In an attempt to break up a stale routine I had established back at site, I varied up my greeting route and went over to the tailor for a quick, “Good afternoon, are you well? And your family? Children? Wife(s)? it’s been a while? And your family?” This tailor is the town favorite, and a good tailor in Mali is hard to find, so I’m eager to be on good terms with him. Also, there was a trusting familiarity in his “Andre 3000” voice.
Sitting there in his workspace in between small talk, I looked around at the fabric strewn everywhere, two small kids, and another guy at three foot peddle machines, turning gaudy waxy fabric into Malian couture. The heat is starting because it’s the end of February and you can feel how thick the air is, and literally the walls are sweating. We’re trying our hardest not to talk about how oppressively hot it is because it only makes us sweat worse.
Every Malian asks me if I can do what they do. Women pounding millet, or cooking t’oh, breastfeeding babies: they all ask, “Alima, can you do this?” Sometimes I say “yes”, sometimes “no,” depending on my mood, because sure enough, I’ve found my self hopping into the millet pounding lineup, or strapping a baby to my breast. (just a joke, but recently, the little girls in my concession have been really touchy feely with my boobs. They keep asking me to see them because they’ve never seen a white boob before. I think I’ll leave that one to their imagination.)
So, in true Malian form, the tailor asks, “Alima, can you sew clothes?” I’ve seen a few other tailors at work and I think to myself, “God, if my grandmother saw what they were doing she would flip!, they are so sloppy.” So I had thought sure I could do it better than half the Malian tailors. After a little banter about how he’s so busy and has no time or money to finish all these clothes, he sets me down at the foot peddle machine and patiently watches me try to sew a hem on a piece of fabric.
That was yet another humbling moment in Africa. All my notions about Malian tailors have dissolved since my time spent with this tailor. Sure, he blindly cuts huge chunks out of fabric and doesn’t pin or iron a single seam, but the way these guys work is nothing short of remarkable. I knew nothing about how to work a foot peddle machine and they are impossible beasts. Just getting it started takes incredible arm strength, then to keep it going is a whole other work out with your legs. I get so excited when I can finally get the machine working, but then my hands can’t function at all because I’m so focused on peddling. It’s like patting your head, rubbing your belly, doing hopscotch and having a really serious conversation about American politics simultaneously. Also, as soon as I start getting the hang of it, everyone and mother (literally) comes berating me with questions. “Oh! Alima! You’re learning how to tailor!? Are you used to it? Can you do it well? Really well? Oh! (As the turn to the tailor) Did you find yourself a white woman? Did you buy her at the market? Are you teaching her how to sew? What’s her last name? Oh, Traore, that’s bad, she’s a bean eater, she can’t tailor…” And so on…
I’ve gone there now for 5 afternoons now, so in Peace Corps Mali time that’s like 8 months. So far, I’ve gotten the hang of it a little bit more, but as I sit there struggling to hem one side of a pagne, while the guy next to me bangs out three ornate complets, all with satin hems, and elaborate embroidery. Everyone gets a kick out of seeing the white girl try to do anything, so I’ve now added another trick to my repertoire as the town mascot.
