I heart Africa

At this rate, the two years are going to fly by. Last week, we split up into groups to do a “community assessment” project in different villages. Some of us went “brusse” and others stayed close to the capital. My group had an overnight visit in a town about two hours south of Bamako, where a Madagascar transplant had been for four months. His site was breathtakingly beautiful. No trash, vast sweeping fields and tons of baobob, mango and shea trees (it doesn’t take much to impress my eyes these days). He was less impressed by the scenery since his last site in Mada was next to a waterfall. Damn him.

The most important thing for us to do first when we arrived was to greet the important people in the community (around two hundred in the whole village). We walked around for about an hour, stopped at most concessions and sat, said hello, thanked them for letting us come to their village and so on. I had heard that they bought a goat for us, and had yet to find out what exactly that meant. (Are we going to ride the goat? Pet it?... oh no.)

As we waited for lunch to be prepared, we went ahead and started the “workshop” of sorts in the village’s school building. Seventy people attended, which apparently was a lot. The volunteer there wasn’t sure if people came for the program, the food or the white people, but it didn’t matter as long as people showed. We figured we could get about 20 attendants per white person and should use our “star quality” as a strategy.

The first part of the project was a “community map” where villagers simply draw a map of their village, and highlight important landmarks. Peace Corps Volunteers act as a facilitator for these communities to do their own assessment. Each volunteer is paired with a counterpart at their site who they empower to run these sessions independently of Peace Corps once the volunteer goes back to the states. We just ask the right questions and give them a big pad of paper and a sharpee. I didn’t realize just how amazing this part would be until we split the group into men and women. I sat in with the women while they drew their version of the community map. For the first ten minutes they discussed who should be the one to draw and didn’t know if any of them had actually held a pen before. Finally, three or four of them escorted the one woman they deemed educated enough to the front of the classroom and watched as she drew the beginnings of the map. While they all were seemingly shouting at her, they were supporting her every move. I don’t know why I thought this was so remarkable, but seeing this woman portray her version of a “tree” was nothing short of a spectacular stick figure. I almost cried.

What they were proud of: their water pump, the school, fields, mango groves, vegetables, the well, “protectors of the field”, hunters, the mosque, animals, farmers, teachers, and the road. After the two groups drew their respective maps, they got together to present. This part was very important to them: presenting their drawings and affirming that they did a good job. Every few words the presenter would say, the group would respond with a short “owo (yes)” or “mm-hmmm.” The call and response demonstrated their immeasurable respect for one another.

Judging by what we were told to expect from our session, our group did well. People paid attention and it all happened quickly and efficiently.

After the first part of the session, we had lunch. No more goat prancing around the concession, but alas I should have seen that coming. But where was all the meat? All I saw were organs and bones. I’ve gathered now that Malians rarely eat the meat, they throw that to the dogs and save the really “good” stuff for their guests. We had another session after lunch and a rain storm (All Malians activity stops when it rains). When the second session was over, the village elders thanked us one hundred times over. One man said, “We know what you’re doing is very important. We know that health, food, security and success comes only after knowledge and you are here to bring that to us.” He went on to say, “You have left home, and now you have come home.”

They all stood up and started clapping and singing and put our trainer in the middle of the circle and sang her a song with lyrics that were, “The moon is God’s messenger and you are its star.” My God, these people really know how to pull on heart strings.

Needless to say they liked us enough to slaughter two more goats (yes that’s three total in 24 hours). As I watched one of the sacrifices I realized this would be the first of many and I had better get used to it.

That field trip was the beginning of all good things for me. After being here a month and a half, I’ve finally gotten a taste of freedom and control of my life. The next day I was brought to my site for a five day “site visit” with my community counterpart (An elder Malian man named Makona Diarra (my joking counsin! We make “fart” jokes to each other constantly and it’s our sole form of communicating. He’s a total rock star and reminds me of “Mufassa” from the Lion King.) I’ll be living in a community of about 6000 people along the main road between Bamako and the old French capital, Segouville. I couldn’t be happier. It’s a small enough village where I get to feel a part of the village, and big enough for some anonymity. I’m set up to work with a women’s cooperative that makes shea butter and also to help with a community garden that is 7km away. My banking town is Segouville, which has a Europian/Arabian nights feel: wide tree lined cobblestone streets, huge markets with rugs and beautiful cloths for sale, and sunsets over the Niger. Oh, and white people. White people! And most locals speak French.

I set two main goals for myself at this site visit: first was to find my core group of women/my new best friend and second was to find the best cook in town and have her cook for me, or show me how to cook. If anyone knows me, that didn’t take long. I live in a three room cement house with electricity and share a courtyard with a family. The wall of our courtyard is shared with a family of all women right next door. Perfect. I immediately went over to them, sat down on a mat, drank tea and tried my hardest to tell them in my broken Bambara/French that they were my best and only friends in all the world. They understood me perfectly and gave me five guinea fowl eggs as a welcome gift.

The second goal happened with no effort on my part at all. My new host dad, Braima Diarra took me over to a woman’s house the first day for lunch. He kept calling her the “jatigi muso” which I’m guessing means some sort of “important classy woman”, and her name is Tante. She speaks perfect French, Bambara and Tomaschek, her house has tile and her children are the cleanest babies I’ve seen in Mali. I later found out her daughter lives in Chicago and she’s been to visit her frequently. Seeing the few luxuries in her home made me feel so happy and safe, but guilty at the same time. I shouldn’t like this woman exponentially more because she knows the importance of hand washing and not eating “to” for every meal, but I do.

The last five days have been nothing short of blissful. One thing I’m certain of is that I’ve learned from my mistakes at homestay and have set clear boundaries for personal space in my new living situation. No one is allowed in my house, and when I want to go to bed, I don’t have to kick out a gaggle of women that insist they can sit on my bed for hours and chat and fan me til midnight. My house is my own little sanctuary. I’ve got a bedroom, a kitchen and a yoga room. Yes, I’ll be burning incense (f***ing hippies).

I’ve set up my house as best I could with what the previous volunteer left me: a comfy double bed, gas stove, bookshelf, trunk, mirror, (did I mention I have electricity? POSH CORPS!) Also, I’ve been fed so well it’s ridiculous. Gotta pack on all those pounds the amoebas got rid of! I have a routine set up where I spend mornings alone, my host mom, Jeneba, brings me some porridge, I do yoga, take a bucket bath, then walk over to Tante’s house for lunch, spend a little time with my counterpart and his family, back to my house for midday nap, then next door with the ladies and drink tea. (My host mom thought it was hilarious when she found me over there drinking tea. “You’re Malian already, Alima!”)

To top it all off, I found my new best friend on my last night at site. I had been introduced to her on a tour with my counterpart two days before, but paid her house a visit again on my own after walking around town one evening. She’s Peulh, so she’s practically one of the most beautiful people in the world. Additionally, she impressed me with her elegant tea preparations. I walked into her concession and sat down to greet, drink tea and awkwardly chat. We met in the middle somewhere between French, English and Bambara. I’ve gathered that she’s twenty two, and lives with her husbands family even though he lives in South Africa most of the time for business. Her family lives in the same village as she does, but a few blocks away, but she has to live with his family because she is his wife. When I come back to live for good, she’s going to braid my hair and teach me how to cook “zame” (my favorite dish). In a long pause in our conversation I thought, “this is her, this is my new BFF” and in that moment she turned to me and said, “tu es mon ami premier!” Ah, yes. Biggie??? Where are you???

She went on to ask me if I’d help her learn English in exchange for Bambara lessons and of course I agreed. The first and most important thing I thought to teach her was “You are my BFF.” She said it flawlessly.

Two days ago was the one month mark from leaving home (but who's counting!?) While most days have seemed to drag on as some of the longest days of my life, the month has flown by. I owe my salvation and sanity to the medical unit in Bamako. I had heard of this magical place with comfy mattresses and AC, but never allowed myself to think of it for long. Finally, after a four day escalated bout with amoebas, I checked myself in. What a good idea! Movies and ice cream and pizza! Oh My!



As it turns out, Africa's pretty dirty and it's hard to avoid getting poop in your food.



Four gatorade packs and an antiparasitic later, I was back with my homestay family. They insist I must have gotten sick from the clean bleached water at Tubaniso, but I just don't have the language (or the heart) to tell them otherwise...



I now realize that I have become a complete characature of myself. Everything involves a huge hand gesture or body movement that accompanies my broken Bambara. "Hello! How are you? how is your family? and your husband!? I am on my way to the place that I study! With my American friends! Then I will eat, and then I will dance! May God increase the blessings of this day!" Seriously, I've said all that... a lot.



Each morning I wake up to my host sister, Mama, saying my name about 8 times before I answer. I haven't thought of a clever enough way to tell her to stop bothering me a 6:30 am, so I just say, "No, mama! I am sleepy. I want to wash myself" And then I get up, carry my things for the shower outside, grab my bucket of water and head to the Nyegen. Bucket baths are my best alone time, so I cherish them. Balancing clothes and toiletries on the wall, delicately soaping up while trying not to drop the bar down the hole in the cement floor (I've lost one brand new lavender oatmeal soap and two razors... I have nightmares about dropping my toothbrush and sunglasses down there too). When I get back to my room accross the courtyard, Mama is there waiting for me. She has made my bed, swept my floor, and has tea and an assortment of "breakfast" items waiting for me.

"Drink tea Alima. Drink it, Drink it." she says. She's got the most attitude I've ever seen in a sixteen year old and I kinda like it.

"Ok mama! let me put my clothes on first."

I'm sweating by now, since I've been out of the shower for 8 seconds, and I'm trying to decide if I should put mosquito lotion on first or sunscreen, but it all just mixes with the sweat and runs off my skin by the time I leave for school. "Eat the bread, Alima. Eat it. Eat the Siri (rice porridge). Eat. Eat Alima." I try to curtail the lb of sugar and cup of powdered milk she puts in everything, but fail. Then I scarf, so as not to be rude, say I'm full about 4 times before she believes me, and head off to school in my diabetic coma.



Recently, I've discovered that my new BFF, "Muso Kura" (Amanda, who also went to CU Boulder and who's mother's name is Kathy Duncan. I'm not kidding, Mom! totally a "Parent Trap" moment.), gets the best food because her host mom is an amazing cook. This is where my life in the states has translated perfectly into my Malian lifestyle. I stop by her house around meal time every day and graze, then get my second supper of "to" and onion sauce with my family. It's great becuase it's rude not to eat when you pay a visit during meal time, and this way I don't offend my host mom who doesn't know how to cook anything but millet gluten yuckiness!

I had one of those strange moments a few days ago when I realized my eating situation was dire in comparison to Amandas. I went over to her house almost to tears after being served rancid four day old rice without much of an appetite due to the parasites. She was just getting ready to eat and said, "That's it, we're having beans and you're eating here from now on." Her mother brought her a table. A table! "WHAT???????" I said, "You eat off a table!?" Well, yeah Alima, what do you eat off of? "THE GROUND!" We laughed. She even had a table cloth. Needless to say her family is happy to serve me because I eat A LOT when i'm there.



Originally, when the children saw a group of us walking through town they'd yell, "Toubabu! Toubabu!" (white person! white person!) but now, because I have pretty much become the poster child for integration, the new word for "white person" is, "Alima Jan! Alima Jan!" The other volunteers tell me that the little children yell that to them, even when I'm not there. Well, atleast I'm integrating!