a once over in the 5x7 inch mirror that hangs precariously from a nail in my mud wall and, even though I feel like the Chiquita banana lady, head outside to join the family.  Esayi and Annie give me approving looks and say 'Eh, Djelika, i ka kan ka photo ta' - you have to take a picture!  I giggle at their attention and go to stake out a seat on one of the crumbling cement benches on the women's side of the church.  Once inside, fellow church-goers look me up and down and when our eyes meet give me an affirmative head nod - everyone here thinks I look great, but is it just because I am in Mali?
 


 Batuma and her girlfriends-
 these girls always look good!




2008                                         2009          
Christmas night I navigate over-turned mortars and wooden foot stools scattered throughout the compound to make my way to Annie's house for dinner.  She gives me a plate of steaming rice and we go to the outdoor kitchen, her 'gabugu', where she has cooked sauce in a mini-bathtub sized pot and which she begins to generously dole out onto my bed of rice.  Some pieces of pork slip through her careful pouring and I hold my tongue since, while I do not care for pork, it is an honor to receive meat and I know I should be thankful.  In the dim light of her flashlight carefully tucked in the crook between her neck and shoulder Annie notices the meat, looks at me, and says 'an ka'a nin bo, n b'a don i te le sogo fe' - let's get that out of here, I know you don't like pork.  Grateful to be eating meat free, I upright one of the overturned stools and hungrily scoop the rice into the palm of my hand and into my mouth before it can burn my fingers while the women tend to their chores around me.  Belly rumbling from a long day of giving and receiving blessings for another peaceful year coupled with garden work, I think, this peanut butter sauce and rice is delicious - but is it just because I am in Mali?

Annie and the pig that made it past Christmas...

Christmas afternoon I speak with all my parents on the phone and feel my heart swell with a mixture of homesickness and kindred spirit.  I hear John's voice go from gruff and grumpy to warm and loving when he recognizes my voice on the other end of the line and can feel the excitement in my Mom's voice when she says she'll be in Mali in less than a week (now only 1 day!).   Listening to Sheri talk about the latest party she and my Dad threw for their ever-expanding group of friends and treasuring shared memories with my Dad about past vacations and future adventures reminds me that it's not the things that can be sent in packages (nice as they are!) I miss most out here - it's the loved ones back home.  For a few hours after we talk, I sit with Annie knitting and think about what my family means to me and what living in Mali means to our relationship.  Is the nostalgia so overwhelming just because I am in Mali?

The Coulibaly kids on Christmas

Singing with Annie in church, Christine toddling up and down the aisle, I am reminded of Grace Covenant  in Virginia Beach where I stand with my Mom, Memaw and the Shellnutts on Christmas Day and belt out Christmas songs - suppressing laughs when we sing off-key and I think - it's no giggle-fest with Kate but being here with Annie is special too.  After the service I rush home to take off my cupcake-complet top and pull on a blue t-shirt, re-tighten my pagne and adjust my head wrap.  I glance in the mirror on my way out and I suddenly don't feel quite so goofy as I catch a glimpse of what the Malians in my village see - it's no skinny jeans and sassy going-out top but maybe I do look good.  As I hungrily gobble down the pumpkin and cabbage in the peanut butter sauce at lunch I think to myself - it's no kilbasa sausage or brie-en-croute but tigadegana (peanut butter sauce) can be pretty tasty too.  All these moments make me realize I do not need to spend my time here questioning whether the way I feel is just because I am in Mali or even comparing experiences to those in America - heightened emotions or not, I need to spend my time being intentional about my gestures that show I care no matter where I am and the things I do to show I care- just because. 



aw sambe sambe!  here, kids go around on Christmas (and Muslim holidays) to bless the upcoming year and get candy and money (kind of like trick or treating except dressing up instead of costumes) - allah ka san were yira an la! (may God show us another year!)