Probably the hardest part of the transition to Mali has been the loss of regular information to which we are all accustomed. No tv, internet, newspaper, etc... Topics such as where Lebron went, what the Skins have done wrong now, and various other non sports related news issues are no longer available to me. Though I hope to get a radio at my site in September so I can listen to the BBC, the only real information I get about the outside world comes during my two days with internet once or twice a month. With that being said, shoot me an email or a facebook message if there is anything of major interest that you think I should be made aware of when I manage to get internet. This way I don't have to sift through three weeks of news to find one or two stories of interest.
Also, I'm sorry to all of my friends who I haven't been able to be there for since I'm out of contact in Africa. One of the most frustrating and real aspects of the Peace Corps is that in order to work to better our communities here, we have to make sacrifices with our communities at home. I've always been someone who wants to be there for my friends, and so for those of you who I have not/can't be there for, I'm sorry. Know that I am thinking about you.
Back into the countryside till sometime in mid August. Be well and be safe. Cheers.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Adamand Coulibaly- My African Name
Having explained the humor of my first day in Banankoro (thanks for the spelling, mom), I will now explain what the average day is like for myself during PST. Keep in mind that each day is essentially a series of highs and lows; my moods and feelings vary literally hour by hour (as they do for all the other PCTs). Something that helps, however, is that the Peace Corps has given us in depth reading materials and diagrams about what we are going through. They honestly know more about what I’m feeling than I do; I’m just part of their 40th experiment in Mali. And so, here is my average day:
I am normally first woken up between 5 and 530 every morning by the Mosque that is literally across the street from my house. You would think that living in Boathouse next to the train tracks would have prepared me to hear “Allah” screamed over and over at that hour. Not so much. Usually I try to doze off again until six when my family wakes me up so I can take my morning bucket bath. These morning baths in the nygen (bathroom) are actually pretty nice- it feels a lot like Stone Harbor in the morning, except with a lot more flies. One thing about Malian culture that people who are not morning persons (Natalie, Steph, etc) would greatly enjoy is that it’s rude to greet anyone in the morning before you have bathed. For this reason you can more or less pick and choose when you want to begin speaking with everyone around you.
After bathing and getting changed into my clothes which are always dirty (though Malian woman are much better at cleaning my pants than I am), I greet everyone in my compound, starting with my Togoma (namesake). This usually takes about five to ten minutes and I have gotten much better with the greetings and using the appropriate responses.
Following all of this I eat my breakfast on the mat in my room and do my homework/study my language notes from the day before. And what does my Malian breakfast consist of EVERY DAY? White bread and tea. Everyday. Hopefully soon I can begin asking for peanut butter since there is only so much flavor in half of a plain baguette.
I then walk to school, where I greet everyone on the way (took some getting used to) and am in language class from 8-1230 with 4 of my fellow PCTs. We do get short breaks during this time, but the Peace Corps literally crams information into our brains; it is amazing how much we have learned, and have to learn, in such a short period of time.
I go home for lunch around 1230, which usually consists of oily macaroni and fish face (delicious, I swear!) One unique thing is that because my compound is 95% women and small children, and the men work in the fields all day, I have nothing to do in my compound until I have to be back at school between 230 and 3. I have solved this problem, however, by learning the (somewhat) complicated and drawn out process of making Malian tea, which is more or less their favorite past time for passing the time. I’ll devote another post in the future just to this tea making, but know this: it has taken a great deal of getting burned and laughed at by my 7 host moms to learn how to make the tea, and Malian women LOVE sugar in their tea. Love it like a fat kid loves cake, though I have yet to see any fat children.
After lunch and the tea making I am back in language class until 530. When that finishes, we usually have “toubab time” where the six of us hang out, possibly go biking, or head over to the boutiki to get a Coke. It’s rather amusing, but many of the American foods that I shunned in the U.S. (soda, candy bars) have become daily comfort foods here that we all greatly enjoy. And they’re mad cheap.
I return home between 6 and 630, take another evening bucket bath (less flies), and hang out with my family as I make them tea again. We usually eat after the sun has set around 730 (I eat by myself or with my host brother Alu) and then I pass the time with them watching the stars until 9, when I finally go into my room and go to bed. Keep in mind that out of this whole day, I’ve gotten about one hour total to speak English, one Coke to remind me of home, and roughly 20 minutes of my Ipod music before I go to bed (I have to ration it out). Each day is a mental roller coaster and challenge, and yet is amazing and exciting at the same time. I’m hoping when we get back to homestay on Wednesday to also start running and whatnot. Exercise is the best thing you can get here for your physical and mental well being.
I’m sure there are small details and amusing stories I have forgotten about my daily activities, but in time I will include them in later posts (roughly 3 weeks).
I am normally first woken up between 5 and 530 every morning by the Mosque that is literally across the street from my house. You would think that living in Boathouse next to the train tracks would have prepared me to hear “Allah” screamed over and over at that hour. Not so much. Usually I try to doze off again until six when my family wakes me up so I can take my morning bucket bath. These morning baths in the nygen (bathroom) are actually pretty nice- it feels a lot like Stone Harbor in the morning, except with a lot more flies. One thing about Malian culture that people who are not morning persons (Natalie, Steph, etc) would greatly enjoy is that it’s rude to greet anyone in the morning before you have bathed. For this reason you can more or less pick and choose when you want to begin speaking with everyone around you.
After bathing and getting changed into my clothes which are always dirty (though Malian woman are much better at cleaning my pants than I am), I greet everyone in my compound, starting with my Togoma (namesake). This usually takes about five to ten minutes and I have gotten much better with the greetings and using the appropriate responses.
Following all of this I eat my breakfast on the mat in my room and do my homework/study my language notes from the day before. And what does my Malian breakfast consist of EVERY DAY? White bread and tea. Everyday. Hopefully soon I can begin asking for peanut butter since there is only so much flavor in half of a plain baguette.
I then walk to school, where I greet everyone on the way (took some getting used to) and am in language class from 8-1230 with 4 of my fellow PCTs. We do get short breaks during this time, but the Peace Corps literally crams information into our brains; it is amazing how much we have learned, and have to learn, in such a short period of time.
I go home for lunch around 1230, which usually consists of oily macaroni and fish face (delicious, I swear!) One unique thing is that because my compound is 95% women and small children, and the men work in the fields all day, I have nothing to do in my compound until I have to be back at school between 230 and 3. I have solved this problem, however, by learning the (somewhat) complicated and drawn out process of making Malian tea, which is more or less their favorite past time for passing the time. I’ll devote another post in the future just to this tea making, but know this: it has taken a great deal of getting burned and laughed at by my 7 host moms to learn how to make the tea, and Malian women LOVE sugar in their tea. Love it like a fat kid loves cake, though I have yet to see any fat children.
After lunch and the tea making I am back in language class until 530. When that finishes, we usually have “toubab time” where the six of us hang out, possibly go biking, or head over to the boutiki to get a Coke. It’s rather amusing, but many of the American foods that I shunned in the U.S. (soda, candy bars) have become daily comfort foods here that we all greatly enjoy. And they’re mad cheap.
I return home between 6 and 630, take another evening bucket bath (less flies), and hang out with my family as I make them tea again. We usually eat after the sun has set around 730 (I eat by myself or with my host brother Alu) and then I pass the time with them watching the stars until 9, when I finally go into my room and go to bed. Keep in mind that out of this whole day, I’ve gotten about one hour total to speak English, one Coke to remind me of home, and roughly 20 minutes of my Ipod music before I go to bed (I have to ration it out). Each day is a mental roller coaster and challenge, and yet is amazing and exciting at the same time. I’m hoping when we get back to homestay on Wednesday to also start running and whatnot. Exercise is the best thing you can get here for your physical and mental well being.
I’m sure there are small details and amusing stories I have forgotten about my daily activities, but in time I will include them in later posts (roughly 3 weeks).
Sunday, July 18, 2010
"Get out of the van, welcome to the Peace Corps. See you in a few weeks."
I'm back in civilization (Toubaniso) for a few days so I have access to internet. How about a few stories, eh? This one will seem very sarcastic, but in truth I'm actually enjoying my current surroundings. I'm living in Bononkoro(sp??) at the moment, a sprawling slumish town of about 8000 people roughly 16K from Bamako, the capital city. No internet, electricity, running water, or good food. There are 6 of us living here with different host families, and I'm the only guy. Here is literally how my first day went:
Get up, eat breakfast at Toubaniso, get briefed as to what our "village" is for homestay, and have a final few hours to pack and hangout. Get in the van with the other five people from my "village" and the four people going to the next village down the road. Start driving. About 30 minutes into our drive, we are moving through a larger populated area that resembles what you would expect to find on the other side of the fence of an African airport (it is actually just beyond the airport). The van pulls over. We are instructed to get out of the van. This does not resemble the "village" they made us believe we were going to. The "celebration" that they claim would happen for us does not appear to occur. Rather, we mingle around awkwardly as they unload our packs, talk to the "village" elders to explain why we're there, and then am told to give them the Kola nuts I'm holding (a major sign of respect in Mali). The staff in the van with us taught me what to say in Bambara to thank them and present them with the gift. I screwed up every word. Literally, every word. The elders did not seem impressed.
The people for the next village get back in the van and pull away onto the highway. My friend looks through the back window and waves as they disappear into the distance. That image will forever be burned into my brain. As will the sinking feeling of despair that also occurred at that time.
Our families come over to take us to our homestay compounds where we will be living the next few months. Mine is not there. Rather, some other man comes over from a local shop and motions for me to follow him. We begin walking into the depths of the "village" as everyone I pass stops and stares. I attempt to use all the Bambara I know at the time (I togo? Your name?). We get to a compound and they give me a seat in the middle of the compound. Everyone leaves except one of the children, who switches between staring at me and kicking the dog every five minutes or so.
After about 30 minutes a woman appears in the compound and motions for me to come with her. She tries to talk to me in Bambara. I look confused. She laughs a great deal. We walk through another section of the "village" until we get to another compound. Apparently this is actually my home? I'm taken over to my host father and presented. No one can pronounce my name. I take a seat on the bench across from him and another woman (one of his three wives, I later learn). Then the screaming begins.
I'm not really sure who was mad at who, but Adamand (my host dad) begins screaming in Bambara at the woman he is sitting with. She screams back. More people join in the screaming. I hope they are not yelling about me, though the only word I pick out from the whole ordeal was "Ameriki". Luckily I was warned by a current PCV that even though Malians get in some crazy arguments, they won't resort to physical violence. If I hadn't known that I probably would have fled. Literally these people were going at it as though they were going to violently end one another. This goes on for about ten minutes.
The fight ends abruptly. All the men storm off in one direction out of the compound. The woman, who is now crying hysterically, is led out of the compound in a different direction by the other women. I am now sitting alone in a compound on a metal bench, unsure of what to do. A girl (roughly 12 years old) appears and sits next to me. All I can learn from her in french is that she doesn't live there, she doesn't know anyone who lives there, and that she followed me here when I was being led through the "village." Very helpful.
Eventually, however, people slowly begin to return. I get laughed at a bunch, eat dinner with my hand, and spend my first night in Bononkoro watching the stars while listening to a soccer game on the radio in Bambara. What a day, to say the least.
Get up, eat breakfast at Toubaniso, get briefed as to what our "village" is for homestay, and have a final few hours to pack and hangout. Get in the van with the other five people from my "village" and the four people going to the next village down the road. Start driving. About 30 minutes into our drive, we are moving through a larger populated area that resembles what you would expect to find on the other side of the fence of an African airport (it is actually just beyond the airport). The van pulls over. We are instructed to get out of the van. This does not resemble the "village" they made us believe we were going to. The "celebration" that they claim would happen for us does not appear to occur. Rather, we mingle around awkwardly as they unload our packs, talk to the "village" elders to explain why we're there, and then am told to give them the Kola nuts I'm holding (a major sign of respect in Mali). The staff in the van with us taught me what to say in Bambara to thank them and present them with the gift. I screwed up every word. Literally, every word. The elders did not seem impressed.
The people for the next village get back in the van and pull away onto the highway. My friend looks through the back window and waves as they disappear into the distance. That image will forever be burned into my brain. As will the sinking feeling of despair that also occurred at that time.
Our families come over to take us to our homestay compounds where we will be living the next few months. Mine is not there. Rather, some other man comes over from a local shop and motions for me to follow him. We begin walking into the depths of the "village" as everyone I pass stops and stares. I attempt to use all the Bambara I know at the time (I togo? Your name?). We get to a compound and they give me a seat in the middle of the compound. Everyone leaves except one of the children, who switches between staring at me and kicking the dog every five minutes or so.
After about 30 minutes a woman appears in the compound and motions for me to come with her. She tries to talk to me in Bambara. I look confused. She laughs a great deal. We walk through another section of the "village" until we get to another compound. Apparently this is actually my home? I'm taken over to my host father and presented. No one can pronounce my name. I take a seat on the bench across from him and another woman (one of his three wives, I later learn). Then the screaming begins.
I'm not really sure who was mad at who, but Adamand (my host dad) begins screaming in Bambara at the woman he is sitting with. She screams back. More people join in the screaming. I hope they are not yelling about me, though the only word I pick out from the whole ordeal was "Ameriki". Luckily I was warned by a current PCV that even though Malians get in some crazy arguments, they won't resort to physical violence. If I hadn't known that I probably would have fled. Literally these people were going at it as though they were going to violently end one another. This goes on for about ten minutes.
The fight ends abruptly. All the men storm off in one direction out of the compound. The woman, who is now crying hysterically, is led out of the compound in a different direction by the other women. I am now sitting alone in a compound on a metal bench, unsure of what to do. A girl (roughly 12 years old) appears and sits next to me. All I can learn from her in french is that she doesn't live there, she doesn't know anyone who lives there, and that she followed me here when I was being led through the "village." Very helpful.
Eventually, however, people slowly begin to return. I get laughed at a bunch, eat dinner with my hand, and spend my first night in Bononkoro watching the stars while listening to a soccer game on the radio in Bambara. What a day, to say the least.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Where the Streets Have No Name
Today is judgment day and thus the real training and experience will begin. We will be told which village we will each be moving to for training (six to eight PVCTs per village), have a few hours to pack up our stuff, and will move out into true Africa to begin our culture and language immersion. Living at the training compound has been nice, and it seems as though that right when we've finally begun to get adjusted they change everything on us again. But that's how it works; and that's the point. I'll be out of contact with everyone for most of the time from now on, with the occasional blog post every few weeks signifying that I've returned to Tubaniso for a night or two for sector training and whatnot.
While living with our family we take language class in our village for seven hours a day, six days a week. These families will not speak any English, or possibly any french, and thus we will be forced to learn our Bambara very quickly and on the fly. It should be the best and hardest language training any of us have ever done. Awesome.
When we return every few weeks to Tubaniso for a night or two we only come with one other sector of our stage class, meaning some people we won't be seeing until our final week of testing when we all leave our host families at the same time. While it is awesome that the true experience is finally getting ready to begin, it is a bit bumming that some of these people that have quickly become my friends will now be gone as well. Living here these past few days has been like college all over again, except everyone is more willing to be friendly and put things such as popularity aside. We've all chosen to make such great changes in every aspect of our lives, and it has truly unified all of us into one big family. Hopefully the other PCVTs and I that are in our village together will bond even closer over the next two months, and I look forward to seeing how we will have all grown by the end of our training experience.
That is all for now, friends. The real experience and challenge begins today, you'll be updated in a few weeks when I return to more established and developed surroundings. Be safe.
While living with our family we take language class in our village for seven hours a day, six days a week. These families will not speak any English, or possibly any french, and thus we will be forced to learn our Bambara very quickly and on the fly. It should be the best and hardest language training any of us have ever done. Awesome.
When we return every few weeks to Tubaniso for a night or two we only come with one other sector of our stage class, meaning some people we won't be seeing until our final week of testing when we all leave our host families at the same time. While it is awesome that the true experience is finally getting ready to begin, it is a bit bumming that some of these people that have quickly become my friends will now be gone as well. Living here these past few days has been like college all over again, except everyone is more willing to be friendly and put things such as popularity aside. We've all chosen to make such great changes in every aspect of our lives, and it has truly unified all of us into one big family. Hopefully the other PCVTs and I that are in our village together will bond even closer over the next two months, and I look forward to seeing how we will have all grown by the end of our training experience.
That is all for now, friends. The real experience and challenge begins today, you'll be updated in a few weeks when I return to more established and developed surroundings. Be safe.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Running through the Fields
These daily posts will become more sporadic on Thursday when we move in with our host families and are only back every two weeks. Went on a six am run through the fields this morning with some of the other people from our group. Very cool. Odd to think it looks something like a run at Elon or home... except you're in the middle of West Africa. Training is in full swing, Malaria pills give you "sweet" dreams, and the food is simple yet delicious. Avoid spicy though. Pictures should be up on facebook in the next day or two.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
The Curse of Les Bleus
We have arrived in Toubaniso, our training center, and it is about as African as you would expect. I'd post some photos, but something is wrong my camera and the ability to take normal photos (the fault of Scott Russell, perhaps?). I share my hut with two other guys on my trip, and we all passed out in our mosquito nets around 230 with the humidity and sounds of Africa outside our screen door.
And why so late, you may wonder? It seems as though the problems that have affected the national soccer team of France has also affected the major air carrier of the same country . After a fairly uneventful and uncomfortable flight from New York (complete with crying baby and "traditional" airline food) we arrived at the Paris airport. A few notes on the Paris airport:
You do not need to take off your shoes to go through security (nor are they as "attentive" as TSA). The only currency exchange in our international terminal was closed, the only place for food was hard to find, and video game fanatics will be pleased to know there are video game stations at random intervals yet no place to get information about what is going on.
After choosing a nice spot on the ground under a row of chairs to pass out, I slept for a few hours until we were informed of our gate and time change. The entire group picked up our gear, walked to our new gate, and proceeded to go back to sleep on the ground. We then slept there until it was finally time to board the plane, two and half hours late with no explanation as to why.
Approaching the gate with what we thought was the plane, we were then instructed to exit down the stairs onto the tarmac, get onto a waiting bus, and were moved across the airport to another terminal, walked up another flight of stairs, and proceeded to load into a new plane the resembled the plane at the gate we had just left. All with no explanation. We left three hours late. Merci Les Bleus.
Flight was fine, got to Bamako, fought to get our luggage, and drove through the capital at night to get to the training center. As was apparent from what we were told, "Bamako is the capital of random ass statues."
We moved into our huts, had a brief snack with our trainers, learned how to use our left hand as toiled paper, and passed out. Happy Fourth of July, African style.
And why so late, you may wonder? It seems as though the problems that have affected the national soccer team of France has also affected the major air carrier of the same country . After a fairly uneventful and uncomfortable flight from New York (complete with crying baby and "traditional" airline food) we arrived at the Paris airport. A few notes on the Paris airport:
You do not need to take off your shoes to go through security (nor are they as "attentive" as TSA). The only currency exchange in our international terminal was closed, the only place for food was hard to find, and video game fanatics will be pleased to know there are video game stations at random intervals yet no place to get information about what is going on.
After choosing a nice spot on the ground under a row of chairs to pass out, I slept for a few hours until we were informed of our gate and time change. The entire group picked up our gear, walked to our new gate, and proceeded to go back to sleep on the ground. We then slept there until it was finally time to board the plane, two and half hours late with no explanation as to why.
Approaching the gate with what we thought was the plane, we were then instructed to exit down the stairs onto the tarmac, get onto a waiting bus, and were moved across the airport to another terminal, walked up another flight of stairs, and proceeded to load into a new plane the resembled the plane at the gate we had just left. All with no explanation. We left three hours late. Merci Les Bleus.
Flight was fine, got to Bamako, fought to get our luggage, and drove through the capital at night to get to the training center. As was apparent from what we were told, "Bamako is the capital of random ass statues."
We moved into our huts, had a brief snack with our trainers, learned how to use our left hand as toiled paper, and passed out. Happy Fourth of July, African style.
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