Through out my service, I have had one true enemy. Yes the heat is bad and the littlest Malians that run through my closed concession gate at full speed drive me bonkers, but they are not worth more than a sigh and a stern face. And while the rains that come through my roof in rainy season irk me, and the yelling of "tubabu" by the street children and sometimes even the adults make me cringe, they are also not at the top of my list. Long lines at the bank only to be cut by the old man who ignores the bright red numbers atop the cashier's window that conveniently correspond with the number on the slip of paper in my hand and use instead the Malian hierarchy of old over young are frustrating. And barking dogs, crowing roosters, donkeys braying with all their might and guinea fowl clucking along the outsides of my walls, all adding to the before-dawn prayer call are rather bother-some. But all of these things, and everything else that I have found less than pleasant about Mali are nothing, NOTHING, compared to the item at the top of my list.

Scorpions.

From the first time I saw one trying to join me in the nyegen for my evening bath back in homestay my first month in Mali, to the almost 60 others I have seen and killed in my house, they have been my worst enemy, loathsome, awful creatures who inspire the fear in me like no other thing here in Mali. So how fitting it is, that as I am spending my last night in village, up on my roof taking in the brilliance of the stars in such a wide open sky that I would feel a pinch in my upper left arm. Of course, thinking nothing much of it, i brushed at what ever was causing me trouble. "Ugh, stupid dugu mene (biting tiny ants)," I was thinking. But the pain would not abate and began to get hot and spread through my lower arm and up into my shoulder. Henry looks for a mark, a bite, something. And as he sighs, telling me there's nothing much to see, his eyes wander to the spot on the roof I had just occupied. "Well," he says, "there's a big ass scorpion right there...."

He got the CHACO of justice, that bastard, and still I have the last word.

My flights home are booked, and as the days winde down it is slowly becoming all I can think about. What will I do my last few days in Mali? What will they serve on the airplane between here and London, where I am meeting Rob, my little brother for a week of exploring? How amazing will the "foggy London-town" weather be when I get there? What will we do when we get to Paris and I STILL can't communicate with anyone? What will I do first when I get home to Seattle? What will I eat first? What will be the first caffeinated beverage I consume courtesy of good ol' Sbux? Will Simon, my dog, snub me like he did last July, barely giving me a hello before he runs off, just to prove to me that he's been fine since I left him behind, THANKYOUVERYMUCH!

With my time here coming to a close, of course I am faced with the fact that I must leave behind people I have come to think of as family. I will no longer be the focus of attention among a village of people (probably more good than bad) and people will not be awed at the fact that I speak their language instead of French. No longer will I use charades to get my point across (also a good thing?) or will I have to explain items I don't know the names for in terms of other items. (fen ka fen were tege.....? the thing that cuts that other thing?) I will miss a whole community of people: young people who will go through school and in sh'allah help to change the ace of Mali; old people who will continue to cling to their ways because really, they have been doing it that way their who lives and what is wrong with it anyway? children who will brighten the lives of other volunteers to come with their smiles, karate moves and warm and slightly sticky hands perfect for holding. I will miss the people I have shared my experience with, the other volunteers who left before me and those I will leave behind, a whole network of extended family, crazy cousins, wise aunts and uncles, brothers-in-law twice removed, that will support me and seek my support for years to come. I look forward to joining the thousands of returned volunteers before me who all have stories to rival my own.

I will miss the brilliance of the night stars with no light pollution. They really do twinkle. I will miss the beautiful colors that the women here wear and the way that they carry their babies, the way they let their children roam through village unsupervised (I was certain this was a huge mistake when I first arrived!), the way they find time to do everything that they have to do to keep their homes in order and still find time to laugh. I will miss the Malian tea and how it is a cure-all for just about everything from upset tummy and sleepiness to heat-exhaustion and the grumpies. I will miss the way Malians treat each other guests and otherwise. A 'hello' to everyone on the street, a joke between arguing parties is quelled by the exchange of last names (called joking cousins, something the US should seriously consider adopting), the offer of foo or drink or shelter or anything else you may need even if the giver doesn't have enough for two.

While I look forward to he next chapter, all filled with good cheese and beer, I will miss it all. The thought that calm my heart being of course that I am not leaving Mali forever; it is not done with me.

I made Thanksgiving dinner this last Tuesday at the San house. After Thanksgiving this year, we have been talking about how much fun we had and how great the food was, and how surprisingly easy it was to make it all. So through out my last few months, I have slowly collected random ingredients to go into our feast. Of course, it helps when my mom sends me a large Trader Joe's box of instant mashed potatoes, or when past volunteers send us pie crust and filling in a well thought out care package. Add to that a box of stove top that Alyssa offered up, an extra large can of green beans from the boutiki (local store), and some je (pumpkin) from my favorite vegetable lady in market, and you've got yourself a feast.

Knowing that Henry and Alyssa would most definitely be in San, we decided to get Lindsey to come in as well. And by chance, our three newest volunteers Hannah, Chrissy, and Michelle were also in. With seven of us, I had decided to pick up some extra mangoes in town and so we had a mango pie and a raspberry pie with mango on top. At the last minute, just as we were about to start dishing up, Tom came back from having tried to catch transport out to his village all day. (Africa wins again!)

With the boys out on the front porch, us girls had a great time catching up on village stories and each others' lives. When I let it spill that my conversation with my mom earlier that evening brought the unfortunate news of my school plans not coming through, it was my great friends who were there for me. "Well, lets have another drink!" said one. Others offered sympathies and support, helping me to see the bright side of it all, and letting me know that it was ok to be sad about it. And to top it all off, every one of them said "well, that means you can stay in Mali!"

I can't write the right words to convey the way it made me feel, to be surrounded by so many great people. People that a year ago, even months ago, I had not known. Is it the way that this experience throws us all together and makes us form quick bonds? Or is it that the people that choose to volunteer 2 years of their lives to a group of people half-way across the world are of a like mind and would bond together anyway? What ever it is, I thank who ever is responsible for the opportunity to make life long friends that are great for a good laugh, and a good cry, and who I could never have done this with out.

The addition to our CSCOM (health center) is complete, we have a new maternity in Niasso!

Thank you to everyone who helped, through all forms of support, to complete this project. The women now have a brand new facility for their pre- and post-natal appointments, birthing, and child vaccinations and baby weighing, and they are beyond thrilled.

This project has been at times trying and at (most) other times eye opening and inspiring. Before the money we needed to collect was even guaranteed, the village had already gathered the materials they were supplying and had begun to make the bricks that constituted part of their community contribution. Before the project had the go-ahead, they already had faith in it.

When things began to look less positive, when our budget was about to be cut or when we had a change of Chef de Poste (director/main doctor at the health center), those involved in the project still held fast. They pushed on and held my spirits high when I was unsure of the future of the center. A community I was sent here to help helped me in the long run.

In addition, thanks to extra donations from an anonymous donor, we were able to give the women's Savings for Change group a large donation. This group was established through Oxfam in order to work with women's groups at the village level. The group provides small loans to women in the community on a quarterly basis. The group meets weekly to collect a small amount of change from each woman to put into the communal pot. When the time comes, women can petition to receive a small loan, which they then have 3 months to pay back little by little.

These loans can be used for anything, and usually are used for securing initial materials to begin an income generating activity such as soap making or selling of treats at market. These IGA's (income generating activities) help to provide women with a personal income, something many women cannot count on. They use funds for things like new fabrics for clothes for themselves and their children or paying for adult literacy classes. Some even to purchase birth control and other birth spacing tools at the CSCOM pharmacy with out having to ask their husbands for the money since many might not approve of it.

One more time, I'd like to thank all of the people who helped to make this wish come true. We broke ground on the Maternity in Niasso and already the building is making its way up. The head of our ASACO (the governing board of the health center) and I have been working together on San market days to pick up the supplies for the maternity, dooni dooni (little, by little.)

We have purchased the wood and supplies to make a table for the newborn babies as before they were placed in sheets of fabric on the floor while the motther and matrone worked to finish the birth. We have also assembled a new shelf to house al of the malnutrition and birthing records for the mothers and children of the surrounding villages.

I have been away from my village helping with training these last few weeks, but I have been kept up to date with the progress the village is making to continue the project. I have been told the building itself was completed two weeks ago and the electrician has been out to price and install lights to be set up with our solar panel and car battery. This means mothers who go into labor between the hours of 6:30 pm and 5:30 am won't continue to do so in the dark or by wobbly flashlight.

As soon as the building has had sufficient time to settle, we will begin to move into it.. Already the relais (community health workers) have completed a series of trainings on health talks that they will give each week at the new maternity and each Sunday at our small village market.

By MARTIN VOGLThe Associated Press Monday, February 21, 2011; 10:53 PM

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2011/02/21/AR2011022104121.html

BAMAKO, Mali -- At least 36 people were killed in a stampede Monday when a crowd surged against a metal barrier after a Muslim ceremony, Mali's minister of interior security and civil protection said.

Sadio Gassame said the stampede at Bamako's Modibo Keita Stadium took place during a ceremony marking the Muslim holy period of Maouloud. The incident occurred as tens of thousands of people were attempting to leave through a metallic enclosure.

Anguished families gathered outside the capital's Gabriel Toure Hospital where the staff was preparing to post a list of the dead. At least 64 others were wounded.

Sidiki Coulibaly was visibly shaken as he waited for the dreaded news. "I've already had it confirmed that my aunt died. We are now trying to find out what happened to her daughter. She's just 10 years old. They go to this event together every year," he said.

At the place where people had been crushed, security personnel were collecting piles of shoes to put into a waiting van. A young girl sat on a bucket at the edge of the scene, crying. She had lost both parents and didn't know her way home.

Hey all, sorry this blog is so late in coming. These last few months have been a bit busy. I have been helping to prepare for the arrival of a new group of trainees and now that they have arrived, I have been involved in their training. They seem to be a great group of new soon-to-be volunteers; it'll be exciting to see how the rest of their training goes and to see them swear in this April.

Last night, around 1am, I was lucky enough to get some rain. A very big surprise to me, and then a big surprise to the guard at the house here in San when I proceeded to get up and stand in the rain. We're coming into hot season right now and I definitely wasn't expecting any rain for a while, but perhaps this is the first of the Mango rains. Either way, I am not complaining.

One more big piece of news; my project to build a maternity and women's center was fully funded. A huge thank you to all that helped with this project! It is because of donations and support from you all that this dream is becoming a reality. We have started the meetings to delegate tasks and as I write this, our new bricks are baking in the sun. I'll try to keep you all updated on progress as the project picks up.

A year later, I find myself back Tubani So, the Peace Corps training center just outside of Bamako, this time as a trainer. From December 6-13, I helped to lead technical sessions for the newest batch of Heath Education volunteers. We’ve covered everything from pre- and post-natal consultations to STI’s and moringa. The volunteers got to go to a local school to do health animations (interactive education) at the end of last week. The group I was with spoke to a 9th grade classroom about HIV and AIDs as well as contraceptives. The kids were much more knowledgeable than I would have expected. Surprisingly, the teacher was also very knowledgeable, and was extremely helpful in making sure the students understood the volunteers’ Bamabara and French. The volunteers themselves gave great presentations and were able to keep relatively straight faces when talking about some very sensitive topics. The hardest part seemed to be answering questions about where AIDS came from. Not just how you get it, but how people got it in the first place. Of course, they also wanted to know if people in America have it too, and whether or not the rates of infection were the same there as they are in Mali.

The rate of infection in Mali is actually quite low, around 1.3%, while in America it is about .3%. Of course in other African countries, the rates can be much higher, which is why it seems that Africa as a continent is highly affected. Regardless, it is still an issue here, and many organizations are working to fight it and to raise awareness of it. It is interesting to go to a school, or even to talk about it with people in village over tea and hear about what they know. In my village specifically, people know that one man is infected, and they know that he cannot marry because he will infect others. In a Muslim culture that puts emphasis on multiple wives as a status symbol, it seems quite progressive to have a whole community stand behind one man’s choice to stay single. The village was one of many that received HIV/AIDS education and sensitization from a past volunteer, one of the biggest reasons why they have chosen to support this man and why he has chosen to avoid infecting others. Other villages might not be so inclined, but through our interaction and education, perhaps we really are making a difference.

After quite a few months of back and forth, we finally started the garden project on November 19th. All week, we planned to start work on Friday morning. My host dad, Sekou talked non-stop, as he is known to do, about the project, and there was much excitement from the teachers at the school that I am working with. So come 8:30, I was up and out with the teachers, ready for work. The first thing we had to do was put up the fencing, which required putting posts into the ground, cementing them in and then putting up the actual fencing to surround the garden space, which is about 18 meters by 18 meters. I was prepared for the fact that this project would be on West African International Time (W.A.I.T.) but when I looked up from my conversation with Barou, one of the teachers, I saw Sekou across the school yard with Yakouba, one of the village men who had offered to come help. They were already out, measuring the land and marking where the posts would go. I spent most of the morning trying to be helpful, pulling water for them to mix with the cement, collecting big rocks to help anchor the posts, and going to the boutiki to get sugar and tea to keep the men going. Through the whole morning, the only people working were Sekou and Yakouba, along with the occasional young man who stopped by to watch and got sucked in to help. It was more than frustrating to me that the teachers and the school director were sitting around while the community members, who really have no connection to the school, were doing all the work. Finally, Barou followed me to the field to see how things were going, and then once he came over others followed. While it was frustrating that the teachers weren’t more involved in the building of the fence, I am excited that they seem to be more interested, and hopefully therefore more involved in the teaching of the gardening skills and the work in the actual garden.

The goal with this project is to transfer gardening skills to the kids in the first cycle school, as well as to use the garden and the vegetables we harvest as an income generating activity (IGA). Ideally, the kids will sell their produce at our local market, the profits of which will be used to purchase things for the school or to fund small repairs at the school. I am looking forward to using the garden as a health education tool by teaching about nutrition and the benefits of adding the different vegetable to their diets. Perhaps we can even use the project as a math education tool by teaching the kids how to calculate what to charge for the different vegetables in the market and how to keep track of the profits and expenses of the garden. Selfishly, I am looking forward to getting to work in the garden with the kids. I have started my own garden in my concession, but more often than not, Sekou has done the “dirty” work and I have been left to stand by and watch. Another perk will be the new variety of produce available at Niasso’s market, which currently sells tiny shriveled onions on occasion along with fried dough balls, batteries, and peanuts. A little variety would benefit everyone. As the project progresses, I will continue to post updates.

We celebrated Thanksgiving this year in San with all of the new San volunteers. I spent all day in the kitchen with Alyssa and Lindsey, prepping and cooking the traditional Thanksgiving fare, or at least as traditional as we could make it here in Mali. We were able to make stuffing from dried bread crumbs and maggi cubes, pumpkin pie from a squash very similar to pumpkin called dje in Bambara, and corn bread and mashed potatoes from the fresh produce we got in market. We were also able to make salad, baked squash, fruit salad, and cake! Luckily, we had a house full of people to help with the chopping and the innumerable trips to market. When it was finally time to sit down to a family style dinner, with every one dressed up and sharing what they were thankful for, Ameriki didn’t feel quite so far away.

Tabaski, or Seli-Ba which comes 70 days after the end of Ramadan was celebrated in the middle of November this year. It is a Muslim holiday, but is comparable to the story of Abraham’s sacrifice of Isaac. In the Muslim religion, many will say that it was Muhammad who was asked to sacrifice Ishmael. Which ever version you subscribe to, the point is that at the last minute, God sent and angel down to stop him and told him to sacrifice a sheep instead. The traditional Tabaski fare features a sheep which is slaughtered by an old man, muttering benedictions as he slides the knife over the throat of the sheep, which is held down by the other male members of the family. After being in DC last November, I was able to take part in my village celebrations this time around and have posted some of the best pictures from the day, including the slaughtering of the sacrificial sheep and pics of Niasso Kaw in their Seli-Ba best.

Results are up on the Accra Internaational Marathon website. Men's and women's full and half marathon results are posted, as are photos!

I was reading a few news pieces recently that I thought might be interesting. The first focuses on Nigerian women being kidnapped and brought to Mali for prostitution, something that the Malian government is working to stop. To read, follow this link

The second article talks about the French asking for Mali's help in releasing hostages captured in Niger and help in northern Mali by Al-Qaeda. The area that they are supposedly being held in is quite far north, an area that Peace Corps does not occupy because of the instability of the area. The kidnappings occurred in mid-September. To read this article, click here. Last July a hostage was killed in the north after an invasion of the French to free him. Ironically, the French worked with Mauritania to facilitate that movement instead of working with Malian officials. This article can be found here.

Finally, a third article speaks to how the kidnapping threat has affected aid and specifically local aid in Mali. Peace Corps has already had to close down many sites in the last few year that were far enough north to be affected by terrorist activity, or that were deemed unsafe by our safety and security officer. This article goes further to touch on other aid campaigns and how they will be changed as a result of the newest activity. To read more, click here.

It's come and gone, and two weeks later I am still a bit fazed that I did it.

On Sunday, September 26th, I ran in the Accra International Marathon in Accra, Ghana. As new volunteers, my friend Jeremy and I had heard about this marathon and talked about doing it. This April, our friend Colleen put together training info and we started our training in May. Through the heat of hot season (think mid-90's to 110/115 daily) and the down pour of rainy season, we trained with this day in mind.

Jeremy and I decided to go to Accra a bit early while everyone ele came into town on the Saturday before the race. When we arrived in Accra, we were thrown by the language (English!) and the fact that the YMCA hostel really was only for young men; I spent the first two mights of our trip hiding, sneaking in and out of the hostel so that the other "young men" wouldn't see me. We explored the city - which is enormous - discovering the following: in fact there is not a zoo in Accra, but there is a large prayer forest that is home to previous zoo animals and their respective enclosed habitats, a journey to which our taxi driver accompanied us; the markets in Africa tend to all be the same, but the Accra market was far and away the most overwhelming market I have ever been in; Accra is so huge, it is necessary as a tourist to take a taxi most everywhere, and they are not cheap; there are more ice cream shops, Chinese and Indian restaurants and cell phone companies per capita than any other city I have ever been to; and surprisingly, there were almost no motorcycles, although the drivers were just as scary.

By the time our friends arrived in Accra, we were almost experts on the area of Osu. In addition to the Mali volunteers, were joined at our hostel by volunteers from Ghana and Togo. PC/Ghana had ten runners, as did PC/Togo, a mixture of marathoners and half-marathoners. Our group was made up of 4 marathoners, 2 half-marathoners, and a large group of "rowdy spectators." As we prepped for the race the night before, Gloria and Chris prepped their own bags with water sachets, bananas, power gels, cameras and extra clothes for the runners. the runners prepped with a dinner of pizza, pasta, and ice cream.

The night before the marathon, I was anxious and didn't really get much sleep, but the next morning as we took our "before" photos and loaded the bus that was to take us to the starting line, I began to feel less sleepy and more excited. Wishing Ali and Josh, our half-marathon runners good luck, we dropped the 200 or so half runners at their starting line. After what felt like much more than 13 miles, we disembarked the bus and got assembled at the start line. An hour late and 3 false starts later, the gun finally went off and the race began.

I am known for starting too fast, so I was careful to go out at a steady pace. Through out the whole race, I felt pretty good, and at about mile 6 I began to pass a few people here and there. Of course, the problem of passing other runners on a poorly labeled course, is that they were your markers and now you become lost much more easily. Many times I wondered where I was going, and where I was leading the people running behind me, and just when I was sure I had gone the wrong way, I would see someone in the orange shirt we were given running ahead of me.

In this manner, I made my way through the run, passing a huge group of our friends hanging at a beach bar around mile 16 and later, Chris and Gloria at mile 20-something passing out water, bananas, and GU. Before I knew it, I was passing more milage signs, although they were not really marked so all I knew was that I was putting more miles behind me. Around what I think was mile 24, I hit my wall. My legs got tired, and my mantra of "this doesn't hurt, you're not tired, you're almost there," turned into something much more obscene and much less optimistic. It was around mile 25 that another volunteer caught up to me, a woman that I had thought was way ahead of me. After struggling to keep up for a bit, she passed me by, and just behind her was a Ghanaian woman. I watched them ahead of me, both in bright green shirt, waiting to see when they stopped running, thinking it had to be close.

Finally after running for far too long through traffic and smog, with random people telling me to "try hard, run fast," telling me the other runners went that way, I came to the turn off, to mile 26. I was able to pick it up a little bit, finish in good form, and crossing the finish line, I felt strong. It wasn't until I was lead to the race tables that I realized that those two women were the only other two ahead of me, and that there had only been 10 people total ahead of me.

I met up with Ali and Josh, both of whom finished their half strong, and we waited for the other Mali marathoners. Soon enough, Colleen, Kat and Jeremy came into view, and we watched them cross the line. Although we were hot, sweaty, sunburned and blistered, we all made it. After all of our training, all the sore muscles and dehydration through training, the early mornings of waking up before the sun, the nights we turned in early while others stayed up, the ways we sacrificed our bodies and our sanity, we all finally made it.

I am so proud of us all, proud to say that I did it. While I set a new personal record and placed for the first time, I am more proud of the time I put into training and the fact that I ran it all. I was also really proud to say that I was part of such a supportive and determined team of runners and spectators. And of course, not an hour after crossing the finish line, we were discussing the rumor of another marathon in January...

I came into Bamako to present at a conference on food security in the middle of September. I was asked to represent the Health Education sector by presenting on my garden project to many NGO representatives who have an interest in food security and in working with the Peace Corps in this capacity.

Alima, my counterpart came with me and we were the first to present. After a few technical difficulties, I had to begin my presentation sans power point and photos, but the presentation was still a success. Alima began by greeting the crowd and explaining who we were, where we were from, and our working relationship. Then together we explained the process we used to assess the communities need and the ways that we started our project.

We began by using PACA, the participatory analysis for community action model. This is a series of activities and sessions that first ask the community to identify what they are proud of as a community. Then we move on to what the community sees a need for, the priority of the different needs they identify, and their ability to fill that need.

Through this series of activities, we identified a need for school and medical supplies, for food security, and the interest in working to teach the children at the first cycle school gardening techniques. This directly coincided with my interest in teaching the children about healthy eating and nutrition.

From this meeting, we also identified a community partner in the director of my first cycle school, Djakary Dja, who helped us to develop a budget and a plan of action. I applied for the grant through Peace Corps while also working with Djakary Dja and Alima to discuss the community's contribution to the project. Through this specific grant, the community is responsible for 33% of the total budget.

With our approved project proposal, we are getting ready to begin the building of the fencing and when school has started and the ground is ready, we will start the planting of vegetable. The children will be able to learn about the different planting techniques and options while working the land themselves. The goal is to educate the children on gardening practices, which they will use to cultivate the land and harvest their crop. The vegetables will be sold at our local market, providing a new variety of available foods, and a source of income for the school caisse. Initially the money will be used to purchase the medical supplies that the school needs, a basic first aid kit that will help with small cuts and bruises, things that would usual send the child and teacher all the way across town, if the family could even afford the treatment.

Eventually, monies will be used to purchase school supplies, and then be kept in the school caisse to help to meet the schools needs for things like pump repair and other minor needs. The garden will continue to be a source of learning and achievement for the children.

Our project was well received by the group and Alima was proud to have been invited to present on our work. She was eager and able to answer all kinds of questions from the crowd, shedding the shyness she sometimes resorts to among strangers and important people.

I just finished reading The Cruelest Journey by Kira Salak. It is about the author, Kira’s kayak trip on the Niger river in Mali from Segou to Timbuktu. I had started it at home, so it was hard to get into and I had put it off until I got back to Mali. While in country, I have devoured books about other volunteers and other people’s experiences in Mali or other African countries. As I read this book, I really identified with Kira on a few points, especially on a few things that I have had a hard time putting into words.

For example, she talks about one of her encounters with a Malian friend, and how when she was quiet and reflective, he thought something was wrong. “But I get tired of trying to explain to some people that I value privacy and solitude as much as they value socializing. If I don’t have time to myself each day, I get stir-crazy. I’ll just run off, needing to escape from a place. But in countries like Mali, with strong tribal traditions, that must sound virtually incomprehensible, as family, religion, and social order provide a crucial structure that sustains people and prevents discontent. Back home, being alone might be considered a kind of independence, but here it is pathology.” This was such a hard concept to get across to my host family in home stay during my first few months of training.

Another thing that really struck me in her book was Kira’s observations on the heat. Strangely, the night offers no respite from the hot temperature, and only the occasional whiff of a breeze gives faint relief. At any rate, it is better to remain outside at all costs. The stifling heat lasts well into the night. She writes this while in Timbuktu, but I can tell you that North or South, it is the same. Hot, hot, hot.

Kira talks about her traveling habits and this journey specifically, and how a lot of times she is quick to look onto the next thing, especially when things are hard. “There are times when I am traveling when I forget that things pass, and then the so-called benefits of an experience elude me, and I can think only of the difficulties. I find it hard to appreciate anything with the sweat running off my face and burning my eyes, the sun’s heat scorching my skin, my body aching from holding the paddle. What room for ‘experience’ when there is only a wish to get to the next place faster, so that the end might be nearer?” I have found myself looking forward to events and ultimately the end of my service, especially when I am having bad days or when time seems to drag on. I have to make myself focus on the moment that I am living in, knowing that these moments are a part of the greater whole, but no less a part than the big moments.

When telling people about Mali, I am sometimes at a loss because most months of the year, Mali is dry, brown, dusty. When I first arrived, I was constantly taken aback at the sights surrounding me, the people, the hills around our home stay village, the sunset skies after the rowdy rainstorms. Of course, when you spend as much time somewhere as we spend here, those things can be lost. “I was on the hill. You see? Over there.” he points to the east, to a distant, high hill, its top outlined in the moonlight. “Kira, it was so beautiful. I climbed the hill and I was taking pictures from the top. Ah, it was incredible! The sun was setting… it was perfect.” There are still moments, perhaps riding my bike from village to San, or when I am out for a morning run as the sun is coming up, that I am in awe of the fact that I am in Africa, I am living in Africa.

Well its September already, I can’t believe it. This last year has gone by so quickly! I wanted to take some time to say thank you to everyone who has supported me this last year.

Whether it has been through letters, emails, packages, phone calls, thoughts and prayers, it has meant the world to me to know how many people are there for me. It has made my time here easier, and it has made it fly by as I get to hear about graduations, engagements, weddings, babies, retirements, and all sorts of other good and exciting news. Even the day to day news, that wouldn’t seem to make headlines, has I have loved hearing. It makes me feel less than a world away from everyone and everything. I could not even begin to list all of you, because the number of family and friends who are looking out for me is so great, but know that I am grateful for you, and for the ways you have helped me. I feel blessed and lucky to have such amazing people in my life. So thank you again, for everything.

As a health volunteer, most of my work takes place in or around my health center, or CSCOM. We do animations, which are educational talks or informational, hands-on learning sessions, about pertinent health topics like hand washing, mother and child health, weaning practices, anti-malarial practices, and nutrition. We spend every Thursday doing vaccinations, and I do my part weighing the babies, keeping track of their weights on a chart that indicates the general nutrition of the baby. The CSCOM is where women come for prenatal consultations, for births, and for help with health problems they or their children may encounter postnatal.

The CSCOM is also where people of the 26 surrounding villages come for their own vaccinations, for treatment of all assortment of ailments, for prescriptions, emergencies, and social hour should school be in session.

When asked as a village what Niasso wanted me to help them with, they voted unanimously that a maternity was wanted. A maternity is specifically a birthing center. When I asked about the current birthing situation at the CSCOM, I was informed that after a birth, the mothers must shuffle across the courtyard to the recovery room, blood dripping down their legs, their faces screwed up in a grimace of pain. Anyone sitting in the courtyard that doubles as the waiting room is privy to the happenings of the women who come in for prenatal consultations and births, which they said quite accurately is not clean, does not respect their privacy and just “is not beautiful.”

While beauty is not a real concern, what is alarming is the rate at which mothers are sent home early after giving birth to free beds for other mothers or for people needing to use beds in the recovery room for other treatment. When the mothers are only held for 6 hours after delivery, they need this critical time to rest and recover before going home to return to chores left undone before the approach of birth. Also concerning is the rate at which new born infants are exposed to any germs or bacteria that come into the CSCOM on patients being treated for TB, flu, infections, or the common cold. Furthermore, when Thursday roles around and women come from the surrounding villages by foot for vaccinations and baby weighing, there is not enough space to hold everyone, meaning that many mothers chose to return home as opposed to standing out in the sun and heat until a space frees up. Not only is the women’s health at risk in the current situation, they lose valuable opportunity for learning about health topics covered on vaccination days that would help them to better provide for their families and themselves.

In that vein, I am asking for your help. Currently, my project is on the Peace Corps website, listed under my last name. Please follow this link to donate to the building of a new maternity and women’s center in my village. I know many of you have already helped me in other projects or though your support for me and my time here, but any little thing that you can give can help. This is a big project, but would make a difference infinitely larger. My sincerest thank you for your help.

Wednesday morning, I had gone to the CSCOM to greet Alima, the midwife and the rest of the CSCOM employees. When I arrived, it was quiet and I was able to greet the people I wanted to, including our pharmacist, Bah and our secretary and vaccinator, Koniba. We also recently got a new Chef de Poste (CSCOM boss) and I was surprised to see her in the office, already at work. I spent a few minutes with Alima’s children, Bonnie, Abu, Laji and Le who were playing around the house, excited to show me the new Tungaro babies (ducklings).

I was getting ready to head back to my house after talking with Alima for quite a while when a man and woman drove up on a moto. Alima took one look at the woman and looked at me, quietly informing me that she was there to give birth. I have only seen one birth before and it was a bit traumatic. Te baby had been a still born and the process was harsh and sad, and I had been pretty apprehensive about having to be around the CSCOM afterwards. While it had lead to a great conversation with Alima about the way they do things here and why, it was an experience I will be happy to never repeat, one that I wish I hadn’t experienced to begin with.

But that was months ago, and this was the first birth I had been around for since coming back to village. I timidly asked Alima if I could be involved, which really just means watching since I can’t actually handle any tools and frankly, probably couldn’t help if I was allowed to. Of course, she said I should follow her, and while Alima prepped the tools and the area, I spoke with the mother, asking her name (Bintou) and where she was from (Solosso). Bintou had two other sons, Mamadou and Bakary, and although I didn’t ask her age, I would guess she was about 22. She patiently answered my questions, quiet otherwise, grimacing every so often with the pain of the impending delivery.

Alima checked the baby’s positioning and spoke softly to the mother, who was still laying quietly on the table, her hand searching for something to grip to steady herself against the pain. While I could tell that she was obviously hurting, she never let on that she was anything more than uncomfortable, her breathing short and even, her voice never lifting about a whisper.

Alima pawed gently at Bintou’s protruding belly, “calling the baby out,” and continued to check the progress of the delivery. With out much notice, suddenly the woman’s face screwed up in a spasm of concentration, and the birth commenced. As Alima was able to see the baby coming, she instructed me to place the fabric that would be the baby’s first blanket on the floor, the only other smooth and even surface in the room. When I looked again at the pair, Alima was receiving the baby’s head, cradling it in her left hand. With a quick motion, se stabilized the baby’s head and shoulders and began to pull gently, as the mother did her part, pushing silently. While her movement reminded me briefly of a game of tug of war with the family dog over a rope toy, Alima was practiced and ready, pulling the baby all the way out. She quickly checked the baby’s breathing, and began to work to clamp the umbilical cord. The baby was silent, and fearing a repeat of last time, I held my breath until I heard a faint whimper. The baby was a boy, and as I brought the fabric to the table, Alima wrapped him up, and gently scrubbed his head and body. She placed the wrapped baby on the floor again, then finished up the birth, collecting the placenta in another large piece of fabric to be taken by the midwife.

I asked about the baby not crying, since my only other experiences with birth were through movies when the baby screamed immediately after meeting the world. Alima wisely said that the baby might not be crying now, but that in a few minutes he’d begin to make noise. And she was right. The mother’s help, an older woman from her family had come just after the baby did, with clothing, extra food and blankets for the mother and baby who would be spending the next 6 hours at the CSCOM. I watched the baby as Alima and the other woman helped the mother to dress. While he had been quite pale when I first saw him, he was beginning to gain some good color, and I wiped the afterbirth still in his hair. He squirmed and made some noise, though he never cried out. The mother and baby were relocated to the recovery room, and that was it. Twenty minutes from the moment the woman pulled up on the back of the moto, she was laying in the recovery room, dozing with her new baby boy in her arms.

In a society that seemingly values women as baby production units, it was amazing to watch this young woman fulfill her duty, her sense of pride and obligation twined together. While it would be easy to fault this society for its treatment of women, it took be by surprise, and made me step back to reevaluate my feelings. Malian women are the gateway to life and are valued as such, given a gift that the men will never have, the ability to provide their larger family units with invaluable life, a new link in the chain.

Today, August 7, is my second day back in Mali, after a 4 week visit home. I have not really had time to fully process the whole thing, but I can certainly say this: coming back was hard. Well, I suppose it is more that leaving home again was hard. I have only had a couple of days here, and they have only been in Bamako and in San, so I cannot really say how the transition will go.

As many people reassured me before I came home, nothing there has really changed. I suppose a few businesses had closed, and each of my friends had gone through a year’s worth of events. But everyone is still there, still healthy, still living their lives. I was lucky enough to have the chance to see a bunch of friends that I wasn’t sure I’d be able to, as well as the chance to spend time with my closest friends and family. The wedding was beautiful, and all of the event leading up to it were so much fun.

In leaving again, I know better what I am getting myself into. I know the language better than I did a year ago. I know my village, my work partners, my fellow volunteers, and I know that I only have a year to go. I know that according to other volunteers, the second year goes by much faster and can hold some of the best times of a volunteer’s service.

Knowing all of these things and more gets me excited to be back. But of course, it didn’t really make it any easier to leave or to say good bye. Because with the knowledge of language and culture that comes as a second year volunteer, I also know the sad and hard parts of being a single volunteer in a small village in the middle of West Africa. I don’t look forward to reliving some of the harder moments of being alone, or not being able to connect or having absolutely no control of 90% of my life.

I hope that in the time I have had here and in the time that I have had away, I have gotten stronger and will be better equipped to deal with the not so great days. I am certain that this year will bring change and excitement and new experience, just as the last year did.

Stepping off of the plane on Thursday night, I could smell the same smells that hit me a year ago. The rainy season scent will always remind me of our first months of Mali, the trainings, the time at Tubani So (our training facility), the excitement of new relationships and learning. The smell that comes in with rainy season brings memories of moving into my new home, of running through torrential downpours on my way to the bus, of traipsing through my first San market.

So here’s to one more year, one more cold season, one more hot - thank goodness! - and all that this next year will bring.

While I was at home for the month, I was able to have a fundraiser to help out my local first cycle school purchase school supplies. With a lot of help from my mom and good friend Christo, we were able to have live music and drinks at The Anchor Tavern in Everett on Hewitt. A very big thank you to everyone who came or who donated after the date. Thanks to all of you, we were able to raise over $1000 to help supply the children of Niasso with school supplies. An extra big thank you to my mom, Pam Jones, along with Christo Sedgewick and the Sepals and The Anchor.

Its strange to think that a year ago, I was spending Independence day with my family on Stretch Island. Of course, this year was much different, but it was still a great time. A large group of us all traveled to Manantali, a town on the west side of Mali. Manantali is located on the Bafing River, and the Peace Corps house, our base for the weekend, is like a camp site, looking out over the river, and surrounded by trees. The ride out to Manantali takes you through Kita, and then about 100k past it. The road to Kita is paved and while windy, is really pretty nice. Just past Kita, though, the road turns into a bumpy, tumultuous dirt road. On our journey, while we were lucky to have Peace Corps transport, we got drenched with seasonal rains. Our car, a relatively new 4x4, swam through the muck and mess. We finally arrived, the mattresses atop the car soaked through.

We spent the first evening watching the World Cup games at the local American club. The next day, we went for a hike up into the hills around the village, where we got to see some great views of town and the river. On our way down, we saw monkeys up where we had been sitting, playing in the trees. Later, we went to the river, until the hippos across the way disappeared under the water, which we took as our cue to take our leave. Apparently hippos are extremely territorial and aggressive, even though they are not carnivorous.

The next day was July 4th, which we spent hanging out, recovering from the day before and then playing down at the river. The current was fast, and if you planned it well, you could jump in up stream and float down past the rocks to a prefect resting point. After lunch, we played games, went to the American club for ping pong and foosball and pool, and then spent the rest of the day having our own Olympics and dancing the night away.

The ride back to Bamako was much less fun and exciting as the ride out, but we made it back in one piece, and in one day.

Every year, as the rains are looming, the town of San gathers for their Sangue Mo festival, which loosely translated means ripe waters. It is a week-long, fishing festival held from Sunday to Sunday in the middle of June. The whole town, and residents from closely neighboring towns as well as the few who come over from Burkina Faso, gather to celebrate the harvesting of the Niger river. All week, the town is ripe with the sounds of motorcycles, blazing up and down the roads, louder than usual having taken off their tailpipes. The young men on the bikes have even taken all of their extra parts off so that they can go faster, popping wheelies and all sorts of other maneuvers. I can honestly say that I have never been so close to getting run over in my whole life.

On the Thursday of the festival week, everyone of the town gathers together at the edges of the Niger, waiting for the fishing to begin. Many people are dressed in the festival clothing, a blue and purple fabric with the images of the festival printed on it, as well as images of the sacred tree and well of San. First, we wait on the bank of the river, as the crowds begin to multiply, their nets and flags in the air. The dugutigi (village chief) comes forward with his net, into the water. It isn’t deep, but he trudges further in, until the water is to his knees. He makes a loud cry, swings his net up into the air and then back down to the water, a massive cheer rising up from the surrounding crowd. The nets that they are using are made from a wood frame, a circle with four pieces of wood rising up from the edges to meet in a sort of triangle. From this structure hangs a net made of rope. To catch the fish, the frame is pushed into the water and deep into the mud, then hands are used to find the fish in the net and trap it between the net and the ground.

As soon as the dugutigi had caught his first fish, the crowd erupted into a giant cheer, thee official fired his gun, and the rest of the crowd rushed the waters. The rest of the town spent the remainder of the afternoon in the water, the men and children catching fish, the women celebrating each catch and anointing themselves in the water. Many of the people continued the festivities late into the afternoon and evening. Everyone passing on the street wanted to know if we had caught fish, and were excited to hear that we at least went in the water.

I am just returning from a trip up north to Djenne with some friends. Djenne is a small island surrounded by the Bani river. The architecture is very distinct, very un-Malian. The northern African influence on the city is evident in the two story buildings reminiscent of Morocco or Tunisia. It is also the home of the world’s largest mud mosque. We took transport from my friend Esther’s village to Djenne on Monday, their market day. Our transport was a cattle truck, filled up to the brim with sacks of charcoal and beans and millet, and boxes of tea. We sat atop the market wares, the wind in our hair. (Don’t worry, mom, I wore sunscreen.) The ride itself really only took a couple hours, including the barge trip to cross onto the island. As we waited in line, we watched the men on horseback forge the river. The horse in the back of the line was obviously less healthy and seemed to struggle to cross the water, but they all made it through, prancing out of the water on the other side.

When we got to Djenne, it was mid morning. We strolled around the town as the people were beginning to set up their market stalls. Immediately, we were pegged as tourists and so many people began to follow us around, selling random souvenirs and offering their guide services. It was funny that even when we spoke to them in Bambara, they didn’t relent. Usually that works for us here in San, or even in Bamako. We were able to connect with two other volunteers who live in the area, or near it, and they played our guides for the rest of the day. We had lunch at a campemont, and then went to the center of market to look around. We wandered around the mosque, which is supposed to be closed to non-Muslims, although for the right price off course, the rules can be bent.

We got to see the library, which is in the middle of a project to collect ancient manuscripts that have been left in homes around the city. They estimate that there are about 10,000 manuscripts through out the whole area, but they have only been able to collect about 3,000. The project is about 2 years old, and will continue as more manuscripts become available. The works are written in Arabic characters, but in the languages of Bambara, Djenneke, and Peul. The man at the library explained that at the time the manuscripts were written, the languages used hadn’t been alphabetized yet and therefore were not in written form yet. He also explained that they are in the process of scanning all of the works to be electronically catalogued. Currently, the books are being housed in cabinets organized by family. More manuscripts will become available as families allow them to be. The families must locate all members and get them to agree to relinquish the works before they can be taken in by the library. Our guide also explained that one of the more difficult parts of the project was finding someone who could type, read, and translate the Arabic characters and the languages they are written in, as well as use a computer.

Our journey to Djenne concluded as the rains began. The men began to load the trucks up, and once they were loaded, we scrambled up on top of the goods and pulled a tarp over ourselves. The ride home was extremely long on account of the wait at the river crossing. We were treated to some very cool lightening storms, had a great sing along to the amusement of the Malians on the ride with us, and were witness to a fight over the tarp covering us and protecting us from the rain, which was most unusual because Malians tend to be some of the most level headed people. I guess everyone gets cranky at the end of a wet, muddy ride, especially when that 40k ride took about 4 hours. Suffice it to say we had an adventure.

I just got back from a little San Kaw vacation (Kaw is people of, like people from my village, Niasso, are Niasso Kaw) to Teryia Bugu, a resort-type place located on the Bani River, between San and Bla. Jen had been before with her mom when she was here for a visit. Since part of our group is getting ready to finish their service, we went for a weekend together.

Teryia Bugu, described to me by our cross cultural trainer in pre-service training as paradise, was just that. With beautiful river views and a multitude of big, leafy trees, we spent three days relaxing by the pool, walking through the jatropha groves, and just generally enjoying ourselves. There were peacocks wandering around the grounds, and lots of other beautiful birds singing from the trees surrounding the pool. Which, might I mention, had a huge slide!

After spending most of the second day at the pool, reading, playing, napping, we strolled through the town of Teryia Bugu, down a road lined with Eucalyptus and mango trees. Later, we treated ourselves to a very nice dinner, and ended the night with a bon fire under the stars and s’mores.

Of course, it had to come to an end. The HoBo’s, the volunteers who came to Mali the year before us, had a COS conference to get to. (COS - close of service) Amazing to imagine that we’ll be in their shoes a year from now!

If you're interested in more info, check out http://www.tb-mali.com/e-welcome.html

Its raining. And its glorious and beautiful, and the wind is Wizard of Oz, Kansas huge, and the thunder is reminiscent of huge drums with tight heads being pounded right above the house. The skies are dark and would be ominous, except that they are so welcome. I wish they’d stay for a long weekend of late mornings and closed shutters and lazy days with a good book.

I don’t care that I’ve now got more dirt in my ear than a dog on the beach. Or that my body is freckled with raindrops made obvious by the splotches they’ve left in the white heat-rash powder on my arms. The power has gone out, meaning all my work on the computer - the sole reason for my trip into town today - is probably lost, and the floor of the house is covered in a heavy layer of dust blown in the windows, and there will be huge puddle in market. But I don’t care, bring it on. The cool air and the smell of fresh rain and the sight of Jean Baptiste, our Malian guard in a bright yellow Paddington Bear-style rain coat are all worth it.

I’m sure at home, Ill never look at weather in the same way. How can I? This was literally less than 20 minutes of rain, the concrete patio is already starting to dry, and soon you’ll not have any clue it was ever here.

When we use the toilet here, we use a nyegen, or a pit toilet. It’s a small hole in the ground which leads to a bit pit, and with all of the people using the toilet, it will eventually get full. Then what happens? Well…

It must be emptied. If the toilet is a composting one, there are two compartments, side by side, each one sealed off from the other. When one is filled, it is sealed off and the other is opened up for use. The full compartment is left to sit for a while and after a time, it is emptied and the substance is used for fertilizer. In the big cities, I have heard that some companies run a removal service, sucking the waste out with a big machine.

In my village, there are no composting nyegens. The other day, I was approaching my host family’s compound when I noticed my host brother, Isa’s head poking over the nyegen wall. Usually you do not talk to people when they are in the nyegen. They are either bathing or going to the bathroom; it is not polite. But Isa greeted me and we talked about the soccer game he’d later be playing in.

I discovered later that afternoon that he had been helping my host dad to empty their nyegen, the contents of which are currently piled up next to the compound wall. Its funny too because right now, most people are remudding their houses before rainy season gets here. I had seen the big pile earlier in the day, but I had just thought that it was mud mixed for that purpose. In fact, the pile will be sitting there for a while. When it is ready, it will be loaded up into a donkey cart and trucked out of town to the fields to use as fertilizer. Already my host dad has recemented his nyegen floor, starting the cycle over again.

Hi all,

Sorry, I've not been so good lately about posting. Things here are hot as an oven, which means we all spend a lot of time doing as little as possible-Malians and volunteers alike. You can check on google.com anytime to get the temperature in San, which is close to my village. Today, we had a cool 42`c, which means about 107.6`f. Jealous?

As you can guess, I'm really looking forward to coming home in 9 weeks. We just finished a polio vaccination campaign, walking and biking village to village, door to door, vaccinating any children under 5. My job was to mark the pinky nail of the children that had received their vaccine. It was a 3 day campaign, and while it was nice to be out and working, feeling busy, it was a reminder of how much I miss home. Children were scared of me, dogs were scared of me, and I wilted faster than usual when I ran out of water in the 2nd of 6 villages on Sunday. Which meant that I was none too thrilled to be teased by Malians about my lack of a husband. Or to be chased around a compound by a mother with screaming child, frightened for his life of the white woman-me.

But I just spent a few days in Bamako, the capital, eating ice cream and cheese burgers, enjoying air conditioning and the illusion of being anywhere but Mali. I am feeling rested and ready to go back to village, excited even to see my host family and homologue. So wish me luck, friends, as I embark on my longest stint in village. I'll be back in three weeks, lots of love to you until then!

So I was running the other day while I was in village. I was out running on the main road, and was about 30 minutes into my run. I'd wave at cars when they passed me and yell a greeting to people out in the fields. Suddenly, a car passed me, going my same direction, and slowed to a stop just ahead of me. The driver never turned off the engine, and as I approached, I was pretty uncertain about what was going on. Cars in Mali aren't reliable so perhaps the car was having issues. But as I got closer, and eventually came up even with the car, the driver popped out. And offered me a ride to San.

Of course, I was running that direction, and people don't often go for runs like that. Especially not in the farm lands where people are out in the fields all day, working in the heat and the sun. But never have I ever had someone stop to offer me relief from my run. It was a surprise to him that I would be out running for exercise. Cross cultural exchange!

When I am in my village, I am at home. It is comfortable in my house (emotionally, since no one could call 108` comfortable) and I find my routine easily. My neighbors happily greet meet and I am always welcome at the houses of my colleagues and village friends. Children know my name and want to help me with anything and everything, from pumping my water and shooing random animals out of my compound, to sweeping my dusty yard and watering my garden. After 10 months of being in Mali, and over 8 months of it in Niasso, my site is really becoming my town, my neighborhood, my home. When I have been away, I look forward to returning, and the feeling that washes over me upon reentering my village, pulling off onto my dirt road, passing all of my familiar places, is overwhelmingly comforting.

When I leave village to come to San, the town I go to for my banking and market, I usually go by bike. The ride is about 20k (12 miles) and usually takes me about an hour, depending on the wind and how much sleep I got the night before. On my ride, I pass lots of other villagers biking to and from markets with any number of random things packed on the back of their bikes - bags, market buys, children or other passengers, sheep, chickens, goats. We greet each other, exchange a brief wave. Sometimes, if we are traveling the same direction, we will talk a bit. “Where are you from? Where are you going? What village do you live in? What work do you do there? Do you know Bakary Coulibaly, he lives in the village near yours?”

My route is along a main road, frequented by not only other bike riders, but motos, cars, buses, and freight trucks as well. When these huge trucks rush past me, going the opposite direction, I am treated to a face full of dust and head wind so fierce, I seem to be suspended on the spot, my peddling only keeping me from being blown backwards. We also share the road with donkey and horse carts, piled high with goods for market and women who are headed to sell their wares there. As I pass them, the women return my greetings with enthusiastic smiles and questions. “How’s your family? How are your children? How are the people from your village? How is your man?” As I ride by, I grin, answering as many questions as I can, trying to juggle my greetings while weaving between the carts, the traffic in both directions and the multitude of potholes that make up the majority of the road.

Now, after the Tour d’Afrique has come through town, the road is labeled with distances; 10k, 5k, and 3k from San. Although we recently confirmed our doubts that the distance from 10k to 5k is in fact more than 5k (7.5 at least!), as I approach the 3k mark, I start to feel a little lighter. I have entered the San city limits and suddenly the wind and the heat don’t matter. As I pull around the corner, almost to our house here, the same feeling of comfort comes over me. It is my home away from home. When I come in, I know that there is a good chance that at least one other of our 8 volunteers will be in town, all of whom I look forward to seeing, which I know is a feeling I am so very lucky to have. We volunteers know our neighbors and the people who run different businesses in town. We have clean, running water, which means showers, real toilets and filling up our cistern, a concrete hot tub of sorts. We also have electricity, which means movies, music, and a running refrigerator aka cold water.

Talking to another volunteer recently, I thought of a perfect comparison. Growing up, we used to go to my grandparent’s beach house on Stretch Island. We’d pack up the car and after at least 4 checks and rechecks of the house, we’d be on our way. When, two hours later or three with traffic and stops, we got to the bridge that connects Stretch Island to Grapeview, I felt excited. Happy to be back there, happy to have endured the long ride in the car next to my little brother who knew my buttons and just how to push them. Even the dogs would know when we were close, smelling the beach and the ocean, rushing to get to the window.

Of course, we all know the feeling of returning home after a vacation. While the vacation was probably awesome, the minute you step foot on the plane or in the car, the minute you start heading back , its over. And you’re eager to get back to the routine, your own bed, the comfort of home. When you finally pull into the neighborhood, get the car in the driveway, it’s a relief. You are home. For me, San is the beach house on Stretch Island and Niasso is home. While in reality, nothing in Mali could ever replace my home in Washington, and definitely not my favorite place on the Pudget Sound, it is nice to have some places to help to fill the gap. And to feel like home.

We finished our first project yesterday! Our health center has a water pump out front that has not worked for months. Its been inactive at least as long as I have been in village, and undoubtedly much longer. Apparently, it was fixed once, but then broke again soon after. My village has three pumps, but the only one working properly was at the mayor's office. The health center is near the mayor's office, but it is still quite a walk and when you need water, you need water. So we decided it should be repaired.

We had a meeting on Sunday, the ASACO members (ASACO is the board of community members that oversee happenings at the CSCOM), the CSCOM workers (the CSCOM is my health center), my homologue, Alima and I, and came up with a plan. On Monday, the ASACO president, Sidi, called into San, and by Wednesday, the engineers were in Niasso.

The two engineers, with the help of all male staff of our CSCOM, pulled the pump apart, including the about 80 feet of pipe that they pulled out of the ground. The offensive parts were identified and a price was named. To my surprise, the CSCOM paid for the fixing of the pump with money from the pharmacy. It was a surprise because a lot of times I hear about a village relying on volunteers for money or help with financing. Because we are outsiders, Americans, and seen as aid workers, we must have money that we are just itching to throw out. But this time, Ba, my pharmacist, suggested that the funds be provided by the pharmacy, which everyone else agreed on.

By the time the men were putting the pump back together, new parts and all, a small crowd had gathered. Boys from the middle school had come to watch the activity, and stood grouped around the pump, transfixed by the parts and tools and action. When the pump was finally finished, the kids were filling up any bucket they could find just to have a chance to try the "new" pump.

A day later, I am still excited about the project and how smoothly it all went. It was uncharacteristic for Malians to take such initiative. As a true procrastinator, even I had thought we'd be waiting around on the project for weeks. But now it is done, and everyone is so proud of their work. I am proud them, too.

As you know, Mali is a largely Muslim country. That said, I live in an area with a very large population of Christians. San is known as the place to get pork and chimi chama (millet beer) and to be able to enjoy them with other Malians. Many of my volunteer friends have been placed in Christian villages, or villages with a substantial Christian population. My village is mostly Muslim; as far as I can tell I am one of two Christians, the other being my Chief of Post at my CSCOM who was hired from outside the village.

My friend Cait, the volunteer in the village closest to mine, lives in a Christian village. She’d invited me to her village for Easter this year, which came the weekend after our most recent training in Segou. Of course, leave it to me to get sick the day she was biking out to her village, a nice ride that averages about an hour and a half for her, but can be a bit treacherous if you aren’t feeling well. So yesterday, around 11am, I went to Sokura, a Christian village near my friend Shelby’s village of Fangasso. There were three of us going, Brad, another volunteer from my stage, and Nicole, a friend working with Cornell and an NGO in San. We set out for transport, and as usual, spent a good two hours waiting for a bus out of town.

When we had finally caught our ride and had made it to Sokoura, Shelby was waiting for us by the road. We met her friends, and made our way into the heart of Sokoura. The village has a strong Catholic presence, with a large mission built just on the outside of town. Apparently, during August, there is a large St. Mary’s Day celebration, with visitors from all over. Shelby has asked us to come back for that because usually the town is overrun with Italians, and as volunteers who live in the surrounding communities, we have to represent!

As we walked past the mission into the heart of town, we greeted people here and there, those sitting under the shade of the trees and the eaves of the mission. Through out town, people were sitting in small groups, chatting and enjoying the day. The center of town was set up for the dancing that would come later. In the center of the area were two large balaphones, a xylophone type instrument with gourds hanging under them to supply the sound.

We stopped first at a house near the center of town. Immediately, we were handed calabash bowls about the size of cantaloupes with tall bottles standing in the middle of them. The bottles held the chimi chama, and the women running the house poured each of our bottles into our calabash bowls with a grin. After a taste, she questions, “a ka di?” Is it good? it’s a warm liquid, about the color and consistency of hot apple cider, that tastes a bit like apple cider with a twist. The smell of it is a bit off, but we can’t quite identify why. As we drink our chimi chama, seated on rice sacks overstuffed with millet, surrounded by crucifixes, photos of Jesus and buzzing flies, more children and young people begin to fill the house, curious as to why the tubabs are in town. Visitors stop by to greet us, people from Sokoura and the surrounding villages. In Sokoura, the people speak Bomu, and even though Shelby gets an extra big grin from those she greets in Bomu, we are just as warmly welcomed when we speak Bambara.

Through out the day, we wander through town, stopping at different compounds to greet and even sit for a while to chat and enjoy some more chimi chama. At one house, the women are grinding the millet that is fermented to make chimi chama, and she happily smiles for a picture. One man playing cards at a table near us is from Togo, employed at the mission and speaks fantastic English. Girls in still another compound are braiding hair, starting off by pulling the youngest girl’s hair out of the braids it was in, a process that does not look pleasant.

At the last house, I find myself wearing a whole calabash bowl of chimi chama, the result of being inexplicably startled by Brad as he was passing me the bowl. Sticky, but much cooler, we headed for the center of village, where we found dancing and music. We were lead into dancing circles by Malian women with moves you’ve never seen before. Our circle dancing continued for some time, with small breaks for sips of chimi chama, which we noticed was much stronger than the first bowls we enjoyed.

We finally found ourselves back in the center of the village, with the balaphones playing and lots of singing and dancing. Thirsty, our feet covered in dirt, and with great stories to take home, we set off for San. Our ride home, on top of a freight truck carrying people and their cargo, including huge bags of fish, was less than comfortable, but an experience all the same. Needless to say, upon arriving home, there were showers all around and well deserved rest. Definitely an Easter to remember.

We just completed a regional in-service training (IST) in Segou on April 1st. The training was put together to address issues we might be having in our service, to talk more about food security, and to help us get in contact with NGO’s in our areas that we might work with in the future.

While the training itself had many great points, my favorite part was getting to spend time with the other people in our region, as well as other San Kaw. Even though I am only 4 hours (about) away from Segou, I have not traveled there much. On bus trips to San, we’ve stopped for lunch or a bathroom break, but that’s the extent of my time there. It is a fun city!

Originally the capital of Mali, it also boasts the birthplace of Bambara. The city is on the river and attracts a decent number of NGO’s, ex-patriots, and tourists. The streets are paved, and many are tree lined. You can get anything you could ever need or want there, including cheese, pizza and ice cream, the true measurements of a good city.

But, all of this was only complimentary to the best part of being in Segou for our training. Each morning, I got to run on paved, tree-lined roads-sometimes sidewalks-with friends! What a great change of pace. As someone who has been putting in more and more miles lately, it was such an awesome feeling to be able to do it with other people. Ok, yeah, sometimes I get the occasional child in village who will trail me on my run, but somehow it just isn’t the same. To be able to set out at a steady pace, carry on light conversation, and field yelling Malians with someone. I’d forgotten how much I missed it!

Of course, I am still pounding the pavement (or uneven, sandy path) back in San and in village, getting tuned up to start marathon training in May. But I dream about the days when I’ll be able to run with friends again.

In the middle of February, when I thought my language skills were finally good enough, we did PACA. PACA, Participatory Analysis for Community Action, is a tool we use to discover a community’s assets, accomplishments, needs and wants. It is a good way to become familiar with a community’s motivation and also to find out which projects would be good for your service.

We set aside a Saturday morning to meet as a community. In attendance were some very key members of my community; my homologue (counterpart), my host dad, our dugutigi (village chief), the matrone (midwife) for my CSCOM (health center), the director of the first cycle(elementary) school, women from our women’s group, the older men from our men’s group, a representative from our youth group, and various other village members.

We started by identifying what our village had done already, what they were proud of. The list was awesome. They talked about their schools, their respective men’s and women’s group, their children, their market, and their gardens. The next two activities were done with the meeting members split into a group of men and a group of women. We did a village map, where they drew out a map of the village as they saw it. Next, we made daily calendars to show what the men and women did each day, from waking up to going to bed.

We compared these maps and lists, focusing on the differences and similarities. We talked about why certain places in town were on one map and not the other, why they might be bigger or more central on one map, and how the duties that men and women perform through the day are different, yet complimentary.

From here we began a list of the things that the community wanted to accomplish. The list was about twelve items long, with ideas coming from both the men and women. After we came up with our list, we prioritized the items. When we had agreed on the final list, we talked about who would want to work on which projects. Some of the projects could be done sooner than others, so we identified people that might work together at a later date to accomplish projects that would need to happen in the rainy season or that would be secondary to more important projects.

What was on the list, you ask? The first item was help with food security. Other items included school supplies, first aid supplies for the school, and a school garden. The women want a well in their garden and the whole town agreed that pump repair, at both the school and the CSCOM were very important. Less important, but still on the list were items like solar panels for the school so that adult literacy classes held there after dark would have light and building a new maternity.

I learned that although my language was getting better, it wasn’t perfect. There were plenty of times when I was trying to explain something and just ran myself into a wall. That said, I was working with some of the most patient and understanding people I’ve ever met. If I was stuck, I had support from numerous people who helped me say what needed saying. I also learned that my purpose seems to be understood very well. A lot of volunteers seem to have issues in their villages with people expecting them to be a money source. While there were definitely things on our list that will require money, they were not things on the top of the list, and the people suggesting them were open to talk about ideas for fundraising. The whole process was less painful than I had anticipated and was so very helpful.

I will be home, for a nice 4 week visit, on July 8, 2010. Excited? Just a little!

Yesterday was International Women’s Day. Here in San, there was singing and dancing, a huge gathering of women celebrating women. And there is a lot to celebrate. Women here, just like women across the world, deserve to be celebrated.

Women in Mali have so many responsibilities, from childbearing and rearing to cooking and cleaning, collecting water and gathering wood for fires, the list goes on and on. In the hierarchy of Malian society, women occupy a rung that does not do them justice.

Occupying the highest point of the pyramid are older men. These are the dugutigis, or village chiefs, the elders that in village life, make the important decisions, and the heads of families generations deep.

Following behind them are middle-aged, educated men, and then middle aged men with responsibilities as farmers, herders, or blacksmiths, in addition to the responsibilities they may have taken on in starting a family and joining a men’s group or other village cooperative.

Behind these men are the eldest women and then the educated women, who are most likely also mothers and grandmothers, taking on the tasks and responsibilities that come along with those roles.

Women who have not been educated, as many of them aren’t, fall behind the young men on the social climb. These may be the women who have not left their village because at age 15, they were married off and expecting their first children.

These women may have been expected to take care of their family, doing work that their mothers gave them when they themselves got too busy to do it all on their own. This may have prevented them from making it to school on time everyday, or even at all, which would mean that they probably never progressed past the 6th grade and had no real chance of ever getting out of their village, except for the possibility of marrying a man in a near by village.

What ever a women’s age or education, the fact remains that Malian women have never been equal to their male counterparts. I’d love to believe that this is slowly changing. Maybe it is. During International Women’s Day, many villages celebrated their women, some with singing and dancing like San. In some villages, volunteers talk about the men taking over household chores for the day, or the Mayor’s office providing lunch for the women of their commune.

There is a special Women’s Day fabric that is sold in the weeks leading up to March 8th. Walking around market yesterday in my Women’s Day outfit, I got lots of compliments and was excited to be able to talk to the women who were also wearing the fabric.

I’ve also been lucky enough in the past few weeks to be able to have conversations about the differences between men and women with people in my village. I hear from men in village all the time that women work so much, that they have so many responsibilities. But the general thought is that men do their part, working the fields, farming to provide a harvest that will sustain the family.

To be able to talk to Malian men and women about their differences and their roles is eye opening. Additionally, it is great to be able to share with them how men and women have interchanging roles in American society. I know I will not change anybody’s mind with one conversation, but I like to think that this sharing will help them to see that there is more than one way to live this life. I am learning that lesson every day.

Sitting beach side, drummers sounding off behind me, the wind blows the scent of seawater my way. There are children playing soccer up the shore, racing up their makeshift field parallel to the older men playing their own game, neither caring if their sidelines are erased by the rush of waves, their ball carried off in the surf. I’ve strolled up and down the coast all morning, watching the stray dogs dig in the sand and the fishermen pull in their nets, gathering up their catch. In between a few pages of a good book and enjoying a cold drink, I’ve tumbled around in the furious waves of the Atlantic and swallowed far too much salt water. But I’ll never complain. I am at the beach.

At the beach in Mali? No, that would paint a much different picture, sans ocean breezes and knee baring dresses. I am in Senegal, at a beach town called Tubab Dialau, about two hours out of the capital of Dakar. Staying at a small resort on the beach with about 12 other Peace Corps volunteers, all of us are enjoying a much deserved break from life in our villages.

We came to Dakar for WAIST, the West African International Softball Tournament, which is held each year over President’s Day weekend and draws a crowd of expatriates, volunteers from other countries, little leaguers and Senegalese. This year, Mali put three teams into the mix, calling ourselves the Dessert Kawboys. (Kaw sounds like cow and means ‘people of’ or ‘the people.’ We call ourselves San Kaw or Segou Kaw when talking about the people of San or Segou.) We had an A, B, and C team, respectively described as competitive and in it to win it; leisurely and up for a drink in between innings; and playing with a glove on one hand and a beverage in the other. I was placed on the competitive team to fill the female quota, although I hadn’t asked to be. The excuse was that I had played before and it was assumed that meant that I knew to run counterclockwise around the bases and wasn’t afraid of the ball. I played second base, switching innings with Gloria, while Sam and Ali killed it as catcher and right field respectively.

Over two days of games, we played 4 times. After a strong showing in the beginning of our first game, we went on to tie it and losing momentum, lost our second game to a team of Senegalese high schoolers with nick names like Snoop and Trick. Knowing that we’d have to pull it together on day two to advance to the finals, we came through with a win in the first game of the day. In a team decision, we decided to play our later game, the last of the day, to win. This meant interrupting our afternoon of debauchery for a rematch against the same Senegalese high school team. Although we found out that we would not advance even with a win, due to the tie we’d had the day before, we decided to give it a go. And it was a good thing we did. We played one of the best games all tournament, winning by a landslide 9-1. We had spectators from our other PC/Mali teams as well as PC teams from other countries all of them putting together a pretty exciting cheering section. Everyone was on their game, making some great plays and generally having a good time doing it. In the long run, a PC team from the Gambia won our division of the tournament.

Dakar itself is a busy city, with just about any ethnic restaurant you could think of, boasting the best ice cream in West Africa. We tested it out, and after some deliberation, we had to agree. Off the coast of Dakar are a few islands. One island was a part of the slave trade, with original historical buildings still standing, while others are more beachy. Unfortunately, I did not have the chance to see them, all the more reason to go back. I did get to hit up the beach off of Dakar near where we were staying, enjoyed playing in the pool at the American club our games were based out of, and had a few good runs on the sidewalk along the beach leading downtown.

Amazingly, I even ran into an old friend that I had bunked with at Camp Killoqua in middle school who is a volunteer in the Gambia. Seeing each other, we each did a double take. She looked the same as she had years ago, and as I was assured, so do I. It just reminds me what a small world we live in, and how much I am my father’s daughter as he’s always running into someone he knows from somewhere in the most random places.

Soon after, we were on our way to the beach, packed into a string of taxis. Over the next few days, more people arrived, and many of us extended our stay, all of us threatening to permanently relocate to Senegal. Over meals of freshly caught seafood we talk about where we will be this time next year and what we’ll do in the time between.

On a morning stroll, Jeremy, Josh, Billy and I come upon a team of fishermen pulling in a large rope. The boys stop to help while I play photographer and provide entertainment for the children, who eagerly return the favor. 45 minutes later, it becomes evident that the “boat” they are pulling in is in fact not a boat at all but a large net filled with jellyfish, sea eels, random debris like salidagas and flip-flops, and the occasional fish.

Most evenings we were treated to a show, the local dance studio practicing on the beach below our hotel, while each night was spent in a lounge chair, bundled up in sweatshirts or blankets to protect from the chilly ocean air, listening to the waves crash against the beach. Aside from the ridiculously long bus ride home, the whole trip was marvelous. Writing about it here in San, in 107` heat, I am wishing I was back on the beach.

It was Friday. And every Friday is usually a good day. I mean, it’s Friday. The last time I had a “bad” Friday, I think I must have been in 7th grade. A Friday meant it would be a whole two days until I got to see most of my friends again. Or which ever boy I happened to have a crush on at the minute.

And Fridays here are usually great too because they are a holy day. People dress up a little bit and the nightly call to prayer, which in my village is sung by a single man sans horrible mega phone (thank goodness) in a little louder and draws more of a crowd. For kids, it’s the last day of school for the week, which means the same thing it does for kids at home; hanging out with family, a few extra chores, and playing outside with the kids in the neighborhood.

All of this and yet, I was having a “bad” Friday. I’d woken up, made my morning coffee (thanks Mom and Dad!), sat on my perch -the steps leading up to my roof, and watched the kids gathering for school. But I was tired, having spent the day before biking in and out of the market in a town about 25K away. And for some reason, I was in a mood. I was grumpy, tired of being the outsider, tired of struggling to have a “real” conversation, or any conversation I’d understand. And I was dreading the meeting I’d scheduled with my village for the next day.

I spent the morning writing letters, journaling, reading, lounging in my hammock, telling myself I needed to at least attempt to at least facilitate some sort of social contact. I made my own lunch, which I don’t often do anymore, ate on my own, and then spent the afternoon reading and feeling glum. And then feeling sorry for myself because I was feeling that way.

I’d almost resigned to forgo my daily run, thinking I felt too tired and it was so much effort. But, I reasoned, if nothing else it would get me out of my compound and away from the inquiring eyes of the random people at the well just next to my wall.

I set out, music up so loud I couldn’t hear anyone greeting me. I put on my business face, the one that says “don’t mess with me, please. I’m not in the mood.” Of course, I’d set out just as school was getting out and all the kids were walking home. On my running path. I was trying to ignore them, eyes forward, on my mission. But I couldn’t keep my grumpus face on for long when I noticed that one boy was running with me, drafting off my left shoulder. No smile on his face either, all business. All of the other children were biking home, but this boy, who was probably about 12 was running with me. In sandals and jeans, the whole 25 minutes from Niasso, my village to Cinzo, his village.

I couldn’t help but feel silly for having felt so crabby and upset. I’d turn my head, unable to hide my ever widening grin from my friend, and he’d flash one right back. We never said a word until we reached Cinzo, where he took a right and I took a left to turn back home. No “customary” greeting, no “I ni barra” (good work). I don’t even know his name. and some how he know just what I needed. With out a word, he’d lifted my mood, brightened my outlook for not only the rest of my run, but my whole day. Maybe even more than that. It will always be the little things.

Having my parents here for a week was so good in so many ways. There are the obvious reasons of course; I missed them and enjoyed spending time with them. But having them here also opened my eyes to how much I like being Mali. Introducing my parents to the different people I am surrounded by daily gave me renewed appreciation for them and the ways that they look out for me.

Spending time with my host family in my village has always been fun for me. I have always enjoyed talking to my host dad, learning new vocabulary, hearing new stories. So when I brought my family to village, acting as their interpreter, helping them through the greetings and the customs, it made me feel proud. I could use the language that he taught me to introduce my parents and to act as the go between, changing my mom’s thanks in English to Bambara. My host dad, my homologue and the women’s association all presented us with chickens, which is a form of great thanks. It was sad that we had run out of time and could not sit and share in the meal with them, and yet it was funny to me that both my parents and my adopted parents thought on the same lines, suggesting in two different languages that the chickens be saved for when I came back to village.

I also took them to meet my host family from my homestay village. I am sure they were not surprised to see that the family dog took to my mom just as quickly as he had to me. It was one of the first things my host dad pointed out upon entering the compound. Standing in their yard, Awa, my host mom, pointed out how much my mother and I looked the same. I thought this was quite ironic because this was the very same woman who had once told me that a lot of Malians do not recognize the differences in Tubabs the way they did in Malians. She had said that we might all look the same to Malians. Yet she immediately commented that we had the same face. Returning to their home for the first time since my training had ended, I was excited to see my host sisters and was overcome with a feeling of the familiar. Again, pressed for time, we had to leave shortly after arriving, but I am looking forward to going back for a longer visit.

Playing interpreter for my parents, I was surprised at how much I could understand, and how much I was understood. Because I was sent to DC for 3 weeks and then didn’t immediately return to site, I felt my language suffered. I am sure it has. But I was still able to ask many of my dad’s questions and even understand some of the answers. I got us all around Bamako, which I will tell you is no small feat, with the taxis and the different cartiers and the millions of cars and motos.

And of course, my parents were constantly impressed with the friendliness of the people of Mali. I know, have known, that I am surrounded by good people. But it’s a good reminder of just how open and friendly and helpful Malians are, to hear it from someone else. From people on the airplane, to people at the hotel, the staff at many of the places we had lunch or dinner, the cab drivers, the random people in the market, the people in my village and in the other villages we went to. We were warmly welcomed, and even more so when I spoke Bambara. It seemed to blow some of them away, to meet a Tubab who didn’t want to speak French. I set them straight, telling them I couldn’t speak it. Which really only really became a problem when we were trying to find a non-existent water fall.

I felt it was a successful trip. I’ve learned that the measure of success is different for everyone, but no one was sick, we had minimal bug bites, no sun burn, no one was forced to squat over a latrine hole (a miracle!) and we took away some great memories and some good stories. I know I’m half a world, and lots of shots away, but the gate is open; visitor’s are being accepted.

Today, I killed a scorpion. In my hut, I have my fair share of critters: long egged spiders, crickets that keep me up at night, and even the occasional lizard. I like to think that as long as they aren't touching me, they are ok. I let them be. But as some of you know, I've had a few run ins with scorpions, and have not actually managed to kill them. My host dad has even taught me a song about killing dangerous things when you see them.

But today, I killed one. He was hiding in my trunk, and when I was moving the fabric I kept in there, he skittered out. I stepped on him and then couldn't find his remains. He had scuttled to the side and was trying to fool me. But I stomped on him again, squishing him into a splattered mess on the bottom of my flop! Take that, Scorpion!

Malian transportation is a funny thing. And sometimes, when you’ve been on a crowded bus all day, stuck between screaming children and screaming goats, all you can do is laugh about it.

My parents are coming to visit. And in planning our excursions, I am recalling all of my favorite public transport moments thus far. Yes, I’ve only been in country for 6 months, but already I have had some great experiences, getting to and fro on Malian buses, cars, trucks, and bachees (large green vans. Used for short or long distances, packed tight with people).

Not long ago, I took a trip west. I started out early one morning, catching the 6am bus out of San towards Bamako.. This ride usually takes somewhere between 6 and 10 hours. The bus is a coach bus, or a charter bus, with padded individual seats. Not like a school bus. But unlike charter buses in the states, there is not a bathroom on the bus and the bus is probably as old as I am. The seats are upholstered in flashy fabric from decades past and hold more dust than a welcome rug in the desert. The windows may or may not open, more likely that they don’t, and the bus may or may not have vents in the roof. If it does have vents in the roof, or windows that open, opening them will usually get you a glare from those sitting near you, Malians bundled up in fleece sweatshirts and puffy jackets. Mind you that while it is only 60` or 70` at 6 in the morning, on a ride that lasts an average of 8 hours, one finds themselves traveling through the hottest part of the day with temperatures reaching the 90’s. And when you are on a bus filled with people, random children placed on your lap, sleeping heads bobbing on your shoulder, extra passengers shoved into the aisle ways sitting on giant plastic jugs or other luggage, 90` turns into at least 110.

So this is how I find myself walking through San at 5:45am, looking for a bus at a gare (terminal) that just isn’t there. Am I too early? Am I at the wrong gare? With my pack on my back and breakfast in hand, I wander towards the nearest buuru tigi. Buuru is bread in Bambara, and tigi is “owner of.” This is why rich people are called waari tigi (waari is money) and village chiefs are dugu tigi’s (dugu is village).The shop keeper sends me out towards the goudron (main road in and out of San) where I meet a bus just about to leave and find my way on. These buses stop for people on the side of the road, trying to fill their seats and make their money. It takes us a full 45 minutes to even get out of San city limits, by which time I have fallen asleep sprawled over both seats. I am awoken by a shy young man, maybe high school aged, who is asking me to scoot over. I look around and realize that every other seat on this bus is taken. Waking the Tubab and asking her to move is a last resort. In front of me, the mother and two children who were sharing two seats have moved over to let a man sit with them, the eldest child sitting in the lap of this stranger. That is just how things go here. Everyone is a mother, a father, a child, so it is not strange to be handed a little one to hold, or to see someone you assume is a stranger sitting with a random kid or two on his lap.

Later, in this same trip, I have been dropped off at one corner and need to take a taxi to get to another corner to catch different transport. So while I try to hail a cab, a driver approaches me and tells me that I should get in his cab. With the other two women who are already in there. This is also not uncommon. He will drop us off in succession as we head towards the furthest destination. Or go all over town, dropping off who ever makes more of a stink first. And make some good money doing it. At the next gare, I purchase my ticket and get ready to wait for the next bus, which will be leaving in two hours. Getting water at one of the stores, I make a new friend in the shop keeper. And another in the namasa tigi (banana seller) while I wait. People here are very friendly. And curious. What is your name? Where are you going? Why? And then because I am a Tubab, the questions continue. Where are you from? Why are you here? Where is your man? Do you have a Malian man? Do you want one?

As I was getting onto the next bus, I met a man who was going where I was. We ended up sitting next to each other. He is Malian, and in addition to speaking Bambara, French and Malinke (a minority language), he also speaks some Spanish. He drives freight from West Africa to Spain for Toyota. Sitting on my other side, on a big water jug in the aisle of the overcrowded bus is an older woman. I try to offer her my seat, but she will not take it. We chat, the three of us, for the 4 hour drive. She shares her fruit with me, we laugh about the Malian music playing through the speakers, we talk about my work. When we finally arrive at our destination, the man next to me, my travel companion, makes sure that the people I am meeting are at the bus station before he leaves. As I walk away, people yell out to me, by name. Traveling as a Tubab, everyone knows my name and where I am going and why. I will tell only the few people sitting near me, or the bus driver’s apprentice, and somehow everyone knows.

This is especially helpful when trips don’t run as smoothly as they should. Which can be said for most trips, actually. Another time, I had gotten on a bus leaving Manatali, a town in the very far western part of Mali. I had had a good few days, hanging out with my friends John and Jason, seeing the area, floating on the river in inner tubes, dodging the hippos across the river and watching the monkeys play in the yard. The road between Manatali and Kita, the next nearest town with transport, is quite bumpy. And transport doesn’t go so very often, so I set out towards Kita when I could. I got on a bus unlike the one I had taken out to Manatali, which was basically a truck with seats and a roof over the bed. This was more of a bus, uncomfortable seats and all. As we filed on, children were placed in laps or set on the floor to make room for the adults who paid for their seats. One girl, about 6 years old, curled up under the seats, next to the feet of her mother and another passenger. I could see her blue socks sticking out from under the seat in front of me. We left just about on time, which is highly unusual, but only got about an hour into the 4-6 hour drive when the bus pulled over and everyone was asked to unload. Something was wrong with the engine, or the breaks, or something important, and we would have to wait for another vehicle to come get us.

As I said before, the road was quite bumpy. After the ride in, we were sore for days from our tail bones hitting on the metal framed seats as we came back down from bumping our heads on the ceiling of the truck-bus. I had grand dreams of this ride being smoother, but they were dashed as we made the 20 minute walk into the nearest village, away from our bus. At this point, I had made friends with a few different passengers. Three different men riding to Kita and on to Bamako, just like me, took me under their wing. Neither of them knew each other either, but as we sat at the house of one of the villagers, drinking tea and waiting the 3.5 hours for the next bus to arrive, we all became close friends. I think we drank at least 7 rounds of tea and talked about everything under the sun. We at least exhausted my limited Bambara. One of the guys was a soccer player, coming from visiting friends in Manatali, on his way to Bamako to play with one of the many teams that come out of Mali. He was originally from Cote D’Ivoire, but had spent most of his adult life traveling through West Africa, playing soccer in different countries. He spoke great English, so when I was really confused about transport or any other related thing, he broke out of Bambara and helped me. He also helped with my Bambara, giving me a mini lesson as we were waiting.

Finally, we heard a big engine and ran out to the road to get on our bus. Our bus was in fact not a bus but a big huge truck. This is the kind of truck you would see with big cows or huge sacks of grain in, and instead we filled it with people and their luggage, making seats for people on bags and suitcases. Many people stood up, letting the wind cool them, as the sun beat down on us. Some very brave men even rode up on the edges of the tank, dodging the branches of the trees we whipped by. I was applying sunscreen like it was gong out of style and got lots of laughs from my companions and the other passengers when I tried to explain what it was and why I was using it. Again, we resumed talk of me being married. I usually tell people when traveling that I have a man, and even go as far as to wear a ring on my left ring finger. I don’t usually say I am married, because saying I have a ce (pronounced Che, means man) is enough. Somehow, it was assumed by one of the others that I was in fact married, but that didn’t stop them. Everyone knew a Malian man I should meet, they told me. It is ok, they said, to have one here and one there. Two years is a long time, they reminded me. As we were talking about this, my footballer friend informed me that he wished he could meet a nice American girl like me, since there was no way he’d marry an African woman. They are too much trouble, he says. I assured him that women the world over can be quite similar. He went on to say that he was referring more to the fact that marrying an African woman meant a marriage to her whole family, mother and father and second cousins and uncles twice removed, which made things more complicated. It would be easier to marry an American girl. Besides, he said, they could travel together, see places most Africans wouldn’t, because there would not be a family, and the duties Africa women are expected to carry out, like immediate childbearing, to tie them to one village.

When we reached Kita, one of my travel buddies took me to get food, helped me find water and fruit, and then even made sure I knew where to catch our bus when it was ready. The last leg of my journey, I traveled with him sitting next to me and my footballer friend behind me, next to the third member of our tea party. We were exhausted. They all kept checking on me, asking “I seggenen don?” (are you tired?) I’d say dooni (a little) and they would agree. Our journey, including when we were stopped and ID’d by the gendarmes as we left Kita, had taken 15 hours. It should have taken 7 or 8.

Of course, it was dark when we got to Bamako, but my friends made sure I got where I was going safely, acting as interpreters for me and requesting that I call them when I was back in town. Throughout the headache of it all, I had had a great time. I met some terrific new people, gotten a little tan, acquired a new story and had a good laugh. Sometimes its all you can do.

2010 is here! After our Christmas excursion in Dogon, we were all headed to Bamako for New Years. We PCV’s took over a party held at the home of a Lebanese friend. You tell volunteers on a strict budget that you are providing the booze, and you would be fool to expect anything less. We all counted down the new year and set off fireworks to celebrate, but the party lasted into the wee hours of the night. I don’t believe many of us were home before morning prayer call (which happens around 4:30am).

So the next day, when we headed out for the hangover hash run put on by expatriates in Bamako, we were all feeling it. This is one of my new favorite things about Mali. Ever heard of a hash run? I hadn’t. It’s a run set up like a puzzle, with lots of beer at the end. The runners all start together, headed down a path marked by “shreddies,” pieces of some miscellaneous white substance. The idea is that these markers take you to the finish, but along the way you come across big circles, marking a split in the path. Each circle has arrows pointing off of it, telling you which directions you could go. One direction is correct, leading you on to the rest of the trail. But the other arrows send you down a false path. You can identify the correct path by encountering 3 hash marks in a row. People tend to work as unofficial teams, sending people down each path, and yelling out when they have found a dud or a real path. The runs are usually about 5k, but rarely does one ever actually run the whole thing. At the end of the run, every one gathers together to raz the winner (the front running bastard) and any offenders during the race. These are people who may have cut parts of the course, or who might have worn ridiculous clothing, for example. The whole thing tends to finish up with dinner at someone’s home, which of course, us volunteers cannot resist.

This run was my first, and I set out with the other volunteers from my stage that came along. At the firs circle, we set out in different directions to find the right path. Ali and I found one and yelled for the others to follow. And some did. But there were other runners who swore up and down that they had also found a path, so we split up and moved on. About 10 minutes into our run, Ali, Billly and I realized that in fact we had found the path, but that we had found it going the opposite direction. So we decided that whatever our punishment might be, we would continue on and finish, running the whole thing backwards. These runs are frequented by many of the expats living in Bamako, from embassy workers to those working with NGO’s and the University. We ended up finishing first, which earned us three cups of beer. One for finishing first, one for going the wrong way, and one for being hash new-comers. The whole evening finished off at the home of one of the expats, with lasagne(!), socializing and more drinking.

The next few days followed with more fun, including a pool party/bbq at a friend’s house, a night of dancing, and lots of ice cream and indulgent food that we can’t get in brusse. So, needless to say, I am headed back to site today, back to reality. After being away from my village for so long, I hope they remember me. I talked to my host dad yesterday about coming home, and he sounded simply giddy! I’ll be introducing birthdays to them next week too. Malians tend to not even know when they were born or how old they are, so birthday celebrations are a foreign affair. But Monday is market day, so I am coming in to get the fixings for a good dinner and will be inviting everyone to join me in celebrating. Che (chicken), frites (potato fries) and zere (watermelon) all around!

Miss everyone lots,

Loves, hugs and kisses!

Hi all!

Long time, I know. Sorry. Let me start off by wishing everyone a happy holiday and a fantastic New Year. I hope 2010 is off to a good start for everyone.

I spent Christmas hiking through Dogon country. It was a three day, two night hike, with 15 other volunteers and two Malian guides. Our primary guide was my friend’s homologue and he was great. We all took lots of pictures, which you can find on facebook now. I have not had the opportunity myself to upload any of mine, but if you follow this link, you should be able to see quite a few of them. We spent Christmas day at Sam’s site (another volunteer from my stage). We watched the sunrise from her roof it the morning, which was sort of hazy, but beautiful none the less. In the afternoon, we went to the opening of a mask festival. The Dogon people give several mask dances, a very popular tourist attraction. But this festival specifically was to bring together all of the different villages in the Sangha cartier (a circle of Mopti, Sangha is where Sam lives and works) to perform for each other. The parts that we saw were only the opening day, but we were entertained by multitude of different groups of dancers and the opportunity to do some dancing of our own. Following that, we were treated to a wonderful Christmas dinner, prepared by Sam and other members of her village We had cornbread stuffing, candied sweet potatoes, veg, and a roasted goat. We even had millet beer! It was a very nice set up, a sit down dinner for all 16 of us, including two other travelers who happen to be staying at the hotel in Bongo, Sam’s village.

The evening ended with a dance presented by all the women of Sam’s village, which we were also encouraged to participate in. We exercised PC goal #3 by singing Christmas carols to them as thanks for their performance, and general hospitality, They were thoroughly amused.

We started off the next morning, hiking down the cliffs on the side of Bongo, into the valley. We were lead, as I said before, by Sam’s homologue, who continued to finish off the millet beer through out the next few days of our hike. Our days we would spend hiking in the morning, stopping for rest and stories of the Dogon and Telum people. The Telums lived in the cliffs of Mopti, carving homes out of the sides of the rock face. When the brothers of Mali, the Bambara and Dogon people, could no longer get along in the northern part of the country, the Dogon people moved north, running the Telums out of their dwellings and taking over residence in the cliffs. They also changed their language so that their Bambara brothers could not understand them. When you look up into the mountain sides, it is amazing to think that anyone would ever have been able to live there. In fact, the Dogon people, taking up residence in the bottoms of the hills, believed that the Telum people could fly, enabling them to reach their homes over a hundred yards up these otherwise unscaleable rocks.

We stopped each day for lunch at a new encampment, like a small hotel along the route. We ate well, couscous (the rice so nice, they named it twice!) or rice and sauce, or macaroni and sauce. These are pretty common Malian dishes, but they were so well prepared, and of course, we were pretty hungry. After filling our bellies, we’d nap a bit and then set off for our afternoon hike. The afternoons were much shorter than the mornings, which was good considering how warm it was. We’d end our day arriving in another village, at another encampment, a cold beer or soda to greet us.

The first night, we stopped into a Christian village. It was the 26th, and set up right over the 3 meter wall from us was a church celebration. We spent a lot of time watching the dancing, and listening to the singing and chanting. While chatting and taking it all in, Jeremy and I made friends with a woman and her children standing next to us. I have seen my fair share of beautiful babies here, especially working at the health center. But this child was by far the standout. She was giggly and we made gurgling noises to each other, much to her mother’s amusement. We were also given a coconut milk like drink that was being passed around the dancing circle. When we decided to walk around and explore town, we were invited to join the dancing. It was us two Tubabs and at least 50 Malians, and one of our guides and the children dancing were all trying to teach us how to do it. We were joined later by other volunteers from our group, but for once we were less the spectacle than usual. These people were so engrossed in their dancing and their celebrating and their singing, that a couple extra white people seemed to go with out notice.

When we could dance no more, Jeremy and I stepped off to watch. And the children followed. We played chase and acted like kids ourselves. It was a great end to a good day.

Our hike the next day led us up onto the cliffs to the most amazing views I could have imagined. It was tough hiking, mostly all straight up, but when we got to the top, we were all greatly rewarded. I will put up pictures as soon as I can, but don’t wait! Check out the pictures here; they are brilliant. We were told that from the top of the cliffs we were on, one could see all the way to Burkina Faso on a clear day. It was windy up there, and even though the sun was pounding down on us, it was a wonderful feeling. The rest of our hike that day led us to another encampment in a village on the side of the hills for lunch, and then on to our stay for the night in a village pushed up against the bottom of the cliffs across the valley from the mountains we had just climbed. The journey seemed to always be either climbing rocks or traipsing through desert sand, and a good time on either terrain. We spent each night sleeping on the roof of the hotels, under the desert stars. And man oh man was it cold. The last night of our hike, we ended up in a pile of people, a spoon train if you will, just trying to keep warm!

I know Mali is not on the top of many people’s travel lists, but should anyone decide to venture this direction, the Dogon hikes are not to be missed. The pictures and words will never really do it justice.

Tabaski, Thanksgiving: Back to Back

Wednesday 25 November 2009

by Joseph Hellweg, for the other afrik

On-line source: http://en.afrik.com/article16535.html

The moon and sun align this year to bring two holidays together: the Muslim feast of Tabaski (also called Eid al-Adha and Aïd el-Kebir) and the United States holiday of Thanksgiving. They occur on November 26 and 28, respectively. Although Tabaski is explicitly religious, and Thanksgiving ostensibly secular, both re-enforce ties to one’s family and larger communities. Both focus on animals.

Those buying sheep right now may have to pay a hundred U.S. dollars [50.000 francs CFA] or more for one in the final days before the feast on Saturday. If one lacks the means, a goat will do. Wealthy benefactors even sacrifice cattle.

In the U.S., a frozen turkey from the grocery store is the main Thanksgiving course and less expensive than a ram. But Americans still make a fuss about buying it. They follow sales and compare prices and the quality of different brands. They may order it weeks or months in advance for fear of waiting too long and going without. Type just two words into any online search engine—Thanksgiving turkey—and you can gauge the extent of the obsession. You will find endless advice about how to choose, thaw, clean, bake, spice, serve, and eat a turkey. You can even order it online with overnight shipping. Frozen turkeys can’t walk, but they appear to be able to fly.

And they are easier to take home than sheep. You may have to make extra space in your freezer, but a turkey will fit. You don’t have to feed it. It doesn’t make a mess. It’s already cleaned. And unless you plan to deep-fry it outside—a specialty of the U.S. south—the trick is to keep the meat moist while it cooks in the oven. Despite all this attention lavished on an edible carcass, a family has little personal relationship with its turkey. It is meat from start to finish.

In Africa, things are different. A family lives with its meal before eating it. Last year in Kankan, Guinea, I saw rams tethered outside of every compound I visited in the days before Tabaski. Children and adults may name the sheep and play with it. They feed it and may grow fond of it, especially when purchased well in advance. Then the pet for a day becomes the plat du jour.

Processing the sheep is as much a family affair as taking care of it. When I was with Malian friends in Yamoussoukro, Côte d’Ivoire, in the 1990s, men killed the sheep, children cleaned the entrails, and women cooked the meat. In a way, the sheep is like family and, as such, the whole family prepares it.

But the goal of each feast is still the same: to share meat with relatives and friends, some of whom travel far to eat it. Last year in Kankan, I met Guineans who had returned home from Conakry, Europe, and the U.S. for the meal. Imagine my surprise when a man in sunglasses walked up to me and told me in fluent English that he had just arrived from Washington, D.C.

Thanksgiving in the U.S. is no different. It is the busiest travel day of the year. Airports are jammed, and flights run late, making national news every year.

The feasts are variations of each other. On Tabaski, families distribute meat to their neighbors. This happens at Thanksgiving, too. Families invite neighbors to dinner or send turkey, sweet potatoes, and gravy to those they know who will be spending Thanksgiving alone or in nursing homes. And soup kitchens offer free turkey and mashed potatoes to the poor and homeless.

In other ways, Tabaski is incomparable. It has no equivalent in Judaism or Christianity. Like Christmas and Hanukkah, Tabaski evokes a spirit of giving. It commemorates Abraham’s sacrifice of a ram instead of his son, Ishmael. But like Easter and Yom Kippur, it is the holiest of holy days.

It is also like New Year’s Day and Rosh Hashanah, even though it is not the Muslim New Year. In Bambara, the blessings one uses as greetings on Tabaski make the case: “Ala ka san kura d’i ma,” ‘May God grant you a new year’, or “Ala k’i san hèrè chaya,” ‘May God give you peace in the year to come’. West Africans offer similar blessings in French, sometimes cutting to the chase with the expression, “Tous les tés,” which sounds to an English-speaker like, “two lay TAY,” an abbreviation for a range of blessings, all of which end in the French sound “tay”: bonté (plenty), prospérité (prosperity), santé (health).

Tabaski resets the ritual clock, whether in Bambara or French.

Both Tabaski and Thanksgiving recreate the world. Each marks a turn in the year—the start of the dry season and the beginning of Christmas shopping, respectively—and the hope that those who celebrate will endure these trials.

The day after Thanksgiving—always a Friday—is one of the year’s busiest shopping days in the U.S. How well sales do on that day is seen as an augur for the country’s economic welfare, a sign of how well Christmas sales and, as a result, the national economy will do in the coming year. Thanksgiving is the ritual sacrifice that precedes the divination of the kingdom’s future. I mean, post-Thanksgiving sales are key indicators in the nation’s economic forecast. When sales looks bleak, priests blame the failing ritual power of the sacred king. In other words, leading economic experts criticize the president’s fiscal policy . . .

Ironically, it is this commercial side of secular Thanksgiving that most closely resembles the religious side of Tabaski. Thanksgiving marks the opening of a month-long ritual of buying and spending that culminates in Christmas, the most elaborate American sacrifice in which gifts are given shortly before the New Year to assure that it will be safe and prosperous, Christian beliefs aside.

Similarly, Tabaski brings to a close a period of two lunar months in Islam that include Ramadan and the most intense season of pilgrimages to Mecca.

Just as Tabaski takes Muslims back to the first ritual expression of obedience to Allah, Thanksgiving takes Americans back to the first prayerful consecration of a sustained Anglo-Saxon presence in North America. Taking part in the harvest meal that contributed in some way to the eventual establishment of the United States is like taking part in the meal that spared Ishmael’s life. Both feasts renew their respective worlds through ritual participation: the Muslim community through Tabaski, and the United States via Thanksgiving.

Here we see the richness of these holidays as well as their limits. In the United States, the Christian, Anglo-Saxon origin story of Thanksgiving now bolsters a suspicion among some Americans of both Muslims and immigrants of color, just as claims of religious absolutism grounded in God’s revelation to Abraham justify hostility among some Muslims against secularism.

Religious or not, holidays are rituals. They operate beyond strict divisions between sacred and profane; they bridge the two. This year, occurring in such close proximity, they might raise a common prayer for a better welcome to Islam and immigrants in the U.S. and for increased dialogue between secularists and Islamists across the world.

But in the end, holidays are mostly about the small ways in which people connect through sharing. This Thursday, a Muslim friend of mine from Mali, Diadié Bathily, plans to attend my family’s Thanksgiving dinner in St. Louis, Missouri. My Catholic mother will help him celebrate Tabaski far from home (two days early) by making him mutton in addition to turkey. Knowing Diadié, he will eat both. Shouldn’t we all?

Joseph Hellweg is Asst. Prof. of Religion at Florida State Univeristy. He received his Ph.D. in anthropology from the University of Virginia and was a postdoctoral fellow at the Center for Interdisciplinary Research on AIDS at Yale. He has done research with initiated hunters (dozos) and on HIV and AIDS in Côte d’Ivoire from 1993-1997 and in 2002. In 2008-2009, he was a Fulbright Fellow at the University of Kankan, Guinea, where he taught social science research methods. He will complete his fellowship at the University of Bamako. He speaks French and Mandenkan and eats fonio with okra sauce whenever possible.

The views expressed here are those of the authors and do not necessarily represent or reflect the views of Afrik.com.

Hi all!

Time has flown by these last few weeks! First Halloween, then Thanksgiving, Tabaski, and now we are into December. Today is World Aids Day!

Unfortunately, I am back in the states on med hold and have missed my first Tabaski in Mali. (For more info on Tabaski, see related post.) And will be missing all the awesome activities that San Kaw (people of San, my banking town) will be putting on today. On the agenda: a soccer game between two rival teams at our local stadium with testing booths and an awareness animation during half time. I do believe there is also a dance scheduled to follow the game. I am sad to be missing it, but it leaves more to look forward to next year.

I am on med hold in Washington, DC but hope to be going back to Mali soon. I flew in on Sunday the 22nd after 18 hours of traveling. My grandma picked me up at the airport and later in the afternoon we picked up my mom who came in to see me while I am in the country. We have been having a great week, spending loads of time catching up, telling stories, and eating all the great foods I can't get in Mali. I even got to spend Thanksgiving at my grandma's house, a first for me. She had an amazing dinner, turkey with all the special Thanksgiving treats. I got to see my aunt and uncle and their kids, as well as my other uncle, all of whom I would not have gotten to see for another two years had I not been in town. So while I am bummed to be away from Mali and to be stuck on med hold, there is a silver lining to it all. I'm even enjoying the cold weather and the rain!

My med hold is nothing serious. I have lost some feeling in my leg and to rule out anything too big, the neurologist I saw in Mali suggested an MRI, which they do not have in country. I am here in DC running a few tests and meeting with another neurologist, but already my MRI's have come back negative. The radiologist even said I was normal!

I have a few more appointments at the end of this week and the beginning of next, but I am hoping to be back on my way to Mali after that. Thank you to everyone for their support, love and thoughts. I'm so glad to have had the opportunity to talk to so many family members and friends while I am here (much closer in time zones and much cheaper!) and look forward to connecting with more of you in the days to come.

hugs, kisses, and loves

I’m getting more and more into village life every day. Each day that I am there, my language improves and the villagers become more a part of my life. When I first got to village, I was determined to cook for myself each day. After getting sick a couple of times, I’d decided it was the best way to ensure that I stayed healthy and also the best way to ensure that I knew what I was eating.

Of course, after getting into village, I discovered that cooking for myself was not as easy as it is at home and definitely not as fun, since I cooked and then ate by myself. In the last week, after spending more time at the CSCOM, I've gotten to know more of the CSCOM employees better. Everyone is so very friendly and patient with me and my language. We have three male employees, the pharmacist, the records keeper, and the assistant to the Chef de Poste. Our Chef de Poste, our Matrone, and our relais, my homologue, are all female. I have been taken in by them all, especially by the two Alima’s, my homologue and my matrone.

The matrone lives in a house behind the CSCOM. She has a husband who works in San and 7 children, all of whom are polite and sweet and very funny. Lately I have taken to having lunch with Matrone Alima, who is a fantastic cook. Lunch for a lot of Malians is to, which is ground millet made into a play dough type substance that is dipped in sauce. Some volunteers like it, but I am not a fan. And luckily, neither is Alima. Lunch with her is always rice and sauce, which I admit may not sound as good as it really is. But it is very tasty.

After lunch, we have tea and then on most days I walk her younger children back to school, which is right near my house. On our walk, I stop at the teacher’s house, which is right near the school, while we watch the children run off to school. I get to visit with the teacher’s wife, and sometimes with the teacher, who are both very friendly and also patient with my language. She reads the paper and we giggle over the funny photos and talk about the few things that we can both understand.

In the evenings, I go to my host family’s house and visit them, say hi, talk about the day and talk about the coming day. As the sun begins to set, I go to homologue Alima’s house and we have dinner together. A few nights ago we made dinner together. We made siiri, which is a sweet rice porridge. The one night I was not sure about going there, she ended up coming to my host family’s house to feed me. Its become a great routine.

In addition to being at the CSCOM each day, I am still running in the mornings, and am starting to run through town instead of out of town. People love to watch me run by, the crazy tubab. The kids sometimes even run with me for spurts of time. All of these things combined, I am starting to feel more at home and more connected, which is exactly what I am aiming for.

This last Monday, Jen and I went out to another volunteer’s village to go to a cotton picking party. The village was about a 40 minute bike ride outside of Bla, a town between San and Segou. To get to the village, Jen and I took a boshe out to Bla. Boshes are like big vans, always green, and usually decorated with some kind of religious or musically inspired graffiti style art. They pick up just about anyone off the side of the road and will drop them off anywhere. Of course this makes for a long ride of stopping and going, but we made it in decent time. Unfortunately, as we got to Bla the sun was getting low. We met up with about 7 other volunteers to make the ride out to the village, and after about 20 minutes of biking out in the brusse, realized we were going the wrong direction. Luckily we found a donkey cart to lead us out of the wrong direction back towards the main “road,” and then a man on a bike to get us going on the right road, and finally a guy on a moto, sent out from the village to meet us and take us back in. In the meantime we “biked” through ankle deep sand, eventually having to push our bikes through. The ride which would later take us about 30 minutes on the way out turned into about 90 minutes of trekking through the brusse in the darkest dark. Luckily as tubabs, we practically glow in the dark and stand out a lot, especially as there were 9 of us parading through. Needless to say when we finally got to the village, we were very ready for dinner, which was amazing beans and then fantastic pasta, and showers. There were about 17 of us all out to the village to help pick cotton, so I enjoyed hanging out with everyone, getting to meet some new people. The next day we went to greet the pastor of the village (this was one of the few Christian villages in Mali, which are pretty abundant in the Segou region) as well as the dugutigis, since the village had two. Its not common, but I guess there was some discrepancy in the village political system a few years back and now they have two. The rest of the morning and the early afternoon we spent hanging out, playing cards, relaxing. At 4 we went out to the field to pick cotton. The walk out to the field took us a long time and when we actually got to the field, it was probably 4:30. It was so fun to pick the cotton with the Malians, who were laughing at us the whole time. Even with so many of us out there to pick, we were all pretty sure that we were less helpful than if the Malians had done it themselves. But we provided entertainment and got the experience of it. That night, there was a pig roast (another plus to being in a Christian village) and some absolutely fabulous mashed potatoes, gravy and garlic green beans. Late in the night,, around 11:45, the villagers came to celebrate with us, bringing music, drums and dancing. A good time was had by all that weren’t trying to sleep through it! The next morning, we trucked out of town back to Bla, a ride that really was much better, and easier in the light of day. As soon as I can get some photos up, I’ll let you all know. They are pretty good!

Hi all!

After a whole month (and what seems like much longer) spent doing “nothing” in village, I had a very productive week. After talking to other health volunteers, I had decided to plant maranga trees at my CSCOM. Maranga trees are AWESOME! You could probably find info on them on the internet, but here’s the basics: these trees grow quickly, are very resilient and have a million uses. For example, the leaves of the tree can be used in salads, or ground up into powders for sauces and provides a multitude of vitamins and protein! The leaves can also be used as a salve for skin irritations, while the seeds can be used in water purification. I have already planted a couple of these trees in my concession and they are coming along quite nicely. I had talked to my homologue about wanting to plant some at the CSCOM to later use in animations to teach about nutrition. We talked to the president of the ASACO (the board that directs the CSCOM) and he was in for the idea. I also talked to Mammi Dembele, a man who owns a very large tree farm in village. Mammi has been a homologue before and is very excited about Peace Corps and development work, especially as it pertains to environment. So, on Wednesday I set off with Alima, my homologue to dig some holes and plant some trees. When we got to the CSCOM early, when the sun was not quite hot yet, we greeted everyone and spent time chatting. Officials from the CSREF in San had come in to do paperwork with our Chef de Poste and our records keeper. The CSREF is to the CSCOM what a city hospital is to a small health center. Because they were in to check up on our facility, we did not get to dig our holes or plant our trees. Instead I spent the morning talking to a man about marriage in America. We discussed the fact that men in America only have one wife, not three or four. We also talked about how families tend to have fewer children. Because my Bambara is still a work in progress, it was easiest to tell him that the reasons were money related. Children are expensive. They must be fed and clothed and put through school. When you have too many of them, it gets too expensive. I found it easiest to explain that women didn’t want to share their husbands with other women, that, in fact it is illegal to have more than one wife, and that if one man had multiple wives, there wouldn’t be enough for his neighbors to have one. (We had been told in a discussion in training that some people believe that there are more women than men in Mali, and even in the world, and men are actually helping the problem by taking in more wives.)

Alima and I had decided to come back in the afternoon to dig our holes and plant our trees. We had lunch with Alima, the matrone, who is like a midwife, and then went home to have a nap. When we came back in the afternoon, around 4:30, the sun was dipping down in the Western sky and was blocked by the trees near the road. The weather was pretty perfect. Alima took over and began digging the holes and since we only had one daba (the blunt edged pick you use in the garden and the fields) I went to the pump to pull water. We planted the seeds and as I was putting the last few into one of the holes, Alima got very excited. She informed me she had more and would run to her house to get them. She’d be right back. When she returned, she had two mango starts and another tree start call sen sen. It is a tree that grows an edible fruit, although I am not sure what it would translate into in English. We planted the starts and as I watered them, Alima put up branches around them to keep animals from eating them. It was awesome because even though I had started the project, Alima had taken the idea and ran with it, bringing her own starters from her garden.

The next day, Thursday the 15th of October, was Global Hand Washing Day. People that I have spent time with in Mali understand washing their hands, but they only use water, no soap. As volunteers, we do a lot of talking about washing hands with SOAP and water. On Thursday morning, as we were getting ready for baby weighing and vaccination day, I got to give an animation on hand washing. In Bambara that my host dad helped me with, I explained why you should washing your hands with soap, when you should wash with soap, and then how you should do it. I even demonstrated! After I gave my animation, another woman from San did an animation on when and why people should come to the CSCOM. We finished out the morning with the usual baby weighing and vaccinations.

The next day I began the project of tracking babies’ weight and health progress in each village. I am taking the charts we use to track the health of babies, their weight and age determining whether they are health, malnourished or severely malnourished. I will make visual graphs to show how each village is doing. They will also to show the comparison between the health of baby girls and boys, as well as track the consistency in the recording of the baby weighing, something that we are going to be working on. In addition, my Chef de Poste has asked that my homologue and I start making mooni (porridge) on Thursdays, the mornings of vaccination and baby weighing. We will serve the mooni to children who are in the yellow (malnourished) or the red (severely malnourished) zones, which is determined by comparing their weight to their age. I am amazed, totally surprised, in the best way possible, at the initiative that my CSCOM has taken thus far. They already do so much and are so organized! A part of me is a little confused about what I will do to help, but very excited at the prospect of being able to be a part of such a cool group of people. And I am assured that there is always room for improvement. All in all it was a very productive week.

Hi all!

I’m back in San this weekend in preparation to head out on Monday morning to another site where there is a cotton picking party being held. One of the other volunteers the year ahead of me has invited a bunch of us out to her site to help her village harvest their cotton crop in exchange for dinner and good company. I am not quite sure what to expect, but I’ll let you all know how it goes when I’m back in town.

Its been very warm here lately, and it has not rained in over two weeks. I think we are transitioning now to a mini-hot season which is said to last anywhere from a couple weeks to a month or more, and then will change into “cold” season. I can’t wait!

I’ve taken to sleeping outside since it is always so hot in my house. I set out some mats, hang a mosquito net and fall asleep under my trees, looking up at the millions of stars. Its amazing, when there is so little light pollution, you can see all of them, and they really do twinkle! And of course, to wake up with the sun, to the sounds of Mali in the morning is really very nice. You can hear the roosters and the other live stalk making their noises, but you can also hear the sound of women pounding millet or corn or any other number of things in their giant pestles. It is called so so -ing and every time I pass women in the village doing it, they want me to try. I get about three strokes into it, powder and debris flying, and they decide that I am done. No amount of trying to convince them that I am not good at it keeps me from repeating this process with new women, almost daily.

Anyway, I’m enjoying sleeping outside, waking up outside. The only drawback is that the mats I am using are prayer mats, with a heavy blanket atop them. It doesn’t leave much padding. And the ground is really hard. I do a lot of tossing and turning and waking up with dead arm. The other night I decided that I should just sleep inside for one night, get some sleep on my big comfy, very thick mattress. Yes, my house would be hot, 91` compared to the 82` that is was outside, but I was willing to deal with it in favor of a real night’s sleep. Of course, it was also more tempting to sleep inside since I had just finished my first set of curtains that afternoon. I was looking forward to waking up to a settled and homey room.

I was getting settled in the house when I noticed that some dirt had fallen onto my bed when I was hammering the nail for my curtain into the wall. I went to brush it off and noticed there was actually quite a lot of it. I lifted my pillow to shake out my sheet and did a big double take. There, under my pillow, right next to my can of mace, was a scorpion! I knew I needed to kill it, but I wasn’t wearing shoes and in my mad dash for a sneaker, the bugger moved. I came back, shoe in had, to see him slipping down the crack between my bed and the wall. Change of plans; I was sleeping outside.

After three shooting stars and what seemed like forever spent tossing and turning, I finally fell asleep. For 45 minutes. I decided that I would brave sleeping inside. The scorpion was no in my bed anymore and was probably scared enough not to come back. I’d check everywhere to make sure he wasn’t there and then make sure to keep a shoe near by. I did a bit of reading to settle myself down and distract me from the possibility that I was sharing my bed with a poisonous creepy-crawly, and fell back asleep.

For an hour, at which time I was awoken by the sound of something large on my roof. I was frozen in fear, a million worst case scenarios going through my head. I could hear “it” move across my roof and go down the set of stairs I have attached to the end of my house. Then I could hear “it” in the yard. I thought about the things I had left outside in my sleepy trek inside. My mosquito net, my mats, my water bottle…. My running shoes! My most prized possession in Mali were outside, and there was an “it” out there! Slowly I grabbed my whistle that I keep next to my bed. With out even the smallest thought about what I was doing, I slid my hand under my pillow to get my can of mace. Finally, I grabbed my flashlight. I rolled slowly out of my bed, simultaneously cursing myself for having decided to sleep in a noisy, creaking bed and also so extremely relieved that I was not still out there with “it.”

With my mace in one hand, my flashlight in the other, and the whistle in my mouth, I moved from my bedroom towards the door. Which I realized at that moment that I had left unlocked. A frantic check in each room revealed that I was still alone, “it” was still outside. I could still hear “It,” eating something behind my house. “It” was noisy, although that didn’t really designate what it was as Malian mothers do not seem to teach their children to eat with their mouths closed. After locking my door I decided I had to do something about this thing in my yard. I went to the back window and shined my light out it, trying to see what was there. I couldn’t see anything, but rationally (finally) I decided “it” must be an animal since the light didn’t scare them away. Certainly a person would have known they were caught and would have run off. It was at this time that I also remembered two things. A) goats in Mali climb EVERYTHING. I had seen them on walls of other concessions, of rocks a hundred feet up. Surely a roof was no big deal to them. And B) I had dumped my leftovers from earlier in the day out back in the area where my compost pile has started. Of course, it was an animal out back who had smelled food and gone in search of the source. I calmed down and after a bit was back asleep.

The next day I was talking to some people about the goat on my roof. They were looking at me like I was nuts. I know my Bambara is not great, but I checked again and I was saying what I meant to. “A goat? A goat? No, no. It couldn’t have been a goat.”

“Oh, silly Awa, goats are not out at night. It was a dog! A dog on your roof.”

Of course. A dog on my roof. How could I have NOT known it was a dog! Happens all the time where I’m from, of course it was a dog….

And in talking to my host dad about the scorpion, I discovered that I should have killed it. Really? Because I was thinking I’d keep him as a pet. The next morning when we were doing our language lesson, he began to list off all of the things I should kill if I see. On the top of the list was scorpions, followed by snakes, wasps, big spiders, etc. All in all, it was a rough couple of days, but funny to look back on.

Ok, I was finally able to load some photos. They are on facebook, so if you are on there, you can check them out through my profile. If you are not, you can follow this link

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2187402&id=25912270&l=a943851a57

Other PCV's have some really great pics too, so if you are there, check them out.

lots of love!