Frustration

"Our frustration is greater when we have much and want more than when we have nothing and want some. We are less dissatisfied when we lack many things than when we seem to lack but one thing." -Eric Hoffer

After Rodney's last attempt at cooking I gave in and accepted all cooking responsibilities. I let the boys know though that they would be responsible for cleaning...and actually so far so good. So I was in the kitchen making another of my one-pot-wonders, we only have two burners, two pots and no microwave so even if you make food separately you end up having to mix it together to reheat it. Andrew asked me what I was cooking and I shrugged...isn't it always the same thing? Some kind of stew with more or less the same ingredients depending on what is available, served over rice to stretch it out. This time we had potatoes, squash, tomatoes and onions in a tomato-based sauce all over rice. And I was sweating of course since the kitchen is small and only has one window. Rodney had just asked me to explain what went wrong with the beans he cooked.

Andrew came in to inform us that there was a knock at the door but that it was dark and he couldn't see who was outside. I told him to turn the outside light on so he could see. He said he didn't like the idea of going to the door when he didn't know who was there and he fell in behind me and Rodney. I turned on the outside light and waited while it flickered and then stayed on. I still couldn't see anything. So I put my face to the glass and cupped my hands around it. He's right in front of you, Andrew said. And indeed he was...a massive man, only one foot in front of me with a door between us, who might have caused me a fright resulting in all sorts of heart and intestinal issues had I not immediately recognized him as Constance's husband Maxime. He had come to get us for tea and dinner since it was raining.

Constance served baked chicken with onions and fried plantains, the last of which immediately perked Andrew up. She had thought to bring us a bottle of water from the store and she insisted that I have Castel beer since I had tried Flag before but Castel is her favorite. Sophie was there but ended up being shy around the extra company until the end of our time there. Since Andrew speaks French but doesn't often speak and Rodney does not speak very much French, the conversation was not as carefree as it usually was, but the food and the dessert, honeydew melons and heavenly tasting mangoes more than made up for it. We stayed and talked for a while and then thanked them profusely before leaving. Maxime drove us back home so we wouldn't have to slosh our way through the puddles.

The next morning we had a meeting with Mali finance, a development arm of Chemonics. There I got my questions about production and the strangely bare lands just outside of Bamako. Few companies have been interested in setting up production operations in Mali since there transportation is an issue; there are no ports; there are frequent costly blackouts; and there is legal red tape. Therefore mango juice continues to be expensive though you can't throw a stone without hitting a mango. Also electricity is so expensive that it is cost-prohibitive for the poor. Instead they burn wood to cook, heat water for bathing etc. and so the area just outside of Bamako stretching for 20 km is bare of trees. I asked why electricity uses hydra-power in an arid country, why it didn't focus on solar power. I was told the technology is too new and expensive and requires frequent costs so wind power would be more feasible.

Well we had to take a taxi there since we didn't know where it was, and by the time we got home I was down to my last 400 CFA (a little less than 1 USD). I had been heartened though by an ATM we happened to come upon that boasted the Mastercard symbol. Could this be the only bank in all of Bamako that would take my card? Unfortunately I didn't have my card with me at the time and no longer had money to get back to the ATM. I did note where it was though. I should tell you that my attempts to Western Union money to myself from my own account fell through. The server realized that my IP address was in Mali although I claimed to be sending money from the States and the transaction was discontinued.

Rodney was worse off than me having only 50 CFA in his pocket. Luckily before I ran completely out of money I thought to go the the market and buy some food to cook. Andrew, the only one of us who had been able to get money before Friday, went to the store and bought snacks and juice for himself. He squirreled the snakc away in his room and tied the juice in a sack so we would know it was not for us, all the while eating from the communal pot. In his defense he did buy a carton of water for the household but he owed both Rodney and myself debts that he had not paid back yet because he didn't have enough money to at the time, even though he had more than we did.

So Friday evening I stayed on our street which was still very entertaining. One of the older gentlemen, who makes fun of how fast I walk, asked why I wasn't going out in the town. I am young I should be out partying he said. I'm out of funds so I need to stay close to home, I said. How much do you have, he asked, a couple thousand? No, I said, 400. He almost fell out of his chair. What? That's dangerous walking around the city with no money. That's nothing. He pulled a 10,000 CFA note out of his pocket and said hold onto this until you get your money. I refused saying the amount was too much (about 20 dollars), that I was a volunteer here and was used to not spending a lot. So he went into his pocket and found 4,000 and passed it to me. I don't think it dawned on me how completely crazy it is that someone I don't really know (I didn't at that time know his name is Mohammed Sangaré) and who only knows me as Fanta would lend me money and be concerned that I was down to my last funds when my own roommate could care less and would squirrel away food so as to avoid sharing. Rodney and I both were too through with Andrew, especially since he owed us both money and has still yet to pay it back.

My frustration with Andrew called up a host of other frustrations, the fact that my coworkers speak predominately in Bambera at work so I am in my own isolated world; the fact that I am restricted in my phone and internet communications; and the fact that I have to wait to see little Sophie to get hugs. Ah yes, it is hump week!

Note: I was able to get back to that one ATM in all of Bamako that accepts Mastercard and it did indeed work so everything is good now, but that was definitely a humbling experience. I tried to pay my friend back the next day by palming the funds I owed him and attempting to transfer the bills when we shook hands. He asked what is this? No take it; it's a gift. I said thank you but was wary of having what I felt was an outstanding debt. I saw my opening when he explained bazzin fabric to me and entreated me to pinch the fabric of his shirt between my fingers. I did so and dropped his money into his shirt pocket. When I left I told him to look into his shirt pocket. He shouted in surprise and called after me that I was a true magician.

Power

"She's only a bird in a gilded cage, A beautiful sight to see, You may think she's happy and free from care, She's not, though she seems to be..." -Arthur Lamb

Note: I added links to the entry entitled Pressure. I'm working on getting my pics uploaded but unfortunately the connection at the cyber cafe is very slow.

Tchou Tchou


Coumba


Sogonna


Habib, Fa, and Chaick

Sogonna leading discussion on AIDS at a garage




It was good to be back at work today. I missed Coumba, Tchou Tchou and Sogonna. We had breakfast together. I had paté, boiled eggs and onions fried in dough, and Tchou Tchou and Sogonna had brochette, a good-sized portion of baguette stuffed with onions, french fries and sausage. Coumba didn't eat. We all had tea too and Coumba didn't. Maybe it was because she came in a little later...when Soumaiyla had already gone to the store to get our breakfasts. (I love the way the name Soumaiyla rolls off their tongues. It sounds like a song.) I used my tea bag to make some tea for Coumba and insisted she take some of my paté, the same way she does to me, saying "Tiens," in way you really can't refuse. It's funny because I've started to take on others mannerisms the same way children take on the mannerisms of the adults they are around do because they are learning and absorbing so much. I'm sure Coumba recognized her own mannerisms in me.

Quite a few women have been coming into the clinic for HIV testing, as the three-pronged prevention strategy indicates is best: abstinence, faithfulness to your partner, use of condoms and of course knowledge of your HIV status. Unfortunately the clinic is out of the reactionary agent that detects whether or not HIV antibodies are present in one's bloodstream. Tchou Tchou says perhaps they will receive the reactionary agent next month. Perhaps? In the meantime, I wonder how many of these women who are turned away will return.

I talked to some other coworkers about the strike and they said it wasn't at all about the price of millet. They said that the government has absorbed 21 businesses in the past decade, such as fabric-making businesses and that it cannot afford to continue sustaining them all. Slowly it has divested itself, selling off businesses, but has not shared any of that money with the workers who may lose their jobs as a result. So the strike only affected government workers, and me because Projet Jeune is an arm of the Ministry of Youth, as they agitated for workers' rights.

It turns out I did the most during our small vacation. Everyone else rested at home. As I recounted the story of Fa I thought about how crazy it is that I meet strangers and go to their house to have tea with them. I can't imagine doing that at home, but at the same time it's because I already have my network there, my family and friends that I go out with...and while I am open to meeting other people, it probably wouldn't transpire in quite that way.

I have figured out an ingenous way to get money out of my US account. At least I think I have... Besides using Mieko, that is really a last resort because the process is a bit burdensome for her. There are tons of Western Unions here and I thought I would go to Western Union online and send myself money. Sort of like an ATM, but with a 10 dollar charge instead of a 2 dollar one. Nice idea but I think the computer realized that the sender and recipient had the same name and it said the transaction could not be processed. So I think I will have to actually visit a Western union and plead my case to have access to my own account. I'll let you know how that goes...

Yesterday I saw a huge open-backed truck, kinda like the one filled with police that time, except it was filled with young people cheering for someone for the upcoming elections. They had yellow banners, posters, and loudspeakers. I wanted to take a picture but could not get my camera out in time. Overnight posters sprung up on compound walls and doors as well. I have to find out when the actual elections are. One thing I noticed is that clothing is used to make statements. More than just the random t-shirt, since cloth is made here there are designs that incorporate slogans. Once they are fashioned into a blouse and skirt for a woman, or a shirt and pants for a man, the person becomes a walking political statement. I have seen outfits that say 'God is with us', 'The future of a society depends on the status of its women', and 'Mali's future is dependant on the new way of agriculture.'

It strikes me how thos who control production, control the prices. I never really thought about it before. But of course it makes sense. Here I am in Africa, a place where even though Mali is an arid country, a variety of foods are present. But the foods are fleeting. They have to be eaten today. Many do not have refrigerators. Meats are smoked to keep them a while. Fruits are juiced but on a small scale. For the most part everything must be consumed now. I could buy a ton of mangoes for a few coins but to buy a box of mango juice is relatively expensive. Why, when the mangoes are everpresent? Because the facilities to create the juice, and the box in which it comes, are not located here. The same with pre-produced clothing sold in the store. It's much cheaper (and a better fit and more creative as well) to bring raw material to the tailor and choose a design from the various pictures they have. So goods (fruits, wood, fabric) leaves the country for a penance and returns in the form of high-priced produced goods. Hardly seems fair.

Funny enough, fish from the sea (brought in from neighboring Senegal and Ivory Coast) are more abundant here in Mali and cheaper than the fish from the river though Mali does not touch the sea, and it's only source of water is the Niger River. No one has yet been able to adequately explain that phenomenon to me. Maybe it's because there are more fish in the sea, literally!

Rodney said residents of the region of Gao have taken to planting and harvesting eucalyptus trees as a source of income. Since Gao is basically in the Sahara, eucalyptus is one of the few things that will grow there, that, and date trees. While the wood from the trees fetches a lot of money, environmentalists have decried that the tree actually ruins the environment, making the land even drier. Pressure is mounting for people to stop planting eucalyptus as a source of revenue. The governor of Gao has said they will not stop unless an alternative source of revenue is provided. Rodney said when they brought mangoes as gifts to Gao, people's eyes lit up as if they were getting gold. Note: Gold is found abundantly here so people don't value it the same way we do. It's not to hard to be literally covered in gold. Very deep yellow gold too. I've never seen that color gold at home.

I keep getting questions about the people in the U.S. Fa's brother Chaick said he knew a lot about the States and he wanted to know why people in the States didn't know a lot about Africa, about how people lived here and what was going on. When people ask if the U.S. is wonderful I say yes it's good but we have our problems too; it's certainly not perfect. I question how much Chaick really knows because he says he xants to visit New York, California, Oyo, Detwa and Magahmary. It took me a while to figure out the last three were Ohio, Detroit, and Montgomery, Alabama. Interesting choices... I asked if he knew people there, why he had chosen those cities. He said he wanted to see where all the cars were made in Detroit, that he had a friend in Ohio, and that the heart of the struggle for blacks civil right started in Alabma and he wanted to go there. Wow!

The only thing I could say to Chaick to answer his question is that the US is and has always been isolated and for the most part, the average person does not seek to know about other countries. His question reminded me of my own question when I attended an elite private high school in the Pacific Heights neighborhood of San Franciso. There was so much culturally that I knew about the kids that I attended school with, that they did not know about me. The general ignorance of a good number of my classmates, as well as an unwillingness on their part to put themselves in a position to learn more, irritated me and I gravitated towards those who were willing to learn as much from me as I could learn from them.

As I reflected on Chaick's question and the other questions I had been getting I started to think more. Wasn't I in a position in America to know more about the dominant culture because it benfitted me more to do so? Wouldn't it be detrimental to my growth and success not to know more? And then, isn't that pattern simply replicated on a larger scale? While I am a member of a minority culture in America, I am still American. And since America is still seen as the dominant power in the world, isn't it more beneficial for Chaick to know about America, than for us to know about Mali? Knowing how it felt to be on the other side of this equation though I am committed to resisting the imbalance of power and working to restore it as much as I can. There is much that I want to learn about Mali, about the world. And I know that a bird that rests in a gilded cage is still caged nonetheless.

New Adventures

On the last day of the strike I slept in very late. Yesterday when I went by Constance's store in the evening she had a plate of food waiting for me, plantains and sausage. And one of those great big liter bottles of Flag beer. Of course it was delicious and I ate with gusto. The funny thing is in the States I wouldn't be caught dead eating a meal in front of a dry goods store, but hey things are different here. Everyone sits out on lawn chairs, drinking soda and beer, and shooting the breeze and it doesn't have the same connotation. It's so hot that most people are outside in the evenings, either in front of stores, if they have them or are friendly with the storekeepers, in front of their own buildings, on the terrace or on the roofs. Constance insisted on walking me home and she briefly met Rodney and Andrew. Her husband insisted that they have tea with him at some point and bade me to pass the message to them.

I was smart to have eaten because when I returned I saw what Rodney had prepared for us. He cooked beans for 90 minutes quickly over a high fire, not slowly, and of course their skins peeled off but they were still not fully cooked. He served them then, those peeled, hard red beans over rice. Yum! Surprisingly Andrew ate it without saying a word only saying hmmmm when Rodney said he thought the beans might need a little spice. And the kitchen? Whoa, you would think Rodney had a food fight in there while cooking. Half the time I can't even stand to go in there. But he did mop the floor after I pointed out that it only took half a day for it to get filthy after I last mopped.

At 7am I became aware that the electricity had just turned off. The sound of the AC and fan shutting off sound somewhat like a jet engine doing the same. And then silence and heat that creeps in from the perimeters of the room. But since it was early still, and I was still enjoying my Flag induced sleep (Constance had said I would sleep well) I didn't pay it much mind. By 11 the apartment was so warm that I had to go. And I left with only the idea to talk to all my friends on the street. I only got as far as Ouima, the 15 year old who doesn't speak a lot of French. Her older sister had two friends over, Aisha and her younger sister Fa. Aisha is married with kids and Fa is a young adult clearly with a lot of spunk and energy. They both tried out their English on me and were very good. Fa asked me if I drank tea and I said yes. She said she had to drop her friend off but would return so we could have tea.

In the meantime I said hello to Amadou, the phone card vendor and I was making my way down to Constance's store when Fa returned on a moto. She called me over and said hop on. I was confused. I thought we were going to have tea I said. We are, she said, at my house. I looked at the moto and cringed. She said you shouldn't be scared, hop on! And with that we took off. She did indeed live close, on the same street as the grocery store that Rodney and I found ages ago. One we arrived she introduced me to her friends Fatime and Miriam and her older brothers Chaick and Habib. She told me that she was from Segou and her parent still live there but she and her brothers are in Bamako living with their sister while they attend university. All the siblings except Aisha are between the ages of 20 and 25. Fa is in school to become a secretary I think, the translation is a bit difficult for me, Chaick is studying law to become a lawyer or magistrate and Habib is studying literature.

Fa made tea with the tedious attention it take here, boiling the leaves in a small blue kettle over a tin of live coals, adding mint leaves, pouring sugar and then mixing the tea by pouring a glass full artistically with the kettle held starting low and then going higher, and then returning that tea to the kettle; This is done a few times and then tea is offered to the guest first. I drank it and then exclaimed that it was good in Bambera which produced laughs. Fa looked at me, The tea was well made? she asked. Very well made I responded. We all got to talking about Mali and the US and various other topics and I found myself having a great time. Fa then announced that she had to go to school and would I stay or leave. I said I had an errand to run myself and I left with her, promising that I would return, perhaps even when I was done with my errand.

I made my way across the river to BDM bank in an effort to get some money. I am literally down to my last 10 dollars which is not as bad as it would be in the States because I can last a while on that but still... So I ask if I can use the bank to get money from my account in the US if I have my credit/debit card. The agent says yes and I breathe a sigh of relief that quickly dissipates when he frowns at my card. That is not a Visa, he says. We only take Visa in Mali. It reminds me of one of those ancient Americna Express commercials from the 80s. I didn't know that places existed that turned down money not associated with a specific brand. It's ironic that those were AmEx commercials but yet AmEx is not useful here either (of course I have that card with me and Andrew has useless AmEx traveler's cheks with him that he may as well burn for cooking fuel.)

So I leave BDM and take the short walk to the Sofitel international hotel where the ESF travel agency is located so I can finally purchase my ticket to Ghana to meet up with Shirley and her family when I leave Mali. (Shirl I'll send you the details separately.) Again the problem with how I will pay for the ticket. I produce one Visa credit card but I tell the agent I al not sure that I have enough mone available on the card for the ticket, but that she should check. And as she makes that call I sit there and I pray. After a 5 minute wait she announces that it's good. Wonderful!!

And so I hop back on a Sotrame to head back home, except that it is now near rush hour and there has been an accident on the bridge. Our Sotrame is packed with 17 people, many of whom are carting buckets of goods from the market. We are stacked in against each other getting very familiar and as no vehicles are moving, no breeze is entering through the windows. I like all the others commence to sweating. I tried closing my eyes but it just made the odors of sweat more palpable. I thought about exiting and walking that long walk over the bridge but it looked like it might rain and in any case the distance was way too long to be feasible, and once I got on the bridge I wouldn't be able to catch another Sotrame. So I sat and sweated. I told myself I was sweating out all my impurities like in a sauna. Why pay for an expensive spa when you can have the experience for less than a dollar?

Finally an hour later and many attempts by our driver to circumvent the traffic by trying different approaches to the bridge, I get off at the stop near Fa's place. I actually wanted to buy water since neither Rodney or Andrew had bought a new case when the last case that I went and got ran out and we had all been buying bottles individually the last few days. I figured there were a few other things I could get as well but I saw Miriam as I crossed the street and she convince me to come back to Fa's place. We all went up to the roof and continued to talk. Chaick's girlfriend and a friend of his, with whom his girlfriend seemed particularly chummy, were there.

I noticed the electrical wires that ran down the street were within arm's reach of the roof...dangerous. But the view was beautiful. And I could even see the large green house next to my apartment building. We talked until dusk. Fa insisted on watching a 30 minute TV show and then she, Aisha, and Miriam walked me back to my place after I refused to take the moto with Fa at night. Fa says Aisha is going to Segou tomorrow and will be there with their parents for 2 weeks. She says if I am interested she will take me to Segou one weekend and show me around the region and we can stay at her home.

Politics

"Now the world don't move to the beat of just one drum..." Theme song to Diff'rent Strokes

Blackouts have no become so frequent that I think I should stop mentioning them. It's much like saying it's hot, although I still say that several times a day usually in conjunction with the fact that there is a blackout and we are sitting in doors at work suffering, sweating, and spraying deodorant. At any rate, they no longer warrant mention considering we had one for at least 5 hours on Wednesday through Saturday, and another yesterday and one again today. They last for such a long time that it makes it hard to do things, like go to the cyber cafe...I am convinced that all cyber cafes should have their own generators. Being a communicator a heart, staying in touch is very important to me. Phone calls are very expensive and if my internet is taken away from me...I just don't know what I'll do.

Mieko took us to her African dance class on Monday night. The leader of the dance troupe is also very involved in politics and there was a meeting of all the heads, (judging from the nice cars in the lot) no doubt to talk about the upcoming elections and the pending strike. Suffice it to say that the dance class never met. Instead we watched as a 30 minute delay became and hour, the mosquitoes started to come out, and a flourescent light was plugged in and brought in to the meeting through the barred window.

Instead we went home and Rodney brought out the doumbas (drums) that he just bought. He says that drums here and in Senegal are better than those made anywhere else in the world. He bought three and they are beautiful, and the sounds they produce are heavenly to me. Of course I have always been partial to bass. So we had a party on the terrace in the dark so as not to attract mosquitoes. Rodney played drums and showed Andrew a few beats and I did some African dances I knew. I said we should do a parade but they weren't up for it. I thought it would be funny to have people join us to see where we were going. As it was the shopkeepers across the street were all looking up to our terrace and some passersby stopped to see what was going on. No wonder people stopped calling Rodney, Moussa his Malian name, and started calling him Doumba.

So the national strike did indeed take place. I got a text from Coumba saying not to come to work. It took me a while before I found out what the strike was about though. Apparently the concern is the exponential rise in the cost of millet, a staple in the common household. But since most people I have seen are entrepreneurs they went to work to keep their businesses open. The only people who actually went on strike are government workers. And in the streets the Sotrames are running and it appears to be business as usual. I wonder if anything was accomplished...

Oh btw...the white mansion next to us belongs to a Reggae artist...Tekka Ja or something like that...he's currently on tour.

Unreasonable

"The reasonable man adapts himself to the world; the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man." - George Bernard Shaw

A group of men I know were relaxing in front of the cyber cafe. They said hello, asked how I was, bade me to sit down and chat with them a while, offered me some peanuts and finally a kola(sp?) nut. I bit into it and was immediately overwhelmed by its bitter taste. And they were all smiling conspiratorially at me. How is it? Do you like it? I couldn't talk. I didn't want to be rude and spit it out so I focused my attention on chewing and swallowing. It's good for your heart, they said. People eat it at ceremonies, another offered. Yet another said, It wards off nausea. You'll get used to the taste and crave it, one said. I don't think so, I said. I finished it, but I didn't like it. They laughed.

Rodney lost his keys in Gao and before he saw fit to tell us, he had simply been leaving all the doors to the place unlocked. We usually only lock two, one if someone is home, as locking the second one will prevent the person who is home from leaving. Andrew said that one afternoon he came down the hallway to see a man trying the door and calling for Rodney. He went to the door and said Rodney is not here and the man, Hassan - our downstairs neighbor said oh ok. Trying the door without knocking? Are you kidding me? And he had come all the way up through the garage to the last door...

And then I was woken up at 6 in the morning to a man calling for Philippe at our front door. Of course my bedroom is closest to the front door. Once I walked out of my bedroom he could see me as the front door has no curtains. And I was wearing shorts, exposing my thighs (gasp!) as I do in my own house. Excuse me madame he said. I'm looking for Philippe. I'm suprised I was able to respond in French after being startled out of my sleep, There's no Phillippe here, I said. Yes he lives here, he insisted. And then I heard Rodney come to stand behind me. Maybe he lives downstairs or next door but there is no Philippe here. He said okay and turned to go down the stairs. Rodney turned and said to me, Oh now I see why you guys want the doors locked. You think? He finally admitted he had lost his set of keys thousands of kilometers away and made a new set that day.

Rodney said in Gao he met a man whose 2 year old daughter had to undergo a serious surgical procedure. Her parents hadn't wanted her to undergo excision but the grandparents did and so they took her to have it done without the permission of the parents. Unfortunately such a thing is legal here, and even more unfortunately the procedure went horribly wrong, as if the original outcome wasn't bad enough, and the child is in danger of losing her life over it. Tchou Tchou asked me if excision is practiced in the States and I said never, unless a family comes from a country where it is practiced and now lives in the U.S., and even then it's not legal. She said every girl in Mali is excised and indeed the "official" stats I saw said up to 80% in Bamako and 90% outside of Bamako. Constance said even Christians observe the practice here as well.

There is a girl that I see most everyday on my way home from work or out again on errands. We exchange hellos in Bambera and she speaks only the slightest bit of French so that is the extent of our conversation. She is young and it would be nice to be able to talk to her more. She stands in front of a walled compound in the soft dirt between the wall and the road, holding the hands of younger children, looking at the comings and goings of the street through her kohl-rimmed eyes.

The last time I passed she was sitting in the shade of a tree with others and she offered me a seat. I sat and we all chatted a bit greetings in Bambera and then conversation in French peppered with Bambera. I noticed that the girl was quiet. One of the women with her, 29 and married with 4 kids, said the girl doesn't really speak French. She is 15 and is in Bamako staying with relatives on vacation. During the year she lives in Gao. The official language of the country is French and so while unofficial affairs can be carried on just fine in Bambera, all things official are done in French. Presumably the girl attends school. She appears bright, but if she isn't learning the official language or hasn't learned enough of it to get by at age 15 isn't she really just being prepared for being a member of the permanent underclass? I wonder how many of the other women that I thought were just shy are simply unable to communicate with me in the official language of their country...

Road Trip

"Many a trip continues long after movement in time and space have ceased." ~John Steinbeck

Sunday I took a road trip with Constance, the one who owns a dry goods store on my street, her husband Maxime and two of their children, seven year old Sophie and one year old Jean. Constance had said they had business to take care of outside of the city, that the ride would take about an hour each way and offered that she thought it would be good for me to get out of the city and see some of the countryside. Knowing no more than that we set off shortly after 2 in the afternoon.

Sophie and I sat in the backseat and Jean sat in the front on his mother's lap, alternately breastfeeding and sleeping. Our street gave way to a larger highway looking road which after a short while was arched with some kind of gates to Bamako saying welcome in both English and French. The sides of the road were sparse with full grown trees every once in a while. The ground appeared as if it had been previously farmed but nothing grew there now, or perhaps it was not the proper season. However the fields had scattered trash in them as if they might have once been a dump (perhaps from the habit of burning trash).

After we'd been on the road a while Sophie declared she was hungry. Having her in the backseat with me was amusing and had much the same effect of sitting on a ping pong table in the middle of a game. She was wound up with energy, no doubt stemming from riding with a relative stranger and also being hyped up on sugary snacks from her parents' store. She is learning English in school as well as French and she already speaks Bambera. She recited a lesson in English and was very good and when I first met her she held out her hand and said, Hello how are you? Anyway when her father didn't stop at the nearest roadside stand her eyes welled up with the biggest crocodile tears I've ever seen and she wouldn't respond to anyone. Some things are universal. Wouldn't you know her father pulled over at the next roadside stop, a group of stands where various items are sold. At once the car was surrounded by people looking to hawk wares. Maxime exited and came back with a paper bag full of grilled mutton that rivals the best I have ever had. (Sorry Brian) We ate that as we continued, tossing the bones out the open windows as we drove and using tissues and water to rinse our hands afterwards. Note: I grew up in California when the culture was very much anti-littering and so do not approve of it, however given the circumstances there was not much of an alternative, and perhaps an animal along the way could find further use of the bones.

After a point we pulled off the highway and drove in the dirt across an open expanse. How did we know where we were going? A look of concern must have registered on my face because Maxime laughed that this must be different than I was used to. Why yes, although at the same time, the rocky outcroppings in the distance looked a lot like Utah...Sogonna was right. Constance said the highway we had been on would take one all the way to Segou and then to Burkina Faso. So we continued that way winding around trees and ditches, fording small streams and such. And I had the fleeting thought, as I noticed that my cell phone no longer received signal, that not only did I have no idea of my exact destination but had any illwill been planned I would likely be unable to communicate with anyone at our destination other than to say "Hello, How are You? Sit down let's talk a while, See you later, See you tomorrow, I'm going home/to the market, Be quiet, I like it, I don't like it, It's good, It's bad, What's your name? Where are you from? I'm from America" in Bambera - none of those being particularly useful for a hostage situation.

We bought some zabon from a random child we drove past who was carrying bunches of them. I don't know the name in English but they look like mangoes on the outside. You pop them to open them and the hull comes apart kind of like a popped tennis ball, revealing little clumps of fruit that looks like mango but is much more tangy and has a seed that looks like a tamarind seed. Very tasty. Sophie was so excited about them and every time she put a piece in her mouth she exclaimed, "C'est Bon! (It's good!). Finally we pulled up at a group of mud brick buildings with roofs of tin and woven straw and a host of people sitting outside. There was a pen of goats (Maxime taught me the difference between goats and lamb on the way there) who were very bashful and all disappeared into their structure upon our approach. Constance showed me the well they had paid for there. Unfortunately it's lip was so low that even a full grown adult, let alone a child, could have tripped and fallen in. ..and it went down forever. Maxime was talking to the me, while Constance discreetly took me on a tour of the facilities, probably about what the next investment would be.

We continued on after that to another place not far away where a man was at home working waiting for his wife who had gone to the market. I mean there was there home, some structures for the animals and then literally nothing but trees and bushes as far as the eye could see. Their well was still being constructed, the slate that had been dug up was still piled nearby and tree branches lay across the well. When the wife came home she was on the back of a moto, someone had given her a ride. She had one baby strapped to her back and another toddler who had been sitting in front of her. Maxime finished talking to her and her husband and then we left there.

The contrast between the city and the countryside was startling and further it sheds light on the issues the country is facing with advancement and access. Further it appears that with most hot, arid countries, when fields are cleared for farming, the soil is laid bare to the sun and is only useful for a short time. I didn't see many things growing in farmed plots. It made me reflect on my trip to Costa Rica where they had started growing plants in the jungle. Although harvesting had to be done by hand and could not be systematized, they actually had a greater yield.

Before we headed back to Bamako we picked up a goat from the first place and then drove back through the dusk to the highway. Sophie fell asleep in my lap. We stopped for gas and ice cream and when I got home I took a pre-emptive dose of Pepto Bismol. I thanked Constance and Maxime for the experience. As they dropped me off at my door Constance told me to come by the store at 8pm the next day and she would have a plate of dinner waiting for me. Whoo hoo!!

Pressure

"All over the place, from the popular culture to the propaganda system, there is constant pressure to make people feel that they are helpless, that the only role they can have is to ratify decisions and to consume." -Noam Chomsky

I have known that something has been bothering Coumba for a while. She smiles and laughs at jokes but otherwise she appears to be somber, deep in thought and off some where far away. I asked her once what was wrong and she said she was poor. I could tell it was a figure of speech but I didn't know how to delve into it. So I said I hope you find a resolution for your problem. There is no resolution, she said. A few days later she told me that she had been trying off and on to have a baby and had not been successful in all the years she had been married. She said she is still trying and hopes to be pregnant by December. I wished her the best of luck and added her, her husband, and their future children to my prayers.

When I was still stateside I read a brief article on the website of the International Museum of Women about the Malian diva Oumou Sangare, a famous singer who at one point was trying desperately to have a baby. There is saying in Mali that if a woman is too successful, she won’t have children. I wonder how much of that difficulty is a self-fulfilling prophecy for successful women who expect to have trouble conceiving because they have been successful... Oumou finally conceived a son, Cherif, and her song "Denko", about the business of having children, is accessible through the link to the article. Her biography and pics are accessible through the other link.

Friday after work Coumba went to drive Sogona and myself home and it was only then that I discovered that they had decided we were going to Sogona's place. We parked the car and I trudged behind Coumba and Sogona through the empty stalls in the market. Since it had rained recently there were a lot of muddy ruts, some of which we had no choice but to walk through. I cringed at the thought of my all-terrain closed-toe sandals getting covered with mud, even though I had worn them on that day knowing that it was a possibility. Then I looked up and was shocked and humbled by the fact that Coumba and Sogona were walking in the mud in heels, nice heels!

After the market we went up a few stairs in an apartment building and Sogona let us into her place. Her husband works in Senegal and her nine-year old daughter has sickle-cell anemia and is often sick so she stays with Sogona's mother during the week. Coumba started cutting up onions and tomatoes and Sogona started to prepare the rice and fish. While her livingroom looked much like a livingroom in the States, the kitchen was a water faucet, sink, and cooking stove out on the terrace. We flipped through the channels and there were programs from England, France, Saudi Arabia, Algeria, Ivory Coast, even some Indian programming. They asked me if we got the same programming in the States and I was ashamed to admit that we are pretty isolated and do not have access to programming from a lot of different countries.

In what seemed like no time at all we sat down to a meal of a-chat-ay, a dish from the Ivory Coast. Rice mixed with onions, tomatoes, salt and vinegar and fried fish. Sogona asked if I was going to eat with my hands and I said yes. Coumba asked again (remember she refused to let me eat with my hands at work) and I said yes again. She raised her eyebrows at me. We sat down and began to eat and the food was absolutely delicious.

Coumba put a bit of mustard pepper in front of everyone and once she tasted it she declared it was very strong and reached to remove my pepper. I had already eaten some and liked it as I am very used to hot dishes and I asked her to leave the pepper there. No it's too strong for you, she said. No it's fine, Coumba leave it. And Sogona protested too on my behalf. Coumba relented but as she sat down she again said, It's too strong for you, under her breath. I ate a big handful with lots of pepper in it just then as she watched. I told her it was fine and I wasn't a child. Sogona laughed and then Coumba offered, Yes you're my child to watch over while you're here. Sweet sentiments but really...she's all of 5 years older than me.
I guess since I've been watching for a while know I got the hang of rolling the food into a ball... I'm just very slow. They had all made huge dents in the food in front of them while I was still starting out. So what I finished eating 15 minutes after them. I did it and without dropping food all over myself.

And So On

"The art of living is more like wrestling than dancing." - Marcus Aurelius

Two new birds came and took over the abandoned nest on our windowsill. I saw the female sitting on the nest and tucking in bits of straw and twigs the male brought to her. The next day there was one egg; the day after that two. They looked like slightly larger white jelly beans like the kinds you see around Easter. The next day one egg was gone and the next time I looked, both were gone. I asked Andrew about them and he said he saw a big black bird sitting on the windowsill eating the eggs.

Wednesday night my coworker Brahms took me to a music festival. At first I was ready to turn him down but Coumba assured me that those festivals are excellent and I should go. It occurred to me that I don't do much here without her prior approval. So Brahms picked me up, then his friend who spent 8 years in Germany, and we arrived at the Palace of Culture (a misnomer really) next to the river and discovered that the festival was not that night but two nights later. There were hordes of young boys out that night between the ages of 6 and 12. A security guard chased them away from an event with his belt in the air. I asked Brahms why they were out and he said school is out and so parents are lax over where their children are. The boys go out with the premise of playing on the street but end up joining together and roaming the city, but of course they keep the girls inside. Interesting...now there is no good that can come of little boys roaming the streets together in the dead of the night.

Well since we are already out Brahms says, we should go for a drink. My hackles were raised already and further more so when he stopped on a dark street. I exclaimed Eh! That one sound that can mean so many things. And Brahms says no this is a bar! Mali is a Muslim country and so when people want to drink they have to hide to do it. And indeed there was a bar hidden behind the courtyard walls. It was very dark inside as for the patrons not to be able to see each other well. A tv played music videos in the corner and a lone server brought our beers. Huge beers almost a liter in size.

Yesterday at work the power was out again and we sat and fanned ourselves and sweated all day long. It really would have been better for us to be outside in the shade where we could have caught a breeze or two. I went to sit outside on the opposite side of our compound. Coulibaly was there and 3 or 4 other guys whose names I can't recall at the moment. They offered me a glass of sweetened green tea steeped with mint leaves. After a short conversation one of the men, about 40, said he wanted to keep in touch with me when I went back to the States. I said hmmm. He pressed his case and ended it with je t'aime...I like or love you.

I told him that in the States we have a saying for those who say things like that and don't know you. He asked what and I tried to translate "Get in line," only to see four blank faces. So I picked up a few stones on the ground and said when you wait for something you make a line. And I set one stone down and said here's one person, then dropped another stone behind the next and said, here's the second, and so on until 6 rocks were lined up in a row. So what I said is that this is you, and I held up the last stone, and you have to go to the back of the line. And with that I placed the last stone down behind all the others. Immediately one of the younger guys burst out laughing. He explained in Bambera and others started laughing. The older gentleman's face looked slightly annoyed which made the younger guy laugh all the more and he reached out to shake my hand.

Mieko invited us to go salsa dancing and Andrew and I took her up on it. We left soon after we ate dinner that Andrew cooked. Rodney had just returned from Timbuktu and so he declined to attend. There was a table full of Americans from Peace Corps, the Embassy, and USAID. It was cool not to have to speak French but at the same time if I wanted to hang around Americans I could have stayed at home. Of course if I was here for 2 years like most of them are I probably would want to have that company frequently. Dancing was fun but it was an outdoor bar so dancing even just a little made one sweat profusely. I danced with Andrew and so did Mieko. We left at midnight, 3 nights out in a row having taken its toll. Both coming and going I was told by different people that I ressembled Fatima and asked if I was related to her. I said no but now I am really interested in meeting her.

And on that note there are a lot of familiar faces here. It's very strange. At the club on my birthday I saw a woman who looks like my cousin's wife LaShawn; One of the mechanics at the garage looks like my friend Tomiko's godbrother; The sister of one of the bride's at the wedding looks like my cousin LaTonya; one of the little boys who begs at the Sotrame stop where I transfer ressembles a slightly older version of my little cousin Zachary; and even Coumba slightly ressembles one of my grad school classmates.

Relatives and friends of Tchou Tchou, Sogona and Coumba stop by all day long and when they see me they greet me in French instead of Bambera so I respond in kind. The girls have started insisting that I demonstrate my knowledge of Bambera. She speaks Bambera they tell their friends. Go on, they say, as they prod me. I feel like an actor, performing on command. But it's funny how people's eyes light up and they smile when I greet them in Bambera.

A traveling vendor came by the office two days ago and a few of us bought some material. Tchou Tchou took me to her tailor to have an outfit made, modeled after one of hers. Here it is more expensive to buy clothes in the store than have them made, the opposite of the States. This is a new experience for me. When I think of how frustrated I've been over the years with clothes that weren't long enough or were too loose here or too tight there, this answer seems so perfect. And if you design your clothes yourself all you have to have is infinite imagination of the possibilities. I wish I could have a whole wardrobe made.

I also took the dress I had made for the wedding to a tailor across the street to cut it a little more form fitted. While I was there waiting for my change a commotion came from behind the back of the shop where people live. Then in a flash a young girl came running through the back of the shop, naked save for a string around her waist, screaming and hollering. After her in a flash was a woman, presumably her mother, with a baby tied to her back, and a slight stick in her hand, brandishing it. The girl ran to the waiting area in front where I could hear her crying but could no longer see her. I didn't know what to do so I just sat there. The tailors talked with the mother at the back door seemingly joking and she left. Soon after I heard the girl cry out from the waiting room though and apparently the mother had gone around the row of shops and through the front door and had resumed beating the girl. The tailors rushed out and held the mother back and by the time I came out the girl had run off again. Wow!

Rodney came back full of stories but has only been able to share a few. he says in Timbuktu everyone rises at 4:30 to take advantage of the relative cool because by noon it is blazing and all business stops for the rest of the day. He said he went running once at midnight and it was still so hot that he threw up afterwards. The Sahara for real! He encountered some Nigerians and some Ghanaians walking from Nigeria to Spain by way of Mali, thousands of miles from where they had begun and thousands from where they would end.

He also said he spoke with a girl who was 15, married and had a child. Her sister was 16 married and had a child and her step-sister was 17 married and had a child. He said their lives ressembled those of 40 year olds, so much to do, so many demands and that up until that point, none of their lives had been of their own choosing. Their husbands were chosen for them and they were married off...not because they wanted to be but because that's the way things are. They are in the 6th and 7th grades. Five and six students study out of one book and the books were tattered when the schools received them 5 years ago. He asked them what keeps them going and they seem to realize that without education they have nothing. Many are married to men who do odd jobs and are not very well-educated themselves; their lives are hard. If the scholarships did not exist they would not be in school. Even with an education the area is so remote that some type of enterprise would need to be set up to make a difference.

Thank You

"Merci - Ini Ce - Thank You!"

Have you ever said thank you and found it trite? Lately the word leaves my lips more than anything else. Perhaps it is no different than the rest of the words I utter, mere shadows and ressemblances of the true actions and feelings they are meant to express... Maybe gratitude can never properly be expressed, ironically, especially with the words most often assigned to it. Maybe it is only something to be felt...

I woke up on my birthday with a distinct feeling of gratitude for being on this earth, for having a chance to have this experience, for the education and wisdom imparted to me thus far that has enabled me to learn and grow from this experience, for the privileges I have enjoyed and for those I haven't. Whom to thank for all of this? God, family, friends, mentors, teachers, greater community? Would that expression of gratitude be received as deeply as it is felt?

Before we went dancing, Demba took me to his friend's house where his mother is staying while she is in Bamako and then home so he would know where to return that night to pick Andrew and I up for our club excursion. There were various children about the house and I belive that at least two of them belonged to Demba's friend. The youngest could not have been more than 3. She approached me as I sat down on the couch and just looked into my eyes silently, me not speaking enough Bambera or her enough French to converse. Usually kids ignore me after staring for a bit. Older ones will talk to me a little, but those are usally boys not girls. The girls mostly do not say much but they are very interested because they listen to the conversations I have with the boys.

Well this little one stood close and took me in visually and when words failed me I reached out my arms to her and she walked into them. I swooped her up and placed her on my lap where she stayed for a while until another child with a toy caught her attention a while later. It did occur to me that I wasn't quite sure how old she was, but it did not appear that she was wearing diapers. I wondered if she was potty trained and if I would know if she had to go to the bathroom in advance of an accident in my lap. At any rate, it wasn't a problem and I very much felt as if we had experienced a moment that needed not to be explained with words. But yet i tried anyway...

We ended up going to Club Privilege near the river and all told by the end of the night I was celebrating with 5 guys and myself. Talk about being queen for a day! Demba, Andrew, Demba's friend Abou, and Demba's cousin whose name I can't recall and his friend as well. The DJ kept giving shoutouts all night long to "Julianne" who hailed all the way from Oakland California. We literally danced for 3 1/2 hours straight and actually it was very easy to forget that we were outside of the States and indeed I did because I kept trying to speak to people in English. At first Andrew stayed on the couch while we danced and appeared to be sleeping, but cigarette smoke drove him from that position and he then proceeded to light up the dance floor. We danced salsa and then African dance and then to US urban music. Who knew one could hear Borchata(sp?) in Mali?







Mali at night ressembles nothing like Mali during the day. All the youth who are forbidden from showing their thighs during the day and remain modestly covered came out in full force scantily clothed...reminds me of a Whodini song...can you name it? I was literally shocked. It was like they were trying to compensate for the daytime. Moderation, anyone? And how did they manage to get out of the house dressed like that? And why were they so obsessed with dancing in front of the mirrors on the walls, literally rows of half-naked girls lined up smiling at themselves dancing in the mirrors.

I got home at 4am and the next day was rough since the power was out unexpectedly for almost 10 hours. No internet, no AC, no relief. I went with Coulibaly to a garage to talk to some mechanics and hand out condoms and since there was no other vehicle I went on the back of his moped and he drove slowly. (Mom, I'm ok. I actually told him to be very careful because if anything happened to me you would fly here and have it out with him. And he saw the look on my face and knew I was telling the truth.) I asked one of the mechanics who was fairly young where he had learned what he knew about sex. He said from going out to clubs and meeting girls there. Aiie! And there don't seem to be books of any kind around. The ones I have seen are the ones I brought or those that are in the possession of others I know. I have seen magazines and comics. Sex is a taboo here and no one talks about it, but youth do it and that creates problems. It is like they are learning everything on their own and taking all the hard knocks as they go. A thirteen year old came into the clinic yesterday to take a pregnancy test and it was positive...

We left work early and I was expecting the power to be on in my neighborhood but it wasn't. I stopped by a store...the one owned by the woman who once sucked her teeth at me when I didn't know how to respond in Bambera. She welcomed me and told me to sit down and gave me a Coke, some peanuts and a woven fan to cool myself with. Turns out she is Catholic and is from the area of Mali that is heavily Christian, Kita, the first Christian city in Mali, where people make pilgrammages every year. She puts a face on some of the statistics here. She has three children and a fourth who died at two months old, and one of her younger sisters died in childbirth. Reminders that life remains difficult for women and children here.

When I got home hours later, Andrew was sleeping and there was no more bottled water in the house. Since he gets off at 2, I knew he had been there for at least 4 hours and I seriously toyed with the idea of buying water for myself and hiding it in my room just to see what he would do since it appeared to me that he was waiting for me to get home to run the errand. As I left to get water I ran into my Togolese friend, the one who helped me buy the surge protector/extension cord, and as it was getting dark he offered and I accepted for him to accompany me to the store. Once we got there he convinced me to get a carton of water rather than a few bottles as it is cheaper that way and he carried it home for me. I told him I might charge Andrew double for the price for each bottle of water he wanted. He thought that was very funny. Once we got to my downstairs door he asked how I would get the carton upstairs. I said I would put it on my head like the Malian women. He laughed at me and said are you sure? I said yes and proceeded to do so, hearing his chuckling as I closed the door and bade him goodbye.

When I got upstairs Andrew awoke and said Oh my God, it's so hot and there's no water! I said well you knew that before you went to sleep didn't you? In fact, we knew that when we left this morning and took the last two bottles. He said yeah but I was so exhausted! I said well next time go to the market on your way home and buy water. If I come home after dark I don't expect to have to go shop for something so essential, especially if you've been here for hours. Silence.

I went back out and discovered that the sister of my Togolese friend sells Togolese food from a storefront across the street. I bought a plate of fish, porridge and a tomato type sauce and sat down to eat. (We had no food in our house and I wasn't interested in learning what Andrew was going to do about that since I cooked the last meal on my bday and the one before that). My friend asked what I thought about the food after my first few bites and I said it was good and that it reminded me of Ghanaian food. He exclaimed YES! they are very much alike. So thanks Shirley...the years of eating at your house have prepared me for world experiences. :) So then my friend says, you know after all this time knowing you and helping you, I don't know your name and you don't know mine. Indeed! I told him my Malian name is Fanta and my real name is Julayne. Then I asked, What's your name? Moses, he responds, I'm a prophet. This from the man who has twice saved my hide. I am not making this up!!

When I finished my meal, he walked me back across the street to my place and I said Thank you for the water and the food (which I paid for). He said I don't like this word thank you. I asked why. Why should you be thanking me for doing something that friends do for each other he said. I nodded and then said I say it because I want you to know that I know you do not have to do it and that I am grateful that you choose to. He nodded and said we come from different cultures. I said ok well I will try to say it less often so you should try to be less offended when it does slip out. He agreed and we parted ways.

Bday

"It's time to celebrate and have a good time!" - Kool & The Gang

I am having a birthday in a foreign country where everything is new to me and there isn't a person here that has been known to me longer than 2 1/2 weeks! What an amazing feeling this is! The birthday wishes started coming in at midnight, in the form of calls and texts, and have been continuing ever since. I have been trying to keep my phone with me at all times lest I miss an international call while I go get my water bottle from the fridge. I also opened the gift Erika gave me fbefore I left LA, stapled in a paper bag, daring me not to open it until my bday. I really am surprised I lasted this long!!!

This morning I took the Sotrame (bus) as usual. And I said good morning to everyobne already on it and then settled in. While I get off at the bridge I usually don't say anything because there are so many people getting off at the bridge. And those running the Sotrames are more likely not to speak French and just to speak Bambera. So when I say I need to get off here they are confused by my pronunciation and I have to shout over the din of the bus and the chatter of other passengers and try to perfect my pronunciation while everyone turns to look. Maybe I am being melodramatic but I would rather avoid the situation if I can. I find it easier just to be quiet. How do I get off at the right stop then? Well like I said, there are always other people getting off at my stops. I have been very lucky. Except for today. I didn't realize no one was getting off at the bridge until we headed up the onramp.

Good thing I have a sense of humor. I laighed to myself that this would be yet another adventure. I thought about where to ask the Sotrame to stop. On the bridge I would have to cross too many lanes of traffic and I could not be sure that the Sotrame going to work would pass the spot where I got off just after the bridge. So I waited and said nothing and laughed at the kind of silly situations I get myself into. At the very least I thought I can always get out and take a taxi, although I prefer not to waste money on that. I started leaning more heavily toward that as the Sotrame passed through an area that I was not familiar with and just as I thought I needed to put an end to this game, I saw the BDM bank arise from a mass of trees and buildings in the distance. The very BDM bank where the teller had once refused to serve Rodney because it was 15 minutes to closing time.

I knew there was a place across the street from BDM where every Sotrame in Bamako stops and so I descended there, asked for the Sotrame to Magnambougou and boarded, having spent no more money, just more time, than the usual commute. I texted Coumba to let her know my predicament and when I entered work she smirked and said, So you went to the other side of the river this morning, huh? Glad I can keep folks amused. She and Sogona and Tchou Tchou all wished me a very happy birthday and sang to me. Other than that the day was punctuated only by two long blackouts.

Demba had said we should hang out as he was expecting a contingent of American friends in a week or so. When he learned it would be my birthday today, he pushed that date up. He has organized a bunch of us going out dancing tonight. And surprisingly, Andrew is going to be social and come out too. I have never been more excited in my life.

Coincidence II

"This isn't coincidence, there's no such thing." - Brandon Boyd

1. I showed Sogona at work my blog. Even though she appears in it a few times when I talk about my coworkers she cannot read it. She reads French and Bambera. She exclaimed that the background in the picture of me, doing the yoga wheel position, in Utah looks remarkably like Mali and she took quite a bit of convincing that the picture was indeed taken in the US.

2. I have another coworker named Fatoumata but she doesn't go by that. She goes by Tchou Tchou, which sounds the same as Chu Chu, my nickname since I was all of 2 years old. So every day, every time someone calls her I swivel my head thinking they are talking to me.

By Heart

"Anyone who wishes to be considered humane has ample cause to consider what it means to be sick and poor in the era of globalization and scientific advancement."
- Paul Farmer

I started out my week being late to work. I texted and let them know why. I had to wait for our maid to get there so I could give her money for the days worked to date and get her key. Can you say awkward? We decided that for what she was doing and what we were paying her, given the fact that we are volunteers and Andrew now seems to be on board with household stuff, household help was an expense we no longer need to endure. I had to go back and forth with her over the figures, how much she was supposed to receive per month, for how many days, how many days she had already worked and what sum that worked out to be. We also gave her a little more to pay for her round trip transportation that day. At first she seemed apprehensive, then upset, and then she accepted it. I think she realized we were trying to be as fair as possible. It just really seemed like she wasn't watching out for us money-wise. When someone says they are a volunteer you don't go to the market and buy the most expensive stuff.

So when Andrew and I left the cybercafe the other day a mass of youth had gathered in the main intersection and was celebrating Mali's soccer win against Sierra Leone. Andrew and I walked a little closer for a better look. It appeared though that celebrating was nothing more than surrounding and slapping cars that passed, even jumping on their trunks, until they honked their horns. That wasn't a celebration that either of us wished to partake in. In fact, it seemed to be one step away from an all-out "joyous" riot and so we turned the other way and went home. Note: A few years ago when Mali lost an important game, mass rioters tore down many of the monuments in the city's circles, that people use for landmarks when giving directions.

Demba came by Projet Jeune and said he had a book I should read. He passed it to me and let me thumb through it and when he left 30 minutes later he had to coax me to give up the book saying he should be finished with it on Friday and would lend it to me then. I told him I had just read an excellent book on recent political, human rights and development issues in Africa and the role of the West in creating Africa's current issues from the point of view of the former director of the NY Times Africa bureau who spent much of his time on the ground here.

Both books are listed below:
1. A Continent for the Taking: The Tragedy and Hope of Africa by Howard W. French (former director of the NY Times Africa Bureau)

2. Pathologies of Power: Health, Human Rights & The New War on the Poor by Paul Farmer (Professor of Medical Anthropology, Harvard Medical School)

Yesterday evening I went out to Safi, the roadside vendor cum Bambera teacher. We sat in the shade of the phone card vendor stand, in plastic lawn chairs, me with a notebook and a pen and her spewing forth different Bambera terms and explaining them in French. While I wrote I noticed a circle had grown around us. Amadou, the phone card vendor, his friend who beat me in checkers the other day, Safi's husband and two of their children- including a girl about 8 who laughed heartily at my first attempts at Bambera, and various others who stopped by to either buy a phone card or buy goods from Safi. When she was headed home, I was headed to the cybercafe and so she had her husband drop me off there.

It is something to be in a foreign country and know no one well, but to have people call out greetings to you as you walk home. I finally know what my grandfather spoke of when he talked about walking home on dark country roads. Of course the road here is not long and it is permeated with periodic headlights and store lights, but in between are some dark swaths and my feet know them by heart. Thiouigh I cannot see the obstacles until I am right on them I know instinctively that there is a pothole here and a dip here and a step up here. And step by step my feet lead me home from the cyber cafe.

Misinformation

“Among all the world's races (sic) ... Americans are the most prone to misinformation. This is not a consequence of any special preference for mendacity.... It is rather that so much of what they themselves believe is wrong.”
- John Kenneth Galbraith

Last week a Canadian woman who was the director of an NGO stopped by Projet Jeune for a visit. She was nice enough if not oddily dressed in cotton MC Hammer type pants, a top, and a strange scarf draped over her shoulder. It reminded me of a catalog of travel gear advertising how to be comfortable and cool in Nepal, but it looked oddly out of place here in Mali. When she left my coworkers laughed and said she sure was dressed weirdly. I said yeah she was probably doesn't wear that at home and was trying to figure out how to stay cool in 110 degree weather. They looked at me blankly.

Then I offered, I don't dress like this at home. They said you don't? How do you dress? I told them my skirts are knee length not calf and ankle length, that my outfits are more fitted and I don't wear so much cotton and linen, and I wear heels to work. They were looking at me strangely now. You could have brought that stuff here they said. Well yes but the material is not made for this heat and I would have suffered, I would have ruined my heels walking in all this dirt and on rocks, plus I heard that we should wear longer skirts so as not to be disrespectful of the Muslim heritage and culture. So I didn't bring a lot of going out tops or dresses either because I was pretty sure I wouldn't be able to wear them. I sounded silly to myself and wished I could take the words back. This isn't the bush, they exclaimed. People wear whatever they want. You're absolutely right I said. And had I known then what I know now I would have packed differently, but I didn't know.

The flourescent lights, brighter cheaper lights, in our bedrooms do not work and neither does our doorbell. A few days after we moved in the landlord came by to see us and said he would be by the next day to fix all of these things. While I initially thought he might return that week, if not that day, I soon realized we would probably be gone from Mali before those things were ever fixed. Lately we've been seeing him a lot more. He lives in the neighborhood and drives up a side street near our place on his motorbike. He always asks if those things still need fixing (were they supposed to miraculously get fixed?) and then promises to come by at some point. I won't hold my breath.

One day last week I woke up to a series of seemingly timed deep booms and the thought that came to mind was - "This is it! It's the end of the world!" No seriously! It wasn't of course, it was just thunder. But that initial fear kept me from falling into a deep sleep for the rest of the night. The rainy season has started which means everytime a thunderstorm comes through we get brief respite from the heat. Last night a wind blew all the dust in Bamako (and there is a lot of it) into our house; The rain pounded on the roofs and the dirt and the windows in stereo. Lightning lit the sky up in yellow and pink bursts and thunder beat like kettle drums. So mcuh rain came down that it flooded our terrace which is the same level as our apartment and so the water started coming into the front hallway and the livingroom through the cracks under those doors. This morning the water had dried and left more dirt. So much for my mopping job.

There was a blackout too. There are frequent blackouts here. They usually don't last long and most of them are in the middle of the night. I hear the whoosh as the air conditioner shuts down and the fan slows and then stops. Sometimes the power goes on before the fan can completely stop and sometimes the room gets nice and toasty before then.

The other day I played checkers with my phone card vendor. They had a board that someone had created and painted squares on and little wood chips that had also been painted. I was routed. What can I say...it's been a long time since I played checkers.

When I first walked to the cyber cafe the streets were empty save for a few groups of men clustered around tvs at the phone card stand and in another shack. Apparently Mali won the soccer game against Sierra Leone because the streets filled with cheers and the roads soon filled up with traffic, every single motorbike and car honking their horns steadily in celebration. I actually think I hear drums and whistles out their now.

Sex Ed 101

"Law and justice are not always the same." - Gloria Steinem

Thursday a group of us from Projet Jeune and three Canadian volunteers from ASDAP went to visit a garage to do a sex ed session, hand out condoms, and discuss any issues.

The first visit went really well. We returned to the junkyard/garage I had visited before and mechanics sat on the backs of cars, benches and restrung plastic chairs while we took over a bench. We discussed the importance of using condoms, using them only once (forget the reuse, recycle thing here) and one mechanic demonstrated for the rest how to put one on using a pipe from the yard. Some other questions were asked and for the most part the visit was uneventful. The session was conducted in Bambera and French so that all the mechanics could understand. Often times someone would translate something into English for me.

One of the Canadian volunteers, of Lebanese descent, spoke nearly fluent Bambera. She said this was her fourth time in Mali and she was allowed to do some of the translating and introductions. She also pulled the skirt of another volunteer to her knees where her bag which was in her lap had dragged it up to expose her thigh.

The second garage was a mess of cultural politics and old ways colliding with the new. A taxi driver who happened to be getting his car fixed and sat down for the session exclaimed that he didn't have time to use condoms. That they took too long. Someone said they only took 5 seconds, perhaps we should demonstrate. He said why should he bother when he was done in 3. Then he went on to say that with prostitutes you pay for the time so it is better to take less time. Nothing we said fazed this man. He seemed not just clueless but nonchalant that he was regularly engaging in unprotected sex with one of the populations where AIDS is most concentrated here. The other four populations are bus drivers, bus ticket salesmen, maids, and walking vendors. Further he is married with kids. He said if he gets sick he'll take some vitamins, get a long night's sleep and be all better in the morning. Then he said he had to go. We bade him to reflect on what we had discussed. Some wished him a good day. I was thinking more Good Luck. This kind of mindset gives us great insight as to the barriers that are faced in educating the population about the severity of the disease.

After he left an older man piped up that the disease was all the fault of women. It was his understanding that unfaithful women caused all the problems with regards to disease. He said he had 3 wives and each had her own home and he could not be certain what they were doing when he was not with them. He also went on to mention that he had girlfriends too. One of the volunteers clarified, so it's unfaithful women and not unfaithful men who are the problem? He said yes. It is tolerated from men but inexcusable from women. We must find a way to control unfaithful women. It is a good thing that his beliefs represent the older way of thinking but it's a wonder how long that way of thinking will linger and continue to enable wives to be infected as a result of their husband's indiscretions and vice versa. When the cultural norms lead to death and destruction, they must change.

Circle of Life

"You are more than what you have become. You must take your place in the Circle of Life." - Mufasa, The Lion King

Life here is reduced to its simplest form and you can witness it at each stage. I am wholly unused to this phenomenon and sometimes it is jarring for me. Things that I find shocking are accepted here as a part of life.

When we first moved in there was a bird that looked like a reddish dove perched on a nest built precariously on the ledge of the second-floor windowsill of our hallway window. After a day or two we could tell the bird was sitting on an egg and then one morning a frail wet baby bird with a few yellow feathers. One day I witnessed the regurgitation I had read about in school books, the mother heaving with her beak open over the baby bird and the baby bird with its head almost fully in the mother's beak, receiving its nutrients. Then neither the bird nor the mother were there. For days we saw neither and had to conclude that some foul play had transpired as the mother would surely not have left her baby and the baby's feathers were still to light and slick to support its flight.

On the street, there are women with babies strapped to their backs, small boys and girls, old men, and those with diabilities begging on the streets. They ask for coins or the boys hold out coffee cans and sing, God will provide for us. Coumba says to them when they approach her car singing at a red light, God does not provide for us, we make our own way. I ask her to translate and when she does I al shocked but I say nothing. Giving would not help anyway. A coin or two might buy one meal but what about the next? what about shelter? clothing? education? safety? Let alone the fact that if you pull out money you will be swamped by hordes.

Coumba gave me some dates the other day. I had never seen them outside of a Fig Newton and didn't know what to do with them. I understand that I was to crack them and there was another part inside. I treated the date like a nut though and shed the fruit and put the seed between my teeth trying to bite down. It's too hard I told her. She looked at what I was doing and laughed and told me to throw the seed away and eat the fruit that was scattered in dried hull-looking pieces in my lap. I have eaten dates in foods, but I had never seen a whole one. I have eaten many mangoes but I had not seen them growing on trees. Does this removal from the process of life alter my way of thinking about food? What of the children in the US who insist that milk comes from the store, not from a cow?

Today I rose and washed my clothes using a bucket, bar of laundry soap and a brush and hung it out to dry on the line on our terrace. I was wearing shorts while doing this and wondered if the people below could possibly see my thighs...women who want to be respected should not show their thighs, but figured if I am technically in my own house it doesn't count. (I wonder what the neighbors think of us. Their kitchen window looks onto ours and they see Andrew and I in there cooking and me wearing shorts... scandalous! The other day they were staring so hard we bit the bullet and called Ini Su - Good Night- to them and waved. One waved back. The other seemed miffed.) Then I mopped the floors and cooked up a meal that should last a few days. (Andrew cooked the night before.)

We're going to let our maid go on Monday. The price seemed a lot more affordable when we first got here and didn't know the value of money here. Now it seems exorbitant. Especially since at every turn she is taking short cuts. We have explained to her that we are volunteers and have a budget but she seems to think we are in the same category as Mieko and Daley. She should go look at their places, with guards and high walls, and interior decorations, wines, washer and dryers and gym equipment etc. and that might help her reconsider.

When we asked her to take out the trash she said a boy told her it would cost money to do that and asked for money to give him. That didn't sound right to us so we didn't give her money. We asked her instead to ask the neighbors, who sit out in front of their place in the shade, where to put the garbage. When we returned the garbage was there in our pristine kitchen stinking. When we asked the neighbors they showed us a bonfire pile just around the corner. I am sure she knows the ins and outs of the way things are done but she does not seem to be willing to help us in understanding, even seems to be trying to capitalize on it. One day when we hadn't given her enough money to do all of the shopping she just didn't do any of it. And she buys our fruit at the supermarket for 3x more what she could buy it for at the regular market. I'm not sure what she gets out of that since she does give us the receipts but I can't really afford it and if Andrew is now on board, as he seems to be, with helping to make the household run, we're good.

It takes me a good 20 minutes to walk down a street that used to take me 5 when I first arrived as everyone wants to say hello. I played checkers with the guy who sells me phone cards, sat down and learned some more Bambera from the woman who sells nuts, and immediately used that Bambera with the man who helped me buy my surge protector/ extension cord. Of course he sa me peeking in my notebook first so he was laughing the entire time.

I met Demba who is associated with Projet Jeune the other day. He attended college in Salt Lake City in Utah and volunteered for the Pacifica radio station there (a sister station to WBAI where I used to do the radio show.) He turned down a full scholarship for grad school to return home to Mali, be with his family and take part in what needed to be done here, and he just signed a contract to work in radio education. He offered a package of dried mangoes around the room. I thought we would take a few and leave the man his dried mangoes but when he got ready to leave 10 minutes later the bag was empty. Coumba kept handing me more dried mangoes and eating them herself. She seems preoccupied with feeding me. I told her she was acting like my mother. She said what will your mother say if you return from Mali all skinny? She'll wonder what we did to you here.

***Wedding Clarification***
I didn't ask too many questions at the wedding because there wasn't the time or the privacy. Apparently 4 couples had gotten married at the same time and that's why there were so many mother-in-laws present. Further after the party the couples were sequestered in wedding rooms draped like tents in embroidered white sheets where the grooms were to remain for 3 days and the brides for a week. After 3 days the grooms could leave for brief periods but they had to return to their brides. The brides wore veils over their faces so that none but their beloveds could see their faces. And the family took turns bringing food, water, etc up to each wedding room. I asked Coumba the significance and she said that this is their take on a honeymoon, time for the bride and groom to bond together and with their families. After a week they go and stay with the grooms' family and cannot leave the house and are waited on hand and foot.

Insider/Outsider

"We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started, and know the place for the first time." - T.S. Eliot

I am impressed with how things are reused and adapted here until every last bit of value has been utilized. In some stores used bottles of water are sold for those who just want water and don't need it to be spring water. Coumba lost the key to her car and was starting her car by using a key to something else and igniting the spark of recognition that the car needed. Perhaps she lost that key because now she is literally hotwiring her car to start it. She wraps the orange and yellow wires together and then touches the red wires to them and vroom the car starts up. When my sandals broke there was someone close who knew the craft of restitching them and they were fixed in an hour. The country seems full of beach chairs whose original binding busted and have since been restrung with woven plastic strings. I think the world would be a better place if we all found ways to conserve like this.

Prices confuse me though. It is 150 CFA to take the bus, 200 CFA to repair shoes, 200 CFA for breakfast, 200 CFA for a soda, 300 CFA to get a pregnancy prevention shot lasting 3 months, 1300 CFA for a box of juice, 1500 CFA for a tailor to sew a simple outfit, 2,000-10,000 CFA for a phone card which I have been running through like water, 3700 CFA for a box of bottled water and 10,000 CFA for a new canister of cooking gas. The ratios just do not add up to me.

I am very aware of my perception of things as an American and of others perceptions of me as such. I have tried to dress in a way that helps me to fit in a little more but it is still obvious to locals that I am not from here although they cannot place me. All I have to do is walk down the street and every taxi that passes in either direction will honk and or pull over assuming that I want to pay through the nose for a ride.

When I first arrived and I told people my Malian name it was obvious to them that I was not Malian. Imagine my surprise now that with a bit of a tan people are reacting to me differently. When I don't know how to respond to something said in Bambera, eyes narrow as if people are seeing me again but for the first time. One woman sucked her teeth at me. When I explained that I was American, had only been here for a week and was learning as fast as I could she softened and said oh it will come little by little. What had she thought before? That I lived here or had grown up here and did not speak Bambera or that I was one of Mali's daughters abroad and had come home not knowing my native language?

It's interesting that there is a sort of discrimination that is inherent in being American in a foreign land and there is also a sort of internal discrimination inherent in being native in a foreign land. One woman said your name is Puehl. I said yes and smiled. (One dead give away about being American is smiling so much. I realize I do it more when I am nervous.) She said that is not a good thing. My smile fell. I am Malikan (another ethnic group), she said proudly striking her breastbone. That's wonderful, I said. She was silent for a moment and then asked, Why did you take on a Puehl name? My colleagues told me to take a Puehl name because they said I look like I am from the Puehl ethnic group of Mali. Hmmm she said. And I got the feeling that I had somehow made an error though I wasn't quite sure where. Was I stumbling into a viper's nest in my excitement to identify with an ethnic group that people said I ressembled while not knowing the assumptions, issues, and history associated with that group?

Actually the name I took is Puehl too simply because all the young leaders said it didn't make sense for me to have a name from another ethnicity when I clearly look like another. Apparently the dance I did at the wedding was very similar to the traditional Puehl dance and I did it unwittingly, trying to remember some moves from long past African dance classes. So my coworkers taught me the Puehl dance which involves a lot of shoulder-moving, right up my alley right Taryne? And they taught me how to say hello in Puehl. Then another put her foot down and said it was enough that I was perfecting my French and learning Bambera, that they shouldn't be trying to confuse me with Puehl also.

The tan has also meant a difference in how men react to me. At first people of both sexes would just look their fill, being interested in someone who clearly was not of the area. Now I think that men think I may be Malian I am experiencing a lot more random things like a friend of my neighbor telling me as I walked out the door you are pretty; give me your phone number. I tried to laugh it off but he was serious. So I said Akine in Bambera, a polite refusal. He said oh you speak Bambera huh? Nice, give me your phone number. Do you even know what Akine means? I said yes do you? He said it means I'm good. And I said yes well I'm good. Thanks.

I think too about the American things that are exported here. Coumba watches Grey's Anatomy and Desperate Housewives on DVD. She calls Rodney - Rodney King and she asked me if I think Tupac is really dead. Africable plays music videos and I think it is a shame that not only are US music videos corrupting youth in our own country but their exportation is affecting how others think of us. If I could choose the parts of our culture that were exported, I would be a lot more selective.

I was initially very skeptical about spending the next 10 days in the house with only Andrew. Two days in a row as we were leaving he started to take his direction for work without saying anything. Both days I said bye have a nice day and had to remind him that it was polite to say that in return. We had a talk tonight though and he said he was waiting for an invitation to join me and Rodney shopping at the market, or cooking or what have you whereas we did not invite each other but simply said hold up a minute I'm coming.

He said about the converter that he was thinking about conserving his stuff because he felt Rodney and I had formed a liason and were united against him and were not there for him. I told him that the only person that I thought acted as if they were not there for other people in the house was him based on his actions. I said that I had gone out of my way to cook for and go shopping for the household and that I had not seen that he had done either of those things. Further when he had a chance to do someething for me with the converter, and I needed some help, he chose not to. He apologized for that. I also told him that I thought sleeping and headphones were a sign that he did not want to be disturbed so I did not bother him and since he was engaged in either activity most of the time it meant we did not interact much. Anyway we hashed it out and we both understood each other's perspective and agreed to start out again. Thank God. Hopefully Rodney will be able to fold into this new vibe when he returns.

First Days at Work

"Some men see things as they are and say, ‘Why?’ I dream things that never were and say, ‘Why not?’" - Robert F. Kennedy

I have been taking the bus to work starting on the first day. Bus is really a misnomer. It is more of a cargo van with benches encircling the space after the driver's seat. They are slow and hold as many as 16 people, kids, breastfeeding lothers, folks going to/returning from the market, older men, people going to work, kids etc. all up against each other in a tight space. (They kind of remind me of the NYC subways). The cost is 150 CFA which is about 30 cents and there are no transfers, probably becaue paper seems to be scarce here. In addition to the driver there is a conducter? who bangs on the side of the van for the driver to stop, takes fare and returns change, and calls out the neighborhood the bus is headed to in unintelligble sounds. Yep just like NY.

I take one bus to the bridge and then take another from there and it lets me off half a block from work. The first day I told someone where I was getting off and they notified me and the conductor that my stop was approaching. There are no stops really. It's just where you flag one down or say you need to get off. The next day I tried to find that same spot for myself and ended up walking back 15 minutes and got to work all hot and bothered and broke the strap on my sandal. In cases like that the extended greetings make sense because my coworkers knew immediately that I was not in a good mood and they bade me to sit down, offered me some tea, chided me for not telling someone where I was getting off, and had one of the neighboring vendors come by to take my shoes to restitch them at a cost of 200 CFA (a little less than 50 cents). I didn't have to sulk by myself or search for someone to tell my story to as I would have had to do at work in the States.

So what do I actually do at work? Nothing at the moment. I'm learning a lot, as lmuch about the work they do as about cultural nuances, but hopefully I will be able to secure a project soon. Especially since Rodney left to travel to the regions of Segou, Kidal, Gao and Timbuktu for 10 days for work and Andrew has been visiting clinics and will be working on a radio program. I keep telling myself that the bloom that unfolds latest will be the best but I have fought and continue to fight a lifelong struggle to be patient.

I am in the family planning clinic at Projet Jeune. In between patients, the clinic is a very lively place. The Africable channel is always on and a 20 minute soap opera comes on at noon. We take tea together in the morning and eat together at lunch. People come in for voluntary HIV testing as well as for information on family planning and many of the women take 3 month shots to prevent them from getting pregnant. Usually this is done only to space children out so each child has a chance of being well-nourished and growing up strong. Each shot costs 300 CFA which is about 70 cents or the cost of a roundtrip bus ride. Imagine if it was that affordable in the States...

The center houses sports courts and internet center and other activities to draw young people so they can be informed while they are there and or get tested or information without everyone knowing exactly what they came in for. They also do education in schools and in garages. We visited a garage today. They are more like junkyards whose dirt is stained black with oil with all types of vehicles in various states of repair.

Only men work there, mostly young men, and I am told that when vendors come through, women with baskets of fruit or water or nuts or what have you, oftentimes relations take place either because a pair takes a liking to each other or because the mechanic has a job and can give the vendor significantly more money for her time than she would get selling her wares. These encounters are usualy not protected and so the garages are a place to educate people. The education is done in Bambera to ensure that it will reach the greatest number of people since most people who speak and read French have gone to school and there are many here who have not.

I was also told about a tradition among Malians that when a borther dies, his brother will take in his wife and his kids as his own. While this tradition has ensured a home for women and children of the deceased it helps to spread HIV/AIDS when people do not stop to inquire what the brother died of and test the wife before taking her on.