Paix de Sara

2012-01-17T22:15:00.000-08:00

2011-01-25T06:20:00.000-08:00

This blog was rated in the top 50 volunteer activism blogs:
"http://www.onlinedegrees.org/top-50-volunteeractivism-blogs/"

In the States I didn't know

2011-01-18T11:07:00.000-08:00

In the States I didn't know
that statistics correspond to breathing,
living people.
that poverty is a crime
we all perpetrate.

In the States I didn't know
women who have their genitals cut.
Here it is almost every woman I pass.

In the States I didn't know
people whose houses are burnt down
and they are left with nothing -
not a bank account or back-up plan or asset
just the clothes on their back, the
love of a community and the
strength in generations of knowing that
to HAVE is not to BE
Here my best friend rebuilds his charred home
of sun-dried clay bricks and stones.

In the States I didn't know
couples who have lost their children
to things like
diarrhea malnutrition malaria
Here, in the past week I have talked to two
couples who have buried three babies each.

In the States I didn't know
people with
goiters birth defects infected wounds
that go untreated, uncured.
Here I wonder if my offering of aspirin or rubbing alcohol
acknowledgment or empathy
really helps.

In the States I didn't know
people who, without warning,
lose their minds to paranoia, schizophrenia, insanity
speaking tongues or empty words to no one at all
- or to the self they have somehow lost -
Here it happened to my brother in one day – today – Eid-Al-Adha – Tabaski –
The day of Sacrifice
(who knew he would sacrifice his mind?)

In the States
we say such occurrences are cases of
falling through the cracks
of a safety net
a social welfare system
a health care system
a government infrastructure

I didn't know
that in some places
there are no cracks.
there is no net at all.

In the States I didn't know
We don't even see these people falling.

there is a hidden violence

2011-01-18T11:05:00.000-08:00

there is a hidden violence i never recognized
til now
it was lurking somewhere
i could sense it was there that
feminine intuition

like every Body in soft or hardened skin
round or dried breasts
and the curvature of life giving hips

i couldn't understand why no one
ever cared to surface this thing
shove it in my face
(and all our faces)
and demand
recognition
reprieve

but now I understand that no one
could force me to open my eyes
my ears
my heart

it is me alone

it is all of us alone who must surface this hate
this hidden violence

turn off the mute
awaken the hushed whispers to a red-glow rant

be it detroit, darfur, rome or beijing

a Woman in her in her soft or hardened skin
round or dried breasts
and life giving hips
is worth the voice she is given
the thoughts she births
the soul she was born unto

we must give life back to her as she
gives to the world

Paying for Attention

2011-01-18T10:50:00.000-08:00

I sit at a table, hands beading sweat in nervousness, a white twenty-four-year-old American amongst mostly middle-aged African men. Many of the Malian women here bear small children wrapped tightly to their backs with bright West African fabric, most making themselves look small and unassuming at the periphery of this conference. I want to ask them a question that will undoubtedly elicit a response that makes my stomach knot. A white banner streams in the background, half-lit by the brutal sun under a canopy of mango trees, bearing the words “Espacement de Naissance et Planification Familiale” – Birth Spacing and Family Planning. To my right sits a thick-spectacled, weathered man – an Imam, or Muslim spiritual leader. On the other side, a female radio-journalist. Across from me is a traditional medicinal healer, next to him the mayor and a local doctor. I look at these men and women and want to ask:

“How many children have you lost in your lifetime?”

Many couples here would respond with a figure around two or three, all children who died in the first few years of their lives or during birth.

“How many of you have sisters, mothers, wives, friends who died during childbirth?”

According to Amnesty International, every ninety seconds a woman somewhere in the world dies giving birth.

But before I can ask these questions, I am met with a question of their own: “When do we get paid for being here?”

Every one of the more than 120 people assembled here will receive the equivalent of 10 US dollars per day to be asked these questions. We are paying for their attention, because otherwise, in this patronage-based, foreign aid- and colonialism-corrupted system we have helped to create, many would not be present.

Everyone here has a different price tag for their attention – a certain sum to permit them to think about the fact that many girls here give birth to their first child around the age of 14, that often they will become pregnant again soon after giving birth and may have well over five children in their lifetime, and that very few will do so at anything resembling a modern medical facility.

Later I will meet with a group of media representatives, and they will burst with excitement about radio programs on maternal health and family planning, only to have half of them refuse to return our phone calls when they learn we will not pay for their programs.

A few of the Muslim leaders will tense up and stop listening when they hear we will not pay them to meet with us.

Public officials and even midwives will stir up a frenzy when they learn that their per diem is no greater than that of those lower down the hierarchical ladder.

Too many will retract their attention when it is not paid for, and I fear their sisters and daughters will continue to suffer the consequences.

But then the eldest of the Muslim leaders stands up in his group, insisting that it is Allah's will to protect our wives and daughters. He will inspire the group to lead mass prayers on the importance of maternal nutrition and birth spacing.

A male radio-journalist scorns his colleagues for having their interests in their pockets, rather than in the public good. He will launch a 3-month media campaign on family planning, and others will follow.

A doctor will emerge from the mass of his resistant colleagues and offer to donate his time and effort to train village-based health workers.

A nonprofit will put on a film and theater sketch on contraceptive use to the public, free of charge.

And, one by one, we will reconstruct this system into one where we all freely and passionately pay attention to the lives of women. My hands no longer sweat anxiously, and I hope that some day, the knot in my stomach will be gone.

The Barefoot Ascent

2010-10-26T06:26:00.000-07:00

In an effort to rekindle friendships long neglected, I beckoned my friends Eric, Arthur and Owen to come escape to the cliffs of Dogon country for some rock climbing and star gazing. Arthur packed us and my Malian friend/tour guide Emile “Le Gros” into his car, and we bounded down the rocky road to Sangha—perhaps the most touristed place in Mali. We descended the cliffs to Banani, past the swaths of children yelling “Toubabu, donne moi un cadeau!” (“White Person, give me a present!”), and swept over to Emile’s maternal home village, Irili. It turns out that the centuries-old sandstone cliffs, dotted with incredibly perplexing ancient Tellem graves and dwellings, do not make the best climbing spots—at least not to amateurs with untrained eyes like ourselves. The folklore about how these cliff dwellings came do be range from claims that the Tellem ethnic group could fly, to accounts of ancient multi-story treetops that have since been deforested. Regardless, spending a few days analyzing how to climb these rocks gives you a profound respect for the Tellem.

A testament to things not always being what they seem—or rather to Malians saying what you want to hear as opposed to what is real—we followed the trail of crumbs to this village where we had been told it was possible to rent climbing gear, and upon our request for shoes, were presented with a pair of sad, tattered loafers, oversized even for our large American feet. We politely refused, resigning ourselves to the probability of us not being able to climb at all. But, as custom would entail, we went to greet the village chief with a standard offering of kola nuts, and he welcomed us eagerly by insisting he show us the best spot to climb, for which we would not need shoes.

We wandered up through the village, past the bleating goats and rock houses and thatched mud granaries to the base of the cliff, just as the sun was flirting with the horizon. The chief pointed up to a ledge a pitch off the ground—a wall most undesirable for climbing considering the fact that it was spotted with these ancient habitations, ceramic remnants and bones—and indicated a small wooden stick, forked at the tip, to which he intended for us to attach a top rope. (A bit of context: these cliffs are most often considered sacred, and many are the unknowing tourists who have been reprimanded for treading upon this untouchable ground) Naturally, we were perplexed, and once again politely refused the chief’s proposal, even after his offer to ascend first.

The next morning we woke to the cries and bleating of donkeys, sheep, goats and children, under the majesty of these cliffs, and knew at once that a lack of shoes couldn’t keep us from the climb. We set out in tennis shoes and flip flops to find an alternate site—one free of historical and archaeological significance—and packed up our gear. So many rock faces with backyard passageways winding between them, and almost nowhere to climb. These walls are pocked and slit through with ledges and overhangs, like an old wrinkled face, too worn over the ages by sun and rain. After splitting into smaller groups and exploring for over two hours, Eric rambling back and forth between us in the hot sun, barefoot marauder that he is, like a shepherd dog trying to keep track of us wandering sheep, Arthur finally sounded the call that he had found an acceptable site.

We tied off the top rope and dropped it down, got into our harnesses and prepped for the climb. The first climb at a new site here always makes me nervous; my internal ‘caution’ sign constantly blinking a reminder that I am not immortal, and that I am, in fact, in Africa. Nonetheless, I geared up and offered to climb first, dipping my moist fingers into the chalk bag dangling at the small of my back. After the first few grips proved to endure my weight, I more confidently reached for the sky. But, as hubris would entail, a few seemingly sturdy grips crumbled upon force, raining down small bits of sandstone. Nothing to panic about, but enough to make belayers and bystanders beware.

We each got in a couple of climbs, and our itch was satisfied. After all, a less than ideal climbing wall could hardly supersede the daring beauty of the place, us tucked in the remote mouth of this strange country we call home, without a care in the world.

Our nights were spent sipping scathing African whiskey from the little plastic sachets we have grown a love-hate relationship to, staring at the night sky and sharing our lives and dreams. I hadn’t felt this alive in months.

If I learned one thing it would be this: If the shoe doesn’t fit, go barefoot.

Planting Trees in Place of Subsidies

2010-04-13T15:21:00.000-07:00

In some ways I've flown through these past eight months in a haze. To get by from day to day... it's like I've been staring at my feet this whole time. But in the last few days the ground came rushing up beneath me again.

What I mean by this is that I had forgotten why I am here — what passions had driven me to this point, what riled me up, what inspired me to come back to West Africa and work in development. And then I picked up a book my father had sent me — Enough: Why the World's Poorest Starve in an Age of Plenty, by Wall Street Journal correspondents Roger Thurow and Scott Kilman.

I live in Dogon country, Mali, on the edges of the impoverished Sahel that stretches across this starved continent. And I am here in the capacity of a development agent representing the United States government. To be more specific, an agricultural and natural resource management development agent, from one of the most economically, agriculturally and politically powerful countries in the world.

And I sit here, reading about how for decades, domestic agricultural subsidies in the United States and the E.U., coupled with the food aid industry and economic restrictions imposed on Africa, have perpetuated and worsened famines, malnutrition and economic ruin in the very countries these policies are ostensibly trying to help. In the developed world we are dependent upon protectionist policies in the sacred area of agriculture, and yet we indirectly deny the use of similar mechanisms in Africa by way of Structural Adjustment package prerequisites demanded by the WTO. The push for African countries to embrace free market capitalism and the "Green Revolution" of chemical fertilizers and hybrid seeds to maximize agricultural yield has not been effective here. And why? Because even with a bountiful harvest season and plenty of international aid to support the purchase of modern farm tools, alternative technologies and high-quality hybrid seeds, American and European farmers out-compete their African neighbors by dumping their subsidized crops on the global market. This in turn cuts world prices on agricultural goods to a point where African farmers actually start losing money. The book brings up several poignant examples, all with the same message: in "blessed areas, especially the United States, a crop fails and the government writes a check. In Africa, a crop fails and people die."

Because African governments are discouraged from, or can't afford to subsidize their crops, there is no social safety net to protect them during droughts or pest infestations. And even when they have a good crop and produce well, it floods the international market because the EU and US are already overproducing, and the price drops. Our governments push Africa to embrace and rely upon the private sector to develop agriculturally, but in most of Africa there IS NO private sector, nor the infrastructure to compete internationally. And so, local grains rot in African fields because cheaper grain surpluses (or free grain, in the form of food aid) from the US and EU are dumped on their markets.

I was distraught to learn that the food aid we so altruistically give to starving countries is actually exacerbating food insecurity in some African countries. Billions of dollars of food aid flows in from developed countries, but far less is spent on agricultural development aid to prevent starvation in the first place. Indeed, our international financial institutions and governments often discourage these countries from implementing policies or devoting federal funds to bolster agricultural development. We don't want to spend US dollars on development efforts that would lead to increased competition for our local farmers on the global market.

And so, when a famine sets in in Ethiopia or Sudan or Mali, the international community's conscience is pricked, food aid flows in and politicians make heart-wrenching speeches about ending world poverty. Then, when the world stops watching, the food supply is cut off, and these countries are left with weak infrastructures, a ruinous agricultural base, and no tools (political or real) to become self-sufficient. There is no private sector to rely on. Local markets aren't developed enough, roads from farm to market are poor, transport is unreliable and often nonexistent, and food is difficult to transport from the lush areas to the poor.

And I see all of this; I feel it and I live it every day here. In Mali people haven't been victim to outright famine since the drought of the early 1980s. Politically, Mali has been relatively stable since colonial independence. Mali was once home to a burgeoning salt and gold trade, and even today Her southern fields are ripe with cotton, shea, bananas and mangoes. And yet I sit here, a 12 hour drive east of the capital into the Sahel, and there are no mangoes. It is garden harvest season, and yet of the families I've interviewed about food security, most only eat vegetables once or twice a week. Meat they only can afford once a month. People aren't starving to death here or killing each other, and as such, most Americans have never heard of this country. But Mali ranks amongst the lowest on development indicators: the infant mortality rate is shockingly high, as is the level of malnutrition.

This I see. I see it when I pass the village cemetery, where there are far too many fresh little burial mounds. I see the effects of geopolitics and global trade when I go to eat dinner every night with my host family, and Yacouba, the four year old with a belly distended from malnutrition, complains about having to eat toh again (a millet mush), like they do for every meal of every day. I feel the pain of what American and European trade policies help to perpetuate when I catch small children digging through my compost pile, eating moldy, hard pieces of bread and sand-covered vegetable scraps. It becomes real when I joke with kids about them not eating my cat when I go out of town, and then I see cat skins strewn about the edges of the village. I understand how my country's excessive subsidies for crops like cotton — which is also Mali's biggest cash crop and export — effect my friends here, when I watch women hand-pick cotton from the fields and laboriously hand weave string, then cloth, and walk the 7 km to market just to sell a bolt of cloth that took them nearly a month to make for a meager $26.

Amongst all this I remain an agent for agricultural development here in Mali. It tears me up inside that, while most Malians are enamored of the United States because of Peace Corps presence, my country is also doing a lot to prevent development from happening here — even if it is inadvertent or stemming from good intentions.

I am learning more and more that perhaps the most important part of my being here is to give me a wake-up call. One of the main goals of the Peace Corps is to "Help promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans." This, at first, I took to be secondary to the goal of training and teaching Malians useful skills. But now I'm realizing that the real impact is in putting us young, perhaps naive, but ambitious and courageous volunteers in the places most marred by global economics, politics, natural disaster and misfortune, where we can better understand the functioning of the world, and what roles we can play to better it.

So if all of this can be imprinted in the minds of even some of the nearly 200,000 Peace Corps volunteers this world has seen so far, it is achieving something extraordinary. I will continue to plant my trees and water my garden, if only to go home at the end and sound my barbaric yalp.

"Your house shall be not an anchor but a mast..."

2010-04-01T06:40:00.000-07:00

In late February, the home of my best friends in village caught on fire. Hassim is my counterpart, closest friend, colleague and neighbor here in Pelleni. Fatim, his wife, is also my dear friend, and their eight-month old baby Mariame is my new protege and partner in crime.

When it happened, I was across village at my friend Saydio's house having tea and trying unsuccessfully to weave cotton, when all of the sudden a group of small children scrambled into the courtyard, yelling frantically. Everyone jumped to their feet and started running. I caught Saydio's arm and looked into her panicked eyes for an explanation, and she mumbled something, the only part of which I could catch was "gogo! gogo.... Fatim munda jo!" ("fire! fire.... at Fatim's house!"). As we ran I saw a huge plume of smoke pouring into the sky above their home and a wave of dread hit me. I didn't know whether or not Hassim, Fatim or Mariame were trapped inside the burning house. By the time I got there the whole village had crowded around, and the flames were almost extinguished. I immediately picked Fatim out of the crowd-- she was wailing and weeping in exasperation, unable to control herself. A friend held a crying Mariame, and Hassim stood nearby.

I was fascinated with how everyone reacted, trying to imagine myself in a parallel situation in the United States.

Because, here in Mali, it is unacceptable to cry or show extreme emotion in public, all of the village women were yelling at Fatim to get ahold of herself, even hitting her lightly. But at the same time, they were consoling her. They quickly ushered her into another concession behind closed doors, where she could weep freely.

Hassim, on the other hand, was a vision of stern calmness. He stood there, arms crossed, with but a faint smile on his lips to cover whatever emotions lie therein, while his neighbors excitedly ran to the river to fill buckets of water, throwing them on the flames. Countless others approached him to pull the story of what had happened, and how, from those closed lips. I couldn't believe how well he remained composed, even not knowing what damage had been done to his home.

I pieced together the story, listening to the others chatter nervously. The smoke died down, leaving the wreckage of the front of their house, and on the inside of the hangar sat two blackened motorcycles-- one Hassim's, one owned by his friend who had been visiting from out of town.

No one knows exactly how it happened, but it could be deduced from the scene: Fatim had been boiling water in a cauldron on a three-stone fire on coals inside the hangar. She left, with Mariame tied to her back, to go fetch water from the river. Fuel, fumes, or something flammable, must have leaked from one of the motorcycles, igniting upon contact with the coals. Luckily, the fuel tanks of both motorcycles remained intact-- there was no explosion. As for the house, the rocky terrain of Dogon country turned out to be a blessing for them: all Dogon houses are built of stone, with mud as an adhesive, and so the flames licked only the wooden rafters, support beams, door and windows. The structure of the house was left unscorched, as were a majority of their belongings on the inside.

So what did this mean for Hassim's family, and Hassim's friend? What of their motorcycles, which, to replace, seemed like such an insurmountable task for a family with no source of income, and surely no excess for insurance purposes? Their motorcycles were one of their only assets, aside from the little livestock their families own. In the developed world, it's a tragedy when someone's house burns down or a car is destroyed. Here in rural Africa, I couldn't even imagine what they were feeling.

And yet, as I think about it, I'm not sure which scenario is more devastating. On the one hand, my friends here in Mali have virtually nothing, so to lose what they do have is horrible. On the other hand, they aren't dependent on a wealth of material goods built upon itself to construct a life.

...If you're used to having nothing, does it make it easier to lose what you do have?

As I write this several weeks later, Hassim is fixing his house. For weeks he had been making mud bricks-- digging up dirt, going to the river to fill buckets with water to mix, painstakingly forming each brick and laying it in the sun to dry. He searched for wood and straw to reconstruct his hangar, walking miles each day. His friend never asked him for money for his destroyed motorcycle. No one placed blame on Fatim for leaving the hot coals unattended, nor on Hassim or his friend for parking their motos right next to the pot. They simply say that an evil wind came through, and that, thanks to Allah, no one was hurt and worse damage to their home was avoided. They continue with their lives.

I still don't have the answers to the questions I asked above. The only sense I can make out of it is this: whether in Mali, or in the United States, we mustn't allow the things we own to become a burden, for if we do, their loss can destroy us.

And tell me... what have you in these houses? And what is it you guard with fastened doors?
Have you peace, the quiet urge that reveals your power?
Have you remembrances, the glimmering arches that span the summits of the mind?
Have you the beauty, that leads from the heart from things fashioned of wood and stone to the holy mountain?
Tell me, have you these in your houses?

Or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house as a guest, and then becomes a host, and then a master?
... Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning to the funeral.

But you, children of space, you restless in rest, you shall not be trapped or tamed. Your house shall be not an anchor but a mast...
You shall not fold your wings that you may pass through its doors, nor bend your heads that they strike not against a ceiling door, nor fear to breathe lest the walls should crack and fall down.

For that which is boundless in you abides in the mansion of the sky, whose windows are the songs and the silences of night.

Kahlil Gibran
-The Prophet-

Sweet Ghana dreams at the 6-month mark

2010-01-10T03:03:00.000-08:00

It's been quite a while since my last blog post... for that I apologize. It's been a crazy hectic couple of months, and things are just about to slow down again.

In mid-December I left village to go to Bamako for our IST, or In Service training: two weeks of technical training tailored to each sector and region, with a focus on project design and implementation (how to milk the gov't for funding... finally). For us environment/natural resource management folks, this meant sessions on irrigation techniques, beekeeping, fish farming, and tree planting. It was wonderful to reconnect with volunteers from other regions who I hadn't seen in months. Sad, however, to part again and realize that some of them I very well may never see again, and most not until our COS (Close of Service) conference about a year from now.

After IST I left on a holiday trip to Ghana with my partner Dan and three friends. It was both relaxing and frustrating at the same time: overland vacations in Africa are not the most laid-back of adventures. Ghana is incredible; in fact, it very well may be my favorite country out of all of those I've visited. Quite the drastic change it was to go from being a volunteer in rural Mali-- one of the poorest, most resource-challenged and under-developed countries in the world-- to being a tourist in all of the hot burgeoning spots of the west African development success that is Ghana. It was hard, I have to admit, to see the kind of life that volunteers there experience as compared to what we have in Mali.

Ghana is spectacularly beautiful in the southern half (the north is similar to parts of Mali), with rainforests and quiet ocean beaches. We did a forest canopy tour on hanging rope-walkways in Kakum National Forest, we went boogie boarding at a tiny eco-resort called The Green Turtle (tacos, cocktails and bonfires for Christmas!), and New years bar-hopping in Accra, the capital. Accra feels much like an American city (at least it does from the perspective of someone who's been in Mali for six months). It is an unfortunate host to massive suburban sprawl, as well as fast food joints, hot night clubs, and even a mall with a movie theater showing recent American flicks. We saw the new Holmes film and ate over-priced popcorn in an air conditioned theater with comfy seats.... is this really Africa?

Some strange, unexpected differences between Ghana and Mali:

1. In Ghana NO ONE smokes cigarettes. Effects of French vs. English colonialism? Men chain smoke all over Mali, which causes Peace Corps volunteers to follow suit, while in Ghana, every time one of us lit up we would get scolded by numerous passers-by. They should put all PC smokers here.

2. The word "Broni" -- the equivalent of "Tubab" or "white person" in Ghana -- is heard far less on the streets of Ghana than in Mali (or Senegal).

3. They sell ice cream, or 'FanIce' on the streets. Are you kidding me?

4. The food is a million times better in Ghana, and somehow cheaper. Everything is cheaper in Ghana.

5. There are pretty much NO garibous (beggar children) in Ghana.

5. Not unexpected, but... Islam vs. Christianity. Coming from the US I've only come to resent religious fanaticism when it comes in the form of Christianity. Somehow in Mali, the omnipresence of Allah-related terminology and references doesn't bother me. Maybe because it's not in my native language. But in Ghana, we ran into Crusaders speaking in tongues and fainting at big conversion seminars on the street, evangelist hostels, and a strange breed of Christmas celebrations (who knew Christmas could last for not one, but THREE days, and that you could dress up and dance in the streets instead of sitting at home?).

After all of this, surprisingly, my entire group of travel-buddies were ecstatic to finally return to Mali. This is home. When we finally crossed the border from Burkina Faso into Mali (after a gruelling bus ride-- it takes around 48 hours straight to get from Bamako to Accra), I found myself looking upon the images that make up life in Mali-- women carrying bundles of firewood on their heads, the wilted drying landscape, trash burning in the streets, dirty little kids only wearing either a t-shirt or a pair of ratty pants, never both-- and I fell back in bittersweet love. This is where development really needs to be done, and this is what Africa means to me. Granted, we didn't experience the poor village bush life of Ghana, which surely exists as well. But it is undeniable to me that Mali is a much more difficult place to live in. I can only rest on the hope that despite the lack of comforts and the beauty of Ghana, my experience in Mali will be that much more fulfilling for both me and my community.

Finding my Magic

2009-11-06T08:15:00.000-08:00

I've finally found my magic here-- that magic I was waiting to stumble across, and once found, I knew would give me my reasons to stay here. It came in the form of two people: two mentors, guides, friends. The first I met while coming in from harvesting millet in the field one day. His name is Anjigi Karambe. An old, white- haired, wizened, somewhat maddened with age, sun and work-roughened medicine man, jack of many trades. He was the counterpart of the first Peace Corps volunteer to come to Pelleni, back in the 1980s. He is well travelled and educated (he worked for many years with the formerly malevolent and now supposedly reformed Eaux et Forets, the Environmental sector of the Malian federal government), and he is the one person in village who speaks far better French than I do. He has put in his time and work into life; has given his strength to the land and taken wisdom from it. Now he spends his days and nights perched on a sheepskin rug by a fire outside his family's concession, mixing up tinctures and various medicinal concoctions, eagerly telling his life story to anyone willing to listen. The old men of the village gather round during the day to brew coffee and smoke their pipes, looking back over the decades of change that have passed under their feet here-- from colonial independence to the great drought of the 1980s, decentralization and democratization in the 90s, and the creeping introduction of technology and the outside world arching accross all of it. Anjigi is the sage, the guiding hand and encouragement, that I needed. He has seen, and played part in, both successful and failed development projects and environmental initiatives. He knows that tradition, comfort, and lack of education retard change to an almost maddeningly slow pace. "Villagers need to see change-- words are worth nothing here without demonstration and suivi," he tells me. This is a bit of advice that I keep hearing over and over. I know that what I do here must be approached whole-heartedly and followed through to the end. The other thing that has intrigued me about Anjigi is the appreciation and acknowledgement that we share for the joys and sadness that make up life here, and for the passion to make something more beautiful out of it. I've found that many people here are reticent about their lives, about the problems that they face. But Anjigi is the first person with whom I've shared the sentiment that "Il faut dire merci a la vie pour ce qu'elle nous donne," (We must give thanks to Life for what She gives us) and who I feel truly understands it.

The second piece of magic I've found here is my male 'tokoro' (homonym), Issa Tapily. (Did I write that I got a new Malian name when I came up to Dogon? My name is now Aissa Tapily) Issa is a permaculture-minded hermit... after spending twenty-some years farming in Cameroun he came back to Pelleni to create his own garden-home oasis just outside of the village. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw what he had created-- he has taken this tired, spoiled and dry earth and put his soul and blood into it, to create something truly inspiring. He has made things grow here that I didn't know were possible. He is already practicing the things we are taught in the Peace Corps to promote here-- rain-water catchment (by digging swales on contour and forming deep rock pools for storage), composting, diverse gardening, mulching, live fencing with Morenga and Jatropha trees, etc. And he did it all with his own two hands. His property is stunning. I now have a guide to whom I can become an apprentice, who knows about soil-amelioration techniques and progressive gardening in this climate. We started a nursery of cucumber, tomato, peppers, basil, cilantro, beets, carrots, etc., and will transplant most of it to a big garden space that we're starting to prep the soil for in a month or so. It is huge, and I am giddily happy about it.

Another thing that has lifted my spirits here is that all of the teachers at the primary school have arrived (including my language tutor and friend, Ambaga). Almost all of them grew up in either Bandiagara or Sevare, and they commute to village during the school year each week to teach. They all have been educated and have some travel experience that gives them a perspective of the world that I can share (and the French to be able to communicate with). It's so strange, though, to see and bear witness to the animosity between villagers and 'city folk.' It makes me sad that teachers are reproachful of the villagers for their way of life. Admittedly, we share some of the same frustrations: the lack of respect for privacy villagers have here, borne out of boredom and such close proximity. The un-tamed curiosity of children that causes them to be rude without realizing it. The slow and conservative way of life here that they only know to accept and embrace. But the teachers seem to resent them for these things that are products not of the people themselves but of their circumstance and history. Nonetheless, they provide an outlet for fun and venting frustrations. Case in point: on the subject of gender roles and sexuality, something that is very fixed and somewhat taboo in village. The progressiveness of the teachers about these issues is one thing that caught me off guard last week. I was cooking dinner with the teachers one night, and one of them started playing a video on her cell phone that they were all laughing at. The strange noises coming from the phone intrigued me and I couldn't place them, so I went to go look at the video, only to find that they were watching a porn! "Tubab karate" is what they call it, and I've come to learn that this is not an oddity here-- lots of respectable people have porn downloaded onto their cell phones. Not expecting that one. When I got up to go home at the end of the night they left me not with the usual benediction- "May Allah give you a peaceful night," but rather with an improvised, "May Allah find you a man to give you great pleasure tonight." The world is full of surprises in the most unlikely of places.

Alms for Rain

2009-09-23T05:43:00.000-07:00

(This post I started quite some time ago but I'll add it here for continuity's sake)

It is almost 1am and I'm wide awake, sitting in the kitchen of my mud hut by the light of my gas lamp, wondering, "Alla mene bi?" -- Are the rains coming? Although the human sense of weather forecasting is becoming more and more acute for me here, I'm not yet as versed as the Malians. Tonight I ate toh in the pitch dark with the Kansayi family (my homologue), and we all remarked how heavy with dampness the air was. Only hours later do I realize that this was an indication of the storm to come. I fell asleep outside under my mosquito-net covered mattress, reading a book called Blindness by Jose Saramago, thinking about what it must be like to live without the precious gift of sight. But then just an hour ago I awoke because of some almost imperceptible change in the air-- my body sensed that something was happening, although the air was still and the temperature unchanged. I opened my eyes to see faint flashes of lightning in the distance-- something that should be imperceptible in slumber, but that nonetheless I was somehow keenly aware of. Sure enough, thirty minutes later the wind picked up, the sky let out a whisper and then a beckoning thunder. Le temps menace, as they would say.

Such a gift of rain would surely ease the troubled and lost mind of the village vielle -- an old woman of 80 or 90 (or so the villagers say) who has been posted up outside my concession under a neem tree every day since my arrival, asking when the rains will come. The first time I came to Pelleni everyone blessed my arrival, for the rain came swift and strong that evening- a sign of good luck and much promise from a stranger. Perhaps this is why the vielle was so dismayed at my second visit's failure to produce such positive results. In response, she called to me from outside my gate, asking for alms as an alternative to the rain, her eyes clouded by cataracts (can she see the rain coming?), skin and flesh hanging leathery off her old bones like half-dried venison. The hot sun will dry her up all the way soon enough, I imagine (Is this why she laments the absence of rain?).

Surely, I too will be sad to see the rainy season go-- to watch the green turn to brown and the rivers and creeks trickle away until they become sandy beds. But now I look forward to the coming of the cold and dry season, because of all the practical annoyances of the humidity and rain. Every time the rain comes like this at night, it means a forced and abrupt end to my much-needed slumber: I have to hop up and untie my mosquito net and drag it and my mattress, mat, sheets, pillow, chair and lantern back inside the sauna that is my house. I re-set up this scene indoors, and then have to check that all of my valuables are covered by a sheet of plastic or properly stowed, so as not to be splattered by the chunks of mud that invariably come weeping out of my poorly built cieling with every hard rain. I'm also concerned about the presence of heat and humidity inside this stuffy house, because various forms of white mold have sprouted up on the rafter beams, spreading white fingers weaving through the support branches and down the mud walls. (Another reason I prefer to sleep outdoors rather than inhale these spores...) But, it is pleasant to sit here and write by the light of the lantern, the sound of the rain tapping on my metal window panes.

I'm going to feel a lot here.

When Life Gives you Lemons...

2009-09-22T12:37:00.000-07:00

As I left the Sevare Peace Corps bureau for site, a PCV from the stage above me left me with this parting consolation-- "If you cry your first night at site, don't worry. I did too." My initial reaction to this was surprise, then confusion, and finally appreciation. I was lucky enough to not be anywhere near this kind of mindset when I headed down the road for Pelleni-- I was thrilled. But her comment made me realize that we are all handling this experience with differing degrees of grace and panic and confusion and elation. A day later I found myself close to tears at site, but not out of sadness or fear. Rather, I found myself almost moved to cry because of a realization I had when sitting at one of the boutiques in town. I was watching a new friend, Khadija, breast feed her baby girl, and I realized all of the sudden that I would be able to see this child grow up so much in the next two years. I looked around at everyone in this scene that only a month ago seemed like it would always be foreign-- girls tressing each other's hair on plastic mats covering the trash-laden ground, men inhaling smoke from their pipes and cigarretes while taking in the new stock for the boutique, mothers clucking the town gossip to each other, their children tugging at their worn breasts for milk, flies swarming incessantly around bits of fallen meat or the open cuts on children's arms and legs, the constant thump of mortar and pestle from women grinding millet nearby. I realized for the first time that these will be my friends for the next two years, and hopefully for life. I finally took it all in, and exhaled happily...
___ ________ _________ ___________ _________

It continually blows my mind that I learned skills at home that are useful here in such a drastically different context. How to fix, start, and clean a gas lantern, for example. This is a simple but familiar skill I acquired that came in handy immediately at site, in the moonless darkness that only a Sahelian African village knows. This task I became practiced in after doing a hundred times in the most unlikely of places-- Burning Man.

Flashback to a dust storm in the middle of the desert, Black Rock City, Nevada... Dozens of half-naked and day-glo painted bodies, clad in bikini bottoms, face masks and swirling goggles, crouched over tables in an almost futile attempt to light hundreds of gas lamps for the ritual nightly Lamp Lighter's procession... all this in the dust and rain and wind before night fall, to the point that blisters formed on our fingers from switch after switch of the metal wheel of a lighter.

We always joked we were training for the apocalypse-- who knew I was really preparing myself for Africa?

Another example comes to mind: Making cordage and rope from discarded plastic bags. When I first did this at my happy hippy permaculture community home of Aprovecho in Oregon, it seemed like such the simple yet conscious, ingenuitive thing to do. Today I watched grown men engaged in the same activity at site, doing so not to be good environmentalists, but rather as a survival technique. They take what they get and do damn hard to make something out of it.

Which brings me to an interesting phrase we use in the U.S.-- "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade." We talk a lot in Peace Corps Mali about a concept related to this-- they dub it the 'value chain.' This is basically just the Econ 101 idea of value-added goods: you take a raw good, introduce some production process, and thereby develop a new finished product that will yield a higher profit. Every sector here is taught to promote this idea. But this lemony phrase-- this seemingly apt, simple and obvious statement, when reflected upon, reveals itself as entirely culturally relative. Even though it is about optivism, it is couched in economic presuppositions that don't necessarily exist everywhere. The cynical side of me wants to ask this burning question: What if life doesn't just simply give you lemons? What if you have to grow the lemons yourself? What if, in one scenario, you and your family have to spend every day planting and taking care of these lemon trees, because they're virtually the only thing that can grow in your region? What if you survive off of eating lemons, but to process them into a meal takes an entire day's work? Or in another scenario, if you're lucky enough to have more lemons to spare than just for your own subsistence, what if you spend all of your time and money to produce lemonade for retail (buying sugar, hauling water from a well, buying bags/bottles and extra ingredients, paying for the electricity and the usage of a fridge to cool it)? What if after all this, no one around you can afford to buy it except at a price that leaves your profit margin hanging on dimes and cents? These two scenarios parallel common income/food generating activities here-- harvesting millet to make toh for subsistence farmers in the North of Mali, and producing the hibiscus plant used all over West Africa to make a sweet crimson juice called dablini (or bissap).

I suppose this is why I'm not a Small Enterprise Development sector volunteer. Hopefully these "what if's" will find their answers for me in the next two years. For now, I am simply reminded of a line from a song school children in the south of Senegal sang to me once. It translates to this: "We, the cultivators, despite our misery, have never known despair."

Aw bisimillah to the new "Risky Business"

2009-09-16T12:43:00.000-07:00

Two weeks slip by so fast, and yet it feels like ages since I last updated my blog. So much has happened. Last week I officially swore in as a Peace Corps volunteer, thus completing my two months of training. The last week at homestay was a blur, and then came a week of celebration, goodbyes and new hello's. The last night at the training center at Tubaniso, we had an amazing talent show put on by the wonderful Owen (a true rennaissance man). We had almost ten different acts, and it was HILARIOUS. On my own part, I bunched together with several friends to perform a circus act, complete with juggling, hula hooping and chain smoking cigarettes. For those of you who know me well, you know I have no hula hooping skills-- but thanks to the lovely Katheryn Stofer I learned some mad skills in the 24 hours prior to the show. It was so much fun. The winning acts were a harmony of "the rains in Africa," a makeshift mad Malian dance by one of the shier (and unpredictable) volunteers, and a percussion set complete with vocals chanting "Tubaaaaaaaab, wake up!" in the style of the call to prayer heard every morning (and a re-enactment of the PCVs regular morning run to the nyegen). What a night. We put together a list of superlatives for all of the group, and they were unveiled throughout the show. Mine, quite fittingly I suppose, was "Most likely to teach her entire village to say 'yeah, man'". Man, I need to work on that. What a night.

On 9/9/2009 (a date to remember), I signed my contract as a Peace Corps volunteer, and two days later (9/11), we were all shuttled to the U.S. Embassy in Bamako to be given the benedictions of the Embassador and numerous other folks who I'm sure will have nothing to do with the next two years of my life. We rolled up to the Embassy at 9am, all dressed up in Malian garb and half hung-over from the celebrations the evening prior. The embassy stands in stark contrast to the rest of Bamako-- a pompous marble behemouth of a building with antennaes and satellite dishes dangling off it's ears like Akon's blinged out studs (I'm sure that won't be the first Akon reference, they LOVE him out here), and set amongst the only imported grass existing in that quantity in Mali. We sat down to listen to a dozen speeches all beginning with "Mesdames et Messieurs, son Excellence l'Embassadeur, etc.". I had the (un?)fortunate opportunity to be amongst the speech-givers, and got up in front of the 300-some crowd to give a speech in a language that only one (ok, two) understood a word of. It was aired nationally on Malian television, so it was an honor. I must admit, it was a beautiful and pride-instilling thing to watch my colleagues get up one by one and speak (damn well) in six different languages that none of us knew a word of only two months ago. They say that Peace Corps language immersion is the best way to learn a language, and I'd have to agree. Kanda, mii Dogulodomu dage dage damu belebun (now I can speak a fair amount of Dogulosso).

After the Embassy, we were whisked away to the American Club to begin our "Spring Break Mali 2009" celebration. Despite the fact that we were in the position to party like crazy in celebration, a looming fog seemed to hang over many of our heads about the next two years to come, and what that means for us emotionally. Nonetheless, we played in the pool, ate amazing food and watched Kill Bill in an air conditioned mini-theater-- a little bit of home before we got shipped off to the real Mali. Afterwards we were shuttled to the Campagnard, a hotel in downtown Bamako not far from the clubs, etc. I ate two ice cream cones and drank whiskey cokes, and got ready for a rowdy night. Since this whole experience has been akin to a 'new student orientation' at college, or even a summer camp, this was our last big bang, and as such some level of debauchery was required. We went to two different clubs and all danced like mad (which gets pretty sticky considering how damn hot it gets here). Each new class of entering PCVs ("stage" in French) is given a name at this point, and we were bestowed with the name "Risky Business". They thought about "the Mullets", since we're business in the front and party in the back... both get the same idea across. It's going to be a good two years with these folks.

Two days later we had to pack up our things for one final journey, and say our bittersweet farewells. Us, the Mopti Kaw, had yet another hazardous and haranguing experience making the trip up north, which took fifteen hours this time around. We'd better get used to this. A few days in Sevare, collecting everything from mattress pads to tea sets, chickens, cats and kola nuts, and we were ready to be shipped off to site. I sit here writing this post at the Hotel la Falaise (Hotel of the Cliffs) in Bandiagara, the night before I head out to Pelleni, my new home. The next three months will be a huge change of pace, but one that is much needed. This will be the time in which we make it or break it back to the States, and I wish the best of luck and peace to my friends spread out across the country, strugging to find their place in a world that is so different from our home.

Pelleni, home sweet home

2009-08-25T16:15:00.001-07:00

So that last post wasn’t the end of my journey to site… it’s just the part that all of us shared as a group. Once I got to Sevaré I, along with 7 other Dogon PCTs, had to take another car for an hour into Bandiagara, which is our banking town. Sevaré is our ‘regional capital,’ so this is where I will go in the case of an emergency, if I ever get sick and need a place to crash, when I have grant writing or other computer-necessitating projects, or (definitely more likely and more frequently) to party with all of my fellow volunteers… which we’ve already begun. Mopti Caw seem to be notorious for getting a little rowdy, so I guess they placed me well. Currently two of the volunteers in this area are under threat of being administratively separated for riding motorcycles (not allowed) and/or public drunkenness (also technically not allowed, but it seems like this one isn’t enforced except under the most extreme situations). Bandiagara is going to be rowdy as well—this is one of the most touristy sites in Mali because of the draw of Dogon country, all of the hiking, etc. As such, there are a few really nice and reasonably priced hotels (one with a swimming pool!) and restaurants, as well as a couple of internet cafés. I imagine this will be my oasis when I’m starting to go crazy from being en brousse all of the time.

I spent a night in Bandiagara at a nice hotel with the other volunteers, and the next day they let us all loose to go to our individual sites! We were each paired up with our counterparts and our “site buddies” – current volunteers who live/work in the region, who came to site for a day or two with us to show us the ropes. I met my counterpart, Hassim Kansayi, who is a gardener in Pelleni, a few days prior for training. He is wonderful and enthusiastic and funny as hell. I went with him and a girl named Ashley, a PCV who lives nearby in a town called Kalibombo (villages have the best names here) with her husband Joe. We crammed into a bush taxi bus with about 20 other people, and with multiple rice sacks, buckets, bags and goats on the roof. These buses (really just gutted out vans) are so janky, they’re basically nothing but the bare minimum. Shocks/brake pads worn down, no power steering, no upholstery, body beat up. Everyone was staring at me, wondering what the hell a Tubab was doing going out into the bush. They’re used to tourists out there, but not ones who get off the beaten path. As such, volunteers are a bit of a novelty and generally people are really interested to know what we’re doing—they’re very welcoming. The ride was beautiful. The road on the 40 km route to my town, Pelleni, is mostly unpaved. But part of it was constructed with flat stones, which gives it a kind of old Europe feel. The area I’m living in is a series of rolling hills and valleys. The climate is definitely semi-arid, it feels to me like a mix of Arizona savannah and Moab, Utah. There are rocks everywhere, and virtually no topsoil, which makes for a beautiful landscape and incredible stone architecture, albeit sometimes impossible gardening. After about an hour in the bus, we got dropped off in what looked like the middle of nowhere… oh wait, it is the middle of nowhere. There isn’t a road that goes directly to my site, so I have to walk 3 km from the road to get to my village of 450 people. Since it’s the rainy season, I had to forge through a river on the way, dangling my bags around my neck and back, trying to pull my skirt up out of the water. The town is pretty (although admittedly not as pretty as I expected), nestled beneath a set of low rocky hills in a valley, surrounded (right now) by millet fields and tall towering trees. All of the fences are built of stone, and the huts are made of mud.

My house is great for the most part. I have my own concession, blocked off by a bamboo-looking gate and stone wall, with a space large enough to have a small garden and a chicken coop, and a cat to catch the mice (plans brewing already). There is a brouse ladder (a log with notches etched in it for steps) leading to the roof, where I will probably spend most nights staring at the immense sky—so many stars out there!—and sleeping in whatever breeze there is. I have a 2-room mud hut with 3 windows, and a ceiling that is perfect for sleeping on top of but not underneath. The rainy season has wreaked havoc on my poor roof, and each time the rains come I end up having to set up buckets and tarps to catch the flood of water and mud that falls down from above. We’re working on getting that fixed. I have a palace of a nyegen (poop hole), it is made from stone and raised up, with spiral stairs leading to the entrance, because they can’t break through the bed rock easily and dig down. The former PCV I’m replacing, Ryan Shaw (or Bara Yele, here), was kind enough to leave behind a lot of supplies for me, including some great brousse furniture, a stove and gas tank, pots/pans/dishes, and (my favorite) three morenga trees he planted in the corner of my concession.

I spent most of my time at site either walking/hiking around to check out the area, playing with the village kids, or in the field cultivating millet with everyone—which is their main livelihood—or, finally, taking the time to sit alone in my concession and breathe. This was the first time that I’ve really been able to just relax and let go of everything, imagining myself living and thriving in this place for the next two years of my life, and smiling. It’s going to be a good two years.

But at the same time, there are some things related to this seclusion and poverty that I didn't even think about, and that I'm realizing will undoubtedly have a big effect on my life. One big part of this is my physical health-- there is virtually NOTHING to eat out there. They eat the same shit 3 times a day out there, which is a millet-based mush called toh, with a slimy green sauce made from Baobab leaves. I can't stomach the sauce. I'm going to have to do a lot of my own cooking. The problem with this is that the closest market to me is 7 km away in a town called Kendie (which is BEAUTIFUL), and only once a week. Aside from this, there are only 2 boutiques in my village to buy supplies from, and they have no food other than crackers/cookies, tiny little onions, and canned tomato sauce, and occasionally peanuts/rice. Veggies don't grow well out there because it’s so dry, so I'm going to have to work hard at supplying myself with good food year round. I’m going to buy a solar oven, and hopefully build a dehydrator, so I can become more self-sufficient.

After a few days at site, I headed back into Bandiagara, solo this time, to meet back up with my fellow PCTs, commiserate/bitch/rejoice over beers and cocktails, and head back to Bamako to finish training. We went to Sevaré together and met up at the stage house, where I finally got to meet all of the current PCVs. We have a fun group. They made us a delicious dinner and threw us a big party, we danced all night long to 90s American hip hop and stumbled home. Great night.

Well that’s all I can muster for this time, I’ll update you all after this last stretch of homestay. As always, I send you much love! Thanks SO much to all of you who have been sending me letters and packages, it makes me feel so loved!

Some Pictures.... More coming soon!

2009-08-25T13:42:00.001-07:00

Me making food at homestay

Jeremy and Ali making food

Rice Sack Gardens

My homestay family

Host brothers

Ambaga, my language tutor, during a rain storm

My homestay family at Diallakorobougou

This is part of the Beninois family in my homestay complex... the little baby girl is teething right now, and is going to grow up to be a man-eater she's so beautiful.

Some beautiful cliffs near Bamako on a hike

A waterfall west of Bamako on the hike

Part of the hiking crew, plus some random Malian kids that followed us up

Meggan and Tyson trying to climb an un-climb-able rock

Mopti Caw Site Visit

2009-08-25T09:08:00.001-07:00

(picture from Tubaniso, the PC training site in Bamako)

Five years of living in Portland, and it turns out I had to come all the way to Mali to find my Oregon Trail adventure: the Mopti Caw site visit. The potential mishaps of the Oregon Trail are all apparent here, with some amendments to be sure... Replace the risk of scarlet fever with yellow fever, and the threat of your driving ox's heart giving out in the mid-day heat with the potential for your bush taxi's engine blowing out. The other potential risks are all there: having to forge a river and losing all your cargo on the way, having a giardia attack (necessitating a swift departure to go shit up a storm en brousse), encountering bribe-demanding bandits (a.k.a. Malian gendarmes), being peed/vomited on by a small child thrust upon your lap. Oh the joys of sub-Saharan African public transit.

So here's what that translated into for us, the 18 new Mopti PCTs, on our first visit to the villages we'll be living in for the next two years...

Most of us woke up at Tubaniso at the ungodly (un-Allah-y?) hour of 5am to the militant sound of our trainer's trumpet-- only a smidgen better than the usual loathesome donkey/rooster wakeup call. As was impressed upon us, at 6am precisely we trudged through the early morning rain and mud to the refectoire to catch our buses. Instead, we were greeted by a room void of the promised coffee and breakfast, and absent of anyone deluded enough to think that ANYTHING in Mali can be organized that early in the morning (except for praying or going to work in the fields).

We, the Mopti Caw (Caw means people in Bambara), finally loaded up at about 7:30am and hit the road in our air condition-less Spanish bohemouth of a van. Fourty-five minutes later, we roll up to the gare for Gana Transport... and stop. After some time we learn that we're waiting for them to "replace a tire," which I learned is Bambara for "wait around to fill the seats with as many passengers as possible." Once we got going again, we make periodic stops to fill up on gas, actually replace a tire, stop at a market, etc. At around 9:30 we finally get out of Bamako, which should've only taken about 40 minutes. Layilah. But, no crying babies, no livestock on the roof, and our driver doesn't visibly appear to be drunk: so far all is well by Malian standards.

A few hours later we roll through a part of Mali called Blah (not joking), and by now the lack of A.C. has started to hit. Funteni fuckin be, as my friend Chris would say (explitive Bambara for it's fucking hot). We pull over to unload some luggage for a PCT who will be staying in this godforesaken place, and chu-chu-phhhhh... the engine fails. The driver tries putting it into neutral and letting it roll backwards, then forwards, to give it a running start. To no avail. Eventually about 15 of us jump off the bus to go push the massive thing (okay, the Malians were pushing, the Tubabs were taking pictures/smoking cigarettes/laughing hysterically). Et voila, we finally get going again.

Hereafter, we begin repeatedly encountering a problem called "Jeremy Lhoir." This is a Belgian-American PCT (my friend) who insists on sprinting out of the bus at every opportunity to go... well, who knows what he does... thus delaying our departure time multiple times throughout the day, pissing several people off, and dramatically increasing the smell of b.o. in the bus (every time we stop, so does the airflow).

We make it to Seygou around noon, and get off to have lunch. Bad sign-- the driver opens up the hood of the bus. He sends someone to go get repair parts for something. We sit there in the midday heat, attacked by street vendors and garibous (street kids asking for alms), for THREE hours. The sound of the bus finally honking for us to get on was the sweetest noise I have heard here.

On the road again, and night starts to fall. Spirits are rising and the temperature is going down. We all are drifting in and out of a peaceful sleep. Then, all of the sudden the driver slams on the breaks and starts to swerve a bit.... THWAK! We hit a cow. Luckily our driver's skill prevented us from even coming close to tipping over or anyone getting hurt. No such luck for the cow.

Shortly thereafter, another storm rolls in, firing up the otherwise pitch-black sky with lightning and red dust, and slowing down the pace of our bus.

FINALLY, at about 9pm, we arrive in Sevare. Alxamdulilahi. Now the only thing we have to worry about is Yacouba (a trainer) having a heart attack...

Quite the intro to Malian transport. Still, I think we had it pretty good. The PCVs told us to stop bitching, that it ain't no thang. Personally, my only regret is that we hit a cow, not a donkey.

One month down, 25 to go

2009-08-13T11:26:00.000-07:00

Back at Tubaniso, and the 11th marked one month of my Peace Corps training in Mali, and one month until I swear in as an official PCV. I've already become so absorbed in village life here that the outside world is fading away into the ether. There are far less radio waves swimming overhead, telling news of worldly politics, for me to snatch up whenever I like; fewer daily reminders of the constant hum of the rest of the world. It's frustrating to feel the reality of not having access to knowledge in that sense-- to realize that while this is the way I will be living for the next two years, it is a life-long reality for Malians. But I, on the other hand, occasionally am thrust back into the thick of the world, with an email or a news clip or a memory. Coming back into Bamako, then, was a shock for me: hopping into a van full of Tubabs, blasted with air conditioning, switching on the BBC world news with the quick flick of a finger.

One of the things that jolted me out of this state was hearing the news that my friend and former mentor at Aprovecho (the permaculture farm/community I lived at last year), Josh Fattal, was one of the three American travelers who was arrested along the Iraqi-Kurdish-Iranian border and is been detained in Iran. It's all over the news right now, as I imagine a lot of you've heard. One of those things that seems so surreal that you can't really fully connect to it, but that sends your stomach and heart into a swirl of knots. He is a good and vibrant person, one who I learned a lot from and who has a lot to give to the world. I pray that he is released soon.

A lot of things here have been bringing me back to my time at Aprovecho, actually, and I'm realizing that that was some of the best training I could've had for this experience. I wish that I had had the opportunity to take advantage of more of the resources I had at my fingertips then-- especially in relation to Appropriate Technology. It would be invaluable for me to have more formal experience constructing things like solar cookers/dehydrators, improved fuel-efficient mud stoves, rain water catchment systems, etc. Now those resources are a bit harder to get a hold of, since I rarely have internet access.

Nonetheless, my training thus far has been really hands-on and useful-- moreso than for a lot of the other sectors. Right now it is just about getting by day to day, learning and being and taking everything in. Dooni dooni, little by little, as they say. Because of all this, I find it easy to forget why I'm here-- all of the grandeur of ideology and joint anger/hope about the state of the world that pushed me to do this. But I'm realizing that THIS is what truly grassroots, bottom-up development work is about. Starting at the basics. Really learning a place. Experiencing first hand, and slowly, the effects of decades of colonialism, deforestation, climate change, and restrictive regimes/trade policies on everyday people. ASKING what the needs of the community are, and then implementing projects.

I leave tomorrow to FINALLY go visit my site, Pellini! They just announced site locations for everyone a few days ago, so we're all pretty fired up. Yesterday all of our 'homologues' (a.k.a. Malian counterparts from our respective villages) made their way to Bamako for our official introductions and some group training. Pretty intimidating, but rewarding as well. My homologue's name is Kassim Kansayi, and he is a Bambara teacher for secondary school, probably in his late 20s. He speaks enough French to have good conversation, and we get along really well. We went to villages that current PCVs are located and did some community assessment projects in the last couple of days, which was eye-opening. The way that we function/are trained to think and analyze problems in the States is very different from here. Over and over, we are learning that perhaps the greatest way in which we will grow here is in becoming extremely patient.

Tomorrow will open up an entirely new world for me, hopefully one that does not include getting violently ill on the 12 hour bus ride to Dogon country, running over any livestock (although I wouldn't mind hitting a donkey), or getting pickpocketed. All of the people that have been placed in my region are amazing, so I'm feeling really lucky. We have all of the good French speakers as well, since we're going to a place with so many dialects. But then again, some of my best friends here have been placed on the opposite side of the country. C'est la vie.

I won't have internet access for another two weeks (seeing a trend yet?), so until then, drink a nice iced cocktail in my name, while I sip on lukewarm piss-water African beer, thinking of you.

BISOUS!

Three weeks in...

2009-07-28T13:51:00.000-07:00

Wow. I can't believe it's only been three weeks. It seems like so much has happened-- I've met so many new people and have been thrust into such a dramatically different culture. I've been back at Tubaniso, the PC headquarters, for the last two days. I've been trying to update this blog, but there's always a rush amongst the 66 PCTs here for the three lone computers in the small amount of time that we're here. Another aspect of life that delays communication and, unfortunately, that we've all become too familiar with, is a little thing we refer to as Mr. D / Mrs. C.... or less fondly, diarrhea and constipation. There is a smorgasbord (am I allowed to call it that?) of horrible g.i. problems one can encounter in Mali, from amoebas to worms to giardia and parasites. As the current volunteers tell us, you can not be fully inducted into Peace Corps Mali without shitting your pants at least once. Oh the joys of development work! I've actually been pretty lucky, as I've only spent one day bed-ridden and occasionally having to sprint to the nyegen (shit-hole in the ground). There are some people who haven't been able to keep anything down for almost a week. Once again, they say these attacks will become fewer and further in between. Inshallah (god willing), this is true.

Other than this nasty aspect of life, my time here has been great. I'm living in Dialakorobougou, taking language classes 7 hours a day, drinking lots of tea with my host family, and laughing/being laughed at for silly cultural differences. I've been given a Malian name-- Khadija Samake (the 3rd wife of Mohammed, and my last name means elephant). My family is actually Bambara, and as such do not speak the language I'm learning. This sounds more frustrating than it actually is though, because it is good to know some Bambara, as it is the lingua franca of Mali. Nonetheless, it is pretty exhausting to learn Doguloso at school all day, and then go home to a family that can't understand why my Bambara isn't improving substantially. Luckily my host brothers speak French, so I can speak on more than an infantile level with some people at the end of the day. Doguloso, the language I'm learning, is absurd. I honestly laughed the first time I heard it, and I imagine you will all think I'm making it up when I come home. No, there's no clicking or tongue smacking. But it's tonal and bizarre. To give you a taste, "what is your name" is "ino ohn ayahn gineh neh?" So sweet.

I live in a concession, or compound, with a Malian family comprised of my one-legged host mother Ramata (who manages to do EVERYTHING from cooking to laundry to cleaning, all day long), her four sons (Muhammed, Modibo, Modi, and Didi) who just sit there and listen to Akon on their cell phones, her daughter Oumou, and Oumou's 6 month old baby boy. The women are truly amazing here, they work all day long for little reward. My host mother's husband passed two years ago, and in the cultural tradition the younger brother of her husband married her after the death, to provide support to the family (although I haven't seen him-- or Oumou's baby's daddy-- a single time since being there). I get along with all of them wonderfully, and I feel truly lucky to have been placed here.

My technical training is very hands-on and thus far, rewarding. We planted a community vegetable garden in a neighboring town, and are learning soil restoration/composting/gardening techniques for this semi-arid climate. Coming from Oregon and a permaculture/organic farming background, this can seem sad and ridiculous at times. The compost here is not the beautiful houmous we're used to in the northwest, but rather a mixture of sand, clay, and 'compost' that is actually burnt trash. We have to sift through the compost to remove pieces of glass, plastic and junk. But we're learning techniques that are available to, appropriate and sustainable for local people, such as found container/rice sack gardens, pepinieres (tree nurseries planted in used plastic water bags), seed saving, and live fencing to keep the animals out.

Oh god, the animals. There's another topic. The damn 'fali' (donkeys) will be my downfall. They are the most pathetic creatures on earth, I swear. They just sit there and make the most ridiculous, loud and annoying squealing sounds ALL DAY long. (HeeehAAAAAAAw, heeehAAAAAw!) Starting at 5am. Before that are the considerably confused/mentally delayed roosters, who announce the sunrise far before it actually happens, at about 3am. Then we have the ratpack of dogs who are ostensibly guarding our compound, but I'm pretty sure they just bark and mate and bark and mate and bark some more. At all hours. THEN we have the bats. The bats that swoop down about a foot away from your head while you drink tea at night. We have a nest of baby bats in my room at the PC headquarters, they sound like mice and poop everywhere just like them too. There are also tons of goats and sheep, but they don't bother me so much, except for when I see my neighbors cooking their heads on a fire outside every once in a while.

Anyway, that is a bit of my life thus far. I will be going back to my homestay sight tomorrow morning, where I have no electricity or internet. I apologize for being so disconnected, but that's the way life is here. I'll be at homestay for another two weeks, then back to HQ for another couple of days, which is when you'll hear from me next. I 'swear in' with the Peace Corps and actually become an official volunteer on September 10, when I'll be moving to my site in Dogon country.

I send my love to all of you. I miss you all already-- you are in my waking thoughts and my dreams. Til next time...

The storm before the calm

2009-07-14T05:25:00.000-07:00

I've finally found some time to sit down and jot down some thoughts about the first week of my Mali/PC experience.... the few minutes I've been able to capture now came only because of the rolling in of some deep purple and brown clouds, a massive wind storm and a sudden downpour of sideways rain, thunder and lightning, which chased the monkeys into the trees and virtually stopped all productivity here. (Luckily we have a generator here at the Tubaniso Peace Corps training site here in Bamako, so the computers are still up in one building.) It has only ceded for a couple of bouts in the last few hours-- long enough to scramble through the red mud from shelter to shelter.

When I wrote this I was sitting in my mud hut listening to dull dhut dhut dhut sound of the rain on the tin roof, which is the only thing that can crowd out the noises regularly heard around here: the constant hum, tweet and chirp of the birds and bugs, the croaking of the frogs (which are to be watched here, I learned: it is bad luck to catch frogs because they can steal your soul, or for women, hop up into your vagina. I kid you not.)

I've been amazed by the life here. Much is similar to what I remember of West Africa from my time in Senegal. But I have never been here during the rainy season. This plot of ground-- maybe 30-some hectares-- which has been granted to the Peace Corps by the Malian government, is proof of the biodiversity this land could support if given the chance. Unfortunately the need to make a profit off of natural resources to feed mouths is too strong. This is why I am here ostensibly, as a Natural Resource Management volunteer.

I've only been here for a week and already all of us have had so much turbulence in our emotions that the only thing we can do is find a rock to hold on to-- to stabilize us. On top of the emotional mess of being torn from one life and stitched into another that is unrecognizably different, we've all been host to the artificial psychological/physical mash-up of 6 different types of vaccines and a triple dose of malaria medication in the past three days. Despite the laundry list of adverse side effects, Mefloquine is required by the Peace Corps / U.S. govt. and has the benediction of the WHO. The first day I felt diziness, the second my ears alternated between ringing and being mute, and by the third I felt like I was hallucinating. They say this will pass, and I do feel better now.

With this in mind, ironically enough, they've assigned me to a post to study native medicinal herbs! I'm really excited about my placement. I have been assigned to a small rural town in Dogon country called Pelini, home to about 500 people. This region is famous for its cliff-dwelling animist population and great hiking-- Senegal friends, you know how amazing this area is! Here I will be learning a language that only 3,000 people speak, called Doguloso. I'm the only PCT (Peace Corps Trainee-- they have an acronym for everything here) learning this language or going to my site, and I will be 40 km away from the closest Tubabu (interchangeable for white person/foreigner/PCV). No one else will be learning a language that no other PCVs speak. So basically, I have one of the hardest posts of the entire group and have already been dubbed a badass. Luckily the PCV formerly at my site (he's leaving this year) has spent the last year assessing community needs and developing a three-part project plan that I will be able to jump on. They want me to connect them with a local NGO to assist in rebuilding a road, build a granary/seed bank, and build a water pump. I'm also hoping to create a traditional herbal medicinal garden for the community, and have my own vegetable garden as well. The nearby larger town, called Bandiagara, also has a local traditional herbalist shop that produces medicine for retail in Mali. I will be working here part time as well in whatever way I can. Another PCV and I have talked about trying to create a book/resource compiling all of the local medicinal herbs in each of our regions.

Basically, A LOT has been going on. Tomorrow I leave the PC headquarters to go live with a host family in Bamako who speak Doguloso and are from the region I will eventually be moving to. I will be in Bamako with this family for the next two months, trying to soak up as much language as possible and stay sane. I am so excited and happy right now, although it is hour-to-hour and often I question why I am here and miss everyone at home more than I can stand. Write to me, I would love your support. I will have a cell phone soon if there is an emergency and you need to get a hold of me.

I love you all! K'an ben (goodbye in Bambara)!

the low-down

2009-05-31T18:44:00.000-07:00

Cheers everybody, I have entered the 'blogosphere' and become a tech nerd: a sacrifice I deemed necessary for my service in the Peace Corps for the next two and a half years. I LEAVE IN just over 5 WEEKS! I decided that forcing mass emails upon my friends and family like so much mushy banana baby food is a much worse solution than creating a site where you can come check up on me whenever you please. So here we go....

It's a strange thing to wrap my mind around, but blogging may be the best way for me to share my life with you for a long time. In all likelihood, I will be placed into a rural area in Mali with no access to running water, electricity or toilets — much less the internet or a reliable phone. This means I'll probably only be able to add a blog post once a month or so. But if you've made your way to this blog, it means that I want to continue to be a part of your life while I'm in the Peace Corps. And with that said, I have an important request for you, as per the advice of many former Peace Corps volunteers that I've talked to: Send me mail while I'm gone! I'm not talking behemoth boxes stuffed with dollar-store nonsense and food (that shit perishes, kids)... and even if you tried, the price by weight to mail things to Africa will quickly have you turning on your heels and booking it from the post office. All I ask is for a letter every once in a while with a word of comfort so that I can keep track of your lives and remember where I came from, and who I love.

For the first 3 months (until September) I will be in training at the PC headquarters of Mali, in the capital, Bamako. My address there is...

Sara Litke, PCT
Corps de la Paix
B.P. 85
Bamako, Mali

One thing you'd probably be interested to know — make sure you send any mail by air, because they say the ground mail service takes "from 6 months to a year, or more" to get anything from you to me. I know that getting word from you all will be like a breath of fresh, non-trash-burning-polluted air.

Only six weeks state-side left! I'm getting SO excited. The anticipation outweighs any anxiety, so far that is. So here's the breakdown for you — the A, B, C of my soon-to-be life:

Where again, Bali? Sweet! nope folks, I'll be in Bamako, Mali, in West Africa. The country in Africa with the epic title of the musical epicenter of the continent. Here's some stats:
- 12th poorest country in the world, according to the Human Development Index
-65% of its territory is desert or semi-desert (a.k.a. the Sahara or the Sahel)
- 90% Muslim, 1% Christian, 9% "indigenous beliefs" -- a lot of idol-worship/animism /superstition
- Democratic Republic since 1992
- Peace Corps has been there since 1971, and there are currently about 100 volunteers there

What the hell are you doing out in the desert? My job title will be "Natural Resources Management Extension Agent" -- which means.... well who knows? I could be doing anything related to (here's the laundry list) reforestation, agroforestry and environmental education. This could be programs like building nurseries, soil conservation structures, erosion control programs/education, fruit tree production, grafting, and building fuel-efficient wood stoves.

When do you leave, how long will you be there, do you get time off, do you get paid, are you an indentured slave? I'm leaving July 6th or 7th, and I'll be gone for two years and three months. I get a miserly stipend and 'work compensation' that will probably total a whopping $6,000/year. Yeah guys, I'm buying everyone drinks. I also get a portion of my student loans paid off. I get about one month off per year, and I'm STOKED to go travel around Africa as much as possible. And yes, I am an indentured slave.

Alright, well that's enough for now. I'll hit you all up again in a few weeks, when this whole thing really starts to settle on me... If any of you have other questions, comments, or straight up concerns about my choice to do this, feel free to post a comment and I'll answer, so everyone can get the low-down.

paix de sara
(peace from sara / sara's peace)