Hamiisa go no wala?

How would you determine a child’s age who has neither a birth certificate nor a vaccination record and how the father (who was probably off in Ghana trying to make a living during the birth), the grandmother, the mother and the neighbor remember the period of the birth are all different ?? You count their teeth, have them fold their left arm over their head and reach for their ear, or try to coax the information out of the family using local events (had Abdoulsalaam gotten married yet ?) and seasonal calendars (was the tabacco flowering ? Had the river dried up ? Where were the cows at the time ?) You check for contradictions (the local names of the moons change from zone to zone) and hope you’ve made a good approximation. Because when calulating various forms of malnutrition (acute/starvation, chronic/stunting and ponderal insufficience) you need height, weight AND age. Our team of surveyors, doctors and sociologues became well versed in the science of age-determination by the end of the two-week CAP (connaissances, attitudes, pratiques) survey. The « training » we had in Gao was somewhat worthless, but did give me a good refresher on college statistics…random sampling, determining sample size, bell curves…etc etc. The problem with the methodology was that the southerners (we had hired the government’s public health consultants) are used to villages that get built up around a central point. In the communes of Bamba and Téméra, the villages are split up into « neighborhoods » of 100-200 residents stretched along the river. Each village is only a few huts up from the banks, but a few kilometers long. So, the method of random sampling to which they were accostommed of finding the central point of the village, throwing a pen in the air, walking to the periphery of the village in the direction of the pen’s cap and numbering the houses as you go, drawing a number from the range of houses numerated and starting from there…wasn’t gonna fly. From the first house on, you continue to the nearest house to the right. But that too posed a problem—the « houses » (which we begun to label « economic units » because there are multiple huts/tents/structures to one family) are not in a compact area. Even near water points there aren’t really conglomerations. The river is their livelihood : rice paddy, fishing, water for cooking, cleaning, bathing, drinking. You have to live near the river. Period. « Fractions » of villages off in the dunes and pastures (herdsmen and Tamacheqs) weren’t surveyed due to their distances. We had a difficult enough time finding sleeping arrangements and clean drinking water in the more established villages ; I couldn’t imagine treking out to campements where they live off milk and pond water (if that). A pastoral/livelihoods Oxfam staff member told me he was out in the fractions during the drought of the 2004-05 season and asked for water. Among all the campement residents, they couldn’t find enough water to fill his 4L jug. The average daily need for water (and what most « Access to Water » projects target) is 15L per person. An entire village couldn’t come up with 4L !

In two weeks, we visited 26 villages, measured over 600 children under five and surveyed their mothers. The most interesting part other than testing my limits in supporting the broussey-life was investigating food security indicators (this experience has reinforced my desire to pursue a specialisation/masters in foodsec). I’d always try and get the chance to chat with some of the mothers after the survey about their livelihood, well, if they didn’t run away from me! We had a few women who had probably never seen a foreigner let alone one who speaks their language. These informal discussions allowed me to learn that, for example, the sheep get woozy when they eat the tobacco. Bamba is the largest tobacco producing region of Mali—a cash crop for the families and one of the few agricultural jobs sonrai women manage entirely from planting the seedlings in the rich mud along the bank of the river to de-flowering, harvesting, drying and pounding the leaves. I found that there is no lack of protein in the diets due to a constant supply of fish and therefore it is a poor indicator of a good or bad year (the question posed was how many days of the week the “economic unit” eats meat or fish). Most of the families rely on wild crops—barley, bourgho grass and its grain, water lillies (flower, stalk, root and grain found in the bulb are all consumed), and burrs. When the birds eat the rice seedlings, the population will still eat the paddy (what’s left of the grain). One mother told me, Zankey ma duu ka dungay. She looks to keep her children quiet with what they can find and nothing more. The state food-sec annual analysis found both Bamba and Téméra as food secure— with Bamba fairing slightly better. The problems we found weren’t directly related to quantity, quality or frequency. No, they were structural problems such as dikes that break every year leading to flooding of the traditional paddies, a lack of irrigation (they just wait for the river water to flow into the paddy after planting in October), and grain storage. Even when it’s a good year, said one woman, they’ll just eat more. There is no sense of saving up for next year in case of a bad harvest. One of the better indicators of a good or bad year we found was the selling of animals. The sonrai only sell animals as a last resort. Their herds are their pension plan. So in a sense, they do have savings, it just moos and has four legs and can die if there’s not enough pasture or water.

Once again, I found that Mariama Cissé, the white woman who speaks koyraboro senni, is very well known from Titilane to Gareygoungo (villages along a 45km stretch of the Niger). In Zamane, women from the village came to dance and play the nzarka for me. After having introduced the methods of the survey and the Oxfam project on the radio in Téméra (the commune next door to Bamba) with the help of the mayor, we could say that stretch has now expanded to 75km. I was impressed with Téméra : nearly all of the villages were informed of our schedule and many women had their child’s birth certificate and vaccination information in hand upon our arrival. And this was without the aide of our trained village health workers ! People say it is a less politicized commune and people are more open to helping us help them.

All the surveyors and I got along well—always joking and telling stories as we travelled from village to village. Crossing into the gourma (always the territory up from the right bank of the river as it flows) of Hamgoundji, the chief arranged a canoe for us. As the river water is drying up, our larger pinasses have to fandi farther and farther from the villages. Our canoe, though a long-boat with a shallow hull, got stuck in the mud and bourgho roots. So we had one of the larger surveyors get out. On the way back, he insisted on helping the child pole the canoe along. Of course he got off balance and fell in. We couldn’t help but laugh at him, a chain smoker, throw one-by-one, his soaked cigarettes into the chanel. Walking back from the second chanel to the island where we had lunch cooking, I got covered in mud up to the knee provoking various comments of how Mariam is getting broken in (as if I hadn’t already lived here for 2 ½ years). « Baa ni ga jiiri fo teeeeee haro raaaaa, ni si ni darbaway naaaaang jeso gaaaaaa » was their taunt that they’d continuously sing for the rest of the survey : « Even if you keep swimming in the water for a year, you don’t forget your clothes on the shore when you get out. » That is to say, even if I’m well-adjusted, speak koyraboro senni, accept to eat greasy rice-shuck (not the grain, but what’s left of the grain after pounding it to open the husk), and bathe in the river, I’m still an anasara and I can always go back to the Good Life.

Finding our lunches and dinners was always interesting. The question « Hamiisa go no wala ? » became somewhat of a greeting for us : as soon as we anchoered at a village, we’d yell out to see if there was fish to be had. On market day, we ordered a sheep by phone. In the middle of the Niger, I placed the call back to our driver in Téméra. Often, the villagers would make us labbadja, one of my favorite sonraï meals, consisting of rice piled high with roasted sheep or goat and smothered in fresh cow butter. Though most of the time for lunch, in the name of finishing off a « grappe » (the sample of kids necessary for that village), we’d just get tomatoes from a nearby garden—in one village there were tomatoes the size of softballs—and make cold porridge from dried manioc powder.

The southerners were used to families serving as one grappe. But here the norm is less of polygamous marriages, and women often only have 1 to 2 children. Though that isn’t to say she hasn’t tried for more. Even with most of the women answering they had been pregnant 5-7 times (the average in Mali), the majority only had 2 living children. We did come upon one island near Téméra of fishermen which was two brothers, their wives and all their children and grandchildren, coming to a total of 83 people. The two brothers had originally come up from Ségou (5 hrs from Bamako). We quickly finished our grappe that day.

Since the survey, the temps we hired from Gao still greet me in town and typically yell out « Wa’dungay ! Dungay ! » Because while out in the boat on a particularly blustery day I was nervous of capsizing and was calling out to the pinassier to determine whether or not we should keep going but couldn’t hear, so I was yelling at the team for silence. They’ll never let it go. One said to me he had never seen an Anasara so afraid before. Especially an anasara who knows how to swim traveling by a pinasse conducted by a descendent of the sorkos who traditionally are friends of the water spirit, talk to the hippos and know how control the currents of the river.

Those currents will soon change with the construction of a dam between Bourem (the circle seat) and Téméra. The water level behind the dam will rise, consumming all the islands of Bamba and Téméra and most of the houses along the banks. Meaning the large portion of the population will be forced to relocate up into the dunes. Though the dam will bring irrigated fields, eventually, the livelihoods of these people are entirely dependent on what they grow in the flood plain and the islands. Can the sandy soil of where they’ll relocate to produce enough ? Will the state actually pay for new homes ? When asked what they think of the changes to come, most of the villagers replied, « God will help us».

Irkoy m’ir kul faaba indeed…

The Things They Carried

I do believe the number of motos in the capital has increased noticeably since I've been here. Especially the Chinese made "Jakarta" motos. I can't imagine what it would be like to a Malian, like the one who I met in CDG, who had left for France in 1988 and hasn't been back until now. What amuses me are the items one frequently sees being carried/dragged with a moto:

- The family (Mommy, Daddy, and three kids)

- A sappling

- Meters and meters of rebar, dragging behind, sending up sparks

- A HUGE mess of bean leaves

- A sheep

- Crate of bread

- 4 chickens

- A 4m plank of wood

Aw bissimilah!

From the moment I heard the loud Ivorian music and Bambara, I knew I was already almost home. And this was only in the CDG gate for the flight to Bamako.

There's the good: Lebanese falafel and silly Bambara women amused with me for trying to speak their language while buying bananas (100F for 3!!) or flip flops, warm sunshine (not too hot yet!) and cute babies...and the Bad: open sewage, mosquitoes, scary taxi drivers (um, **thanks** for the statistic on car accident related fatalities abroad, Kev) and barely breathable air...but at least most of those things I only have to deal with here in the capital.

Thanks to both the Malians and the dear citizens of Awesomeland for sharing me!!

Awesomeland

Have you ever been in McDonald's and at a loss for what to order?

Been startled at the automatic toilet flushing as you stand up?

Paid $5 for a chocolat chaud and realized you could have lived a couple days off that?

Been wide-eyed in a shopping mall?

Been appalled at the size of portions and then making 3 meals of it?

Thought how delicious some people would find that nice, fat cat who was voguing on the sidewalk?

Been amazed at the choices of wild rice in the supermarket?

Giggled at the cowboys stepping out of their truck in button-up shirts, jeans and boots when you are FREEZING pumping the gas in 3 layers, a hat, mittens and a turban in Somwhere Off of I94, MT?

Been unable to pick first which margarita (out of 8 flavors), then what kind of salsa (at least 20 options from mild to spicy, fruity or sour), then what kind of meat (ground beef, chicken, pulled pork, vegetarian, or spicy marinated beef), what kind of beans (black or pinto) and finally, unable to say if you were ready to pay the bill or not?

Pausing, then realizing that it was the number of white people on the bus with you that was different?

Forgetting to close cupboards and to turn off the oven?

Using the affirmative "ayyo" to agree with someone or say "diplôme" for diploma and ONG for NGO?

If you have had these feelings, don't hesitate to talk to your doctor today. These are signs of the common syndrome known as readjustment. Call today about readjustment and how we can help...umm...I believe I have watched too much tee-vee lately...

It has been an interesting month experiencing the US on home leave--most accented by realising the vast amount of choice one has in the states.

Time with family and friends has been so incredibly wonderful. I've realized me and my friends have grown up a bit in the last 3 years and yet it seems as if it was just yesterday I flew off to Mali. And the parents...well, they've adopted certain habits I find quaint. Like watching the News Hour with Jim Lehrer during dinner, facebooking, and rotating who does the daily Sudoku Calendar page. Above all, the scrabbling, the laughing, the church-going, the eating of ice cream, the joys in playing "I opened my grandmother's trunk..." and "Hide n' Seek" with young cousins, and the hugging have given me the strength and love I need to keep going. Thanks!

Here a liver, there a liver

The walk over to Diallo's house the morning of Tabaski was not for the faint of heart. Everyone had been to mosque for the mass-prayer and had already sacrificed their sheep. Therefore, it was a matter of dodging pools of blood and various entrails in the road as I made way through the Château d'Eau neighborhood in my basin dress all nicely embroidered and shiny. It's fun to suppay for festivals.

The only frustrating part of the day was because Orange (cell phone service) has already been difficult lately, and everyone and their mother was calling relatives to wish them kaa yeesi (literally, "may the new year come"), I was unable to talk to most of my friends and family. Aliou had smartly called the night before, and I finally got through with Albekaye (Bamba), Bébé (Ansongo) and Kanté (Bamba) today. Mostly, the greetings go something like this: 

War kaa yeesi! May the new year come!

War kaa yeesi, m'ir alhaanan! Yes, may the new year come and may God pardon us!

Irkoy m'ir cebbe yeesi! Irkoy m'ir dam tamawey ra kang ga dii yeesi! 

May God show us the new year! May God favor us as a part of those who see the new year!

War ma hansa k'ay alhaanan. Pardon me.

Man ay jingar gooro? Now, where's my gift?

I gave out 10F pieces to kids and some milk/tea/sugar "baskets" to others. 

Diallo and I celebrated and ate sheep meat with his friends, mostly from the hospital. Then we greeted his cousin in the 8th neighborhood and got a leg of sheep. We greeted a PCV over there and we found out Diallo happened to have delivered his host mom's twins. We spent the afternoon digesting and then cooked up our sheep leg into a yummy soup for me, Diallo and two other PCVs. As we were eating, we heard a Tamacheq band tune up, and therefore headed over to watch. I enjoy Tamacheq music as opposed to Takamba (Sonraï) because of the use of guitar. And it was fun to see all the ladies in beautiful tungus (full body wraps). 

The following morning my neighbor gave me another portion of sheep meat and though I graciously accepted I am still wondering what I should do with it. I can't just give raw meat to a garibou...

I would have to say this was the most enjoyable of Tabaski's because it was more low key but I still managed to greet and suppay and thank God for all the happy I have in my life right now. 

Yalla! Yalla! Yalla!

I was entirely all too amused by the SONEF (Société Nema et Frères) bus coordinator who boarded on the checkpoint leaving Bamako. He was definitely Arab (the company is based in Gao and run by N. Malian Arabs) and yet spoke Bambara, Sonrai, French, and a little English. He was yelling at people (yalla! yalla! yalla!) trying to get them to get off and on smoothly to make last minute purchases. I only wanted to buy a water but the door was blocked by all the vendors yelling: Bene be! Bene be! Jisuman Jiiiiiiisuman! Buru be, keme ni mugan! (Get your seasame seeds! Cold water, cold cold water! Bread here, 600F!) and so I say to the guy, "Ah, I'm afraid to get off!" In sonrai. And he responds, "Yalla!" And practically pushes me out the door. I buy my water and get back on, only having to tell one pushy vendor off and yell at a guy trying to speak to me in English to get me to buy his ticket. Soon the animated bus coordinator was taking money for tickets, and trying to prevent anyone else from leaving...so when I tried to help the elderly Peuhl behind me buy some bread I was swiftly rejected. Goro! Sit! Then another Peuhl got on the bus and headed toward the back. The prendtigi (ticket taker/baggage handler) didn't hear the Arab guy's calls for the gentleman's name, so he just goes, "Oh, well it's a Peuhl, Diallo it is. Yes, Sidi Diallo. Voilà." Everyone was ready to go and so the Arab yelled to us a few benedictions in Sonrai, "May you all arrive safely! May God protect even the Bambara's on board!" 

I heart companies run by Northerners...Yalla!

Irkoy m'ir faaba nda gaham baani foonda!

"May God help us on the road to good health!"

Those were my "last words" at every site where our theater troupe performed during the last 3 weeks. I got warm fuzzies when later, sitting in a meeting with our Programme Manager and ECHO Coordinator, when the PM suggested as a Sonraï title "Baani foonda" for the Projet Intégré Eau et Nutrition...it's so fitting because it already came naturally as a theme for the project. And baani means health, peace, happiness; foonda can mean road or means--so it is exactly what we preach, you find the means to peace and happiness through good health!

The theater festival which I had been preparing since August went incredibly well. Outside of generator issues, communication to chefs (aside from litterally sending a child to give a heads up to the villages...the word just doesn't spread even with radio announcements, a communiqué by the mayor's office, letters to the schools, phone calls etc etc), and the fatigue of the actors, I was impressed. We built the troupe from the ground up. Meaning even content--health messages they were communicating for us--had to be taught to them first. Since the whole troupe aside from the organiser is illiterate, that meant creativity. I recorded a series of cassettes with the necessary information and we practiced practiced practiced. I enjoyed how kids would perch up on the 2m wall to watch practices and already began to sing the educational songs we wrote before the performances began. 

My favorite moments were seeing the evolution of the troupe. They really began to play off of each other. Especially the two girls--I was worried about them in the beginning because of their shyness and giggles but they convinced me by the end. I also enjoyed how the comedy just continued to grow. By the last show on the island of Bania (the Niger is very very wide for the 75km stretch in the commune of Bamba) the father character was just hamming it up making jokes about his wife; the other father added an element of jealousy when he found his friend speaking with his wife about the health of their kids; the two wives discussing porridge began to ask why it isn't their hubbies who get busy and do some of the work (Fact: when speaking with a women's group in Kermanssawe, a woman said, "for every month a man works, a woman works 3"). The doctor character mastered his monologues--he was the key player in the troupe to get our messages across. 

Now, they want more trainings including literacy classes, health/hygiene basic training, and music lessons. Working with youth is so encouraging because they are so excited to learn. I really think it will be possible to create an orchestre de Bamba with traditional instruments--drums, guitars, nzarka violins, gourd drums, etc. Because half the troupe also animates on the radio, we have great potential to cut an educational cd and play it around the commune, maybe the region. 

I enjoyed getting to know the troupe (when you rehearse and then travel by boat together from village to village for 3 weeks you get close) and it was touching when I came back to see the last show in Bania (I had to go back to Gao to work at the office before going back out en brousse) the two girls came running down the dune to meet me at the river's edge with hugs. I love my job.