Garibou assillaaaaaama!

I often write about the concept of solidarity. But there is one aspect of Malian culture that’s not so “solid.” Talibizey as they are called in Gao, are garibou, or young students of the Koran who study under a Maribou. To learn humility and to gain their daily bread, they are forced to beg door to door for either a portion of cooked food, some grain or a few coins. Whatever they earn they are instructed to bring back and share with all the other garibous and of course so that the Maribou can take his share. Certain harsher Maribou will chain hands or feet of garibou who ate from their bowl before returning to the house, which makes it all the more difficult for them to beg the next day. They are often filthy, and I was particulalry appalled once when, for lack of a hand washing bowl, a group of men filled a garibou’s bowl with water, rinsed their hands, and began to eat.

Garibou literally means “foreigner” in Arabic. In Islamic teachings, Muslims are to feed, house, and clothe any “strangers” who come by. Though, it is understood that if you stay longer than three days, you are considered to no longer be a foreigner.

The problem in Mali, aside from harsh treatment of legitimate garibou, is that there are many children (almost all boys) who are sent away (or who run away) who know nothing of the Koran yet beg just like the garibou do. This is why often Aliou would demand the garibou to recite the Koran before giving anything. Non-garibou would then be comically teased until Aliou thought they had earned their dinner. For example, Aliou would ask Dave if this was the little punk who threw the rock at him today (untrue of course) and Dave would exclaim, “Yeah, yeah that’s the one, get him!” The garibou would promptly run out of the courtyard. Similarly, if Aliou would call to Zubbu to bring a nice, sharp knife, for garibou liver is what would cure his child’s sickness, the garibou would also run (screaming sometimes) from the courtyard. Because, even in Ansongo, most of the garibou were originally from Gao gourma (the villages on the right bank of the river or as it flows between Gao and Ansongo, the West bank), Aliou would quiz them on exactly where they were from or who their father’s father is. Once, a garibou thoroughly confused by the barrage of questions, ended up telling us he was from both the West and East banks of the river. Right. Once, Aliou found a garibou from his village of Boya (commune of Gabero in the gourma), and began to feed him well. He was surprisingly a legitimate talibize.

When I was at restaurant recently in Douentza, coming back from Timbuktu with CARE, ATN Plus, and Nouveaux Horizons staff, we were appalled by the behavior of the town’s garibou. These were surely not students of the Koran. When one table had finished their bbq’d meat, the server held up the pile bones on a platter to keep it from the groping hands of almost 20 garibou. Almost each one got a bone that they started to happily gnaw on. Mahamane turns to me and says what a tragedy these garibou/beggars are. Why can’t an NGO (or the government) build centers to house and feed them and teach them a skill. Another colleague commented that if the system continues, these beggars, once adults, would also send their children out to beg. I understand certain families cannot afford to take care of all of their children, or in the case of an orphaned child, take him or her in because their parents were relatives. It is the norm, but it is not easy. Therefore, though to most Malians it is culturally appalling, I find it necessary to started building orphanages/vocational training centers for these unwanted kids. In the case of the talibizey who are trying to learn the Koran, there needs to be a system of community involvement to support the Maribou in taking care of his students. Buddhism also promotes begging and a simple life in order to learn humility; nevertheless, in learning this lesson, these children shouldn’t have to act like dogs. 

At peace in my skin

One of the most important things my fiancé has helped me to understand is why people call me anasara or tubob. Greetings are incredibly important here. So important, if you don’t greet someone, they think you are mad at them, not just that you forgot to greet them or didn’t notice them passing by. Even before buying something you have to go through the greetings—from their spouse and children to the state of their cows. Additionally, ethnic identity is still very strong here—and relatedly, family names carry much more significance than they do elsewhere. Often when greeting, people address each other by their family name. If they don’t know the person’s name, they’ll address them by the name the most common to the ethnic group (Bambara = Coulibaly, Peuhl = Diallo, Songhoy = Maïga). If a person greets someone not from their ethnic group, they will call out the name of the ethnicity. Therefore, Diallo is often greeted as fula ce ! (among Bambaras) and fulan aru ! (among Songhoy). And I am greeted equivalently as tubob or anasara. It’s not meant to be a slur because I’m white, but merely a way to classify and greet me. 

During the lunch break of the training I was in Monday and Tuesday, one of the trainers asked me if I get bother by people refering to me as anasara (just before my colleague had told the server the anasara doesn’t eat that much, so don’t fill her plate). I said it used to bother me but no longer does because I’ve come to realize that everybody uses certain terms to identify and refer to people here. I think it only becomes a problem when people use the terms to generalize about certain ethnicities and do so out of the context of joking cousins (for example, the artisan who made our wedding rings is a Peuhl of the blacksmith class of forgerons who joke with Peuhls, so he joked about the significance of my fiancé’s small fingers and the fact that all Diallo’s are traitors). Sadly, two groups excluded from the joking cousins/ethnicities (Diarra’s joke with Traoré’s, all Dogon joke will Songhoy, etc) are the Touaregs and the Bella. These are the only two groups I’ve heard being seriously slurred against here in the North. And they are the ones you hear about most on RFI. 

West African French, quoi

The more time I spend around French people (or other Europeans who speak French) the more I realize I speak very West African French. And evidently the mélange with local languages is even more noticeable in Côte d'Ivoire. 

On est ensemble, the subject of my last entry, is a quintessential West African French phrase having largely to do with the fact that it represents the Neighborhood Watch aspect to the culture here. It’s not really used in France in this sense, probably because the system of solidarity isn’t as strong in the West (I know, I know, France is in fact north northeast of Mali).

Présentement  is widely used to say "currently" but French people find it awkward. Maybe this too is a result of me using the equivalent to "presently". Usually, when searching for a word I don’t know, I say the english word with French pronunciation (especially if the word is more than 3 syllables long) and it works. In this case, it doesn’t.

On est où là ? Literally meaning "One is where ?", has become a greeting or a way to warm up a crowd. It doesn’t really mean anything. But it became popular in the West African hour of guests and music on RFI at 21H10 because the Sénégalese host uses it profusely. 

Peinturer  in West African French means "to paint". However, they took the actual verb peindre and made it into an easy to congugate regular –er verb. So instead of being lazy and saying Le nouveau maire a coupé tous les arbres dans la cour de la mairie et peinturé le batiment conformément à son hôtel (true story), you should say Le maire a peint la mairie desagréablement.

Often, to designate an event or action that has not happened yet but is expected to happen, West Africans say, Je n’ai pas fini à préparer d’abord. I thought this was perfectly acceptable French. It is not. I have now learned that the construction comes from Bambara (or the more widely spoken sister language of Dioula), in which for an action that has not yet occured you simply tack on folo to the end of the sentence. Folo translates best to d’abord. But, a proper French housewife would use encore to say she has not yet finished cooking : Je n’ai pas encore fini à préparer. 

Quoi is added at the end of phrases so often it's become a habit, quoi. Similar to "like" in English. While watching Bienvenue Chez les Chtis, I found that it is also used in this north northwestern French dialect. To the point where a southerner gets quite confused and the two actors get into a loop much like a "Who's on First?" bit. Quoi literally means "what" and therefore, with the intonation of the Chtis, it is as if you are always asking a question rather than confirming a statement. Here, there is no confusion over intonation, so it becomes an extraneous word at the end of phrases, as in, Je vais terminer ici, quoi. 

On est ensemble

On est Ensemble is a West-African French phrase which literally means « We’re together » but more figuratively speaks to the system of solidarity that is deeply imbedded in the culture.

For example, when I forgot to grab money out of my safe for the week, I found myself broke, 4km away from home, and with a blazing sun outside. Lunch costs 500F ($1,20). But I didn’t even have a 5F piece on me. So when I went to our usual restaurant, I asked the lady if I could pay tomorrow. She gave me a heaping plate of rice and red-fish sauce and said, On est ensemble. You don’t let your neighbor go hungry here. It’s one of the aspects I like most about Malian culture—even if it may cause a certain level of indolence.

 

 

Human Universals

First rain in Gao and I discovered another human universal: kids love to puddle stomp. 

In the Road

Though it is tiring to be going around town on a bike—from my house along the river to work one way is over 4km—I enjoy how it allows me to observe and interact with people, especially the kids:

"Ni go foonda ra !" I said to a toddler IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD, he looks up at me and starts to bawl. A young woman comes over and says his mother was out and there was no one looking after him.

"Nice rhythm" I shout over to a kid, who, surely sent by his mother to get water, was sounding out beats on the 4 over turned 20L water jugs strapped over his shoulders. I sure hope he wouldn’t be the only one carrying that load back…

One toddler pulling another out ofthe way of a speeding moto by the back of his oversized shirt.

Pays Dogon

The Dogon are a people unique to Mali. It is said they sought refuge from wild beasties in the cliffs of the Bandiagara Escarpement when it was still a forested region. Now, you can see the desert approaching once you descend the fallaise into the plain where dunes encroach from the northeast. The Dogon chased out the Pygmies (who liked the forest and therefore ran off to the Congo River basin) and settled in villages along the 200km escarpement. With the Peuhls to their west, on the top of the ridge and in the plains beyond, the Dogon were introduced to Islam but have generally held fast to their animist beliefs. Many villages still retain their traditional religious chiefs who are in contact with the Creator, Ogon (all this I learned from our guide and from what my fiancé had learned in school, so forgive me if there are errors) ; though, in nearly every village we visited there was a Catholic mission and often schools supported by the Church. Still, we chanced upon a traditional mask ceremony for two funerals. 

When there is work to be done in the fields, people who pass away are burried but there is no passing ceremony to recognize their accomplishements. These two elders were very accomplished and therefore merited an elaborate ceremony. Women born during the Dogon fête of the year become the master of the ceremony. They hold large, decorated calabashes (gourd spoons) and are the only ones allowed to dance along with the masked men. Each mask represents either fertility (these male dancers are equiped with breasts), rain, hyenas, lions, hunters, and life (the tallest of them all…this dancer must have an amazingly strong neck to raise and lower the tree-trunk of a mask attached to his head). The men drink millet beer before starting the ceremony and a few dancers had to be removed from the circle for drunkeness. I was amused by certain more modern decorations on the masks : colored plastic mirrors, « Nihe » sneakers, and other « chinoiseries ». The rest was made from Baobab and monkey-fruit wood, grass and natural dyes. 

The Baobabs of Pays Dogon are huge and numerous. You can see the scars from where bark was harvested for masks and uses in the home (rope or baskets). The trees really do resemble a tree pulled up roots and all and planted upside down. One of my favorite quotes from the trip was to Diallo as he sat under the shade of a Baobab : « Hey, does this thing that resembles a Peuhl speak Fulfulde? » (a Poullo woman passing by selling milk). He responded in Fulfulde, of course, and we decided to buy some milk. From then on we refered to him as « this thing here ». It was interesting to see him playing tourist in his own region. He had never visited Dogon Country before and enjoyed himself. 

The hiking wasn’t so rigourous, but on the way back you end up scalling the escarpement quite quickly (it’s no more than a 1km climb) so a few in our group got vertigo. The force of the wind made some passes precarious, particularly how it has over the years carved rocks down to perfectly round boulders wedged into crevasses just waiting to fall on the innocent passerby…we had difficulty imagining how the Dogon lived in the cliffs (the oldest villages were literally caverns dug out from the cliff face)—how would they have transported water ? How did they use the toilet ? We joked how the sleep walkers of the tribe most certainly had been selected out. Our guide explained the Dogon knew how to fly and therefore the height of the cliff posed no problem. That was how they beat the former Pygmy dwellers of the region. To us, it was certainly a task to climb through the villages to reach areas reserved for the religious chiefs. Each village has a meeting shelter/hangar (still used today) to settle disputes and discuss village matters. The roof is so low no one can get angry and abruptly stand up to intimidate others. Plus, most of these structures were carefully constructed along cliff edges to be more visible to passerby ; therefore, making a ruckous would also result in a tumble. I was amused by a c.1904 French oil canister turned into a drum. There were often signs explaining local laws such as « No widowers allowed for three years » and you have to wonder what dispute that sign settled. We also noticed the Dogon sensibly had houses for the women to retreat to each month. I wonder what has changed in society that women no longer get 5 days to themselves each month?? 

The populations were very accostommed to tourists. Especially the children. We were left alone for the most part, though were still asked to buy things or to give them things. Craig enjoyed beat-boxing with the kids, leading them in rhythms and songs as we hiked along the base of the plateau to our campement. We asked a few students to show us their notebooks. A 4th grader couldn’t answer simple questions in French nor write clearly. It seems they focus on local language and teach it orally reminding me if Mali wants to truly be independent of aide they need to improve basic education first. We especially enjoyed observing the daily work : drying and pounding onions into balls to store them all year (a Frenchman introduced this type of onion to the area and it grows in abundance); watering of gardens with gourds ; pounding millet ; cloth dying (I bought some indigo) and guiding. We ran into many other tourist groups with their guides. I hope to go back and hike for more than two days, possibly towards Sangha and the north part of the escarpement. There is certainly more to discover, particularly about the regions geology. The guide explained it was underwater, then a forest, and now it is slowly being turned into desert. But much of the rock and its coloring led us to believe there was volcanic activity. Pumice and other igneous rock doesn’t just fall from the sky. But, to support the guide, there was a lot of evidently sedimentary stone with bits of shell and evidence of sealife petrifed. I can believe why Pays Dogon is the most visited area of Mali : beautiful terrain, interesting culture and great trails. The people for one, yeech ! A bunch of donkeys ! 

I’m sorry, as a koyraboro, in the name of joking cousins, I just had to. 

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. 

Ganda hasaraw

Man ti koyra no. This isn’t a village, says our agent. I am so tired it’s not even funny. And feeling ill. The stress, the work, the people! Ah! The secretary general at the mayor's office comes to ask one of our staff members to go out in our boat to wish a family well—one of the counsellors to the mayor died in Bahondo. And yet when the 1er adjoint asked me last Wednesday, I said no because our boat conductors are already exhausted and we have the big theater festival coming up. Still, they come and ask someone else, more forgiving, and of course he not knowing my refusal earlier, said ok. But it was up to them to find gas. So the secretary approaches me this evening to say there is NO gas in Bamba and was hoping I could loan him 7L and he’ll reimburse it later. I pause and call an agent for advice. The secretary leaves the courtyard. The gas vendor, whose house I was in cause he rents to one of our agents, and with whom I work to organize the youth and the theater festival, comes over to tell me the secretary 1) told him to lie to me and say if I ask, that there is no gas in Bamba; when in fact there is easily a 1000 liters he could have tonight and 2) that the secretary would never reimburse the gas he just wants to get it for free. When we’re already giving him the boat which I didn’t even want to do in the first place. If you give a jackal a baby goat’s leg…

Then the artist troupe who did our launch (very well I could add) is still complaining to everyone and their mother about the fact that we gave the theater festival contract to local youth. It's called capacity building my dear friend. 

Later in the evening, I called over one of our comediens to help get the panels (huge informational signs we'll be putting up in the villages) from the boat in from Gao to the courtyard. He does it semmingly for free. Then he asks me later if it is me or the boatman who will pay him…gah, and another comedien told me today ay ga baa afor??? Me? I like it easy?? Nooo….ce n'est pas possible!

At least me and the agents get along. They make me laugh. Two of the male agents had gone out in search for food because I was on strike as the cook--just too tired and busy really, but we have a good time with it--and stopped by where I was eating to see where I was. Well, I happened to be enjoying tigadege with Ami…she welcomed him to the bowl, but like a small child he said ay ši shrugging the one shoulder. No. 

Back at the house I tell Ami, much to everyone's amusement, ganda hasaraw with those two out and about disturbing the peace!

I'm starting to see why my people back in Ansongo warned me about Bamba...

Sensitizing

It’s as if everywhere I go now I give a little health talk. The woman who makes fries for the school kids to snack on (and who is the treasurer for Bamba's Comité de Gestion de Pointe d'Eau) called me over as I was on my way to the radio. Soon there is a small gathering of women on the way back from the market. An elderly woman asks me what is wrong with her pregnant daughter who doesn’t see well at night. Vitamin A deficit! Tati Cissé, the fry lady, gives most of the health talk. Evidently she studied in Gao under the Red Cross when they were here (during the 80s famine maybe?) Then the old woman asks about dried mangoes. I guess they heard about them on the radio and didn’t understand so they want to hear more. Cool. I explained that you soak them in water after drying them really really well and eat them. Or pound them into a powder and mix into a bita for kids. Yum! I love it when people are eager to learn...because sometimes I feel I must be like a broken record: wash wash wash your hands hands hands with with soap soap soap soap soap...

NB: Does anyone else find the idea of "sensitizing" disturbing? It is the direct translation from the French sensibilisation which is my work here...health talks and radio shows and theater etc etc. But I can't help but think of little white lab mice getting injections when someone says sensitize. And yet "awareness campaign" is too awkward. Maybe I'll start encouraging people to use "canvassing" in financing proposals...

Market Day

The prehistoric bellows of the camels gathered just beyond the courtyard wall reminded me it’s market day in Bamba. I decided to conduct a market survey to determine this year’s prices in comparison to last year. Rice, millet, meat, yams, oil, onions, almost everything has gone up substantially in price. Still, there is a lot available for the moment, especially with the new harvest of rice coming in. I learned the word for blowfish “talibonbon” which is pricy here compared to the tilapia or catfish. I ended up at my Spice Ladies to chat for a bit in the shade. Leleisha and her mom Aminata are great fun. Other women gathered, and I ended up giving a talk on bouillie enrichie. I really enjoy my work!! It gives me such energy to be with the people learning about them, speaking and hearing their worries and ideas. Everyone seems to know me here. But sadly I don’t often recognize people. The woman who made my beaded headband came up to see me as I was buying some charcoal, and said her child died. She said she had tried to look for me but I had gone back to Gao. When? It was after my last trip here—early this month. I asked if she had gone to the CSCom. Yes, but it didn’t help. What could I have done?? That is the sad thing, my skin color gives people the idea I am able to fix everything. Even extremely ill kids. Sadly, no.

With my market purchases I made for the first time fakuhoy. That'd be the classic koyraboro black, viscous sauce made from the faku leaf found in the bush of northern Mali. And it was delicious.

Just like new

First, Happy Birthday Boy! And he was all nice and called me...but at the time I was helping explain the pompe à corde (a new low-cost technology Oxfam is introducing to the region) to the visitors. Our mission coincided with the arrival of 4 Oxford/London Oxfam workers. So I had a jolly good time explaining northern culture, Bamba and our projects. And lots of official meetings and translation so they could collect their testimonies! It’s nice even at the point where I am in my service and understanding of Malian life/politics, I am still learning new things. 

We heard nzarka music (a traditional violin) at Temera/Takamba (evidently the origin of the dance). We drank mangshi and ate borgho hawru because that is all our host family had--both are made from the seeds of the river grass which grows wild in the shallows. I bathed in the garden at sunset with river water--also a first and I hope I let it sit long enough to let the ick settle. One of the younger Brits brought his trumpet and the kids loved it. Then even a few tried playing and got some sound out of it! Ah, cultural exchange. When in Bamba we got to see a kamba hooray a rhythmic clap/stomp dance only performed by the former slave-class. The participants organise themselves in a circle and chant and clap. A few go to the middle to dance--where often the women go into trance. It was interesting hearing the mayor's wife's descriptions of who was leading the rhythm, the pairs of dancers (one was mother-son, her only child, a rarity) and which of the women often go into trance. Luckily, no one did, otherwise we would have been there all night! 

The guests got some great interviews with leaders and chiefs and people affected by Oxfam’s work. At the CSCom, I almost died when the president of the comité de gestion asked, "Wait, what does Oxfam do in our CSCom?? We don’t work together…do we?" Gah! At least Moustaph, the nurse had good, informed commentary to make because he's the one we directly work with. But it baffles me there is not more communication between management and service. I feel like a lot of what we do here is contingent on the internal funtioning of the government offices/services. We're starting to talk about good governance and transparency, but before most offices get a complete make-over, I feel like the information, though important, will fall on deaf ears. The way the system is currently organized props up the corrupt officials at the top, so why would they want anything to change?

A genral theme was the difficulties this year caused by last year’s poor harvest and that people’s animals were dying for lack of food. Often, Bamba folk are only eating one or two meals a day. But it will get better they said, soon, when the rice comes in. The women’s groups were a disaster because they ALL came when in essence the guests only wanted a few testimonies. So politically charged here! And of course the mayor’s wife wanted to be interviewed. We ended up in small focus groups. Sadly, she was with our group. And she was definitely influencing answers. Then she brought up the coordination of women—to which not all groups belong. I don't think I’ve never heard so many raised voices arguing in Sonrai and French and Tamacheq! At least as one of the Oxford visitors commented, the women are active and vocal!! Though, as usual the men came in to sort things out. And I was reprimanded by the chef during the opening meeting (me and our agents, with the mayor and his counsellors, plus the guests at the front of the room on chairs facing the women waiting on mats) for not translating everything he was saying. I was, really...it's just that he kept repeating how difficult life is here and how much they need help. We know. As soon as the men left, the women became talkative despite my entreaties for them to contribute to the opening commentaries. Despite my ability to cross lines through language and the fact that they see me as a koyra izo I'm still identified as siding with the power brokers. After the dust settled, the Tamacheq and Bella women were complaining because we didn’t have a Tamacheq tranlator. Our agent later explained to me he attemped to respect the hierarchy of status in Bamba, inviting a group of Songhoy women from the high society and another of Bella, but despite his efforts, all the women showed up. Nevertheless, I think the guests were pleased. If anything the experience showed them how difficult it is to work in Bamba! They continued onto T2, though one left his Songhoy hat behind. So we sent it down to Bamako on the boat. Hmm….I wonder if he ever got it?

Child of the village

In preparation for my mission to Bamba, I went to market with our logistician (in the car…gah, I get so pampered now!) to buy rice and beans because there are rumors there is nothing in Bamba for eating. At the bean vendor I was speaking with the woman making sure there weren’t worms in my beans. She later follows me to the rice vendor marvelled at my lack of accent, “n’ga šenno, wallahi, žiibi kul š’a ra.” "Her language, my God, it's not dirty at all!"

Later, when helping the people from Oxford get situated with their host family in Bamba, the women gathered said to me I was one of them—“these people here are strangers, but you Mariam, you’re a koyra izo!” 

Warm fuzzies. 

Around the river bend...

We managed to sensitize both the populations of the “village of my fathers” (Abbakoïra) and Zorhoye (actually in the Timbuktu region but it is a large market and attracts the populations from the villages we're targeting). The Relais were annoyed we didn’t inform them better—despite phone calls to the chief by our agent stuck in Gao (he was to originally come with us) AND radio announcements since Wednesday. Being so isolated makes communication difficult.

It was still a successful dance party/informational presentation on the typical themes of malaria prevention, clean/potable water, and childhood nutrition focusing on proper breast-feeding. We gathered 250 people. The wind picked up, just like in Garbamé, and I was COVERED in sand by 4am the next day when we moved on to Zorhoye. The men had slept in the boat. Crazy. The following day was great. I really enjoyed interviewing people in the market (full of produce despite Bamba being in crisis and it is only 37km away by river) on malaria, breastfeeding, and hygiene. The dialect was even more similar to that of Timbuktu, so I tried to greet in what I remember from Goundam. Our party was tamed by the fact that the chief forbade us from playing music (he said the only "music" they need in Zorhoye is that of the Imam preaching in the mosque). Luckily the Tamacheq DJ from the radio was there for market and he helped translate. We did the public broadcast from the CSCom, where the aide soignant (a step below nurse with typically a 6th grade education at best) was running the place. After all the questions and answers posed at the CSCom and in market were collected and judged, 

a young boy of 12 or 13 won the radio because he answered every question perfectly. It’s good to see such enthusiasm.

The culture, naturally, is more like T2 out here…I don't know how to explain it but the feeling of the town reminded me a lot more of Goundam than of Bamba or Gao. The chief's wives were very nice, one tamacheq rouge like him and the imam, the other one Bella, who luckily spoke Bamba-sonrai. They were both named Mariam. The tamacheq rouge Mariam gave me 5 bracelets which I thought she wanted me to buy because other vendors had already come into the courtyard to sell a goat-skin water bag, bracelets, cakes etc. But no, this was simply a way for me to remember Zorhoye. And she jammed them on my wrist so I don’t think they’ll be coming off soon.