As the initial culture shock wears off, the every day “Africa” that used to freak me out, has become pretty normal. I’m gradually becoming under whelmed by things I had first thought remarkable. I haven’t quite figured out if this is a good thing or not, when I take a step back and realize what it is that I am capable of getting used to. For instance, earlier today when I was sitting and chatting with my neighbor, her baby, who she is “potty training” had to poop (another thing I’ve gotten WAY more comfortable with than I had ever imagined… I know, even I can be more comfortable with a bodily function.) Anyway, the mom made a makeshift port-o-potty with her feet that the baby sat on and pooped on the ground between her mother’s feet. Her mom nonchalantly tossed some dirt over it, then swept it up with a broom made of threaded reeds, into a dustpan that was a cut out of a plastic jug… The first time I saw someone do this, I thought, “OMG, that’s the ground the kids roll around in, and I know my neighbor dropped a ladle there the other day and just dusted it off and kept stirring sauce with it…” But today, it’s totally normal.
Another side effect of the fizzling culture shock that felt a lot like tunnel vision is that I’m noticing a lot more about my village. Street signs… Who’d have thought? Not only street signs, but address numbers! I think mine house is # 182. It’s written on a bright blue ceramic tile, pressed into the mud wall facing the street, totally out of place and somewhat remarkable against the brown landscape surrounding it and the trash that lines the streets. It’s these little things working their way into my African routine that I fear will go undocumented as a significant part of my journey. Like the way people just blow their noses out into the open air and wipe the remainder left on their hands on a nearby wall or child’s t-shirt - I’m surprised we use tissues in the states at this point - or how I recognize Africa’s heartbeat, and it’s not some hippy drum circle, it’s the women pounding millet early in the morning. I wake up to it as the sun rises and I can predict their hands “clapping” as they toss the mortar up into the air and slam it into the pestle, scrapping along the side. (or is it the other way around? I can never remember which is which, the mortar or the pestle. It’s a kolon and a kolonkalan in Bambara. Way easier.) It’s this rhythm that makes up the “pizzazz” that accompanies their labors, as if pounding millet all day wasn’t impressive enough.
My village is in no way the most beautiful place I’ve traveled, or even the most spectacular landscape in Mali. It’s pretty developed and has no trash collection (well, unless you count the children who sift through my leftovers and later use my Emergen-C packets as pot holders). There are trees, but not many. Most houses are basic square, cement dwellings, no romantic huts with thatched roofs and adorable little hangars made out of palm fronds. Most of the “foliage” comes from the corn and watermelon fields on the outskirts that make my village look more like Iowa than Africa. Despite its visual shortcomings, Konobougou’s villagers are pretty awesome. They are so genuine with their generosity, respect and politeness because those basic human qualities are just a part of their culture. The other day I was walking home from my homologues house and a little girl walking home from school was so excited to see me, she handed me her half eaten potato and a little bag of salt. She said, “Hi Alima! My name is Alima too! Here’s a potato and some salt, I want you to have it. Can I walk you to your house and carry your bags?”
I go to school with my host sister a few days a week. She’s in the third grade. I walk into the classroom with the teacher, Monsier Maiga and all 180 children stand up, cross their arms infront of them and say, “Bonjour Madame, Bonjour Monsieur, Bienvenue au classe.” And then all sit, cramming five kids into each desk made for two. I guess their politeness can somewhat be attributed to the switch made out of a rubber door jam that the prof carries on his shoulder as he walks around the class, petrifying them into politeness… But those kids sure are damn cute.
Some days, it feels like my house is located at the heart of the village. There are hangars positioned right next to the street where, groups of men gather everyday to play checkers, smoke cigarettes, drink tea and pick at their feet. I can’t help but make comparisons and notice that these guys are the Malian equivalent of our male clientele at the Sugarloaf Lodge, only I must say, there are much more enjoyable and friendly (sorry Grumpa! But I know you don’t read this). Probably because they don’t drink, but they sure do gamble!!!! Oh yes, they bring out these charts with numbers and horses names on them and I watch their adorably juvenile expressions get all excited and pensive as they place their bets on little scraps of cigarette packets and old newspapers that my neighbor tucks discreetly in his breast pocket and disappears into the night on his bicycle. When I walk by they ask me to place my bet and I yell out random numbers and they laugh and pretend to write them down. One day, I think I won. It was a big to do, they gave me a slice of watermelon.
In the same area in my little neighborhood, there is a rotation of women who sell various street food next to a mud brick oven constructed in the dirt. Twice a week, a woman and her daughter bring fish from the Niger and set up shop on the corner, where they fillet and fry fish of various shapes and sizes. Some are little minnows, whole fried and eaten as such, and other huge fish are gutted, cut into thirds and fried. The fish is actually really good if you don’t think about what it was swimming in. Malians chomp right down on the whole fish, head and all, chew for minutes and meticulously spit out the perfectly cleaned bones, while none seem to get lodged in their throats. I pay pretty close attention because I’m always amazed when the little kids aren’t choking. It’s done with such a careless finesse, at first it looked painful, but now I realize that it’s truly an art form, as are most Malian habits and activities. The way the pick up their children by one arm and sling them onto their back, then quickly wrap a piece of cloth around them with one loose knot and the child stays there all day (The babies LOVE this btw, it’s called “boma” and they practically beg their moms to ride along in the sling on their backs.) Or the way they trim their toenails with razor blades and manage not to slice an artery.
I especially like it when they sort millet or peanuts. They wait for the wind to be blowing just right, so that when they hold one gourd high in the air and tip over its contents, the dirt, dust and husk particles are sifted out by the wind and the larger stuff falls into the new gourd below, ready for cooking. Although maybe this isn’t fool proof, since I still have to be somewhat careful when I chew. I’ve had some close calls with rocks in the past four months. (btw, break a tooth, get sent to America to a dentist in DC to fix it! I’ll keep my fingers crossed!)
A Malian’s hands double as a remarkably efficient water faucet. I don’t know how they do it, but they can cup their hands in a way that multiplies the amount of water they’re using by maybe a gallon. When they wash their dishes, their hands, their babies… anything, it’s amazing how they’ll dip their hand in a bucket, and pull it out with a stream that runs for significantly longer than it does for the average person, completely dousing whatever it is they are rinsing.
Care Package updates:
Good cheese! A horseradish cheddar, I swear if you package it well, it will get here. It’s been done.
Cute tops! My clothes are destroyed. No hiking/sport tops you’d think would be great (Please! No typical “Peace Corps volunteer gear,” I’ve got all the lesbian clothes I need, thanks. And you bet I’m leaving them in Africa.
Something fun I can hang on my wall that reminds me of you and the states.
