Well, this is the last blog, a week later than my self-imposed deadline. Am I still in the lenient West African time mentality, or is it perhaps that I’m holding on to something I don’t want to let go of? In any case, here I am. And it’s time to wrap things up… for now.

“Little by little, the bird builds his nest.”

The phrase I’ve heard over and over the past two years: Donni, donni. Things don’t happen quickly in international development, in language learning, or with personal growth. Patience, as people used to say in this country, is a virtue. And why? Maybe we feel a heightened sense of accomplishment when reward doesn’t come easy or at least when gratification is delayed. Then, presumably, when we reach some end goal, we can look back with pride all the superpowers we had to muster to survive and surpass.

That would be the linear way of looking at it, and it’s how I always have. Start to finish. Beginning to end. Persevere and you’ll cross the line a winner. Well I’ve crossed the line, I made it. But I don’t feel finished.

The bird here is not building a linear road, or trying to launch an incredible flight to a distant land. She is building, piece by piece, an endless circular nest, which can envelop her chicks as she nurtures them. Little by little, allowing time to breathe and understand, she carefully intertwines one twig with another. She’s found these pieces in distant corners, and carried them back to this one spot, bringing them together to lay a strong base in a carefully prepared location. And she never stops building, repairing, rearranging, to respond to the change in winds or rain. All to make a strong shelter for what she will produce, love and foster through growth.

Most recently returned Peace Corps volunteers have a little trouble, shall I say, defining their nest. I’ve been home for three weeks, but find I’m not fully here. I want to settle in, be comfortable and enjoy it, but to do that, I find myself pushing away thoughts of Dombila. I’ll call today, or maybe tomorrow. I’m fine until the ghost of Shaka seems to be running beside me, or I sit alone and am interfered with an image of Boure sitting alongside me. It’s a struggle to find balance between these two worlds, and its frighteningly simple to arbitrarily block Mali out.

I went to New York City last week to catch up with some interesting people. Lauren was in from Mali, and being her culturally savvy self, took me to see a Slovic brass band, art at the MET, and lunch at an Indian restaurant with some of her Israelis. I got to spend some QT with my godmother’s family in New Jersey, and also RPCV/ my personal hero Sally Briggs. The last night, I met an 8 ½ month-pregnant Andi and her husband Seydou (remember from the 9/11/09 Blog?). They took me out to a West African restaurant where I had great Yassa and fried Plantains, Malian specialties. Then it was out to celebrate Ramadan in “Little Mali” with a bunch of Bambara speaking, Malian dressed, New Yorkers. It was strange, but a blast to speak Bambara, talk about Mali, and see the way they all meshed their culture with living in NYC.

And now I’m back here, doing what I should be doing. Job hunting, driving a car, putting food in a refrigerator, taking warm showers on cool autumn mornings when alas, I’m not that dirty to begin with (or so I think). I never had a breakdown, an overwhelming sense of guilt, or a sudden urge to go back. Am I doing this right? I’m supposed to be forever changed, but sometimes things seem just as they were before. Comfortable. I can be comfortable here. But God help me, I never want to be.

Comfortable is ignorant, it’s unchallenging, it’s stagnant. It doesn’t allow me to question, to step outside of the lines, to take a moment and remember the other side of the world. I can be comfortable with the fact that I’ll always be a little uncomfortable. For not just scanning over the yet-another-middle east bombing in the newspaper; for talking to people who may be different; for asking questions; for learning; for acting on injustice; for being mindful of Dombila and all its blessings and sufferings.

That’s how I believe our great leaders live. And great RPCVs. To quote one: “I never really fully adjusted back to life in the United States. And I hope I never do.” I have a place here, I have a place there. And perhaps it shouldn’t be a “constant struggle” but more like building a strong nest of all types of experiences. Or maybe we, if we allow ourselves to be carried, bent, and placed next to strangers, are the weavings of the nest. It’s not comfortable, but it’s the only way to craft peace in a world full of so many insecurities and inequalities.

In the spirit of Malian blessings:

May we all be constantly intertwining ourselves with each other- on this side of the nest and the other.

May we build our nests with diligence and diversity.

May we not be afraid to step, work, and live outside of our comfort zone.

Ever noticed the dove in flight in the Peace Corps logo? That didn’t happen in a day.

Now excuse me, I have a few phone calls to make.

Donni, donni.

Koyan's chief: Falen Diarra

Our chief: DJ Hurley

What a great time I had yesterday. For all of you who were able to make it out to the Hurley house for the picnic, thank you for the smile you put on my face that is still here. I realize the mix of people was very eclectic- family, people from my childhood, college and high school friends, more recent friends of my parents, neighbors... but if you even had half as good of a time as I did, it was worthwhile. I couldn't believe some of the people that showed up- friends coming in from Buffalo, Syracuse, even as far as New York City and Boston. And also some faces that I didn't realize kept up with how I was doing so closely, who have indirectly supported me through my family. Each person that came, though you have all supported me throughout these two years, just by showing up expressed that time and distance cannot break wonderful relationships. That blog I wrote from the airport, I felt so alone. Well now look at all of these people I got after two years. "Oh my gosh I have friends!" I exclaimed when the Geneseo girls showed up. They presented me with a homemade storybook- a recount of everyday life at college written in a mock-blog style.

The only thing that bothered me was it was like everyone that showed up I wanted to sit down with and talk for hours. I have so much catching up to do, and I'm truly interested in where life has taken you all. I guess it gives me something to look forward to. I've got some time now to get reconnect with people, which I'm starting tomorrow morning when I head down to the NY/NJ area to see my godmother, my Peace Corps sitemate Lauren (on her vacation!), my fellow RPCV Sally, cousin Jenny, and friend Andi (the one who married a Malian... I'll venture out to "Little Mali" in NYC, speak some Bambara and have a traditional Ramadan feast!)

This isn't the last blog. I still haven't had time to do the whole "reflection thing". But I swear, it's coming. Give me a week. One week from today check it out. I'm going to try to go back and read some of the old entries, and then I'll have to let this go, finally!

Loyally yours and you have been mine,

Emily

I've been home for a little over a week now and it's been a whirlwind. I attended Libby and Chad's wedding on Saturday, visited my sister for a few days, caught up with a bunch of friends in the area, caught a cold, and even had a job interview. The first four or five days was complete bliss. All I kept thinking was how beautiful America is. Landing in Rochester I was looking over the perfect suburbs from the plane. The pretty schools, someone making a splash in their backyard pool, and sidewalks! Remember those? What a wonderful concept!

My house is so beautiful! My sister is so beautiful! These trees are so beautiful! This cheese is so beautiful. I felt like this world was immaculate and I wasn't worthy to touch anything. A fear perhaps justified, considering even after two showers my sister exclaimed, "You smell like Africa!"

And then it started to hit me. Not all at once, but gradually. That job interview. Boy, was I unprepared. The real world is going to be tough. I don't think I can do the office thing. Going through boxes of old clothes, I heard Shaka's voice in my head. "Why do white people need so many clothes?" And these stupid sidewalks. What a waste! Do you know how many wells we could build with this amount of cement?

I went to the public market with my mom today. Saturday morning market! It was fun. In a way it reminded me of back in village, but in a way, not so much. No bargaining. No greeting for heaven's sake. My mom just goes up to the guy and yells, "How much are the onions?" How rude! She could have at least said good morning and asked how his wife and children were doing, and given even just one blessing! And nobody in this country has figured out how much easier it is to carry heavy items on your head. (It is a LITTLE bit harder without a head wrap. Maybe next week). We also stopped at the Pittsford Wegmans, and I put on my horse blinders so as not to freak out too much. I've heard about many returned Peace Corps Volunteers having emotional breakdowns in the cereal aisle.

Donni Donni, I still need to remember.

Tomorrow is a thank you picnic. Everyone is invited. It's a chance for me and my family to thank you and give you thanks on behalf of the people of Dombila, for all the support you have given in the past two years. Whether you donated, sent me a letter, or even just clicked on this blog every once in a while, you are part of this. So please join us at 3:30 on.

I'll write one more entry after the picnic, and that'll be it.

A thought from JFK... (aug 26)

"I'm here at the airport at New York and I feel very unsettled. I just treated myself to a Tall Skinny Cinnamon Dolce Latte at Starbucks. $4.64. There was the Cinnamon Dolce Latte or the Skinny Cinnamon Dolce Latte. I got the one with "Skinny" in the name figuring it would have less calories or something like that.

Who am I? I'm trying to find a reflection of me, a piece of me somewhere in this airport. I can't. So I feel as if I need to redefine myself to fit in here. I browse the bookstore. All those magazines- beautiful women, dieting schemes, how to get the moisture back in your hair. Do I need this stuff? I fear. I'm going to be living in this world now, but how? I don't really know who I am here, but I figured I'd do the best I could to take a step in the right direction. I take refuge in the bathroom. Those big scary mirrors. I throw on some makeup and brush my hair. It's a start. I walk out trying to exude confidence and poise. Like I belong here.

I sit for a while, just people watching. They are not so talkative, these travellers, most so serious, exhausted. I'm feeling invisible. No one is staring at me or greeting me. Even all the security workers seemed a bit taken aback when I smiled at them. The people pass and I wonder about them, who they are. I wonder who they think I am. I college kid? A worldly traveller? A confused, odd, mousy girl? Who am I kidding, no one has even glanced at me. They don't care. Refreshing in a way, up until now everyone I come across pesters me until they find out everything about me. But also unsettling. I'm so alone.

Or am I? A man in a faded pastel golf shirt and a baseball cap wheels his luggage by. From the back I swear he could have been my father. Suddenly my stale emotion subsides and I'm choked up. Moments later I'm jubilant. Dad. What a great guy. See you soon."

I arrived at the Bamako airport a little past 10 pm. I think the Bamako airport literally is hell. This is what hell would be like. Getting in is the first challenge- you have people pushing and shoving and yelling at all sides... no lines of course. Just a mob. I'm slowly funneled to the door and I give my passport to the policeman. The police have took over today- the airport crew is on strike.

"Where's your Malian visa?" he asked.

"Its-" Shoot. I realized that I had taken my normal-person's passport, leaving my fancy embassy peace corps passport behind. Gets me every time. Two passports. So confusing. I wasn't even thinking that I would need that Peace Corps one again, and besides, I had to return it to Peace Corps anyway. But apparently you also need a visa to get you OUT of the country. Forgot about that.

"I have one! I swear I do! It's in my other passport. I'm Peace Corps!" But he totally wasn't listening to me. I was shoved off in to a corner, not allowed to enter the airport, still in the midst of this chaotic scene, aka hell.

So I kept bugging this policeman. Hitting him on his shoulder, yelling to get his attention, being obnoxious. Hey, everyone else was. And if I didn't make myself seen he would have just left me in that corner to rot. I had a plane to catch.

I called Peace Corps and tried giving the phone to him. Of course some friendly Peace Corps staff member would use their negotiating skills, let this guys know whats up, maybe even read off my visa number to them, and then I would be on my way.

He wasn't having it. He kept swatting the phone away from me, while other members of the angry mob yelled for me to get out of their way. I didn't know what else to do. I dropped my bags in my little corner behind the door and started to cry. I was upset, frustrated, but also admittedly using the last card in my hand. Maybe they'll take pity on my.

And then, in the depths of hell, an angel in a glimmering white Arab robe garnished with gold trim was sent from the heavens. "Why are you crying?" he asked. And not only was this young, compassionate, English-speaking man sent from God, he was, as my eyes excitedly glanced to his name-badge, sent by the airport.

"Are you with Peace Corps? Your office just called us." I took out my phone to call Peace Corps to confirm this, but the man thought that I just wanted his phone number. Umm...of course I want your phone number! (Which would prove to be handy getting through the rest of the lines once inside the building.) His name was El Hajji, and he was from Timbuktu, giving him a look more like a Middle Eastern Arab than an African. "It is my pleasure to help beautiful woman such as yourself. You give two year to help us, now we help you."

El Hajji saved the day. He talked to the policeman, and every person at every line who needed my passport. And a few minutes later, Chiek, a Peace Corps staff member shows up with my other passport. We volunteers do a lot of stupid things, and we make Peace Corps' job pretty rough. But I tell you, the staff here in Mali goes above and beyond and Mali would have chewed us all up and spit us out if it wasn't for them.

I was giving so many blessings, even bowing a little to show my thanks to Chiek and El Hajji. I was finally in line for the flight to Paris. El Hajji kissed my cheek and said, "If you are ever back in Mali, you call me."

"Of course!" I said. If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't be leaving in the first place.

He walks off. "And that is a promise," he reminds me. Time to go home.

My flights were not too bad until NYC. We were sitting on the runway on the small plane destined for Rochester when we were told of an emergency at the ROC airport. People were doing research on these fancy little computer phones that everyone seems to have. Explosion! Hydrogen tank blows up and injures 3 people! Airport Closed! The flight attendant was advising us to book tickets for a flight to Buffalo or Syracuse by phone. My mother has got to be freaking out, I thought.

After about a half hour of this, having made travel buddies and a plan to go to Buffalo, the flight attendant gets on the loud speaker and says, "Ok. Well I guess things are back on track." Oh. Ok. And now we're going to Rochester. Fantastic :)

From July 25- Aug 1, I went what we like to call “yalla-ing” in Bamba-ish. I’d been “wandering around” the country, seeing what I’ve never seen before, discovering the Northeast of Mali, with its embellished mosques, devout Islamic-Arab culture, desert climate, and webbing of tribes and languages. For the first time in my service, I went to see the non-Bambara parts of the country. What a different land it was.

I traveled with the normal crew: Caroline, Dave, Chris, and our other friend Ryan to Mopti, and took a pinasse boat down to the city of Djenne. The boat ride was quite and adventure, and as much as I want to share it with you all now, I will hold off. It’s better told in person, which I will have the opportunity to do soon. And it also includes some details best left out of public access. To make a long story short, we took a very round-a-bout way to Djenne, ending up in an isolated fishing village of the Bozo tribe, fought rain and hunger and finally reached the ancient sister-city of Timbuctu, Djenne. (Timbuctu was on our travel-dream list, but because of Al-Quada action and kidnappings, we are restricted from travel there.)

In Djenne we toured the mosque, the biggest mud building in the world, and the Islamic library where families keep their heirlooms and ancient texts. Accustomed to tourists giving out empty plastic water bottles, pens, and taking tons of pictures, we were always being followed by children. Caroline and Dave journeyed back to Bamako, as Chris, Ryan and I met up with two girls from another region to do a tour of the Dogon country.

We hiked three days on the escarpment, staying in little cliff villages of the Dogon people. The region was very isolated, and most of the villages can only be accessed by climbing on foot. It was the West Africa I had heard about- animism, monkeys, tribal masks, and spectacular views from the escarpment over the sandy plains.

“This all used to be jungle,” our guide Omar told us, “I don’t remember these sand dunes from when I was growing up here.” It was the first time I really understood desertification and what is becoming of our world. These Dogon villages- in the next century- will they still be around?

Omar was the Crocodile Dundee of Africa, and hiked with a safari hat, green cargo vest, and a dirty mouth. He supports himself by giving tours of the Dogon country and is famous among Peace Corps volunteers all around Africa. His English is slurred and vulgur, thanks to 12 years hanging out with kids like us.

We hiked three days with Omar, and thoroughly enjoyed it. We joked with each other, had more serious, insightful conversations, and sometimes just went along in silence, taking it all in. Africa. It’s a wonderful and terrible place. This last week I saw desert oasis, fascinating culture, and breathtaking nature. I saw bands of beggar children, crazy men wandering the streets, and eight dead bodies being pulled out of a smashed up bus on the road to Bamako. I humbly received a warm welcome from local people, I disgustingly dismissed the cat-calls of the men I passed on the streets. I was an excited tourist, and a homesick traveler. With the Bozo village, the confrontations with the animist culture, the adventures of a group of almost broke Americans traveling around just South of the Sahara- the week was well spent. If anything, for all the stories I have to tell when I’m back.

Check out Ryan’s pictures here: http://picasaweb.google.com/vroegindewey/KouakoulouDjenneDogonDioilaMaliJuly2010

(He lives in Bamako and can do things like make nice online phone albumns)

I had that initial worry of coming back- embarrassed for being gone so long, guilty for enjoying myself. I came upon Bouare doing the monthly reports with a loving smile on his face. Like the others, he was enthusiastically happy to see me. I truly felt home, and however many begging children or perverted men make me want to flee from the Malians to a place I better belong, the people in Dombila are family. They know me for who I am, not as a white girl. I finally feel like, with a select group of friends and neighbors, I can have an honest conversation, without hiding who I am, without being ashamed of it, without feeling pressure to be something I’m not. I’m still the Tubab, but I have connected to this village like a home, and feel like I belong as much as the villagers do.

“Bouare, I can’t help but feeling bad. I was out having fun, but you never get a vacation. You are always, always working.”

“If I took a vacation, what would that bring? The sick patients would be mad, and no one else here can really do the work. I can’t take a vacation.”

I knew this was true, however grandiose it might have sounded to an outsider. That first month here I watched the kid die of malaria, who might have been saved if Bouare wasn’t away at a meeting.

And I know I’ve had those feelings too. A lot of villagers think that if I’m not to be found, the malnourished children won’t get treatment. They’ve identified me as inseparable with the program, and many mothers have peered in the door of the CSCOM, failed to spot me, and turned back home, not even willing to ask if any of the other fully capable staff could help them.

I’ve always been worried about the sustainability of my work. Will it continue after I’m gone? It’s hard to say. I came back from my Dogon trip 10 days later to find that the files of the malnourished children were jumbled everywhere, hardly anything was written in the registry, and the monthly report was incomplete. I know they can do the work, I’ve taught them. So why don’t they? They know I’ll be back. They know I’ll take care of it. They have to realize that pretty soon I’m not going to be back. And to just transfer my work to another American volunteer is really not making the best use of their resources. I’d love to see the CSCOM staff fully take charge of the rehabilitation program, and to have the volunteer out in the field more often doing prevention activities. It’s something to strive for. Donni Donni. I suppose that is why I’m being replaced. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither was Peace Corps Mali.

“We’ve been in Mali for 40 years,” one of my PCV colleagues said at a small restaurant out in the Mopti region, “and Mali is no closer to getting out of poverty then it was back then. What are we doing?”

We’ve had this conversation before. All Peace Corps volunteers do. It’s because we’re always questioning what we’re doing. “Peace Corps has an identity complex,” Ryan had said, “are we a cultural exchange program or a development agency?” No one argues against the value of cultural exchange, whatever the government’s underlying diplomacy intentions are. But if we are here to do development work, why do projects continually fail, villages become increasingly dependant on aid, and Mali has still not pulled itself out of poverty?

It’s amazing the harsh words PCVs have to say about charities and NGOs. It drives us nuts that we can’t find the solutions, and many are convinced that we shouldn’t be expected to. It’s their country- their hope, their answers need to come from them. We can’t help but wonder what would happen if all the NGOs, with their corruption, big fancy 4 x 4s, and failed project just got the hell out.

For me, though, I had to play the optimist. Maybe we are getting somewhere with this work, maybe we are learning from our mistakes and moving forward. Development has turned into a science and is always making adaptations. I found a dusty old book in one of the regional Peace Corps libraries and was shocked to read about PC Mali’s program in the 80’s:

“Some of the projects were better than others, but the Peace Corps staff was regularly evaluating the effectiveness of each program. For example, the staff abandoned a program to monitor the weight of babies with a view of reducing infant mortality through nutrition awareness, largely because the mothers considered it a foolish exercise and instantly questioned the qualifications of the volunteers.”

And now look where we are. Amazing. Things move at snails pace here. And it can drive a Westerner crazy. Day to day, year to year, decade to decade, progress in miniscule. But it’s still progress. You have to believe that. My old track coach the great Bernie Gardner once said, “As long as your feet are moving, you’re still in the race.” Keep up the finish chute, Mali’s coming. Slowly but surely. The West has taken off at light speed and left us behind. But we’re still moving.

Wow. It’s been a while. My apologies. A lot has happened that the blog has missed. But I’ll be home on Thursday to tell you the rest.

I just left Santinebougou. That’s right. Satinebougou. It’s my second to last day here in Mali and I was called to help with a training at the old homestays for the soon to be new volunteers. I stopped by to say a quick hello/ goodbye to my original host family. Kadja came running into my arms to greet me, just like before. But this time she was a lot bigger and I struggled to carry her on my hip back to the concession. There’s a new baby, everyone’s a little older. My host mother went from a young girl to a woman, now with her third child. My old house is completely in shambles. But other than that, things are the same. In a good way. They welcomed me warmly, and I felt guilty for not having visited them more often during my service.

But amazingly, I still have a home there. They remembered how I’d play the guitar and joke with the kids. I can always go back, I learned, and be accepted. It’s a comfort to know, because just 3 days ago I left my true second home, Dombila.

“It’s amazing,” I said the night before my departure to a crowd of my friends and coworkers who had came to visit, “that you people can welcome and accept someone from a far off land who doesn’t speak your language, and learn to live and work alongside of them. That is a bigger accomplishment than all the wells we built.”

And it really is. I noticed that when Shawna, the young college grad from Orgeon, came to Dombila to visit for a week. Site visit. I remember mine. The worst week of my life. I took extra care to make sure Dombila’s new volunteer would be well acquainted, informed, and comfortable upon her arrival, but there’s no getting around it: adjustment is hard. Shawna was polite and warm to the people of Dombila, but trying to take it all in, imagining herself there for the next two years, she couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed. It’s donni donni. And she’ll do just fine.

But seeing her, and the way my host family and all of the people at the CSCOM interacted with her, reminded me of my first few months. It was so hard for me, but I never really realized, it was so hard for them too. The way they took Shawna in as their own and looked after her was so endearing, and I began to realize that I have thus far underestimated all they have done for me. Peace Corps always said volunteers come out of service having gained more than they feel like they have given. It’s personal development, but it’s also valuing the gifts of others, no matter how small. They’ve giving me so much, the people of this town. All the pomegranates from the pomegranate tree, all of the eggplants from the garden, the only peanuts left in the house, the prize chicken, and all of the blessings imaginable. And a home. The last few months I’ve felt like I could finally let down my guard and be myself in Dombila. I wasn’t hiding who I was, nor was I struggling to express it. I was so comfortable, content, and so me.

And then I had to say goodbye. I spend a couple of days riding my bike out into the villages, into Tomba, Sidian Coro, all of those far off places that also offered me their hospitality. I will never forget walking with Kulu from Sidian Coro, deep into the corn fields following his bare cracked feet on every step. There we found a group of people working in the noon sun, including the chief of the village, who I gave my blessings, asked for pardon, and bid farewell.

Everywhere I went was blessings, blessings, blessings. May you return safely. May we see each other soon. May you find a husband and have lots of babies. Mine were almost as abundant as theirs: May you stay healthy. May there never be discontent between us. And my most stressed: May the work we’ve done together continue to move forward.

I had a break down in the CSCOM during vaccinations. A malnourished child came and almost left- I wasn’t going to say anything, because its not my job anymore, but I called my coworkers out on it. “I don’t want to leave,” I cried to Boure in the back room of the CSCOM, “I need to be doing this work. I don’t want to disrespect the others, but how can I watch them just let a severely malnourished kid carried out without saying a word?” I could have helped that child.

It will get better. The work will continue. It has gotten better. I’ve got to have faith…

I told myself that it was time to let go. I apologized to Shawna for bogging her down with details about the well projects and the community health workers when first she just needed to figure out how to get her drinking water. Of course, it will be a while before she’s working on projects. But I realized that everything she needs to know, if it’s not in the 20 page document I wrote for her, is in the villagers. They know the deal. I’ve gotta trust that they’ll carry the torch. I’ve done my work. I’ve struggled and struggled to teach it to others. And I know they understand. I know they will work at it all. And now it’s time to leave.

The day I left I didn’t start crying until I handed over my keys to my host dad. When he was helping me stuff my sleeping bag into its case, something my own dad always had to do for me, I realized he has really become like a father to me. The women came over to greet, all of them wearing bits and pieces of my wardrobe that I had been giving out in the days before. (Cleaning out the house was hard, because not only did I want to get rid of my junk, I had to evenly distribute my junk among all the people that wanted it). Many of them were tearing, but Malians discourage crying. I never liked that. If anyone is crying the person of close proximity will just keep saying “Stop crying. Stop crying. Crying is bad,” until they stop. Just let them cry! Just let me cry. And let me give you a hug for gosh sakes. But no hugs here. Firm handshakes. With the left hand this time instead of the right, symbolizing a long journey and hopes that we’ll see each other again and correct this deep error by shaking with right hands. I want to show my respect, my love, and even now the Malian way feels funny to me. There were a lot of glances at the floor, small whispers, people slipping away so as not to show their emotions. Dalfinie could barely look at me and she ran off to her house. I found her and gave her a hug. Sorry hun, that’s how we do it where I come from.

I bid farewell to Boure, a weeping Mariam, and a laughing Binot Troue who never ceased picking on my from the moment I got here. What a crew. Outside the CSCOM Shaka was waiting for me. He borrowed a bike and had some of my things tied to the back of it. God, my bag was heavy. Let’s go. Let’s go to the market at Dio.

It was the longest bike ride to Dio ever. I cried for the first minute and then got back in the game. Shaka and I greeted the women on their way to the market, baskets on their heads and babies on their back, them all whispering about how I was going back to America. My load was heavy and the road was rough. That road- the road I’ve run miles and miles on, and used to escape Dombila on my bike and return, gone to market every Saturday, stopping in frustration to pick up the tomatoes that had fallen off the back of my bike. Every section of that road passed like a funeral procession under my wheels.

I imagined saying goodbye to Shaka differently. I played it in my head- what would I say to him? What would I give him? I wanted it to be special but instead it was choked my the frustrations of the atmosphere. I never quite got used to all of the people harassing me all the time. “White girl! White girl! Where are you going? Bamako? Get in the car! What is your name? What is your last name? Diarra? DIARRA? Eh! You eat beans? How is your husband? Or are you not married? I’ll marry you.” It’s always the same thing. Just leave me alone! Especially now.

“I’m going to buy a juice,” I announced and left my stuff in the small bush taxi and walked toward the market with Shaka at my heels.

“What? You’re not fasting?”

“NO!”

Shaka was tearing up. He was looking at the ground. “Hey. We’ll see each other,” I assured him. “We’ll see each other one day.” I handed him a few small bills. “Go buy your milk.” He likes to fast, but only when he can break it with some creamy milk.

I got back in the bush taxi. Women and men all chit chattering at me. “Look he’s crying! You just left him crying like that! Go after him! Eh? You’re crying too? Look everyone she’s crying!” And boy did that break the moment. My eyes dried up, we took off, a soft Bamabara chant was playing on the radio and the green fields and trees of the grasslands passed again on the procession of a familiar road.

I spent some time in Kati. A nice night with Irene followed by a dreadful day. I woke up Sunday morning to the news that her brother in law died in Bamako that morning. I accompanied her to the funeral, not expecting to be there all day. I literally sat in silence in one room from 9 am until 6 pm, with a small bowl of fried rice at noon. I almost went crazy, a couple people did. When the iman came to do the ceremony, three young girls fainted. The devil was possessing them, or it was fasting plus claustrophobia. Irene was in the main room mourning with the women, I sat alone thinking stupid thoughts over and over, reminding myself that no matter how much I love Irene, I have spent many occasions with her sitting, doing nothing. By the time it came to say goodbye, I was more than ready to go.

I said goodbye to Camera, my old language tutor. The one who I witnessed beat his nephew, is ironically one of the people I most respect here in Mali. Next to Bouare, he is the hardest worker I know, smart, innovative, respectful and generous. He now works as a translator for the President, and may have a trip to America in his future.

Irene and I parted on the road. It was hard saying goodbye to her family- Awa, little Noellie who is still edible, but Irene… I know her and I will stay close. We just have to. She cried. I forced out a tear. But honestly, I was so taken aback by her love for me, the gifts and blessings she had given me, that I was more jubilant than anything. “We’ll see each other,” I assured her as I did Shaka. “And I’ll call.”

And I want to stick to that promise. I want to come back and visit. My goal, I told them all, is three years from now. I want to call. I want to keep these people in my life. Satinebougou reminded me of that. Look at what they’ve done for me. I can’t just close the book on it.

I’ll be back. But right now, I’m ready to go home. Excited to get on the plane. Stressed with all of the Peace Corps paperwork and other things I have to get done in a short amount of time. Scared about adapting to life back in the states- finding a job, adjusting socially, reconnecting with people who have been so supportive of me and whom I’ve failed to keep in close touch with. Malians apologies a lot in a kind of general way. When you part you say, “Forgive me,” and it pretty much covers everything you might have done, whether you meant it or not, to offend them. Satinebougou, forgive me. Dombila, forgive me. Honeoye Falls, Geneseo, America, forgive me. I’m coming home. And after all of this time, I’m nervous about it. Forgive me, I ask you, and let me back in.

I imagine getting off the plane like I’ll be waking up from a dream. Like-wow- wait- what just happened? Then I’ll settle in, have a home cooked meal, get ready for Libby’s wedding and our picnic (which you are all invited to) on September 5. I’ll go for a run on the old farm roads and reminise about my last run with Shaka. We finished on the soccer field at sunset for some sprints. He can still kick my butt.

I’m not as emotional, not as reflective as I expected at this time. I always imagined what the final blog would say, what kind of wisdom I’ve gained in the last two years. But honestly, it hasn’t all hit me yet. I’ve been so preoccupied with miniscule things- from moving out to getting on the plane, there’s been a lot to check off the list. Maybe after a week or so at home, I’ll really start to get nostalgic. I’ll really begin to understand what these last two years were really about. And when that time comes, when it really hits me, I’ll write again. To you loyal blog readers and friends,

I ni baaraji (Thank you)

K’an ben sonni (See you soon)

Vaccination/ Baby Weighing days are still the CSCOM's biggest event of the week. I still get a kick out of weighing babies (especially the healthy ones) and working with the CSCOM staff (my coworker Dusu is pictured here).

That’s me with one of the community health workers, Kuru, doing a presentation on reproductive health with the Koyan Women’s Group. The community health workers have really stepped it up, and are doing more and more health prevention activities in the villages.

Mangos are done and the rains have come. This was a storm over the Niger we witnessed from our conference room in Bamako. The whole meeting stopped and people rushed to the windows feeling like the building was going to be picked up by the wind.

My friend Kiatu has avowed to teach me everything Malian before I leave. This day we walked about 2 miles to cut firewood in the brush, which we carried back to village on our heads (much to the amusment of the Malians).

I still can't believe how mature Shaka is these days. A regular teenager, he keeps himself busy nowadays hauling wild fruit to sell at the market, and using some of the money to buy presents for his new girlfriend, Marie. (It's very sweet). He still find every so often to hit the trails with me.

Caroline and I at Hunter's going away party, in between street dancing songs. I've been so blessed with awesome teammates and hope to stay close with them long after service is up.

Here's the mural project we did in Tomba with 3rd and 4th graders on the Food Groups. Kids worked in pairs to draw different healthy foods and then presented their work to the community with a song and nutrition demonstration.

Last week, 6 PCVs, most of them Water/Sanitation volunteers, agreed to come to my site to do evaluations on the 54 top well repairs we've done. They had great insight to give my committee on technical and behavioral/sanitation improvements we can strive for to make the project sustainable and more effective.

"No matter how long a log sits in the stream, it will never become a crocodile. So goes the Malian proverb meaning, ultimately, you are what you are in any environment. Its funny because two years in village, growing so connected to the people, I realize that my roots and values, fundamentally, will never totally be in sync with theirs. Yes we are all part of the same humanity. But I wonder if this fault line between values systems is sometimes the source of development efforts that mean good, but eventually crumble.

As an American, I value achievement, intellect, individuality. I dedicated 16 years of my life to education and find joy in innovation, competition, and completing tasks. I grew up well- and want the same doors of opportunity to be available to the people here. But what do they want?

“A millet grinder,” said Lauren, preparing to put up the white flag for her adult literacy efforts. After months of training on Bambara literacy, Lauren, as an education volunteer, tried to rally her community to revive a dead adult literacy program in Koyan, Dombila, and Sidian Coro. With the waning interest of community leaders, Lauren feels like she’s fighting an uphill battle. “I don’t know what I can do to help them, what they really want. They want stuff. Any maybe that’s the best way I’m equipped to serve them.” It’d be a lot more rewarding to create a sustainable literacy program, giving adult women a second chance at the schooling they never had, but at the end of the day, there's still millet to be pounded. And as a Malian woman, with no access to reading materials, no reason to write, that millet is what's on your mind.

And what about the youth? After a successful mural project, the village of Tomba with 3rd and 4th graders, I invited the winners of a drawing contest in Dombila's middle school to paint health education murals around the CSCOM. Result: chaotic disaster. "Why didn't you just paint them yourself?" The CSCOM staff asked with horrified looks toward the messy slops of paint all over the walls. Creating perfect masterpieces wasn't the point. The point was to give kids an opportunity to express themselves and exercise their developing talent. But as they went wild painting their shoes and running away with the brushes it seemed like very few of them came for that reason. Then they rushed off home for lunch, where their families anxiously waited for them. Thank Allah school's out for the summer- there are fields to plow. And if you made it to the 5th grade without ever really understanding how to read, as many do, it won't make a difference when you got that plow in your hand.

It's not heredity or even culture. It's poverty. Sure, a few lucky ones with a decent head on their shoulders will move out of the village and become salaried employees in the towns or cities. But overall, no one has found the golden key of pulling this country out of poverty. Education is great. Child survival- fantastic. Cleaner water, solar electricity- love it. But if the harvest is bad, the family goes hungry, whether or not your 7th grader can do long division.

So you and I with a first-world upbringing have come to love achievement, and think of ourselves as pretty smart. Smart enough to help the lowly people rise out of misery. In some ways, perhaps we can. I have access to a lot that can help the people of Dombila- money, knowledge, coupled with my sense of determination should be a winning combo to helping others. And I have helped. But I'm starting to realize the truth in what so many PCVs before me have attested- you leave country realizing that they helped you a lot more than you helped them.

Amidst the constraints of poverty and the lack of access to opportunity, Malians have developed a strong values system. So if not competition and education, what are Malian values? Practicing utmost respect for people. Taking an interest in other people's affairs and endeavors. Sharing everything you have and not taking anything for yourself unless there's some left over. Stopping to help everyone you pass who may need a hand, not thinking twice about if it will make you "late" or if it's "not your problem." And though I've been annoyed with people persistently insisting on helping when I can clearly draw my own water or change my own bike tire, people stopping me to give an unending string of blessings and greetings, people constantly inquiring about my comings and goings or dismissing my polite declines to ask me to eat toh with them for the fourth time in a row, I know now, they just care about me. They give everything, which is nothing in our sense. But blessings, care, small acts of generosity, is all they have. And they have been offering it to me from the day I arrived. They are putting their values into practice and in doing so, show me that maybe the way I do things isn't necessarily right. I'm that girl who whizzes by on her bike because stopping to great a group of 10 women on the way to the market would take up way too much of my precious time. I'm the girl that has nice food and medicines in her home that she hides from the rest of the village. And how many nights have I dismissed someone who wanted to chat because I'd rather have my head in a book? What really gets me- is the individualism. I'm catching myself- my thoughts. Self-centered, so often about me. When I peer into the brain of my fellow Malian, who could be resting but instead goes over to help her neighbor wash clothes, I see her thoughts of society, and love for others suppressing that "me! me! me!" voice that is always trying to scream the loudest in our minds.

After our well evaluation activity with Peace Corps Volunteers in Dombila, four households gave us their prize chickens. One household, having wanting to give us a chicken, gave us 1000 cfa ($2) instead because the chicken got sick and died. Realizing the extent to what they give me is humbling, and I find my thoughts swing between humility, love and guilt.

Peace Corps staff, all Malian, get training on American work values so that the office can be more efficient, punctual, and reflective of an American office. I was once in the office of a certain staff member, and noticed a small-typed list hanging behind his desk: 50 Successful Tips for Working in an American office. There was one highlighted. I leaned over the desk and squinted to read it. "Work first. Family Second."

My heart fell. I pitied him, and in doing so, pitied myself, and the millions of Americans who have internalized that.

I've been up and down lately, and as my transition back home becomes near, that's to be expected. I'm still happiest when I'm busy, and I still have enough to keep it that way. The wat/san committee is doing a lot, and I've picked up a side project with a Women's Rights organization in Kati. But seeing sick children, watching one little girl die of malnutrition, is harder and harder knowing that in 2 months, this will continue and there will be nothing I can do about it anymore. The village is happy with the work I've done, they call me the "Master of Work" sometimes. But there have been times lately, caught in this values fault zone, I've not thought too highly of myself or my way of going about things.

"You're not a bad person," Lauren assured me, "you just have different values. If a Malian came to America, was late to everything and refused to send his children to school, we wouldn't think very highly of him either. But if you appreciate some Malian values, now is the time to figure out how you can incorporate them in your life in America."

I'm not a bad person for having different values. And neither are the Malians. I'm just, well, a log. Still. A log sitting in a rough but beautiful stream, trying to decide how much I'll let it carry me along.

Hello all and my apologies for being so long since I last wrote.

I'm currently at my Close of Service Conference at a fancy hotel on the river. Three days of half protocal, half our little bit of luxary at the end of a hard core two years.

This is just to quickly write that my spirits are up and so is my motivation. A lot has been going on in the last month. I've been feeling much better about where I am with my serivce, even after some additional and interesting turns in the road. Projects are going well and even some things are starting to fall into place for my transition back into the US. Really, I can't help but enjoy my time here now. The weather is a bit more manageable, and I am truly feeling like I'm really part of my host family, albeit some squabbles that I hope I get a chance to touch on later. Tomorrow I have to say goodbye to Hunter, fellow volunteer who has become a brother to me. That'll be the start, a tough one for the start. Five of us who had become particularly close got together for a picnic dinner on the top of the grand plateau, watching the sunset over the city of Bamako and talking about the last two years and the future. Then Hunter had a crazy dance party with his community and a bunch of PCVs who came in. Dance/sheep-slaughtering party I should say. Gotta keep it native.

My journal is filled with more adventures- a huge change in our malnutrition program, more "mice" in my house, encounters with traditional healers... but without a computer here it is hard to keep you all updated. My camera is filled with pictures that this internet can't share with all. So I will try try try to post blogs, pictures etc in the next few days. But, I also need to be present here. Close of Service is a big deal, and I don't want to miss much time spending with my friends here. Just know I'm doing well and I'm thinking about you all and we'll catch up soon.

And I'm looking for a travel buddy who wants to go to Uganda at the end of August. Think about it :)

Peace-

Emily

My apologies for the delay on new blogs. A lot has been going on personally, my mind cluttered with things that I just couldn’t find blog-appropriate words for. With a pretty solid plan for the rest of my service, I’ve been recently thrown for some loops. A potentially serious relationship ended, because of just that- it was getting potentially serious. A position I thought I had locked, Health Trainer for the July-September training for new volunteers, was given to someone else. And I’m left now with a month of village work left, and 4 more months of floundering until I go home, to do some more floundering.

We all want purpose, and I believe we all have purpose. In the hot hours of the day when the rest of the village is sleeping or sipping tea, I spend a lot of time alone, just writing or thinking. We want purpose for what? Ourselves? Our society? God? We are happiest when we’re busy, entrusted with a great task, and then praised for our good work. But here I am among people who are perfectly at peace of mind drinking tea and surrendering their afternoon to the sizzling, hypnotic sun. I, on the other hand, am restless. I’m running so much, thinking so much of home, obsessively trying to map my life’s route sans destination. Without always 4realizing it, I’m missing Irene, who had some sort of larger-than-life way about everything that kept days at the CSCOM moving. Here in Dombila, we got some work done. We have a little work left to do. But can I really sit here in my hut going crazy through the slow rainy season?

I have some traveling I want to do, but I feel site guilt even now. I’ve worked but I want to work more. Tireless determination. It’s something I long for but it easily fails to launch in 113 degree heat. I want to go to hidden stone villages of Dogon country, and out to Uganda to solve some mysteries regarding an AIDS victim that has haunted my thoughts for four years. I want to run, run, run. And then, I want to go home. My friends are extending their services in other countries: Hunter’s off to China, Caroline to Nicaragua, Chris to Fiji, and others are looking for jobs or preparing for grad school. I could be off somewhere- there are plenty of opportunities for me in Africa and beyond. I could search for a job in a city as I’m preparing for grad school in 2011. But right now, and I know I might change my mind, I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be than home.

At least there are mangos. More than imaginable. We’ve had short passing wind storms that whip dust into your face and drop mangos like bombs all around. You literally have to duck and cover. I meticulously solar dry the fruit, with the admiration but reluctance to participate from my Malian neighbors.

There is still plenty to keep me busy for a while. School is still in session, and we’re finishing up the health lessons, preparing for the mural project, and training the high schoolers for their physical education final exam (in long jump, shot put, and 100m dash). We have a couple of wells left to finish, as well as a big finale to the project, an evaluation and goal-setting two day conference with Peace Corps Volunteers. We’re supervising the community health workers more closely, and have their first official report review on Thursday. My new homologue and I attended a week long training session at Tubaniso, and returned with more ideas on nutrition and food security. Lauren is also busy raising money for new desks at her school (you can donate through www.peacecorps.gov), launching a soap formation, and training adult literacy teachers.

I’ve been filling up journals, trying to foresee the ending of this story instead of living it. I’m taking it day by day, even now. In truth, I’m terrified of the transition, and I’m longing for some structure and plan. But I have to accept that I’m still on an adventure, and these strange dust storms come at unexpected times. I am not sure where I’ll end up, and why. I just hope that, underneath the scattered and thirsty dirt roads I run, there is purpose.

Some Christian group came with cartons of Christmas packages for the kids in 1st-6th grade. It was such a mystery as to what was in them, for they were not to be opened until the American patron came. It would have been interesting to meet these guys, reportedly from North Carolina, but I was careful to keep my distance from the commotion. A while back a World Vision truck came giving someones unwanted dress shirts and dozens of Breast Cancer Awareness visors, probably left over from some unsuccessful event. I barely entered the scene, scored a visor from the insistence of the Malians, and for weeks afterwords, paid the repercussions.

“Aminata! Aminata!” I’d hear passing on my bike, “I didn’t get a hat!” “Where’s my teeshirt?” Ahh! I have no part in this! What would give you the idea that those boxes of unwanted clothes were my doing? Oh yeah, I’m white.

Needless to say, I made sure I had no part in the Christmas boxes. But I would be called into duty. Kids came home with pretty sweet boxes, filled with little toys, candy, soap, toothbrushes, even princess underwear that the boys constantly poked fun at Madu for receiving. Yet some things were just plain confusing. I had to stop Sali at the pharmacy for completely opening the chemicals in an instant handwarmer packet, school girls were rubbing glue sticks on their lips, people were approaching me for explanations of smelly candles, tree ornaments, glow sticks and lufas. But the most mysterious item of them all was first brought to attention by the middle school math teacher. “Aminata. We’re all wondering. What is ‘plaaeydoh?’”

Playdoh was a frequently found treasure in the packages, but misinterpreted as soap, cooking oil, chewing gum, or candy. All throughout the village, people young and old were trying to wash themselves with Playdoh or make it into an afternoon snack. It was getting too much.

“Dusu,” I said to my college at the CSCOM one day after vaccinations, “You want to come help me do a health animation at the school?” We went together, but not to talk about sanitation or malaria, but to explain to each class: This is playdoh. It’s a toy. Do not eat it!

“People are going to kill themselves!” Shaka exclaimed hanging out with the boys under my hanger. “They have no idea what any of this stuff is! If you weren’t here Aminata, we’d have some big problems. These gifts are crap!”

“They’re not crap,” I said, but couldn’t help agreeing with Shaka when he commented that they will all just turn into piles of trash in the next few months. That money should have gone to help fix the road, he decided. When did he get so insightful?

Nevertheless, kids are excited about the toys. They’ve never gotten anything like this before, so its special and exciting. I’m even a little jealous. It looks like packages I’d get from home, all of the M&Ms and life savers and such. Sweet, sweet America. Complete with a “Jesus loves you” blessing. I know even Shaka appreciated it, at least for the aspect of his favorite subject, cultural exchange. “When I become a big patron, I’m going to send boxes of Malian stuff to American school kids.”

“What would you send them?”

He had to think about that for a while. “Bicycles.”

These programs have a place in what we’re doing, as a simple act of kindness. Kindness can go a long way, but is not the only answer to these deep rooted problems. I’ll spare you another lament on the controversies of charity and development work, and leave you with the true moral of the story: Think twice before you send playdoh to Africa.

It had been talked about so much it had almost become a joke. Someday, we’ve been saying since last year, Shaka and I are going to run to the city of Kati. I tried writing training plans for him, get him to stick to some routine. However, I’d be ready for an afternoon run to find that he was cross-training by pulling water in the garden or that he went out to chase some rabbit through the fields with a sling-shot, or he was biking all around town doing his father’s errands. A week would go by and he’d only hop in a couple of my runs for 20 or 30 minutes. Then when he’d finally buckle down and run for an hour, it’d be like nothing. He was a natural, and just ran to the beat of his own drum. So finally I abandoned the notion of a routine, and proposed that we just do it.

We’d kid each other by backing out, or suggesting that we run even further than Kati, or that we’d each do it with one of the kids piggy-backing. I think we were both a little nervous, on my end, I was nervous that I was pressuring him into doing something he wasn’t ready for or he didn’t want to do. We decided to break up the 19 mile run by running 5 the afternoon before, spending the night at Caroline’s in Dio, and then run the remaining 14 at the crack of dawn. I wasn’t completely convinced he was serious about it until he showed up at my door, wearing the new jelly sandals I had picked up at the market, complemented by knee-high rainbow and heart studded socks with “LOVE” printed on them. They were another treasure in the infamous Christian gift boxes.

“Why are you laughing?” He asked.

“Nothing it’s nothing. Your socks, they’re high that’s all.” He starts to roll them down. “No! No! Please don’t. Leave them like that.” Caroline had to see this.

The three of us spent the evening playing cards and strolling the town. I was nervous he wouldn’t be able to eat in an unfamiliar setting, and at first he was reluctant to even admit he had an appetite. But as I watched him wolf down a large plate of beans and pasta I realized that this was probably the best meal he’s had in a long time.

Shaka didn’t sleep that night, fighting the heat inside Caroline’s house. Nevertheless, he was up with the dawn, left for his usual morning wander (he likes to just walk around a little in the morning), and joined me for some bread and coffee. I let him fix his own, and boy do Malians like their sugar. In the silence of the sunrise, we hardly spoke, except to crack a few jokes. “Let’s just run home.”

But he was all business as we set out on the road in a slow trot. The first 5 miles or so were like any other run we’ve done. We chatted away, about the buildings we passed, and what could be inside that mysterious cement factory, and how far the train tracks go. He kept asking me if we had arrived at Diago, a village about 8 miles from Dio, starting 10 minutes into the run. Does he realize how long this is going to be?

I clocked us at a safe 8:45 pace and forced him to take a sip of water after 75 minutes. He was doing fine, and I think enjoying seeing these new landmarks on the gloriously paved road. After about an hour and a half we arrived at the poste, the truck stop about 3 or 4 miles out from Hunter’s house. It was there we took a ten second water break, and there that Shaka stopped talking to me. I told him we were 20 minutes out, knowing it was more like 30 minutes. His eyebrows hardened, and his arms took wider swings. “It’s not your legs or your body that will get you there now,” I said, “it’s your courage.” We treaded on up a gradual uphill. A few minutes later he replied, “My courage is ‘a baana’”. ‘Finished.’

Yet he refused to stop or to slow the pace. We reached the city, and I knew that he thought every house we passed was Hunter’s. Little did he know we still had a couple of miles. “Yes we can!” I said in English. He thought we had arrived. Oh, not yet.

Cresting the last hill, just 600 meters from the finish, he proposed we walk a bit. “No way! I said! We’re already there!” So he picked up the pace, somehow landing softly on a rocky ground in flimsy plastic sandles, automatically corrected his posture, and soared. I did a little cheer as we rounded the last corner, a minute over 2 hours, slapped him a bunch of high fives, and caught his embarrassed smile toward the ground.

We found Hunter still asleep but prepared with Shaka’s reward of cocunuts and cold soda pops. The day was a bit awkward, walking around the city, showing the quiet Shaka things he’d never seen before- the jail, the hospital, the internet café. I bought him some yogurt, which he loved, and we made avocado and egg sandwhiches for lunch. We relaxed in Hunter’s house with fans and tile floors, and I asked Shaka if he had ever bathed in a shower before.

“No,” he replied, “Have you?”

I turned it on to show him, and he jumped back in fright at the water spewing from the shower head. But when he emerged looking clean and content, I asked him how it was. He nodded. “It was alright.”

We watched a movie with Hunter on his computer, and Shaka said he missed his mom. The whole day, I wasn’t sure if he was glad we came or not. We piled in a bush taxi to get us back to Dio, and then he biked alongside me as I ran back to Dombila. We passed an old man who asked, as they do every market day,“Hey, did she run all the way from Dio?” Shaka answered yes, and biked by. Then he turned around and replied, “Do you think Dio’s far for us?” And I told him of the great feat that we had just accomplished- running to Kati. After that, Shaka opened up and talked with such enthusiasm about Hunter’s house and the Kati market. “We gotta go back,” he said. “But next time, we’ll take a car.”

“You didn’t have a nice run?”

“No, the run was great!” he said. “But next time, we’re taking a car.”

Well as you could see from the date of my last blog, it has been a while. I’ve been in site for way too long this time- about 5 weeks (minus one quick less than 24 hour stint in Bamako). It feels so good to be sitting in front of a computer I can’t even tell you. I’m at the new Peace Corps Bureau under the air conditioning, and with temperatures threatening to break 110 degrees, it is certainly a blessing. The last couple of days I’ve been useless, counting down the hours until my escape. Even my Bambara is cloudy. I always feel like I want to stay in site as long as possible but this time I’ve learned that once it gets too long, you grow stale and restless until you get a little refresher. So I hope that this will be one and that I’ll return renewed and ready for action.

The last five weeks have generally been great, though I’ve been a little homesick, especially after a recent tragedy back in my hometown. (My continual prayers go out for the Cannon family). Little annoyances can get to you in village after being around for so long. People asking you for stuff (I tried as an experiment to keep track for a week, but lost count after about 3 days and over a dozen requests), people interrupting what you are focused on to give you a zillion greetings, you know, all that normal everyday stuff. And I found myself getting a bit detached, my dreams of post Peace Corps life becoming more and more serious and frequent. I know I toyed with the idea of extending my service, but with the way things are going in such a natural and fulfilling progression, I think that in September, I’ll be ready. I can visualize the next 6 months, the competition and follow up of my projects, and I know when it’s time to go, I’ll be thoroughly satisfied. And then…? Who knows? I’d like to get a Masters in Public Health but that wouldn’t start until July 2011 at the earliest. I want to be home for a while, but also want to travel and see East Africa (Uganda, Kenya, Rwanda). I want to research a story out there that I had written a play about in college and maybe even do some volunteering. But I still strive to embrace this unique life I’m living now. Watching malnourished babies get fat and plump never looses its enchantment. One day I’ll leave this village for another refresher, like now, to get a break from the annoyances, but the difference will be that I won’t be coming back. And who knows, when I’m back, it might be those little annoyances that I’ll terribly miss.

But I’m still happy, still doing great, and still thinking of all of you. And I have only had one foot infection since I came back that didn’t even require oral antibiotics. Life is good.

The sun was getting hot and I was still sitting at home. I had put off our second meeting for International Women’s Day until last Friday, which was a big mistake. We were completely disorganized and unprepared, so much so that the small group of 6 women and 3 men decided that we would meet bright and early, 7:30am, to finish the preparations for our day-long Women’s Day campaign. I took the day off of regular Sunday baby weighings for the occasion. People started rolling in at about 9:00, and by 10:45 we were all still sitting around, waiting for the rest to show up.

Women’s Day in Mali , annually March 8, is centred around the idea that women should take the day off of housework, relax, and let the men pick up the slack. But with expensive theme fabric sold every year to wealthier women who attend Women’s Day parties, the misconception around the country is that if you can’t afford this year’s fabric, then it’s not your holiday. I had meeting a couple weeks back with some of my closest lady friends (it feels good to say that, me and the girls), and though we knew that fabric was out of the question, they also said that having a Women’s party would be difficult because no one would put in any money for it. Instead, we decided we would “yala-yala,” walk around town that is, and try to raise awareness for what Huit- Mars is and how women can take it as a day of celebration and relaxation, no matter how much money they have. We wanted to convince men, by having them sign a petition, to take on women’s work for the day as a sign of respect and appreciation. These activities would be on March 7, so that men would know to get their butts up and draw the water at the break of the next dawn. Our small group would pitch in money to take a lunch break, catered by some brave volunteer men. Sounds like a good idea right?

Well I was getting jittery. We decided to not go around town until after lunch, so we sat some more. And boy was it getting hot. We had a few laughs as the three men peeled the vegetables and sifted the rice. The cooking team was led by Baru, a regular ham who showed up in a striped suit looking like a ragtime dancer. He has a reputation for being the only man in town who can cook, and does so periodically at his home. It was all good and fun but we still didn’t have a song. Or a skit. Or a plan. All we had were these nifty flags that I made the night before out of some extra fabric Gneba had lying around. The last few people trickled in just as lunch was finishing up. Let’s get going people!

It was hard to get them up, especially Sungura, the pregnant woman, who constantly complained that we didn’t have this or that in the rice. Now I’m thinking this isn’t going to happen after all. Maybe they did just come for the food. I wanted to prepare the skit but no one would listen to me! They were all just laughing and carrying on like we didn’t already waste half the day. I reverted to my 8 year old self, directing plays in my basement, ordering people this way and that so that it could come out exactly the way I wanted it. They were all so full of energy anyway that they were able to improvised their way though it. A mess of course, but entertaining and hopefully persuasive. Dalfinie and Genba were lying on the mat pretending to be children, but just laughing so hard they were crying. Meanwhile, Teresi’s head is churning trying to come up with a tune to sign our battle cry to. I don’t know who finally started the march but all the sudden the laughter and chaos fuelled us on our feet we were marching through the village.

Teresi started singing and the rest would repeat after her. Baro and some of the children had brought empty jugs to bang on as drums. I had my guitar and was picking up an accompaniment to match Teresi’s song. We made our way through the village, our strange blend of revolutionaries and revellers. If we happened upon a woman, we’d take her millet pounder or bucket of laundry away from her and make her dance with us in a circle. If we came upon a man, we’d explain our purpose and ask for his pledge to help out his woman on the 8th.

“Look at our flag, it’s the flag of women!” Teresi sang.

“Our flag! Look at our flag!” we responded

“Look at our flag it’s the flag of working”

“Our flag! Look at our flag!”

Or we’d add, the flag of cooking, or pounding millet, or washing children, or pulling water, or carrying firewood, or any of the other dozens of things Malian women are expected to do on a daily basis. The man we ganged up on would be a bit uncomfortable at first, but then start getting into the beat, some even danced. And then it would be silent, the man would announce a pledge of what he could do the next day, Daramane would scribe it on our big petition and the man would sign in a colourful marker. We’d check up on them, we promised.

Cheers would then erupt followed by Teresi’s song:

“Where’d this wind come from?”

“It’s a great big wind!”

The sun was certainly burning my skin and I had that weak feeling of dehydration as we marched, but I didn’t care. We kept picking up people as we went- dancing children, women bouncing around babies on their back while clapping their hands, until we became a regular parade. My host dad, surprisingly, was especially jovial and into the festivities. Nothing I planned came through. What came out was better. All assured me that this was going to be an annual event, growing and growing year after year. Even now, I got to learn to relax, let go of the reins, be prepared but flexible and trusting, and most of all, to respect the abilities and the natural flow of doing things inert in the Malians. Sure sometimes I got to swallow my zealousness and sit around for a while, but more often than not, things eventually get up and going. I can’t start a storm, but if I let go and join in the way the wind is blowing, it could be a great big wind.

Through all the fun, I kept looking over at Dafinie. Fatim has gotten older now, and it strains Dalfine’s back to carry her. I could tell she was having fun, she loves to dance as I learned since my first day in village. She loves to spend time with the ladies. But her smile was a removed one, covering a hopeless gaze, Mody was a solid figure that could never be remodled and she knowing that anything we achieved with this little Women’s Rights wind we started would never reach her husband. The group didn’t even bother to go visit her house. It was intrinsic knowledge that Mody would never be on board with such a thing. She’s tired, she’s thin, and though we know we convinced some men to pull the water and pound the millet, Dafline knew that she would be labouring again in the morning, uninterrupted, unacknowledged.

“You want to come over and chat tonight?” Shaka asked on that evening’s run. It’s usually a second hand request- Dalfine is too embarrassed to ask me herself.

“Of course. Is Dalfinie Ok?”

“She had so much fun today! But lately she’s been thinking too much. Too much thinking is not good for a person.” Shaka told me about her hopes of going to Bamako to live with relatives there, leaving Dombila, and Mody, for good. Bamako’s a tough and dirty life for a poor person, but if she has some relatives to support her, it’s better that she hurries herself up and go. I’d like to believe the schools are better there too, anything has to be better than Dombila, and I would love Shaka to have that. She’s waiting for all the ducks to get in line- for Adama’s schooling to get on break, for her older daughter to work out this job at a hair salon, for the gardening to be over.

“If I go, I want to stay there. If my relatives agree,” she told me sitting on the log outside her house that night. “I’m suffering here. Even yesterday I was beaten.” She wants to go, but she seems so defeated, and the distant dream has no clear path of realization for her. It would take not just planning, but some assertiveness on her part. She wants this but she won’t fight for it. Understandable. I’d be tired of fighting too.

“Dalfinie, you need some goals. If you want this of that to happen, saying it and thinking about it forever won’t get you anywhere.” We talked about this for a while and said that next time I come, we’ll write down her plan.

She grew silent, gazing not at the stars but straight ahead. I practiced a bit of English with Shaka, and then went off to bed. Maybe I could have sat with her longer. It seems like that would have been the only thing I could do. But sitting can only get you so far. Eventually the sun gets hot, the night gets deep, and you got to get up, march on, and follow the wind.

I should have been more scared than I was. Well, I was scared, but I made it through. The plateau between Lauren’s site and mine is full of small winding roads that go in and out of rocky fields. Some become larger roads, that temp you into turning on them. Some get smaller and smaller until they disappear altogether. I finally got one route down, but I am constantly persuaded to take the short cuts. I never actually took the ledgendary “school kids’ road” because every time I’d find myself twisting and turning until it took me twice as long as usual to get back.

But when Shaka declined an afternoon run to Koyan, I started on the 4.5 mile road myself. On the way, I picked up a litter of high school kids on their way home. We ran and laughed as they tried their new English lesson on me. Suddenly we parted ways. “This road is much shorter!” they told me. Ahhh… the school kids road! Assuring me they were able to hun the whole way with me, (two of them ended up doing so), I agreed to take this unknown path.

It was indeed shorter. It usually takes me about 38 minutes to run to Lauren’s at a steady pace but today it was just 32. Lauren looked beat. She had just been hit by the disenchantment of returning to Mali after a vacation to Spain with her parents. Homesickness, but even more so, heat sickness. “It snowed in Madrid,” she said longingly. With highs constantly 106 F or above, the heat was starting to get to all of us, even the Malians. It just slows you down. My relief is pouring buckets of water over my head throughout the day. Lauren is considering going all out and buying a car battery that she can hook a fan up to.

But now it was bearable. The sun was going down and it was time for me to make my way back to Dombila. Mistake number one- trying to take the “school kids’ road.” After a good 20 minutes I ended up on the plateau overlooking Koyan again. I gave it another try, which having brought myself back to a place where I could take a familiar yet longer road, was clearly Mistake Number Two. I ran and ran as the sun was quickly setting. At one point lost in the brush, I spotted some school girls and they pointed me toward a path I had long strayed from. “It’s just one road straight to Dombila!” That’s what they all say. It’s just one road when you’re used to that one road and you have your blinders on to block all the other dozens of intersections.

It’s night time. I can still see the trail but I have no idea where I am. I spot a fire in the distance- it must be a hut. If I can just make my way toward that settlement I can ask for help. If I find that I am a long way off from Dombila, I’d break Peace Corps policy and beg someone to take me to my host family on their motorcycle. Or I would just spend the night in the wilderness.

As that thought crossed my mind, I immediately thought of that night, in the second months of my service that I was lost in Dio at night. With Caroline out of town, I called Hunter hysterical. I was wandering around scared to death. It’s an experience I never wrote about on this blog because it would have sent Mom flipping out.

But here, I was just running, and running and running. If I stopped to get upset I would never get anywhere. I’m on this one road now, and I have no idea if it leads to Dombila. I can only pray it does, or that it leads my to a friendly village that can somehow help me get back. I can barely see and from that a Bible verse popped into my head. It’s one that I once chanted to myself during a track meet in college: “Guide my feet and light my path.” (Psalm 119:105). I think it’s the road to Dombila but I can’t be sure. I was just trusting that if I ran, I’d be ok. It did jump at the hissing in the trees though.

And then a crazy man started chasing me through the wilderness! (That last sentence is not true, but Shaka told me to add it to make for a better story as I explained what I was writing in my journal).

When I finally got back I almost hugged my host family. “I thought I’d never see you again!” They laughed and made me promise that I would never again take an unknown road when the sun was setting. Seems pretty intuitive after the fact.

That 32 minute run had turned into an hour and 20 minutes. I relaxed in the compound next to our nightly family fire. Shaka told a story, as we like to do, describing mystery person whom the others have to identify. “This girl has big hair. This girl has a big head” (They often call me “Kungoloba in village which literally means big head) “And she prays to God!”

“That’s me.”

I’ve had a few more mice.

After Madou’s innocent wandering into my hut, things started to get ugly. I was missing my ipod for a couple of days, only to be returned by Madou’s oldest brother, Adama. “I found this with your mouse’s stuff,” he said as he handed me the scratched up version of my new ipod. Still works though. Tcesalo, my host brother and accomplice to Madou, stole 5000 cfa (the equivalent of $10) on two separate occasions. Shaka helped sniff them out, with the help of a suspicious butiki guy that wondered where these kids would get their hands on that kind of bill. All was returned, but the ipod was stolen again, Koniba, the third party of the three 9 year old boys, coughed it up that time. And days later the boys were caught setting fire to someone’s straw hanger in the market.

Now these boys are like my own. I’ve grown attached to them. They drive me crazy but I adore them. Why are they stealing from me? Why are they skipping school and getting themselves into trouble like this? I know that my door sometimes tricks me and doesn’t lock when it should, but it’s always been like that and I’ve never had a problem. They’ve been beat and beat by their parents, but the stealing kept going on. Great solution right? Actually, Dafinie’s approach, seeking a traditional healer, seemed to actually have an effect on the kid. He calmed down and was gentler after that. What was in that tree bark medicine? I say we keep some on hand. On the other hand, Dalfinie also told me that she pinched Madou’s ear for two hours straight. That could also do the trick.

It all blew up one day when I noticed instant coffee, water, sugar, and my precious 0% fat powdered milk spewed all over my cooking hut. I didn’t know kids liked coffee around here.

Which one of you was it? I was pissed now, and also feeling incredibly stupid. How many times is this? And I can’t even make sure my door is locked. I went to my host mom at her rice stand in the small weekly market, not realizing I was attracting an audience. Daramane’s mad, Gneba is mad, none of the kids will fess up to it. Damn it Tcesalo’s a good liar. I’m beginning to believe him.

“My heart is troubled!” All the time, Gneba fusses about making sure all the doors and windows are locked. But now I’m realizing that it’s not just about me, it’s mainly about her reputation as a host in the village.

“I’ll tell Peace Corps! They’ll never agree to put another volunteer here!”

“Good! Fine,” says Daramane. “This is your fault anyway!”

“I know,” I came to my senses, “sometimes I don’t realize when one of the locks doesn’t work.”

“No. It’s because ever since the mouse first entered your house you told us not to hit him. Then they’ll just do it again. And ever since you first came here you let kids come under your hanger and play.”

So it was my fault for doing the only thing I knew how to do at the time-play with the kids. I looked at Shaka, he had a tear down his face. It was later I knew Gneba was accusing him as having a hand in the incident, never believing her own son would be involved. Yet moments later, Gneba and Shaka came to investigate. And there were the footprints, specific sandels, just like a cheesy mystery movie. They identified Koniba as the culprit.

“A banna” said Gneba, “it’s finished.” We were never to talk of it again and Shaka and I were to buy new locks for the doors on market day.

A baana? We went on a run and everything seemed fine after that. But those first couple of minutes hitting the trail I imagined myself slapping Koniba-hard. Every time this happens, my tolerance for hitting kids seems to slowly develop. How awful am I!

Forgiveness. I imagine all of the boys eating coconut under my hanger. Maybe friendship and generosity would humble them. Or maybe I’ll just become a troll, reading, writing, strumming my guitar under the hanger, shooting disapproving glances at trespassing children.

But since the past couple of weeks, things have gotten much better with Tcesalo and Madou. They are regaining my trust donni donni and I’m also being harder on them about lying and getting into trouble. I think they are starting to respect me more, but they keep coming back under my hanger, which means despite all this, we’re still pals. And I know they aren’t just coming back for the ipod thank you very much. I banished them for a while, but after some apologies and promises, they are back coloring and dancing like before. Shaka’s been especially good, and has made it his duty that his little brother doesn’t become a thief. All the kids look up to Shaka, so if he keeps with them, God willing, they’ll straighten themselves out.

I’m still keeping my eye on Koniba though. He’s shifty.

my host sister Sama, 15 months

Since I’ve been back from Segou, things have been going great. I’m keeping myself really busy, maybe a little too busy considering the pending hindrance of climbing temperatures. There’s also a bad cold going around that I have fallen victim to, and it’s wiped me out a bit. But aside from the occasional damper of exhaustion, I’m really enjoying myself here in Dombila. We are just beginning construction on our water and sanitation projects, I’m teaching a health curriculum to seventh and eighth graders, watching more and more babies get fat, planning an International Women’s Day Celebration with my closest lady friends of Dombila, and still running around all the time- with Shaka or the school kids in gym class. Mainly, I’m just proud of my village. Sure there are still annoying people who ask me to give them money, my stuff, or a ticket to America multiple times a day. Sure there are still plenty of moments that I feel like an outsider, and am nostalgic for the normal life I glimpsed just over a month ago. But those moments of progress and understanding are more and more frequent. The Water and Sanitation Committee decided on and planed a behavior change and sensitization component of the well project without my prompting- a nice change from our usual lamentations on money and who’s well will get fixed first. A group of women are coming together to promote women’s rights on March 8, even though there is no money backing this event. Our star community health workers visit the CSCOM more and more regularly to check up on malnutrition records. One even told me, “Aminata, I’m watching these babies in my village all the time- I think malnutrition is done here.” That might be wishful thinking but at least its positive thinking.

A lot of this is due to the time of year. The hot season is not in full swing, but the harvest is over. People have more free time and energy for community development. People are generally of good health too, and I’m sure when the rainy season comes again, that one village will indeed be seeing children losing weight because of malaria and diareal diseases. People motivated for health projects now will not find the time to come to meetings as they are planting grain all the time. But for now, things are good. It’s rather fun.

Blog from Feb. 10

Without a solid chunk of time in Dombila, of course the usual site guilt hit me when I skulked out for 5 days. Yes, these couple days have been work and meetings in Bamako. But I also had a fantastic getaway to the riverside city of Segou. The annual “Festival sur la Niger” was Malian culture at its finest, an event that I promised myself I wouldn’t leave Mali without experiencing. All the best Malian musicians performed over a span of 4 days, with cultural events like dancing and traditional puppet shows during the day, art exibits, vendors with all kinds of fascinating crafts, great food, and a lively atmosphere with interesting people from all over Africa, Europe, and beyond. We even saw a pirogue (fishing boat) race on the river. Different villages entered teams, almost like Malian version of crew. Who ever thought that I’d get to see something like this?

So I must admit, when I first came to Mali, I didn’t immediately fall in love with the music. Traditional xylophone has an unsettled, disharmonic sound, and the Malian vocal style is not for the passive listener. But after seeing them live, I’m hooked. Here are some artists that you should definitely take a look at:

Nahawa Doumbia is one of the divas of Malian vocalists. Her big hit, which I can’t for the life of me find out what its called, is one of my favorite Malian songs. It’s a duet she sang with her daughter, who got the crowd on their feet with her surprise guest appearance.

Salif Keita- The crowd goes crazy for this vocalist, traditional guitarist and 2000 Grammy Nominee. He is also an albino, and his rise to fame has been generated acceptance for this often ostracized sub-population of Mali. At the end of his performance, he called all of the albinos in the audience onstage (about 25), and they all got their dance on, proud as can be.

Tinariwen is a toureg group. They are popular in the West for their acoustic, eclectic sound. I really enjoyed their music, but also thought it amusing that I was seeing them at this big rock venue, complete with huge speakers and colored lights. Picture your typical concert, your typical lead singer with his typical acoustic guitar. Now picture him in a blue desert robe and his face hiding in a white turban!

Things at site are going well, but I’m anxious to get back and get rolling! Here are some recent updates:

- The Take Your Daughters To Work Camp was a huge success, thanks to the great organization from Hunter and Caroline. I also felt like I got to contribute with daily “Life Skills” lessons, to give the girls a chance to talk about the risks of early pregnancy and to practice refusal skills. It closed with a candle lighting ceremony and inspirational talks from female role models. I walked back from Dio, a good 5 miles, with the girls afterwards, and sensed that they had really turned over a new stone of personal confidence. “I’ll never quit school, ever,” says Agnes Diarra, a quiet, obedient 4th grader who dreams of being a secretary. She gets up before sunrise and walks to school with her brother everyday from Durako, over 4 miles away. “We walk, and walk and walk until my feet bleed!” These girls will always be in my heart and I hope to God they can somehow get a basic education here, and continue on up to achieve their dreams.

- The Well Project is up and going but really stressful. I’m a lot more stressed out than my villagers, worrying about keeping track of the money and keeping people and materials organized. But when we went to do preview work on two wash areas, I started to get really excited. In addition to the 35 well repairs, we are also building wash areas and drainage systems for the two pumps in village in order to reduce standing water, mosquitoes, and malaria.

- The school is growing on me, and I’ve partnered with the biology teacher to do weekly health lessons in the 7th and 8th grades. We’re going to finish it out with a community mural project, and hopefully expand in other villages.

- We’ve started solar drying. Right now, its in the demonstration phase, and hopefully we’ll get people to buy into it.

- My new homolouge is great. I do miss Irene and her family though. But I think Mariam is really motivated and will be fun to work with. Things have been busy at the CSCOM trying to help her get oriented. She’s focused in her work, sweet and understanding. She’s also a big woman, most matrones tend to be, but she’s even tempered and very approachable to patients. She doesn’t quite fully understand my role, but we are developing a good, though still undefined relationship. What she does want to do is to teach me how to give births. I try to explain to her that its not allowed for us volunteers, that our supervisors are scared we’ll contract a disease or something. “Just wear gloves!” she says. “Learning how to give birth is very important. You’ll never know when you’ll be out in fields or the brush one day, passing along on your bike, and you come across a woman in labor. You should always be prepared. Aminata, I’m going to give you some advice- never go anywhere, anywhere without gloves!”

- The kids and host family are doing great. We have about 10 Honeoye Falls/ Dombila pen pal pairs. It’s a bit of work with all the translation, but it’s great to get the kids connected with pictures, drawings, and greetings. The “mouse” somehow got his hands on my ipod. I got it back, pretty scratched

- Lauren’s parents are in town- and were greeted with xylophones and chanting children and their made their way into Koyan! Now they’re off for a family vacation in Spain! We also got together a big group of volunteers for Hunter’s birthday in Kati. We pooled together money and hired a DJ and had a regular hoppin’ Malian dance party. Ages 3 to 93 were all getting down with us white kids. It was a blast.

I wrote a bunch of blogs and took a bunch of pictures, but will have to post them next time. I could blame it on Malian technology, but really, its just my own scatterbrain (forgot to save if off computer on to my thumbdrive). I'm in Kati now. I just came back from a huge music festival in Segou, which was amazing. Check out the website and I'll have pictures, recaps, and also updates from Dombila in another 2 weeks time.

I miss you all, and love you! Stay well, I surely am. Except for the heat beginning.

I'm here in Kati now, only 5 days after returning to Dombila. Instead of having time to settle in, I was called by Caroline and Hunter to help with their latest project: Take your daughters to work day. 5 days actually. So far, it's going pretty well, and there are 4 fifth grade girls here from Dombila. Along with girls from four other villages, they're doing job shadows with professional women, visiting the technical high school in Kati, doing team-building, goal-setting and a little bit of sexual education (somehow I've become the Peace Corps go-to person for that). Besides all the disasters that happen doing a project in Mali, I think its going pretty good and it is well worth it for these girls to think about a future other than becoming housewife in the rural villages.

I'm not sure how I feel about being back. Adjustment was easier than I imagined, having plenty of friends to welcome me upon my return. But I'm thinking more, I'm confused. I walk down the streets of Kati and hear people yelling at me just as before, “Tubabu! Tubabu!” Normally, this would really bug me and I would think, “Why are they singling me out? Can't they just leave me alone? I'm only a person!” But this time I'm thinking, “Yeah, you're right. It is super weird for me to be here. I'm this little white girl pretending to be Malian. That is rather laughable. I speak your language and wear your clothes and pretend that I know what's best for you. But do I? What the heck am I doing here in this foreign land?”

I know this vision of being able to really feel satisfied and confident that I'm doing something worthwhile is never going to be a concrete realization. I still question why I'm here, and what effect it has on people. And at this point, I know I'll never know for sure. But what I do have is faith. And enough life experience to know that most times you don't realize the significance of what your doing until it's all said and done. And as long as I'm fueled by this faith, and by these little hints of progress, I'll keep on truckin'. For another 9 months. And then... ?

My star community health worker showed me the records he kept of the malnourished children when I was away. I saw one baby who was on the verge of death at my departure gradually gaining strength. My eyes bulged out of my head when the school director showed my how he organized the students to do the weekly sanitation chores. Though the hand washing stations are still broken, they are acting as large barrels of water to clean the latrines daily, and soap is sitting next to kettles of water being used by the students to wash their hands. What happened here? We're going on a shopping spree tomorrow and returning with two trucks of sand and 145 bags of cement to start working on the wells.

At least for now, it's good. It's good to be back.

It's funny, at times I feel as if nothing ever really changes around Dombila, but when I came back I was suddenly faced with the biggest change of my Peace Corps service. After a warm greeting with the family, (Malians don't hug, but I couldn't help myself- talk about awkwardness!), I announced I was going to greet the people at the CSCOM.

“Irene's gone!” Shaka told me. I didn't believe him, they always like to joke around like that. “No really,” he insisted, “a car came yesterday to gather up all her stuff.”

Sure enough when I reached the CSCOM, I found Awa's daughter, Noellie, and all the crew. They're still here. Of course they're still here. But Irene was on her way to visit me, to explain to me why she had sent her things to Kati and was leaving Dombila for good.

Now Irene is someone who would pack up her things and leave over a quarrel or a big whoop-la or such, so I was glad to hear that was not the case. A relative of her was opening up a private health clinic in Kati. As head matrone, she'd make a better salary to support her kids, plus she'd be closer to all her relatives that reside in Kati. She couldn't turn it down. “I've been talking about leaving Dombila for a long time, but I really wanted to wait until your two years were up.” I assured her that I understood. It's best for her. Kati is not far, I can still visit. But I'll miss her. And boy will I miss little Noellie.

I went with Awa, Irene, and the kids to Dio where they would leave with the last of their things. We waited for a car and talked about how different things would be.

“You know what you're doing now, you don't need me to teach you any more,” she said. True, she's not really directly active in my projects, but she's always the first person I go to for advice, and her advice always seems to work.

“But who am I going to eat rice with at lunch?” I asked. Even though I can get sick of rice every day, if anyone can cook great Malian sauce, it's Awa.

“You could eat with Bouare, or you could even cook yourself! You've been watching me long enough. You should be able to do it.” Confidently, I bought a new pot that next Saturday at market. I showed the rice dish I made to my host mom and she was quite disgusted. She tried to feed the leftovers to the dog. The dog wouldn't eat it.

It wasn't too hard to shed a few tears. I could have held back but it was the only other way I knew to show my respect and affection. “I couldn't have done anything, nonetheless stayed in Dombila without your guidance.” She assured me we would still be in close touch, and that I would be the “denba” (god-mother type figure) in Awa's upcoming wedding. She better explain that role a little better to me because as I saw in that last wedding she took me too, it's quite confusing.

“Be good. Don't fight,” she said through the rusty car window. She knows I don't pick fights, but maybe that was the most motherly piece of advice she could think of to give me at the time.

A few days later a new woman came- Mariam Diokote. Middle-aged, strong and well-built, friendly and welcoming but somewhat reserved. She seemed very occupied with settling in to have any time to chat so I did what I could to help her- sweep up, take out the trash, little things. I have no idea what kind of relationship I am going to have with her, or how she is in the work-setting. Only time will tell. May it work out well for us here in Dombila!

Coming back from America, of course I had hit the jackpot of goodies. The kids and host family all got little presents. And as for me, well, I have a life-time supply of powerbars, some great flavored tuna, applesauce, stuff to make s'mores with my host family, calcium chews, extra toys to give to the kids at the holidays, you name it.

Now normally, I don't lock my door when I go out for a run. Why would I? I'm not gone long, everyone's around, and no one would dare sneak in my house anyway. What I have had before are mice. God I hate mice. I once shined my flashlight on one late at night in my kitchen chowing down on a potato. Actually, the only time I have let kids in my house is when there's a critter to catch. They're pretty skilled at that.

So returning from my first run back, I noticed the four bananas I had sitting in a bowl had become, in 45 minutes, two bananas and two bananas worth of peels. I showed my host mom. “Did someone come in my room?” I asked.

She looked at the bananas. “No, of course not. The kids all know not to go in your house.” She confirmed it with the girls pounding millet. No, no one could have possibly come in. “Are you sure you didn't eat them.”

Sounds like something I would do, but I was pretty sure that I didn't eat those two bananas. We concluded that the mouse was back. Pretty hungry mouse! Impressive. I went back inside and noticed my shelves were all messed up and a can of chicken salad was open on the table. I definitely didn't open that can. And I really thought I put it on the shelf too.

“Could a mouse do that?” I showed the can to my host mom, and of course had to explain the concept of canned chicken salad.

“I guess, if it really put it's body up against it and popped the lid.” Geez. This mouse means business. When Shaka and Cesalo heard about this, they offered their mouse hunting services. I asked them to give me a few minutes to clean up around the house (Ameriki goodies were sprawled everywhere as I was still in the process of unpacking) and then they could come in.

I picked up a bit, started cooking my dinner, and was noticing a few other weird stuff in my house. A couple of toys were perched on the window sill. Maybe they fell out of my bag? I did have to crawl through the window to get in at first, as my door tends to get stuck if you don't open it for a few days. I went and tidied up the boxes in the corner as it began to get harder to see in the afternoon dusk.

Then, I noticed something. Behind the gas tank. A large bundle of something Was it my sleeping bag? I touched it. Oh my gosh- I almost screamed. It's a dead body!! It moved, and sat up.

“Madu??? What are you doing here?” The scared 9-year old had been balled up in the corner for a couple of hours, dusty and whimpering.

“Nothing.”

“Why did you come in here?”

“I don't know.”

“Did you take anything.”

“No, I just ate some candy.” I look at the wrappers. Well, he definitely had his daily value of calcium today.

“Were you trying to get the toys out the window?”

“Yes.”

“Did you open that can?”

“Yes.”

“Did you eat the bananas?”

“No. You must have a mouse in here.” Darn it! God I hate mice.

“Madu?”

“Yeah I ate the bananas.” Madu was terrified to go outside, he knew he'd get in big trouble and most definitely get beaten. I tried to hide him for a little while, but it really became time for him to face the music and get out. I can't have him just laying here while I'm trying to cook dinner.

Meanwhile, Shaka and Cesalo are anxiously waiting to go hunt down the mouse. “Did you see it in there?”

“Yeah, I found it.”

“Well where is it?”

“It's here.”

“Did you kill it?”

“No.”

“Well, let it out!”

“I'm going to let it out later.”

“Why? Just let it out now!”

“If I let out the mouse, you have to all promise you won't trouble it, you hear?”

“Yeah, yeah yeah.”

“No one is going to hit it, no one is going to chase it, you'll just let it run away and not tell anyone. Promise?”

As they wondered why I was so protective of this mouse I went in and tried talking to Madu. “You gotta come out now.” And little by little I got him to stand up, go near the door, and there was this dramatic pause as I held the door open and the people outside waited for the mouse to come scurrying out. Finally Madu made his exit, directly to the wooden post outside my house where he immediately hid his face in his arms. Everyone's mouth dropped in a shocking silence.

Back to cooking dinner, I figured the whole situation was too funny to get mad at Madu. Besides, despite my bargaining, I knew he was going to get punished. He's just a kid. But now among the neighborhood, he is forever known as “the mouse.”

I remember sitting here July of 2008, just a few yards away from where I am now. Going through security at the Rochester International Airport was like crossing one of those laser-gel walls you see in scifi movies- it sucks you in spits you into a totally different place, to complete some mission, and doesn't let you go back until you've succeeded. All the wild emotional electricity jumping through my body was untamed and incomprehensible. Not quite knowing what to do with myself, I sat down to write. Just to quiet my thoughts, or at least streamline them on a page so I could attempt to make sense of what was happening to me.

Now 18 months later, I'm back on the same embarkment- Rochester to New York to Paris to Bamako and ultimately, Dombila. A lot has changed since then. But being home, immersed in loved ones, has made it clear that the countless blessings I have in my life are as steady, strong, and even more abundant as before.

I had only started counting down the days until my trip in the 50s. My anticipation was surely evident to the people of Dombila who had to listen to me announce “It's only 2 weeks and four days until I go to Ameriki!!” Then one night I was finally there, checking in to the Bamako airport, giving my last farewell blessing in Bambara and bouncing in my seat with excitement. My sister was to pick me up in Rochester and we would drive thought the sparkling snow to 1880 Hickory Lane where my dad would be tending to a wood fire, my mom making a warm, home cooked meal, and my dogs lounging on the oversized green cabin couches.

The picturesque moment was delayed by about 9 hours because of a series of adventures in transit. The Bamako- Paris plane was still delayed from the awful Paris snowstorms, and we weren't able to leave until an hour and a half past scheduled. This got me to the help desk in Charles de Gualle at 8:17 am for my 8:23 flight to New York.

“I think I need to change my flight,” I told the lady.

“Well, I can put you on a later flight, but you may be able to make it if you try. It's a little delayed and they're still boarding.”

Pumped with adrenalin, I saw some other folks running toward the gate. “New York?” I asked.

“Yep.” And I was soon running alongside folks. Relieved to reach the gate on find people still filing in, the ticket collector halted my approach.

“Wait,” he said and proceeded to explain that due to all the delays they were bumping in people from other flights. I watched the man in front of me skip gleefully into the boarding ramp with the last ticket to NYC. So then it was me and the Moores, an American family living in Abidjan, Cote d'Ivoire for the past 6 months. Not so bad- we got lunch vouchers and I savored my first meal in the Western World (a mozzarella/tomato/ pesto sandwich on hearty hone wheat bread with rich dark hot chocolate), went to the cleanest bathroom I'd seen in a long time, and exchanged living in Africa stories with the Moores and their 3 school-aged children. Snow, lots of bundled up white people, this is starting to look familiar.

We made it on a 12:00 flight out, sat on the runway for 2 hours, and 10 hours later arrive in NYC, well past 5pm EST. Expecting to be home at 2pm, I instead shared my first dinner in the states with another West African PCV I met on my plane- a scrumptious twix bar from the vending machine. Kara and I watched the conveyor belt for an hour and a half before an airport guy announced to the dozens of stragglers from the Paris flight, “Your bags aren't coming.”

He herded us to another line as I watched it get dark outside. I'm going to be spending the night in New York, I concluded. After finding out that I could call to report my lost luggage later, I left the scene of the crime to see what JetBlue could do for a lonely Rochester-bound girl.

You know what I was looking forward to the whole time? Being in a public place where I wasn't the only white person and everyone wasn't staring at me. Well, JFK is full of people of plenty of different races, but I felt that people were still staring at me. Among well-outfitted travelers with their trendy scarfs and jackets and oh-so-easily mobile luggage, here's this disheveled girl in dirty sneakers, prototypical blue medical scrubs and a tee-shirt nonetheless. Carrying- a cardboard box of awkward size and held together by a wrapping of an assorted tape. Its not a bomb, I swear. (It was mostly Caroline's shea nuts that I've been instructed to forward). My other bag, they told me, would be sent to my home in a couple of days. (I would be waiting for 10 days it later turned out, unsure if it was lost forever.)

This is the point that I just wanted to fall over and die. I don't even know how much time passed while I was waiting in the JetBlue line. Hours perhaps. Just packed with people. And they kept playing “I'll be home for Christmas” on repeat. Eventually, I thought. Months of transport hell has seasoned me to the annoyances of travel, but even so, I was completely exhausted, Outrageously sleep deprived I wormed my way through the check-in-line, giving my cardboard box a little kick every moment I crept forward. There's a guy calling upcoming flights so people can sneak in front and not be delayed and further. Compared to some of these weary travelers in my vicinity, I've had it pretty good. Blizzards everywhere the weekend before Christmas. Just our luck.

“Rochester,” he calls.

“Rochester!” I excitedly burst out, scooting toward the front. Only problem- I don't have reservations for the 8:50pm flight. After being sent here and there and hopefully watching as some guys typed away on their computers.

“There's one more seat.” He printed me out the ticket. “But you better hurry.” Easier said than done when you still have baggage check and security. Once through, I'm running again. I reach the gate. Empty. “Boarding for Rochester:” the screen reads, “CLOSED.”

My face drops.

“Has the plane taken off yet?” I ask the tired man who strolls to the counter.

“What is your name?” he shoots me a interrogating look.

“Emily Hurley!” I shove all of my documents at him and hold my breath when he exclaimed them.

“Miss Hurley,” he looks up, “Please make your way to the aircraft.”

I'm grinning as I run down the breezeway and eye seat 26A, the one empty place in the very back of the small plane. I take a deep breath. I'm Going Home.

My lucky break gave me a second wind that allowed me to chat excitedly about the homeland with Jeff, the guy next to me who reintroduced me to some great things like new cell phones and chewing gum.

Then it was the landing. It's Rochester. It's my adorable sister. Finally. It's a winter jacket. It's road signs and Christmas lights. It's Honeoye Falls. It's the driveway, the soft cabin lights. It's Mom. It's Dad. And Hudson and Lilly. It's a Christmas tree and a fire. It's a few tears.

It's home.

I'm not good enough with words to express how wonderful it was being among family and friends for the holidays. But I hope you all know how much it meant to me. I felt like I was seeing the world with new eyes, and I had a new appreciation for everything. Culture shock? Maybe a little. I did have a few accidental outbursts in Bambara, and I can't work these new fandangled cell phones for the life of me. Running in spandex in 20 degree weather was weird for the first two minutes, but then it was old hat. And my gosh did I enjoy the food. But as for being depressed about materialism, I think I got that out of my system after our laundry bill in the hotel resort in Senegal. I was too overwhelmed with happiness- for three solid weeks. I've heard Peace Corps volunteers talk about the frustrations of going home. “People want to hear about Africa, but they really only want to listen to you for five minutes. Then they go on to talk about petty, insignificant things like they don't really care.” Not the case here. Everyone that I spent time with over break was so interested in what I had to say about Mali, and that was so encouraging. I know it's not just me doing my work out here, its the dozens and dozens of people who are invested in it. It's you guys who read these blogs, who donate to the projects, who pray or write or simple ask about what's going on out here. You care. And I always knew that, but this time I got to see its true prominence up close.

My family is just great. I'm so proud of my mother- she's getting in shape with kickboxing classes (and I'll attest: they are tough!) and getting very involved with a new church. My dad as well: he got promoted last year and is finding confidence to be the big boss in the Mental Health Department of Boces1. He may tell you otherwise, but I can tell his brains, experience, and determination is serving him stupendously. Ahh, parents. They've done so much for us. Especially the William and Gina brand. You'd think a kid with loving parents wouldn't leave them for two years to go to Africa. Unless those parents loved her so much that they would support her crazy dream.

And I don't think my sister knows how much I respect her. She is my best friend and I try to be like her everyday. I do. She's the most personable and positive person I know and we had a blast hanging out together. I don't know how, but she can still recite lines from our favorite childhood movies. She'll whip them out at the most opportune times and just send me rolling on the ground. I can't tell you how often I've wanted her by my side in Mali, to find and share humor in these little things that bind us together. She is completely in love with the kids in Dombila, and they day I left I caught her watching some videos of Pacho over and over. “I just need to see these kids again,” she said with a full heart. She's had a successful year with school and lacrosse and it kills me that I wasn't there for her during it all.

New Year's was especially great up and Anne and Marc's cottage. Some good cross country skiing with my dad and sister. (It's always worth it to feed off my father's fascination with the wilderness, and to see Katie wipe out :)) Ice skating under the stars and fireworks at midnight (ie 9:30) while drinking campaign on Lake Pleasant, New Hampshire... it was like a dream. Why did I ever leave this magical land of America? And all these impressive and loving people who I never get sick of spending time with- I have had such a charmed life. That's it- charmed.

I felt like I got to see so many people, and that even if I had momentarily lost touch, I still had close friends. A night with the HFL crew, a night with the Geneseo crew, and catching up with other people here and there. I even felt closer to some people than before- people like my neighbor Tania, superintendent Michele Kavanaugh, my cousin Tucker, my fellow Peace Corps people (Sally, Steve, and Ned) and the phys-ed teachers at HFL had all taken a particular interest in what I was doing here and talking to them was incredibly inspiring.

I also spent a day at the HFL manor school, thanking them for the fundraiser they did for our well projects. I went in to the gym amazed at the equipment and the respectful behavior of the children. Being there was touching, and I was so happy to answer the kids questions: Everything from “Do You Sleep on a Postropedic mattress?” To “Do giraffes come to your house? ” to some real interesting inquiries about the lives and hardships of the kids. They are kids just like you guys- they play and run around and laugh like you. They love soccer. And if there is no soccer ball to be found, they will roll up a bundle of trash and kick it around.

So I come from this land of a prosperity. But how much does that matter? It doesn't matter that we have a Nintendo Wii or this crazy high definition TV that feels like you're standing in the studio of “The Today Show.” It doesn't really matter that the kids at Manor School play with laser lights or I can spend my days watching ridiculous videos on YouTube. Who cares?

But there are things that do matter. I visited Coach Woods in the hospital as he was recovering from surgery. The equipment, just in his one single room, was more than we have for the whole commune of Dombila. At the push of a button he has a medical professional giving him individual service. There's the school I went to, and as I ran around campus looking at the athletic fields, visualizing the computer lab, the wood-shop, the science labs I thought, “Why me? Why did I get all this?” And then there's Molly, my 19-month old second cousin. This little girl is so healthy looking, and has all the toys and snacks and attention anyone can ever dream of. 19 months? This plump little girl? When I went to visit her, she had a fever. My cousin popped a digital thermometer in her mouth and gave her some Children's Motrin. Easy.

We're all lucky in some ways. No matter how small, we all have blessing in our lives. But as for me, my blessings are overflowing at the rim. Thank You.

Christmas was the realization of how I've visualized it to be since childhood. All of the festivities leading up to it were completely heart-warming. I had a blast at the annual junk-from-your-attic yankee swap gift exchange with the Chards, the Christmas Eve cocktail party with the O'Connells, and of course dinner with the relatives at Grandpa's and a peaceful midnight mass. Yet it all led up to Christmas evening in our house, with the candles flickering on the mantle over a soft stone-hugged fire. With Christmas hymns on the stereo and the sparkling tree ornated with memories spanning the generations, we remembered our blessings.

Traditionally, after the chocolate mousse and wine, I play a few Christmas tunes on the piano, and our small group of 10 gathers to sing. I excused myself from dinner early to practice a bit (18 months in Mali left me a little rusty on the ivories). It wasn't long before my grandpa wandered in. Always a bit embarrassed about my mother's rule for Christmas attire- pajamas- I smiled when he arrived sporting black-and-white crossword puzzle flannels.

He began singing over my shoulder. He can carry a tune for sure, complemented by old-fashioned vibrato and the distinctive whistle in his voice. “I was in the boys' choir at St. Something-Or-Others'” he reminds me every year, which is why he knows most of the Latin text.

The small window of which I know my grandpa spans this short frame of his life. But suddenly I found myself longing to know the entirety. What I've come to realize lately is the cliché, “respecting your elders' is not rooted in pity or obligation, but in the value of someone who has seen and lived and learned through a great deal more than you have.

I paid him a visit after New Year's, and we talked more than I ever remember us having before. Family, religion, the quest for the American dream in this century and the last...all over some photo albums and a jigsaw puzzle- (as far as I can remember, I've never seen him without one). This is my heritage, I thought, everything that happened in my grandfather's life is amazingly significant to my existence, my upbringing, and my identity.

In Mali, news about my grandfather usually comes like “He's doing well” but “he's getting old” or “he's slowing down.” At 88, most of his friends have passed before him. And when it gets harder and harder to get out of an empty house and enjoy his favorite pastimes, I suppose we always worried that he didn't have enough to keep him going. I learned though, as I spend the holidays with him, that he has not checked out yet. On the contrary, he seems to be enjoying life even more these days. I never knew he walked for exercise or still goes to mass twice a week. What I always knew, was how proud he is of his family- not in a haughty but in a fatherly-nod-of-approval kind of way. He raised an impressive one- eight amazingly successful children, fifteen smart and promising grandkids, and one adorable grandchild.

Year after year we'd hear him say, “I won't have many Thanksgivings left” or “This could be my last Christmas.” None of that this time. Leaving him back last year was unsettling, so you can imagine my joy when my “I'll see you next fall” was followed by a strong, affirmative hug.

“Absolutely,” he said.

The nights deep silence never broke with the morning.

The village gathered and sat.

The man under the sheet was not at all old,

his wife kneeling on the crumbling floor.

Incense fills the room, a shawl covers her empty gaze.

Dont cry, they tell me.

It was that same night another struggled

to release a new life into the world.

Its called labor

where life should begin, here it has ended for both.

Dont cry, they tell me. Crying is bad.

Seven months old shes brought to me

is it too late for you?

Your fragile body folding up as I held it.

Your only chance is to leave this village.

Take her now, theres no time to loose.

A December morning in Mali

the sun doesnt come out all the way.

I want to cry.

I do.

And they laugh at me for it.

Is it funny?

And they laugh harder.

I know its not funny.

Youve just cried out your cry.

Thanks to you all, there will be 35 improved drinking wells in the village of Dombila. The goal of $4,100 was recently reached, and I can’t thank you all enough for your donations. The project will begin January 2010.

Aw ni baaraji!!! (Thank you!)

Some mornings I wake up and I can see my breath. Nevertheless, a few hours pass and the sun is in full force again. The cold season is easy living around here. Lots of fruits and veggies are in season, and I can actually stay in my hut for more than 10 minutes without sweating profusely. We just celebrated the Muslim Feast of Tabaski (“Seliba” as they say in Bambara, which means “big prayer”). I don’t know how, but joyously, I successfully slid by this year without eating any meat.

Some mornings I wake up and I can see my breath, and before I open my eyes I reach for my lamp on the bedpost and think about what cereal I’m going to eat for breakfast. And then reality hits, there is no lamp, just a mosquito net. And the sounds of my host mom pounding millet can only mean one thing- porridge…again.

No I’m not entirely delusional, I’ve just had my mind on December 19th. When a little plane will take me to Paris, a bigger one will take me to New York, another one to Rochester, where I will spend 20 glorious days in the home that I left 18 months ago. Home for the holidays baby. It’s about time.

Thanksgiving was nice. I spent it again at the ambassadors with a good old fashioned turkey dinner. I got to talk to the whole Hurley gang and get all the updates on the cousins’ moustache growing contest and the amusing remarks of my 88 year old grandfather. But unlike last year, I felt more of a sense of guilt than I did of comfort. I’ve missed two Thanksgivings in a row- that’s grounds for excommunication of the family. I’ve gotta go home. I’ve gotta reconnect. And oh how thankful I am that I will be doing just that.

But I’m keeping busy here at site, which is preventing me from driving myself crazy with fantasies of home. The solar drying project is finally gaining momentum, and I’m also putting together the in-service training for the new stage of volunteers on HIV/AIDS. Malnutrition work is still rewarding, especially now as community health workers become more and more involved. These are pictures from a recent community event in the small town of N’galamadiby, 10k outside of Dombila. It started 3 hours late because my bike broke down and I had to ride some random rickety old man’s bike. (The bike was rickety and old, and the man was rickety and old, just to clear that up).

As a matter of fact, I feel like all of my stuff is breaking, my phone, the windows on my house, my hammock, my radio, the equipment at the CSCOM, my computer… but that’s just life here in Mali. Things don’t break so much in America, do they? I don’t quite remember.

I’ve been traveling a lot to Bamako and back for various work. It’s exhausting to say the least. Travel here is not easy. America, America… travel is easy, isn’t it? I don’t quite remember.

The untold stories. There are dozens. Stories of children making miraculous recoveries, stories of scary experiences I’ve had, stories of people I’ve met and places I’ve discovered. Things I’ve never written in this blog. Things I cannot describe on a computer. The way the goats come trotting back to the compound every evening, the way the babies dance to traditional songs, the way the men drum in the fields each morning to drive the bird each morning. Some things that I know only my eyes will see. But to tell you- to sit down on a cold December day next to the Christmas tree, with a cup of hot chocolate and a blazing fire. Well, in two weeks I’ll be able to do that. And I can also hear about all the way you’ve grown and changed in the last 18 months. Ahhhhh….I’ll see you soon.

1. A teenager praying on his prayer beads

2. Three of my neighbors on the way to morning prayer

3. Kids sporting some Barak Obama gear and sweeet sunglasses

4. Denisie and I (disregard hair-do please!)

5. My new site-mate, Lauren, and I in our holiday outfits

These are pictures from the World AIDS Day Celebration (Dec. 1) in Dombila.

Since school started in early October, I have been training a group of peer educators in whats called the "Life Skills Program". It is an international Peace Corps initiative, recently translated into Bambara, aiming to teach HIV/AIDS basics to youth while helping them develop communication, relationship, and decision making skills. Much better than my previous attempt as sex education, this program is active and focused on real youth issues. I had about 15 volunteer 7th, 8th, and 9th graders who met after school once a week for about two hours. Of course, we had stumbling blocks: getting the girls confident enough to speak in front of their peers, disruptions from younger kids, etc. But in all, it was a really positive experience and I've enjoyed so much getting to know these kids. I conducted post-interviews with all of the participats, to find out how the Life Skills Program can be improved for future volunteers. Yes it was disheartening to see that many of the girls dropped out of the group. But I knew that it was worth it during my interview with one of my favorite kids, Keleke.

"What did you like about Life Skills?"

"I liked the skits, the games..."

"What didn't you like about Life Skills?"

"Ehhh Aminata!" he laughs as he shakes his head, "I liked it all!"

Through games, skits and other activities, these youth have become local HIV experts and tell how their friends have asked them about a number of adolescent issues. The group put together an awareness day for December 1st. As I have also become a gym teacher at the high school, we naturally incoporated running and had a big relay race announced on a loudspeaker for the whole village to watch. In between the boys and girls races, the Life Skills participants performed two skits on HIV/AIDS and good decision making. We then had a showing of a film, followed by discussion questions at the CSCOM. My sitemate Lauren estimated that over 250 people showed up for the event. All of this was done by villagers pitching in and helping out- no outside funding. Yay Dombila!

“I kera Bamanan yere yere ye” (You’ve become a real Bambaran). I hear this phrase more and more often these days as my community notices the small changes I continue to make to become cozier in the culture. It’s the way I tie my head-wrap, or the unexpected slang expression I whip out, the stubbornness in bargaining, or my acquired addiction to strong, sweet, local tea. No, I am still never going near toh, and you don’t have to worry about me walking around shirtless, but even after 18 months I’m making small adaptations and feeling more and more comfortable living this once strange life.

I’ll again thank those of you who sent running shoes to my pose of boys last February. The gifts were embraced and appreciated, not just for their usage but as a sign of support for their running. But here is the truth: the boys’ mothers felt that the shoes were too nice to be worn running around the village and insisted they be saved for the big Muslim holidays when everyone gets dressed up. After I begged them, they allowed the excited boys to run in the shoes. So we went on a run, and something was just not right. The boys were stumbling and uncomfortable, and the high tech shoes were weighing down their otherwise effortless stride. It wasn’t long before the shoes took their rightful place, and the boys got many complements as they proudly strutted around the village during the holiday gatherings.

I still run with Shaka and he still runs barefoot. He still politely trots a few steps behind me during 10, 11, 12 mile runs, but lets loose and kicks my butt in sprints down the soccer field. My parents recently sent me a package and in it they included an article about the benefits of running barefoot and a couple new issues of Runner’s Worlds. There was a blurb in one about this guy who does all his running barefoot. I remember he said something like, “if there is a pebble or even a piece of glass, I just relax and let my foot mold to it.”

Hmmm, let your foot ‘mold’ to it. Maybe that’s Shaka’s secret. On a solo run one morning, deep in the millet fields where no one was watching, I decided to give it a try. It reminded me of the day I secretly jumped in a mud puddle in hopes of escaping the fact that my high class feet need new $100 running shoes every 400 miles. One step, dozens of pebbles, another step, more pebbles- ‘mold’ to it darn it!- a third step, I’m on the ground. Falling is not an uncommon occurrence during my runs. At least once or twice a week I get scraped up as a result of the uneven terrain of the savannah. Sheepishly, I put my shoes back on and ran back to my hut.

The next day, I asked Shaka if he likes running barefoot and if it was easy. “Of course,” he replies. I asked him to teach me. This time we went on a smoother terrain of soft dust. The pebbles weren’t too bad and I managed 5 minutes. I always thought barefoot running was reserved for strides on carefully groomed soccer fields after a properly shoed-run. I now take off my shoes frequently, much to the amusement of the villagers, and have built up to about 2 miles. I tell Shaka I’ll do the run to Dio one day barefoot. If I do, n beke bamanan yere yere yere ye. (I’ll have really really really become Bambaran!)

For some other perspectives, check out the PEACE CORPS MALI blog site:

www.peacecorpsjournals.com/country/ml

My mother especially enjoyed this new volunteers review on Malian cuisine:

http://mattinwestafrica.blogspot.com/2009/11/ive-never-read-article-on-food-before.html

Sweet potato harvest

I often write of the hurdles of working in development, especially in a foreign culture. I recently gave a class on nutrition to our community health workers. You mention something like, "Eggs are filled will all the nutrients needed for a pregnant woman." And you get a question like, "Well, what do you do if your chicken gets mad at your for taking its eggs?" and you want to smack your head against the wall.

But today, let me write about Zanbougou, one of the most impressive places I've visited in Africa. Behold a success story in small scale development, home-grown solutions, and positive community initiative.

I had never been to Zanbougou, as it is outside our CSCOM's area of coverage and not on our vaccination rotation. But I had been invited by some of the community health workers to come for a baby-weighing and child nutrition session with the woman. The hour and a half bike ride began with me tumbling face first into a mud puddle, much to the delight of those accompanging me. Luckily, I was able to wash up before meeting the village elders.

Zanbougou is a small village, hidden in the back dirt roads in a little valley outside of the commune. Sweet potato and cassava fields stretch as far as the eye can see. My guides were four men, enthusiastic, educated, and extreamly active. I also had two of Dombila's community health workers with me, who are being trained to weigh babies and give health presentations. After I was presented with two dozen bananas, fresh milk, potaotes and a chicken, I was taken on a tour to the village. "Wait until you see the dam!" my guides excitedly exclaimed.

On the hike through the descending back brush, one of the men told me that Zanbougou used to have a lot of problems. "There was no water for many hard years. The wells would all go dry. Women would walk for miles to find water, no matter how diry, and carry it back on their heads. The feilds were dry and dying. We wanted to all get up and abandon this place."

Suddenly I found myself standing on a expansive 30 foot wall of bolders and wire. In front of me was a small lake. The villagers of Zanbougou had built a dam about 3 years ago. 250 men worked for every day three months making the journey to the top of the plateau and carrying down boulders. Some boulders were so big that they required 10 men to carry them. Sunrise to sunset. Day after day. No abled-bodied man in the entire village was exempt. Or woman for that matter, as they would search for water and again walk long distances to carry it to the project site.

"Where did you come up with this idea?" I asked in amazement.

"Well we had heard that Durako (another hamlet of Dombila) had an ONG that was building a water tower. We went to them to ask them what we should do about our drought. They told us that if we were willing to build a dam, we could catch some of the runoff water from the plateau and it would get us through the dry seasons. They gave us some of the wire, but we did all of this work ourselves."

"You don't drink this water do you?" It looked a bit questionable.

"Oh no. But ever since this area filled up, our wells are always full with fresh water and our farmland is so fertile. Did you see all of our sweet potatos?" he asked with a prideful smile.

"I've never seen so many potato fields in my life!"

"We're poor here in Zanbougou, but we ain't hungry!"

We proceeded to the gathering place, where dozens of women showed up to listen to the talk. The women actually participated, answering questions and brainstorming- something that I can usually never get the silent women in Dombila to do. The four men took extensive notes on nutrition, as well as the ages, weight, and nutrition indicator level for 40 babies in the village that were brought in for weighing. Only three of these were severly malnourished, but after an ameliorated porriage demonstration, we found that these three (who had not been started on complimentary foods yet) eagerly drank the porriage. Their mothers prepared a dance and song for me as they were so happy they found a way to give their kids strengh. The team of 4 Zanbougou guys volunteered to track these 3 and the 6 moderately malnourished kids, with home visits and arm measurements, and I have already heard news that all are eating and doing well.

So what's next for Zanbougou?

"What we really want is a maternity," they told me, and asked if I could help. I told them that that's outside of my realm of work, but I would keep my eyes and ears open for other organizations that can build them. "And we're also thinking of something else that would really put Zanbougou on the map."

"What's that?"

"A potato chip factory! We have so many sweet potatos here, all we need to do is get some equiptment and we could package potato chips and send them out all over the world!"

In all my time in Mali, I've never seen a single potato chip. Where did these guys, from the middle of rural African nowhere come up with something like this? I put my chicken on my bike handles and rode home. My host family wanted to cook the chicken that night.

"Hey, why don't we ever save the chickens and eat the eggs?"

"Chickens get mad if you take their eggs."

Oh Lordy. By the time Dombila figures out how to fry an egg, you'll all be eating Zan-Chips instead of Pringles.

Dombila children lined up for the relay run to raise support and awareness for clean water and sanitation

So here's what happened:

I wasn't even sure if my supervisor at Peace Corps had read through my project yet. But after talking to my family last week, I realized my project had not only been approved, posted on the internet, but it already had over $2,200 of funding! From all of YOU! That is unheard of. Some of my friends have had projects posted for months now and only have very small fraction of that. Unbelievable! I can't thank you all enough, but once the project is fully funded, I will hopefully get a list of your names (didn't happen for that last project) and be able to thank you all individually. Dombila is so excited for this new well project, and it's you all who are making it possible!

If you want to help us chip away at the final $1900, you can donate here: https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=resources.donors.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=688-318

Here in Bamako again, frantically trying to get some computer work done. My eyes are throbbing. Work has piled up and our sketchy solar panal fried both my laptop and my CSCOM's. So much for our medical records! But for now, I have to get out of site every so often to work on materials for the big training we have coming in January. A lot of typing in a lot of different languages. Since when did this become a real job and not some exotic adventure?

I was browsing through my blog to see that there are a lot of loose ends. I should probably give you some brief updates as to what's going on with some of that.

- The witch lady and I are now friends. I think. She is still creepy, but after she's done giving me the evil eye, she gives me a big, toothless smile, which I think is genuine.

-The cucumbers in my garden were a mild success, worms ate much of the tomatoes but the urine fertillizer did actually make them more fruitful.(the tomatoes, not the worms) I did end my gardening season with one killer zuccini that we ate on Ramadan.

-Things with Camera, my English speaking friend, are good. He's actually applying for a job with the Peace Corps. Let's hope he has good luck with that!

-Things are also good with Irene. She's a larger than life woman, so I'll always have to deal with that. But I'm not as worried about being at her beckoned call all the time. And she has helped me out a ton.

-My host sister's baby (Aminata) is fat and smiley, though they've moved to another town. My host mother's Sama is still on the small side, doesn't like many people, but is approaching her first birthday and is as cute as ever. Noellie, now 18 months, has a brilliant curiosity that just fascinates me. He's a quick learner, loves to explore and play games, has a confidence that just cracks everyone up. He can even say "how are you? i'm fine" in english! Pacho is 4 now, and we have had our wedding ceremony, presided over by Shaka and Cesalo. He then told me he with take Caroline as a second wife.

-Lauren, my new site mate, is having all her own adventures in the little town of Koyan. She's doing great, and came up to Dombila for a meeting last week. "Wow," she said of my village, "I feel like I'm in a big city!" Oh Lord bless her.

- Caroline has a huge project just starting up- a $16,000 center for shea butter production. I hope it goes smoothly. Hunter is happier too after moving to a new house.

- Shaka is running again. After taking the whole summer off to farm (besides a couple 2 milers a week in the mornings)he's now on fire again. I don't understand it. He sprinted to Dio on market day, and I couldn't keep up with him... ON MY BIKE! I trained for a marathon, but I'm sill nothing next to this deceivingly does this scrawny 75 pound 13 year old. I can still do more push-ups than him though.

- My radio show has been cancelled. It's ridiculous. The higher ups want money, I refuse to give them any, they are just waiting for me to give in and pretend that I can still do my radio show. They turned me, my guitar, and a small choir of 3 children ready to sing about vaccinations away last night. Not until we clear it with the committee (who want my money). I cried. That's just not right.

- Work besides that is great, really. As farming season is over, people actually have time to do other things, like sanitation outreach and work with women's groups. It's exciting, and besides the normal nuiances that come with dealing with Malians, I feel like we might be getting somewhere.

To all the little runners in Lima and Manor, to the teachers and administration who supported the event, to my parents and sister who helped organize, and especially to Debbie Clapp and Kevin O'Connell who brought all the heart and soul of Africa into their gym classes- You guys rock!

Together you raised over $400 for the new well project in Dombila. That means 4 wells can be improved to provide dozens of people with cleaner drinking water. Not only that but we have kids across the world who have a better understanding of each other. We know we're different, but there is something we have in common- we all can run to show our support for good health!

The people of Dombila have heard all about your efforts and are appriciative and excited. Aw ni baaraji!

Stay tuned for the website if anyone want to make any further donations. We can't thank you enough.

I should have seen it coming. Every development worker speaks of the corruption anchor, that undismissingly drags at the cundercurrent of otherwise promising embarkments of development. Sometimes it sinks the ship down. Other times it changes its course. But usually we who try to drive our projects forward just keep treading and pushing, too scared or naive to confront what's happening behind our backs. We are determined to progress, despite the shady activity going on beneath the waters.

So then what did I do when all at once, I was a victim of blatant corruption that not only demanded immediate acknowledgement, but also opened my eyes to a series of wrong-doing I had glazed over during the past year?

"B.", as we call him, is always excited to help with a project. He built the school's handwashing stations, headed up construction on the wells, and has recently shown an interest in my latest project idea: solar fruit dryers for mango preservation. He is after all, Dombila's Mr. Fix-it. Shortly after presenting him with some information, he excitedly told me he had called his friend in Kati who makes these things regularly. "I'm gonig to Kati to learn how to build one with him, then I'll bring it back here as an example for people to see."

But he needed some money. $30.

"That sounds a little steep," I said.

"But he's making a big one!"

"Why?"

"He'll make a big one now and later we'll make smaller ones, and I know the price will lower if we make a lot of them at once." Unfortunately, any suspicians I had were crowded out by my excitement and impatience in starting this project. "Even if you give him $20 now, you can pay the rest later."

"And when we write the project proposal, I'll write it in my budget and get refunded," I reasoned.

"Exactly."

Later that day, B came to my house looking for the money. For a Malian, that's a big chunk of change. Why did he need it now? He fished for an answer and finally said that the guy was here in the market and needed it now. I was busy with a million things as always on market day, but what it comes down to is I'm a sucker. I coughed it up.

It didn't take long before I told Irene and my host family the buisness. "$20?" they exclaimed, "A solar table is not worth $20!" I withheld that there was still $10 to be added to it. Irene was upset I didn't go to her first. Daramane, my host father, told me it's common knowledge that if something costs so much, B will tell you its actually more and put the difference in his pocket. The rest of the actors in the scene confessed to seeing B skipping around the market on a shopping spree shortly after I had given him the money.

This was three weeks ago. After that there were all these excuses about why he hadn't gone to Kati yet and how tommorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow- the same song he sang during the slower period of the well project. I went to Ghana expecting to come back to at least a functional mango drier in my compound.

In the week following, excuses included transportation problems, and a very elaborate story about how he went to Kati, knocked on his friend's door, only to find out that he had left town for a funeral and of course forgot his cell phone so couldn't be reached. He can sense my anger now, and makes a promise to go on Friday.

"Ok," I say, "but I want to go with you and meet this guy." Firday comes, B is in no rush to go to Kati, and rolls in on the hot afternoon having decided it would be better to go sleep in Kati tonight and meet us Saturday morning. We were to meet at 8:00 in Malibougou, a small hamlet of Kati where this mysterious capenter, who cannot be reached by cell phone, has been dilegently working on my solar drier.

I spent the night with Caroline. She made a wonderful stew and we talked theology as we counted shooting stars and slapped mosquitos dead on our legs. We went to find a car for Kati bright and early. I called B.

"Are you in Kati?"

"No I'm still in Dombila. Couldn't go last night but I'm on my way."

"Great, we'll wait for you and we'll all go together."

An hour later, I call to find B still in Dombila. "I'm busy," he says, "Work."

"But we've had this appointment all week." What could he possibly be doing?

"And you need to come to Dombila right away. There's a mother with a malnourished baby thats been waiting for you all morning."

"Well Irene's there, she knew I had other work today. She can see them."

"No, we can't find Irene."

"What about Sali?"

"She's busy. There's a ton of people at the CSCOM. They're going to turn the mother away if you don't come."

What a weapon he pulled! Trying to tug at my heartstrtings like that! He knows my weakness, but at this point I know better.

"We're going to Kati," I say, "what's your friend's name and number?"

"You forgot his name already?"

"You never told it to me."

"Yes I did." Pause. "Daouda Coulibaly. I'll call you back with his number." And that was the last I heard from B that day, even with my persistant calling.

Caroline and I lifter our spirits by pretending we were on the Amazing Race or some wacky scavenger hunt. We spent the whole morning in Malibougou and even the center of Kati asking about this carpenter, Daouda Coulibaly, whom nobody seemed to know. Maybe you can ask here, there, over there, did you try that place? We were told. Once we had combed the area thoroughly and concluded that Daouda Coulibaly really doesn't exist, not to mention our solar drier, we headed back to Dio.

I was angry of course and undecided about how I would handle the situation, but honestly felt like I had accomplished something that morning. Case closed. I know the truth now. And I put some more pieces together in my mind- that extra barrel from the handwashing station, the $60 missing from the last project that I made up out of my own pocket, the extra well cement that had disappeared to the black market, and the $14 loan I stupidly made hime to help a sick relative in one of my first naive months here. (First and last loan I ever made here).

Caroline recommended we talk to her carpenter friend, a firery old bearded guy who fixed her window and made desks for the school. A few days later we had a meeting with him in Dombila. He agreed to help with the project, but was not free of B's pestering. B kept interrupting with his enthusiasm and supposed expertise of the project, on fear that he would be out of a job (or out of access to a pot of potential money from Uncle Sam).

"B., Kalanmoko is going to help with this project. It's easier than having to go all the way to Kati, he can make them right here in Dio."

"I was going to go to Kati this afternoon to get your table!" I gave him a blank stare. "Oh, would you rather I get you your money."

"Get me my money."

He never went, still hasn't, and so rests the fate of another handful of good-intended green ones from the American people.

So I’m back from Ghana and still on cloud nine. That was the best vacation ever. Even my ex-pat friend Mike was impressed with my traveling skills. After the marathon I took off on my own to see some historical sites- the old slave castle in the old British capital of the New World- Cape Coast, the Kakum national part with its canopy walk over the roof of the rainforest. I stayed in youth hostels, took local transportation or hitch-hiked with some more missionaries, found some great Ghanaian street food, and just explored. Beaches, old colonial churches, the rainforest and swamp-lands…it was very liberating traveling around on my own, and a truly amazing experience. When I return, make sure to ask me about the salsa dancing. Some PCVs and I ended up at the hot spot for the beautiful people in Ghana my last night- a large salsa dancing party- me feeling totally out of place in my running shoes and dirty jeans. But nonetheless, I found myself being twirled and dipped by Ghanaian men who despite their tight pants and pretentious sunglasses were actually quite talented dancers.

Now I’m back in Mali. I forgot how dirty it is here. In Ghana, there’s like bathrooms and garbage cans and stuff. And now my legs have that perpetual coat of dirt. Bamako is not my favorite place in the world, so I’ll be happy to get out of here tonight. I wonder what it’s going to be like getting back to village. How long with it take me and my villagers to get back in the swing of things? I feel guilty as always- my villagers, especially my co-workers in the CSCOM work really hard under trying conditions. They never get a vacation to Ghana. And what will my new attitude be toward the work I want to accomplish? Will I have a fresh positive view or be looking at things in a different way? I guess I’ll find out soon enough.

Before I left, the kids in the village did a relay run. We organized it to learn about clean water and the dangers of dehydration. A similar run will be happening in the HFL schools back in my home town too. They will be working to raise money for the expansion of the well project. Keep your eyes open in the next month because I am planning on posting the project soon. We will be trying to raise somewhere between $3,000- $4,000 to do more top well repairs in the village. So, I’m going to need your help. Again, thanks to all who helped with the hand washing stations- I finally got your names so I’ll be working on the thank-you notes soon!

Allah k’a yafa di an ma, ka keneya ni here di an ma. (My God forgive us, and give us health and peace).

After I bid farewell to Maridee and Lani- they were headed for a cheap night’s sleep before their departure for Cape Coast, I pulled out a small piece of scrap paper. On it, I had written numbers and names of connections in Ghana, the most valuable being “the guy Mike” as Joel likes to refer to him. A friend of the marathon race director, Mike is an American living in Ghana who had graciously agreed to put Joel and I up for a couple of nights. I gave him a call, and within minutes I was settling in to a high class apartment in the lush district of Accra.

I couldn’t believe how I was welcomed with a key and instructions to make myself at home. Mike was great company. I middle aged former PCV and also regular marathoner. We exchanged stories about Peace Corps for a while, and I turned in to bed early, in my very own guest room complete with air conditioning. Livin the life.

The next morning, I made friends with the 8 Peace Corps volunteers from Ghana who were registering alongside me the morning before the race. It almost felt like home again, getting all in the running mode. Except for the fact that it took me four hours to get my teeshirt- we’re still in Africa.

They showed me around town and even invited me to the country director’s house for a pre-race pasta dinner. That night, Mike’s guests went from 1 to 5 nomadic Peace Corps volunteers- he seemed to be having a great time though. Alone here on a year long project with NGO consulting, now he had a house full of Peace Corps kids, and was as laid back as you can get.

I had a bit trouble falling asleep because of excitement, and managed to get in 3 or 4 hours total before our alarm went off at 2:30 a.m. We had called a taxi to pick us up and bring us to the shuttle, which would get us to the start plenty of time before the 5:30 gun time. It’s Africa, may I remind you, the marathon actually started at 6:45.

My plan was to start out around 8:40 pace, but that completely went out the window. I ran the first 7 miles with a PCV from Ghana, Serena at about an 8:15 pace. Then I wiped out and after that I was on a mission. I was hitting some good mile times in the middle there, trying to draft off of people as much as I could. We ran with a terrible head wind in our faces for the entire race (it was all in one direction on the coast of the ocean). But drafting off of Africans is difficult. Most of the ones back with me were guys in decent shape but very confused on how to pace themselves. We’d be going 7:15 pace one minute and 9:00 pace the next.

The course was terrible- in mid morning traffic in down-town Accra. They didn’t clear the roads, so I was dodging crazy taxi drivers and breathing in smog. And after the thing spead out, there were many times when I was all alone, wondering if I was still going the right way. Support was pretty good though, enough water-stations, bananas and whatnot. But the Ghanians running the stations half expected me to stop and take an order like I was at McDonalds. I got the hand of yelling “Juice Jucie!” or “Water! Water!” from 20 meters away to get them prepared. I was once handed an entire carton liter of orange juice, what the heck? And took a water cup that always had water in it before, dumped it over my head only to find out it was apple juice.

I definitely slowed down the last 5 miles, but I felt surpisingly good the whole way through. And I got good at yelling “Move! Move!” When I city bus would be letting out a crowd of Ghanaias right in front of my path. I placed 5th among women (1st white girl!) in 3:47. Not bad for a first timer. I’m sure the time could have been faster under better weather and race conditions, but I was happy. I like the marathon, and will most definitely be running more of them (in the states!). My new friends were pretty impressed, as was Mike who left us a feast of lunch meats, pitas, fruit, junk food and drinks back at the apartment. Oh yeah, and I won the equivalent of $100!

Where do I start? As life in Mali was beginning to get mundane, I pleaded for your suggestions. What the heck to I write about these days? I had drafted a blog entry about the condition of my bicycle and yet another update on the weather. (I bet you can't wait.) But now, as I am sitting in the Peace Corps office of Accra, Ghana (the very first Peace Corps establishment in 1961), I have plenty other things to report.

I sort of explained to my village I was going on a vacation to Ghana and running a 42 kilometer race. I didn’t want to make it too big of a deal, especially in the midst of the Feast of Ramadan this past weekend. The Feast, I am disappointed to say, was not much of a feast. The Muslim calendar and mother nature’s harvest calendar clashed in such a way that no one had any money or means to really celebrate. Oh sure, they killed a goat at the Bouare’s house, and I actually did eat some unidentified parts of it in hoping to get some extra nutrients for this marathon. But even the xylophones weren’t as well attended- people complained about not having any new fancy clothes to wear. Most of my feast was spent at the party of Shaka and his gang of 6 school boys. During the school vacation this summer, they had a little business running errands and doing chores for people around the village. They collectively managed to save up 4500 cfa (almost $9) and splurged on macaroni, tea, sodas and I contributed some fried plantains. They claimed they were going to dance all night in the little open storage hut that my host dad just built next to mine, but a little after midnight most of them had passed out, their tapes of xylophone music still blaring on the old cassette player. It was wicked cute.

Work only started to get really crazy Wednesday morning, as I was about to leave for my trip. Irene was away at a funeral, Sali was tending to a woman in labor, and 50+ screaming babies were waiting for the vaccinations. It was only me, Viay the vacainator, and two community health workers (one so clueless he might have well been one of the babies). Instead of doing my normal weighing routine and individual consuling, I scanned the crowd and hand-picked babies to be weighed (I’ve developed a pretty good eye for malnutrition, even when they’re all tied up on their mother’s backs.) Here I am running here and there, registering kids, trying to understand why they’re not eating, what the mothers should be doing differently, and the sun keeps rising higher and higher. I got to think about getting out of here soon.

I had a lot on my mind. I was to leave Thursday morning on a flight to Lome, Togo, and aftwerwords find ground transport across the Togo boarder to Accra, Ghana. My civilian passport was still sitting in the Togonese embassy across town in Bamako, and my government passport, with my Malian visa, was nowhere to be found. I ripped my hut apart a number of times and resorted to the prayer and chance that I had passed it over in my safe in Bamako. I could get to Ghana (that is if my Togo visa was processed alright) but could I get back into Mali? Not to mention the fact that my debit card was not working in any ATMs I tried, and between cash and what I had in my Peace Corps account, I had barely over $100 to my name. My computer charger was nowhere to be found, and fresh out of hotel vochuers I had no idea where I was going to sleep in Bamako, if I even made it there in the first place.

My route to Ghana would be solo, but I was to meet up with two characters at some random, nook in the wall hotel we chose- Joel, my marathoning buddy, and Maridee, a retired, older volunteer meeting her daughter’s plane from the states in Ghana. Maridee and her daughter were going to travel around shortly after meeting up, and Joel and I were going to stick together. Meet at hotel, stay with some ex-pat named Mike whose number we got from the race director, race, then travel up to Cape Coast for some real vacation time. Heck, we even decided to stick together on the same pace for the first 10-13 miles of the race. It was because I had heard Joel was doing this marathon that convinced me to sign up in the first place.

By 11:00 I was on my bike and off. Fotiki was following me, the father of Sayo. Sayo is 18 months and has been on our malnutrition rehab program for 4 months now. Each week he drops a few more grams. Puzzeled by our many attempts at counseling and treating underlying diseases, Bouare and I referred him to the hospital in Kati. After much convincing and a few loans from friends, Fotiki and his wife Teresi agreed to go for referred treatment. I was to help them check in and get settled.

So I’m swerving down the road of Dio (the brakes on my bike are broken)trying to get things in order by making frantic calls on my cell phone. (Anyone ever driven with me in the States?)

“Hey Joel, are you in Bamako yet? I think I have a package from my parents in and I don’t know if I’ll be in in time to pick it up.”

“Oh, no I’m not,” Joel responded.

“Are you still in village?” I asked.

“Yeah, did you get my message last night?”

“No…”

Turns out Joel is violently ill with some stomach thing and throat infection and any one of those lovely parasites you can pick up here in Africa. Bottom line: He bailed from the trip. I’m in this one alone.

Transport to Kati was rough, as we stopped to load 50 potato sacks on the top of the bush taxi, and had some dude jumping on and off the roof the whole way there. God knows why. Fotiki, the silent, solemn field farmer he is, was getting impatient. We got there, got settled, dealt with a few helpful and not-so-helpful people at the hospital. Just as I was in the middle of meeting with some of the doctors, my phone rang.

It was Maridee, about to get on her bus. 2 days in the heat across the savannah to Ghana. I’m glad I had a plane ticket at least part of the way.

“Emily- can you pick my daughter up from the airport in Accra tomorrow night? Her plane comes in at 6:30, she’s got long curly hair, her name is Lani. I’m not going to be there until the next morning.” And here I’m trying to get out of the hospital to meet with my friend Camera to help him with a Peace Corps job application, and to get to Bamako, find a place to stay, find my damn passport. I’ve developed a reputation around the volunteers here. Emily is the scatterbrain.

“I’ll try Maridee, but I can’t promise anything.”

Yet things only went smoothly after that. My visa card was working, I even got my Peace Corps paycheck in. My passport ended up being in the desk drawer of the staff member who went to get our Visas renewed, my friend Pete offered me a place to stay, got my vaccine card and boarding pass, I got a fabulous pre-marathon package filled with energy gels, whole grain pasta and new shoes, and I even snagged an old bathing suit top from the lost-and-found. My bathing suit top is lost, but now I can at least hit the beach. (I won’t be matching, oh well…) The only thing that didn’t turn up was my computer charger. So I’m lugging around a dead laptop. Things could be worse.

I’m in a great mood as I check in at the Bamako airport. Being the confusing place it is, I was happy to be on the plane headed for Lome, Togo. Togo is French speaking, and when I arrived I had to find out how I would get to Ghana.

The short taxi drive along the coast ended up at this huge archway with the normal crowds of African beggars and sellers. I get out of my taxi to a rail-thin girl in a lace shawl. “Welcome Sieeeeestarrrrrr!” Pushing through crowds of Africans like this is nothing new, but I didn’t have the trick of being able to speak their native tongue. I showed my papers to a bunch of official looking people, one by one, and was then alone with my two bags, staring at busses and cars.

“We need one more for Accra!” An excited man is yelling standing next to a rather modern, family style SUV. Looks nice. I’ll take it. Because I didn’t have any Ghanian money, I just shoved some CFAs at him, who ran to exchange the money with one of the black market dealers roaming around the coastal scene with wads of bills. Before I knew it, I was on a bumpy road with a Nigerian woman, her brother and his wife, listening to some Rhumba and headed 3 hours West. I take a step back- Did I really just cross the Togo-Ghanian boarder and now I’ve pretty much hitchhiked with a family from Nigeria? Where has life taken me? I’m having a blast already.

Ghana’s a lot different from Mali. Sure, village life is similar all around West Africa, though they’ve replaced millet stalks with palm branches and bamboo on the roofs of their huts. A bit more tropical, a bit more fun. Even the music is better. Instead of this weird, zany, disharmonic xylophone stuff, we got some great base and lively African coastal jams. And to top it all off, ENGLISH SPEAKING. I’m liking Ghana.

The other thing that struck me was the huge Christian presence. We drove by tons of little churches and catholic schools. There were little shack stores like “Jesus is a Winner Plastics” and “God is With You Cold Cuts”. My mind went to the road trip I took with some high school friends a few summers ago on the back roads of Carolina.

We reached the outskirts of Accra, and the Nigerian family just kind of dropped me off on a highway by a little taxi corner. Hmmm, I thought, what to do now. I look at my phone- a little after 5. Well, might as well find the airport.

The Ghana airport was a strange place. There were billboards reading “Trafficking Drugs? You’ll be caught!” “Cocaine Kills!” “Need drug counseling? Call blablabla”. I ran into a whole fleet of missionaries fresh off the plane from Tennessee. They greeted me with enthusiasm knowing I was American. “Oehw! Are yew a missinery tew?”

I got some great Chinese food (well, great to me) and scribbled “Lani” on the back of my boarding pass, and held it up to the exiting travelers feeling like and idiot. It wasn’t long after a confused girl with long curly hair wheeled her luggage around the corner. She did a double-take. “Wait, I’m Lani.”

“Oh! I’m Emily. I know your Mom. We’re supposed to meet her tomorrow morning at the hotel Christanbourg.”

“Oh Ok. I had no idea anyone was coming to meet me!”

“Neither did I! Welcome to Africa.”

Lani and I checked into the rusting hotel and walked out with a Ghanaian staff member to get some food for Lani. She was taking it all in, the air, the clothing, the colors. I, on the other hand was thinking how strange this is. We don’t have the secret language anymore. We are around these Ghanaians who can speak their language that we don’t understand, but if we speak English, they DO understand it! It’s all backwords! I’m supposed to be able to say whatever I want in English without the African understanding (almost got in trouble with that one), and they have no defense because I know Bambara. Ghana is pretty cool, but I’ve been stripped of my weapon.

Exhausted from traveling, we went to bed early. The hotel was pretty gross and overpriced, but it was the designated meeting place. And all I had to get me through the rest of the week was some phone numbers ("We're staying with a guy named Mike" Joel had briefly told be a few weeks ago) and the hope that I’d make some new friends at the Peace Corps office. So I cranked up the air conditioning and enjoyed a good night sleep.

I’ve been training fairly well for this thing. Before my taper, I was up to 63 miles a week and had done a couple of 18 mile long runs and a 20 miler. Not in the shape I was in college, and still carrying around some rice weight, but feeling better than I ever have in country. And my body knows something’s up. I’ve been naturally getting up earlier and drinking a ton of water. Not to mention I bought a loaf of wheat bread and ate the entire thing today. Yummmm. I just hope I don’t regret it.

Like the Chinese.

Or maybe it was the smoothie.

Whatever it was, my body was a little surprised and unfamiliar with it this morning. About three miles in to an easy 4 miler, I had an urge. Some call it “Runner’s Trots.” Here in Peace Corps, we call it “Mr. D.” Whatever you want to call it, I needed some sort of toilet facility. Immediately.

I went to a little corner shop and asked the woman if there was a toilet around. Her English was not great and she first started giving me information about renting a toilet. No, I don’t want to rent one, I have to use one!

We walked across the street to her family’s compound. It was a nice place, clean, with a driveway and a few men hosing down a car. But we had walked. And my intestines didn’t want to wait. It was beyond my power, I don’t know if I’ve ever had an experience like this before, and if I have, I’ve been on some back trail with bushes all over the place. Here I am in the middle of a foreign city in some random Ghanian woman’s driveway and there is s**t dropping from my shorts on to it. The men washing the car look at each other and then give me a strange look. “I am very very sick.” I said. Actually, I felt fine, but I just couldn’t control something. But I played it like I’ve never been so sick in my life, bending over, holding my stomach.

There is someone in the bathroom. The woman is yelling at him to come out in Ashanti, (their native language). All I could make out of it was “Poo! Poo!” A frantic man in nothing but a very tight blue speedo comes out, and I run in. The woman hands me a whole role of toilet paper, in which I use the entire thing. It was a pretty clean bathroom, I thought. I almost wished it was a negen so I wouldn’t feel so bad about being in here. I take my time, trying not to leave any trace. I hear her from the outside, “I am waiting for you,” every couple of minutes.

When I finally emerge, this big Ghanian woman, now abuzz and spastic, hurridley shoves me into the neighboring room where a small shower is running. “Now you wash! Wash it all!” I get in the shower with my clothes on and scrub. “And you yooose da soap! Yooose da soap!” I’m thinking I’ll just clean up as best as I can, throw on my running shoes and sprint out of here. I’ve never been so embarrassed as far as I can remember.

She tries to offer me a change of clothes. “No, it’s ok.” I’m still in the shower, you see. “Wash it! Wash it here!” I thought she was talking about the shower floor. She is almost having a heart attack with her thick glasses and her bright orange African garb. She probably thinks I’m super sick or just wicked disgusting. I pick up a loofa sheet and start to wash the floor. “Wash it! No, no- here!” I look at her, she is pointing to her bee-hind. “No- here!” I close the bathroom door and scrub myself clean. With da soap. I put on my shoes, hurriedly apologize to the entire family, and the woman walks me out.

I try to give her money, I’m apologizing excessively now but she is seriously worried about me. She wants to help me get back, she thinks I’m really sick. I said my friends were down the street and I’d be fine. She tells me to come back if I need anything, anytime. Ghanians are nice right? I don’t think I’d tell that to a stranger/foreigner that s**t all over my house. I do the act and limp down the street holding my stomach, and when I turn the corner, start on finishing my run like before. What else is there left to do?

Note to self: No Chinese before the marathon.

For those of you that do read this blog, I'd love your feedback. I know it's important to me to write for myself, but I don't have to publish every boring thing that goes on. What do you want to hear about? Culture? Projects? My personal life and thoughts? Descriptions of people in the village? Let me know so that I try to make this blog more exciting for you all to read. I also have some suggested reading for any of you really interested in this stuff.

Books on Peace Corps Life in West Africa:

-Monique and the Mango Rains (Kris Halloway)

-Nine Hills To Nambonkaha (Sarah Erdman)

Adventures in Health Education in Mali:

- Dancing Skeletons (Katherine A. Dettwyler)

(gives a great picture of malnutrition work in Mali by an American anthropologist)

Books on Development and Health

- The White Man's Burden (William Easterly)

- The End of Poverty (Jeffery Sachs)

- Pathologies of Power (Paul Farmer)

Let me know if you get a chance to read any of these.

Peace,

Emily

I have stories to write about various festivities- ranging from Peace Corps volunteers, to college-kids from Kati, to Muslims in Ramadan. It is the season! And when I return to my computer this entry will be replaced with all the details.

A few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of meeting Andi and Sedou. Andi is a friend of a friend, and I got her information before heading to Mali. From the Rochester area, she now resides in New York City where she met and married Sedou. Sedou, is a Malian! Apparently there is a little pocket of Malians in NYC. Like a "Little Mali". They speak Bambara, make rice and peanut sauce and everything. Andi told me about how she once made toh on their apartment stove. I can just see Sedou instructing her on how to whip the thick paste just like the women in the Malian villages do.

So Andi has had a bit of exposure to Malian culture. She could speak a little Bambara, new some of the customs. But nothing would have prepared her for her first intense experience in Mali. After Andi and Sedou wed in New York, they planned their trip to Sedou's homeland. When I first got to Mali, I was eased into things. Surrounded by Americans, pizza for dinner the first night, a dooni-dooni philosophy of adapting to the cutlure. When Andi first came to Mali, she was thrust into the center of a traditional wedding, caught in a whirlwind as her new family welcomed their son's bride.

I imagine it somewhat like the other Malian weddings I've been to, except this time with a spunky, excited white girl as the woman of the day. She must have gotten her feet painted with henna, given traditional wedding garb to wear, and lead around all day by old women with a shawl over her head. Sitting in the middle of a circle of women, her head covered a thick scarf, she stared at the ground like she was supposed to. Meanwhile, women danced around her to the slow beat of a drum while a griot sang her blessings. All the time thinking about the next few days of house-arrest honeymoon tradition to look forward to.

"I had no idea what was going on!" she confessed. "All of the sudden an old, calloused hand started washing my face as part of the ritual. I thought, Oh there goes my makeup! Well at least no one can see because of this hooded shawl." Meanwhile, the old woman tore off the shawl to reveal the new, cleaned bride (with her mascara running) to the entire crowd.

If anyone could be a great sport about it all, it was Andi. Though new to the country, she was so genuinely excited and full of adoration. A rainstorm and family obligations kept them from getting out to Dombila, which was too bad. Andi aspires to get her medical degree and move back to Mali to work in health care. How cool is that? Sedou is now doing graduate studies in agriculture, and has actually been to Dombila doing some work while he was still in the country.

What a fascinating and courageous couple! It was a joy to meet them and I wish them all the best in their marriage. I know I'll be making a trip to NYC after my Peace Corps service for some good Bambara conversation and some Peter Pan Peanut Butter Sauce and rice. Thanks for the visit, and the blessings from Joanne and Mary!

I wrote this two weeks ago:

I'm tired. Happy but tired. It's been a good week. We've had two wash-out days, which everyone loves. It's an excuse to sleep in and it quiets the qualms of drought that the farmers have been worried about. Rainy Season got off to a slow start. When I was in Bamako helping with training for the new trainees, I casually mentioned to one of my fellow PCVs, "I remembered the rainy season being a lot more brutal last year." She looked at me like I was crazy- "Where have you been? We're in a drought!" Apparently we haven't seen a drier August since 1976, where millions of people struggled because of the poor harvest.

Luckily, the rain has redeemed itself this September, leaving us with two days this week where I could hardly step out of my house. I was able to do some computer work with my chef de post and catch up on my sleep however!

My thoughts to this day are more rain rain go away. The two wash out days turned into 5, and I found those lovely rainy mornings beginning to get under my skin. There are only so many hours I can sit in my hut keeping myself occupied. Only so many naps I can take, so many lists I can make of things I want to get done once the rain stops, only so much reading one can do by flashlight.

When people aren't waiting out the rain, they are sprinting to the fields to get some farming in. The kids are out of school, helping in the fields, the women have tons of work to do, and are not interested in doing health education or bringing their malnurished kids all the way to the CSCOM for weighing. And any free minute the men have, they are resting to recover their bodies from the daylight fasting of the month of Ramadan. My radio show has been rained out twice. Vaccination Days have been canceled. So again, I must report, work is on the slow side.

I have however, had a pastfew busy days in Bamako. Bamako is way more stressful than village, and I realize how much I love my life in Dombila when I'm swamped with real world stuff. It has been nice though to do some computer work and business networking. I've been chosen as the new National Coordinator for Peace Corps HIV/AIDS Task Force, so I've had a lot of, I suppose, "coordinating" to get started on. I'm also getting my travel plans all squared away for my upcoming vacation to Ghana. I'll be running the marathon there on Sept. 27. We'll see how that goes! Training has been fun- it's kept me focused and motivated, though I am still realistic about how much my body can do in this environment. I'll make sure to let you know how it goes. My first marathon, it should be lots of fun.

As far as other work in village, a couple things are going on. I'm helping with a project called "Keneya Ciwara" which is aimed at improving management in the community health centers. I'm also planning a kid's running relay to coincide with one going on back home at HFL. We're going to center it around Clean Water education, while the kids in the states are going to raise money for the expansion of our well project. I'm really excited that everyone back at home is so into this. Our run in on the 21st and I'll be sure to send some picutres.

I'm also eating cucumbers from my garden :) Ah, the simple life.

Still on the rollercoaster. It’s been long enough, you know? On this day, I find myself sitting in the stage-house in Koulikoro. It’s a weekend party welcoming the new trainees at the end of their site-visit week. Being with 25 Americans freaked me out for the first night. I felt like an awkward 13-year old. How do I converse with these people? Do I even fit in with them? I don’t really know what came over me, just extreme discomfort. So I called my sister, the most socially outgoing person I know, took a walk alongside the Niger river, and then gradually settled in to the social scene. It ended up being a fun weekend. Oh yeah, so these are “my people”.

My new sitemate, Lauren Biggs, arrived in town this past Sunday. She is stationed in the town of Koyan, part of the commune of Dombila, just about 5k away from me. I admit, I was skeptical about the decision to put a volunteer in Koyan. It’s out there. Reeeaaaallly out there. No market. No store which means no bread or biscuts, no CSCOM or Mayor’s office, no real center of town, and the houses are all so spread out that you need to wander through a corn-maze for a good chunk of time before you get to another concession of huts. Only about 1,000 people spread out along the gradually rolling hills of millet and corn, the little river in the gully of shady mango trees, and a three-room school-house- where Lauren will begin her service as an education volunteer. Beautiful, friendly, as cute as can be… but out there.

I waited for her in Dio and together we biked the 8k bumpy path to Koyan, at one point having to forge a small stream of water with a decent current. I tried to imagine what she was thinking as we walked our bikes through water up to our knees. But she kept a calm exterior, and I never let my smile down.

“How do you get shisto?” she asked, a common disease that can infect anyone wading in the dirty waters of Malian streams.

“Don’t think about it,” I said, “we don’t have much choice.”

She took the first step into the gray, cloudy, rushing water. “Oh,” she exclaimed, “this actually feels pretty good!”

Peace Corps learned from last year. After volunteers came back from their villages during site visit week, it was obvious that those who had a “buddy” (another volunteer to show them the ropes for the first couple of days) had a much better experience than those who were sent out into the wilderness on donkey carts alone. I remember how hard of a week that was for me last year, so the least I could do was be as positive and helpful to this new girl as I could be. Koyan is out there, but who knows, she may learn to love it.

I learned that Lauren was actually born in Rochester, NY, then moved to Saudi Arabia, returned for a few years to go to Pittsford Middle School, and then moved to Hawaii for high school. She found herself back on the East Coast until this spring where she graduated with a philosophy degree from Columbia University. A bit shy, with a cute little giggle to cover up her nervousness, but as sweet as can be, I felt really lucky to have another buddy around here. When I told Dalfinie that I had a new friend, a girl who’s working in Koyan, she was happy but said, “They couldn’t have made it a boy? To be your new BOYfriend?” That would have kept the villagers gossiping for months! Not that I didn’t consider that possibility.

I already have a lot of friends in Koyan, and knew that her host family was fabulous. Actually, her host family is the family of N’tossama Diarra, Health Education Program Assistant for the Peace Corps, so I’m sure that connection with the Peace Corps helped the little hamlet of Koyan get on the volunteer site map. N’tossama’s older brother, Fablen, is Lauren’s host dad. Fast-talking, big toothy smile, little gotee, and surprisingly naïve about the outside world, Fablen is a loveable character, and just sitting with him makes me laugh. His two young sons are like “Thing 1” and “Thing 2”- Fablen doesn’t even use their real names, but calls them “Old” and “Small”. His dog also has the very affectionate and creative name of “Dog.”

I stayed two nights with Lauren, introducing her to people, talking to her host family about little improvements for her house, answering her questions about life out in village, and translating. It was a bit weird because I already had all of these preconceptions about her site and experience with these people but I wanted to keep my comments neutral. As much as it’s nice to have a buddy, there’s nothing more important than exploring and discovering on your own. I wanted desperately to get inside her head- when they put the green-slime toh in front of her for lunch, when she stumbled upon her Bambara, when she insisted on drawing her own bath water from the well. “Oh I’m fine!” she’d happily chirp whenever I’d ask her how she was doing. Koyan’s out there, but I think she genuinely likes it. And the village is estatic to have her. All of the old men of the village gathered for a meeting one of her first mornings there with their round Muslim caps sitting cross-legged on the colorful mats under the straw hanger. They gave endless Bambara blessings, and spent a good time of the meeting discussing how during this week, she has no food. “We must all give her food. Warm food. Much food. Not cold food, but warm, good food.” I translated to Lauren and she shot me a worried but amused look- Does this mean everyone in the village is going to constantly be bringing me toh? Probably.

Even I was presented with a chicken for my good work. I tied it to my handlebars to bike back the winding bush road to Dombila. Worked out nice- I got to have a nice chicken dinner for my 23rd birthday. “That is Allah’s work,” the villagers would commonly say, “born in the same village, separated, and then brought back to the same village in another part of the world.” Lauren quickly changed her last name to Diarra- she’s one of us now.

Back in Dombila, I walked the small market, remembering my disappointment during my site visit last year. They weren’t kidding about the scarcity of our market during rainy season- froo-froos (fried milled dough) only. And it was honestly a strange moment. I’m different. I speak the language, I know these people. I’m not trying to impress, to fit in, this is my home, and I’m comfortable here. But as much as I have changed, the thing that suddenly struck me was that Dombila has not. This is the same market I walked last year. These are the same malnourished kids I saw last year, the same people frustrated that the have no money to buy malaria medicines. I’ve been here for a year and nothing has changed. That morning, I felt as out of touch with my purpose as I did that very first market day last year. With one difference, I went in to talk with Irene, my eyes welling up, to be comforted by her and another friend Josephine.

“The whole village knows of your good work. Don’t you see? Mothers come from far off villages to see you, the wells are clean, the people are understanding new things.” And I look at Boare, the motivated doctor of the CSCOM and feel ashamed for having these delusions of grandeur. He has the most unwavering dedication and optimism I have ever seen, and he has been here for years. And he believes in his work and boy does it show. Us second-years need a reminder, a burst of new energy, and we’re lucky to be able to have this group of new, enthusiastic volunteers to give us that boost. I asked a couple girls how they liked their rural sites. “Oh!” they said with loving eyes, “it’s like an African fairy land!” For us veterans, not quite a fairy land. But we like it well enough.

The Bamako airport is full of travelers and eager Malians swarming them with luggage carts and little trinkets for sale, trying to make a buck. I have decided to come all the way here to bid farewell to my uncle Steve, cousin Matt and sister Katie. I just wasn’t ready to say goodbye at the hotel. So I hugged them goodbye before they weaved through the crowd to catch the night flight to London, promising that the months before my Christmas visit would go by fast. It was a good week, and a great experience for all of us.

Of course, I was overjoyed to see my Boston relatives. The fact that they came all the way here to spend some time with me in the middle of nowhere, well that’s about as cool of relatives as you can ask for. But when I saw my sister, I gave her the biggest hug ever. My mom later asked on the phone, “Did you cry when you saw each other.”

“No mom,” I said, “I was just so happy.” I looked at Katie, expecting her to comment on how mothers are overly-emotional. But instead Katie said with her little honest smile, “I cried a little!” It took about 5 minutes after we were reunited for me to say, “Katie, I feel like I just saw you yesterday.” It had really been 13 months, but we were so comfortable with each other, having fun already. Man, I have the best sister in the world. She really is my other half, and all week, I felt like whatever might have been missing in my day to day life out here had been filled.

A big red bag, like Santa’s sack, came with the crew. All filled with goodies. Birthday presents like new clothes and mountains of granola bars from friends and family, magazines, homemade jam and applesauce… (Thanks everyone!) Uncle Steve even came with a solar powered flashlight and a new tent that he would leave with me after they left. It was incredible! We stayed the first two nights at the fancy Radisson hotel, the next night in a little motel in the city of Segu, then we moved to a business hotel in Bamako (mainly for its incredible pool), spent a night in village, and then another night in Bamako.

I’ll let them tell you about the adventures through their own eyes. (Katie, Steve, Matt, you’re welcome to write something for me to post as well). They braved the Grand Marche the very first day, they spent hours in little Malian cars so we could see the port of Segu and make our own Bogolon fabric. They took the broken old bush road to Dombila where they danced with the xylophones, tried Malian food, and mingled with the locals. Uncle Steve even went for a peaceful morning run with me and Shaka! Matt was the star of the dance party, showing off his disco moves, and Katie impressed the kids with her back-handspring and also sported the traditional Malian garb along with henna painted on her foot. (Only ONE foot though, to the great confusion of the Malians).

Katie and Matt also had some great skills at the rock climbing/ rappelling hike in Siby. They are fearless! They even got on Malian transport to return to Bamako. That was after we gave up waiting for hours for our driver to come back with something to mend a flat tire. Uncle Steve got a bit worried when we showed up 4 hours late, but all was good.

Aside from the adventures, we had significant R&R time. The pool at the hotel was paradise, we ate some really nice meals out, and I even got to work out a couple of times in the hotel gym! I feel like I was treated like a princess. Nice showers, clean all the time, air conditioning, a great bed, great company, great food. It was more of a vacation for me I think! At first, I was really uncomfortable being in these fancy hotels spending a lot of money, but then I started to get used to the high-life. It’s strange, you know. And now I feel like an American again, needing my daily dose of the internet and drinking bottled water. I’m going back to village right now, with that site guilt on my shoulders. I’m living between two worlds, and I’ll never fully be a part of either of them for the next year. I was feeling Malian, now I’m feeling like an American. But whatever doubts and worries I have, about status, about rich and poor, white and black, though they may always be in the background isn’t the essence of my identification, my relationships. Katie, Steve, and Matt reminded me of my roots, my home, and the beauty of it. But now I take a deep breath, push aside my doubts and know that no matter what my roots, today, I have another real home, in Dombila. So as much as I was tempted to hop on that plane in the Bamako airport last night and reunite even more fully with my roots and with the “comfortable life”, that time has not come. I’m heading back, and trying to figure out what the heck I can do for this poor little village.

PS- Matt has an incredible camera and great photography skills. He will send me his flicker site to post so that you can see some more pictures of Mali.

The kids and I planted a couple of dozen Moringa trees, which have grown quite nicely. Lately, I've been taking them around the village and giving them to mothers of malnourished kids and close friends.

So what is Moringa? They call it the miracle tree. It's leaves are amazingly high in an abundance of nutrients. Moringa has 7 times the vitamin C of an orange, 3 times the iron of spinich, 2 times the protien of milk, 4 times the calcium of milk, 3 times the potassium of bananas, and 4 times the vitamin A in carrots. The leaves can be dried and turned into a natural nutritional suppliment, which we can add to a baby's porriage. The seeds can be grinded into a powder that purifies water. The flowers can be made into a tea that aleviates headaches.

There are a couple naturally growing moringa trees in Dombila, but the kids and I have planted some more, which grow very quickly, even in unfertilized soil. I also planted 6 at the CSCOM with the help of Laji, a tree-worker who cut his leg down to the bone on the job and has been hanging out at the CSCOM for the past two months while it heals and he tries to figure out how to get money to keep up his medications. He took some pride in this occupational therapy. Unfortunately, most of the nutritional benifits of our baby trees at the CSCOM have been enjoyed by the goats.

I've written about moringa before, about how I put the leaves in my spagetti. It's hard to explain to Malians just how much of a miracle it is when they have limited understanding of vitamins, minerals, and macronutrients. I've found the most comprehensive nutrition education that makes sense to them so far is "This food has lots of vitamins. This food doesn't." So when I explain moringa, I say, "This has lots of lots of lots of vitamins!"

Little by litte, people are understanding. I have women tell me that their breast milk increased after putting moringa in their sauce, I caught Shaka's family cooking it for dinner, and almost weekly I find Irene giving a talk about it to pregnant women and mothers in the CSCOM.

For more information on moringa, here is a pretty good video.