I was unable to post photos all summer, but now with the presence of fast internet, I have made albums. Here are links to them.
Mali Part 1
Mali Part 2
Mali Part 3
Leiden, etc.
At this point, Pangolin Watch will be on about a one-month hiatus while I'm in the US. But be sure to check back around the end of September!
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Home!
I will update more about the last legs of my trip tomorrow (jet lag is keeping me from it tonight), but I wanted to let everyone know that I made it home safely. Now to sleep in my own bed.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Going home, for now
My official work is over for a while! Yesterday morning, Jeff and I gave our talk to a surprisingly crowded room for it being the first talk of the morning. I was a bit nervous, but I think it went well, and it was well-received, at least. People asked questions that I could field. I was exhausted, though. Abbie and I very nearly overslept our talks. Had Jeff not called our room to check if we were ready to go downstairs, we would have just kept sleeping. Abbie and Kirill’s talks went well too. Overall, the project was well represented, I think.
Leiden itself is so picturesque, with canals and windmills and people on bikes. It’s dang cold, though, coming out of Mali. Abbie and I did some shopping today to stay warm (I’ll just keep telling myself that). This afternoon, we felt a little burned out, so we just walked around town after lunch and stumbled across these beautiful botanical gardens at the university.
People at the conference have been very friendly and supportive. They are nearly all European. Even the other American who was there teaches at the American university in Cairo, so I’m not sure if anyone I’ve met there came over from the US. Being in Leiden and at this conference makes me realize how much I like Europe. It’s just so cultured.
So I’ve been doing my duty and drinking beer and eating cheese and pumping myself full of coffee that isn’t NesCafe. My body will probably go into shock pretty soon, but it is more than worth it. Tomorrow is the last day of the conference, after which Abbie and I will go to Amsterdam for the night. We won’t have much time to see anything, but just eating dinner there and seeing the city a little will be nice. Then Thursday morning, we fly out, through Atlanta of all places (talk about reverse culture shock).
I’m looking forward to seeing as many of you as possible!
Leiden itself is so picturesque, with canals and windmills and people on bikes. It’s dang cold, though, coming out of Mali. Abbie and I did some shopping today to stay warm (I’ll just keep telling myself that). This afternoon, we felt a little burned out, so we just walked around town after lunch and stumbled across these beautiful botanical gardens at the university.
People at the conference have been very friendly and supportive. They are nearly all European. Even the other American who was there teaches at the American university in Cairo, so I’m not sure if anyone I’ve met there came over from the US. Being in Leiden and at this conference makes me realize how much I like Europe. It’s just so cultured.
So I’ve been doing my duty and drinking beer and eating cheese and pumping myself full of coffee that isn’t NesCafe. My body will probably go into shock pretty soon, but it is more than worth it. Tomorrow is the last day of the conference, after which Abbie and I will go to Amsterdam for the night. We won’t have much time to see anything, but just eating dinner there and seeing the city a little will be nice. Then Thursday morning, we fly out, through Atlanta of all places (talk about reverse culture shock).
I’m looking forward to seeing as many of you as possible!
Sunday, August 24, 2008
A different world
When I said “more from Bamako,” I forgot that SIL has tagged Pangolin Watch as a danger to their missionary sensibilities and has blocked it from their internet. Well, to be fair, I think they block all of blogspot.com and all of youtube.com. But anyway.
How to sum up these last crazy days of travel, coupled with reverse culture shock and jet lag?
For starters, on Thursday afternoon, we got a call from the bus company around 2:30 saying that the bus was already there at the highway. They told us it would be there at 3:30. We were not fully packed. This sent all of us into a panicked confusion, throwing stuff in bags, desperately saying goodbyes, stressing about if we would miss the bus and have to try and find another one later. The bus people ended up sending a car to our house to pick us up (apparently they really wanted our business), so we crammed in all of our stuff + us and made it in time.
Saying goodbye was quite sad, even though it was only for a month (for me, at least). There were definitely tears in some people’s eyes (not mine, of course). Even Ramata, who is usually such a badass, had watery eyes and couldn’t really look at me. That made me feel good—she legitimately likes me, not just as a colleague or something.
The bus ride itself was not too eventful. No sheep strapped to the roof, no midnight break downs in the middle of nowhere. Just a really creaky window and terrible music being played too loudly over the speakers. I like Malian music, but this stuff was just bad and loud, and it went on until 10 PM or so.
We got into Bamako in the wee hours of the morning and made our way to SIL, where we found that they had not put our names on the list, despite having sent us a confirmation e-mail and having spoken with us on the phone the day before. In the end, it worked out, people had moved out that morning so we had our rooms. Got some breakfast, relaxed, went out to lunch, relaxed, and then Jeff took Abbie and I out to a really nice dinner at this traditional African restaurant with peaceful kora music playing. Well, it was peaceful once we got there, but just as we stepped out the door, the skies opened up and stormed all over us. And of course the taxi that we got couldn’t roll one of the windows up all the way, but that’s just to be expected. There’s always at least one window that doesn’t open/close.
After dinner, we were exhausted and just went back and slept. In the morning, we packed all of our stuff and went over to the Air France office to pre-check our luggage. I’m still not certain why you can (but don’t have to) check your luggage hours ahead of time at a location entirely different from the airport. Mysteries.
In the afternoon, Salif came and joined us. I hadn’t seen him since I left him during my last trip to Bamako, so it was good to catch up. He, Abbie and I hit up the artisan’s market, and I flexed my ever-growing bargaining muscles. I find bargaining much easier in French than in English. I think this has to do with what Abbie and I call our different language personalities. You just express yourself differently or have a different character in different languages. If I bargain in English, I just feel like an ass, whereas in French it’s all fun and games. In any case, I didn’t have any more epic bargaining failures like I had in India where I bargained them for the same price they had originally quoted (and felt very successful doing it).
We killed a bunch of time at Amandine until we had to go to the airport at night. The flight itself was about 5 hours, not too bad, but it left at 11PM and got into Paris at 6AM, so another sleepless night a la Bamako bus ride. It turns out that sleeping every other night does not suffice in making one feel rested. The anxious, panic-stricken feeling of reverse culture shock began building during our approach into Paris. We just came out of “brousse” (the bush), and here we were going to Paris?
Zombie versions of Abbie and myself got through customs without any hassle. White people everywhere was kind of overwhelming. And the fact that I could understand most of what was being said. And the fact that everyone wears really drab colors. Then we bought our TGV tickets to The Hague, me trying desperately to recall my “French-y French” accent and being amazed at the ease with which one can use a credit card.
Abbie and I took the RER to Paris Gard du Nord, then the TGV straight to The Hague via Brussels. Our little compartment was full of English-speaking: two British kids going to travel Europe, two old Dutch ladies, us two Americans, and then two Asian-looking men (Indian and Indonesian, if I had to venture a guess), who also presumably spoke English, though who didn’t chat with us. Abbie and I were just gripped by the absurdity of our situation: why weren’t there any goats anywhere? Why was everything so clean? Where did all the toobobs come from? And you know you’ve just come out of brousse when you see a European corn field and you think, “The rainy season has been good to them this year.”
We got into The Hague around 2 in the afternoon, exhausted and starving. We found a sort of Dutch fried chicken deli place (that’s the best descriptor I can give) and recharged there before braving the bus to Leiden. Jeff was already in the lobby when we got there (he flew from Paris to Amsterdam), and he kindly went and registered all of us at the conference, allowing us to shower and sleep and relax. I’m excited to sleep in a bed without a mosquito net tonight. I still see flying insects and instantly think “malaria” until I realize that I’m in Holland and that the last time I checked the CDC, Holland was not included on the malaria watch list.
Tomorrow morning is our presentation. I’m dead tired and nervous, but I’ll do my best and just get it over with. The first world is enough to deal with right now.
How to sum up these last crazy days of travel, coupled with reverse culture shock and jet lag?
For starters, on Thursday afternoon, we got a call from the bus company around 2:30 saying that the bus was already there at the highway. They told us it would be there at 3:30. We were not fully packed. This sent all of us into a panicked confusion, throwing stuff in bags, desperately saying goodbyes, stressing about if we would miss the bus and have to try and find another one later. The bus people ended up sending a car to our house to pick us up (apparently they really wanted our business), so we crammed in all of our stuff + us and made it in time.
Saying goodbye was quite sad, even though it was only for a month (for me, at least). There were definitely tears in some people’s eyes (not mine, of course). Even Ramata, who is usually such a badass, had watery eyes and couldn’t really look at me. That made me feel good—she legitimately likes me, not just as a colleague or something.
The bus ride itself was not too eventful. No sheep strapped to the roof, no midnight break downs in the middle of nowhere. Just a really creaky window and terrible music being played too loudly over the speakers. I like Malian music, but this stuff was just bad and loud, and it went on until 10 PM or so.
We got into Bamako in the wee hours of the morning and made our way to SIL, where we found that they had not put our names on the list, despite having sent us a confirmation e-mail and having spoken with us on the phone the day before. In the end, it worked out, people had moved out that morning so we had our rooms. Got some breakfast, relaxed, went out to lunch, relaxed, and then Jeff took Abbie and I out to a really nice dinner at this traditional African restaurant with peaceful kora music playing. Well, it was peaceful once we got there, but just as we stepped out the door, the skies opened up and stormed all over us. And of course the taxi that we got couldn’t roll one of the windows up all the way, but that’s just to be expected. There’s always at least one window that doesn’t open/close.
After dinner, we were exhausted and just went back and slept. In the morning, we packed all of our stuff and went over to the Air France office to pre-check our luggage. I’m still not certain why you can (but don’t have to) check your luggage hours ahead of time at a location entirely different from the airport. Mysteries.
In the afternoon, Salif came and joined us. I hadn’t seen him since I left him during my last trip to Bamako, so it was good to catch up. He, Abbie and I hit up the artisan’s market, and I flexed my ever-growing bargaining muscles. I find bargaining much easier in French than in English. I think this has to do with what Abbie and I call our different language personalities. You just express yourself differently or have a different character in different languages. If I bargain in English, I just feel like an ass, whereas in French it’s all fun and games. In any case, I didn’t have any more epic bargaining failures like I had in India where I bargained them for the same price they had originally quoted (and felt very successful doing it).
We killed a bunch of time at Amandine until we had to go to the airport at night. The flight itself was about 5 hours, not too bad, but it left at 11PM and got into Paris at 6AM, so another sleepless night a la Bamako bus ride. It turns out that sleeping every other night does not suffice in making one feel rested. The anxious, panic-stricken feeling of reverse culture shock began building during our approach into Paris. We just came out of “brousse” (the bush), and here we were going to Paris?
Zombie versions of Abbie and myself got through customs without any hassle. White people everywhere was kind of overwhelming. And the fact that I could understand most of what was being said. And the fact that everyone wears really drab colors. Then we bought our TGV tickets to The Hague, me trying desperately to recall my “French-y French” accent and being amazed at the ease with which one can use a credit card.
Abbie and I took the RER to Paris Gard du Nord, then the TGV straight to The Hague via Brussels. Our little compartment was full of English-speaking: two British kids going to travel Europe, two old Dutch ladies, us two Americans, and then two Asian-looking men (Indian and Indonesian, if I had to venture a guess), who also presumably spoke English, though who didn’t chat with us. Abbie and I were just gripped by the absurdity of our situation: why weren’t there any goats anywhere? Why was everything so clean? Where did all the toobobs come from? And you know you’ve just come out of brousse when you see a European corn field and you think, “The rainy season has been good to them this year.”
We got into The Hague around 2 in the afternoon, exhausted and starving. We found a sort of Dutch fried chicken deli place (that’s the best descriptor I can give) and recharged there before braving the bus to Leiden. Jeff was already in the lobby when we got there (he flew from Paris to Amsterdam), and he kindly went and registered all of us at the conference, allowing us to shower and sleep and relax. I’m excited to sleep in a bed without a mosquito net tonight. I still see flying insects and instantly think “malaria” until I realize that I’m in Holland and that the last time I checked the CDC, Holland was not included on the malaria watch list.
Tomorrow morning is our presentation. I’m dead tired and nervous, but I’ll do my best and just get it over with. The first world is enough to deal with right now.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Tomorrow, it's "A plus, Douentza"
Tonight is our last night in Douentza before taking the bus to Bamako. I’m feeling ready. Yes, I haven’t started packing at all, but most of my stuff I will just leave here anyway. For me, it’s just a month break. For Abbie and Jeff, it’s the definitive end of this year’s fieldwork. It will be strange to come back without them, for sure.
I tried to come to the internet yesterday, but met with no success. Around 3, Minkailou, Seydou, Ramata and I walked across town to her lodger’s house to discuss the prospect of her living with us this fall. On the way, it started to rain pretty hard, but we had a couple of umbrellas. I had my computer with me to go to the internet afterward, so I was more concerned about that getting wet than myself (contrary to popular belief, I don’t fry in the rain). The lodger was okay with it, so long as someone was there “to watch over her. After all, she is a young girl, her behavior is very important. If she deceives you, she deceives us all.” Basically, don’t let her run around with boys.
Anyhow, after that, Ramata and I split off to go to the internet, and got totally poured on. We slipped our way through the mud, trying desperately to keep as much water off of the laptop case as possible. We showed up soaked to the radio, only to find that because of the rain, the internet was down (not sure why, but this seems to be the logic). Jeff was already there, also waiting, so I thought I too would just wait it out. Unfortunately, after an hour and a half of waiting with the sun setting, the internet never came, so we just had to walk back in the penumbra empty-handed.
Tonight I am going to attempt an Italian feast. We’ll see how it goes. And by feast, I mean simply that I have a can of stewed tomatoes and artichoke hearts from Bamako that I will try to make into a sauce with the rudimentary cooking implements I have.
More from Bamako.
I tried to come to the internet yesterday, but met with no success. Around 3, Minkailou, Seydou, Ramata and I walked across town to her lodger’s house to discuss the prospect of her living with us this fall. On the way, it started to rain pretty hard, but we had a couple of umbrellas. I had my computer with me to go to the internet afterward, so I was more concerned about that getting wet than myself (contrary to popular belief, I don’t fry in the rain). The lodger was okay with it, so long as someone was there “to watch over her. After all, she is a young girl, her behavior is very important. If she deceives you, she deceives us all.” Basically, don’t let her run around with boys.
Anyhow, after that, Ramata and I split off to go to the internet, and got totally poured on. We slipped our way through the mud, trying desperately to keep as much water off of the laptop case as possible. We showed up soaked to the radio, only to find that because of the rain, the internet was down (not sure why, but this seems to be the logic). Jeff was already there, also waiting, so I thought I too would just wait it out. Unfortunately, after an hour and a half of waiting with the sun setting, the internet never came, so we just had to walk back in the penumbra empty-handed.
Tonight I am going to attempt an Italian feast. We’ll see how it goes. And by feast, I mean simply that I have a can of stewed tomatoes and artichoke hearts from Bamako that I will try to make into a sauce with the rudimentary cooking implements I have.
More from Bamako.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Luckily, the world did not end.
The last couple of days have been slightly disorganized, but not necessarily in a bad way. Since I only have a week left, I decided I wasn’t going to do a lot of new elicitation, but rather go back through some data, fix places, prepare for my talk, etc. Ramata, it seems, has moved in, which is fine by me. Not only is it good to have her company, but also if I have a quick question, I can pop my head out into the courtyard and ask her.
We had quite a few people here, really. Abbie had her two friends from Bunu here—the little old village chief and a young woman named Fatimata. Neither of them speak any French, so we couldn’t really communicate, but it was fun anyway. Ramata and Fatimata really hit it off and would giggle with each other all day. One day I popped my head out the door and saw them painting their toenails in the courtyard. Quite cute.
A couple nights ago, I was sitting in the main house giving Seydou an English lesson when a bat came in and started flying around (not really that unusual). I’m not particularly afraid of bats, but the obvious solution was to hide under my shawl. Jeff yelled from the courtyard to turn off the light, which usually drives the bat back outside, so Seydou got up and did that while I stayed in the safety of my cloth enclosure. Once we thought the bat left, Seydou turned the light back on. Apparently, there was the bat, just sitting down next to me on the mattress. With the light, it got startled and flew away. Whenever I think about it, it just makes me laugh, the image of me in a ball under a hankerchief and the bat sitting next to me. Good times.
Last night, I was in the house with Jeff and Seydou when we heard all of this noise outside—yelling, drums, etc. Jeff thought it was a marriage, but when we went outside, it turns out that a lunar eclipse had started. According to tradition here, the world will end if the moon doesn’t come back by 6 AM or something, so you have to chant and make noise until the moon comes back. It was quite a neat lunar eclipse—not complete, but nearly. People are really convinced of it being some sort of sorcery. Jeff tried to explain that it’s the earth coming between the moon and the sun and casting its shadow on the moon, but they were skeptical. I guess it doesn’t sound any more plausible than their explanation. We’re just so indoctrinated with science that it’s hard to imagine a world outlook that isn’t based on it.
It’s rained a couple times in the last couple days—finally the rainy season is getting underway, maybe, for Douentza. We can hope for the farmers’ sake, at least. Anyhow, part of the ceiling in the AC room fell off with the rain last night. I guess this is a usual occurrence in the rainy season, so for every rain, you have to go around to every room and make sure there aren’t leaks or pieces of the ceiling missing. Ah, never had I appreciated a solidly built house before now. Apparently in Timbuktu, when a heavy rain comes, it’s actually safer to go outside, because if the mud bricks start weakening, the heavy ceiling beams can fall and kill you. This really seems to defeat the purpose of “shelter” to me. At any rate, our house here is “semi-dure” meaning it’s made partially of cement and partially of mud brick/wood.
Anyhow, Abbie’s guests left this morning and Abbie’s going to go to Koira this afternoon, the village she lived in when she was in Peace Corps. Perhaps that means it’s an opera night for the rest of us.
We had quite a few people here, really. Abbie had her two friends from Bunu here—the little old village chief and a young woman named Fatimata. Neither of them speak any French, so we couldn’t really communicate, but it was fun anyway. Ramata and Fatimata really hit it off and would giggle with each other all day. One day I popped my head out the door and saw them painting their toenails in the courtyard. Quite cute.
A couple nights ago, I was sitting in the main house giving Seydou an English lesson when a bat came in and started flying around (not really that unusual). I’m not particularly afraid of bats, but the obvious solution was to hide under my shawl. Jeff yelled from the courtyard to turn off the light, which usually drives the bat back outside, so Seydou got up and did that while I stayed in the safety of my cloth enclosure. Once we thought the bat left, Seydou turned the light back on. Apparently, there was the bat, just sitting down next to me on the mattress. With the light, it got startled and flew away. Whenever I think about it, it just makes me laugh, the image of me in a ball under a hankerchief and the bat sitting next to me. Good times.
Last night, I was in the house with Jeff and Seydou when we heard all of this noise outside—yelling, drums, etc. Jeff thought it was a marriage, but when we went outside, it turns out that a lunar eclipse had started. According to tradition here, the world will end if the moon doesn’t come back by 6 AM or something, so you have to chant and make noise until the moon comes back. It was quite a neat lunar eclipse—not complete, but nearly. People are really convinced of it being some sort of sorcery. Jeff tried to explain that it’s the earth coming between the moon and the sun and casting its shadow on the moon, but they were skeptical. I guess it doesn’t sound any more plausible than their explanation. We’re just so indoctrinated with science that it’s hard to imagine a world outlook that isn’t based on it.
It’s rained a couple times in the last couple days—finally the rainy season is getting underway, maybe, for Douentza. We can hope for the farmers’ sake, at least. Anyhow, part of the ceiling in the AC room fell off with the rain last night. I guess this is a usual occurrence in the rainy season, so for every rain, you have to go around to every room and make sure there aren’t leaks or pieces of the ceiling missing. Ah, never had I appreciated a solidly built house before now. Apparently in Timbuktu, when a heavy rain comes, it’s actually safer to go outside, because if the mud bricks start weakening, the heavy ceiling beams can fall and kill you. This really seems to defeat the purpose of “shelter” to me. At any rate, our house here is “semi-dure” meaning it’s made partially of cement and partially of mud brick/wood.
Anyhow, Abbie’s guests left this morning and Abbie’s going to go to Koira this afternoon, the village she lived in when she was in Peace Corps. Perhaps that means it’s an opera night for the rest of us.
Friday, August 15, 2008
One week to go...
I’m back from my last trip to the bush for the summer. It’s hard to believe how fast the time has gone in hindsight, and yet how slow on a day to day basis. But anyhow.
We left with a full car Sunday morning: me, Ramata, Minkailou to Tongo-Tongo and Abbie, her two Adamas, and her girl Fatimata to Bunu, plus all of our gear and a motorcycle strapped to the top. We dropped Abbie and her crew off at Konna first, a town on the highway from which she would take a donkey cart to the village itself. Then we set off for my part of town via our usual route. We arrived at around lunch time, relatively in one piece, though the rattling of the car knocked off pieces of the motorcycle here and there.
I didn’t even recognize the place when we pulled in. The same areas that were barren and sandy when I first went in June were now lush and green. It’s amazing how the rain transforms the landscape here. In the US, rain is always just a hassle or a drag, but here it really is what gives life. Anyhow, Tedie has gotten much more rain this year than Douentza, so they might actually have a good millet harvest, whereas here in Douentza, it’s shaping up to be pretty meager.
It was just a short trip out there, full of schmoozing up the village and getting some cultural stuff I can’t get in Douentza. For example, I got the names of all of the different kinds of calabashes and watched Ramata’s father a gourd open to prepare one. Ramata’s mother had this beautiful ceremonial one for weddings and the like, completely decorated with cowries and mirrors and tassels. Minkailou is very interested in plants, so we also collected a heap of plant specimens and got names for them, along with a few grasshopper specimens that have mysteriously disappeared now that I’m back in Douentza. Ah well.
I also did a few more recordings with the little old man. I got texts on how Dogon life was before the arrival of whites and I think even before the arrival of the Fulbe people, the history of the village, funeral rites, etc. After the recordings, I gave the man headphones and he listened in wonder to his own voice in his ears. This man is so old, I swear his face is almost too old to smile, but he was sitting there, this little half smile on his face. Afterwards he said something like, “I’ve seen something our grandparents have not seen.” Very cute.
We brought the motorcycle out so I could continue my lessons on harder terrain than what Douentza has to offer. The first afternoon, Minkailou and I went out for some training, learning how to go slowly and steadily in first gear and how to conquer sand that wants nothing more than to make you slip and fall over. Needless to say, I was absolutely terrified, but I didn’t hurt anyone or myself. On Wednesday, it was Mory’s market day, so Minkailou and I set off. The plan was for me to try driving, but halfway down an incredibly rocky hill, my nerves got the better of me and I made him take over.
The roads are just so bad out there. A lot of sand, huge rocks, now mud and streams in the rainy season. The motorcycle got really beaten up, actually. The brake kept hitting against rocks, which completely bent it out of shape. My desire to learn how to drive the motorcycle greatly diminished. Douentza is one thing, but middle of nowhere Bushland is another story completely.
The second night, it stormed hard. I awoke to a huge crack of lightning around 3 in the morning, and then it started to pour. There wasn’t quite as much roof crisis as the last time, but we still got some leaks and a lot of water in from under the door. We just take for granted that if you’re inside in your house, the rain won’t enter, but when your roof is made of branches and mud, essentially, it’s not completely water proof. Luckily my side of the house was pretty watertight so I could keep sleeping soundly, but Ramata got a bit rained on during the thick of it but refused to come share my tent with me. The rain let up, though, and I think she got some sleep too.
I think I connected better with the village this time. I could communicate a bit better, I gave some gifts to key people (the chief and his son, the school director, Ramata’s father), and I sang my Tommo-So cow song for Ramata’s family, who were thrilled. They told me that when I come back, the village will dance for me. This is a good sign. The morning I left, I gave some little toys to the kids—little balls, silly putty, and most exciting of all, bubbles. They had never seen anything like it. The kids would shriek with glee as they chased the bubbles, trying to catch them to no avail. It was quite fun.
I will miss the people of the village quite a bit, since I won’t see them for 2 months. I hope they don’t forget me in my absence. I really want to have my work be useful to them in some way, so I plan to make copies of the recordings I made and leave a CD player to create a sort of library of stories and histories of the village, along with a dictionary, of course. And while I’m at home, I’m going to train myself to switch into an alphabet that’s more accessible for the people, rather than strict IPA. But all in all, I’m feeling positive about everything.
In less than a week, we’re headed to Bamako to fly out. I can’t believe it. This week I’m going to spend packing and preparing for my presentation in Leiden. Lord only knows what I’m going to say there. Jeff wants me to talk about general semantic stuff, like with the pour verbs, but I don’t know anything about semantics. Oh well, it will all work out in the end. I’m very much looking forward to my month at home.
We left with a full car Sunday morning: me, Ramata, Minkailou to Tongo-Tongo and Abbie, her two Adamas, and her girl Fatimata to Bunu, plus all of our gear and a motorcycle strapped to the top. We dropped Abbie and her crew off at Konna first, a town on the highway from which she would take a donkey cart to the village itself. Then we set off for my part of town via our usual route. We arrived at around lunch time, relatively in one piece, though the rattling of the car knocked off pieces of the motorcycle here and there.
I didn’t even recognize the place when we pulled in. The same areas that were barren and sandy when I first went in June were now lush and green. It’s amazing how the rain transforms the landscape here. In the US, rain is always just a hassle or a drag, but here it really is what gives life. Anyhow, Tedie has gotten much more rain this year than Douentza, so they might actually have a good millet harvest, whereas here in Douentza, it’s shaping up to be pretty meager.
It was just a short trip out there, full of schmoozing up the village and getting some cultural stuff I can’t get in Douentza. For example, I got the names of all of the different kinds of calabashes and watched Ramata’s father a gourd open to prepare one. Ramata’s mother had this beautiful ceremonial one for weddings and the like, completely decorated with cowries and mirrors and tassels. Minkailou is very interested in plants, so we also collected a heap of plant specimens and got names for them, along with a few grasshopper specimens that have mysteriously disappeared now that I’m back in Douentza. Ah well.
I also did a few more recordings with the little old man. I got texts on how Dogon life was before the arrival of whites and I think even before the arrival of the Fulbe people, the history of the village, funeral rites, etc. After the recordings, I gave the man headphones and he listened in wonder to his own voice in his ears. This man is so old, I swear his face is almost too old to smile, but he was sitting there, this little half smile on his face. Afterwards he said something like, “I’ve seen something our grandparents have not seen.” Very cute.
We brought the motorcycle out so I could continue my lessons on harder terrain than what Douentza has to offer. The first afternoon, Minkailou and I went out for some training, learning how to go slowly and steadily in first gear and how to conquer sand that wants nothing more than to make you slip and fall over. Needless to say, I was absolutely terrified, but I didn’t hurt anyone or myself. On Wednesday, it was Mory’s market day, so Minkailou and I set off. The plan was for me to try driving, but halfway down an incredibly rocky hill, my nerves got the better of me and I made him take over.
The roads are just so bad out there. A lot of sand, huge rocks, now mud and streams in the rainy season. The motorcycle got really beaten up, actually. The brake kept hitting against rocks, which completely bent it out of shape. My desire to learn how to drive the motorcycle greatly diminished. Douentza is one thing, but middle of nowhere Bushland is another story completely.
The second night, it stormed hard. I awoke to a huge crack of lightning around 3 in the morning, and then it started to pour. There wasn’t quite as much roof crisis as the last time, but we still got some leaks and a lot of water in from under the door. We just take for granted that if you’re inside in your house, the rain won’t enter, but when your roof is made of branches and mud, essentially, it’s not completely water proof. Luckily my side of the house was pretty watertight so I could keep sleeping soundly, but Ramata got a bit rained on during the thick of it but refused to come share my tent with me. The rain let up, though, and I think she got some sleep too.
I think I connected better with the village this time. I could communicate a bit better, I gave some gifts to key people (the chief and his son, the school director, Ramata’s father), and I sang my Tommo-So cow song for Ramata’s family, who were thrilled. They told me that when I come back, the village will dance for me. This is a good sign. The morning I left, I gave some little toys to the kids—little balls, silly putty, and most exciting of all, bubbles. They had never seen anything like it. The kids would shriek with glee as they chased the bubbles, trying to catch them to no avail. It was quite fun.
I will miss the people of the village quite a bit, since I won’t see them for 2 months. I hope they don’t forget me in my absence. I really want to have my work be useful to them in some way, so I plan to make copies of the recordings I made and leave a CD player to create a sort of library of stories and histories of the village, along with a dictionary, of course. And while I’m at home, I’m going to train myself to switch into an alphabet that’s more accessible for the people, rather than strict IPA. But all in all, I’m feeling positive about everything.
In less than a week, we’re headed to Bamako to fly out. I can’t believe it. This week I’m going to spend packing and preparing for my presentation in Leiden. Lord only knows what I’m going to say there. Jeff wants me to talk about general semantic stuff, like with the pour verbs, but I don’t know anything about semantics. Oh well, it will all work out in the end. I’m very much looking forward to my month at home.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Last village trip
Just a quick post to say that I'm heading back out to the village tomorrow morning. I'll be there for just a few days, back on Thursday, at which point I will tell of my latest and last bush adventures for the summer. Stay tuned.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
A sickly day of hassle
Yesterday was a day of exhaustion. I still had two important forms that needed to get to Fulbright, and fast, so Jeff said I should probably go down to Sevare to send them. Not wanting to go there alone, I got Ramata to agree to go with me. At 5:45 when I woke up, though, I felt quite nauseous. I was afraid I would be sick and not be able to go, but it passed enough to make it to the freeway to meet Ramata and catch a bus.
We pulled into Sevare around 10 AM, at which point we headed to SoTelMa, the big internet place there, only to find out that they didn’t have a printer. The lady working there told us to find Modele, another place, but in the end we ended up going to the high school and printing my forms there.
Sevare is centered around the Carrefour (the intersection), where North-South you have the roads to Gao-Bamako (respectively) and East-West you have the roads to Mopti-Bandiagara (not sure of their direction). The high school was just on the other side of the Carrefour on the way to Bamako. The post office, our next stop, is on the road to Mopti, but somehow I got all turned around and we ended up walking quite a ways down the road to Bamako. At this point, allow me to mention that it was really hot and humid. Rather than immediately walk all the way back and correct our mistake, I decided it would be better to stop at the Motel restaurant and have lunch. The Motel has a very pleasant courtyard which we ate in. A raw vegetable salad, chicken with green beans, and nice cold papaya for dessert. All around very pleasant.
After that, it was back to the errands. We walked back to the Carrefour, then headed down the road to Mopti. I knew that my bank, the BNDA, was on that road and the post office was somewhere before it. However, we came upon my bank without any sign of the post office. When we asked, it turns out we had missed it and had to walk back to find it. There, we were turned away to go buy an envelope, since the post office obviously has no reason to sell them, and then it was their lunch time, so we had to wait an hour. I needed to call New York to discuss some Fulbright business, so we went back down the Bamako road to find another quite restaurant (the market on Mopti road is really loud and hectic).
My luck, however, seems to be non-existent with these things, and the man I needed to talk to wasn’t in his office that day. I got pretty discouraged at this point, since the whole point of going to Mopti was to talk to him, figure stuff out, and send the papers. Not knowing what else to do, we walked back to the post office and sent the papers express mail (a week), which wasn’t cheap. While getting all of that worked out, I started feeling sick again—nausea, a headache with a little dizziness. It passed enough for Ramata and I to take a taxi to the road to Gao (I was so done with walking at that point) and catch a mini bus to Douentza.
The mini bus was not as hellish as it easily could have been. We weren’t crammed in 5 across, which was a luxury. However, unlike the big buses, minibuses will basically stop anywhere a passenger wants them to, so a lot more dropping people off at Podunk villages by the highway than if it had been a big bus. It took about 4 hours to get back to Douentza, at which point I had a splitting headache.
I went to bed right after choking down some dinner, but woke up in the middle of the night feeling sick again. I kept my dinner down and went back to bed, but I still felt pretty crappy in the morning. I’m hoping it’s not giardia or something. I feel better now than I did this morning, but who knows, I could feel crappy again tonight. I’d had a really good track record for Mali, so I guess my turn came to feel a little sick. It could definitely be worse (knock on wood).
We pulled into Sevare around 10 AM, at which point we headed to SoTelMa, the big internet place there, only to find out that they didn’t have a printer. The lady working there told us to find Modele, another place, but in the end we ended up going to the high school and printing my forms there.
Sevare is centered around the Carrefour (the intersection), where North-South you have the roads to Gao-Bamako (respectively) and East-West you have the roads to Mopti-Bandiagara (not sure of their direction). The high school was just on the other side of the Carrefour on the way to Bamako. The post office, our next stop, is on the road to Mopti, but somehow I got all turned around and we ended up walking quite a ways down the road to Bamako. At this point, allow me to mention that it was really hot and humid. Rather than immediately walk all the way back and correct our mistake, I decided it would be better to stop at the Motel restaurant and have lunch. The Motel has a very pleasant courtyard which we ate in. A raw vegetable salad, chicken with green beans, and nice cold papaya for dessert. All around very pleasant.
After that, it was back to the errands. We walked back to the Carrefour, then headed down the road to Mopti. I knew that my bank, the BNDA, was on that road and the post office was somewhere before it. However, we came upon my bank without any sign of the post office. When we asked, it turns out we had missed it and had to walk back to find it. There, we were turned away to go buy an envelope, since the post office obviously has no reason to sell them, and then it was their lunch time, so we had to wait an hour. I needed to call New York to discuss some Fulbright business, so we went back down the Bamako road to find another quite restaurant (the market on Mopti road is really loud and hectic).
My luck, however, seems to be non-existent with these things, and the man I needed to talk to wasn’t in his office that day. I got pretty discouraged at this point, since the whole point of going to Mopti was to talk to him, figure stuff out, and send the papers. Not knowing what else to do, we walked back to the post office and sent the papers express mail (a week), which wasn’t cheap. While getting all of that worked out, I started feeling sick again—nausea, a headache with a little dizziness. It passed enough for Ramata and I to take a taxi to the road to Gao (I was so done with walking at that point) and catch a mini bus to Douentza.
The mini bus was not as hellish as it easily could have been. We weren’t crammed in 5 across, which was a luxury. However, unlike the big buses, minibuses will basically stop anywhere a passenger wants them to, so a lot more dropping people off at Podunk villages by the highway than if it had been a big bus. It took about 4 hours to get back to Douentza, at which point I had a splitting headache.
I went to bed right after choking down some dinner, but woke up in the middle of the night feeling sick again. I kept my dinner down and went back to bed, but I still felt pretty crappy in the morning. I’m hoping it’s not giardia or something. I feel better now than I did this morning, but who knows, I could feel crappy again tonight. I’d had a really good track record for Mali, so I guess my turn came to feel a little sick. It could definitely be worse (knock on wood).
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Life goes on
Abbie came back from the village last night with three children in tow--the two Ademas from before and a shy little girl named Fatimata. So we're back to a full house. She and I stayed up talking until 2 AM last night. It's so good to have her back.
The rainy season has been pretty pitiful in Douentza this year, which is good for us since the number of insects is reduced, but really a problem for the farmers. If the weather continues like this, there's the chance of a really poor harvest and a lot of hungry people. In the States, we just consider rain as kind of a nuisance, but it really is what keeps life moving here. I've never discussed farming so much. "How are the fields? Is the millet growing?" These are common conversation starters.
On the way to the internet today, I saw the cutest baby goats ever. Brand new, umbilical cord still dangling, and prancing around with joy. Little twin brown baby goats. I want one. But I know it will just grow up to be an annoying big goat that looks you in the eye and bleats like you can do something about whatever's wrong. That I do not want.
I've been learning songs with Ramata now. She sings quite well, and it's a nice change of pace to break up an elicitation session. For example, a cow song, which I can now sing pretty well:
The cow doesn't belong just to you.
It belongs to me too.
Save one teat for dad.
Save one teat for mom.
Maybe I can take that back home and fly to the top of the charts with it.
The rainy season has been pretty pitiful in Douentza this year, which is good for us since the number of insects is reduced, but really a problem for the farmers. If the weather continues like this, there's the chance of a really poor harvest and a lot of hungry people. In the States, we just consider rain as kind of a nuisance, but it really is what keeps life moving here. I've never discussed farming so much. "How are the fields? Is the millet growing?" These are common conversation starters.
On the way to the internet today, I saw the cutest baby goats ever. Brand new, umbilical cord still dangling, and prancing around with joy. Little twin brown baby goats. I want one. But I know it will just grow up to be an annoying big goat that looks you in the eye and bleats like you can do something about whatever's wrong. That I do not want.
I've been learning songs with Ramata now. She sings quite well, and it's a nice change of pace to break up an elicitation session. For example, a cow song, which I can now sing pretty well:
The cow doesn't belong just to you.
It belongs to me too.
Save one teat for dad.
Save one teat for mom.
Maybe I can take that back home and fly to the top of the charts with it.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Tommo-So your mom jokes
For those of you who had a hard time wrapping your head around the last post, here's something a little more light-hearted. It seems that Tommo-So speakers are also savvy to the occasional your mom joke/insult. A common way of insulting someone is:
u naa ku togoro!
Your mom's skull!
u naa ku togoro!
Your mom's skull!
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Elicitation is back with a vengeance
Ramata is now back from Tongo-Tongo and working with me. The last couple days have been very productive. Yesterday, I went through a lot of noun phrase and relative clause structures. There's some cool tone stuff that happens there. For instance, as I mentioned before, an adjective will force tone dropping on the preceding noun, but a number does not. In a possessive construction, such as "Ramata's cows", the possessor will force tone dropping on the following noun, so cow gets its tone axed. If you have a phrase like "Ramata's black cows", Ramata axes the tone on the noun and adjective. However, if the phrase is "Ramata's three cows" or "Ramata's three black cows", the number retains its tone.
As for relative clauses, the head noun of a relative clause also has its tone dropped, plus cool stuff happens like the determiner and plural enclitic being after the participle. For example, you get something like:
naa mi sEmE gE=mbe
cow I slaughtered the=plural
The cows I slaughtered
with "cow" losing its tone. Here, if you have a numerical quantifier, the number DOES lose its tone.
naa taandugo mi sEmE gE=mbe
cow three I slaughtered the=plural
The three cows a slaughtered
And what's more, if the head of a relative clause is a possessor phrase, even the possessor drops its tone, so you can get a really long string of low tones if the head of the relative phrase is complex, such as:
ramata naa taandugo mi sEmE gE=mbe
Ramata cow three I slaughtered the=plural
Ramata's three cows that I slaughtered
wherein the first high tone that happens is on the pronoun "mi." Finally, the demonstrative pronoun "this" or "that", which comes in the same position as the determiner "the", will cause the same tone dropping PLUS it will force the tone to drop on the participle itself, so "slaughtered" would also end up low toned.
So I've been working on some of that, plus I got a rough transcription/translation done of my first text, a nice animal story about why we humans should not give the sun a wife, even though the rest of us have one. When I clean the translation up, I will share.
More later.
As for relative clauses, the head noun of a relative clause also has its tone dropped, plus cool stuff happens like the determiner and plural enclitic being after the participle. For example, you get something like:
naa mi sEmE gE=mbe
cow I slaughtered the=plural
The cows I slaughtered
with "cow" losing its tone. Here, if you have a numerical quantifier, the number DOES lose its tone.
naa taandugo mi sEmE gE=mbe
cow three I slaughtered the=plural
The three cows a slaughtered
And what's more, if the head of a relative clause is a possessor phrase, even the possessor drops its tone, so you can get a really long string of low tones if the head of the relative phrase is complex, such as:
ramata naa taandugo mi sEmE gE=mbe
Ramata cow three I slaughtered the=plural
Ramata's three cows that I slaughtered
wherein the first high tone that happens is on the pronoun "mi." Finally, the demonstrative pronoun "this" or "that", which comes in the same position as the determiner "the", will cause the same tone dropping PLUS it will force the tone to drop on the participle itself, so "slaughtered" would also end up low toned.
So I've been working on some of that, plus I got a rough transcription/translation done of my first text, a nice animal story about why we humans should not give the sun a wife, even though the rest of us have one. When I clean the translation up, I will share.
More later.
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