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.
April 13, 2010
April 1, 2010
"Your house shall be not an anchor but a mast..."
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.
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-
January 10, 2010
Sweet Ghana dreams at the 6-month mark
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.
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.
November 6, 2009
Finding my Magic
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.
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.
September 23, 2009
Alms for Rain
(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.
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.
September 22, 2009
When Life Gives you Lemons...
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."
___ ________ _________ ___________ _________
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."
September 16, 2009
Aw bisimillah to the new "Risky Business"
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.
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.
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