August 13, 2011

I order a half liter of house wine while I peruse the menu. House wine may seem like a rookie mistake to you- considering Ive just arrived in Italy- but Ive been drinking wine out of a box (at best) for two years so I assure you this is a luxury. I settle on a mozzarella, ham and mushroom pizza- one of the more affordable option involving multiple ingredients I haven't had access to in a while. Packing up and leaving a life behind is exhausting so after many nights of limited sleep, two overnight flights, and the process of finding my hotel with 2 large backpacks and a rolling suitcase, the wine is going straight to my head. A woman at eh next table is handed her food and I am flooded with entree envy- it looks like some sort of ham and cream cheese type pizza. I forgot stuff like that even existed! My pizza arrives- in the shape of a heart (god bless Italian men)- with real, fresh mushrooms, quality pig-based meat and extra virgin olive oil. I take a bite and savor the forgotten flavors and take a moment to look around. The scenery isn't much: in front of me some closed up shops covered in mild grafitt and to my left a very European looking monument is hidden by construction. But the restaurant owner is kissing the hand of a little girl and saying “Ciao bella!” and the couple next to me is sipping espresso for dessert and managing to look cool smoking cigarettes. And I, once again, feel the magic of travel and the unrivaled thrill of arriving in an unknown place. Overpriced, mediocre wine and stellar pizza exist in the US; hell, they even existed in Mali!Even after two years in the 'underdeveloped' (still dont know how to define this) world and this meal isn't actually that novel. But the moment is still powerful. Today my arrival in a new city was shadowed by the loss of a life left behind, literal weight of painful amounts of luggage and exhaustion so extreme I chose an all day nap over my favorite activity of exploration and still, with this one simple meal over one short hour, I am reassured that the experience and art of travel breathes life into me. The best part is that none of my joy comes from leaving Mali. On my last taxi ride through the suguba (large market) yesterday I was overwhelmed by this same feeling- the beauty in both the variety of life in the world and the shared experience within the vast diversity. After two years, I wasn't bored there and I had regrets about what I'd missed and what I was leaving. But I followed a pattern of my life and personality: it's not that what I have isn't good enough (in fact, it's amazing!) or isn't enough in general, but I just know there is still so much more. Some people could interpret this as that I'm never satisfied. I respectfully disagree. I'm at eace with and passionate about everywhere I am. Perhaps it's a curse; perhaps finding joy and beauty everywhere provides no incentive to commit to anything. But so far (I know one day I could eat my words) I haven't been given reason to believe I'm not living my life right.

I'm covered in bruises. And not the good kind. (And yes, there is a good kind.) Unidentified party injuries- ugly and painful reminders that at 29 I still haven't gotten social drinking right. I just tried drawing my tattoo idea in its possible place but it freaks me out- an ugly and painful reminder that at 29 I still have a serious fear of commitment. Im listening to Ira Glass talk about Infidelity on an episode of This American Life and getting ready to take a preemptive Ambien because it's after 8, Ive felt sick all day, I have to wake up and catch a bus at 6am and Im pretty sure the fact that after just a few more days here I will leave and, in all likelihood, never come back, has the power to keep me from falling asleep.

So far there's been a healthy sense of denial surrounding this major life transition. I have been admitting I "will" be stressed and this is "going to" be hard but I haven't actually seen the signs of my struggle until right now.

I am lying on my comfy jersey knit shits, under the fort of my puke yellow mosquito net, surviving on the severely fading light of my headlamp (after two full years my rechargable batteries just dont last anymore). For weeks Ive been saying Im not ready to go, it's too soon, I should have extended my term here. But this week Allah has done a great job of showing me that the time has come. When I arrived in my village on Wednesday, the previous night's storm had left it in complete disrepair. My host mom's kitchen hut literally had a hole in the wall. Trees had been pulled up from the ground and carried hundreds of yards by the temporary river created by the unending rain. My kitchen hut has a water line over a foot high on the wall, heavy buckets filled with paint and water had been moved all the way across the room and my foot sunk so far into the layer of mud on the ground that I literally thought for a second my cement floor had deteriorated completely. One of my fences was completely knocked down and in my other hut my books and clothes were soaked.

I cant imagine how defeated this would have made me feel if I had more time left here. Having to deal with cleaning this up and worrying about it happening again would have been exhausting to say the least, but at this point I could laugh at the ridiculousness and wallow in gratitude at my fortune at its timing. Still, at our community meeting in front of our brand new maternity this morning, I couldn't help thinking again that I've made a mistake--I should have stuck around for a 3rd year because I love it and there is so much more I could and should do. And then, as if on cue, another storm rolled in. I was working in the maternity when it started so I was stuck there for a while, but as the rain slowed, I carefully treaded through the mud and flowing streets of water back to my house, only to find more destruction. My entire shade overhang--which has survived two and a half rainy seasons, was completely blown off, many of the supporting posts having broken or fallen down, knocking over chairs and leaving my compound exposed. When I was finally able to clear away the pieces blocking the door to my pit latrine ,I discovered that the entirety of the grass roof had blown onto the floor of said latrine, making it unsightly and hard to navigate. I smiled and thought, "Okay, Im ready."

But, as my best friend Hamory walks to my screen door and greets me and I realize I have 3 more days here- 3 more chances to hang out with him, 3 more days to try to fit in everything I haven't, 3 more nights to relive every favorite moment- I realize that's wrong. Yes, it's time. But I am not ready. I will never be ready to say "good-bye".

I remember two years ago when I was leaving Baltimore to come to Mali I was feeling the same way. Sure I would be back. It's only 2 years. But my boyfriend wouldn't be my boyfriend. I wouldn't be the same person. This wouldn't be my life. I wanted what was next without having to give up what I had. Hmmm...infidelity and fear of commitment. Even if I ever make it back here, Hamory wont be Hamory. He'll be a man. Probably with a very young wife. Maybe 2. Even if I make it back here, this wont be my house. Ill be here to visit. But this will never again be my life. How do you say good bye to a life? I dont really think you can. At least I cant. You kind of just have to walk away. When I left 2 years ago I said to my sister, "I know this pain and sadness will go away; I know with time I'll barely be able to remember why I loved him or how we were together. But thats what's so sad about it. I kind of hate that something can be so important to you and later you barely remember it." So I know in a couple weeks when Im in the Swiss Alps sharing chocolate with my niece or in a month when Im traveling on a bus through Bosnia by myself, I will be happy where I am. But I think thats part of what makes me feel so supremely sad right now. Two years. This has been my life for two years. Two unbelievably amazing years. So it physically hurts...I feel like Im gonna throw up...to think of just 3 more nights here...it's hard to get air.

In some ways, I cant believe I keep putting myself through this. I put myself in these situations with an expiration date and then complain as I suffer through the countdown. I guess my fear of commitment comes from somewhere in my heart though, where I know there is more world and there are more people that I want to love so much that it pains me to say good bye.

April 5, 2011

Thanks to my friend Debra, who is unabashedly obsessed with her own birthday, I have grown to treat my birthday as a special occasion, worthy of my excitement and the attention of everyone around me. And why not? I am appreciative of my life so should celebrate the day it began. And I have always appreciated any excuse to revel in the simple joys of childhood. And, as long as most of the time I am generous and humble, what's the harm in taking advantage of the one day a year when people are willing to do whatever it is you want to do?

Because I have three other Americans living in the vicinity of my village, I had expected we would all get together for a 'brousse birthday', including pizza made from stove-top bread, powdered milk ricotta cheese and sauteed veggies, one-egg chocolate cake baked in my solar oven, and hibiscus wine that has been aging in my hut for the last month or so. When I learned all of these people would be in the capital for work, we simply changed the plan: expensive Indian food and a night out on the town in Bamako. Realizing a tuesday night in the capital in the middle of hot season, with my friends working early the next day, and staying at a work-sponsored house might not be the bash I envisioned, I opted to celebrate my birthday in village instead. While I love my village, in fact greatly prefer it to my banking town, the capital or even being with Americans here in general, it's not the ideal place for such festivities: people here have no idea how old they are, let alone their date of birth, and even the ones who speak French don't really seem to understand the French word 'anniversaire.' Not only does the Muslim culture and lack of refrigeration mean I would be ringing in my special day without a cold beer, but I feared even mentioning the occasion would appear more trite and self-centered than it does in America. And of course, the fact that I am turning 29 and am not married with children is not just mildly uncomfortable, as it is for some Americans, it is downright unacceptable here. Nevertheless, I had a lot of work to do in village and was looking forward to the opportunity for cultural exchange.

Last night it was down to 87 degrees in my hut by 9pm, so I was able to start the night inside, a rare treat this time of year. I listened to NPR's Wait Wait Don't Tell Me Podcasts in bed, leaving me with more questions about current events than answers. Who dressed up as a Muslim and got the CEO of NPR fired? What did Sylvio Berluscoli do? I am so out of the loop. I happened to wake up at precisely 12:01 am on April 5, 2011 with an urge, so I began my 29th birthday by peeing in a bucket. Not incredibly glamorous, and in fact by most standards completely disgusting, but truthfully very appropriate for my life here. Not only did it not bother me, it lead me to smile (mid stream) realizing where- physically, spiritually, emotionally- I am and how I got here. Happy Birthday to me.

Apparently I was not much more modest here than I am among my peers when it comes to talking up the day- when I woke up this morning and went to make my oatmeal, I discovered a bowl of 'gateau' (Malian cake, similar to un-sugared donuts) on my kitchen table. Sure, I provided the flour and sugar (my best friend here had asked me for some yesterday) but the fact that they used their precious oil, that a man cooked, and even just that he picked up that my birthday was important to me and remembered that I said Americans get cake on their birthdays is incredibly special. I was moved to tears.

My best American friend here had also made me a cake and sent it with candles on the bus that goes to our villages. Even though in many ways I am 'alone' on this birthday, I feel surrounded by love and full of happiness. I opened gifts that arrived in a package from my parents last week, sipped coffee from America, listened to music and burned a scented candle and just sat for a moment smiling.

After a workout of yoga and resistance bands, we held a community meeting where I announced that my friends and family had helped raise my share of our maternity project money and every villager had paid their first installment so tomorrow I will be going to call the contractor to come and start building. We then talked about what they could commit to give and if we had enough time for another large project before they begin work in the fields and I return to America. With confidence and enthusiasm, we decided together we could take it on. Holding back tears I thanked them, explaining that it's my birthday, what that means in America, but that their hospitality makes it okay that I'm here because they are also my family and this is also my home.

Sitting at my desk attempting to tackle the mass of work we had just committed to, my host dad yelled that I had a visitor. A village man came to the door and said he understood what a birthday was and was very happy I was here with them and so he wanted to give me a gift- he gave me 100 cfa. Worth about 25 cents, I considered this incredibly generous and thoughtful and, again, was greatly moved. Then the women's association leaders came to greet as well and gave a gift of 2 bags of candy. It's actually cough drops but it's what you can buy as candy in village and, again, is seriously generous.

This afternoon we're going to set up a manually powered pump we purchased to help the women water the garden, saving them time and hopefully increasing nutrition and profits from gardening. Tonight I'll take a starlit bucket bath and listen to This American Life in my hammock and wake up without a hangover. Sure I will miss my traditional birthday sushi and karaoke and free shots from strangers but every day this week I have been overwhelmed with pride in my work (not just my job as a development worker but specifically my work) and peace in my soul. What a wonderful birthday gift. But, just to be sure, I also gave myself this:

What I would have asked for if I was in the US:

Hair Straighter

iPod Speakers

High Quality ($120) Headphones

Dutch Oven (for bread making) and Cast Iron Skillet

Ice Cream Maker

What I Did Ask For:

High Quality (Glide) Floss

Earbud Headphones ($10)

Razor Blades

Dog Leash

Ambien (sleeping pills)

Other Things I Got (because I have thoughtful and generous parents and friends):

Plane Ticket for a hot season Vacation

Coffee

Solar Powered Flashlight

High Quality Lantern

Cute Underwear

March 26, 2011

Did you know that a dead mouse floats in a bucket of water? Do you know how I know that? Because during my morning squat and pee I experienced the unfortunate surprise of discovering a dead mouse florating in my bucket of bath water. I guess it could have been worse...I could have not discovered it until I was dumping said water over my head to wash. After the question of how to dispose of it and appropriately sanitize my cleaning receptacle, I was left to ponder how it got there. Does a dying mouse have an instinct to crawl into a pool of water? Is this related to the dead mouse that was in my yard yesterday afternoon and the cat that was wandering the area all night- did the cat kill both mice and leave them for me as a gift? And if so, why did it think I would want the mouse in the water, and how did it manage to get it there? Was the cat chasing or eating the mouse on top of my pit latrine wall and it fell into the bucket? I guess I'll just have to accept this as another one of the many unsolvable mysteries of my time here.

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Of course I'm well aware there are snakes here- and even deadly ones. People ask if this scares me. There are deadly snakes in America too. At some point you gotta stop worrying about all the possible ways you can die and really enjoy how you're living.

That being said, it was disconcerting when, on the very day we'd had a presentation on the deadliest snakes in Mali and how quickly and violently you will die when bitten by one, other members of our group literally found one of said snakes in their hut at our training facility. "Still", you think. "It didn't bite anyone. And I didn't see it. "

Then one of my good friends showed me pictures of the four foot long snake he had to call his neighbors into his hut to kill. "Still," you think. "His village is nowhere near mine. Probably not in my village."

Until I was working with the villagers to plant over 50 trees using a new 'thrive without water' method we had an expert come teach us, when my host dad starting pounding at the ground with a stick and I saw the long, thin creature. "Still," you think. "They said it is a biting kind, but it probably wouldn't kill you. And now I know to be careful in the garden."

Until tonight when I was exiting my kitchen and saw a snake sliding right by the door and finally, despite it being closed, into my hut. I didn't want to be too close but didn't want to lose sight of it either. I started calling out names, "Hamuri! Maire! Fanta!"

Finally someone responds, "Fanta is eating."

Oh thank god!

"Manka! Can you come here? Snake is!"

The women of my family laughed at me, but thankfully my host brother and father came running over with sticks. The snake was incredibly small and not poisonous and they killed it and disposed of it down the latrine with little fanfare.

But. Still.

I named a baby!

Whenever they tell me a new baby has been born, I forget the way things happen here and ask its name. They quickly remind me it doesn't have a name yet. With my host sister in law, my host sister and my host mom all visibly pregnant, I decided a baby should be named after me so they would always remember me here (and some poor child will have to forever live in the shadow of some crazy, mysterious white woman). I started asking around for the details of the system-who get to name the baby; how do they decide the name; what if the parents don't like it? Despite these conversations, I felt like I understood next to nothing, but my determination only grew. When my next door neighbor, and the mother of one of the young boys who gets me water and I play cards with, gave birth to a baby girl, I asked its name. "No name yet." Oh, right.

My American friend had said she think just the first person who shows up on the day of the naming (which I think is officially sort of like a baptism, although they aren't Christian so clearly not exactly) just says a name and that's it. It's done. So I told my young friend when his sister's day came he should come get me early in the morning. Two days later when they disturbed my breakfast, it took a while for me to understand. And even then I balked considerably. "What do I do? I just go and greet and say a name? No, someone else should do it! Won't it be rude since I haven't given blessings yet?" Giving no clarification, they continued to convince me to follow them and before I knew it I was standing in front of a woman I barely know mumbling "May Allah make your baby big. May Allah give your baby health," and then standing there awkwardly waiting for more direction.

On the short walk over I had suggested to the young boys I wanted to name it Kadia (after me) and, perhaps in a fit of paranoia, perhaps in a great feat of picking up cultural clues, I decided this was a bad idea. So, instead, I said sheepishly, "I think you should name her Jontu. Because my mother's name is Jontu." (When my mom came to visit we had a very hard time finding a Malian name she could remember and liked the sound of -naturally very few of them sound good to an unaccustomed ear- but settled on Jontu as its somewhat similar to Joan.) I walked out, still not understanding what had happened, feeling bad for not having brought a gift of soap or change, and still not knowing the baby's name.

A few days later people started giving me a hard time for not telling them I had named the baby. Apparently not only is her name Jontu but this is such a big deal that I am supposed to be walking around telling virtually everyone. I have also been informed I am not greeting the baby enough. And I'm quickly realizing I might be in over my head...what was a fun novelty for me might have actually made me this child's godmother!

In fact, since I wrote this, I've learned that I should buy the mother a baby comple (complete matching outfit), expensive soap and a piece of decorated fabric they use to tie children to their backs..in essence, the original Baby Bjorn. Also yesterday the baby was circumcised so apparently I am supposed to be mildly proud of this (while it sounds gross and brutal to us, how do we react to a bris?) and go give the baby blessings ("May Allah lessen the pain.") Definitely a godmother. And, clearly, by the fact they have had to tell me all this stuff, not a very good one.

We are hoping to build and manage a rural Maternal and Child Health Clinic.

If you are interested in supporting our effort (the community is contributing over 50% of the cost), you can find more information and donate here.

We're sitting around the fire in my family's compound, as we do every evening in cold season. Even though the temperature probably never drops below 60, Malians are wearing winter coats and gloves and even I have sleep inside my mud hut with the door closed, wearing pants, a sweatshirt and socks, and snuggled under a wool blanket. I can tell, to my serious dismay, hot season is quickly moving in: I am now sleeping with the door open, back in shorts, and don't pull the blanket over me until the wee morning hours. And even tonight, I find myself continually moving further and further away from the fire, not enjoying its warmth and comfort as I did just one week ago. Two men from the village walk up and greet. We all exchange the required pleasantries: "Good evening. Is there no pain?" "No pain at all." "How is your family?" "None of them have any pain."

And then, after a short pause, we learn the truth. A young woman from the other end of village has died today. She is the first wife of the son of one of the woman I work with. She was about 32 years old and has one eight year old daugher. The messangers are the brother of the husband and one of his friends. We offer the appropriate blessings: May she go to heaven; May her resting place be cool. The men go off to continue informing villagers and we shake our heads. Even though death is a more common part of daily life here than we are accustomed to in the States, and despite the fact that is not customary to show intense emotion like tears if the deceased is not in your family, both of my host moms are visably upset. They continue toshake their heads in disbelief and make clicking noise, almost a 'tisk, tisk' of dissaproval that this is their reality. I ask if she was sick. "Just today." How did she die? What did she have? "This morning she had a stomach ache. She went to the doctor. This afternoon she died." I hold back my own tears. I don't know that I knew her, but it is these moments when feelings of senslessness, helplessness, hoplessness and plain unfairness seem to take over any logical brain functions. My host's second wife, Djongo, approximately 25 and at least six months pregnant with her fifth child, tells me more about the woman. She is from a nearby village but has lived here with her husband for a long time and is very integrated into the community. "She is happier than anyone in village. She is the best hair braider; whenever anyone wants their hair braided well, they go to her." And again she just drops her eyes and shakes her head.

In the morning after breakfast, my host moms come get me to go greet the woman's family. Each of their youngest children is tied with thin fabric to their respective backs but the other kids stay behind. I am sure my host father also went to give blessings at some point, but this is clearly a women's trip. Throughout the twenty minute walk on sandy paths, we pass many other woman, babies in tow, returning from the same ritual. Mostly, short pleasantries are exchanged and I don't notice much talk of the event at hand. As we approach the compound, I notice the rythmic pounding, and see, above the fence line, the motion of at least twelve pestles moving rapidly up and down as women pound millet in mortars. For me, it's a beautiful scene of community empowering a dark morning. We enter and briefly greet the cooking women as we pass, say 'good morning' to the large group of men sitting on the other side of the concession as we skirt behind them, and we enter the foyer area of the three-room mud building. We sit with the female family members of the young woman, mainly her mother in law and the husband's other wives. Again we began with standard greetings, where everyone responds that there is 'no pain' and 'peace only', which of course isn't true but provides a sense of cohesiveness and a means of introduction. We give death blessings and then mostly sit in silence. After a while, I can tell the women are discussing the events of the preceeding day. Apparently the woman had gone to the health center the next village over, the doctor examined her, told her she was going to die that day so there was no point in going to the larger center 50 kilometers away, and that she should return to our village to die at home. I wonder what she had. I wonder if she had gone sooner if they could have done anything. I wonder if perhaps the doctor was wrong. I wonder what they told her young child. And who is helping her cope now and how. After no more than ten minutes we rise and leave. We stop to greet the large group of women once more and each take a short turn pounding millet. With a man shelling peanuts in a large manual machine and a woman raosting peanuts behind us, it is obvious close family and friends will stay here all day, and I believe for 3 days, cooking, sitting and mourning. I am reminded of a wake or sitting shiva and am, once again, laced with cliche, left feeling that among cultural divides, our similarities are at least as great as our differences.

I know it's my life so there may be some blog hubris happening here, but I personally recommend reading this post.

There are many, MANY things I have wanted to write about but have waited until I got to a place with electricity and internet and then, once there, had new stories on my mind, or was too busy messing around on Facebook, or the internet was down, or.... now I am so far behind that rather than write each thing in the beautiful, entertaining prose I desire and it deserves, I just want to get the facts down before they are lost forever. I imagine many of my next blogs will be just catching up on this stuff, but I think it will be some of the most interesting things about here in general and my experience here:

-My host sister in law, Fanta (my host father's first wife's first born son's wife) gave birth to her first child on Sunday (just days before I came back). She did not go to the regional health center (3 miles away, costs $2) to deliver the baby, but did it on a bamboo bench in a mud hut, assisted by a female neighbor without even any informal training, with no drugs or tools. On Saturday (6 days after giving birth) I saw her carrying 2 buckets of water from the well to the family compound, right past her husband who was sitting on a chair doing literally nothing. Not making tea, not talking to his friends...just sitting.

- When my parents were here we rented a 4x4 and hired a driver and got in a car accident. A motorcycle came onto the main road from a side road right in front of the vehicle and our car hit their moto. Both people fell off but seemed unhurt. Our driver got out and they yelled at each other for a while, looked at our vehicle which was damaged, and we all drove off.

-My dad was very adamant about finding a cab with working seatbelts. I would call over cab after cab, go through the whole greeting and bargaining process, then check their seatbelts and, unsatisfied, send them angrily away. Finally we found one and as we're buckling in and heading off my dad notices aloud, "Kristi, I don't think this cab has any headlights."

-When I was in America, I almost never thought in Bambara. For the occasional few words that Peace Corps Volunteers use with each other even while speaking English, it was hard to break the habit, but for the most part, it was as if I didn't even know another language let alone use it all day every day. So I find it fascinating that the second I stepped into the Charles de Galle airport in Paris, where they speak French and often English, my mind immediately switched to Bambara. I think my subconscious knows if English is not standard, switch to option B. Airport staff would ask me questions or greet me in French and even though I understood it and probably (since I took some French 10 years ago) could have responded appropriately with enough effort, I could not switch off the Bambara. It literally came out more naturally than English.

-One of my host mother's sons died at about age 15 (before I ever arrived here). The volunteer who lived here before me lost one of her good Malian friends during her service. My work counterpart's 5 year old son died while I was in Bamako one time (I found out about weeks later in casual conversation). Death, especially among young children, is a fact of life here. Riding on the bush taxi from my site to my regional capital one morning, I was sitting next to a mother with baby in her arms. The volunteer who lives 3 miles from me was also in the van that morning, sitting on the bench on the other side. She was reading a book and I was listening to my iPod, but we both noticed the mother continually lifting up the piece of fabric covering her child and then shaking her head as she replaced it. It was easy to assume the child was sick and she was taking it to the hospital in Kita. Because there is a doctor and health center in the village she was coming from, we also assumed whatever was wrong had gotten serious. Crying in public is not culturally acceptable in Mali, so when the mother lifted the cloth and began to weep, I looked at Dina in fear. The mother continued to look at her child and fight back and sobs and I continued to look at Dina for guidance. We couldn't understand what was said but at the next village the car stopped, the mother got out and handed the lump of fabric to a local woman and sat on the ground and weeped. I looked at Dina and asked, "Did that just happen? Did that baby just die in it's mother's arms next to me?!" The father of the child (after smacking his wife on the side of the head, presumably telling her to get it together and stop crying) provided information to a literate passenger for the driver to deliver to the radio station to announce the death. As we drove off again, Dina and I wondered if this could have been prevented with earlier treatment and we heard other passengers speaking about the same thing ("They should have taken a motorcycle.").

-When my sister was here, a baby died in village. All the women of my family and our part of village were walking by my compound so when they explained why I quickly changed clothes and joined them. The mother is the third wife of a relatively young man and she can't be more than 18 herself. The baby that dies was about one years old; she has one other child who is about three. As we entered the compound, I saw five or six men carrying a small sheep hide and realized the dead child was inside, and they were on the way to bury it. There were at least 15 women in a room smaller than a walk-in closet, and each time new women would come to give their condolences, we would all shuffle around, offering up seats and squishing into smaller spaces. It was hot, stifling so, and at one moment I honestly thought I might faint. The mother was rocking back and forth and sobbing.

-During rainy season, Tosh (my dog) would disappear for days at a time. People would return from the fields and tell me they had seen him in another village or wandering around, sometimes as far as 15 kilometers away. They explain that he is a "comolen ba" (bachelor) and, because there are no female dogs in our village, he goes to meet his girlfriends. Usually when he returns he is filthy, emaciated, and covered in wounds. One time there was literally a gaping hole below his neck, where I could see inside his body and there was lots of puss and blood. I immediately began to cry, ducked into my hut since this is inappropriate, and started debating if I should take him to the vet 45 km away or not. My Malian and American friends convinced me to give it a couple of days, and Malians rubbed an ash-like substance on it, saying this is how they help wounds on their cows and goats to heal. While it made me nervous, so did a Malian veterinarian and this was significantly cheaper and easier. As the hole slowly closed and I lamented over Tosh's many other large cuts and scrapes, realizing the male dogs in these other villages don't enjoy his visits, my host brother Manka told me they could castrate Tosh for me. They were saying they could cut something so he wouldn't want to leave and, either because I don't know the Bambara word for testicles or because they were using euphemisms to explain it, it took me a minute to catch on. Shocked and skeptical of their ability to do this, I asked how. Apparently they tie a piece of 'manna' (which is the word for plastic, but is more like a rubber cord, used to attach things to the back of bicycles) around the balls and wait three days to a week until they fall off. I asked if they actually, literally come off or if afterwards he just doesn't want to "wander" anymore, and they made it sound like his balls would actually come off. The truth came out that they have actually never done this before, but their good friend has. Desperate, I give permission for it to happen, but insist they wait until I am going to be gone for a week. When I return, Tosh still has his balls and is missing one of his two large teeth. They say they tried to do it but Tosh bit through the plastic. I'm not sure if he lost the tooth in this process or in some other village after the fact.

-I have eaten a small bird that young boys killed with a slingshot and rock (this is common...they have amazing skill with it) and a squirrel-like animal that they catch 'in the fields' using a metal trap with teeth.

-My host brother, Fajala (oldest child of my older host mom, about 25, one wife, no kids) was yelling loudly and animatedly one day after my younger host mom (not his mom) was beating one of her children. Culturally, husbands can beat their wives and women can beat their children. I've certainly witnessed a fair share of discipline children this way, often for what I (being from a different culture) perceive to be not so egregious an offense or a more severe beating than necessary, and I see the consequences of this behavior as young children regularly and quickly resort to violently hitting their siblings and friends to deal with disagreements. That being said, I do think it's very different from child abuse as we think of it - no one is throwing a child down the stairs in a fit or rage or an assertion of power and I don't see people getting any joy from the activity. And I think other forms of discipline are less available (can't really take away toys or tv time) or possibly less effective (I would honestly rather have a time out than, at 7 years old, have to collect bucket after bucket of well water. But, if you're gonna beat me if I refuse? Okay.) I asked him what he was yelling about and he, still clearly agitated, explained that he was saying they shouldn't hit their children because if the child gets hurt, who is going to pay to take them to the doctor? I was stunned and pleased that he had this reaction and was giving logical arguments for behavior change.

-My younger host mom says the first wife doesn't talk to her at all (beyond what's completely necessary for work) and doesn't let the husband give her any of the money (even for taking children to the doctor, etc.). I don't know how much of this is true (she could be using this to try to get sympathy and thus gifts and help from me, as this was the context it came up in) but I certainly don't perceive them as friends.

-I was explaining that only female mosquitoes bite and my friend Hamuri, who is in 6th grade here, said that he knew that and taught me that the male mosquitoes are the ones that 'talk'.

-Traditionally in a small, rural village like ours, the dugutigi, or chief of the village, is the ultimate decision maker and is consulted before any major decisions are made. Perhaps because our dugutigi is (reportedly) over 100 years old (every time I've seen him he's told me he fought in World War I) and has been "very sick" the entire year and a half I've lived here, or perhaps because he is the former Mayor or our commune (7 villages with one mayor, health center, etc.), my host father, Samba "Maire" Dembele is the go-to guy here. I learned this after over a year here when, sitting around one night after dinner of millet rice and peanut butter leaf sauce, I realized he was engaged in something semi-official and watched closely and asked questions later. The old woman who spoke to him, for at least a half hour before he thought and responded, had come because there is a problem with her sons wives: the two older wives are constantly fighting with the newest wife because she does not work with them. She does work, but not enough, and she takes it to another house rather than cooperate and integrate with them. Maire says that he will sit down with the man and get him to hold a meeting with all three wives, which Maire will attend. If this meeting doesn't solve the problem, later Maire and the husband will speak with the youngest wife alone.

-After over a year here, being very close to the volunteer in Bougaribuya (the village 5km away and the commune capital) and having it be relevant in work on many occasions, I just now learned that there is major beef between the two villages. My host father was the mayor during the last term and that village was upset that someone from their own village wasn't in power. The story, as its been told to me from the point of view of a teenager from my village, is that at election time people from the other village put a curse on Maire, attempting to kill him. He did get in a motorcycle accident right after that and still has some injuries from it, but he didn't die. Now there is a mayor from their village, but both villages hold a grudge. My host father doesn't talk about it and is still cordial and professional (again, this is according to our side of the story) by going to greet when he should and so on, but they will never get along. I didn't know the word for "curse" so we came to an impasse when they were explaining this story. They broke it down by saying, "like if I go to the woods and get some leaves and boil them and then rub them on your dog and say I want him to die and then he dies."

-I caught, killed and completely prepared and chicken; i also prepped (scaled and gutted, using a log as a cutting board) and cooked small river fish and ate them

During our "Pre Service Training" we had short sessions, led by our Malian language teachers, on some 'basics' of Malian culture. A lot of this will sound super weird (and some of it is) but realize that a lot of things in our culture would seem super odd to an outsider just hearing about it in lecture format and that, even though our teachers spoke English, there was some language barrier here. A lot of the notes don't make much sense; I'm not sure if because of cultural and language they never did or never will or if I just took bad notes or what, but I am just relaying exactly what my notes said (so this isn't necessarily accurate) because it's interesting and funny.

Gift Giving

-people will ask for gifts from others

-its not rude

-but you are not obliged to give it (say "later" while laughing)

-kola nuts are a good symbolic gift- it only splits in half when forced so it's saying "I want to be close to you" or "we should no longer be separate." Good for begining or re-enfocing good relationship

-When giving a gift, give more than 3 (one symbolizes a penis, and 2 symbolizes balls and if there is only 1, the receiver can't share it and people will think he's selfish)

-gifts are compolsory in African society

-at a baptism men give 20 cents, women give soap to the mom (or $2 if very close to woman); at a funeral or marriage give a small amount of money

Gender Roles

-women are willing to 'suffer' because its related to the success of her sons (who will stay with the family/ in the village)

-women dont go to a funeral until after the person is buried (will happen the day of death, men will help dig grave)

-the dream of every malian woman is to get a husband, so she is happy to do the work of the household [keep in mind the people teaching us were Malian men]

Elder Respect

-greet elders first

-when eating with them, hold the bowl the whole time

-do not talk about sex or body parts in front of them

-carry heavy thigns for them

-dont say anything mean or bad even if you are mad at them

-give occassional small gifts

-must blindly respect/ do whatever an older person asks of you

-this is all for anyone older than you, but especially oldest people

Fortune Tellers [one of our teachers was from a 'mariboo' family so it's hard to know how much of his belief in this is common across other people]

-country is 90% muslim but there is a very heavy secret animist precense (i.e. people go to fortune tellers, etc.)

-2 kinds of tellers: maraboos (use koran to predict future or bring luck or misfortune) and animists (draw lines in sand, look at kola nuts, throw shells to do these things)

-Maraboos can:

-heal broken bone, headache or cavity with words, not medicine

-help with love problems (only if you want to marry, etc., not dating) by taking hair, nail, meat, other stuff and having person you love drink it

-send misfortune to someone

-look at baby and tell people if they give specific sacrificice _______ (good thing) will happen for the baby

-bless pen, draw lines, count, interpret- this is correct 70% of the time

-some just want to make money- you say you want to live forever, they say ok. good ones only take 20c. or less

-first become friends with them, give small gifts, slowly, then ask for help

-Animists use leaves to make drinks

-even now in bamako people will go to a traditional healer with a broken bone--treat with 2 kola nuts and a chicken

-There is a plant you can burn (Baratiante) and if someone leaves the room, you know they are a sorcerer

Discretion in Relationships

-No Public Displays of Affection at all

-(but same sex hand holding ok)[the culture does not acknoledge the existence of homosexuality; there is no word for it in the language- so same sex hand holding is among friends and is VERY common]

-deny relationships in public

Griots

-certain family names belong to this caste-they cant marry noblemen

-they mediate disputes (solution 80% of the time)

-they announce things (baby names) and run ceremonies ("a ceremony without a griot is like rice without sauce")

-knows history of village

-they are like village advertisers or journalists

More book quotes. I know this is a little crazy and almost no one would sit here and read all of them, but, if the topic interest you, at least it's less than the whole book. Of course, it could never be as good as the whole book, but, until then. And, of course, lots of the quotes aren't necessarily useful information but rather something that spoke to me for one reason or another and may be irrelevant to you. But, I typed them up for me to have, so I figure I might as well post them. Today's topics include development and foreign policy, gay adoption, self help and a pre-teen book. I haven't expanded on any of them in anyway because I have other thigns I really should be doing...

The Giver

"...a lot of citizens petitioned...They wanted to increase the rate of births [from 2 per family]...so that the population would increase and there would be more Laborers available...The Committe of Elders sought my advice...the strongest memory that came was hunger...The population had gotten so big that hunger was everywhere. Excruciating hunger and starvation. It was followed by warfare."

The Bottom Billion

-Many of the people who care most about development feel moer comfortable talking about goals such as getting girls into school than discussing growth. I share the enthusiasm for getting girls into school, and indeed for all the other goals. But I do not share the discomfort about growth...The central problem of the bottom billion is that they have not grown. The failure of the growth process in these societies simply has to be our core concern, and curing it the core challenge of development...To my mind, development is about giving hope to ordinary people that their children will live in a society that has caught up with the rest of the world...What can we do beyond caring?

-Natural resources help to finance conflict and sometimes even help to motivate it.."conflict diamonds" [are] "diamonds that originate from areas controlled by forces or factions opposed to legitimate and internationally recognized governments, and are used to fund military action in opposition to those governments."

-The [data analysis] model's prediction as to how the global incidence of conflict eveolves is depressing. By 2050 the world is fabulously richer than today: most countries are developed. But the incidence of civil war declines only modestly because most civil war is generated by the minority of countries int eh bottom billion. Our model quantifies the grim implications of the failure of the growth process in the bottom billion, given the link between poverty, stagnation, and conflict.

-...we cannot rescue them. The societies of the bottom billion can only be rescued from within. In every society of the bottom billion there are people working for change, but usually they are defeated byt he powerful internal forces stacked against them. We should be helping the heroes. So far...through inertia, ignorance, and incompetence, we have stood by and watched them lose.

-The left seems to want to regard aid as some sort of reparations for colonialism...The right seems to want to equate aid with welfare scrounging...Between these two there is a thin sliver of sanity called aid for development. It runs something like this: We used to be that poor once. It took us 200 years to get where we are. Let's try to speed things up for these countries.

-The third trap is being landlocked [with bad neigbors]...There is no fast track for these countries...In retrospect, it was perhaps a mostake for teh international system to permit economically unviable areas to become independant countries. But the deed is done, and we have to live with the consequences. One of the consequences is the need for big aid...even if the aid does not do much for growth. For these countries, teh psychology of aid needs to recognize that it is not there as a temporary stimulus to developpment, it is there to bring some minimal decency to standards of living.

-Usually the fact that 1/4 of aid is provided as technical assistance is presented as some sort of scandal...But...Reforms need skills and int he bottom billion these skills are lacking...The politically correct answer to the need for technical assistance is to support capacity building instead: that means train teh locals rather than fly in experts. There is a lot of sens in capacity building, but ther is also a chicken-and-egg problem. Until the country has turned itself around, capacity building is pretty difficult. You train people to an international standard, and if there are no prospects, then they use their credentials as a passport out of the country...In the early stages of reform not only do the reformers need skills that are unavailable in teh country, but some of these skils will no longer be needed once the transition has been acomplished. It actually makes sense for a country to import a bunch of skills temporarily while it gets over the hump of reform.

-I asked whether the high oil price that was generating big revenues for the Nigerian government was making reform easier or harder. "Much harder."...Because people's attention was focused on getting the extra oil money they knew was there, rather than on the often painful, tedious and fractious business of reform...sudden extra money, whether from export booms or aid, detracts from teh hard choices involved in reform.

-If you put together the [data]...there is a clear implication for how an aid agency should function...an implication is that when aid agencies operate in failing states, they should budget for a considerably higher ratio of administrative costs to money actually disbursed. Of course, agencies are under pressure to [do the opposite]; this is sometimes a measure of efficiency. But ut us misplaced. The environments in which agencies should be increasingly operating are those inwhich to be effective they will need to spend more on administration, not less. Mismeasurement of beauracratic performance is a general problem. In aid agenceis it encourages low-risk, low-administration operations that are the precise opposite of what they will beed to be doing to meet the coming development challenges.

-The key implication is that in post conflict situations risks are high. Governments recognize these risks. Eventually, if they run the economy well, this will bring the risk down, but it is going to take around a decade. There is no magical political fix so there has to be some military force to keep the peace during this dangerous period. But if the force is domestic, it exacerbates the problem. In the typical post conflict situation external military force is needed for a long time.

-There are now credible studies for some countries that estimate how much corruption in teh construction sector is raising the cost of infastructure and thereby reducing growth, and these effects are large...Aid for infastructure makes sense, but only if it matched by a radical tightening of the enforcement of anticorruption norms and regulations in teh construction sector. The construction companies are largely our companies. Their behavior depends upon our laws and how they are enforced.

-Brent Spar was an oil well in teh North Sea that had reached the end of its productive life. Shell, the owner, proposed to discard it in a way that might have damged the environment. The reaction by European environmentalists was so devastating to Shell's image and sales that it changed its policy on closing wells. At first, Shell managment tried to stand firm, but then sales of Shell products in Gernmany crashed by 30%...Where did all this power come from? Well, perhaps it was the accumulated effects of German teenagers in teh backseat of the family car, saying, "No Mom and Dad, not that gas station- did you hear what Shell wants to do?" and the parents presumably thought it was better to avoid the argument. Brent Spar demonstrated that what ordinary people in the West think about oil companies really matter

-Companies are being pressured on their environmental policies and on their employment policies, both of which are frankly peripheral, when what is needed is pressure on their policies toward governance.

-Scrunity from the bottom up. Each time the Ministry of Finance released money it informed the local media, and it also sent a poster to each school setting out what it should be getting...scrutiny turned 20% into 90%-more effective than doubling aid and doubling it again. Not that scrutiny and aid are substitutes: if scrutiny can make spending efective, it then becomes worthwhile to scale up aid.

-Gererally I do not much care for rich-country wallowing in guilt over development. I find it contrived and it diverts attention fomr a practical agenda...However, I am now going to pin some blame on citizens of the rich world, who much take responsibility for their own ignorance about trade policy and for its consequences.

-So, unlikely as it seems, it is the NGOs that now have power without responsibility. And that is because the general public is ignorant of trade policy but trusts [the NGOs] to get it right.

-We waste our own money subsidizing the production of crops that then close off opportunities for people who have few alternatives. When US and European trade negotiators jointly proposed that instead of the OECD lowering these production subsidies poor countries might shift to other activites, I personally felt they had crossed the line beyond which the normal diplomatic act of lying for your country becomes too shaming too accept.

-These are examples of "policy incoherence," where one policy works against another. It is stupid to provide aid with the objective of promoting development and then adopt trade policies that impede that objective.

-But do not think that just because your work is unconnected with development you are off the hook. You are a citizen, and citizenship carries responsibilities. In the 1930s the world sleepwalked into the avoidable catastrophe of WWII because electorates in teh US and Europe were too lazy to think beyond the populist recipies of isolationism and pacificm. These mistakes led to the slaughter of their children. It is the responsibility of all citizens to prevent us from sleepwalking into another avoidable catastrophe that our children would have to face.

-If Iraq is allowed to become another Somalia, with the cry "Never intervene," the consequences will be as bad as Rwanda.

The Kid

-When I'm under pressure and feeling awkward, my mouth opens and something idiodic, somethign totally Tourette's-y drops right out.

-{In having a child, we] would be giving up certain things that, for better or worse, define [us]. Like promiscuity. Safely and respectfully done, whorin' around, like travel, can be broadening. One night in Amsterdam, I met a guy...a 28 year old German student. We had a beer, left the bar, went back to his apartment. We messed around, nothing serious, adn when we were done we talked all night about German reunification, what it was like growing up in the East, and what his grandparents had been up to during the second World War. The next day, he showed me parts of Amsterdam I would never have found on my own, then he walked me back to my hotel, gave me a kiss, and said good-bye. I never saw him again and I dont remember his name, but it was a beautiful experience....I did know that by becoming a parent I was liminting myself, cutting myself off from similar experiences in teh future. But who said I had to be a hypocrite, too? I inhaled all sorts of things: men, makeup, drink, drugs. Could I be honest about these experiences, treasure their memory, and still be a good parent? I thought so.

-It takes a special kind of parent, we were told, to adopt a child with physical or emotional disability. We weren't sure for how long the satisfaction of sitting on the moral high ground, knowing we were better than abusive straight parents, would keep us going. There's always a chancle you'll adopt a child who's fine, or a child who can be repaired, but theres a chance youll wind up with a kid past help, one who can't be fixed. We didn't want to start parenting at a disadvantage...We didn't want to adopt a kid someone else had messed up. No, we wanted to mess up a kid all by ourselves.

-Considering the headaches alcohol had given us over the past few days, the last thing you'd expect Terry and me to want set down in front of us was a drink. But, as Homer Simpson once said, beer is at once the cause and the solution to all life's problems.

-Contemplating the baby's death on a daily basis sounds awful, but obsessively dwelling on the worst-case scenario has always been my way of coping with stress. If I'm flying somewhere, I imagine my awful death in a plane crash...At this writing, none of the planes I've been on has crashed, which I credit to my overworked, underpaid and insettling imagination. I'm convinced that the day I get on a plance without first forming a clean mental picture of it bursing into flames and falling to earth will be the day I'm on a plane that crashes.It's not just plane crashes that I picture. I aslo see car wrechks, train crashes, muggings, earthquakes, gay-bashings, waiters licking my silverwear, and my mother wlaking in while I'm masturabting. Contemplating worst possible outcomes is my insurance that they won't come to pass.

-We deadlocked on just two issues:circumcision and baptism...Discuss circumcision with new parents-hip ones, living in urban areas-and along with the standard pro-cicumcision arguments ("We want him to look like his father;" We don't want him made fun of in the locker room;" "It's easier to keep clean") you'll hear implicit and occassionally explicit concerns about how he's going to taste. Unfortunately for oral sex, logic is on the side of the anticircumcision activists. Family resemblance? Not something we usually judge on the appearence of genitals. Teasing in teh locker room? Half of all boys born in America today are not circumcised; if your son gets teased, he and the other uncut kids can form a gang and beat the shit out of the snip-dicks. Ease of cleaning? We dont cut off other body parts that are hard to keep clean. With that kind of logic, the anticircumcision activists point out, we should have our teeth yanked out to save us the bother of flossing...As for taste, well, the slight possibility that D.J. would get a little less head than his cut friends bothered me less than the idea of taking a knife and lopping off the end of his dick.

-I waiver between a cop-out agnosticissm and principled atheism...but, still, when anone asks about my heritage, I describe myself as Irish Catholic. It's a cultural thing. From the look on Terry's face when I told him about wanting to have DJ baptized, you would have thought I wanted to throw him in a wood chooper..."You don't believe in anything." But do you have to blieve? Almost all of my Jewish friends are bright, atheistic pork eaters, and noen would find anything objectionable about bacon bagels besides aethetics. They don't believe in anything either, but they get together and celebrate Jewish holidays because doing so matters to them culturally. They're not wasting time waiting for the Messiah to come, but they do get together every once in a while and act like great big Jews. Why can't I do the same?

Transformation Soup:

-I saw that to continue the relationship or not was completely our choice. We chose not to continue. We then tried to become friends too quickly. What a delicate matter. Now there is a companionable silence, a respectfully distant friendship. I still feel pangs. I also know that I am truly and completely loving myself for the first time, and that it is a full-time job. I also know that we needed each other to grow as we did, and that we never know what a person's purpose is in our life, or how long he or she will be in it.

-I am startled by change. I am also energized by it. The "ideal me" gracefully embraces and accepts change. The "real me" most often resists and struggles against it. ..It's embarrassing to admit that I love change when it suits or benefits me, or the world, or those I love. Change that I don't understand alarms me.

-"You do not need to know precisely what is happening or exactly where it is all going. What you need is to recognize the possibilities and challenges offered by the present moment, and to embrace them with courage, faith and hope." -Thomas Merton

-Why do we care about these things? I think we fear evidence of imperfection in our bodies and our lives. I think we care because they are physical evidence of imperfections we perceive in our charachter, our morality, and of nature's claims on us.

-I get sad when I see women's bodies untreasured, unaccepted and in revolt against themselves. I get sad when I do this. I remember my therapist saying, "You need to love the fat girl in you, too." But I hadn't. When I gained weight, I hated the fat girl. I still have remnants of this hate. I still feel better when I'm thinner or more 'in shape'. Some of this feels healthy, some does not.

-I was raging and binging and hiding...slowly, compassion bloomed. Over a period of years, an agonizing process of radical self-acceptance took place...I stopped trying to eradicate the fat and stopped all the blaming and stuffing and hiding. I began to accept myself AS IS and now ehn I got thinner, more flexible...any of it. This spread out to other people too. I noticed that I was kinder and more patient...I had stopped judging and criticizing myself and others int he same harsh, repetative ways. THEN, I was inspired and ready to experiment with my eating habits and over the course of a year, changed them dramatically. It was very slow and dramatic and the timing had to be just right.

-"Imagine a woman who believes it is right and good she is a woman. A woman who honors her experience and tells her stories. Who refuses to carry the sins of others within her body and life. Imagine a woman who trusts and respects herself. A woman who listens to her needs and desires. Who meets them with tenderness and grace. Imagine a woman who has acknowledged the past's influence on the present. A woman who has walked through her past. WHo has healed in the present. Imagine a woman who authors her own life. A woman who exerts, initiates and moves on her own behalf. Who refuses to surrender except to her truest self and wisest voice." -Patricia Lynn Reilly

-"Good morning. This is god. I will be handling all your problems today. I will not need your help. So have a good time. I love you."

-After my last love relationship ended, I began compliling a list of things I wouldn't tolerate in another relationship. Then I realized, "What would I tolerate? or would my list of annoyances just grow longer and longer? As I made a list of what I would tolerate, I realized I was just listing my own faults. Now, "any and all faults welcome as long as person is consciously aware and in process of working on them."

-Healing opporunities surround us and sometimes we choose not to heal. Sometimes it hurts too much to peel back the layers and feel what's under there. Yet what we're not healing is hurting us somehow- whether through absence, stagnation, avoidance or bad dreams. Healing can also feel lonely, especially if we continually feel that we are the "only ones." Healing can be nearly invisible, agonizingly slow, astonishingly rapid, easy, very difficult, and inexplicably woven into the hurts so we can't tell what's been healed right away. We feel so terribly alone in our pain, yet we are not. I know this because as I am plowing through old agonizing layers, repeating patterns of not o.k.ness, I meet others on the path of tears and healing.

-"When your expectations are not met, you are merly receiving a correction. You are being told that you do not see the whole truth of a situation." -Paul Ferrini

-The distance between inertia and begining is so vast, that upon contemplation, it appears to large to cross...It is much safer not to begin. What if you began a dream and it didn't work or, you were no good at it, or it didnt' satisfy you the way you always imagined? What if you began and quit?

-We look at others and collect evidence of how they're "really doing it" and measure our own attempts and accomplishments in this harsh lighting. My friend told me one day"I don't feel like a very good mother. I got home from work, and couldn't get up to fiz any dinner or turn off the tv. So I finally got cottage cheese and ritz crackers and we laid on teh floor, eating and watching whatever was on." How could you be a "real" parent and not have these stories? Besides, the kid will probably turn that into one of her happiest memories. Another friend says, "I dont think of myself as a 'real' writer because I dont write in my journal every day. Then I realized that somehow, I still have volumes of finished journals!" How can we grow creatively in all areas of our lives with all this comparing and judging and fear of mistakes?

-In the underbrush lives my jealousy and competition. The other parts of me are bright sunlight and flowers, and then there is tangled underbrush I don't want anyone to see. My jealousy springs from a primitie fear that there isn't enough or that I am not enough. I measure and compare myself to others and try to see if their success seems more than mine. Meanwhile, others are doing this to me!

-I find that my lessons repeat or magnify themselves if I am trying to hide from or ignore their message.

-"Let's just all realize and admit that the pain never ends and go on brilliantly anyway. Let's realize that to experience our lives intimately means to be off-balance, out of control, and subject to all sorts of fragile and tender emotions."

-"We are afraid to cry. We are afraid to be seen as weak or falling apart or not fun to be with. We cry and then apologize. We only cry in front of certain people. We only cry when we're alone or we can't cry. Crying is not spoken of enough."

-A 4 year old girl said, "Why don't you just BE how you actually ARE!"

Jan 10, 2011

12:03 am

Before I left Mali for a one month trip to the United States for a friend's wedding and the holidays, people asked me if I was excited. I'm not sure if I was in denial, sad about missing holiday adventures here, worried what people at home would think of me, or apprehensive about all the money I would spend and weight I would gain, but the truth is, I wasn't really.

In less than four weeks I visited Detroit, Ann Arbor and Birmingham, Michigan; Minneapolis, Minnesota; Baltimore, Maryland and Washington, D.C.; Port Angeles and Seattle, Washington; and Victoria, Canada. I shot my first weapon (a 9mm shotgun at an indoor range), took a flying trapeeze lesson (including a "catch"), went hiking through a forest to a waterfall, sledding on feet of fresh snow above the clouds with a view of the mountains, digging for razor clams on a sandy beach, and watched the waves crash along the shore on a morning run. I ate pizza, bacon, cheese and crackers, ice cream, and sushi. I tailgated a Ravens game and watched the Badgers play in the Rose Bowl with other Wisconsin alumni. I tickled with my 2 year old nephew and painted pottery with my 5 year old niece; I shopped with my mom, cried to my sister, and watched my dad in his courtroom. I went out drinking with my 41 year old cousin on Christmas Day and my 25 year old cousin on New Year's Eve. I did kareoke at a gay bar, went on a 48 hour first date, held a tarantula at a bug zoo and fed llamas as they stuck their heads in the car window. I gained 15 pounds, spent $900 and, despite loving Mali and my life here so much before heading home, I wasn't, to my surprise, enthusiastic about coming back.

I prepared my self for a rough period of adjustment. I stayed in the capital for a couple of days, transitioning to the climate and culture with the aid of real mattresses, air conditioning and hot showers. Immediately I was frustrated with the slow internet, the work ethic at headquarters, the gas stove and the can opener being broken in our transit house. I couldn't understand most of the Bambara I heard and the cab driver on the way home from the airport insited we owed him more money than we did. I thought I was handeling things with a grain of salt until someone asked me if I was happy to be back and I began to cry and actually said, "I don't want to be here."

"It will be better when you get back to village," they said. I hoped they were right but with the return to village I expected people telling me I'm fat (it's a compliment here), everyone asking me for their gift (this is culturally acceptable), seeing how my huts have been detroyed by termites and mice and my dog is emaciated from a month without me, and feeling the guilt and insecurity that comes from being away so long. But, as I walked away from that encounter, I ran into a Malian woman selling Bananas from a bowl on top of her head and stopped to buy a bunch. I left with a literal spring in my step and a smile on my face and thought, "I love this place."

I love that I can buy my produce (or sunglasses or underwear for that matter) from people I pass on the street; I love that I'm never freezing cold; I love that when the kitchen tools were useless I ate cold peas with raw onion for dinner and was fine with it; I love that I think $1 for a small bag of cashews is outrageously expensive but will shell out for it every day because I think of it as such a treat. This all seems simple and superficial, and it is. But it is this kind of stuff that makes a home home.

Despite my fortunate change in attitude, I still mentally prepared for another rough transition as I headed to my regional capital and my village. But instead, I just felt more 'love'. I love that I called my bush taxi driver and asked him to go out of his way to pick me up so I didn't have to drag my bags through town and he did it. I love that when we pulled up to my village, for the first time ever, I felt no guilt and no fear, but pure joy and excitement to be home and see the people I love here. I love bathing by pouring cups of warm water over my head while gazing at the infinite stars. I love listening to the children laugh when I teach them how to high five and watching their eyes light up when they taste their first roasted marshmellow.I love that for the second night in a row I can't sleep at all but I can still be at peace in the fortress of my mosquito net, the raw darkness and silence, and my unique solitude.

"But at times I wondered if I had not come a long way only to find that what I really sought was something I had left behind."

Moringa is an amazing plant: drought resistant, grows from seed to usable in 3-5 months, can be used for everything from alley cropping in fields to animal fodder, to water treatment, and is more nutritious than most fruits and vegetables (and even has protein). Best of all, it can be made into a powder (by the same process developing world women make other ingredients) and tastelessly added to food already eaten in said culture. I am hoping to teach the women in my village to grow the tree and make and use the powder, either for their family's nutrition or to sell, but first I needed to teach myself how to do it:

Moringa is an amazing plant: drought resistant, grows from seed to usable in 3-5 months, can be used for everything from alley cropping in fields to animal fodder to water treatment, and is more nutritious than most fruits and vegetables (and even has protein). Best of all, it can be made into a powder (by the same process developing world women make other ingredients) and tastelessly added to food already eaten in said culture. I am hoping to teach the women in my village to grow the tree and make and use the powder, either for their family's nutrition or to sell, but first I needed to teach myself how to do it:

Been painting educational murals at my site, as well as those of my 3 amazing sitemates:

We are not just passive consumers of food but co creators of the systems that feed us. Depending on how we spend them, our food dollars can either go to support an industry devoted to quantity and convenience and "value" or they can nourish a food chain organized around values- like quality and health. Yes, shopping this way takes more money and effort but as soon as you begin to treat that expenditure as a kind of vote- for health in the largest sense- food no longer seems like the smartest place to economize.

-Michael Pollan, In Defense of Food

A post from my friend and site-mate, Dina:

Warning: This post is graphic. It describes female genital mutilation and other negative practices.

“It should look like a flower,” sighs the speaker Madame Traore, cueing visuals of pastel Georgia O’Keefes, potpourri, and oddly, Kathy Griffin. We are sitting in a classroom at a three-day workshop on excision, women’s reproductive health, and children’s rights. All the local big-wigs are here: mayors, school directors, imams (Muslim priests) and radio DJs; trained midwives and traditional medicine women; town criers and local NGO workers. While I am the only foreigner amidst over 60 Malians, I realize I am also one of the movers in my community, and I am heartened to see how many people are passionate about this issue. I see my friend, who, disturbingly, I found out performs excision on the village girls, sometimes 20 girls with one knife. At least she’s here. And today, together, we are talking about the “should.”

We begin by discussing traditional practices here in Mali that can be detrimental, specifically those common in three ethnicities present at the meeting: Dogon, Peul, and Malinke. In addition to female genital mutilation and male circumcision, many of those present talked about practices such as ear and nose piercing, tattoo of the lips and the gums, scarring (often done on the sides of the face, next to the eyes or down the middle of the forehead), teeth filing, blood-letting, and taboos against certain foods for pregnant women and children. They also cited more traumatic practices of tribal initiation for men, extreme diets or force feeding for to-be brides, levirat and sororat, the tradition of marrying the brother/sister of your deceased spouse, degrading customs for sterile women such as putting hot pepper into the vagina or burning pubic hair, forced early marriage of girls, and forced child labor.

The common and arguably the most damaging practice that affects girls in these cultures is excision. Excision, the softer term used here for various types of female genital mutilation/cutting (FGM/C) or female circumcision, is extremely prevalent in Mali, one of the highest occurrence rates in the world with estimates ranging from 90- 95%. In my region, Kayes, the rate is at a heartbreaking 98%. Mali does not have a law that prohibits excision, despite efforts by the former president Konare to pass a bill in 2002 to criminalize it. Historically, female circumcision has links to Egypt, and is practiced in parts of Africa, particularly in the western and eastern countries, as well as in the Middle East. While excision is not a practice mentioned in the Koran or the Bible and has been discouraged by Islamic religious authorities, many of the participants cited a biblical origin. In the story, Sarah forces Abraham to circumcise Hagar, the Egyptian slave who bore Ishmael. God then commands Abraham and Sarah to circumcise themselves in response to their actions. There is also tribal traditions that are used to explain excision. Stories from the Dogon tribe include the belief that babies are born of both sexes, and just as the “feminine” foreskin must be removed from the penis, the “masculine” clitoris must be removed from the vagina, which also ties into Egyptian origins.

While in the past excision had sometimes been a ritual of the wedding ceremony, it is now normally performed on girls between the ages of birth until five years, and sometimes until puberty. The extent of the mutilation ranges from just the partial or total removal of the clitoris, known as clitorodectomie, to excision, the most common form, which includes the ablation of the clitoris, the labia minora and/or parts of the labia majorta, which is most common form in Mali. Rarer types include infibultation, a narrowing of the vaginal orifice where the clitoris and both inner and outer labia are ablated and sewn to create a small opening. The last type includes a variation of mutilations, including pricking the clitoris with needles, introducing corrosive substances to the vagina, and introcision, where the vagina is expanding through stretching or tearing the perineum (the area between the vagina and rectum).

The possible consequences of FGC are manifold and can be debilitating. The most obvious result of excision is reduced sexual pleasure, but is by no means the only effect the practice can have on the women and their families. The procedure itself can cause hemorrhaging, which could also occur as the vagina ruptures during childbirth, leading to anemia and possibly death. In addition, the scarred tissue creates a narrower birth canal, where the infant’s head sometimes cannot pass through easily, and sometimes even not at all. Often during a women’s first childbirth, the head becomes misshapen as the still soft skull becomes indented trying to pass through the vagina, which can lead to head trauma and possibly long-term brain damage. Mme. Traore explains that often, these infants do not cry right after birth, as their reflex center is affected. This explains all the bewildering silent birth I’ve seen. There can be difficulty during sexual intercourse, which can result in forced penetration, vaginal tearing, and rupture of the perineum. Infibulation can cause an accumulation of menstrual blood and urine, which can lead to uterine infections and sterility. Uncontrollable urination can also occur as the urinal passage can become defective. The procedure is often performed by untrained women and with unsterlilzed tools. These unsanitary conditions increase their risk of infection, including tetanus, HIV, and hepatitis B. Finally, girls who have undergone excision, particularly at a later age, can experience psychological trauma from the ordeal, affecting their sexual and social relationships.

Then why is it done? Participants cite reasons including hygiene, preservation of virginity, fidelity, increased male sexual pleasure, esthetics, society initiation and cultural/tribal identity. They agree that lowered sexual sensitivity is a major underlying factor, which is intended to reduce the risk of wife infidelity. While women have told me they believe the clitoris is unclean, there is no evidence of any hygienic advantages to excision; on the contrary, the procedure, the healing process and the subsequent possibility of vaginal tearing during intercourse and childbirth increases their risks of contracting infections, including HIV and other STIs. It is also believed that it helps facilitate a healthy childbirth, which also has no medical support; excision can actually create serious difficulties for the mother and the child, sometimes resulting in the need for a Cesarian section or even the possibility of maternal and infant death. As detrimental as it can be, however, excision has a strong traditional foundation and is important to feminine identity and social acceptance. As surprising as it may seem, a great deal of the push for the continuation of excision comes from the mothers and the older generation of women, who, in addition to wanting their daughters to have a normal status in their society, believe that it is necessity for their hygeine, reproductive health, and spiritual well-being.

During our talks on female and male reproductive systems we argue about women’s rights, the appropriate age for first marriage, and even a very humorous, if not awkward, debate on penis size (yes, men are men everywhere). We look at children’s rights, and how excision and forced early marriage of girls– girls are typically married off around age 15 in my village, as early as 12 - violates their vulnerability and their rights to a healthy childhood. Finally, we end the last day planning an activity to fight-excision in our individual communitites. The school director of my village suggests a theater competition, where the girls and boys will put on plays about the dangers of excision and the importance of promoting children’s rights.

At the end of the third day, we all gather together for a picture, and make our way back to our villages. I see my friend, who tells me that she has learned a lot. The Mayor says he wants to work on campaigns with the doctor of my health center, and is excited to see the theater competition. As for me, I will work in the background to support anti-excision campaigns. Though I find myself passionately against excision, frustrated by its recklessness and disturbed by its consequences, I am the foreigner, and I know I can never truly understand its complex role in female identity here. This is not my culture, and I know in the end it is not my fight.

7/2/2010

I'd been in this country almost exactly one year, and was at, predictably, a low point. Amazingly, most of my frustrations and challenges aren't specifically related to culture shock, problems with work, life's daily hardships, or distance from people I'm close to. All of this, no doubt, presents challenges, but, in general, I love it here, appreciate the way of life, can recognize cultural differences for what they are and can dislike individual people rather than blaming the whole country, and am able to keep in touch with people I care about. My main challenges are the demons I have always faced- as my sister reminded me, “Wherever you go, there you are,” - very simplistically put, extreme self-doubt. Even when I generally feel great about myself and my life, I am pretty certain of my inability to succeed at a given task that sits before me.

I desperately reached out to people I admire and respect, expressing my frustrations with the opportunity to do something great but the fear that I wasn't prepared to do it. (The irony being that one of my many answers to why I joined the Peace Corps is to learn to ignore this fear and to become better prepared to do said great things.) My dad, at the end of a long, thoughtful, supportive e-mail, threw in a quote he took from my blog (which I took from a card given to me by my 'running with ex-addicts' team): Leap, and the net will appear. And then, my friend Debra, said, “In business people often quote Mary Kay, who said, 'Nothing happens until somebody sells something.' If people waited to act until they had all the answers, I wouldn't own a company, no one would ever have children.” Of course, they are right. But, of course, I am not Mary Kay, or my father, or my friend. I was, no doubt, inspired, but still completely unprepared.

Back in village, enthusiastic to snap out of my funk but, as with the nature of the funk, not knowing where to begin, I stared aimlessly at the non-work related “Mali Bucket List” hanging above my hand made wooden desk. Most of the things had been crossed off and many of the remaining items were out of my control-- I can only eat a snake when someone in my village kills and offers one to me and I can only watch a birth when someone delivers a baby and invited me along. But, one exception remained: Bike to Kita. It certainly wouldn't help my villagers in any way, and probably wouldn't eliminate my longstanding insecurities, but training would give me a purpose and I certainly love crossing things off of my to-do lists. So it was settled. I would start training....bike 30 minutes the next day, 45 later in the week, and so on until I could comfortably ride for 3 hours and then, in a few weeks, hopefully I would bike the 50 or 60 kilometers to Kita. And in the meantime I could convince my friend Dina to join me, in case anything went wrong, learn all about bike maintenance and repair, get my Steripen in case I needed to treat water on the route, find appropriate portable snacks....my list of necessary preparations began to grow. Of course, to any cyclist, this all sounds ridiculous. People hop on a bike and do 30 miles with no training. I had just heard a story of Peace Corps Senegal Volunteers who biked from the country border to Bamako, sometimes doing 100 km a day, stopping in random villages to sleep, getting by on their minimal French (in a place where few people speak it). But, as much as I dream of adventure like that, truth be told, the whole idea of it scares me to death. My plan is to latch on to people like that so I can share their experiences, knowing I will be terrified most of the way.

So, I started planning and started training and even told my host family that one day soon I would bike to Kita. They responded that the last volunteer biked every time she went, but that I shouldn't go for a couple of months because rainy season is starting and the road is bad and I don't bike much. I immediately go on the defensive. Sure, I've been telling myself I'm not ready to bike to Kita for months but who are these people to tell me I can't bike to Kita now?! If she can bike to Kita, I can sure as hell bike to Kita! And like that, it was decided. I have been down on myself, down on the organization I work for and nervous about my ability to do things I haven't been prepared to do. As cheesy as I knew it was, this was my perfect metaphor. I needed to show myself I could bike to Kita before I was 'ready' to teach myself, deep down, the lesson everyone else had been trying to teach me.

Yesterday I made sure I knew how to tie a bucket to the back shelf of the bike, pre-hydrated, packed up bike tools and granola bars, filled my camelback and a water bottle, and set my alarm to get an early start. I figured if I was on my way by 6am, even with the long, bumpy dirt road, even if I took a short break, I would be in by 10:30 at the latest.

In my dad's e-mail, he also told me, "The Marines have a saying: if you are 70% sure your plan will work, go with it.  Even if you are 100% sure, you are probably wrong about a few things you expected, and you’ll have to change plans on the fly anyway.  And they are talking about life and death combat missions."

I was definitely not 100% sure, and I definitely had to change plans along the way. At 1:30pm, I arrived, over 7 hours later, at the Kita house.

At 6am, wearing hot pink capri workout pants, a grey under armour t-shirt, lots of sunscreen, a 3 litre hydration pack filled with valuables like my netbook computer and my digital camera and an ipod nano set to my newly acquired glee soundtrack, I set out, bright eyed and confident about the journey ahead. My 10 month old dog, Tosh, follows close behind so, before I have even left my compound I have to make my first stop, yelling at him to Stay. He stops, gives me those sad puppy eyes, but sits down and stays there as I pedal away. Before I've left the village limits, I see he is behind me again. I getoff the bike, get right up in his face and really scold him. Once he realizes I mean business, he always listens. To be sure, I look behind me every couple of minutes and, thankfully, he has listened this time. I am really off. I settle in. Within fifteen minutes I have earned to navigate the crevasses and ripples of a very worn dirt road, I am singing along to each song on the Soundtrack as if I am the star of the glee club, and I feel the best I've felt in months. I pass some Malian women hard at work in their peanut fields--babies tied to their lower backs, bending over, working the endless rows with their small tools. I greet them enthusiastically and realize, as they respond, they are not looking at me, but beyond me. I turn my head around and see Tosh. He has kept a safe distance behind, specifically trying to elude my glances. I had prepared everything except being outsmarted by my dog! I jump off the bike, so quickly I knock the bucket off the back and run to him screaming, “Tosh, NO! No!!! GO home. Go HOME!” I give him a slap on the side to let him know I'm really angry and walk away. This time I check behind me more often and for further down the road, until I'm certain he's no longer with me. It didn't go off without a hitch, but I've been riding for 45 minutes, I still feel great, and I'm probably half way through the 15km dirt road, assuming after that the paved road will be a breeze. I see more women in the fields and, with genuine appreciation for the tradition call cheerfully, “I ni sogoma.” Good morning. But as they're asking if I've spent the night in peace, I imagine that they, too, are focused behind me. With panic building in my chest I twist my neck to gaze behind me and see that, in fact, Tosh has followed me here.

If I turn back now to tie him up, I will be adding 16 kilometers to a long bike ride I already wasn't trained to do and would be starting out from my village at least an hour and a half later than planned, leaving me riding into the extreme heat of the day. There is no way. I have already missed the vehicle out of village today, so riding back with him leaves me stuck in village until tomorrow. I am heading to Manatali tomorrow morning with a large group to celebrate the 4th of July so biking tomorrow isn't an option. By the time I get back to village after this vacation, rainy season will have picked up and biking truly might be ill advised, meaning I couldn't attempt this again for another 4 months. Nope. Not an option. I yell at him again to go home, and get back on my bike.

Tosh and I make it to the paved road healthy and happy, but just where I assumed things would get easier and I would feel confident about the road to the finish line, things began to turn in ways that, yesterday, I could never have predicted. As unequipped as I was for this trip, naturally, Tosh, being a puppy, and being on foot, going the speed of me on a bike, and not having eaten breakfast, and not having 'trained' at all, was much less prepared. His pace slows. He falls behind. I slow down. I stip and wait. I turn around to meet up with him. I sit next to him and he frantically laps water out of the cap of my water bottle, finishing 27 ounces, one cap-ful at a time. Just when I am really starting to worry about him, we find a large village. I purchase powdered milk, as the small shop owner to bring me small cups of water, and find a woman selling cake. Tosh puts down 2 bags of mini muffins and 2 servings of milk and after a nice break, I naively hope we are in the clear. But no more than ten minutes down the road I have lost him again. I stop and have a granola bar, wishing I'd gotten some well water for myself at the last village too, and wait for Tosh to catch up, brainstorming out options. A couple minutes pass and still no sign. Some women are walking my way and I ask if they've seen my dog (A white woman in pants, riding a bike, wearing a helmet, with a dog following her, tends to stand out around here) and they say yes, he's back there, not coming, crying. Fuck. I ride back, heart pounding, frantically trying to brainstorm a plan, asking a god I don't believe in not to let me have killed my dog, and wondering what the hell I've gotten myself into. Tosh and I find a spot in the shade on the side of the road. I give him a hug, feed him our last granola bar, promise him it's going to be okay, and sit. I am defeated. I have no idea what to do. I take a pee. I sit. A half hour passes. He his still panting frantically. He can't cool down. He can't catch his breath. A take another pee. Mostly out of boredom but at least I know I'm not dehydrated. The only thing I can do is flag down a van and ask them to take him. I'm not sure where I will have them drop him off or how I will find him when I get there or what I will have to do to convince them to do this (people aren't happy even when I am on transportation with him!) but it's a start. I'm not sure why the logical option of me and my bike getting on transport with him isn't a choice, but, I guess in my blind ambition, this option doesn't even occur to me. Still unhappy with the skeleton of a plan and definitely lacking the confidence to actually wave down a car and make it happen, I realize I haven't seen any of these vans in the entire time we've been resting here. An hour passes and the only van that has come by was so overfull that four men were literally standing on the back, behind the open hatch door- they definitely would not have taken my dog.

And then I see it. Brilliant. How did I not think of it before? Thank god I'm in Mali. A man rides by, on his 1970s era dilapidated road bike, with a goat tied up in a basket on the back. Woila! Still letting Tosh rest, I take everything out of the bucket in the back and shove it in to my backpack. The bag will be a little heavy and the ride a little tougher but it just might work. The bucket is about half the size of Tosh, but I'm desperate, so I pick him up and try to squish his back end in, thinking he just ride paws and head out, quietly enjoying the view. Predictably, Tosh was having none of us. Again, feeling hopeless, I make a futile attempt to explain to him that if he doesn't want a ride than he can run the rest of the way and I set off again. But he's my dog and this is obviously isn't his fault so that doesn't last long.

I have never been good at thinking on my feet, getting myself out of bad situations (or, clearly, not getting myself into them in the first place)...this fact, or at least my debilitating belief of it, is perhaps why my instinct tells me not to take these leaps. But, this is what I wanted, isn't it? The whole point was to force myself to face the unexpected, learn out of necessity that I can handle things I didn't know I could. But seriously...

I look at my backpack. Look at Tosh. Look at the backpack. Worth a shot. I unpack everything and find a way to fit it in the bucket, unzip the main section of the bag completely and pick Tosh up again. He's nervous because of our last experiment and squirms continuously, exhibiting a strength I didn't know he had. We struggle for about ten minutes but I finally get him most of the way in, front paws and head sticking out the top, with the zipper only closing up one side of the bag. It's obviously not stable but I'm running out of options so I hoist the bag off the asphalt, stop on my knee and swing it into place. Thankfully it's a hiking day pack so I buckle the waist straps to carry some of the newly acquired 35 pounds on my back. Step one can be called a mild success, but now I can't even figure out how to mount the bike. In one clumsy movement I hop on, miraculously getting the bottom of the pack to rest on top of the bucket and allowing most of my butt to rest on the seat and we're off. I am certain all of the Malians I passed were shocked and amused before, so I can only imagine what they're thinking now. Even Americans, who have dogs as pets, would think this is absolutely nuts.

We're riding for at least ten minutes and I am exhausted, but marveling at our relative success, and, for the first time in hours, thinking there is a chance (slight, but existent) this won't end in disaster. And like that, Tosh jumps out of the pack. It's hard enough just to lure him back near the bike and impossible to get him back in the bag. A Malian man stops and greets me. I desperately explain my situation, joke that I know I am crazy and then ask sheepishly, if perhaps he can help. Together we spend twenty minutes trying to push Tosh in at every angle and, just when I am ready to give up for good, we zip up the bag again.

We are going so slowly that I honestly think it would be faster and less physically demanding if I walked the bike but I keep at it. In the distance I see the rock structure we call Mount Kita and realize I am, at least relatively, close. But, a mountain is visible from a long way away and our house is at the far end of the city and even 10 kilometers is too far for him to run and will take more time than I think I can keep him in this bag. And the sky is completely black with low rain clouds just ahead. I don't mind getting wet but I have a lot of expensive electronics on me, the dog will freak, and the wind is picking up quickly. I see a sign that says “Kita 5km” and feel the first rain drop. A wind gust blows so strong it literally knocks me off the bike and, by some miracle, I see two young boys running into a lone compound. “Do you live here?” I yell in Bambara? “Can I come in?!” And before they confirm “A whoa” I am running through the bamboo fence gate. I greet their mother and she leads me set the bike in one hut and follow her into another. I introduce myself to her and her 2 young boys and then another woman runs in, also seeking shelter from the rain. I love this country. I buy some cake she is packing up to sell in market later and, with custom, offer some to everyone there. It's so good and I'm so famished I buy some more. They tell me to lay down and rest and I resist, feeling horrible about how sweaty and dirty I am, nervous about falling asleep with my valuables unattended and just generally feeling awkward. But, when another 30 minutes passes, the rain is not letting up, and they offer again, I take a little nap. When it slows to a drizzle, I thank them, give some blessings, and pack up again.

I decide to see what Tosh can do after another little rest and soon I see the outskirts of Kita rising in front of me. I am quickly faced with the new challenge of not knowing how to get to the house from here, but figure the worst is behind me. It's still dark and damp from the storm, I am thirsty and my whole body aches and I begin to shake my head and laugh at myself, just amazed at what I've just put myself through. And in a final, defeating gesture, a huge bus drives past and I see all of the people I think I am going on vacation with tomorrow - apparently heading out a day early- witnessing my fiasco and leaving me behind.

This might end up being one of the defining moments of my two years in West Africa. I wasn't ready for it, it was far from what I expected, and, honestly, I'm not sure it could have gone any better!

This is a blog post from a friend of mine, Josh Litwin. Thought it would be interesting, having shared about a wedding, to share about a funeral:

"I knew it was coming. The dugutigi (chief of the village) was bedridden for several weeks. And then a few weeks ago I woke up to find five women sweeping outside my hut (which is next to the chief's compound). As I tied my running shoes I stopped and asked one of the women why she was sweeping the ground. I already knew and dreaded the answer that she gave me.

During my first few weeks at site I always made sure to greet the chief on my morning walks to the butiki. The cheif would would watch me again as I returned with bread and eggs to make an breakfast sandwich. He would always remark "Buru ni chefan akadi de!" (Eggs and bread are really good!). During my first site visit the cheif held community meetings with the village elders to welcome me and assign me a jatigi (host family). In village, the dugutigi holds an important role alongside the mayor. He mediates disputes and helps newcomers to the village find land to build upon among other responsibilities.

As I returned from my run I noticed that more people had arrived. Many of the men in village had arrived to begin digging the grave alongside the chief's compound. They each took turns with the metal pick as they chipped through the hard clay ground. Some men began chopping a tree into logs which would be layed ontop of the grave.

The women congregated in the middle of the compound to start cooking lunch for those who attended. A moto arrived with the chief's daughter who was crying loudly after hearing the news (funerals are probably one of the few times that Malians show their emotions in public). Apparently I had slept through it, but at around 5am the Imam had announced over the mosque speakers that the dugutigi had passed away. In addition, the death was announced over the local radio station. By noon more than 100 people had arrived. Some people ccame from 30 Km+ away and crossed the river to attend. They came on foot, rode motos, and a few drove their cars in from Bamako.

At 2pm the Imam led a short ceremony. The men and I lined up shoulder to shoulder to pray. Shortly after a few men brought the dugutigi (who was carried out on a stretcher and covered with a cloth) to his final resting site. The men worked together to cover the chief with the logs, follwed by mud and dried grass. They ringed the mound with rocks and placed branches ontop.

Debes (large mats) were laid out under the cool shade of the mango trees and the men and I sat, chatted and ate lunch. The funeral lasted for more than 3 days. Each day new people arrived as they heard the news. The close family relatives stayed for more than a week afterwards. My neighbor Tomba, the chief's son, now took on a new role in his compound. He was now dutigi (chief of the compound) and would be responsible for hosting visitors, and feeding and taking care of his father's wives and family. The new weight of the death and his reponsibilities in organzing the funeral were visible that day.

Earlier in the morning, some very old drums were placed outside. They sat in silence out of respect for the dugutigi. I was told that they were used only in special circumstances in order to alert the village of an important villager's death or to call a neighboring village to arms. After the chief was buried some of the older men played the drums that afternoon and one really old man danced happily in circles with his cane."

I communicate with a couple school teachers in order to try to share my experience with US students and have them share our culture with my village somehow. One teacher asked me to create an introductory Power Point Presentation. It's by no means outstanding, but hopefully it gives a succinct idea of what I'm doing here.

Hopefully you can download it by clickng here

(I have been putting off writing this for a while so I could do it justice and make it interesting, but now I just want to at least get the facts down...hopefully the cross cultural content is interesting enough to speak for itself...)

5/24/10

I don't want to reach far to try to create connections that don't exist because, for the most part, our cultures are extremely different, but, occasionally, as I sit around in even the most stereotypical 'African' of ceremonies, I am astounded by the similarities. Considering our histories never crossed paths (it's not like I'm comparing English and American cultures), why is it that seemingly asinine traditions are common across varying communities? I can see how things like asking the father's permission and giving homemaking related gifts could establish themselves separately, but why, for example, do all bride's wear white?

My host sister Dusuba is approximately 15 years old and is no longer in school, so I shouldn't have been surprised to return to village and learn that four Thursdays from now she would be getting married.

Apparently Baba, a young tailor in my village who is already married, decided he would like Dusuba to be his second wife. He came to our compound and asked her father and they agreed to the terms of the dowry. I have heard that for legal marriages in Mali, the man must pay a minimum of $30 to the bride directly, but most marriages in my village are not legal ceremonies and most dowries are much larger than this. Baba paid two cows, a large bag (rice sack) of salt and 12,000 cfa, or approximately $25. I have heard that sometimes people pay as much as 3 cows (from $150-300 each) and $300. This is astounding considering the average income is $270 per year, which, honestly, is probably not even actual monetary income, but food produced, which is often not enough to feed the family, let alone sell for income.

I guess the father asks the daughter if she wants to marry man, but I understand this to be largely a formality and that, in most cases, the woman really could not refuse

While all weddings here start on Thursdays, the festivities are clearly a multi-day affair. On Tuesday family and friends began arriving from other villages. The women spent all day braiding each others hair, applying natural henna on their feet and hands and painting their nails and the evenings drumming, chanting and dancing at our family's compound. Throughout the week, most of the people from our village stopped by to greet the out of town guests and the family. At 4:00 p.m. a large group of men and women gathered at our house to make a list of all the gifts that had been given and pack them to be moved to the husband's house the next day. The bride received 150 pieces of fabric, bowls, pots, jewelry, cups and utensils- everything she needs to be prepared for her domestic life.

That night they set up a large stereo and speaker system and the young friends and family on the bride's side had a dance party.

Finally it's wedding day. The women finish beautifying and help the bride prepare, including burning the ends of her hair to make sure the braids stay in tact. Dusuba washes and goes inside to get dressed and they tell me that soon, she will come outside crying.

“Why will she be crying?!” I ask.

“Because she is sad to be leaving her mom.”

“But she is staying in this village, right?”

“Yes, but now she won't be here all the time; she won't eat with her family.”

As if on cue, I hear loud wails coming from inside. It's 11:30 am and the crying bride emerges from the house, wearing a standard wrap around skirt, a white shirt (an old soccer jersey because that's what she had) and an expensive, hand-woven, white scarf to cover her head and face. All of her siblings are around her and they are all wailing, loudly, almost theatrically, even the adults and the boys. The intensity of the moment, my sadness for her younger siblings for losing their sister, and my fear that she has no interest in marrying her future husband bring tears to my eyes. When they see me crying they push me to my house- crying in public is not socially acceptable here. The whole group starts walking out of the compound and when I compose myself I join them. Dusuba's mother and father do not come. Her father's second wife comes along and explains that the bride's parents will not participate in any of the celebration; they have officially given their daughter away.

We begin the long, ceremonial walk to the husband's family's compound. The bride's face is covered, so she's lead by her friends, and all of the women are singing, crying and carrying enormous gifts on their heads. We stop at many points along the way, eating porridge, singing and resting.

Our walk was notably short, but the tradition is the same even if the man lives in a far away village. We arrive at a half way point where we officially convene with the groom's family and friends, but the two parties remain separated. The groom's family provides a large, expensive feast of beef, couscous and sauce, sugared drinks in plastic bags and more porridge. And this isn't even lunch. The groom's family spends an exorbitant amount of money on the whole affair. From Thursday at noon through Saturday morning, they provide all meals for all of the guests. Rice, which they must purchase, and peanut butter sauce are the staples, but breakfast includes such luxuries like bread and coffee and sugar (this is the only time I have seen anyone from my village purchase or consume these things) and there is meat at every meal. The kill both a cow (again, worth at least $100, up to $300) and a goat ($10-20) and provide entertainment for 2 days, in the form of three traditional drummers, costing $15 per day.

Snack completed, we continue to a field near the groom's house to spend the day. The bride's friends and family lay down a mat, and the bride, head still covered, lays down. She spends the whole day there, sometimes accompanied by her close friends, sometimes alone while the rest of the women, all dressed in their nicest comples, dance the day away.

The groom and his male friends are no where to be seen; they pass the day hanging out at his house, drinking tea, and listening to the radio. Older men are around but they sit slightly off to the side, brewing tea and talking while the women dance. The groom does show up once, to greet the group of women. As tradition states, he provides a gift each time he greets: tea and sugar, kola nuts and a small amount of money ($10 total byt the end), which will be divided among all women attendees at the end of the festivities (I walk away with 20 cents). He does not talk to the bride.

At 6:00pm we all walk to the groom's family's house and the bride goes inside a special room that has been prepared for her. People continue to eat and dance.

At 9:00pm the bride's aunt takes her to the groom's house for the furusiri, literally translating to marriage tying (like tying the knot). Because I am a white person, I am told I can come watch. On the way over I ask another woman if Dusuba is scared and they answer, “Yes, because she is not used to marriage talk.” The room smells odd; good, but odd, and I can't quite place it. Almost like a mix of baby powder and incense. I notice a metal bowl on the floor with a large ball of dough in it. The groom is wearing metallic, silver striped pants and a multi-material-ed button down shirt. The groom's friends bring in an extra bed for us women to sit on (the men and bride, head still covered, are on the groom's bed) and a goatskin rug for one man, who sits on it, opens a bag of kola nuts and passes them around.

He says prayers in Arabic and the other men occasionally wipe their faces with their hands in response. The women don't actively participate in the long prayer, but we do say “Amen” at the end of the blessing. He passes the grooms gifts to the bride (fabric for a new outfit, flip flops and about 40 cents in change; I believe he has to make up the difference in what she did not get from guests). Then, the man asks Dusuba and Baba separately if they want to marry the other one. They pass around the dough ball, which I learn is called degue and is a delicious dessert made of rice water and sugar- it tastes like christmas cookie dough. After more blessings, we leave with the bride, and she goes off to her special house in the compound and the guests, even those who live in the village, sleep at this compound.

On Friday morning I put on a new, full comple and return to the wedding compound. I have more money of anyone in my village and I am in the nicest Malian outfit I own and I am still completely under-dressed. No big surprise since I'm always under-dressed at American weddings and there I know the customs! In a specific ritual, we all go to where the gifts are together, sit and talk about everything that is there. The women yell, “Kuuuuuuu!” 3 times and then the grooms party then comes and takes all of the gifts to the house. Most of the young people, including the bride and groom, pose with a goat for pictures and even a video, and the the goat gets taken off to slaughter. Again, people dance all day but the bride is not a participant. I see two kids popping just outside the dancing circle and decide I've had enough culture for the afternoon and head home for a break. In the afternoon most people wash up and change into even nicer outfits.

At 6pm the bride finally emerges from the house and takes off her white veil. She joins in the dancing circle and whenever she is dancing, tons of other people join her.

That night the husband joins the bride in her house in his compound. They will spend 7 nights in that house. After that, he will trade off, spending 2 nights with one wife, then 2 nights with the other.

Again, all the guests sleep in the compound. Saturday morning we eat breakfast there and then go home. All of the men line up and say good bye as the women walk out.

Heard an interesting story on This American Life, interviewing an investigative journalist who researched cell phones and human health concerns. We used to hear of all the possible, very serious side effects and then we just stopped hearing about it, which led most of us to assume, there must be nothing to worry about. Apparently, the powers that be stopped the publishing of the studies, and it's something we maybe shold be paying attention to:

Original Article

Harpers Article

“I once thought that if I traveled in France, I would have a different brain, the brain of a girl who travels in France. I saw myself skipping through meadows in a yellow and blue print dress. But even with the old buildings, with the bright, bready smells, with the painted French sunlight, it was still my same brain in there, chomping as usual, just fed this time by baguettes and brie.”

-Aimee Bender

“The pleasures of travel were less real to him when they couldn't be verified by a witness.”

-Jay McInerhny

Our trips...reminded me how easy it was to pick up and move once the urge struck. Once you'd resolved to go, there was nothing to it at all.

-Jeanette Walls, The Glass Castle

This list is obviously incomplete and will change with time, but, as part of my half-way through service activities, I am getting rid of my first journal, so I need to make sure everything in it is documented first. I think most of this has already been said elsewhere in the blog, and in fact, the lists have already changed since I first created them, but...

Things I Don't Think I'll Miss:

-to (a spongy-like food made from millet or sorghum)

-rooster and donkey noises

-the smell of fish in market

-cockroaches in the pit latrine at night

-smell of burning plastic

-termite dust in bed/ mounds everywhere/ eating through my stuff

-the smell of rotting sewage by the road

Things I Will Miss (not people, just things):

-moonlight and sunset bucket baths

-ingenuity (using what's available)

-warm, fresh milk with sugar

-dege

-peanut butter sauce

-going commando

Things Mali Makes Me Thankful For:

-sinks

-washing machines

-ice cream

-sushi

-good coffee

-good beer

-cheese

-steamed broccoli

-wheat bread

-instant food

-stove

-electricity

-toilet paper

-seat belts

-medicine

Things I Realize I Can Live Without:

-dishwasher

-shower

-tv

-constant cell and internet service

They say, "Be yourself," like you know exactly what that is..like you're a toaster or something..like there's only that one way to pop out you. Well maybe being me isn't just one thing. Maybe just searching for me is being me and not them- being themselves...being toasters. Maybe being me is more like a breakfast cereal variety pack. Maybe that's what I'll be..today. But tomorrow, who knows?...maybe the blue plate special.

-Cover of a journal my friend Debra gave me as a gift, saying she thought it sounded like something I would say

-My best friend's dad died, I believe of liver cancer. He has 2 wives, each with children. Apparently, they will both continue to live and work together, even though their mutual husband (and thus their bond) is no longer a factor. In fact, they now share (and sleep in) one hut. They are allowed to get remarried. Usually when there is a wedding, the woman moves to the man's village and house, but if one or both of them were to get remarried, in theory, the new husband would come live in their compound.

-The bus from my village to my market/banking town goes from villages to the bigger town every morning and returns every night, meaning the driver and employees spend the evenings and nights in the farthest village. I thus assumed the driver 'lived' in that village. I have recently learned that his wife and children live in the big town. Confused, I asked where he sleeps in village and my family sheepishly answered, “at his female friend's house.” I gave a look of confusion and disbelief because, as far as I know, in this culture, you don't really have “female friends”. I continued to press my family with questions that clearly made them uncomfortable. They would always laugh, avoid the answer, use euphemisms or pretending they didn't know something, but, playing the part of the foreigner (pretending I didn't know this was a taboo topic) I waited patiently until the story came out. Apparently this woman was married but her husband passed away and she told the bus driver that she likes him. Now he stays there and his wife fights with him a lot and his very mad at him for this. Obviously. It's just fascinating that even though a man is allowed to have 2 wives (or even 5), it's still so scandalous for him to be seeing a second woman.

-I finally rode on a donkey cart (for only about 5 minutes) and it was ridiculously fun.

-I ate guinea fowl. They claim it's better than chicken meat, but since they pound it and form it into balls with millet powder, millet butter and spices, it just tasted like all other meatballs I've had here so I still don't' know.

-I also ate a bird they killed with a sling shot (this is common here) that they then 'grilled' over an open fire. It tasted like chicken.

-I have a slop bucket. It's a mix between a sink drain and Rachel Ray's “garbage bowl”. I use it to catch water when I wash dishes uses the spigot from my water filter and I throw food scraps in there while I'm cooking. At the end of the day (or 2 or 3 if I'm lazy or it's not smelling) I dump it out. This week when I dumped it out I discovered a rodent- sort of like a small rat- in the mix. I have cleaned up a number of dead mice in my life (having lived in a college house) and seen my fair share of disgusting rats (having lived in Baltimore) but something about it being soaking wet made this one particularly fowl.

-My friend handed me a piece of white, leathery material that smelled like meat. He said, it's like oil. As it was clearly a solid, I was confused. He said when a cow eats a lot, they get big, and so they get this. I clarified that it is inside the cow, so you do have to slaughter the cow before accessing it. He said it comes from next to the stomach and the heart. Then he showed me how to cook it. We set it in a hot pan and watched it slowly produce a small amount of oil as it begin to shrivel. Eventually he cracked an egg into the pan to cook in the newly developed oil. When the egg was cooked, the rest of the solid had crisped and we ate....it was the closest thing to bacon I've had here.

Apathy and Other Small Victories

I suppose I could blame myself for how it turned out, but I've never been comfortable with that sort of thing.

The next time I saw Gwen, it was a little awkward. We had to go through the usual small talk motions of getting to know each other after the fact. She didn't learn anything about me, but got the chance to ask all of the basic questions she figured she should've asked before sleeping with me in the first place. I was subtly evasive and vague and changed the subject back to harmless neutral topics like herself. That's all anyone really wants to talk about anyway.

Nobody really likes definitions in those situation, even if they pretend or think that they do. In the long term everyone traffics in forgone conclusions and in the short term they just get drunk. This is the way it always has been. Some half-assed ambiguity masquerading as mystery is all anybody's really looking for.

That's the beauty of honesty. Everyone's so unused to hearing it they just assume you're kidding and you get to feel very good and forthcoming without suffering any consequences.

But nice just isn't enough anymore. Everybody's nice, or at least they try to be or pretend to be. You have to go to France or New York City to find a real asshole these days, and they're only doing it because people expect them to, like those monkeys at the zoo who throw their shit at visitors through the bars.

But really it's condescending not to make fun of someone because they're old or stupid or crippled or morbidly obese. Banged up people don't want your pity. They just want to be treated like everyone else. Mockery, when done without prejudice or discretion, can be a form of respect.

[This is the principal with Malian joking cousins, I guess]

My job was to sort, collate and alphabetize all the insurance forms that came in every day..I tried for about ten minutes but being 28 years old and not severely retarded I really couldn't justify it to myself so I stopped.

Nobody knows what anyone else does all day in an office. Most people don't know what they do themselves.

As an adult, there are so few situations where you can legitimately feel like you're at a middle school dance and not hate yourself for being melodramatic. It was fascinating to see how little I'd grown.

[I plan on doing a whole post one day on the similarities between Peace Corps--the hanging out with other Americans part- and middle/high school]

Sometimes I thought she might honestly like me, which was so ridiculous it almost could have been true. Empirically speaking, she really couldn't: we hardly talked, she knew almost nothing about me besides my first name, and I was drunk every time she saw me. But you can never tell with these things. People get stupid and delusional, sometimes on purpose. They want to make obvious mistakes. It's an easy way to turn a casual nothing of a relationship into some tragic half-assed epic, an excuse to use words like love and loss and get melodramatic about the life you wish you were leading.

It was fucking disgusting, but it was a river than ran through a good-sized city so it didn't have much of a choice. Sewage pipes and assholes with empty cans of Bud Light will eventually kill us all.

Sometimes you are left with no choice but to manufacture your own fiascoes, and alcohol is an easy and legal variable to introduce.

And everyone drank too much coffee, at the wrong times and for the wrong reasons. They drank it when they came in in the mornings to get going, and then again in the afternoon to keep going. Then they went home spent and empty and crashed in front of the TV every night and slept away the few hours they had for themselves. All these motherfuckers are always talking about the best ways to manage your time. The fact is anytime spent at work not sleeping in the bathroom is wasted time. Everyone's awake for the wrong part of their lives. And by the weekend they're too exhausted from all the frantic, useless activity to even care, and it's only fucking two days off anyway. Nobody has the time or energy to do what they really want, or to even figure out what that is. That's why everyone's so pissed off at each other and blowing each other away on the freeway and having sex with prostitutes all the time.

Whether knowing these things made me a prophet or a management consultant I wasn't sure. I could have tried telling someone, tried to make them understand, but I didn't really want to. It wouldn't have helped anyway. This was a system so sick, so tainted, no good could ever come from it.

Even something so seemingly right as Bring Your Daughter To Work Day in that environment was horribly, horribly wrong. Marching a sweet, innocent nine year old girl into an 8' by 8' cubicle and telling her that is she's strong and independent she'll get to spend forty years in there slowly wasting away is an exercise in feminist misogyny.

I would need a new strategy. And as I drank my pitcher I tried to think of one. But I could not. Midway through my second pitcher I came up with a few ideas. They were convoluted and hilarious, but I didn't have the courage to try them. Not yet. By my third pitcher I had forgotten all about them and I didn't even care.

I thought about crying, literally fucking breaking down and curling up on her shoulder so she could rock me and whisper to me until I fell asleep. But I couldn't. Unless you're in rehab or married to a nice lady or paying a complete stranger for it you usually can't. It's flawed and it's a shame but that's how it works.

Slaughter-House Five

I have this disease late at night sometimes involving alcohol and the telephone.

History in her solemn pages informs that the crusaders were but ignorant and savage men, that their motives were those of bigotry unmitigated, and that their pathway was one of blood and tears. Romance, on the other hand, dilates upon their piety and heroism, and portrays their virtue and magnanimity, and the great services they rendered to Christianity.

Now what was the result of all these struggles? Europe expended millions of her treasures, and the blood of two million of her people; and a handful of quarrelsome knights retained possession of Palestine for about 100 years.

“Why me?” That is a very Earthling question to ask: Why you? Why us for that matter? Why anything? Because this moment simply is.... There is no why.

The visitor from outer-space made a serious study of Christianity, to learn, if he could, why Christians found it so easy to be cruel. He concluded that at least part of the trouble was slipshod storytelling in the New Testament. He supposed that the intent of the Gospels was to teach people, among other things, to be merciful, even to the lowest of the low. But the Gospels actually taught this: Before you kill somebody, make absolutely sure he isn't well connected.

Most aliens had no way of knowing Billy's body and face were not beautiful. They supposed he was a splendid specimen. This had a pleasant effect on Billy, who began to enjoy his body for the first time.

[I love this about village. My clothes clash, I don't wear make-up, my eyebrows aren't tweezed...and no one knows I look ridiculous. And to them, the fatter I am, the better!]

They told him that their could be no Earthling babies without male homosexuals. There could be babies without female homosexuals. There couldn't be babies without women over sixty-five years old. There could be babies without men over sixty-five. There couldn't be babies without other babies who had lived an hour or less after birth. And so on.

“How-how does the Universe end?” said Billy

“We blow it up, experimenting with new fuels for our flying saucers. A test pilot presses a starter button and the whole Universe disappears.” So it goes.

“If you know this, “ said Billy, “ Isn't there some way you can prevent it? Can't you keep the pilot from pressing the button?”

“He has always pressed it and he always will. We always let him and we always will let him. The moment is structured that way.”

“But, you do have a peaceful planet here.”

“Today we do. On other days we have wars as horrible as any you've seen or read about. There isn't anything we can do about them, so we simply don't look at them. We ignore them. We spend eternity looking at pleasant moments.”

“Was it awful?”

“Sometimes.” A crazy thought now occurred to Billy. The truth of it startled him. It would make a good epitaph for Billy Pilgrim- and for me, too.

Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.

It was very exciting for her, taking away his dignity in the name of love.

Billy received a message carried by the radiations He was told not to find out what the lumps were. He was advised to be content with knowing they could work miracles for him, provided he did not insist on learning their nature.

He had written a book about a money tree. It had $20 bills for leaves. Its flowers were government bonds. Its fruit was diamonds. It attracted human beings who killed each other around the roots and made very good fertilizer.

The leading robot looked like a human being, and could talk and dance and so on, and go out with girls. And nobody held it against him that he dropped jellied gasoline on people. But they found his halitosis unforgivable. But then he cleared that up, and he was welcomed to the human race.

She was a dull person, but a sensational invitation to make babies.

That is was really a military necessity few, after reading this book, will believe. It was one of those terrible things that sometimes happen in wartime, brought about by an unfortunate combination of circumstances. Those who approved it were neither wicked nor cruel, though it may well have been that they were too remote from the harsh realities of war to understand fully the appalling destructive power.

Billy was having an adventure very common among people without power in time of war: He was trying to prove to a willfully deaf and blind enemy that he was interesting to hear and see.

"You are the right person, this is the right time, you've paid your dues, you're thinking the right thoughts, you're doing the right things, and this very moment, you are exactly where you're supposed to be... poised for the happiest time of your life."

Just back from 12 days at site and it was some of the most peaceful and rewarding of my life. My language made the biggest jump it has, and I learned tons of new things and had a lot of genuine fun with my Malian friends because of it. i already typed all the book quotes and all the fun conversation details while I was at site, but now my computer won't turn on, so it's tough to post them for your viewing pleasure.

i will try to get on other computers (or fix mine) so I can get some more details here in the next couple of days. Stay tuned...

Right before I left for my medical evacuation to the US, we had a regional In Service Training. There was a whole cheesy half day on how to support someone, especially fellow PCVs. At the end of the session, we got together in groups of three to practice. Even though we didn't take it seriously, we had to pass the time, so I played my part and thought about "a problem I've had recently." Since I had spent most of February and March on vacation in Senegal and traveling with my parents (meaning access to food I normally can't get or afford and no time to exercise)and was heading home to see my ex-boyfriend, I had naturally spent the previous week exercising excessively and frantically counting Weight Watchers points. As tears welled up in my eyes, I confessed, "I don't want to have to spend the rest of my life worried about my body." I continued to explain that, it's not even about losing weight. I want to not have to care anymore. I want to not have to hate myself. I want to not waste time I could be thinking about valuable things thinking about my thighs. I was afraid, so afraid I couldn't control my tears, that I would eternally be at war with myself. More than wanting to lose weight, I wanted to not want to lose weight.

While at home, leafing through magazines in many doctors' waiting rooms, friends houses and government offices, I read about a new book on three separate occasions. It sounded interesting but, I am living on a budget, haven't purchased self-help books since High School, and anything with 'God' in the title tends to send me running. But, realizing Mother's Day was quickly approaching and that I had an hour to kill between appointments, I ducked into the nearest Borders. Finding it prominently displayed, I caved and bought Women, Food and God.

I got so into it I brought it back with me instead of giving it to my mother. It was so helpful and broad in scope I typed up literally at least a quarter of the book and sent it to a friend- male, who doesn't struggle with food- thinking he might benefit from it.

I won't claim I've loved every part of my body for every minute of the last 2 months. I won't claim I haven't looked at a food and instantly known how many points it contains. I won't claim I haven't overeaten or made unhealthy decisions. And I can't claim I haven't thought it will be nice to drop a couple pounds. But, for the two months since I finished this book I haven't once berated my body or myself endlessly or without question. In the last two months, I haven't binged on food. Occasionally over the last two months, even though I am officially over weight and probably 10-15 pounds over my natural, 'happy' weight, I have felt great about my body. And, I have definitely not spent the last two months constantly thinking about, worrying about and trying desperately to lose a certain arbitrary amount of weight by some manifested deadline (and yet, I have lost weight).

Like everything else in life, the book is not a quick fix. Just reading it will not make you skinny or happy. Truth be told, you have read plenty about how to lose weight. You know the rules for how to do it; it's taking the step to action that gets us. The ideas in this book also require action-- or at least thought. You have to be willing to change what you believe and how you feel. I don't want to make some ridiculous encompassing claim like "this book has changed my life", but, I am certainly thankful to have read it and I most definitely recommend it. Not just if you're a woman. No matter what it is that haunts you. And even if you are certain the answer has nothing to do with 'god'.

7/8/2010

More tidbits from this fabulous book. Since I assume some people skip over the posts where I quote other people, I highlighted the bits that really hit home, that are relevant to my time here, or where I added input related to my experience in Peace Corps.

On Company Spying

Many companies are taking advantage of these technological posibilities to make their businesses more ruthlessly productive. In Maryland, according to Time magazine, a bank searched the medical records of its borrowers- apparently quite legally- to find out which of them had life threatening illnesses and use this information to cancel their loans. According to the American Management Association two-thirds of companies in the US spy on their employees in some way. Thirty-five percent track phone calls...about a quarter of companies admitted to going through computer files and reading their e-mail....A court upheld the right of companies not only to review employees' private communications but to lie to them about doing it. Whoa.

One night my friend was having a beer after work with his colleagues when he was approached by a fellow employee who asked if he knew where she could get some marijuana. He said he didn't use the stuff himself, but to get rid of her – for she was very persistent- he gave her the phone number of an acquaintance who sometimes sold it. The next day he was fired. He hadn't supplied her with marijuana, you understand, hadn't encouraged her to use marijuana, and had stressed that he didn't use marijuana himself.

On Teenagers

“Once they go away for college they never really come back,” a neighbor told us the other day. This isn't what I wanted to hear. I wanted to hear that they come back a lot, only this time they hang up their clothes, admire you for your intelligence and wit, and no longer have a hankering to sink diamond studs into various odd holes in their heads. But the neighbor was right. I hadn't expected it to be like this because for the past couple of years even when he was here he wasn't really here, if you see what I mean. Like most teenagers, he didn't live in our house in any meaningful sense- more just dropped by a couple times a day to see what was in the refrigerator or to wander between rooms, a towel round his waist, calling out, “Mom, where's my...?” Occasionally I would see the top of his head in front of the television on which Asian people were kicking each other in the heads, but mostly he resided in a place called “Out.” ….

My role in getting him off to college was simply to write checks- lots and lots of them...So you will excuse me, I hope, when I tell you that the emotional side of this event was rather overshadowed by the ongoing financial shock....Now that we are home it is even worse. There is no kickboxing on the tv, no astounding clutter of sneakers in the back hallway...no one my size to call me “Doofus” or to say, Nice shirt, Dad, did you mug a boat person?” In fact, I see now, I had it exactly wrong. Even when he wasn't here, he was here, if you see what I mean. And now he is not here at all.

On State Slogans

I haven't the remotest idea what New York means by dubbing itself the “Empire State.” As far as I'm aware, New York's many undoubted glories do not include oversees possessions. Still, I can't criticize because I live in the state with the most demented of all license plate slogans, the strange and pugnacious, “Lice Free or Die.” Perhaps I take these things too literally but I don't like driving around with an explicit written vow to expire if things don't go right. Frankly, I would prefer something a little more equivocal and less terminal- :Live Free or Pout” perhaps, or maybe, “Live Free or Bitch Mightily to Anyone Who'll Listen.”

On Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving remains a pure holiday, largely unsullied by commercialization. I love the fact that at Thanksgiving all you do is sit at a table and try to get your stomach into the approximate shape of a beach ball and then go watch a game of football on TV. This is my kind of holiday. But perhaps the nicest, and certainly noblest, aspect of Thanksgiving is that it gives you a formal, official occasion to give thanks for all those things for which you should be grateful. I think this is a wonderful idea and can't believe it hasn't been picked up by more countries.

On Taxes

Under “Personal Expenditures”, itemize all cash expenditures of more than $1, and include verification. If you have had dental work and you are not claiming a refund on the federal oil spill allowance, enter your shoe sizes since birth and enclose shoe specimen (right foot only). Multiply by 1.5 or 1,319, whichever is larger, and divide line 3f by 3d. Under Section 912g, enter federal income support grants for the production of alfalfa, barley (but not sorghum, unless for home consumption) and okra, WHETHER OR NOT you received any. Failure to do so may result in a fine of $3,750,000 and death by lethal injection.

On American Energy Habits (and this was written in 1998)

We are terribly- no, we are ludicrously- wasteful of resources in this country. The average American uses twice as much energy to get through life as the average European. With just 5% of the world's population, we consume 20% of its resources. These are not statistics to be proud of.

In 1992, the US agreed to reduce the emission of greenhouse gasses to 1990 levels by 2000. This wasn't a promise to think about it. It was a promise to do it. In the event, greenhouse emissions in the US have continued to relentlessly rise- by 8% overall since this summit. In short, we haven't done what we've promised. We haven't even tried to do it. We haven't even pretended to try to do it.

[When I was back in the US an acquaintance very fairly inquired about the successes of Peace Corps and development work. When he learned PC has been in Mali for 40 years he was disappointed and said, “What's the point? Shouldn't they be developed by now? If we can't help them in 40 years, what are we going to be able to do?” I see his point. This is very complex issue. (As a fellow PCV responded, for all the development workers coming in with aide, there are many more people coming in exploiting the area-- developed countries mining for valuable salt, encouraging growth of cotton which creates monetary debt and depletes soil for food production, and on and on.) But, because most people don't have this information, I don't judge people for being skeptical of development work and aide. Many people in the 'business' are cynical about it as well. But, too often people blame individuals in bad situations for not being willing to change. As someone working on the ground, I can vouch that it is frustrating to have people tell you they want to improve their childrens' health but they don't have money for hand washing soap, when you see them buying tea every day. BUT, I recognize this is not specific to the developing world. How many people do you know who want to lose weight, but just won't go to the gym? How many US citizens are in massive debt but won't stop going out to lunch or buying their coffee at Starbucks? How much more evidence do we need that smoking kills us before people who say they don't want to die young will actually kick the habit? And, despite everything we know about what we are doing to our home and what that means for our future, why is almost everyone I know still refusing to make small, if mildly inconvenient, behavioral changes?]

On American Convenience

Americans have always had a strange devotion to the idea of assisted ease. It is an interesting fact that nearly all of the every day inventions that take the struggle out of life- escalators, automatic doors, elevators, microwaves- were invented here or at least first widely embraced here. Americans grew so used to a steady stream of labor-saving advances, in fact, that by the 1960s they had come to expect machines to do everything for them...But all of this was nothing compared to the situation today. We are now surrounded with items that do things for us to an almost absurd degree- automatic cat food dispensers, electric can openers, disposable toothbrushes that come with the toothpaste already loaded.

I have finally figured out what is wrong with everything. There is too much of it. I mean by that there is too much of every single thing that one could possibly want or need except time, money, good plumbers and people who say thank you when you hold open a door for them. America is of course a land of bounteous variety, and for a long time after we first moved here I was dazzled and gratified by the wealth of everything. I remember going to the supermarket the first time and being genuinely impressed to find that it stocked no fewer than 18 varieties of incontinence diaper. Two or three I could understand. Half a dozen would seem to cover every possible incontinence contingency. But eighteen-gosh! This was a land of plenty! ….This abundance of choice not only makes every transaction take ten times as long as it ought to, but in a strange way actually breeds dissatisfaction. The more there is, the more people crave, and the more they crave, the more they, well, crave more. You have a sense sometimes of being among millions and millions of people needing more and more of everything, constantly, infinitely, unquenchably.

[Most people can't understand why PC Volunteers do what we do. Even though I think this is the best experience of my life and plan to continue to travel, I am often shocked to hear how many people sign on to do a 3rd year of PC. When you talk to them, they have a number of good reasons, but I often here specifically of not being ready to go back to America because of things like this.]

On Amazement and Confusion [I often find myself saying exactly this...]

I don't understand most things. I really don't....I don't understand chemistry, anatomy, mathematics beyond what is necessary to make small change....newspaper weather maps. Nearly every technological marvel of our age is a source of mystery and wonder to me. Take the mobile telephone. I cannot for the life of me conceive how these things work.

Of all the things I am not very good at, living in the real world is perhaps the most outstanding. I am constantly filled with wonder at the number of things that other people do without any evident difficulty that are pretty much beyond me. I cannot tell you the number of times I have gone looking for the restroom in a movie theater, for instance, and ended up standing in an alley on the wrong side of a self-locking door.

On Life

Life's a funny thing isn't it? One minute you're praying to be allowed to live, vowing to face any hardship without complaint, and the next you are mentally banging your head on the dashboard and thinking, “I wanted steak, I wanted steak, I wanted steak.”

On Shopping

Shopping these days is not so much a business as a science. ...Retail anthropologists...can tell you...which portion of customers will turn right upon entering a store (87%) and how long on average those people will browse before wandering out again (2 min. and 36 seconds).....So here is my question. Why then is it that I cannot go shopping these days without either wanting to burst into tears or kill someone?

Advice [This is highly edited and the rest is good too...]

I have learned all these things through a long process of trial and error, and so I feel I have acquired a kind of wisdom- the kind that comes from doing foolish things over and over again until it hurts so much you stop. It's not perhaps the most efficient way of acquiring knowledge, but it works and it does at least give you some interesting scars to show at parties. With that in mind, I would like to offer ten very small, simple observations- passing thoughts really-which I hope will be of some use to you:

1.Take a moment from time to time to remember that you are alive. I know this sounds a trifle obvious, but it is amazing how little time we take to remark upon this singular and gratifying fact. By the most astounding stroke of luck an infinitesimal portion of all the matter in the universe came together to create you and for the tiniest moment in the great span of eternity you have the incomparable privilege to exist. For endless eons there was no you. Before you know it, you will cease to be again. And in between you have this wonderful opportunity to see and feel and think and do....You really are special.

2.But not that special. There are 5 billion other people on this planet, every one of them just as important, just as central to the great scheme of things, as you are. Don't ever make the horrible, unworthy mistake of thinking yourself more vital and significant than anyone else. Nearly all the people you encounter in life merit your consideration.

3.Don't ever do anything on principal alone.

4.Whatever it is you want to do in life, do it.

5.Don't make the extremely foolish mistake of thinking winning is everything....Taking part is the main thing. Doing your best is the main thing.

9. Be happy. It's not that hard. You have a million things to be happy about.

6/26/10

An imperfect but fun crime novel, taking place in Baltimore, written by a long time journalist there, making it accurate and fun for residents of good ole' Charm City. Thanks Rebecca!

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“While I love the dear old city of Baltimore much, and many of her people more, past experience has taught that, in their collective municipal capacity, they are the most silly, unreflective, procrastinating, impracticable and perverse congregation of bipeds to be found anywhere under the sun. Wise in their own conceits they are impatient of advice, no matter how thoughtful and well matured, from any one, preferring always their own crude extemporaneous conjectures to the suggestions of sound common sense, which can only be elicited by the patient exercise of judgment, observation and reflection.”

-Dr. Thomas Hepburn Buckler of Baltimore, in a letter home from his self-imposed exile

[The more places I live and the more bureaucracies I deal with I realize, while I can appreciate this opinion because of my time in Baltimore, it's incorrect. I appreciate this most because it's true of the majority of groups of all kinds, everywhere.]

The mayor still called it the City That Reads, but others had long ago twisted that civic motto. “The city that bleeds, hon,” Tess called out. The city that breeds, the city that grieves, the city that seethes. The city one leaves. Only Tess never could, any more than she could have swum from the bottom of the Chesapeake Bay with an anchor around her neck.

Back then they had something called a relationship, complete with dreary late-night arguments that were always about the same thing: What was the point of being together if you knew one day you were going to be apart?

“I'm nothing. Not even an atheist, just nothing.”

I can like this woman or I can hate her, Tess told herself. But I'll never be indifferent to her. She decided to like her. It was a decision she seldom regretted.

Thaddeus was a tad brighter than he seemed, smart enough not to bullshit, a rare quality in a man.

“I don't let men disrupt my life. I disrupt theirs.”

Once one got past the inner harbor, downtown had it's usual ghost town feel. There are a lot of things one can do to make a city look good, and Baltimore had done it all. But they couldn't put its heart back. Downtown was hollow at night.

“You know how when something's on your mind, you forget it's not on everyone else's mind?”

This was Baltimore at its best- clear blue sky, a steady breeze, warm in the sun and cool in the shadows. As she did every year at this moment- and it sometimes seemed no more than a moment- Tess forgave the city its wretched summer and forgot winter would return. Constant clemency and a talent for amnesia. Bother were key to life here.

Motorcycles are ridiculously common here. They cost about $300 (nicer up to $600). It's very rare to see anyone wearing a helmet. It's very common to see babies tied to the back or the passenger, or children sitting in front of the driver. People wear the eye covers from airplanes over their mouth to prevent eating dirt and dust.

A homemade road block preventing traffic from that side of the street after an accident.

Said accident (truck on it's side). It's not uncommon to see overturned buses or trucks....keep scrolling down and you'll know why.

Buses pull over (sometimes way too often) and people run to the bus and sell food and drinks through the windows.

Sometimes you will see up to 5 young men just hanging on the back of the van. Because the vehicle is full, this is legitimately how they are getting to their destination (and they are paying to do it.

My friend riding on top of the cargo on top of our van. You can honestly travel like this, on dirt roads made horribly bumpy by years of rainy seasons, traffic, and lack of repairs.

This is how full the car was when we walked up to get on (having already purchased tickets). I almost panicked. Then I remembered I'm in Mali and this is what I signed up for. I got in, sat on top of 4 levels of rice sacks, legs crossed beneath me, for a 6 hour ride. Honestly, it was fine.

6/30/10

I have found grapes! Well, they aren't grapes exactly, but one of the best lessons I'm learning here is how to make to with what you've got instead of wishing for what you can't get. The Bambara name is pronounced Hay-Goo, which I like in of itself because it's fun to say. Seriously. Try it. Hey Goo. Are you not having fun? Haygoo grows on a benign looking tree that the guinea fowl perch on to sleep at night. When you break off a branch, with the berries, it looks just like small grapes- round, shiny green and red fruits on various stems forming what could only be referred to as a bunch. Besides their size, there are a couple of other minor differences. The skins of the fruit are slightly fuzzy and people seem to pop that off before eating the rest. There are large seeds inside each one that are edible but, as everyone prefers seedless grapes, not delicious on their own. Usually they are slightly more tart than your standard grape and, because of their diminutive size, slightly less satisfying in the juiciness department. But I am thrilled nonetheless.

Speaking of working with what you have, I built a make shift chicken coop from my broken screen door, old pieces of cloth, bamboo pieces from my fence, a rice sack and a tin window door. I built them a next from a breaking plastic bowl filled with soil and gatherings and they are eating and drinking out of old tuna and tomato paste cans. I have been told I should keep them tied up here for 3 days (these are 2 new chickens from a different village) but I can tell they are unhappy like that and I just can't bear it. I am hoping they will just choose this as their home.

I am continuing to experiment in cooking with what I have available and also find this very rewarding. This week I made sweet and sour stir fry vegetables, curried cabbage soup, fried rice and another soup based on a spinach tortellini one we make at home, using tomato paste, pasta shells, sweet potato leaves from the garden and ricotto cheese made from powdered milk and vinegar.

While I'm not sure I can count them in my “Books Read” list and count, since they are technical and I haven't' read them cover to cover, I did some serious work on “How to Grow More Vegetables (than you could imagine on less land than you thought possible),” the Peace Corps “Soil, Crops and Fertilizer Use” Manual and the “Rodale Book of Composting”. While I am still far from an expert (I am fantasizing about taking a Master Gardner course and/or working with a professional (Civic Works—save me a 300 hour slot on Ed's Team for the 2012 fiscal year) when I return (and having a fabulous and productive garden whenever I settle down and buy a house), I have learned a lot in the past week and have made a plan for my backyard garden. I am continuing to hone my skills by working on my plot in the women's garden, which I am loving. It's hard work and, again, I'm still not great at it, but I love walking away sweaty and covered in dirt and full of a sense of accomplishment from working the land. This is gardening attempt number three here, but the one I feel most attached to (before they were far away and, because of required lengthy absences, were left in the hands of others) and most confident about. As we say here about everything, “Dooni, dooni.” Little by little.

Speaking of little by little in the garden.... The urine fertilizer works! Of course, after further reading, I learned that beans aren't actually one of the things it's helpful on (it increases the leaf production, but not the beans themselves), but judging on how many leaves are in the fertilized section versus the control, I am excited to see what it can do on other crops!

5/1/2010

It's my last day in America after an incredible 5 week vacation. While I was officially there for surgery, the combination of the US Government and the US medical system collided to ensure inefficiency, and I was able to spend a lot of time enjoying the ease and fun of my traditional American life, without many of the stresses. Steve and I are pulling into a parking spot on his street and find ourselves enthralled with a comedian's story on NPR's This American Life. Mike Berbiglia is explaining why he is against marriage. “I never looked at two people who had been married 30 years and said, 'I gotta get me some of that.' Steve and I both laugh hysterically and, after he continues for a couple of minutes, I joke, 'Get out of my head!' Truthfully, I am not opposed to having a life partner. I see how that kind of commitment can be beneficial and fulfilling. But if it requires extreme sacrifices, I don't understand why that is superior to other ways of life. Sure, if I am not willing to compromise some of my dreams, I will have to give up being with this or that awesome person for a lifetime. But if I agree to be with this or that person, I will have to give up some of my dreams. Either way I am sacrificing something. And since 50% of marriages end in divorce (and I think it's a safe bet plenty of those who stay married are unhappy), I don't think I'm making that much of a gamble.

I don't think I've ever listened to an episode of "This American Life" and not said, "Wow, that's so interesting." So, I highly recommend subscribing to the free weekly podcast but, start, with buying this one: Return to the Scene of the Crime

I am trying to organize all of my notebooks so I can be more efficient in life and work, have less 'stuff' around, and not lose anything important. So in an effort to throw away this piece of paper, this post will not be eloquently written or well thought out. I am just getting it out there.

Language is so fun. The silliness certainly makes it challenging, but it also makes it fun. Here are some of my favorite things from Bambara:

Diarrhea - Konoboli - literally "stomach run"

Constipation - Konojo - stomach stop

Divorce -Furusa - literally marriage dead

Condom - Fugulannafo - important hat

If you want something repeated you say, "Ko mun?", which is literally "Say what?"

The verb for "to lick" is "mono", which is the English abbreviation for 'the kissing disease'.

My host aunt's name is "Satan". This is of course normal and probably beautiful here but it's still difficult for me to address her.

They use the word "manna", which translates as "plastic" for literally everything made out of any kind of plastic. It makes sense because, for them, it's all a foreign, new, man-made, 'expensive' thing. But whenever they talk about or ask me for 'manna', I have no idea if they want a plastic bucket (there is a word for bucket but if it's made from plastic, they won't use that) or a plastic grocery bag.

More on this later...

Since people often ask what I would like in packages, I have been updating my Amazon.com Wish List (and will try to continue to do so)- There is a link on the right. While the books in the list are ones I want to read, we have plenty of books here (my list of ones in country I want to read is probably more than I'll get to) and am open to whatever books you think I might like. Everything is just meant to be an idea. None of the food items are brand, flavor or size specific. I don't need $40 worth of Hershey's candy bars, it's just meant to show that chocolate is appreciated. You get the idea. Basically it's:

Snacks (100 calorie packs are good b/c it's little tastes of lots of things from home)

Health Food (Protein bars, dried fruit, etc., Sugar Free Pudding, WW Shakes)

Junk Food (Candy, Bacon Bits, Easy Mac & Cheese Sauce Packets)

Classy Food (Indian Food in a box, Miso Soup in a Pouch, Fried Rice Seasoning Packet)

More Importantly, I am working on souvenirs for you! Let me know what you would like as a memento from your friend living in Africa. There is lots of beautiful jewelry, sculptures, paintings on fabric, sculpted jewelry boxes, hand-made drums, hand-made artistic napkin holders....you name it... that could be a nice, 'real' gift (those of you having weddings, I will go from the registry if I must, but if you want something cool from here...)

But there is also silly stuff: Obama jerseys, wallets, belts, flip flops, gym bags; Mali belts, money key chains, flash-drive lanyards; or things made from fun fabric (travel make-up pouch or cell phone holder, cloth napkins or pot holders.

Or, there is beautiful, high quality fabric that you could hang as art or get made into an outfit.

Honestly I have purchased this stuff to give as gifts to people back home and have 14 more months to do shopping, so let me know what kind of things appeal to you and I can get you something you will actually like and use. I am even going to have my sister bring some things home in August so get your requests in now!

One of my favorite things about living in a different environment and culture is the experience of food. I never feel as integrated into my community and, at once, that I am living the adventure of a lifetime, as when I am squatting on a small, deteriorating wood stool, seated in a circle with Malian women and children, eating millet rice and peanut butter sauce with my right hand from a large, metal, communal bowl on the ground in front of us.

Just this month, after almost a year here, I tried at least three new foods. Siby (the Bambara name) is a fruit that comes from a palm-like tree. Inside it's bright orange, like a mango and, once peeled, you can gnaw at it, pulling small amounts of flesh off of it's stringy attachment away from the seed. It's juicy and sort of sweet, but mostly just not tasty to my pallet and a lot of work for not very much food. Even with my intense disappointment, I loved trying it; I have now tasted a food that most of my peers will never know exists.

During a wedding ceremony I was offered "dege". I know this Bambara word to mean the thin, sweet and sometimes sour yogurt with balls of millet mixed in. Based on location and day it can taste very different (sometimes lemon-y, occasionally you can taste banana and, if you're lucky, it is frighteningly similar to yellow cake batter). It is one of my favorite treats here and I will miss it intensely when I leave Mali. I have heard this word other places as well- tiga dege means peanut butter (with tiga meaning peanut) so perhaps dege just means something like a creamy substance or one new product made from other known foods. At the ceremony, 'dege' was a slightly less sweet version of sugar cookie dough. I nervously pulled a chunk off of the round ball from the bowl being passed around the small room and looked to my companions for confirmation I was behaving appropriately. They nodded I should eat it and, thrilled at it's deliciousness (dessert is very rare in village), asked for details as soon as the ceremony had ended. They claim it is rice, water and sugar. Thinking back I realize the one other time I've been offered a sweet snack in village, a mix of corn pounded into uncooked couscous, peanut butter and sugar (also phenomenal!) it, too, was referred to as dege.

And finally, I had what can only be described as an apple-cinnamon sno-cone. On the side of the road children sell plastic bags filled with flavored ice. I normally avoid them, assuming they are made with well water and will give me a lovely case of amoebas but I was hot and thirsty and decided to risk it. I expected it to be ginger flavor (I'd only ever seen that and hibiscus) but was presently surprised by a strong cinnamon flavor, and making me wonder why some marketing guru in the US hasn't created something like this yet.

I also find the intense relationship between food and culture fascinating. Environment, religion, money (and the history of these things) play such an enormous role in the food we eat, how we relate to it, and the customs and rituals associated with it. While sitting in your living room in America, envisioning people scooping heaps of food from a single bowl into their palm and shoving their hand into their mouth sounds odd, to say the least. But, it makes complete sense. Silverware is expensive. Everything is hand washed- with water that is scarce and hand pulled from a well. It would be crazy to add to the monetary struggles, work load, and water use when we each have a perfectly good utensil at our disposal. What I find most fascinating is how I have to constantly remind myself how strong and relevant a role culture plays in our lives. Despite the fact that I am rarely willing to wear full Malian comples (even though I am in a rural village where I would be highly respected by my coworkers and no Americans would ever see me if I did), my initial reaction is shock when I see Denba, a Malian man who taught at a University in Utah for 8 years before returning to be Peace Corps' Cross Cultural Coordinator, at the PC training center full of Americans and forks, in a corner eating with his hands. Even when our circumstances change, our collective history, that makes up our culture, does not disappear. Wealthy, educated Malians living in New York City may have learned to like a slice of pizza on the occasional lazy Friday night, but they are still going to choose rice and sauce most nights of the week.

On a more personal level, I am enjoying having the time, inspiration and necessity to have a connection with the source of my food and to get creative with my use of food. Last night for dinner we made 'alfredo' with powdered milk and laughing cow cheese. This morning I attempted to make yogurt (recipe: thickly made powdered milk and vinegar to sour taste- chill) and, after deciding it was too thin, moved it to the freezer and made ice cream. Sure, it was a little gritty (like the early versions of low fat stuff) and not quite as delicious, but if you're craving something sweet, cold and creamy, it's better than nothing. I played around with additions like splenda, chocolate milk powder, and nutella and am thinking next time i'll try a mango and a chai tea version. And, as we speak, I am attempting to dry mangoes, in two different contraptions, on the roof of the house.

So, long story short, this guy Pete Jordan decides he doesn't want a 'real' job or any of the things that come with it and concludes that dish washing is perfect for him. During an early gig, he finds himself jealous (I can relate!) when his cleaning partners are asking if he's 'dished' in Kansas or Vermont or.... and he makes up his mind he will wash dishes in all 50 states. What's even more amazing than his story (or stories) is how easy it was for him to get it published. To be fair, I very much enjoyed the book. I read it (all 350 pages) in two days (a record for me). And, to be fair, he first published his musings in a Zine, that he funded and produced himself and which eventually caught the attention of publishing gurus. So I guess it wasn't 'easy'. But, he didn't want to be published; he fought off companies for years. And, having heard so many stories about later discovered to be brilliant writers who couldn't get anyone to look at their work, it's envy-invoking, nonetheless. If anyone has advice on how I can get publishing firms to beg me for the rights to my 'story' (I will happily travel around all kinds of places), let me know!

-I was always curious about what was down the next road or around the next street corner. And staring at a map only heightened that curiosity. Sure, I did touristy crap- sat atop the 500 ft. high Flaming Gorge Dam in Utah, rode to the top of the Gateway Arch in St. Louis, watched the space shuttle launch from Cape Canaveral. But far more captivating was simply walking the streets of LA or Denver or Atlanta. It was exciting to wake up in the can, stare at teh ceiling and struggle to figure out where in the nation I was.

-My new stint began as it always did: I remained silent. In any new work environment, I didn't know who was who. i didn't know who obeyed the rules and who broke them. I never showed my hand first.

-Upon hearing that some far-off ski resorts in the Rocky Mountains were so deperate to attract dish dogs that they paid almost double the minimum wage plus provided free room and board, I'd added that to my new To Do List of places to work

[Can you just seem me getting all kinds of ideas in my head?!-]

-I went up to Seattle Washington (#16) and worked at the old anarchist Black Cat Cafe. It was owned and operated by a 7 member collective. Everyone was the boss, or, better yet, no one was the boss. They solicited volunteers to do the dishes in exchange for hefty amounts of tasty grub, a share of the winnings from the tip jar and veto power over the music selection.

-I failed to understand what was so enviable about having a position that a pack of phonies sucked up to. Dishwashing suited me because nice people were nice to me and assholes were assholes to me, yet no one ever sucked up to me. Usually, just as I liked it, I was ignored.

-Just as I never knew when the urge to quit a job would strike, I never know when I'd wake up and think, I gotta leave this town pronto. Or when someone in a town would say, 'Hey I'm driving to another state, you wanna tag along?'

-People asked plenty of questions about my quest. Easily the most popular question was, "What will you do when it's finished?" Settle down? If I could only find a place that would cure my wanderlust, sure, settling wouldn't be so bad.

-According to my detailed records, in the 12 months prior- in 19 states- I'd found 1,362 coins and 8 bills (1,089 pennies, 79 nickles, 151 dimes, 43 quarters, 6 ones and 2 fives). Through seven states I'd found change forty-seven days straight!

-Among the usual paperwork to be filled out was a pledge I'd never seen before. I'ts long paragraph read:

[This is the same and only pledge PC Volunteers must say to be sworn in to service]

I,_____, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United Stated against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the Constitution of the US; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will faithfully discharge the duties upon which I am to enter.

A loyalty oath? From-of all places-the city of Berkley? I thought loyalty oaths had died out with Joe McCarthy decades earlier. What did supporting the US Constitution have to do with busting suds? If I signed it and then a camper leapt onto a dining table shouting "Fuck the US Constitution!" how was I supposed to support and defend the Constitution against domestic enemies? By running from the sinks to go smack the kid? Or was I expected to support and defend his constitutional right to free speech by protecting him from getting smacked?

The meal of millet burgers and Indian dal was actually quite tasty.

[Since millet is a staple here I am gonna work on a recipe for this.]

[When he is at a self-sustaining farm commune in Missouri] I had to keep on my toes to not stick out too much....Or the time I broke out a box of Little Debbie brownies. When I offered them around, they were received as if I was trying t hand out used diapers. From then on, I kept my store-bought snacks hidden in the van. Or the time when I found myself engaged in a conversation with a woman about her beliefs in faeries. It took me too long to realize she wasn't putting me on. Despite all that, it wasn't quite the hippie-fest that I'd feared.

A few quotes from "Trans-Sister Radio," by CHris Bohjalian, a book about a Male to Female transexual and romantic relationships.

-Reason doesn't come easy, especially when you're awake in the middle of the night.

-Perhaps you just fell in love with a person- gender be damned- and it just so happened that I had always fallen in love with men.

-But the heart does many things well, and rationalization is right up there with powering the circulatory system.

-A big part of the allure was the mystery: A magic trick loses its luster once you know the secret.

-I have a friend who insists that every man who marries multiple times essentially marries the same woman....There are exceptions, of course. There always are. But, he insisted, the idiosyncrasies of what we love as we age don't really change.

-It struck me that Dana's problem was as much on the outside as it was on the inside. A big part of his predicament was his world. Instead of living in a place where it was perfectly fine to be a man who feels like a woman, he was part of a civilization that would rather castrate certain men. We're just not very comfortable with people who, for example, lack that second X chromosome and therefor sport facial hair and a penis, but would rather wear stockings and a skirt than a pair of pants.

-Different people tolerate different things....Tolerance has a tendency to drift, no matter how hard we try to anchor it with political correctness.

--...but I do think we all want to cross over a lot more than we realize. We all want to be 'other'...But I'm lucky. It's so much easier to do guy things as a woman than it is to do woman things as a guy.

-I think it would take a lot of grit to get through this life and not believe such a thing- to believe instead that we are, in essence, completely alone, and there is no one person out there whose fate is inextricably linked with our own. Or, what might be an even worse interpretation of the same revelation, to believe there are in fact uncountable legions of people out there who could offer us all exactly the same quotient of happiness (or unhappiness), and it just doesn't matter with whom we finally tell ourselves we are in love.

-For men, on some level it's all sexual. It might be that way for women, too, but I can't speak for women. For men, however, it's always about sex. We are what we are. Whenever I thought about touching Dana, I realized that I hadn't ever touched a woman without understanding on some plane that we wee different genders, and succumbing to the sexual charge- sometimes awkward, sometimes teasing, sometimes downright thrilling- that was as involuntary as it was inevitable.

-...Sally, the 11 year old mastermind behind the cross-dressing curtain call. She took advantage of the fact that one of the boys in her class had a crush on her and she knew she could use that when she showed him what she wanted him to wear. "We figured if I was the one who asked him, he'd go along. You see, when you think someone's cute, you do really weird stuff," she said, expressing a wisdom well beyond her years.

-I would have left regardless of what she said, because it was time. The experiment was over, and it had failed.

Flipping through the December 21, 2009 issue of Time magazine (we do that around here) my attention is caught by a two page spread from "The Year in Pictures". Apparently after Michael Jackson's death, groups all over the world performed the Thriller video. I was a part of something like this with my High School Pom-pon team back in 1998 and was really excited to see the first picture is of the University of Wisconsin men's a capella group, The Madhatter's, performing at one of their concerts. But then, amongst photos from Amsterdam, Australia, Malaysia and Tel Aviv, I notice the caption on the one photo without any theatrics. Beneath the only picture taken inside, where no one is wearing any costumes or make-up, it says "Bamako, Mali, Oct.24."

Seriously? Bamako? They do ask me to play Michael Jackson in village but organizing a Thriller flash dance in the capital city? I just don't see it. I take a closer look. It's the dining hall at the Peace Corps training center outside of the city. When the Peace Corps Guinea program was evacuated last fall all of the volunteers and staff spent a month there filling out paperwork and waiting to see if their program would re-open. It never did and about ten of the PCVs eventually transfered and joined our program. But, apparently, in all the downtime, they organized and performed the Thriller dance and someone sent the picture to Time.

Awesome.

June 15, 2010

That was the second coolest experience I've had in Mali. It was the second time I've thought, "Yep, this is what it's all about; this is what I came here for." And yet it's something I never expected to get. And, because of fear of the unknown, an opportunity I almost turned down.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I wanted to say that family planning is equally important for everyone. The goal of family planning is too prevent too many children, whether the woman is married or not. So I want us to not make this difference for single girls," says the oldest, most articulate student, Moussa Traore, a pudgy man of about 40 with a button-down shirt and small, rectangular glasses.

Whoa. I am blown away. I haven't heard a Malian man say anything this educated and liberal before. This is, clearly, not because these people don't exist, but because I don't have the language for these kinds of discussions and, of equal relevance, because I usually live in a very rural area. And I'm not sure if I'm more impressed with the ideas he is expressing or the depth of English he is using to express them.

I am sitting in an English class taught by a fellow PCV. Jeremy was a college professor back in the States so has a very different living and job experience than most of us. He lives in a house in Bamako. It's not fancy, but it has running water, a toilet, real furniture, electricity. He teaches at a University but, as teachers here are often on strike because they regularly don't receive their pay, he has found another job opportunity on the side. On Tuesday nights from 5-7pm he teaches at the nicest school I've seen in country. It is clearly heavily funded by a Christian mission, evidenced by my introduction to the Director as "Sister" and the curtains of fabric designed with a large chalice and the caption "Je Crois." But Jeremy thinks the US Embassy has some investment in it as well and explains, however they are funded, they aren't having problems.

Moussa was responding to the many comments he had waited patiently through where, even students who generally or somewhat supported the idea of family planning, mentioned their discomfort that it allowed unmarried girls to have sex.

"The main reason to use is economical. If there are too many children, how can we care for all? But for single girls it's not good because it's a way for girls to have sex without marriage."

(Whether intentional or not, the language used is always focused on "girls," without forthright acknowledgment of the fact that without uninterested and unwilling males who are either also unmarried or cheating, this 'inappropriate' or culturally undesirable sex would not be an option.)

It's incredibly difficult for me, as it's always been, to bite my tongue, but, while Jeremy did invite two of us so we could participate and provide a different voice and perspective to his class, I follow his lead, speaking infrequently, remembering that the purpose of the debate is not to find a winning answer, but for the students to practice their English. Thankfully, most of the time if I am patient, another student eventually makes the point I am frantically wanting to make and I am again overwhelmed with the language and insight of the class.

Toumani Diarra, who arrived at least forty minutes late but refused to tailor his passionate arguments because we had already moved passed a particular issue, says, "European system of family planning is doomed to failure because in our society this is a kind of killing. This is unhuman to kill the babies who are coming into the world. We believe in God. If he wants them to come, give them the chance."

While I'm annoyed with the role religion is able to play in deteriorating quality of life, and saddened because maybe, with proper education about conception and embryo development this belief could be diminished, I am still mostly just impressed and thankful for this cultural learning opportunity. I don't think I will ever be able to use phrases like 'doomed to failure' in a heated debate in Bambara. And while I feel frustrated by these beliefs and what they mean for development, I don't jump to any negative feelings about Malians in general. Truthfully, many Americans make very similar arguments against family planning and they, for the most part, have regular access to science and information and a culture supportive of the practice.

"Government should sensitize people to it [family planning practices] so programs can achieve its goals," responds a slender man in the back who's been quiet until now. He agrees that is difficult for aid organizations and development workers to make a difference in this area because of this cultural and religious belief. "This is due to the fact that it's widely told, but people can't really understand it."

To a complete outsider, a native English speaker, unfamiliar with the educational opportunities available here, it's easy to see the many flaws is sentence structure or word choice. But, as someone struggling to learn a second language (and for all of them, English is a third language) which is significantly simpler in both rules and depth than English, and knowing how difficult it is for most students here to even learn functional French (the official National language), I am repeatedly floored by everything they get right.

This particular school is clearly not part of the normally structured system. There seems to be both High School and University programs, mostly focusing on language (French and English) but there are also special Baccalaureate programs, SAT (type?) preparations courses, a small library with books (mostly in French) on subjects such as chemistry, sociology and classical literature. With the exception of the one very large lecture hall equipped to show movies (which Jeremy's class often watch and discuss), all of the 8-10 classrooms are small, open-air areas in a two story building. Although his class is an optional supplement to their traditional curriculum, and he was worried no one would show tonight because Brazil is playing in the World Cup, by 5:45pm there were twelve men and one woman attending. Jeremy says this is a usual number, although there are a few other men and two other women enrolled.

Fanta, the lone woman who is probably about 18 years old, is discouragingly, although perhaps not surprisingly, usually against the idea (although often the discussion seems to be thought about solely in terms of contraception, rather than the more encompassing idea of family planning, which can include abstinence). Even if she secretly wished to only have a few children (which I don't believe,) it would be easy to imagine her not feeling comfortable expressing these opinions. Again, even in America, a young woman speaking in favor of birth control in certain company could face a lot of ridicule. Most of the time she makes somewhat predictable and understandable comments about a Malian woman's career being a good wife and mother, but when she says, "The Pope said we can prevent SIDA...uh....AID....AIDS, yeah, AIDS, if we don't have condoms," Jeremy allows her to finish her thought and calmly adds, "many people in the world were very angry about that comment and there is a lot of science suggesting that this is not true."

Jeremy is very careful to mostly be simply a facilitator, allowing the students to choose the topic of discussion, interrupting only to stop students from interrupting each other and make sure everyone had a chance to speak, to keep the conversation on point (saying, "Well now you're moving on to the issue of the influence of Western television and movies on Malian culture and that's a great conversation, but let's save that for next week," and writing it on the board), or, at the end of a thought, to help them improve their language ("Instead of 'have children without marriage', we would say, 'have children out of wedlock,'" even breaking down the word, showing them wedding and defining lock as binding together). Although the class is casual in nature and I found myself wanting the opportunity to teach something like it, I recognize Jeremy's clear qualifications. He is mature, prepared and professional, shows impressive classroom management and ability to teach language, and demonstrates a true respect for his students.

When a misunderstanding of words leads to raising of voices between two of the men, Sumayla, with both maturity and amazing grasp of the idiom, stops himself and says, "Okay, you have the floor." After the other student expresses the most common objection to family planning I have heard- we need many children to help work in the fields to produce enough food- I am anxious to hear another Malian's response.

"Our agriculture system is not adept to produce enough food," says Moussa Traore, the oldest man in the class who caught my attention in the beginning. "You have to let your children go to school to learn how to improve it. But to send them to a good school, it's expensive, so you need a lot of money so you can't continue to have as many children as our parents did."

In the two hour session we cover many more topics under the umbrella debate of family planning and, as I thank Jeremy and the class for letting me learn from them, I predictably get tears in my eyes. I feel so lucky to have seen such motivated students, hear from highly educated people, witness open and fiery debate, and participate in meaningful cultural and developmental discussion with Malians. Now I just need to work on my Bambara so I can do this every day!

this reminds me of the Seinfeld bit where he says American men have a Superman complex: you see them driving down the highway at 70mph with a mattress tied to the roof and one arm out the window holding it 'just in case', thinking if the ties break, "i got it, i got it!". The US Government in many years has had no luck, but don't worry, this guy is gonna take care of it..

May 18, 2010

Just finished reading Bill Bryson's 'I'm a Stranger Here Myself: Notes on Returning to America After 20 Years Away.' It's the 4th Bryson book I've read and I highly recommend them all, but be prepared to want to travel afterward. He can be a little verbose at times and I could see how some people could not be attracted to that part of his writing, but I, without fail, continually laugh out loud and think to myself, 'wow, that's so interesting.' Although I have been away under a year and, Mali is nothing like England, it was still nice to see that some of America's 'quirks' are as fascinating to those returning even from the developed world. So, as usual, I recommend you read the actual book but, until you get around to it, here are some excerpts of particular note:

On Coming Back

What follows was not intended to be- could not be- a systematic portrait of America. Mostly I wrote whatever little things had lately filled my days...I would like to think they chart a sort of progress, from being bewildered and often actively appalled in the early days of my return to being bewildered and generally charmed, impressed and gratified now. The upshot is that I am very glad to be here.

[I like this for two reasons. First, my blog can of course not be a portrait of life here, but my perspective of my village, and even then, only on the days I get my act together to write. It is far from comprehensive. Second, after 9 months in the developing world, I had the opposite experience in my 5 weeks back Stateside. At first I was amazed and charmed by everything. Thankful for landfills, wanting to soak in repetitive, talentless pop music and silly reality tv. I was thankful for the abundance of delicious food choices and consumed everything to an extreme. But it began to wear on me. While I was continually thankful for what we have, and will forever be grateful for the luck of being born in the developed world and amazed and what has been created, I did fill like it was too much. I complained about their being an entire aisle for toothpaste. I hated that I have to pay more for peanut butter that is truly just pressed peanuts. I resented people- myself included- who spent most of their time in front of a tv or a bar- when there is a lot to do to give back for what we've been given.]

-Coming back to your native land is surprisingly unsettling...Time...has wrought changes that leave you feeling mildly foolish and out of touch. [I still cannot figure out how to use a smart phone.]

-In a funny way, nothing makes you feel more like a native of your own country than to live where nearly everyone is not. [Away] being an American was my defining quality.

-I was as dazzled as any newcomer by the famous ease and convenience of daily life, the giddying abundance of absolutely everything, the curiously giddying notion that ice is not a luxury item.

-The lesson to draw from this, of course, is that when you move from one country to another you have to accept that there are some things that are better and some things that are worse, and there is nothing you can do about it.

On Americans' Expectations

-The same product has to be sold in entirely different ways in the 2 markets. And ad in Britain for a cold relief capsule, would promise no more than it might make you feel a little better...for the same product in the US, it would guarantee total, instantaneous relief. A person who took this would throw off his pjs and get back to work at once, he would feel better than he had in years and finish the day having the time of his life at a bowling alley.

-People in this country expect to fell more or less perfect all the time. Even our shampoo, I notice, promises to “change the way you feel.”

On the American Economy

-If you grabbed $1 per second, you would make $1,000 every 17 minutes. After 12 days of nonstop effort, your first million. After 31.7 years you would become a billionaire. But not until after 31,709.8 years would you count your trillionth dollar. And even then you would be less than ¼ of the way through the pile of money representing America's national debt.

-I was recently in Pennsylvania at the site of a zinc factory whose airborne wastes were formerly so laden with pollutants that they denuded an entire mountainside....From a GDP perspective, this was wonderful. First, there was the gain to the economy from all the zinc the factory had made and sold. Then there was the gain from the tens of millions the government must spend to clean up the site and restore the mountain. Finally, there will be a continuing gain from medical treatments for workers and townspeople made chronically ill by living amid all those contaminants. In terms of conventional economic measurement, all of this is gain, not loss. So, too, is overfishing and deforestation. In short, the more recklessly we use up natural resources, the more the GDP grows. As 3 leading economists put it, “By the curious standard of the GDP, the nation's economic hero is a terminal cancer patient who is going through a costly divorce.”

On Our Eating Habits

-It was because she was English of course [his wife]. She didn't really understand the rich, unrivaled possibilities that the American diet offers. I longed for artificial bacon bits, melted cheese in a shade of yellow unknown to nature, and creamy chocolate fillings, sometimes all in the same product.

-The breakfast cereals alone could have occupied me for most of the afternoon. There must have been 200 types. Every possible substance that could be dried, puffed and coated with sugar was there. The most immediately arresting was called Cookie Crisp, which tried to pretend to be a nutritious breakfast but was really just chocolate chip cookies that you put in a bowl and ate with milk. Brilliant. Also of note ere Peanut Butter Crunch, Cinnamon Mini Buns, Count Chocula and a particularly hardcore offering called Cookie Blast Oat Meal which contained 4 kinds of cookies.

-I spent weeks working my way through a symphony of junk food, and, it was all awful. Every bit of it. I don't know whether junk food has gotten worse or my taste buds have matured but even the treats I'd grown up with now seemed disappointingly pallid or sickly.

On Cars and Driving

-The New York Times ran a long article in which it tested a dozen family cars. It rated each of them for important features, among them engine size, trunk space, handling and, yes, number of cupholders. A car dealer tells us they are one of the first things people remark on, ask about or play with when they look at a car. Nearly all car ads note the number of cupholders prominently in the text. The newest model of the Dodge Caravan comes with as many as 17 cupholders. The largest one holds 7 passengers. Now you don't have to be a nuclear physicist, or even wide awake, to work out that is 2.43 cupholders per passenger. Why, you may reasonably wonder, would each passenger need 2.43 cupholders?

Americans, it is true, consume positively staggering volumes of liquids. One of our gas stations sells a flavored confection called a slurpee in containers up to 60 oz. in size. But even if every member of the family had a slurpee and a personal bottle of milk of magnesia for dealing with the aftereffects, that would still leave 3 spare cupholders.

-The reason Americans want a lot of comfort in their cars is becase they live in them. Almost 94% of trips from home involve the car. We don't just use our cars to get to the shops but to get between them. Most businesses here have their own parking lots so someone running 6 errands will move their car 6 times, even to get between 2 places on opposite sides of the street.

-There are 200 million cars in the US- 40% of the world's total, for about 5% of its population- and an additional 2 million hit the road each month

On Government Failure

-In 1995, according to the Washington Post, computer hackers successfully breached the Pentagon's security systems 161,000 times. That works out to 18 illicit entries every hour, 1 every 3 minutes. Oh, I know what you're going to say. This sort of thing could happen to any monolithic defense establishment with the fate of the earth in its hands. After all, if you stockpile a massive nuclear arsenal, it's only natural that people are going to want to go in and have a look around, maybe see what all those buttons marked “Detonate” mean. Besides, the Pentagon has got quite enough on its hands, with trying to find its missing logs from the Gulf War. They have irretrievably lost all but 36 of the 200 pages of official records of its exciting desert adventure. Half of the missing files were wiped out when an officer at Gulf War headquarters- I wish I was making this up- incorrectly downloaded some games into a military computer. The other missing files are, well, missing.

-Despite spending $2 billion a year monitoring developments in the Soviet Union, the CIA failed completely to foresee the break up of the USSR. But, the CIA was no doubt distracted from its missions by the news- and again let me stress I am not making this up- that the FBI had spent years filming one of the CIAs agents, Aldrich Ames, going into the Soviet embassy in DC with bulging files and coming out empty handed but had not quite figured out what he was up to. The FBI knew Ames was a CIA employee, knew he made regular visits to the Soviet embassy, and knew the CIA was looking for a mole in its midst but had never managed to make the leap of imagination necessary to pull these tantalizing strands together.

-But, to be fair, the FBI has been snowed under with screwing up everything it comes into contact with. First, there was its wrongful arrest of Jewell, the security guard it suspected of last year's bombing in Atlanta Olympic Park. Even though there was not a shred of evidence to connect him with the bomb and even though it was conclusively demonstrated that he could not have made the call alerting authorities and returned to the park In the time alleged, it took them months to realize they had the wrong man. They still have not found the perpetrator.

-There is a group of people even more astoundingly incompetent. I refer to America's sheriff departments. Space does not permit a comprehensive survey of their singular accomplishments, so I will just cite two. The LA sheriff's dept set a departmental record last year by incorrectly releasing no fewer than 23 prisoners, some of them quite dangerous and cranky. After the release of number 23, a supervisor explained that a clerk had received papers ordering the prisoner be sent to Oregon to serve out a longer sentence for burglary and rape but, as could happen to anyone, had taken this to mean giving him back all his possessions, escorting him to the door, and recommending a good pizza place around the corner.

-The LA Times reports 'at least 3 airliner accidents may have been prevented had the FAA not fallen behind schedule in planned modernization of air traffic control equipment.

On Statistical Illogic (/Government Failure)

-Every year an estimated $100 billion in taxes- a sum larger than the GDP of many countries- goes unreported and uncollected. In 1995, as an experiment, Congress gave the IRS $100 million of extra funding to go looking for some of this. At the end of the year it had found and collected $800 million- only a fraction of the missing money but still $8 of extra government revenue for every $1 of additional costs. The IRS confidently predicted that if the program were extended it would net the government at least $12 billion the following year. Instead of expanding the program, Congress chopped it as- wait for it- part of its federal deficit reduction program.

-All kinds of high tech gizmos exist to test meat for microbial infestations. But the government is too cheap to invest in these, so federal food inspectors do it visually as it rolls past on an assembly line...A point you think might have occurred to somebody by now- microorganisms are invisible. As a result, but their own admission, as much as 20% of all chicken and 49% of turkey is contaminated. What all this costs in illness is anybody;s guess, but it is thought as many a 80 million people may get sick each year from factory contaminated food, costing the economy between $5-10 billion in health care, lost productivity and so on. And every year 9,000 people die here from food poisoning.

-There are 200 million guns in the US and we do rather like to pop them off. Each year, 40,000 Americans die from gunshot wounds, the great majority of them by accident. 40% of Americans keep guns in their homes, typically in a drawer beside the bed. The odds that one of those guns will ever be used to shoot a criminal are comfortably under 1 in a million. The odds that it will be used to shoot a member of the household- generally a child fooling around- are at least twenty times that figure. Yet over 100 million people resolutely ignore this fact, even sometimes threaten to pop you one themselves if you make too much noise about it.

-I recently learned from an old friend in Iowa that if you are caught in possession of a single dose of LSD in my native state you face a mandatory sentence of 7 years in prison without the possibility of parole. Never mind that you are, say, 18 and of previous good character, that this will ruin your life, that it will cost the state $25,000/year to keep you incarcerated.

-In 15 states you can be sentenced to life in prison for owning a single marijuana plant. Newt Gingrich recently proposed that anyone caught bringing as little as 2 oz. Of marijuana into the US should be imprisoned for life without parole. Anyone caught bringing more than 2 oz. Would be executed. I appreciate that drugs can mess you up in a big way. I have an old school friend who made one LSD trip too many in 1977 and since has sat on a rocker on his parents front porch examining the backs of his hands and smiling to himself. So I know what drugs can do. I just haven't reached the point where it seems appropriate to put someone to death for being an idiot.

-A 1990 study reports 90% of all first time drug offenders in federal courts were sentenced to an average of 5 years in prison. Violent first time offenders, by contrast, were imprisoned less often and received on average just 4 years in prison. Because most drug offenses carry mandatory sentences and exclude possibility of parole, other prisoners are having to be released early to make room for all the new drug offenders pouring in. In consequence, the average convicted murderer in the US serves less than 6 years, the average rapist just 5. Moreover, once he is out, the murderer or rapist is immediately eligible for welfare and food stamps but a convicted drug user is denied this for the rest of his life.

-My friend once spent 4 months in state prison for a drug offense. Almost 20 year ago. He did his time and has since been completely clean. Recently he applied for a temporary job with the US Postal Service as a holiday relief mail sorter. He did not get the job and a week later he received an affidavit threatening him with prosecution for failing to declare on his application that he had a drug conviction. The Postal Service had taken the trouble, you understand, to run a background check for drug convictions on someone applying for a temp job sorting mail. Apparently it does this routinely- but only for drugs. Had he killed his grandmother and raped his sister 25 years ago, he would in all likelihood have gotten the job.

-The saddest part of this zealous vindictiveness is that it simply doesn't work. The US spends $50 billion a year fighting the war on drugs and yet it goes on and on. Confounded and frustrated, the government enacts increasingly draconian laws until we find ourselves at the point where the Speaker of the House can seriously propose to execute people for the botanical equivalent of 2 bottles of vodka. My solution is 2-fold. Make it a crime to be Newt Gingrich. This wont reduce the drug problem but will make me feel much better. Then take most of the money and spend it on rehabilitation and prevention. Some of it could take busloads of kids to look at the school friend of mine on the porch in Iowa. I am sure it would persuade them not to try drugs in the first place.

On Immigration

[He says much more and very interesting things, but I realize I am getting close to re-typing the whole book and you've probably stopped reading.]

-There aren't many human acts more foolishly simplistic or misguided, or more likely to lead to careless evil, than blaming general problems on small minorities, yet that seems to be quite a respectable impulse where immigration is concerned these days.

[Okay, still so much more good stuff from this book...the funnier and sillier stuff...and general thoughts on how this all made me feel about cultural experiences and challenges here, but we will save all that for another day.]

Two of my very good friends have just announced they are quitting the Peace Corps. At this point we have been here for 11 months and have at least 14 to go. I could never make a fair statement about why they are going, nor know enough of their life here or personal issues to make a judgement on it, but since many people ask my why they're going and what I think about it, I am going to summarize it here. I am unsure if this is appropriate. This is my blog for my stories and perhaps they wouldn't choose to tell their story in this forum. But, part of my story is about the people I meet and our shared challenges and I think this, incomplete to a fault, summary of my interpretation is relevant to my and the overall experience here.

I haven't talked to Jason yet but when I told our mutual friend Ali about Mark she said she was worried about Jason leaving too; whenever she talked to him he would say he's "on vacation from Peace Corps right now" while in the country, so that obviously wasn't a good sign. One other person said 'his reasons for leaving seem as obscure as his reasons for joining'. He, like I, wasn't specifically interested in international development but rather international travel, with PC being a cheap, 'easy' (they plan it for you, teach you the language, etc.) way to do it. And if that stays your only reason for joining, now is an understandable time to leave. You've seen a lot of what there is to see of Mali, maybe even done a project or two so can say/feel you did work, what is not fun about it here has worn on you and, in this case, someone else was giving him an opportunity for international travel in a new place, making more money, with less rules.... in that way i don't blame him.

And Mark. He didn't love it here from the start. He hated the food, said he would never where malian clothes, etc. During our training Ali and I were often annoyed and having a tough time, but saw the magic in our opportunity and experience. He felt much less of that. Then he got placed in a big town....probably at least 20,000, which, in my opinion, is a really tough placement. While it's great there is electricity and cell service and a market every day, there are also lots of foreingers there already and, just with the size alone, its much harder to integrate. No one forces you to hang out with them, and in fact, it's hard to get them to care you're there or know you are there to do good work, not take their resources 9in this case there is a nearby mine). And, because there is rent and electricity to consider, he shared a house with another volunteer so, when they get frustrated or bored, it was too tempting to turn to each other only. As he puts it, "All i was doing was grabbing beers with an american buddy; i can do that at home and be also finishing my degree, etc." And then, all the standard reasons: wasn't confident about the prospects for 'real' development work, was frustrated with the cultural challenge, can't stand the heat. I think he will be at peace with his choice. I think when he is home he will be happy he is there. But, I think if he stayed, 1 year from now he would look back and be glad he did. I think there is a lot left to learn---if nothing else, from wanting to leave, sticking it out and seeing what happens.

For both of them, I think they are copping out and missing out. I think they have very good reasons and I know I can't have any idea what it's like for them here or whats happening in their heads. There heart wasn't in it to begin with so I don't necessarily say they're "giving up" or lose respect for them. But, it is the easy way out and I'm disheartened to see people I care about take it.

Post Secret

Club Trillion

Fail Blog

Texts From Last Night

Where The Hell is Matt

Rainmaker

Team Hoyt

World Map Project has begun! It was a lot more work than it looks like (and mistakes have already been made!). There are lots of grid lines on there so I am ready to start drawing.

My redecorated kitchen hut (since all my mail blew off when we fixed the roof). That's a fruit basket, cork board for pics, chalkboard with project ideas, and a world map with push-pins for where I've been (as you might imagine it makes me want to travel lots more!)

My screen door finally broke....the home renovations will never end.

I finally got a Malian comple made

The village mosque

The new mud oven for making bread in village

Obama Fabric

I am attempting to sleep with my head literally right on the other side of this fence (since it's my house and all) as they are setting up this sound system. I went out and told them it's okay because I don't sleep ever. They don't normally understand sarcasm at all but they moved, so... apparently my attitude conveyed the issue.

Kids climbing a tree for fruit (it's the hungry season)

6/3/2010

-The coming of rainy season has brought some minor, but seriously needed, relief from the incessant heat (you don't know what 100+ degrees feels like until you have no escape from it- no fan to sit in front of, no cold drink to refresh your pallet, no way to cool down enough to even sleep) but it appears to have brought an onslaught of insects with it. They're not all bad: Grasshoppers in the hut are startling but harmless; Cockroaches emerging from the pit latrine at night make me nervous but, truthfully, what are they gonna do? And some are even welcome: Right after a storm there are these beautiful, florescent pink, fat little buggers roaming around; And occasionally, with a gust of wind, the air is filled with swirling fluff resembling the white, feathery leftovers blown off an aging dandelion and, I am told, later in the season, when these "mamas" are larger, we will eat them. But, there are some I could really do without. The mosquitoes that come from no where and nip at my ankles at dusk. The large termites (and countless other things I can't even recognize) that can't resist a bright light, making it impossible to read or write after dark. And of course the spiders that so resemble scorpions that even Tosh, after working so hard to catch one, thought better of eating it.

-One trivial thing I've learned about myself thanks to my time here is that my pee- without fail- streams forward and to the right. This seems like gross, useless information but, when squatting to pee, it's helpful to know if you wish to urinate in the designated hole, rather than all over your feet. I was even beginning to understand some of the joys of being a man and, took pride in my ability to knock a dangling piece of toilet paper down the hatch with my meticulous aim. But, as with everything (especially here) as soon as you get too comfortable, the Universe has a way of putting you in your place. After just 5 weeks in Ameriki, although I still unquestionably spray forward and right, I now, without fail, spray forward, right, and partially onto my shoe.

5/29/10

When there is lifestyle and/or language barriers, things can get interesting:

-Hamuri helped me wash a smelly sheet (I had left it sitting in a bucket of water for days in an attempt to soften it) and I asked if I should put some bleach in the wash water. He, without hesitation, said yes, but then when I asked how much, he admitted he'd never used bleach to wash clothes before. He worked vehemently, declared the job done, and then noticed his hands smelled like bleach. I mostly ignored the comment because, for me, this was a given. A few hours later he returned and again, pointed out the lingering smell on his hands. "Yes," I said, still unsure how he wanted me to react. Then, in a lowered voice he asked, "Does it kill people?" I laughed and assured him it would not, but when my initial shock at my perceived silliness of the question subsided, I realized that, even knowing they're officially considered safe, I'm still a little uncomfortable emerging from a bathroom cleaning stint reeking of harsh chemicals.

-My language teacher had taught us, among other things, we should not talk to a woman about her pregnancy because it's embarrassing since it's an acknowledgment of her having had sex. Even if she's married or very obviously pregnant, unless you are very close to her (or her joking cousin!) you shouldn't broach the subject. Sitting with the women in my host family one afternoon, watching them press roasted peanuts into delicious, natural peanut butter and sharing with them America's overly processed, less healthy version, they brought up the week old baby in our presence and asked me, I think, if I knew my other 'aunt', also present, was pregnant. I explained I learned I shouldn't talk about such things and everyone responded with blank stares and assurances it was okay. So, not knowing how to respond, I asked how many months until the baby comes and the group instantly erupted in laughter. Regretful and confused, I looked around the group for someone to explain, but they were all too overcome with the humor and awkwardness of the faux-pas. I pressed, "Should I not ask her how many months until the baby comes?" With the background of continuous howls, Jongo finally explains that there are lots of people here now, but I can ask the mom-to-be when just the two of us are together. I guess it makes sense- if talking about pregnancy means referencing a woman's active sex life, talking about how far along she is allows people to imagine precisely when she had sex. It is a little weird.

-Ever since my arrival here I've had on my Mali To-Do List, 'Raise Chickens." Why would anyone (let alone a once and future vegetarian) do that, you ask? Well, first and foremost, because how cool would it be to say I raise my own chickens?! And, if I'm ever going to do it, now- when I live in a rural area, have access to information on it, they are cheap, I can't buy eggs (or any protein) in my village, and it could lead to a helpful project- seems like a good time. And, since my host family already has them, all the nuisances- rooster wake up calls, chicken poop on the furniture, Tosh's food and my garden seeds disappearing- exist weather I reap eggs or not. But, assuming it a big undertaking, I have been waiting to be settled in, start community projects, and then get a book and begin the process. But yesterday my neighbor Keikuta suggested I buy chickens, raise them, and kill and eat them on Seliba- the big holiday in November. "Why wouldn't I just buy them when I want to eat them," I ask. "And, for that matter, don't we eat goat for Seliba?" And then the truth emerges- Keikuta needs some money and wants to sell me some of his chickens. Aha. I begin my long list of legitimate excuses - I would need to build a coop, I don't know what to feed them, how will I separate them from my family's - But by sundown I was the (proud?) owner of two female chickens, legs painted blue for distinction, fending for their own food and sleeping, tied up by string, in Tosh's house (he hasn't used it yet).

They tried to get me to buy six females and a male, but I explained I just want to eat some eggs and asked what the minimum requirement would be. "Okay, you can buy 2 women and a man," says Hamuri, my friend and Keikuta's brother. "I need 2 women? One is not good?" I confirm. They assure me I must have two. With a vague recollection from training that when raising chickens you must have significantly more females than males I ask, in the best Bambara I can form, "Because the man wants to work a lot so one woman only- she is very tired?" They think for a minute and then laugh hysterically. It was clearly a little taboo, but they respond, "Kadia's head is good!", apparently impressed with my limited egg production knowledge.

As the plan continued to develop, I grew very concerned that my rooster would not be coming anytime soon. "I want to buy the man and the women together because I don't want chickens here but not start getting eggs," I remind them, still in my ridiculously limited language. "It's okay," assures Hamuri. "Because you're chickens will wander around your family's yard and roosters are there, so..."

Something about this feels very wrong. I'm not sure if it's the implication that my newly acquired chickens will slut it up indiscriminatly or that I feel like I'm stealing if my chickens get 'supplies' from someone else's cock.

Finally, I wonder, if these chickens are wandering around, getting their food and their loving elsewhere, and their old home is right next door, how will they know they are my chickens. Why would they come back here to lay their eggs? Hamuri says, like we did with Tosh, we will catch them each afternoon, tie them up here, and eventually they will learn. I'm not convinced. If some crazy lady tied me up every night, never gave me food and all my friends and my boyfriend were sleeping just across the road, I sure as hell wouldn't choose to have my babies at her house.