FGC

In French here, it’s ‘l’excision.’ Most people know what we’re talking about when we say female circumcision. In academic discourse, the practice was referred to as female genital mutilation. More recently, this was redefined with the conscientious term of female genital cutting (FGC). In Mali, the practice is widespread, concentrated among certain groups (Bambara, Maraka, Nomo –the blacksmiths, Mandinka). My region, the Bambara heartland, is where it is practiced most intensively (usually surveys say 98% of the population). It’s an ancient tradition in Africa, predating the arrival of Islam by a long shot. FGC is practiced in a variety of ways from a small nick of the clitoris to the stitching together of the inner or outer labia (infamously practiced in Somalia and Egypt). According to health-related NGO’s working in Mali, there are four classified types of FGC (Type 1 – consists of cutting a part of or removing the clitoris and/or the hood of the clitoris, Type 2 – cutting a part of or removing the clitoris and labia minor, with or without harming the labia major, Type 3 – infibulation, reducing the vaginal opening - may include modifying clitoris as well, Type 4 – any other practice that modifies the female genitalia for non-medical purposes). Most Malian women undergo Type 2 according to information dispersed by health organizations. From what I understand from personal discussion on the topic, the practice performed here usually involves a cut or partial to complete removal of the clitoris.

I recently read a CNN article about how the American Academy of Pediatrics had rescinded ‘a controversial policy statement raising the idea that doctors in some communities should be able to substitute demands for female genital cutting with a harmless clitoral "pricking" procedure.’ This change was made to appease advocacy groups and the Western international community. I was struck by the blatant Western bias and found myself in a kind of no man’s land on the issue. It left me with questions such as ‘Where does this obsession with FGC come from in a place where it’s not even practiced? Why do we ignore other types of body modification? And what is so deeply unnerving about ‘medicalizing’ a pricking procedure that would satisfy cultural requirements and remove the very concerns the international community has raised?’ Perhaps, these questions have obvious answers, but they are worth illuminating.

Why the fixation? It’s a cultural practice that runs so counter to ours. In the Western world the practice is a seen as a complete affront to feminism. It demonstrates a will to maintain control over women’s sexuality, recapitulating the existent patriarchal system. As any other young, feminist Westerner would be, ‘I’m against FGC.’ I am personally outraged by the practice. Experiences, such as having to pay my neighbor a visit to wish their daughter healthy again (a girl of 5 years who had just been ‘cut’), have only reinforced my disapproval. But, my experience here has undoubtedly made me more attune to Western biases. And I fear that we often become so impassioned by our own goodwill that we end up crusading on behalf of a disinclined people. Adding to the cross-cultural misunderstanding, I believe our benevolence is misconstrued as cultural imperialism.

So why is FGC practiced? From personal communication with Malians, the most predominant response I receive is it’s performed to moderate the sexual desire of women. Women are believed to be naturally more sexually-driven than men (converse to popular Western belief). I’ve had many a person tell me that even if they have doubts of the utility of the practice in this sense today, they will have it done to their children as a precaution. Furthermore, it’s an important expression of cultural identity.

What are Western objections to FGC based on? I think it can be summed up by pointing to the concern of ensuing health problems, as a human rights violation, and, from a feminist angle, as sexual oppression.

1. I believe long-term health concerns (such as infections, painful or prolonged menstruation, fistula) are related to Type 3, not Type 2 as practiced here. For Type 1 and 2, health concerns are based mostly on the immediate act…e.g. infection immediately following the procedure or the same blade being used on a group of girls. My friends who have undergone FGC say they don’t experience any health-related problems in the present.

2. As a human rights violation. Put simply, it boils down to a girl not having a choice on the subject. But, recall that human rights are a Western creation. And the parents making the decision for the girl are most likely making it with her well-being in mind (in addition to the reasons noted previously, she risks being ostracized by her community). Furthermore, it’s about maintaining a long-held tradition, a cultural requirement. It’s not supposed to be an act of cruelty; it’s an expression of cultural identity.

3. Feminist angle – does it limit sexual fulfillment? A topic I’ve only discussed with a few close friends, but they say, despite being affected by FGC, they derive sexual fulfillment from intercourse.

Despite my friends’ claims, I imagine that physiologically FGC must diminish sexual fulfillment. However, a woman’s sexuality is also psychological and sociological. Not undergoing FGC may cause a sense of shame, which could be just as detrimental to sexual pleasure for psychological and sociological reasons. Is it then possible to view FGC like other body modifications (e.g. breast augmentation, nose jobs, tummy tucks)? In the example given above, does FGC not fulfill a culture’s beauty-femininity requirement, as any other body modification?

Malians, in the course of discussion on the topic, will tell me that their ideas on FGC (and female promiscuity) don’t apply to me. They assume that ‘chez les blanches’ (where the white people live), it’s not a part of our culture and must not be necessary. Is this a naïve point of view, or is it incongruously open-minded? On the flip side, there has been Western financed advocacy against FGC in Mali for decades. The efforts emphasized health concerns posed by FGC. But, when this simply led to the increased medicalization of the practice, the debate shifted towards the human rights aspect. And I think this is where it gets tricky. There’s a philosophical choice that must be made between respecting another’s culture (and not imposing your own system of beliefs, customs, and values) and accepting the universal idea of human rights transcending cultural norms. I don’t think in this case you can reconcile cultural sensitivity and cultural relativity with the Western notion of human rights.

Also, I don’t ignore that there are many Malian voices that speak out against FGC. But, at the same time, even those who take part in the anti-FGC marches, don anti-FGC apparel, work for organizations that disseminate information on the danger of FGC, will often have FGC performed on their daughters.

Today, the ritual has changed in many areas of the country (I think particularly in cities). Traditionally, the rite was practiced on a group of girls at a similar age from the same village at the same time (20-30 girls being ‘cut’ at one time). This probably served a social function of creating a kind of bond between women, or a source of group solidarity. Today, it’s done secretly and individually. The male circumcision rite is still performed in groups and much more visible (afterwards, they dress up in a color denoting their class and clap broken pieces of calabashes together demanding money on the side of a road. This is the only occasion you can cast money at people. I’ve literally chucked coins out of a moving vehicle to a group of these boys).

In conclusion, I recognize the importance of awareness/advocacy – of the potential health risks and against stigmatization. It’s unfortunate that this notion was first planted by the West, which continues to the present to view Africa through a paternalistic lens – it’s the ‘dark continent’ that needs our help and support. It’s evident to me in my personal interactions and even in the media (Malian popular music always tends to be feminist and socially critical) that Mali wants to deal with its own issues. They don’t want their discourse steered by ‘l’occident’ (the West).

Girl's Camp

The last week of March was reserved for a girls’ camp in my town of Koulikoro. I was so pleased with how it went that I think it is the bit of work in Peace Corps I’m most proud of (of course, I was not alone in its planning and execution). The camp was concerned with women’s empowerment/youth development. The girls who attended were encouraged to continue with their studies, they were taken to see women leaders in the workplace, and given a range of lessons on ‘life skills,’ as we call them.

I live in the small city of Koulikoro (which may be a misleading description because when my family came to visit they thought of it more as a village). Four volunteers, who actually do live en brousse (in the bush), each brought five girls into my city. Another five girls came from Koulikoro itself. They were all the equivalent of six graders in the US. It was an amazing group of girls. They were attentive, enthusiastic, and easy-going. It was a bit discomforting to see the enormous difference between the brousse girls and the ‘city’ girls, but maybe that was just because one of the ‘city’ girls was already speaking better French than me (not that that’s saying much).

We brought the girls to see a couple schools and women in the workplace over a range of sectors (health, military, government, NGO, business). Most of the girls live where there isn’t a high school, let alone a middle school. Though some came in from over 100km away, my town is where they find their nearest high school (lycée). And any kid looking to go to high school, professional or technical school here would have to find a relative to put them up. I have 5 ‘brothers’ in my compound who come from brousse in order to attend high school, and they are very distant cousins of the family. So it’s not a particular difficult task to find some living arrangement, but an obstacle nonetheless. Chances are, if you are a girl coming into the city from brousse, it’s to work as a house servant. You will make 5,000cfa a month ($10), and you’ll be obliged to send that petty amount back to your family in brousse. It’s a bit bizarre to see how the families in my neighborhood are poverty-stricken by any general standard, and yet they all have a house servant. In my compound, we seem to have a different house servant every few months. None of them are educated. They can’t recognize the numbers 1-10. They have all been teenagers, and their reason for leaving was either pregnancy or theft.



So the camp tried to catch these girls just before they normally drop out to spend their days on the side of the road selling peanuts to passers-by, get married or pregnant, become a servant, or a combination of any of these likely life paths. Peace Corps volunteers did what I think we do best as Americans (the world experts in ‘camps’)…we held ice breakers, team-building activities, and life skill sessions. We invited our Malian partners to cover the more difficult topics: goal-setting, gender roles, and sexual education (the first time and probably only time any of the girls will see a diagram of the female reproductive system). We took the girls to meet and talk with working women: a political head of the region, a maternity warden, an accountant/NGO worker, a woman high up in the military, and an entrepreneur (woman who had a small factory producing juice, dried fruits, and cereals and had a woman’s group to run the place).Of course, we had a lot of fun as well. We had a dance (combined with sketches on family planning topics), we did henna and nail polish, we had a film night, and my favorite…a trip to the zoo in Bamako. In the US, kids go to the zoo to see the big mammals of Africa so the irony was evident from the beginning as this was the first time any of our camp girls had seen an elephant, a lion, a hyena, a warthog, a chimpanzee. It was a comical experience which I’ve recounted at the end of this blog. At the end of the camp, the girls were exhausted, but I think incredibly happy for the experience. Whether or not they were able to grasp all that was said to them, I have no doubt that they at least went away with the understanding that they could have the same kind of goals as their brothers.

Food preparation during the camp.

Trip to the Zoo

I’ve always found zoos terribly depressing in the states, so I could only imagine what a zoo in a poor country like Mali had in store for me. The experience surpassed my fears. Trash littered the park as it does the rest of the country. The park guide took us to see an adult chimpanzee and told us it would dance in exchange for a soda. He taunted the chimp with a plastic can as the crowd commenced a chant (coupled with clapping) which (I swear) translated directly as “Dance, monkey, dance.” A slightly, horrifying experience in my opinion, but I moved on with thoughts of the infamous manatee I’d heard tales of. I’d been totally by an ex-pat that the manatee had died in its tank and had been left to rot there, still on display. When I located the tank, it had more recently caught on fire, and now, amongst the shattered glass, lay only the charred remains of the manatee. When I approached where the lions were kept, a horrible scent entered my nostrils. I peaked over a ledge and saw decapitated donkey heads piled high along with their rib cages. There’s already an NGO in this country for the maltreatment of donkeys (they are often worked to death dragging carts around). I shouldn’t be surprised they also share the awful fate of being fed to the lions. After the tour, once I’d left the park grounds, a man motioned me over to look at something. He uncovered a crate to reveal a tense, snarling, teeth baring leopard. New arrival, he told me. I was absolutely terrified. I didn’t trust that crate, and quickly beckoned all the girls to get on the bus home.

But, it wasn’t all bad. The girls seemed to be learning a lot, taking copious notes at every cage. An adorable baby elephant was the first animal the girls approached. It was sticking its snout through the fence to be touched. The girls were terrified…‘n be sira. n ta fe ka tege dama.’ ‘I’m scared, I’m not going to shake its hand.’ “It’s hand?” I exclaimed. “That’s not its hand, that’s its nose!” I told them they didn’t need to be scared, it was, after all, just a baby. At this point, I was the one apparently being silly. “That…a baby? Come on!” Unfortunately, the zoo didn’t have an adult elephant to prove me right. It was a hilarious, terrifying at times, but ultimately educational experience at the zoo.

Day at the Beach

Hot season has decided to come a month early this year. The thought of 4 months rather than 3 months of biking around in triple digit Fahrenheit heat is a bit discouraging the second time round. One can imagine that in West Africa, on the fringe of the Saharan desert, it’s hot. But, you can’t really understand until you’ve been here and felt the strength of the sun. To be beneath it, is to believe some cruel joke has made you the recipient of all its rays.

A day at the beach was in order. To feel a slight breeze off the water or better, the cold current itself. To love the feeling of the sun on my skin, rather than despise it. To enjoy pinching sand between my toes rather than fixating on the deep cracks designing the heels of my calloused feet. It began like a day at the beach might at home. My friend and I got a hold of a small cooler, which we packed with ice. We strolled to the shore taking us through mango groves (the only positive element of hot season is about to ripen). We found the shore lined with young palm trees.

Quick geography lesson: Mali is a landlocked country. I may have romanticized this day. The ‘beach’ is actually the exposed bed of the Niger River, downstream from the polluted capital of Bamako. I also skipped over that in addition to the mango groves, I walked past numerous trash piles, or rather, through sprawling dumps. And after we passed the neatly planted palm trees, we trudged through another quarter mile of still water and donkey droppings. The dredging of sand (piled onto donkey carts) has begun again as the river has dramatically dropped to make it impassable but by dugout canoe.

Anyway, this didn’t take away from my awesome day at the beach. The Niger had the current of the lazy river at the water park. Between dips, I lay in the shade of a make-shift sun umbrella – an indigo died traditional piece of Malian cloth tied to four twigs twisted into the sand. How cool to be able to lay in the middle of the Niger on bare sand, looking at the large rock formations that protrude up around my city and later at the large African sun setting behind thick horizontal bands of dust. Best of all, I had my friend there for endless entertainment. Her swimsuit was a pair of black capris and a halter bedazzled with silver sequins. She goofs around as much as my friends at home, and sings to me my favorite Malian tunes. While I’d had such a wonderful afternoon, my friend Awaha could not say the same. She confessed to me a few days later that she was clowning around to distract herself from the irrational fear she had…of me. She had been fretting over whether I was really ‘Aminata,’ her friend she had gone to the beach with, or the river goddess Mami Wata. Apparently, my lighter-than-normal complexion and long dark hair rippling freely in the water was enough to convince I might be the ominous mermaid-like mythological figure. She told me she kept telling herself to focus on the fact I had two legs, not a fishtail, and therefore everything would be alright. I've been to the 'beach' a few times since, but my closest friend Awaha has still not summoned the courage to go alone with me.

update

I’m pretty sure only Seinfeld could properly capture the comedy in my life. So my last bit of money was stolen, which left me with not even a a ‘tanna’ to my name (10 cents). As I’ve pointed out, food, housing, all that isn’t a problem. My only real need to maintain my sanity is phone credit. Kelly, my Peace Corps friend who lives 800k away, has been my lifeline this past year and a half. We were sent to Madagascar together with high hopes and overwhelmingly good intentions. The military coup saw us evacuated together in dismay with lingering, unfulfilled aspirations. We spent two weeks in South Africa mentally preparing for Peace Corps round two. Then, we were transferred to Mali together excited and full of nerves, wondering if we could do it all again. Well, at least we had each other for potential pity parties. So when I was out of money, I wasn’t surprised when she sent me $6 worth of credit via the phone. Of course, she’s struggling herself. So when she ran out of credit the following day, I simply sent her back a bit of the credit she’d sent me. Spending the little money we have in slightly superfluous ways, but then helping each other out even when we're both broke- its so wonderfully characteristically Malian of us.

Fantaya be

So I’m broke. I think I had more money when I was 7 years old; my piggy bank filled with the money I made off recycling my neighbor’s bottles and cans. Plus I had a little enterprise with my brother. We’d find golf balls that had gone astray into the Santa Monica Mountains surrounding our Tarzana home. We’d wash them clean and resell them on the side of the road leading to the golf club. I understand now that my brother was the brains behind my small fortune at a young age. I’m on my own now, I’m 24 years old, and I have $3 to my name ($1 of which I just spent on this internet session – clearly, I know how to manage my money).

Lettuce is in season, and I absolutely love to stroll the streets at night, finding a woman selling food, and having a big bowl of salad prepared. The vendor has probably washed the leaves well (with chlorine), but unfortunately she uses the same hands to toss the salad that she does to take dirty coins in payment. I’m well aware of all this as a health volunteer, but I’ve convinced myself that the vitamins I’m getting from the leafy greens outweigh the costs of sticking to a purely carbohydrate based diet. My closest friend Awaha and I have being doing this like ritual for the past two months. We tear pieces off a long loaf of locally baked French bread to scoop up mouthfuls of lettuce covered in oil, vinegar, and Maggi (msg-filled boullion). Maggi is ubiquitous, used in every sauce, every meal, every time. The commercials are endless and feature a typically dressed Malian woman cooking in a modern Western style kitchen. It closes with the motto, « Avec Maggi, chaque femme est une etoile » (With Maggi, every woman is a star). I'll skip the feminist comment and just say Maggi targets their audience well.

Now, my current state of means is curbing my appetite. It is absolutely impossible to starve anywhere in Mali that I’ve been. Every single person invites you to share their meal. There’s nothing Malians love telling foreigners more than 'an fe' or 'chez nous' - 'every morsel of food is everyone’s food.’ But, my body is craving veggies! Luckily, as people can buy almost anything on credit, so can I (they simply promise to pay the amount a week or more later). So my salad lady is keeping track of what I owe her. You know, every white person here is looked at as a walking wallet. Seeing me buy lettuce on credit is a very confusing picture. Only my friend Awaha actually believes I’m broke. Of course, the girl has less than me. And yesterday, I borrowed her cutest ‘going out’ shirt and she told me at the end of the night that if I tried giving it back to her, she would pick a fight. I kept the shirt, but I felt a pang of guilt…the pang of recognition of my selfishness. Months back, she’d done my laundry for me and borrowed a shirt of mine. A friend hinted that she liked the shirt a lot, which angered me, and I immediately asked for it back. From my point of view, it was sneaky…offer to do my laundry as a friend because she could a better job than me, and then indirectly ask for a shirt of mine in return. But, now I’ve begun to see their point of view. I know she gave me her favorite shirt the other day and I know I never would have done the same.

I knew I’d learn a lot from Africa. I knew Africa (and Peace Corps) would make me self-reflect to uncomfortable lengths. I've provided a small, silly example, but in much larger ways, I’ve become acutely aware of my selfishness in the past year. But, becoming self-aware is one thing. Changing is another thing altogether. Well, at the very least, when I get home, I’ll be better at sharing my food.

(I'd like to stress that Peace Corps is not starving me. They keep us frugal certainly by American standards - and we are volunteers after all- but I earn more than the average Malian teacher. I’ve just been a little to liberal with my money the past couple months.)

Visit to the Marabout

I joked around in my last post about petty fights and the rumor mill that is my town of Koulikoro. But, there are more serious disputes/problems and I say this in reference to gender relations. I’m not going to hide the fact that gender roles are deeply entrenched here and men hold the power unquestionably. I'm sure it's the first thing that makes an impression on every liberal Western visitor. Men often have multiple wives. This usually causes the first shock (after seeing people eat with their hands). Certainly, this kind of societal organization must have had its advantages and maybe still does in the bush. But, in the cities, it’s hard for me to see that a practical reasoning still exists behind polygamy. People will say that the wives of one husband get along wonderfully as well as their children. But, from my experience jealousies abound in all directions.

The male domination is not just confined to the marital realm. The same friend I’ve discussed before (the one who threw the punch) I'll call 'Awaha.' Awaha had been staying at my house since the day she called me at 5 in the morning, crying, asking me to come outside my concession. She was there covered in dirt and belt lashes. Her ex-boyfriend had beaten her up and when he’d dropped her off at her home, her mother had kicked her out of the house for turning up in the early morning hours. Violence against women is a reality here as it is everywhere. I just don’t think I’ve ever come across it so openly and publicly before. I’ve been chatting with a friend on more than one occasion during the day while listening to a man beat his wife for all to hear. Just the other evening, I heard a whiplash break the silence of the night and turned to see a girl sprinting towards me. She practically knocked me over in order to hide behind my friend and I, as a shirtless man pursued with a belt raised over his head. There's not much gray area to this issue: men are allowed to hit women, but a woman should never lay a hand on a man. I can say the majority of people I’ve encountered, male and female, agree with this concept fundamentally. Perhaps, someone will say in a particular incident a beating was unjustified. But, he always retains the right.

So, back to my friend who turned up on my doorstep at 5 in the morning shaking, not knowing what to do with her arms...hold them together against the slight chill of the fading night or continue pointing out to me her various wounds. Like anyone would have done, I tried to be a good friend. She stayed with me for a few days. I listened, I made her feel at home, I kept her company. When this situation had occurred in the past, I tried to get her to talk to someone, a counselor of sorts, but to no avail. I thus resigned myself to play the simple role I was playing now.

There were other things I did to help, one of those ‘only in Mali’ ways of helping. Malians always use a third person intermediary for most disputes. Therefore, I was to go with another friend to talk with her mother and plead on her behalf to allow her to come home. But, even before that, there was a step to take to increase the probability her mother would concede; that was to go consult a marabou, Muslim holy man. One dusk, Awaha and I walked towards the outlying hills and found the Marabou she trusted. The Marabou sat across from us on a mat, surrounded by prayer beads, Quranic pages, fetishes, and traditional medicine (leaves and little soda bottles filled with anonymous concoctions). He was very serious and silent as he unfolded a binder filled with columns and columns of hash marks. He asked us to breath and whisper onto his pen, then asked our names and wrote them in Arabic. Beneath our names, he started to drawing columns of hash marks that flowed into more branching columns of hash marks. It reminded me of drawing evolutionary diagrams in life science. Then, he started telling us things concerning our finances and love lives and it started to remind me more of MASH (not the tv series, but the game we girls used to play mostly to predict who we would marry).

In order to realize a wish of mine, I was told to buy candies and peanuts for children and chew on one white kola nut. I helped my friend follow the instructions she was given to drive away her woes. The following evening, I built a fire so she could burn 6 red kola nuts and an old pair of shoes. All the items had been inscribed with lines from the Quran by the Marabou himself. When her mother conceded a couple days later, you know what she credited for hastening her return home. Her ex has also become less of a stalker and much friendlier in meeting. I’ve politely cautioned my friend that this probably isn’t a change for the long-term.

Fists flying

My community here is very dramatic and all too gossipy. Everyone is concerned with everybody else’s affairs because that’s what there is to entertain in a limited (small) society where jobs are lacking. The other day my girl friend ended up in a fight with another girl because she’d heard from her friend’s friend that the girl had talked about her behind her back. Whether or not the girl was guilty of the offense, the subject she was supposedly blathering about was not particularly wounding. She confronted the girl and, after a very brief, what I can barely call a ‘discussion’ between the two, the whole neighborhood had arrived to catch the insults and fists flying in both directions. It started with my friend leaning across an elder (who had been acting as the intermediary) and throwing a punch to the jaw. Maybe one could draw a parallel to a similar experience witnessed in middle school, but these girls are in their mid-twenties fighting over hearsay.

I admit fully to speaking in generalities, but I find Malians to be easily incensed, a bit hot blooded. But, what I love is that they mellow out as quickly as they are roused. A simple ‘sabali sa’ or ‘cool it’ works with amazing efficacy. Example: I was in Bamako about to take a cab. I noticed two other tubabs (foreigners) and assumed they were headed to the same neighborhood. I asked them to share a cab with me. They said sure, they had one ready at 2,500cfa…was that a good price? I said, listen, I got this cab guy going for 1,500cfa. So they quickly hopped in my taxi. At this point, their original cab driver ran over yelling in my face and was up in arms with our driver as well. It was a heated argument that certainly didn’t look like it was going to end soon. I raised a hand and said, ‘sabali sa.’ He looked at me, his shoulders dropped, and he listened attentively as I apologized that he had lost some business, but that we were obligated by reason to take the better fare. He smiled in understanding, blessed me, and walked away.

The story of my friend also fits this idea. It soon became clear that the story had been altogether fabricated – the girl was completely innocent of talking behind her back. My friend regretted her actions (which had included throwing the initial punch, later smearing the name of the girl’s family, and threatening by text message both the girl’s sister and cousin). She apologized to the girl and they were back on good terms all within 24 hours of the blow to the jaw.

needle in a haystack

This isn't a particularly interesting story, but for some reason I feel like sharing it. I had my flashdrive with me at the Peace Corps office in Bamako working on getting some funding for a project. I'd finished my work, slipped the device in my bag, and took a 10 minute walk to a restaurant. On arrival, I discovered I'd lost my thumb drive... the pocket of my Malian sewn purse had a hole in it. The loss of the bit of work I had on it didn’t cause me too much distress. There were a few reflections on my experience in Madagascar (where I only had access to a computer every month or so). The bulk of the material was just a window for venting during my ‘deaf mute’ months in Mali (where I’ve had much more access to computers). Nonetheless, the loss of 50 pages or more of personal journaling from this whole Peace Corps experience was devastating.

I retraced my steps, covering the 1km dirt and paved road route with no result. In shock, I sat down and I explained my situation to a guy selling phone chargers. He immediately grabbed his ‘moto’ (scooter) and started searching for it. Meanwhile, a taxi driver walked the route with me again. The guy with the moto stopped at every group of people along the way asking if they had seen it. I even enlisted a group of garibou (Muslim beggar chlidren) to look for it, promising a monetary award. They usually belong to a madrasa, but spend most of the day going around reciting or singing Koranic verses and accepting change dropped into an old tomato paste can strung around their arms.

After another hour, I resigned myself officially of the fruitless search. I had really given up the moment I’d discovered it lost…thinking ‘needle in a haystack.’ But, I thought I should at least put an honest effort towards a search because of what the contents meant to me. I gave my number to the guy with the moto and left to mope in privacy.

The following day, less than 24 hours later, I receive a phone call from the guy telling me he knows somebody that found something, and it might be my thumbdrive. I met him an hour later, he called the guy, who turns up on moto with the so-desired item. I was ecstatic and slipped the guy some money as a thank you. He looked at me blankly and then asked for my number. But, the original phone charger guy who really did the leg work would not accept anything from me. He simply said to me, ‘no, no, no, you see…you greet and chat with the people and they will help you with anything.’ And this is why I love Mali. Because absolute strangers will go to great lengths to help you out for nothing in return, and they’ll have the patience for you, they’ll give you the time of day, even when you’re stumbling along in a nearly incomprehensible jumble of French and Bambara.

Birthday

I turned 24. Hosted a nice dinner with my closest girlfriends. Not so unlike my old life...

aside from eating with our hands from a bucket.

Christmas in Mali

There are a few Christians around in this Muslim country. My close old lady friend is one of them, though in practice she mixes Islam, Christianity, and traditional beliefs. And that’s not shocking when everyone else holds traditional beliefs alongside those in the Quran. So I celebrated Christmas with ‘Ami’ and her family. I politely refused to go to church with her because I was still scarred from last Christmas’ full day in prayer in Madagascar. I was very willing to partake in the food component. We celebrated on Christmas Eve, and made French fries and French ‘Surprises’ (hard-boiled eggs covered in ground meat, held together with string which is removed after frying). I had to depart briefly to do a radio transmission on HIV/AIDS, and in order to publicize a campaign I’d helped organize for the following day (more on that later). But, I returned in the evening to enjoy the food we’d prepared. My Rasta friend, Ami’s son, also joined and brought fried pig skin. By coincidence, this is how I normally celebrate at home - on the eve (24th) according to my mother's Danish tradition, and always with pork rinds. In this case, it might have been a bit of an affront to the non-pork eating Muslim guests present, but, then again, they had joined in on a celebration of the birth of Jesus, a tad sacriligeous even if he is one of their prophets. I'm not judging...how can one complain these days about a place where the two religions meet in such a way. It was a nice evening, followed by an even more memorable Christmas Day.

December is the month designated worldwide for the fight against HIV/AIDS. A few weeks prior, a Togolese friend had approached me about a potential HIV/AIDS campaign – a discussion on the subject, followed by a dance interspersed with HIV/AIDS related games and prizes with the goal of increasing awareness and promoting safe sex practices. Over the preceding weeks, we went around to all the health NGO’s in the community to ask for assistance. I was able to get a bit of funding from Peace Corps as well (technically USAID money requiring a 1/3 community contribution of the total budget).

The NGO leader who ran most of the show (led the discussions and decided the deserving recipients of the prizes – shirts, hats, condoms) was already an acquaintance. I knew a popular DJ in town to do the sound (handsome and charming, and in line to become village chief). My Togolese friend and I invited the appropriate community leaders (I had to open the campaign with a slow dance with the mayor). A photographer friend of mine was asked to document the dance (which unfortunately turned me into a bit of a prop…everyone wanted a photo with the 'tubab'). The publicity included the radio broadcast and word of mouth, really the most effective communication tool. My close friends spread the word that “Aminata was having a dance” and within 24 hours I think every youth in town knew about it. What made me feel so good was that all my effort that had gone into integrating into my community the last 8 months, made this little task incredibly easy. I had already established relationships with most everyone involved.

Lastly, I often hang out with a group of friends that act as community peer educators. This means they’ve attended a conference on HIV/AIDS or family planning, for example, and then are encouraged to instigate discussions amongst groups of friends, perhaps 10 times a month, on the subject. This might be a little hard to imagine without a conception of Malian social life. As I’ve mentioned before, Malians are always taking tea together. In city life, everyone is part of a ‘gren’ or social group/clique. This is usual a group of people they have grown up with and they share tea with everyday. The idea is that one can share and have very open discussions with their ‘grens.’ It’s not appropriate to frequent other grens often; better to remain faithful to the original. Every gren even has a name (Mal vie ‘The Bad Life’, Brooklyn City, etc). People can be identified by naming their gren (eg. 'you know Mohamed?' 'Which Mohamed?' 'Mohamed Coulibaly' 'Which Mohamed Coulibaly?' '...of Mal vie.' 'Oh, yeah').

So, here in Mali, many NGO’s often form community peer educators and train them to target 'grens' to spread their messages amongst the youth. Again, since there are no jobs and people generally just chat over tea all day, this is a seemingly effective technique. I used to wonder what motivates a peer educator to do his or her job. Sometimes there are some very minor monetary rewards. More likely, one hopes their bit of volunteer work will help them land an NGO job down the road. But, I honestly believe, and of course this is completely my own speculation, that a large motive is simply to have a sense of purpose. For me, people are not just floundering to make ends meet, they are floundering for a 'raison d'être.' I can see the pride people have in saying they are a peer educator and have been trained in this and that. My main issue I can raise with this grassroots technique to behavior change is that it neglects females. NGO’s are well rehearsed in gender issues relative to development. They’ll make sure to have an equal amount of trained female peer educators. But, grens are almost always all male. Women just don’t seem to form social groups and take tea together to the same extent men do (probably because they are occupied with the foyer/household).

A bit of a digression there...so...the one particular 'gren' I spend many afternoons with happens to be peer educators in family planning and HIV/AIDS so they were more than happy to come present their NGO and do a little sketch at the campaign I helped organize. It was a small project, just a one-day event. I believe 300 people or so turned up. A fellow Peace Corps friend was there and wowed the crowd with her fluency in Bambara. I think the messages in relation to HIV/AIDS translated effectively and in an entertaining way. How couldn’t a white girl walking around with a silver platter of condoms not bring a laugh? The only problem I face now is everyone asking me for condoms! I’ve even had some uppity, imploring high school boys coming by my house close to midnight. By the way, in my town I know people can afford them..a packet of four condoms costs less than twenty cents. And even the students who really have no money still manage to find some change for cigarettes on a daily basis, so they can do the same with condoms, if they fully understand the responsibility they have.

French fries and French 'surprises'

Tabaski

Around the same time everyone in the US was munching on turkey, I was busy eating my way through every organ and muscle of a sheep. This so-called vegetarian failed miserably on the Muslim feast of Tabaski (Eid al-Adha). I’m certainly not a fan of mutton, but this holiday was some of the best few days I’ve had in Mali. I’m not even sure why I enjoyed it so much. The day before the big feast reminded me a bit of prom. There were a lot of girls crying on account of hair, clothing, and boy problems. Girls cried over their boyfriends who wouldn’t pay for their hair weaves, they threw fits of rage at tailors who hadn’t finished sewing their outfits (despite working through the nights leading up to the feast), they scolded those who shaved off too much of their eyebrows in order to draw them in again with black henna. The young women who had their affairs under control and were not in tears, were busy causing all the rest of the children to cry as they braided their hair. Every other household held a similar scene; a few women seated on a mat braiding fake, purple hair (it's all the rage) into the head of a girl of no more than 3 or 4 years old. I can't imagine what a horror this process is for a mere child. I know, I've had it done. Luckily, women were prepared with lollipops and words of encouragement (you’re going to look so pretty!) or distraction (hey, look at the white girl). My closest girl friend was one of those in tears on account of a stingy boyfriend. So I took her to get her eyebrows drawn in while I got a flowery henna tattoo with my name inscribed on my hand. As we walked around town, some things stuck out poignantly… the hundreds and hundreds of tethered sheep. The act of slaughtering a sheep is the key component of Tabaski, commemorating Abraham’s near sacrifice of Ishmael (as opposed to Isaac according to the Jewish and Christian tradition). Of course as Abraham raised his weapon above the bound body of his son, Allah/God intervened to say...you can just sacrifice a ram instead. A good-sized sheep costs around $100, so one can imagine the expense for the average Malian household. Luckily, there’s some assistance from outside. For example, in my town, the ‘social development’ government office was in charge of distributing sheep to the poorest of families, sheep purchased, according to everyone I asked, by wealthy Muslim Saudis.



On the morning of Tabaski, many went to mosque, many more stayed at home. Marabous, or recognized Muslim holy men, then went around to most families to actually sacrifice the sheep. I took some pleasure in watching my Malian brothers skin our sheep, that is, once I’d gotten over its recently writhing body next to the dugout dirt hole slowly filling with its blood. The bulk of the work was then left to the women of course. We cut, cooked, stewed, grilled, and ate mutton all day long. In the late afternoon, everyone in my household was too exhausted to actually go around greeting people as should be done.

But, I'd had a ‘bazin’ African dress made for the occasion and decided it was a waste if I didn't put it on and go greet. Bazin is quite the phenomenon here. It's the best quality fabric, very shiny, and really all too expensive for what people have to spend. I can't say Malians prioritize the things I would considering their means (the importance of appearance often trumps matters of health and education). But, a bazin outfit is basically seen as a necessity in town for any ceremony. It's imported white from Hong-Kong or Germany, dyed here in Mali, soaked in starch, dried under the sun, then sold on the local market. After I had mine tailored, I took it to be pounded and beaten by hand for a couple hours in order to soften it up and reveal more of its gleam. And even, after this process, its terribly uncomfortable and very conspicuous…recall George Castanza’s swishing suit? I had that episode in mind as I walked around doing my Tabaski greetings. (http://www.satellit-cafe.com/repository/272/2720430118/2225864208.jpg my favorite Malian artist in bazin.)

Also on the day, I attended a Somono festival my town holds each year. This is a kind of celebration of fishermen. My last name ‘Fofana’ puts me in the Somono family group, so I was really excited to watch the dances performed. Each race or family grouping has its own dance, and this was the first time I had seen my ancestral dance. Perhaps because I was the only foreigner clearly visible, I was honoured by having puppet performances presented before me. The final act displayed the Somono chief of the village tossing a net over an enormous fish puppet, which sent every child into leaps and every adult into song and dance. During the evening, I went dancing (for the first of 4 evenings in a row). I still find it so ‘Malian’ the way an explicitly religious holiday is turned into an extended party.

Woke up the following day, exhausted from dancing, with stomach cramps probably due to the meat shock to my system. I squatted along with my sisters and mom around the large breakfast bowl. My mother lifted the lid, to reveal not the usual millet porridge, but the entire sheep’s head immersed in its fats and juices. I’d actually eaten a sheep’s eyeball and tongue on Thanksgiving day just for kicks (well, I was hungry and it was the only thing on the menu). But, as my Malian mom cracked the skull open with a large wooden pestle and we picked at the brains, my stomach turned. Oh Tabaski...the sweat, the tears, the discomfort...I loved it.

While I was waiting for the Thanksgiving turkey to be prepared (above), I needed a little extra nourishment...thus the sheep head (below).

Tea Time

I couldn’t conceive of this country in the absence of tea. Tea is the catalyst of conversation. Any conversation outside of tea is mere small talk, or, simply, the recurring, obligatory greeting (how’s your family, your husband, your wife, your siblings, your children, your neighbours, etc). Malians in my town will joke sardonically that no one can find work so there is nothing else to do, but make tea. But, they’ll also tell you seriously that tea offers the occasion to have more meaningful conversation, it opens the table for discussion. I feel that we are often told as Westerners that there are many taboo topics in Africa, particularly in regards to sex. There is always the concern that these taboos hinder development in areas such as health. I’m sure this has been very true in the past and is still very relevant in the bush. In my large town, when I sit down to have tea with a group of people, I’m asked first if I’m married as a way of gauging where the discussion can lead – in the presence of a married woman, there are topics to steer clear of, out of respect. But, I do want to point out that ‘sex as a taboo topic in Africa’ is a bit of a blanket statement. Deep in the bush, in very traditional villages, NGO’s carry out theatrical skits against female genital cutting (FGC) - or female genital mutilation, the not as politically correct term. Furthermore, in my town, when tea is present, far from finding the topic of sex taboo, I find it’s exactly what I’m often asked about. People ask me about HIV/AIDS or condoms (which pleases me because contraceptive use is something around 7% here according to a UN stat.). Or, for example, the other day I greeted a young man in passing who invited me to tea. I sat down with him and his two friends. We exchanged names. The second boy asked me ‘I furulendon’ Are you married? ‘N ma furu folo’ No, not married. (Note: all topics open for discussion.) The third gentleman asked me with sincere curiosity (and in French now), “Do you know what causes impotence in men?” Not sure if that falls under my ‘expertise’ as a health volunteer.

In addition (in this little attempt to invert the common notion of a taciturn sub-Saharan Muslim country), I should add that I can pose any question to people I feel close to. I’ve had very detailed discussions about religious beliefs, conceptions on love, opinions and practices in relation to FGC, on polygamy and relations between multiple wives. And I think I have yet to cause offense. The only barrier hindering my curiosity is my lack of proficiency in French and Bambara.

Back to tea….Malians have a very unique way with their tea. They use little glass cups, two small tea kettles, and a tray. They pour the tea into the glasses from about a few feet in the air. Then, they pour it back in the kettle, and then back into the glasses. This is repeated over and over again to create a frothy, bubbly top layer. There are 3 rounds of tea (each consisting of about 2-3 sips per person) usually over a couple hours before starting with fresh leaves. The hum of pouring, the little clank of the glasses and kettle on the tray…these sounds are so constant, that sometimes when I’m dozing, I hear them in my head even when there tea is not present.

Most afternoons I’ll take my tea in one of two places. If I’m at home, I sit outside with a couple girlfriends. I never make tea because I don’t have the technique or a steady hand. Therefore, one of my friends will make the tea, while the other shifts shells over a woven mat predicting our futures and discussing problems occurring in the present. Quite comically, not one thing said has ever been true, unless it was something that I knew was prior knowledge. More often, I spend the afternoons in my second home, with my second Malian family (just a short bike ride away). It has been my safe-haven from my first week at site. I realized recently why I feel so at home there. It's a bit of a circus; a home for misfits like myself. First of all, a female is the head of the family, which is very rare. The 63 year old slightly physically handicapped woman was my first friend here (I’ll call her Ami). She has two adult sons; one is an existentialist/humanist/Rastafarian, the other, a conservative Muslim knowledgeable in the mystics of Islam. He’s convinced I know the real name of Moses’ mother, and that if I just shared this truth, would convey onto him such power as the ability to teleport (or ‘apparate’ like in Harry Potter). Ami also has four adopted children (one, I’m told, was found buried in the dirt with just his foot exposed). Ami’s orphaned niece lives there as well; she’s a little person. Another female tenant, clearly well into her third trimester, is still denying she’s pregnant. Ami’s 80 year old mother, who recently lost her husband, is confined to the house for 4 months and 10 days (as custom dictates for widows) wearing only navy blue cloth. And finally, the latest addition to the family, a deaf mute sex worker who was arrested by the police for nearly throwing her newborn into the river. Of course, Ami has adopted her newborn as well. Then, there’s me...as I practically live there. I’m still mystified by the forces at play that have led to this random American girl to share in the life of this particular Malian town.


...one last addition...homosexuality really is a taboo topic, as are masks (that ones takes some further explanation on superstituous beliefs particular to my region). It's hard to get any opinion on the former. I asked my friend Ami her thoughts and she said she had none, that was the first time she had ever talked about it.

Ramadan

Well into Ramadan...in a Muslim country such as Mali, I would have expected to find life drastically altered on account of this ninth month of the lunar year. Certainly life has quieted (aside from the call to prayer which seems to have lengthened and amplified in sound). People are driven inside particularly when the sun is out on account of the fasting which bans drinking fluids and even swallowing one’s saliva. So I decided to fast as well for a number of reasons, mainly just to see what life's like for millions of people on this Earth right now. I have to say, it’s been a lot of fun. It’s a good conversation topic, it’s cozy eating around the communal bowl under the stars and then going back to bed, and I love getting special treatment at the end of the day when the fast is broken. We break it with some hot tea made with fresh local leaves, fried dough balls, porridge, followed by a main course. After the first day, I was told that to fast and not pray was pointless. So, I learned how to pray as well. With just the Fatiha, one surat of the Koran, its possible to pray as a Muslim. I learned the seven Arabic lines, and the rest was simple; the correct way to perform ablutions, how to dress, kneel, touch one’s head to the ground, etc.

I can only admit to adhering strictly to the traditions for one day. I woke up at 3:40am to eat, went back to sleep at 5am, was rudely awoken at 6:30am to pray again. Went back to bed, woke up at 8am to bike to work. Prayed at 2:00 and 4:30, then biked an hour back home. Broke fast around 6:45pm, prayed at home immediately after, and again around 7ish. The final prayer of the day involved me getting dressed in traditional African dress + head covering, going to mosque with some friends, and performing 17 cycles of prayer (that’s touching my head to the ground 34 times). I’d like to note that I had asked a couple imams before that day if it was disrespectful to pray and go to mosque even though I wasn’t Muslim. Their response was to the contrary.

So I was a strict Muslim for a day, which reminds me how I’ve also played the part of a Sufi and Rastafarian. Ok, I didn’t do anything Rastafarian like, except give in to a couple friends insisting on braiding my hair. It took 10 hours over three days to braid the two meters of black fake hair into my own. One of the more painful experiences of my life. I tore it all out after two weeks in a moment of fury due to the itchiness – and lost half my head of real hair along with it. Anyway, everyone in town loved it, ‘it made me look beautiful.’ Incorrect. And it's not a question of subjectivity. I looked like an aged Rasta man.

ok, here's proof:

As for the Sufi role...Sufism is a mystical version of Islam. I encountered it first in Turkey, and I believe the mainstream image of Sufism is of whirling dervishes on the Anatolian plateau. I was thus excited to learn Sufism was practiced in Mali as well. I’d been told a Sufi chief lived just outside my town so one day I decided to pay a visit. He lived in a cave and hadn’t left the immediate area for 13 years. For 7 of those years, he was supposedly solitary. But he had since gathered a following and it had developed into a Sufi camp. I found the camp after a 30 minute stroll over flat-faced rocks with views of the Niger. I met the chief, seated on a mat in front of the cave, surrounded by young pupils and stacks of Korans. It would have perfectly fit my image of some tribal area on the blurred border between Afghanistan and Pakistan, but for the cell phones and large cylindrical flourescent bulb fitted to the rock face (powered by car battery).

Anyway, the chief was dressed in white shreds of cloth and had a great head of dreads. Very friendly, unassuming guy. He invited me to join their prayer session so I followed him into a fairly large cave where 30+ men sat on sheepskins with Koranic verses in hand. The chief sat at the back of the cave and the prayer commenced. Every man was reading the verses so fast that a hypnotizing hum rose in the air. It was stifling hot inside the cave. Sweat was pouring down from under my scarf-clad head. The chief appeared to be in his own altered state of consciousness, prayer beads in hand, dazed, his head kept dropping as though he was falling asleep, the boy standing next to him fanning him with increased fervor. At varying intervals, a man would shout something and everyone crossed their arms across their chests and touched their foreheads to the ground. I’ve been back a couple times since, but just to greet the chief and his wife in particular…we’ve taken a liking to each other...or maybe she just has me in mind as the future wife of her son.

More on the month of Ramadan...
On the 10th day, began a special part of the holiday known as Sala wali wali. Not completely sure of the significance, but for three nights the streets were teeming with gangs of children. Female groups carried a simple traditional instrument – a calabash set like a half dome over a bucket of water and a stick to drum with. At each house, they would hold a short performace and, in return, were given some spare change or dry couscous. Male groups went around with their faces painted white, large sticks in hand, and gave slightly more dramatic performances. One group arrived at my doorstep dressed in drag, the plump little boy leading the song and dance was dressed as a pregnant woman. I normally never give money out, but this particular kid made me laugh so hard I thought at least he'd earned it. All in all, I’d say this was the closest equivalent I’ve seen of Halloween outside of the US, except by the third night some of the older groups had become so competitive that fights broke out in passing. Then again, I’m sure I socked my brother once over a pack of Smartie's.

As I mentioned in my first post from Mali, I am now living in a relatively large city located on the Niger downstream from the capital of Bamako. One of the main income generating activities here, besides fishing itself, is fishing for sand. Sounds odd, but everyday people drag sand and pebbles from the river to be sold later and used in construction. They heap the sand into canoes and then onto donkey carts, moving back and forth between sand bars and the bank of the river. These ‘pirogues’ or dug-out canoes dot the riverside, punting along like one does for fun on the River Cam, but here its for their livelihood. There’s this one hill top that I reach on my bike ride into town, and from this point, I look out over the river with all the activity of the pirogues and I swear I think I’m in some medieval European city...or The Merchant of Venice. Probably an inaccurate description, but that's just what comes to mind.

At my new home, in my little suburb set back in a nook of hills, there's kind of an interesting juxtaposition going on...little mix of modern and traditional living. While I have electricity and my family has a tv, a refrigerator, and a tap with potable water, I'm still 'going' in a hole in the ground, taking bucket baths in the open air, and eating out of a communal bowl with my bare hands. Well, technically, I’m eating with my right hand solely. Like in many other cultures (that tend to be Muslim), the left hand is considered the dirty hand and should never be used. I still haven't quite gotten over the one time I accidentally stuck my left hand in the millet bowl. I am sure the Malians haven’t gotten over it either….everyone around me froze, wearing the most horrified expressions of shock and disgust. I wanted to explain that I didn't wipe my behind with my hand, that I used soap besides. But I couldn't do anything except go red in the face. I knew the custom, but I just had this moment of rational thought that said, ‘you've licked your right hand at least ten times already while eating with it, your left hand is actually clean and saliva free and thus that is the one that should be used to add millet to the communal bowl.’

In an attempt to better understand the culture here (and stop making such embarrassing mistakes), I’ve been attending lots of cultural festivities. Last post, I talked about the village wedding where 14 brides were married at once and people danced to jembes and xylophones without stopping until the sun rose. I’ve been to a Spirit Possession, where people, inhabited by their demons, collapsed into convulsions or into people’s laps. At a baby naming ceremony or baptism, I found myself in the middle of a courtyard jam-packed with beautifully and colorfully dressed women…and me, in my dirty jeans in the middle of the scene, getting photographed with the newborn. I have been to my share of 'soirees' here and felt like I was almost leading a normal life. The first one I attended was a bit like a high school dance, no alcohol and a highly social parking lot scene outside the dance. Of course, it was full of motos instead of Mustangs and everyone could actually dance, except me…and as if I didn’t stand out enough already as the only white girl… the dj had to point out over the mike that a ‘tubabo’ - white person - had entered the building. The few I’ve attended since have been much more fun. I’m starting to let go, really enjoy their fast-paced pop music, and, now, that I know a few people, the shout-outs over the mike are not 'tubabo,' but rather my new name: Aminata Fofana.

Months since my last post, on the continent now, leading a very different life in many ways…where to begin? How about I jump a little farther back, with my going away party back in September. I had sent out a facebook invitation for the event themed “Madagascar – Escape 2 Africa.” My family later themed our annual holiday letter around the animated film as well – in the ‘photoshopped’ family portrait my brother so well-designed, I believe I had my arm around a cartoon giraffe. Haven't seen the film, but I understand the animals are trying to get off the island and end up 'escaping' to Africa. Turns out my party and the family holiday letter were well-themed. Not quite six months into my Peace Corps service in Madagascar, I was evacuated (along with the rest of the US mission) due to political instability. For two weeks I was pent-up in a nice hotel and B&B in South Africa; the first week in Johannesburg for thorough physical and psychological exams, the second week in Pretoria where I was told I was eligible to transfer to another position in Mali. I had no idea when or even if the program would reopen in Madagascar, but I still desperately wanted to continue with my PC service so I took the opportunity. From Jo-burg, I flew to Paris to Dakar and finally to Bamako, the capital of Mali. I was given two weeks of French language training before being dropped off at my new site a couple hours outside the capital.

Koulikoro, my new home, is a relatively large city so it’s been quite a change from my role as a village health worker. Here, I’ve been assigned to work with a Malian NGO (on a USAID-funded project). Now I have the benefits of city life – refrigeration, places to buy a plate of food, an internet café, frequent transportation and paved roads. I’m living in a family compound just outside of town in a rather affluent neighbourhood. I have two charming turquoise painted rooms with electricity and a host family that provides me with more than my basic needs. I watched the Barcelona v. Manchester United Champions league game live from the comforts of my own home…there’s an enormous rotating satellite dish in our central courtyard.

So is it a piece of cake the second time around, particularly with the bonus of some modern amenities? Not exactly. First of all, I’m a bit of a minimalist. Sure I loved watching reruns of Sex and the City with my girlfriends back home, enjoying a Chipotle burrito after a night out without having to start my own fire. But while the benefits of city life may technically increase my standard of living, they don’t actually make me happier. And besides, I was starting to feel really good about my lifestyle in Madagascar…no television or internet to deter reading, studying, and in person communication. In addition, the real peace corps challenges remain the same; trying to carve out one’s role in a new place from behind a language barrier. And this time, I’m dealing with a language barrier on two fronts.

When I was dropped off, I realized the family I was sharing a compound with spoke Bambara, not French. So this was kind of what I had actually expected of my PC experience before I entered….to be left in a community from the get-go without knowing a word of their language. Ok, I knew ‘hello’ and ‘thank you’ (you can use the same phrase for both). I figured out my family was going to a wedding in a village the following day and they invited me along. I was under the impression that we’d just be back late that night so I didn’t pack anything. Thus, began the most unsanitary and ‘speechless’ two days of my life. I didn’t have anything…a change of clothes, a toothbrush…not even what I would consider basic necessities by my standards in Madagascar: chlorine to add to the well water, something resembling soap, and something to stand in the place of toilet paper. I could have been more creative with the lack of soap and used ash, but I did conform to the plastic kettle of water used here for ‘wiping’. There were other unhygienic moments too awful to recount in a blog, but, for comparison, I can say that I was relatively unscathed/unaffected while eating with my bare hands out of a communal bowl that I saw both a donkey and a goat get a quick nibble of during its preparation.
Nonetheless, it was one of the most fascinating experiences of my life. The evening started in a tiny village of just a few family concessions. After eating, we walked to another village, where we hung out under a mango tree and ate more food. Soon, we departed for yet another village where even more people had gathered. And again, we ate. Some music was going, and we all lounged on straw mats, a traditional hunter of sorts clad completely in leather, down to the sheath of his knife was dancing independently in front of us. It was quite hypnotizing, his shadow dancing on the mud wall behind him, his movements responding to the activity around him. If someone approached him, he reacted as if they carried a gust of wind, blowing his dance steps backwards until they retreated, and he was able to draw himself back to his original position. I would have been terrified if I’d come across him alone…I could see even some youngsters were a little perturbed when they had to walk by him. Everyone then went to sleep and I followed order. Around 1:30am, I awoke and we left the village. A dancing circle had just formed and I thought we were leaving just when the party was really getting started. We walked to yet another village and in a large opening commenced a very crazed scene. Four large dancing circles formed in four adjacent areas around a couple of xylophones and calabashes. Some women carried morocco’s, some also sang. I definitely could never have kept up with the dance rings, which had some logical steps to it, so don’t get me started on the wild, free-style dancing that took place on the inside of these circles. And they didn’t stop dancing or lose any of their energy for 5 hours straight. Periodically I slept or rested on a straw mat, which at one point was visited by a scorpion that threw everyone into a frenzy. As daylight broke, the dancing ceased and we all watched as the bride made her first appearance….completely hidden under a cream-colored sheet riding away on the back of the groom's moto. Then, another moto with another concealed woman drove by. Turns out, there were actually fourteen brides married that evening. So I stood, in my sleepy stupor, watching as 12 other motos with 12 other cloaked brides emerged from the cluster of mud dwellings and took off, literally, into the sunrise.

...the beautiful scenery accompanying my evacuation hike out of site...

After an increasingly unstable political situation in Madagascar, the decision was taken to suspend the PC program here. Perhaps the last straw was when the military began to faction last week and ignore presidential orders as looting continued in the capital. The emotional impact for me was almost immediate. I was devastated I had to leave and I didn’t have the heart to tell my new friends that the chances of coming back were low. I guess I’m lucky it is not often that life altering decisions are out of my control. And of course, I’m lucky to have had the experiences I’ve had so far here. The reality is, that the people of Madagascar are the ones who will really suffer.

Despite the brevity of time spent at my site (about 3 months), I’ve become really attached to the place and been remarkably happy. The last few weeks in particular have been such a fulfilling experience. So instead of talking in detail about the evacuation process and what's next, I just want to share my last few weeks in Madagascar.

I returned from consolidation back in mid-February, deciding to put my best foot forward in terms of integration despite the precariousness of my future in Madagascar. The first night back I woke up to a rat drowning in my bucket of water. Bad omen? During that same day, I witnessed the delivery of a stillborn baby. That was hard – don’t think I’ll ever lose that image from my mind. It was the first time I had heard a woman let out a scream during the delivery – the midwife told me later that was why the baby had died…that, and poor nutrition. Aside from the single shriek, the teenage mother showed no emotion. I wasn’t sure she knew what was going on, so I made sure she couldn’t see me – I’m bad at hiding my facial expressions and I was tearing up. I don’t want to be too depressing so I should say that it reinforced my role; to work hard and keep ranting about the importance of a balanced diet, safe pregnancy, and family planning for that matter.

On to lighter topics….I was chatting to a woman who had just given birth and asked her if she had picked a name yet. She said she hadn’t, but was hoping she could give the baby girl my name. Later, while recording the baby’s full name, I told the midwife I was taken aback and a bit embarrassed by the situation. She laughed and then proceeded to tell me that while I was away a couple other babies had been named after me. Yikes. It felt wrong, but my qualms were alleviated when I found out that it was common for newborns to be given the names of those who assisted with the delivery. Of course, all I do is occasionally clothe the newborns. Though, I can say for myself, that I can now measure (approximately, and of course with a gloved hand) how dilated the cervix is and locate the baby’s head is in the birth canal.

My work is concerned with health education, which I do at the local middle school, before pre-natal consultations, vaccines, and family planning. I always feel great after delivering a solid health message or just talking with people. I really feel that after an exchange, that perhaps both parties walk away a little happier, or at least a little bit more upbeat. But, what’s made me the most fulfilled at site has been a recent development. It’s the same thing that’s always made me the happiest…soccer. I was biding my time patiently the first month as the soccer field across from my residence stood empty. First, I started playing with little kids, which I think pleased a lot of adults in the community. Kids began coming by my house nearly everyday to borrow my ball. I was trying to be a bit strict, so I’m not taken advantage of…we’re taught as PCV’s to set boundaries early. But, on the other hand, how can I deny a great quality (Mustang) ball to a couple of kids who’ve been making do with a bunch of plastic bags balled up with strings.

Anyway, I was still starving to play some real/slightly more competitive soccer so I decided to be brave and infiltrate the guys team (teens through 20’s). The boys are quicker than me, but I’m bigger and can hold them off the ball. Few have cleats of course. But like the women giving birth in this country, the boys don’t let out a peep of pain when I trample their bare feet with my cleats. I used to play barefoot as well, until I nearly stepped on a sickle while dribbling. There are always some kids who can’t play because they are busy cutting the grass for cattle feed – guess this time, one of them had decided to join and left his sickle lying around. The boys have shown no hint of discrimination or hesitation to fight with me for the ball despite that I’m the only girl, and a giant white one at that. I befriended the team captain, who often joins me and others on morning daybreak jogs, and he named me ‘mpamono’ or ‘killer,’ the equivalent of a forward or attacker. I had yet to don a jersey because the Sunday games were consecutively rained out.

Now, if you know me well, you are probably wondering why I haven’t asked ‘hey, where the girls’ team at?’ I was working on that one. I’d had several people ask me to start one, including the mayor. And honestly, I’ve been dreaming of doing that since my first day at site. Every Saturday, I was gathering a few more girls to play. Ugh, it hurts thinking about it…being forced to leave….there was such potential. May not seem like a big deal, but to be able to share something like that in the future at my site, would have made the entire experience worth it even if no one ever heeded even one of my health messages. I foresaw a future with practice sessions followed by short health presentations or life skills discussions. Ok, it hurts too much, I need to stop.

My last two weeks at site, I was starting to feel good about myself and my level of integration. When I walked around, I was comfortable and constantly greeting people I knew –women I’d chatted with at the hospital or planted rice with, students I'd taught running up to me in the street with gifts of corn, people I’d played ball with who asked to join my morning runs, other health-related workers I’d planned to join in surrounding villages to help weigh babies. It just felt like things were coming together which was probably due to my increased community exposure, particularly following March 8th, the national Women’s Day. For the celebration, I opened the series of games and dances with an official, formal speech. I was quite nervous for a number of reasons. The speech, or kabary, here in Madagascar is a very unique, revered custom...a long history, a special form, and manner of delivery. Every guide book will mention it, and how much the Malagasy enjoy listening to these long-winded speeches. Adding to the pressure, I spoke in front of hundreds of people with a megaphone following a highly embarrassing scene - an awkward dance I had to do around the new basketball court holding hands with and towering over my counterpart. My speech explained the Peace Corps mission and my role here. I began it appropriately, according to tradition, by thanking all the ‘lehibes’ or community leaders in hierarchical order. Then, it's necessary to apologize profusely for everything – for my broken ‘gasy, poor pronunciation, poor kabary-skills, even for being the youngest in my family. The rest of the speech included no less than 6 'gasy proverbs and expressions. One expression I was told I had to include on the day went something like as follows…'the female is like an ornament, the beautiful ornament of the household. Like a flower, the ornament of the earth. Like a water lily, the ornament of the pond. Like a banana, the ornament of the field. Like a necklace, the ornament of the neck.’ Certainly more eloquent if translated properly, but nonetheless you probably get the gist and realize I wasn’t too thrilled about the connotation in relation to women’s empowerment. So I followed it with my own paragraph about how women are much more than ornaments, have the same abilities as men, and that there’s nothing out of their reach because, as the 'gasy proverb goes, ‘there is nothing difficult that diligence cannot accomplish.’ I noticed a marked difference in attention and greetings, in the few days following the speech (maybe because I said in it, that I was shy, and people should feel free to greet me in the streets with a ‘Manao ahoana Mbolatiana’ – Hello Mbolatiana…that’s my ‘gasy name I go by. People can’t pronounce my name and my friend had put a lot of effort into its coining).

My counterpart and the sole doctor in A/zo. I wasn't lying about towering over everyone.

Ok, well, back to reality. I’m evacuated and I don’t know what the future holds. I’ll try to return, but I don’t know if and when that will be possible. I was in a bit of denial so on my last day, I was hanging out and making future plans with people. Those I work with were up with me the next morning before sunrise to say bye and assure me I would return soon. I started my hike out with what I could carry (and what the guy I hired could carry – a lot more than me). As if the day before hadn’t broke my heart enough, a kid sprinted to catch up to me to return the 10,000ar ($5) I had dropped in the dirt. For perspective, more than 70% of the population lives on less than $2/day. I can’t get over this poor tiny little kid returning that amount to me. Two hours outside of my town, I ran into people I knew – they told me I’d better return quickly or they’d be lonely and there would be no one to play ball with. When I reached the taxi-brousse station, I waited 6 hrs for the van to leave, but again thoroughly enjoyed the hours chatting with locals. The van decided not to leave that day, so I paid for seven seats in order to get the vehicle to depart. I hate looking like a rich vazaha/foreigner like that, but PC had insisted I get out…something about a looming military coup supposed to take place that day. Within ten minutes, the van got stuck in the mud. I had to put my raincoat on because the frame of the car was so pathetic, I was getting soaked. I chatted a bit during the journey with a nice old man who was worrying about his daughter who had just had a cesarean. When we said goodbye at the station, he suddenly broke out in English….‘Don’t forget me.’ With all the emotion and heartbreak I’d felt in the last 24 hrs, I couldn’t help but feel so strongly in that moment that he was somehow speaking to me for all of Madagascar.






Above: loved this family, girl in my arms (top left) always kept me company and taught me a lot of Malagasy.

Below: attempted channa masala for my colleagues (midwife, doctor, grounds keeper)...not bad for a meal cooked from scratch over a fire I started with matches and bamboo.