My apologies for not getting this post up sooner, but on September 22nd, 2010, I judged a Malian dance contest. Yes, in honor of the 50th anniversary of Malian independence from “Les Frogs,” my village hosted a dance contest for fifteen local villages.
The day began with me and Mapha being some of the first people to arrive at the event. It was set to start at 0830; it started at 1100. Originally we had sat in the middle of the front row of chairs under the main hanger. Slowly, however, we were pushed to the side as more and more important people appeared. The Mayor, Dugutigi, organization heads, Sous-Prefet- all arrived to take part in the festivities and “needed” to sit in the front row. Eventually I was seated well off to the side, but still sort of in the front row. Great place to put the judge.
As the event got going villages and ceremonial groups began filtering in. There were the Elders, the Malian Boy/Girl Scouts, the different dance troupes, and the traditional militia. The Malian traditional militia is a group of Malian men dressed up in leather outfits, firing powder rounds out of out of old ass single barrel shotguns. And they are crazy. They fired these whenever and however they chose during the event. Middle of a speech? Fire them off. Dance group performing? Better run into the middle of their set and fire your gun in the most animated fashion you can. Sometime their guns would jam and they would be abusively jeered by the crowd until they could redeem themselves. One of the younger boys even had a sawed-off shotgun he couldn’t control when fired. More than once it became a projectile entering the crowd.
When the dancing got started it was damn cool. Everyone crowded into a huge circle with the music on one side and a massive dance area in the middle. Each village came up one by one and put on a “dance”. Clearly dance is in parentheses because not everyone actually danced.
One village, for instance, just did karate (Malians love karate?). Others though had masked dancers, dance troupes, matching outfits- clearly they took it all very seriously. It was especially awesome when the drummers would get a good beat going and the place would lose its mind. Instantly huge impromptu dance parties would erupt, with people literally leaping out of the crowd and onto the dance floor. Even the old men would spring up, run out there, and break it down with their cane.
Hands down, however, the best part of the day went to the village that put on THE puppet show. They literally tied two people into a sheet and onto a straw mat with boards on one side for support; the other side of the sheet (outside) was a bunch of hand puppets. The crowd then picked them up, started a drum beat, and began dancing with these people up in the air. The puppets, meanwhile, were going insane thanks to the Malians inside. The Malians did all sorts of movements with these suspended individuals, however when the straw mat was suspended completely upside down and the puppets and puppeteers kept rocking, that’s when they truly won.
The event ended with the judges tallying up the winning scores. The scoring was a bit odd, though, since myself and the two other judges just stood in a circle off to the side and yelled arbitrary numbers for each village. Very effective, let me tell you.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Sunday, October 24, 2010
A New Bubble
For this post I’ve provided a few observations regarding the similarities and differences between the “Elon Bubble” and my new “Malian Bubble.” If you haven’t been to Elon you probably won’t understand some of this.
Both bubbles have populations hovering around 5000; if you included all of Elon you would roughly have the size of the town where I live. Both have similar population dispersions, with lots of people present in certain areas at specific times of day.
To get around my site you travel mostly on small dirt paths amongst buildings made of bricks (mud bricks). There are the also the main transportation arteries, roughly the width of a road but are in actuality creek beds that flash flood in heavy storms (really cool to see).
The oaks of Elon have become giant palm trees. Equally picturesque, these trees dot the skyline of my site. There are no cushmans to vigorously clean at night, however there are giant fires of trash that ultimately serve the same purpose. While Elon spends great amounts of time on their pristine lawns, Malians sweep their dirt concessions at least three times a day and make it look exceptionally clean (not joking, you can make a dirt floor look really nice).
Greeting here is much different from Elon. Instead of staring at the sidewalk or your cell phone or straight ahead in the most unnatural way possible, you must greet everyone here. I literally have to make an effort to greet every person I see, every place I go; sometimes it’s fun, sometimes it’s exhausting. But if I don’t greet everybody I hear about it from everyone else for the next 24 hours. Add to this the fact that Malian greetings are much longer and intricate than Elon nods (“Hi, good morning, did you have peace last night? And your family? And your friends? Peace, Peace, Peace, are you good, what is new, may you have peace, May god give us a good day, you eat cats, peace be”).
I’m a minority here, so frankly that’s different from Elon. And instead of living by the popular bar (1/2), I am by the popular mosque (1/2). It should be noted that the Christian church of course fills the roll of Lighthouse; though it offers some great weekly specials (equal-ish social status, monogamy, the divine right to consume beer) it only seems to occasionally draw a marginal crowd at best.
Instead of BMWs there are NGO Toyata Land Cruisers that pass on the way to Mopti. Former family sedans become mopeds, motorcycles, bicycles, and the occasional horse drawn cart that offer a taste of the local people (Bamanan, Bobo, Peuhl).
My roommate (concessionamate) is Banta, an older woman who is hilarious, awesome, and slightly crazy. The other day she came out and slapped a chicken to the beat I was butchering on my guitar (chickens make a very amusing noise when you hold them upside down and slap them). We jammed for a few minutes, then killed and ate her instrument.
In general music here is always played too loud to a point that you can’t actually make out many of the words (similar to Jiggaman).
There is peanut sauce, but no Dan Thai; To, but no Harden; The market butcher on Saturdays, but no roast beef from Acorn. All of these similarities and differences have been amusing and I’m sure there are many I’m forgetting to list. If you are in the former bubble, have a beer for me; I don’t frequent the church.
More specific stories to come soon-ish.
Both bubbles have populations hovering around 5000; if you included all of Elon you would roughly have the size of the town where I live. Both have similar population dispersions, with lots of people present in certain areas at specific times of day.
To get around my site you travel mostly on small dirt paths amongst buildings made of bricks (mud bricks). There are the also the main transportation arteries, roughly the width of a road but are in actuality creek beds that flash flood in heavy storms (really cool to see).
The oaks of Elon have become giant palm trees. Equally picturesque, these trees dot the skyline of my site. There are no cushmans to vigorously clean at night, however there are giant fires of trash that ultimately serve the same purpose. While Elon spends great amounts of time on their pristine lawns, Malians sweep their dirt concessions at least three times a day and make it look exceptionally clean (not joking, you can make a dirt floor look really nice).
Greeting here is much different from Elon. Instead of staring at the sidewalk or your cell phone or straight ahead in the most unnatural way possible, you must greet everyone here. I literally have to make an effort to greet every person I see, every place I go; sometimes it’s fun, sometimes it’s exhausting. But if I don’t greet everybody I hear about it from everyone else for the next 24 hours. Add to this the fact that Malian greetings are much longer and intricate than Elon nods (“Hi, good morning, did you have peace last night? And your family? And your friends? Peace, Peace, Peace, are you good, what is new, may you have peace, May god give us a good day, you eat cats, peace be”).
I’m a minority here, so frankly that’s different from Elon. And instead of living by the popular bar (1/2), I am by the popular mosque (1/2). It should be noted that the Christian church of course fills the roll of Lighthouse; though it offers some great weekly specials (equal-ish social status, monogamy, the divine right to consume beer) it only seems to occasionally draw a marginal crowd at best.
Instead of BMWs there are NGO Toyata Land Cruisers that pass on the way to Mopti. Former family sedans become mopeds, motorcycles, bicycles, and the occasional horse drawn cart that offer a taste of the local people (Bamanan, Bobo, Peuhl).
My roommate (concessionamate) is Banta, an older woman who is hilarious, awesome, and slightly crazy. The other day she came out and slapped a chicken to the beat I was butchering on my guitar (chickens make a very amusing noise when you hold them upside down and slap them). We jammed for a few minutes, then killed and ate her instrument.
In general music here is always played too loud to a point that you can’t actually make out many of the words (similar to Jiggaman).
There is peanut sauce, but no Dan Thai; To, but no Harden; The market butcher on Saturdays, but no roast beef from Acorn. All of these similarities and differences have been amusing and I’m sure there are many I’m forgetting to list. If you are in the former bubble, have a beer for me; I don’t frequent the church.
More specific stories to come soon-ish.
Monday, October 4, 2010
I Speak Small Small
Hello Friends, I apologize for the long delay in updates to the blog, emails, and other forms of communicative media. Summer Camp (training) ended, and having passed all of my exams I am now living and beginning to work at my site (the closest PCV is 25k away, not too bad). My site is just east of the city of San (look it up on the map); given Peace Corps Security rules I can’t post the name of my town on my blog as of now, but if you shoot me an email or ask my parents you can find out where exactly I live. In a few weeks I’ll include some better, humorous posts about how life is going. However, this is serving just as a brief update now to the Peace Corps adventure.
I more or less spend every day hanging out with my Malian friends, drinking tea and working on my language. A few times a week I work at my local health center where I’m running a malnutrition/baby weighing program, as well as help with the vaccination days and anything else they need. I’ve managed to establish a pretty good daily routine (I have an amazing running route), and while there have been the typical ups and downs per usual for the Peace Corps, everything is going really well and it’s been an amazing experience so far.
Life is much better as an actual PCV than as a trainee. More fun, more freedom, more experiences, etc… I have some very amazing stories lined up that I will begin posting soon, along with lots of pictures. I haven’t had my computer at site with me for these past few weeks, and when I’m in San with the other PCVs of my area we prefer to frequent the bar over the internet café. But the stories are there, and more are coming. You can also shoot me an email to my Gmail account if you care for a less politically correct assessment of my surroundings. So yeah, it looks like mid to late October the blog should be back in full swing and the funny stories will return. Cheers.
I more or less spend every day hanging out with my Malian friends, drinking tea and working on my language. A few times a week I work at my local health center where I’m running a malnutrition/baby weighing program, as well as help with the vaccination days and anything else they need. I’ve managed to establish a pretty good daily routine (I have an amazing running route), and while there have been the typical ups and downs per usual for the Peace Corps, everything is going really well and it’s been an amazing experience so far.
Life is much better as an actual PCV than as a trainee. More fun, more freedom, more experiences, etc… I have some very amazing stories lined up that I will begin posting soon, along with lots of pictures. I haven’t had my computer at site with me for these past few weeks, and when I’m in San with the other PCVs of my area we prefer to frequent the bar over the internet café. But the stories are there, and more are coming. You can also shoot me an email to my Gmail account if you care for a less politically correct assessment of my surroundings. So yeah, it looks like mid to late October the blog should be back in full swing and the funny stories will return. Cheers.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Sportscenter's Top Ten
Something that I’ve found I miss quite a bit is being able to watch Sportscenter’s Top 10 each day when I get up and before bed. Not the whole episode, just the last 10 minute highlight reel (even better on Friday’s, for the Not Top 10). In that spirit, then, I’ve decided to make this post a brief top ten of occurrences in Mali that otherwise would probably not get a full length blog post.
10- African Bush Taxis. Look them up on the internet. They are green. They go too fast. There are no seatbelts. There are only wooden benches inside. You negotiate a lower price by telling the driver he is a bean eater and his compatriot is a hard-boiled egg. They are the best place to make new friends and work on your language skills. Most repairs are done on the fly with rope and a mallet at 60mph while you swerve to avoid other bush taxis. And they make you wonder why the D.C. Metro can’t manage to be more efficient. Or exciting.
9- The Stars. The moon gives off a surprising amount of light, so you really only get the most amazing stars on the nights when it’s absent. However, on these lucky nights you can see satellites, the Milky Way (I think), shooting stars, and bats (which apparently don’t exist, they are simply “night birds”). It is incredibly peaceful to sit outside and watch them, especially when the theme song to Titanic is on in the background on repeat and the children are humming along both out of tune and rhythm. As long as the mosquitoes aren’t biting too badly, it really is pretty awesome.
8- A lack of Silverware. Eating with your hand and spilling all over yourself is actually quite enjoyable. Try it.
7- Gladiator Children. Being a celebrity in my village (TOUBABU, TOUBABU!!!), the children can spot me from a great distance and always come running, regardless of what I’m doing. This includes when I’m biking at great speeds, as they seem not to mind throwing their bodies in front of my tires or attempting to grab onto the back and get violently dragged down the sewage filled road. Each morning they find great pleasure by watching me eat breakfast in silence, and each evening they violently beat one another for the privilege to carry my bike helmet into my room. I always reward the victor, and give the “thumbs-down” to the losers. And then we all play soccer in the road till dark.
6- Killing flies. The last thing my parents gave me before I left was a pair of fly swatters, telling me to “be ready for the flies”. It’s on flies. I kill at least 30 of you a day (not an exaggeration) and yet you still continue to win the battle of getting into my food, drink, and mouth when I’m not paying attention. I taught my host sister how to use the other swatter, and now we have contests to see how many we can off in a certain period of time. I’m batting a .242 right now; Tarri a .345.
5- The Fairly Odd Parents. The family I live with is a riot, nothing more and nothing less. We make animal noises (usually donkey) at one another to communicate and greet. My host mom sings a song to my face which I’m pretty sure is about how stupid I am. My host dad makes me call my mom bald each time we’re together. They think the moon landing was fake, but swear people live on mars. And though they use their left hands as toilet paper, they got very offended when they found out I spit my toothpaste into the nygen (toilet) and asked me politely to stop. Now I spit in on the ground in the middle of my compound and the children play in it. No big deal, I love them all haha.
4- Photos. Photos from home are much appreciated and very helpful. Malians love to see them, and they certainly get you through a rough day. Thanks to my dad, quite a few of you who are in photos with me on facebook are also posted on the walls of my hut. Send some more if you don’t think you’ve been included yet, or have some particularly fond memories from a night none of us remember.
3- Letters. My family has been writing me letters which have been incredibly inspirational. Should you feel the desire to write one, I’ll write one back to you in response. I keep them all in order in a binder. It’s rather old fashioned, but there are certain values technology will never replace.
2- An African Playground. Behind my house, as I get towards where some of my other Banankoro friends live, are miles of single track dirt roads just begging to be ridden by someone on a mountain bike. I often take the long way home each evening after class just for 30 minutes of stress relief and time to think about nothing else than what’s in front of me as I go tearing through the fields. And don’t worry Dad, I do my best to avoid repeating the California incident (knock on wood).
1- Soccer at Toubaniso. On the brief and infrequent occasion we’re back at our training center, a group of us get together and play soccer each evening after work and class. Guys, girls, Peace Corps kids and hired cooks; we all come together and for one hour each evening stop what we’re doing and play on a field of compact dirt, rocks, ant hills, and the rare clump of grass. The games put us through the physical paces while simultaneously relaxing us. While we usually communicate in at least three different languages during the matches, we all come together for the love of the game and the brief hour where we get to take a brake from our responsibilities and make the most of a West African evening. This earns the number one spot every time.
10- African Bush Taxis. Look them up on the internet. They are green. They go too fast. There are no seatbelts. There are only wooden benches inside. You negotiate a lower price by telling the driver he is a bean eater and his compatriot is a hard-boiled egg. They are the best place to make new friends and work on your language skills. Most repairs are done on the fly with rope and a mallet at 60mph while you swerve to avoid other bush taxis. And they make you wonder why the D.C. Metro can’t manage to be more efficient. Or exciting.
9- The Stars. The moon gives off a surprising amount of light, so you really only get the most amazing stars on the nights when it’s absent. However, on these lucky nights you can see satellites, the Milky Way (I think), shooting stars, and bats (which apparently don’t exist, they are simply “night birds”). It is incredibly peaceful to sit outside and watch them, especially when the theme song to Titanic is on in the background on repeat and the children are humming along both out of tune and rhythm. As long as the mosquitoes aren’t biting too badly, it really is pretty awesome.
8- A lack of Silverware. Eating with your hand and spilling all over yourself is actually quite enjoyable. Try it.
7- Gladiator Children. Being a celebrity in my village (TOUBABU, TOUBABU!!!), the children can spot me from a great distance and always come running, regardless of what I’m doing. This includes when I’m biking at great speeds, as they seem not to mind throwing their bodies in front of my tires or attempting to grab onto the back and get violently dragged down the sewage filled road. Each morning they find great pleasure by watching me eat breakfast in silence, and each evening they violently beat one another for the privilege to carry my bike helmet into my room. I always reward the victor, and give the “thumbs-down” to the losers. And then we all play soccer in the road till dark.
6- Killing flies. The last thing my parents gave me before I left was a pair of fly swatters, telling me to “be ready for the flies”. It’s on flies. I kill at least 30 of you a day (not an exaggeration) and yet you still continue to win the battle of getting into my food, drink, and mouth when I’m not paying attention. I taught my host sister how to use the other swatter, and now we have contests to see how many we can off in a certain period of time. I’m batting a .242 right now; Tarri a .345.
5- The Fairly Odd Parents. The family I live with is a riot, nothing more and nothing less. We make animal noises (usually donkey) at one another to communicate and greet. My host mom sings a song to my face which I’m pretty sure is about how stupid I am. My host dad makes me call my mom bald each time we’re together. They think the moon landing was fake, but swear people live on mars. And though they use their left hands as toilet paper, they got very offended when they found out I spit my toothpaste into the nygen (toilet) and asked me politely to stop. Now I spit in on the ground in the middle of my compound and the children play in it. No big deal, I love them all haha.
4- Photos. Photos from home are much appreciated and very helpful. Malians love to see them, and they certainly get you through a rough day. Thanks to my dad, quite a few of you who are in photos with me on facebook are also posted on the walls of my hut. Send some more if you don’t think you’ve been included yet, or have some particularly fond memories from a night none of us remember.
3- Letters. My family has been writing me letters which have been incredibly inspirational. Should you feel the desire to write one, I’ll write one back to you in response. I keep them all in order in a binder. It’s rather old fashioned, but there are certain values technology will never replace.
2- An African Playground. Behind my house, as I get towards where some of my other Banankoro friends live, are miles of single track dirt roads just begging to be ridden by someone on a mountain bike. I often take the long way home each evening after class just for 30 minutes of stress relief and time to think about nothing else than what’s in front of me as I go tearing through the fields. And don’t worry Dad, I do my best to avoid repeating the California incident (knock on wood).
1- Soccer at Toubaniso. On the brief and infrequent occasion we’re back at our training center, a group of us get together and play soccer each evening after work and class. Guys, girls, Peace Corps kids and hired cooks; we all come together and for one hour each evening stop what we’re doing and play on a field of compact dirt, rocks, ant hills, and the rare clump of grass. The games put us through the physical paces while simultaneously relaxing us. While we usually communicate in at least three different languages during the matches, we all come together for the love of the game and the brief hour where we get to take a brake from our responsibilities and make the most of a West African evening. This earns the number one spot every time.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Harry Potter to the Rescue
Obviously spending three weeks out in the bruce will lead to many interesting stories. One is especially worthy of mention above the others. And thus I present the night of the living dead.
The first day I returned to homestay I found out that one of my homestay mothers had passed away. Though I had never met her (she had been in the hospital in Bamako for a number of months) it was still a sad but fascinating occasion to see a Malian/Muslim funeral. The following day, the day of the service, she was buried within the required 24 hours, there was a big dinner, and lots of people from across the town and region were in our concession. Now begins the “story”:
Around 8:30 I was sitting with my host brother (Alu) in the middle of the compound, talking, watching the starts, etc… Suddenly one of the daughters (age 14) near the entrance begins screaming and shaking. She falls to the ground wailing and one of the older men attempts to try to pick her up and move her towards the nearest room. At first this appears fairly normal, it being the day of a funeral and all; however, as the screaming continues it begins to steadily increase in intensity and noise. Now more people have gathered around and are trying to drag the girl into the nearest hut, presumably to quiet her down. In the process of all this my host brother explains to me in French that the girl is “sick in the head” and that each full moon they know she’s getting sick/having an episode because the screaming begins.
At this point she is now surrounded by adults who are physically dragging her across the ground. As Alu explains, and is apparent, she is literally not her normal self in this state. Clearly some form of mental disorder (name??). They manage to get the girl onto her feet and she attempts to run towards another one of the rooms in the compound. Apparently thinking she is running herself into her own room, the adults momentarily release her. Mistake.
She goes running, and shrieking, full speed out of the compound and into the Malian night. At this point all hell breaks loose. My host brother, along with five or six other guys, go sprinting out of the compound and down the road, all clearly freaking out. My host brother has such amazing speed and agility (he hurtled two chairs and three children on his full speed exit of the compound) that someone needs to sign him to the Redskins. Hello new free safety.
The men chase her down about a block away, tackle her in the middle of the road, and drag her kicking and screaming back to the compound. Full moons are bright enough that you can see all of this in the dead of night, no problem. She is taken into one of the bedrooms and they (six men) proceed to wrestle with her as they attempt to bound and gag her to the bed. All the while she is screaming bloody murder.
Suddenly, however, the screaming changes. Now the men start yelling. And come flying out of the room into the courtyard. And what follows them? AN ENTIRE STOVE OF HOT COALS. It explodes on the ground as everyone, myself included, dive for cover from the burning embers. Apparently the zombie daughter had managed to break free and was sending all objects she could get hold of out the doorway and towards the rest of us. With a momentary pause in the dangerous projectiles (though not the screaming), the men charge back into the room like a swat team as the women frantically run around trying to put out the small fires on the ground.
More screams from all parties involved. After about five minutes it finally gets quiet (I think the gag held) and my host brother comes back and sits down with me. He explains that she gets like this everyone now and again, is very sick in the head, and that it’s sad that she is completely removed from herself (which it is). I then proceed to ask him how they got her to quiet down…
His answer? Well, it seems that when she gets like this they run and summon the local witch doctor, who comes and performs brief but highly effective “spells” on her. No exception in this case, and I watched as the witch doctor later left the compound and slunk off into the night. The following day I saw him walking with our local wizard down the main road. Who needs a hospital when you've got Harry Potter?
The first day I returned to homestay I found out that one of my homestay mothers had passed away. Though I had never met her (she had been in the hospital in Bamako for a number of months) it was still a sad but fascinating occasion to see a Malian/Muslim funeral. The following day, the day of the service, she was buried within the required 24 hours, there was a big dinner, and lots of people from across the town and region were in our concession. Now begins the “story”:
Around 8:30 I was sitting with my host brother (Alu) in the middle of the compound, talking, watching the starts, etc… Suddenly one of the daughters (age 14) near the entrance begins screaming and shaking. She falls to the ground wailing and one of the older men attempts to try to pick her up and move her towards the nearest room. At first this appears fairly normal, it being the day of a funeral and all; however, as the screaming continues it begins to steadily increase in intensity and noise. Now more people have gathered around and are trying to drag the girl into the nearest hut, presumably to quiet her down. In the process of all this my host brother explains to me in French that the girl is “sick in the head” and that each full moon they know she’s getting sick/having an episode because the screaming begins.
At this point she is now surrounded by adults who are physically dragging her across the ground. As Alu explains, and is apparent, she is literally not her normal self in this state. Clearly some form of mental disorder (name??). They manage to get the girl onto her feet and she attempts to run towards another one of the rooms in the compound. Apparently thinking she is running herself into her own room, the adults momentarily release her. Mistake.
She goes running, and shrieking, full speed out of the compound and into the Malian night. At this point all hell breaks loose. My host brother, along with five or six other guys, go sprinting out of the compound and down the road, all clearly freaking out. My host brother has such amazing speed and agility (he hurtled two chairs and three children on his full speed exit of the compound) that someone needs to sign him to the Redskins. Hello new free safety.
The men chase her down about a block away, tackle her in the middle of the road, and drag her kicking and screaming back to the compound. Full moons are bright enough that you can see all of this in the dead of night, no problem. She is taken into one of the bedrooms and they (six men) proceed to wrestle with her as they attempt to bound and gag her to the bed. All the while she is screaming bloody murder.
Suddenly, however, the screaming changes. Now the men start yelling. And come flying out of the room into the courtyard. And what follows them? AN ENTIRE STOVE OF HOT COALS. It explodes on the ground as everyone, myself included, dive for cover from the burning embers. Apparently the zombie daughter had managed to break free and was sending all objects she could get hold of out the doorway and towards the rest of us. With a momentary pause in the dangerous projectiles (though not the screaming), the men charge back into the room like a swat team as the women frantically run around trying to put out the small fires on the ground.
More screams from all parties involved. After about five minutes it finally gets quiet (I think the gag held) and my host brother comes back and sits down with me. He explains that she gets like this everyone now and again, is very sick in the head, and that it’s sad that she is completely removed from herself (which it is). I then proceed to ask him how they got her to quiet down…
His answer? Well, it seems that when she gets like this they run and summon the local witch doctor, who comes and performs brief but highly effective “spells” on her. No exception in this case, and I watched as the witch doctor later left the compound and slunk off into the night. The following day I saw him walking with our local wizard down the main road. Who needs a hospital when you've got Harry Potter?
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
They Don't Exactly have Sportscenter in Africa
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Final Thoughts from the West
Hello friends, as you can see I have finally caved and created a blog for my service in Mali. I spent a good deal of time resisting the need to make various blogs for my English major while at Elon, and yet now here I am struggling to create a template that I find at least somewhat appealing. Please feel free to use this blog to stay updated with my adventures, as well as to contact me and whatnot.
A few notes on this blog:
"The views expressed in this weblog in no way represent or reflect the views of the Peace Corps or the United States Government."
I will be trying to write this blog in much of the same fashion as I have written the annual news letter for my family (informative satire that makes fun of myself and my experiences). I hope you enjoy what you read, and please remember that nothing I post is ever meant to be offensive; everything is educational and informative in one way or another.
I'm not yet sure whether I will post my photos on this blog, my facebook, or a third party website. In time I will inform you all. Please also leave me messages on the blog as to what you think of what you've read, how to get in contact with you, your mailing address, etc...
Lastly, serving in the Peace Corps has been a goal of mine my entire life and words cannot describe how excited I am for this experience. Thank you to everyone who has provided support, helpful insight, friendship, and any other attribute that has helped me reach this point today. You are not forgotten.
Schedule for my final days in the States:
Wednesday, June 30th- Drive to Stone Harbor
Thursday, July 1st- Staging begins in Philadelphia at 12pm
Friday, July 2nd- Fly out of JFK at 1130pm
Saturday, July 3rd- Four hour layover in Paris; arrive in Bamako around 830pm
And then it begins.
A few notes on this blog:
"The views expressed in this weblog in no way represent or reflect the views of the Peace Corps or the United States Government."
I will be trying to write this blog in much of the same fashion as I have written the annual news letter for my family (informative satire that makes fun of myself and my experiences). I hope you enjoy what you read, and please remember that nothing I post is ever meant to be offensive; everything is educational and informative in one way or another.
I'm not yet sure whether I will post my photos on this blog, my facebook, or a third party website. In time I will inform you all. Please also leave me messages on the blog as to what you think of what you've read, how to get in contact with you, your mailing address, etc...
Lastly, serving in the Peace Corps has been a goal of mine my entire life and words cannot describe how excited I am for this experience. Thank you to everyone who has provided support, helpful insight, friendship, and any other attribute that has helped me reach this point today. You are not forgotten.
Schedule for my final days in the States:
Wednesday, June 30th- Drive to Stone Harbor
Thursday, July 1st- Staging begins in Philadelphia at 12pm
Friday, July 2nd- Fly out of JFK at 1130pm
Saturday, July 3rd- Four hour layover in Paris; arrive in Bamako around 830pm
And then it begins.
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