I went to visit Fatimata this morning and her baby is doing much better. He’s not feverish anymore and has enough energy back to cry and be a brat about nothing. Ah, children. He’s very cute, though, and Fatimata looked worlds better after a good night’s sleep last night. An old man at her house who spoke French thanked me and thanked me and thanked me for all of the help yesterday, which felt good, but also made me feel uncomfortable, just since it took so little effort on my part.
Anyhow, tomorrow morning at 6am, we’re off to see the elephants. Apparently there’s a troop of 20 in the region, so hopefully we’ll find them. I’ll report back on Friday.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Saving babies (or something like that)
I had a relatively eventful morning, as far as mornings in Mali go. My friend Fatimata came over again, this time bringing her one-year-old baby boy. She had come yesterday and said that he was sick, so I told her to make oral rehydration salts and to come see me if he wasn’t better the next day. He wasn’t better. I packed them up on the back of my motorcycle and took them to the health clinic in town to get him checked out. He had a fever and diarrhea, and while I figured that it might just pass on its own, I wouldn’t forgive myself if anything happened, so it was better to just go to the doctor.
We waited for a while in unimaginable heat (today is awful), surrounded by other patients waiting their turn. I was afraid I would catch consumption there—people hacking, spitting, a young man with blood seeping from a pussy burn wound on his face. Malian streets are often horrific enough, so to condense the worst of the worst in one place had a nightmarish feel. Finally the doctor checked out the little boy and told us to get a malaria test. In the meantime, we bought paracetamol and anti-microbial syrups. All of that came to about $5. When I paid the 1000 CFA ($2) for the consultation, Fatimata was like, “Oh my my, this is so expensive.” It nearly broke my heart.
We went back to my house to wait for the test results. Ashley had come over in the meantime for me to take her to my tailor, which I did. When we came back, Fatimata had bought grilled meat and frozen sachets of ginger juice to thank me for all of my help. It was sweet.
She and I went back to the hospital a couple of hours later, as directed. Indeed, the child had malaria. We took the results to a doctor to get an anti-malarial prescription. I was shocked at how rude he was to Fatimata. First of all, a lot of the doctors there speak French and Bambara, but no Fulfulde, which is the major language of the area, so often I had to play translator between two Malians who couldn’t understand each other (and I barely speak Fulfulde!). But I was asking this doctor if we should continue the other syrup treatments we’d gotten that morning, and Fatimata presumably was asking the same thing, and the doctor snapped at Fatimata, in French, “I’m writing a prescription now! If you don’t understand what’s going on, you should just be quiet!” I wanted to hit him. It’s a problem here—people get educated and get nice jobs then think they are the boss of everyone else. Totally unprofessional.
Altogether, I spent maybe $12 on the treatment. Fatimata couldn’t stop thanking me. I certainly hope her little one gets better with these drugs.
We waited for a while in unimaginable heat (today is awful), surrounded by other patients waiting their turn. I was afraid I would catch consumption there—people hacking, spitting, a young man with blood seeping from a pussy burn wound on his face. Malian streets are often horrific enough, so to condense the worst of the worst in one place had a nightmarish feel. Finally the doctor checked out the little boy and told us to get a malaria test. In the meantime, we bought paracetamol and anti-microbial syrups. All of that came to about $5. When I paid the 1000 CFA ($2) for the consultation, Fatimata was like, “Oh my my, this is so expensive.” It nearly broke my heart.
We went back to my house to wait for the test results. Ashley had come over in the meantime for me to take her to my tailor, which I did. When we came back, Fatimata had bought grilled meat and frozen sachets of ginger juice to thank me for all of my help. It was sweet.
She and I went back to the hospital a couple of hours later, as directed. Indeed, the child had malaria. We took the results to a doctor to get an anti-malarial prescription. I was shocked at how rude he was to Fatimata. First of all, a lot of the doctors there speak French and Bambara, but no Fulfulde, which is the major language of the area, so often I had to play translator between two Malians who couldn’t understand each other (and I barely speak Fulfulde!). But I was asking this doctor if we should continue the other syrup treatments we’d gotten that morning, and Fatimata presumably was asking the same thing, and the doctor snapped at Fatimata, in French, “I’m writing a prescription now! If you don’t understand what’s going on, you should just be quiet!” I wanted to hit him. It’s a problem here—people get educated and get nice jobs then think they are the boss of everyone else. Totally unprofessional.
Altogether, I spent maybe $12 on the treatment. Fatimata couldn’t stop thanking me. I certainly hope her little one gets better with these drugs.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Final stretch in Douentza
I got back safely to Douentza on Saturday evening. Before leaving, I took my final trip to the bank and closed down my bank account. I got a last minute ride with the German woman who owns the Mankante, but then had to wait for over two hours. Needless to say, I was glad it was my last time.
I had lunch with Seydou at the Teranga, then went over to see where he lives in Sevare. The family he stays with has a very nice house—nicer than ours in Douentza. I told him he was probably better off there.
I didn’t have to wait long at the bus stop this time; a Sonef bus came maybe a half an hour after I got there. In the meantime, Seydou and I talked to this young medicine street vendor, who by talking to various tourists acquired an impressive amount of knowledge about the world. When I got back to Douentza, Steve picked me up and took me to Dave’s house, where Dave had made a sheep meat chili. It was delicious. We hung out for a little while before I went home and crashed.
Yesterday was election day here, and as a consequence of that, the market was nearly empty; everyone stayed in their villages to vote. I’m still waiting to hear about the election results for Tedie to see if M. le Maire is indeed M. le Maire once more. I did some work with Ramata and helped Steve out, then sat around in the evening with Josh as he made tea. All in all, not a bad day.
I helped Steve with a bit of work this morning, then Fatimata came over to hang out. She fixed up my Tamasheq garment better, and I’ve since been wearing it all day. I figured, why the hell not? I don’t have much longer in Africa, might as well go African. Except that I’m probably the only “Tamasheq” woman ever to wear jeans under the wrap and drive a motorcycle.
After lunch, I went to Ashley’s, where I helped her translate some French. I’m counting down my final two weeks here—one more market day, one more full Monday left. I’m thrilled. On Wednesday, we might go see some elephants, which would split up the week nicely. Then on Saturday, it’s off to install the solar panels. I’ve bought all of the materials now for that project and will use the rest of the money to buy notebooks and other school supplies. I’ll be sure to take lots of photos.
I had lunch with Seydou at the Teranga, then went over to see where he lives in Sevare. The family he stays with has a very nice house—nicer than ours in Douentza. I told him he was probably better off there.
I didn’t have to wait long at the bus stop this time; a Sonef bus came maybe a half an hour after I got there. In the meantime, Seydou and I talked to this young medicine street vendor, who by talking to various tourists acquired an impressive amount of knowledge about the world. When I got back to Douentza, Steve picked me up and took me to Dave’s house, where Dave had made a sheep meat chili. It was delicious. We hung out for a little while before I went home and crashed.
Yesterday was election day here, and as a consequence of that, the market was nearly empty; everyone stayed in their villages to vote. I’m still waiting to hear about the election results for Tedie to see if M. le Maire is indeed M. le Maire once more. I did some work with Ramata and helped Steve out, then sat around in the evening with Josh as he made tea. All in all, not a bad day.
I helped Steve with a bit of work this morning, then Fatimata came over to hang out. She fixed up my Tamasheq garment better, and I’ve since been wearing it all day. I figured, why the hell not? I don’t have much longer in Africa, might as well go African. Except that I’m probably the only “Tamasheq” woman ever to wear jeans under the wrap and drive a motorcycle.
After lunch, I went to Ashley’s, where I helped her translate some French. I’m counting down my final two weeks here—one more market day, one more full Monday left. I’m thrilled. On Wednesday, we might go see some elephants, which would split up the week nicely. Then on Saturday, it’s off to install the solar panels. I’ve bought all of the materials now for that project and will use the rest of the money to buy notebooks and other school supplies. I’ll be sure to take lots of photos.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Sevare ice cave
I am currently in Sevare enjoying my AC—it is quite wonderful. Josh and I left the house on foot at 6am yesterday morning and got to the freeway nice and early. We bought tickets for the Binke bus and had time for a fried egg sandwich while we waited. It came around 7:30, probably, and was kind of slow-going, but it’s better than taking turns at break-neck speeds, like Sonef buses are wont to do. My bus seat was not attached to the bus very well, so I felt like I was in a motion simulator a lot of the time. On top of all that, we got pelted by a fine rain of couscous from the open vent above us. All very mysterious.
I wanted us to hop off the bus before the main intersection in Sevare as opposed to going all the way to the bus station, since that would be a longer walk to our respective destinations (Mankante for me, the bank for Josh). After we passed through the police checkpoint for Sevare, a little ways up the road, the bus slowed down to let some people off, so I figured that was our stop. I figured wrong. We probably got off the bus about 2 kilometers outside of Sevare and ended up having to walk a lot farther in the dusty wind than if we had just gone to the station. Oh well, we got our exercise.
We parted ways at the main intersection and I carried on to the Mankante, where I got checked in. I had the choice of a room with a personal bathroom in the villa down the road where the wireless might not reach or a room with a bathroom next door in the main villa. After some debating, I took that one, and the internet has been working great. The AC is also rather arctic and nice.
I hung out and took a nap before lunch, then grabbed some spaghetti at the Mankante restaurant up the road. Right next door to the Mankante is a gift shop/bead museum run by a guy known as Peace Corps Baba. Abbie lived in the apartment above it during her third year of Peace Corps, so I decided to go in and check it out. I told the guys sitting there that I was Abbie’s colleague, and they instantly started exclaiming about how she was their sister, same mother same father, and now I was welcome as well. They all speak English, presumably since they travel the world to show at bead expositions and cultural shows. One of the guys showed me the bead museum then helped me look around the shop, where I was given good “sister” prices on the things I wanted to buy.
I left in a good mood and went back to the hotel, where I skyped with people until it was Bollywood party time. Bollywood party could have been better. I became head chef rather quickly, but the preparations were riddled with small disasters—not the spices I was used to, rice paper to make the samosas in instead of homemade dough, the lentils burned a little, the rice paper split open in the oil… it was rather frustrating. On top of that, there were something like nine or ten people there instead of the three originally planned. That’s fine, the more the merrier, but it diminished the intimacy a bit. Rabayah wanted people to watch Dil Chahta Hai, one of my favorites; since it is a three-hour-long movie, I told them to just start it while I finished up the food.
Despite the mishaps, the food was fairly tasty. I watched a little bit of the movie, then went to skype with Kevin. Afterwards, the movie still wasn’t done, but I decided to go back to the hotel and go to bed before it got any later. I have to go back over and retrieve my movies today.
With the Mankante being a bed and breakfast, I get my morning meal provided, and it was quite delicious. When Kevin and I stayed here, we just got tea and bread with jam and butter, but this morning I got all of that plus an omelette and a big plate of fresh mango and papaya. The guys working here are Dogons, so I talked to them about that for a while. There is really a friendly atmosphere at this place; everyone calls me by my first name and is really helpful, not to mention the lovely courtyard with flowering trees and four large tortoises.
Today I’m just going to take it easy and read and do some work in the AC, then tomorrow I’ll probably go to the bank in the morning, see Seydou for lunch, then go back to Douentza in the afternoon/evening.
I wanted us to hop off the bus before the main intersection in Sevare as opposed to going all the way to the bus station, since that would be a longer walk to our respective destinations (Mankante for me, the bank for Josh). After we passed through the police checkpoint for Sevare, a little ways up the road, the bus slowed down to let some people off, so I figured that was our stop. I figured wrong. We probably got off the bus about 2 kilometers outside of Sevare and ended up having to walk a lot farther in the dusty wind than if we had just gone to the station. Oh well, we got our exercise.
We parted ways at the main intersection and I carried on to the Mankante, where I got checked in. I had the choice of a room with a personal bathroom in the villa down the road where the wireless might not reach or a room with a bathroom next door in the main villa. After some debating, I took that one, and the internet has been working great. The AC is also rather arctic and nice.
I hung out and took a nap before lunch, then grabbed some spaghetti at the Mankante restaurant up the road. Right next door to the Mankante is a gift shop/bead museum run by a guy known as Peace Corps Baba. Abbie lived in the apartment above it during her third year of Peace Corps, so I decided to go in and check it out. I told the guys sitting there that I was Abbie’s colleague, and they instantly started exclaiming about how she was their sister, same mother same father, and now I was welcome as well. They all speak English, presumably since they travel the world to show at bead expositions and cultural shows. One of the guys showed me the bead museum then helped me look around the shop, where I was given good “sister” prices on the things I wanted to buy.
I left in a good mood and went back to the hotel, where I skyped with people until it was Bollywood party time. Bollywood party could have been better. I became head chef rather quickly, but the preparations were riddled with small disasters—not the spices I was used to, rice paper to make the samosas in instead of homemade dough, the lentils burned a little, the rice paper split open in the oil… it was rather frustrating. On top of that, there were something like nine or ten people there instead of the three originally planned. That’s fine, the more the merrier, but it diminished the intimacy a bit. Rabayah wanted people to watch Dil Chahta Hai, one of my favorites; since it is a three-hour-long movie, I told them to just start it while I finished up the food.
Despite the mishaps, the food was fairly tasty. I watched a little bit of the movie, then went to skype with Kevin. Afterwards, the movie still wasn’t done, but I decided to go back to the hotel and go to bed before it got any later. I have to go back over and retrieve my movies today.
With the Mankante being a bed and breakfast, I get my morning meal provided, and it was quite delicious. When Kevin and I stayed here, we just got tea and bread with jam and butter, but this morning I got all of that plus an omelette and a big plate of fresh mango and papaya. The guys working here are Dogons, so I talked to them about that for a while. There is really a friendly atmosphere at this place; everyone calls me by my first name and is really helpful, not to mention the lovely courtyard with flowering trees and four large tortoises.
Today I’m just going to take it easy and read and do some work in the AC, then tomorrow I’ll probably go to the bank in the morning, see Seydou for lunch, then go back to Douentza in the afternoon/evening.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Rolling blackouts
I am now thoroughly rested up from my Ngouma trip and back to the rhythm of Douentza. Work with Steve in the mornings is beginning to go faster as everyone gets used to the language and working style, and we’ve taken to going to the Tango in the afternoon for a cold beer or soda escape.
This morning, my bread guy Ibrahim took me to a shoemaker’s place to measure my feet, since he wants to give me sandals as a present. He also gave me a couple of beaded necklaces. I can never be sure whether such gifts are purely from good will or if it’s fishing for monetary gifts later. Either way, it was nice.
Part way through the morning, I got a call from Josh, an SIT study abroad student we’d crossed on the road to Sangha. He said he was coming into Douentza and needed a place to stay, so I went and picked him up and brought him back. Unfortunately, Salif rolled up unannounced last night, so we are out of mattresses, but Nicolas said he could stay at his house. We’re going over there for dinner tonight—probably one of the last times I’ll see Nicolas, seeing as he will be leaving for Benin on Saturday (after I’ve already left for Sevare).
It’s been hot as blazes the last few days, made worse by the fact that we’ve had rolling blackouts. The power has always been back on at night, so between AC and fan, I can sleep well, but sitting inside during the day working, we just swelter. I’m looking forward to two solid days of AC in Sevare.
This morning, my bread guy Ibrahim took me to a shoemaker’s place to measure my feet, since he wants to give me sandals as a present. He also gave me a couple of beaded necklaces. I can never be sure whether such gifts are purely from good will or if it’s fishing for monetary gifts later. Either way, it was nice.
Part way through the morning, I got a call from Josh, an SIT study abroad student we’d crossed on the road to Sangha. He said he was coming into Douentza and needed a place to stay, so I went and picked him up and brought him back. Unfortunately, Salif rolled up unannounced last night, so we are out of mattresses, but Nicolas said he could stay at his house. We’re going over there for dinner tonight—probably one of the last times I’ll see Nicolas, seeing as he will be leaving for Benin on Saturday (after I’ve already left for Sevare).
It’s been hot as blazes the last few days, made worse by the fact that we’ve had rolling blackouts. The power has always been back on at night, so between AC and fan, I can sleep well, but sitting inside during the day working, we just swelter. I’m looking forward to two solid days of AC in Sevare.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Ngouma
I have made it to Ngouma and back and have lived to tell about it. So tell about it I shall.
I packed up my motorcycle with my gear and left the house after noon on Friday. I decided it would be prudent to stop at the internet and write down my Medevac numbers before I left, just in case of an emergency, so I did. Nicolas and I got on the road shortly after one o’ clock, reveling in the open freeway.
We did about 60 kilometers on the paved road before turning off on the road to Ngouma, a gravel road with quite a few dips and holes. The most annoying aspect of the gravel road, however, is the washboard effect. I don’t know how, but heavy trucks repeatedly going over it create stretches where the road becomes like a washboard, rattling your bike and your spine and being generally unpleasant/impossible to drive on. Between those stretches and the occasional pothole, the road kept us on our toes.
Luckily, we had no problems and arrived in Ngouma a little before 4PM. We asked the first person we saw to take us to Ousmane Diallo “the white guy” (Phil’s Malian name), and someone did. He has quite a big house with 4 rooms on a nice courtyard. The only problem is that he shares a main gate with another house’s courtyard, and his neighbors (especially the kids and the ten-year-old brides who aren’t allowed out) are always peering over the wall calling his name, like some sick version of Home Improvement. Kids here can be extremely annoying.
We dropped our stuff off, then Phil took us out on a greeting tour of Ngouma. It is quite a big town, with a central market and everything. Yes, I would say it has definitely achieved town status instead of village status. Nicolas and I waded our way through Fulfulde greetings (Ngouma is a Fulani town) and saw what sights there were to see, including a big beautiful mosque. We didn’t get any pictures, though, since the imam was demanding 1000CFA for a picture. Ridiculous.
We hung out in his courtyard with our goat captive (more about him later) until his host family called him over for dinner. It was rice and fish sauce—not my favorite, but tolerable. By the nightfall, we were exhausted and went to bed. Phil gave me his mattress on the roof, Nicolas spent an uncomfortable night in the hammock, and Phil himself slept on a mat on the roof as well. It was very windy and downright cold by the middle of the night, but luckily I’d brought a fleece blanket. I tucked myself into that and slept relatively comfortably.
Saturday was spent lazing around. It felt good to just be out of Douentza with no obligations. If I wanted to sit there and stare at the dirt all day, gosh darnit, no one could stop me. Nicolas made an effort to speak English with us all weekend and did relatively well, just asking for translation help every now and again. He, Phil and I turned out to be a good trio.
After a breakfast of rice fritters and leftover fish sauce (which I did not partake in), the butcher came over to send our goat on its way to goat paradise. Or so I hope. If you don’t want to know about the goat slaughter, skip the next paragraph.
Phil and the butcher held the goat down, facing Mecca, as is custom. The butcher uttered a blessing then slit its throat. Blood is so red. The initial throat-slitting is the worst part of the slaughter, since you have to hear the breath rasping through the throat and watch as the legs struggle and kick long after the animal has probably lost consciousness. Eventually, the goat was properly dead, and the butcher got right down to skinning it. Eventually, the slung it up by its back legs to get the rest of the skin off, and that’s when the grossest thing happened. It was as if the stomach couldn’t retain its contents anymore and the goat vomited through the whole in its neck. Mega mega gross. The butcher cleaned and removed all the organs and quartered the carcass, then carried it off to grill it. He’d gone and washed all the organs in the bucket Phil uses to bathe, so we had to go to the market and get some bleach for that. Rather unsanitary.
Anyhow, we sat around the rest of the morning, waiting for Meat Round 1 (lunch) to be prepared. We went over to his host family’s again for that, where his host woman had made a meat sauce with one of the quartered sections and a lot of the innards. Neither Nicolas or I could stomach (haha) the insides, but we ate some of the “normal” meat, which was delicious. After eating, his host man sat around forever making tea and talking in Fulfulde. I was tired and bored; eventually Phil picked up on that and took me back to his house so I could take a nap.
The rest of the meat came in a tub around 6 o’ clock. His host came over and we feasted. It was tender and delicious, and we all ate until we could barely move. Even then, there were two whole legs left. One his host packed up in a box and told us to bring to Douentza (slightly unsanitary?), and the other he saved and we had it in the sauce for breakfast. Phil disappeared for a while after dinner, delivering meat to various friends, so Nicolas and I hung out in the dark chatting. When he got back, it was off to bed. Again, it was windy and cold, but a nice change from the heat of the day.
Nicolas and I got going after breakfast this morning. We did about 3 hours on the road again, an exhilarating but exhausting drive. Luckily, no one got hurt. I’m just happy about that. It was a good trip all in all, and now if Phil talks about Ngouma, I’ll know what he is talking about.
I packed up my motorcycle with my gear and left the house after noon on Friday. I decided it would be prudent to stop at the internet and write down my Medevac numbers before I left, just in case of an emergency, so I did. Nicolas and I got on the road shortly after one o’ clock, reveling in the open freeway.
We did about 60 kilometers on the paved road before turning off on the road to Ngouma, a gravel road with quite a few dips and holes. The most annoying aspect of the gravel road, however, is the washboard effect. I don’t know how, but heavy trucks repeatedly going over it create stretches where the road becomes like a washboard, rattling your bike and your spine and being generally unpleasant/impossible to drive on. Between those stretches and the occasional pothole, the road kept us on our toes.
Luckily, we had no problems and arrived in Ngouma a little before 4PM. We asked the first person we saw to take us to Ousmane Diallo “the white guy” (Phil’s Malian name), and someone did. He has quite a big house with 4 rooms on a nice courtyard. The only problem is that he shares a main gate with another house’s courtyard, and his neighbors (especially the kids and the ten-year-old brides who aren’t allowed out) are always peering over the wall calling his name, like some sick version of Home Improvement. Kids here can be extremely annoying.
We dropped our stuff off, then Phil took us out on a greeting tour of Ngouma. It is quite a big town, with a central market and everything. Yes, I would say it has definitely achieved town status instead of village status. Nicolas and I waded our way through Fulfulde greetings (Ngouma is a Fulani town) and saw what sights there were to see, including a big beautiful mosque. We didn’t get any pictures, though, since the imam was demanding 1000CFA for a picture. Ridiculous.
We hung out in his courtyard with our goat captive (more about him later) until his host family called him over for dinner. It was rice and fish sauce—not my favorite, but tolerable. By the nightfall, we were exhausted and went to bed. Phil gave me his mattress on the roof, Nicolas spent an uncomfortable night in the hammock, and Phil himself slept on a mat on the roof as well. It was very windy and downright cold by the middle of the night, but luckily I’d brought a fleece blanket. I tucked myself into that and slept relatively comfortably.
Saturday was spent lazing around. It felt good to just be out of Douentza with no obligations. If I wanted to sit there and stare at the dirt all day, gosh darnit, no one could stop me. Nicolas made an effort to speak English with us all weekend and did relatively well, just asking for translation help every now and again. He, Phil and I turned out to be a good trio.
After a breakfast of rice fritters and leftover fish sauce (which I did not partake in), the butcher came over to send our goat on its way to goat paradise. Or so I hope. If you don’t want to know about the goat slaughter, skip the next paragraph.
Phil and the butcher held the goat down, facing Mecca, as is custom. The butcher uttered a blessing then slit its throat. Blood is so red. The initial throat-slitting is the worst part of the slaughter, since you have to hear the breath rasping through the throat and watch as the legs struggle and kick long after the animal has probably lost consciousness. Eventually, the goat was properly dead, and the butcher got right down to skinning it. Eventually, the slung it up by its back legs to get the rest of the skin off, and that’s when the grossest thing happened. It was as if the stomach couldn’t retain its contents anymore and the goat vomited through the whole in its neck. Mega mega gross. The butcher cleaned and removed all the organs and quartered the carcass, then carried it off to grill it. He’d gone and washed all the organs in the bucket Phil uses to bathe, so we had to go to the market and get some bleach for that. Rather unsanitary.
Anyhow, we sat around the rest of the morning, waiting for Meat Round 1 (lunch) to be prepared. We went over to his host family’s again for that, where his host woman had made a meat sauce with one of the quartered sections and a lot of the innards. Neither Nicolas or I could stomach (haha) the insides, but we ate some of the “normal” meat, which was delicious. After eating, his host man sat around forever making tea and talking in Fulfulde. I was tired and bored; eventually Phil picked up on that and took me back to his house so I could take a nap.
The rest of the meat came in a tub around 6 o’ clock. His host came over and we feasted. It was tender and delicious, and we all ate until we could barely move. Even then, there were two whole legs left. One his host packed up in a box and told us to bring to Douentza (slightly unsanitary?), and the other he saved and we had it in the sauce for breakfast. Phil disappeared for a while after dinner, delivering meat to various friends, so Nicolas and I hung out in the dark chatting. When he got back, it was off to bed. Again, it was windy and cold, but a nice change from the heat of the day.
Nicolas and I got going after breakfast this morning. We did about 3 hours on the road again, an exhilarating but exhausting drive. Luckily, no one got hurt. I’m just happy about that. It was a good trip all in all, and now if Phil talks about Ngouma, I’ll know what he is talking about.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Heat showers
Work is progressing little by little. We’re getting into some grammatical topics (noun phrase constituents, transitive sentences, commands, etc.) and getting used to one another. It’s always a slightly awkward situation, bringing the person you work with to come live with you, since you feel a lot of pressure to keep working with them just to keep them entertained, even if what you need is to stop and analyze some recordings or review your data. I’m trying to step back from that as much as possible, since it’s not my work, thus it’s not my responsibility. When Steve wants to work with Ely, I’ll be there for him, and when he doesn’t, that’s his choice; it’s not my responsibility to keep his assistant busy. Besides, I still have my own work to be doing. I’ve been typing the texts I transcribed with M. le Maire into my computer, and I’m going to work on translating them with Ramata a bit this evening.
The last couple nights, Steve and I went to the Tango to watch the soccer games that were on TV. I know nothing about soccer, but Dan evidently follows it and invited us out. It was actually pretty entertaining, especially listening to the Malians get really into it. There was this one man in a nice boubou who would stand up and shout “Eh?? Mais c’est pas possible!” (“but that’s not possible!”) whenever someone missed a goal. Steve likes to have a beer in the evenings, so we’ve been frequenting the Tango. I, however, have had my fill of beer and currently content myself with grapefruit soda.
It’s been really hot and muggy the last couple of days, with little heat thunder storms rumbling overhead. Apparently it even rained a bit last night. The humidity makes the heat quite nearly unbearable. Whereas with dry heat, your sweat evaporates pretty much as soon as it emerges from your pores, with this humidity, you’re just sticky all the time. All the more reason I’m excited to go home.
Either tomorrow afternoon or Saturday morning, it’s off to Ngouma with Nicolas. I think it’ll be a fun trip, one of my final huzzahs on the motorcycle.
The last couple nights, Steve and I went to the Tango to watch the soccer games that were on TV. I know nothing about soccer, but Dan evidently follows it and invited us out. It was actually pretty entertaining, especially listening to the Malians get really into it. There was this one man in a nice boubou who would stand up and shout “Eh?? Mais c’est pas possible!” (“but that’s not possible!”) whenever someone missed a goal. Steve likes to have a beer in the evenings, so we’ve been frequenting the Tango. I, however, have had my fill of beer and currently content myself with grapefruit soda.
It’s been really hot and muggy the last couple of days, with little heat thunder storms rumbling overhead. Apparently it even rained a bit last night. The humidity makes the heat quite nearly unbearable. Whereas with dry heat, your sweat evaporates pretty much as soon as it emerges from your pores, with this humidity, you’re just sticky all the time. All the more reason I’m excited to go home.
Either tomorrow afternoon or Saturday morning, it’s off to Ngouma with Nicolas. I think it’ll be a fun trip, one of my final huzzahs on the motorcycle.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Back from Sangha
Yesterday was quite the Dogon adventure. I got up as the sun was rising to get ready for our trip (and prove to Minkailou that I am capable of getting up early). In fact, I was probably the first one ready to go. We finally got on the road around 7:30 in our rented 4x4, stuffed full by Oumar, Minkailou, Steve, the driver and myself.
The road, of course, was non-existent, just a sandy track weaving between scrub bush and rocks, but the scenery was nice. We were in good spirits, even when the car overheated once or twice from trying to plow through sand and we needed to toss water on the engine.
Around 11:30, we pulled into a village called Banani, a touristy village located down the cliff from Sangha. There we stopped to eat lunch, relieved to peel ourselves from the stuffy car. Minkailou helped Steve and me bargain our way to souvenirs while we waited for the food to get ready. It was kind of fun to see all the “quintessential Dogon stuff”, but at the same time, I’m glad to not work in a tourist destination.
The villages themselves along the cliff are beautiful, though. Granaries with thatched conic roofs, carved doors, and then most striking of all, the old Tellem settlements nestled high into the cliffs themselves. The Tellem were the inhabitants of the area before the Dogons. They built their houses directly into crevices and overhangs in the rock face, protected from the elements and invaders. If you ask the Dogon how they were able to get up there and build, they will tell you that the Tellem had very long arms. They would have to be at least a hundred meters long to build in some of those places.
After a lunch of couscous, we stopped being tourists and got down to business. The drive up the cliffs to Sangha was one of the more hair-raising trips I have been on here. The driver took these hairpin curves on broken roads at break-neck speed. And mind you, there was no guard rail between you and a rocky plummet. I was praying all the Arabic prayers I knew on the way up (al-Hamdu li-lAh il-rabb al-‘alamina), and hey, they got us there okay.
Sangha is a huge village compared to any others I’ve been in. Its blossoming is largely due to Marcel Griaule’s work there and the awareness he raised for the village. Afterwards, it was missionaries and now NGOs, the 21st century missionaries. There’s electricity in the main village and nice hotels (nicer than Douentza) and schools, etc. I was quite shocked.
We found the people Minkailou had contacted about finding us someone for Steve to work with. We sat down in his house and eventually this big guy came in with a young man with dreadlocks. I guess they had originally proposed the big guy, but since it’s election season here, he doesn’t want to leave the zone, so he proposed his brother. That was all fine and good, but when we (and by we, I mean I, since Steve doesn’t speak French) explained the work and proposed our usual 3000 a day price, the young man told us he wanted 15,000 a day, the price he apparently charges as a guide. This threw us for a loop. We didn’t know he was a guide. 3000 a day is a very reasonable salary for our work. Oumar can work a full day of construction, hard manual labor, and make 2000. But tourist prices are not Malian prices.
I called Minkailou out of the room to talk to him about it, then Steve. I had my reservations about working with a guide in general, afraid that if he started off asking15,000, what other luxuries would he expect that we can’t afford? We decided finally that if we could get him down to 4000 plus his food and lodging, we would bring him back, but if not, we’d just figure it out in Douentza.
We proposed this new price and after a bit of discussion amongst themselves, the men present agreed. We were beginning to suffer from the oppressive heat, so we went over to one of the hotels and got cold drinks while waiting for everyone to finish up their preparations or their tea drinking.
The trip back felt like it was 3 times longer than the trip there. It was still hot, still bumpy, still sandy, and the car probably broke down 3 more times. I had to sit in the middle of the backseat, so I couldn’t even lean on anything. By the time the sun went down and we were still on the road, I was incredibly grouchy, so I just put in my headphones and checked out until we got home.
This morning, Steve and I started working with Ely, his assistant. It’s fun for me to start working a bit on another Dogon language, since it is proof of how much I’ve learned in this year. So much is familiar, both vocabulary and grammatical points, but there are still interesting differences. I can’t hear this guy’s tone very well at this point, but hopefully that’ll come soon. I think we were all a bit frustrated throughout the morning, but I think it’s just a matter of getting used to the working situation. Ely will get used to us asking him to repeat things a bunch of times, I’ll get used to having to play translator and keep it slow, since Steve has just started Dogon, and Steve will learn to speak some French and get his ear attuned to the new sounds. I think we’ll get good work done in the month I’m here, and then he’ll be ready to keep going on his own.
The road, of course, was non-existent, just a sandy track weaving between scrub bush and rocks, but the scenery was nice. We were in good spirits, even when the car overheated once or twice from trying to plow through sand and we needed to toss water on the engine.
Around 11:30, we pulled into a village called Banani, a touristy village located down the cliff from Sangha. There we stopped to eat lunch, relieved to peel ourselves from the stuffy car. Minkailou helped Steve and me bargain our way to souvenirs while we waited for the food to get ready. It was kind of fun to see all the “quintessential Dogon stuff”, but at the same time, I’m glad to not work in a tourist destination.
The villages themselves along the cliff are beautiful, though. Granaries with thatched conic roofs, carved doors, and then most striking of all, the old Tellem settlements nestled high into the cliffs themselves. The Tellem were the inhabitants of the area before the Dogons. They built their houses directly into crevices and overhangs in the rock face, protected from the elements and invaders. If you ask the Dogon how they were able to get up there and build, they will tell you that the Tellem had very long arms. They would have to be at least a hundred meters long to build in some of those places.
After a lunch of couscous, we stopped being tourists and got down to business. The drive up the cliffs to Sangha was one of the more hair-raising trips I have been on here. The driver took these hairpin curves on broken roads at break-neck speed. And mind you, there was no guard rail between you and a rocky plummet. I was praying all the Arabic prayers I knew on the way up (al-Hamdu li-lAh il-rabb al-‘alamina), and hey, they got us there okay.
Sangha is a huge village compared to any others I’ve been in. Its blossoming is largely due to Marcel Griaule’s work there and the awareness he raised for the village. Afterwards, it was missionaries and now NGOs, the 21st century missionaries. There’s electricity in the main village and nice hotels (nicer than Douentza) and schools, etc. I was quite shocked.
We found the people Minkailou had contacted about finding us someone for Steve to work with. We sat down in his house and eventually this big guy came in with a young man with dreadlocks. I guess they had originally proposed the big guy, but since it’s election season here, he doesn’t want to leave the zone, so he proposed his brother. That was all fine and good, but when we (and by we, I mean I, since Steve doesn’t speak French) explained the work and proposed our usual 3000 a day price, the young man told us he wanted 15,000 a day, the price he apparently charges as a guide. This threw us for a loop. We didn’t know he was a guide. 3000 a day is a very reasonable salary for our work. Oumar can work a full day of construction, hard manual labor, and make 2000. But tourist prices are not Malian prices.
I called Minkailou out of the room to talk to him about it, then Steve. I had my reservations about working with a guide in general, afraid that if he started off asking15,000, what other luxuries would he expect that we can’t afford? We decided finally that if we could get him down to 4000 plus his food and lodging, we would bring him back, but if not, we’d just figure it out in Douentza.
We proposed this new price and after a bit of discussion amongst themselves, the men present agreed. We were beginning to suffer from the oppressive heat, so we went over to one of the hotels and got cold drinks while waiting for everyone to finish up their preparations or their tea drinking.
The trip back felt like it was 3 times longer than the trip there. It was still hot, still bumpy, still sandy, and the car probably broke down 3 more times. I had to sit in the middle of the backseat, so I couldn’t even lean on anything. By the time the sun went down and we were still on the road, I was incredibly grouchy, so I just put in my headphones and checked out until we got home.
This morning, Steve and I started working with Ely, his assistant. It’s fun for me to start working a bit on another Dogon language, since it is proof of how much I’ve learned in this year. So much is familiar, both vocabulary and grammatical points, but there are still interesting differences. I can’t hear this guy’s tone very well at this point, but hopefully that’ll come soon. I think we were all a bit frustrated throughout the morning, but I think it’s just a matter of getting used to the working situation. Ely will get used to us asking him to repeat things a bunch of times, I’ll get used to having to play translator and keep it slow, since Steve has just started Dogon, and Steve will learn to speak some French and get his ear attuned to the new sounds. I think we’ll get good work done in the month I’m here, and then he’ll be ready to keep going on his own.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Business trip to Sangha
Steve is getting settled in nicely. It’s great for me to have someone around to talk about Dogon linguistics with—I’m already feeling more inspired. I think this last month will be spent largely helping Steve with his work, since in all likelihood, he won’t find an English-speaking consultant and he doesn’t really speak French. I guess he’ll learn as he goes.
On Monday, we’re renting a 4x4 and going to Sangha to find him someone to work with. I’m going to come along as translator/tourist. Sangha is ‘the’ Dogon village, where Marcel Griaule did his ethnographic work in the first half of the twentieth century. When tourists come to Mali to go to Dogon country, Sangha is always an essential stop. I’m glad to have an excuse to go now.
I most likely won’t be at the internet again until that trip is over, but I will write all about it when I’m back.
On Monday, we’re renting a 4x4 and going to Sangha to find him someone to work with. I’m going to come along as translator/tourist. Sangha is ‘the’ Dogon village, where Marcel Griaule did his ethnographic work in the first half of the twentieth century. When tourists come to Mali to go to Dogon country, Sangha is always an essential stop. I’m glad to have an excuse to go now.
I most likely won’t be at the internet again until that trip is over, but I will write all about it when I’m back.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Delayed return to Douentza
Well, getting back to Douentza turned out to be a fiasco. I left Mopti around 11:30 on Thursday and ran into Rabayah coming out of work on my way to the taxi stand. We exchanged a few words, lamented about our cancelled Bollywood party, then I headed back to Sevare.
The bush taxi stopped right in front of the post office, and conveniently, my new laptop battery had gotten there. I took care of that while Seydou came over to meet me for lunch. We went to the Mankan Te and had a very pleasant lunch. Afterwards, he dropped me off at the Peace Corps bureau around 2, and Dave and I went together to the bus station to try to get up to Douentza.
Overall, we waited for over 4 hours. I wanted to get on an earlier bus than Steve and Minkailou were coming up on so that I would be there before they got to Douentza, but every bus that came through was full. Finally, the bus they were on got in, and the guy had sold us tickets for that bus, but that too turned out to be full and they refunded us. I at least met Steve at the bus station and told him I would try to be up as quickly as possible.
I was really bitter after that bus left. Dave and I waited around for a while then decided it would be just as easy to go in the morning, since it was too late to get up there before them anyways. I was in a bad mood about that, having cancelled my plans to get up there that night, and yet here I was staying again, yet without Bollywood. Anyhow, we went back to the bureau, and after a little while, he and I went out and got street food for dinner before meeting up with some other volunteers and some army guys at a bar. I wasn’t really in a drinking mood, but since I didn’t want to walk back alone, I got stuck out until 1:30 in the morning in a very terrible mood. When we finally went back, I skyped a little while with Kevin to vent then went to sleep on the roof.
This morning, Dave and I walked to the bachet (like mini-bus/vans) station and got the last couple seats in one leaving for Douentza. The problem is that they pack these things to the brim: 5 people for every 4 seats, and there is minimal ventilation, and they go really slowly, and are generally extremely uncomfortable. This ride was no exception. It took three and half hours to get up to Douentza, an hour longer than it would’ve taken by bus.
I was glad to get in and finally get to talk with Steve, though. He’s a nice guy and I’m glad that I’ll have him around. I’ll probably help him get started with his work on Sanga-So in the next few days, so that should be interesting. He’s probably a bit overwhelmed by French and the new surroundings for now, but hopefully he’ll get settled in soon.
The bush taxi stopped right in front of the post office, and conveniently, my new laptop battery had gotten there. I took care of that while Seydou came over to meet me for lunch. We went to the Mankan Te and had a very pleasant lunch. Afterwards, he dropped me off at the Peace Corps bureau around 2, and Dave and I went together to the bus station to try to get up to Douentza.
Overall, we waited for over 4 hours. I wanted to get on an earlier bus than Steve and Minkailou were coming up on so that I would be there before they got to Douentza, but every bus that came through was full. Finally, the bus they were on got in, and the guy had sold us tickets for that bus, but that too turned out to be full and they refunded us. I at least met Steve at the bus station and told him I would try to be up as quickly as possible.
I was really bitter after that bus left. Dave and I waited around for a while then decided it would be just as easy to go in the morning, since it was too late to get up there before them anyways. I was in a bad mood about that, having cancelled my plans to get up there that night, and yet here I was staying again, yet without Bollywood. Anyhow, we went back to the bureau, and after a little while, he and I went out and got street food for dinner before meeting up with some other volunteers and some army guys at a bar. I wasn’t really in a drinking mood, but since I didn’t want to walk back alone, I got stuck out until 1:30 in the morning in a very terrible mood. When we finally went back, I skyped a little while with Kevin to vent then went to sleep on the roof.
This morning, Dave and I walked to the bachet (like mini-bus/vans) station and got the last couple seats in one leaving for Douentza. The problem is that they pack these things to the brim: 5 people for every 4 seats, and there is minimal ventilation, and they go really slowly, and are generally extremely uncomfortable. This ride was no exception. It took three and half hours to get up to Douentza, an hour longer than it would’ve taken by bus.
I was glad to get in and finally get to talk with Steve, though. He’s a nice guy and I’m glad that I’ll have him around. I’ll probably help him get started with his work on Sanga-So in the next few days, so that should be interesting. He’s probably a bit overwhelmed by French and the new surroundings for now, but hopefully he’ll get settled in soon.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Feasting in Mopti
Greetings from Mopti! Tuesday morning, I took the bus down to Sevare to hang out for a couple days with no solid game plan. I felt empowered going it alone, though, and playing it by ear. For instance, I knew to get off the bus before the Sevare bus station, since the walk would be shorter, then walked to a restaurant called Mankan Te that I like, had lunch, then set off for the Peace Corps bureau. I ran into Dave and Braxton en route, who were surprised to see me there. We went back together and I camped out on the internet basically all day.
We tried to go out and get pork that night, a rare commodity here with Mali being a Muslim nation. Unfortunately, however, no pork was to be found. We ordered chicken, though, and I got mine with salad, after the brutal shock the night before when I found out that the salad had officially finished in Douentza.
The chicken was delicious, char-grilled with some sort of spicy mustard sauce. In the end, it was probably better than the pork would have been. Plus they gave me my salad for free.
I was naughty and slept at the Peace Corps bureau that night. You’re not supposed to, but everyone does it anyway. I wanted to use the internet until late into the evening, and I didn’t feel like going out and finding somewhere else to stay. I certainly wasn’t alone, though—all of the mattresses were occupied.
I made a fried egg sandwich for lunch yesterday before heading out for Mopti. I was supposed to go with Rabayah, but she wanted to go swimming in Bandiagara, since there was a Peace Corps car already going there today. I don’t blame her. I decided to just live it up and be a boss and hire a taxi to take me to the hotel as opposed to walking through the heat to the bush taxi stand. I think it was a good choice.
Most of the afternoon was spent on the internet and napping. It was while chatting with Abbie that I learned that Steve and Minkailou are planning to go to Douentza today, not on Friday, as previously planned. This put a serious kink in my Bollywood party plans. Rabayah, Susan and I were going to make samosas and watch Bollywood this evening, but now I have to go back to Douentza, since most of the keys are in my possession.
I was bummed, but then I Skyped with Kevin for a while and decided to go out to a nice dinner. I went to a place called the Bissap Café, on the waterfront. It has one of the nicest atmospheres I’ve felt at any restaurant in Mali. It has multiple seating areas—a garden terrace, a room where light shines through thick slabs of desert salt, and a rooftop terrace overlooking the street and the river. I opted to sit up there and watch the world go by.
It was very peaceful. I could gaze out across the port, watching the reflections of streetlights ripple on the murky water, serenaded by a chorus of bullfrogs. In between courses, I read my Discover magazine with the top 100 science stories of 2008 that Chev sent me for my birthday. All in all, I spent $20 on myself: a chocolate shake with cointreau, a wood-fired ground beef and ham calzone, fresh fruit sorbet, and a glass of hibiscus (bissap) juice. I figured if I couldn’t get my Bollywood party, I could at least treat myself to a nice dinner. It was fabulous.
Anyhow, it’s back to Douentza today. I’m looking forward to meeting Steve and getting him settled in. It will be nice to have a colleague around to talk to.
We tried to go out and get pork that night, a rare commodity here with Mali being a Muslim nation. Unfortunately, however, no pork was to be found. We ordered chicken, though, and I got mine with salad, after the brutal shock the night before when I found out that the salad had officially finished in Douentza.
The chicken was delicious, char-grilled with some sort of spicy mustard sauce. In the end, it was probably better than the pork would have been. Plus they gave me my salad for free.
I was naughty and slept at the Peace Corps bureau that night. You’re not supposed to, but everyone does it anyway. I wanted to use the internet until late into the evening, and I didn’t feel like going out and finding somewhere else to stay. I certainly wasn’t alone, though—all of the mattresses were occupied.
I made a fried egg sandwich for lunch yesterday before heading out for Mopti. I was supposed to go with Rabayah, but she wanted to go swimming in Bandiagara, since there was a Peace Corps car already going there today. I don’t blame her. I decided to just live it up and be a boss and hire a taxi to take me to the hotel as opposed to walking through the heat to the bush taxi stand. I think it was a good choice.
Most of the afternoon was spent on the internet and napping. It was while chatting with Abbie that I learned that Steve and Minkailou are planning to go to Douentza today, not on Friday, as previously planned. This put a serious kink in my Bollywood party plans. Rabayah, Susan and I were going to make samosas and watch Bollywood this evening, but now I have to go back to Douentza, since most of the keys are in my possession.
I was bummed, but then I Skyped with Kevin for a while and decided to go out to a nice dinner. I went to a place called the Bissap Café, on the waterfront. It has one of the nicest atmospheres I’ve felt at any restaurant in Mali. It has multiple seating areas—a garden terrace, a room where light shines through thick slabs of desert salt, and a rooftop terrace overlooking the street and the river. I opted to sit up there and watch the world go by.
It was very peaceful. I could gaze out across the port, watching the reflections of streetlights ripple on the murky water, serenaded by a chorus of bullfrogs. In between courses, I read my Discover magazine with the top 100 science stories of 2008 that Chev sent me for my birthday. All in all, I spent $20 on myself: a chocolate shake with cointreau, a wood-fired ground beef and ham calzone, fresh fruit sorbet, and a glass of hibiscus (bissap) juice. I figured if I couldn’t get my Bollywood party, I could at least treat myself to a nice dinner. It was fabulous.
Anyhow, it’s back to Douentza today. I’m looking forward to meeting Steve and getting him settled in. It will be nice to have a colleague around to talk to.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
The latest photos
Here is the latest album, with pictures from my trip to the village, my trip to Petaka, and my chicken feast:
Village fun
Village fun
Monday, April 6, 2009
Chicken vomit
I had a really good day yesterday. In the morning, Nicolas came over, and we went to the market together to pick up some lunch fixings. We went back to his house and cooked up pasta with fresh tomato sauce, an easy but delicious classic. For dessert, we had mangoes, which are beginning to come back into season. We hung out for a while and talked about life and work and being in Mali, then I went back to get some work done.
I had been in my room for maybe a half an hour when Oumar came to tell me that Fatimata had sent somebody to see me in the morning after I’d gone out. We puzzled over what that could be about, but figured we’d just go see her the next day. Not five minutes later, I get a knock on my door, and it’s Fatimata herself. I greeted her and we went to sit down together in the shade of my hanger. I called over Oumar to act as translator. (My Fulfulde is definitely not yet conversational, unless the conversation only consists of me saying ‘I only came to greet you’ [jowtude ma tan waddi am] or ‘If I am here, I will come’ [so mi wonii gaa, mi wartan].)
She pulled out a small cloth bundle and handed it to Oumar. He unwrapped it to reveal a crude horseman statue in weathered iron. The horseman is seated on a Tuareg style saddle with a turban, but the horse has no legs and the features are otherwise obscured either by simple work or age. She said that her brother’s motorcycle had broken down between Bandiagara and Bankass, and while he was looking around for a stone to pry his tire off with, he found it in the dirt. She had no idea what it was, but if I wanted to buy it, she would sell it. I held it in my hands and it *felt* old. I don’t know how, but it just did. I figured, sure, why not, either it is something legitimately old (I think I’ll get it appraised in the US) that maybe a collector wants, or it’s just a curiosity, but either way, I have no problem giving my friend $15. She’s always giving me things, after all. In fact, just the day before, Oumar gave me a little paper package containing a ring Fatimata’s brother had made for me. It’s beautiful: copper with a silver vine-like inlay.
Anyhow, after I agreed to buy it and she took a necklace of mine to fix, she told me that her mother was in the area, in a village called Petaka, about twenty minutes the highway. She really wanted to introduce me to her mother. I agreed whole-heartedly, and twenty minutes later, she and I and her baby son were on my motorcycle, on our way east up the freeway.
As with any village you go to, it is the children first who are fascinated with you. They looked at me in awe and a couple little girls held my hand for a while. We went back into the village and sat down on mats until Fatimata’s mom came over, a woman of about 65, I would guess. We took some photos while the children squealed in delight, then Fatimata ushered me back to a little mud house.
When I stepped into the doorway, I saw a large woman with huge bare breasts giving an enema to a newborn baby girl. The umbilical cord was still tied off and everything. I must have been visibly shocked at the whole thing, since Fatimata was laughing at me, saying something along the lines of how amazed I was. She took the baby into her arms and I took a picture. Then she handed it back and told me to take a picture with the mother. Only in Mali can a total stranger take a picture of a bare-breasted woman and her child and have it not be awkward.
I sat for a little while longer on the mats, then Fatimata came back to show me the road. She brought with her a live chicken, hanging dazed and upside down from a cord around its legs. She held it out to me as a gift. I didn’t know quite what I would do with a live chicken, but I graciously accepted it, and she slung it over my motorcycle handlebars. With lots of waving and goodbyes, I hit the road on my own, enjoying the freedom of not having a passenger with a young child on the back of my motorcycle.
The whole way back the chicken vomited or slobbered on my bare calf. It was gross and I wanted to be mad, but hey, if I were slung upside down off of a motorcycle I would probably be vomiting too.
Since I was already up on the highway and I didn’t want to weave through the market with a chicken on my motorcycle, I stopped at Nicolas’s house. I showed him the chicken and suggested that we just eat it. We both hesitated for a little while, not knowing entirely how to go about that, but then Nicolas said he would just slaughter it. How hard could it be, right? He took the condemned around the house and slit its throat, like we’d seen done numerous times here before. It’s harder when you’re the one doing it though.
I told him I’d go to the market and get some condiments while he plucked it. I decided to try and make a peanut sauce with plantains fried in ginger and chili on the side. With Oumar’s help, I found everything I needed. I’d also recently ordered a small mortar and pestle to be made, which had arrived the day before, so I brought that over to pound my ginger and garlic into a paste. Really, I just wanted an excuse to use it.
I wasn’t entirely sure what I was doing, but everything worked out. Oumar came over and ate with us a while later, and everything I made was a hit. The chicken was good (couldn’t be fresher), the sauce had just the right amount of spice, and the plantains were delicious, as plantains are wont to be. Truly, I was quite pleased with myself. We sat around chatting until almost 10 before I went home.
I got bit by a spider while putting my mosquito net down last night, but I beat it to death with an empty soda bottle, and my hand never swelled or hurt. Then the kittens woke me up at 5:45 in the morning, crying at my door before jumping up and crawling in through a hole in my screen. Stupid kittens.
Tomorrow I will indeed go to Sevare, probably in the morning. I’m envisioning three nights. I figure that’ll be good, and I can get back here before Steve does.
I had been in my room for maybe a half an hour when Oumar came to tell me that Fatimata had sent somebody to see me in the morning after I’d gone out. We puzzled over what that could be about, but figured we’d just go see her the next day. Not five minutes later, I get a knock on my door, and it’s Fatimata herself. I greeted her and we went to sit down together in the shade of my hanger. I called over Oumar to act as translator. (My Fulfulde is definitely not yet conversational, unless the conversation only consists of me saying ‘I only came to greet you’ [jowtude ma tan waddi am] or ‘If I am here, I will come’ [so mi wonii gaa, mi wartan].)
She pulled out a small cloth bundle and handed it to Oumar. He unwrapped it to reveal a crude horseman statue in weathered iron. The horseman is seated on a Tuareg style saddle with a turban, but the horse has no legs and the features are otherwise obscured either by simple work or age. She said that her brother’s motorcycle had broken down between Bandiagara and Bankass, and while he was looking around for a stone to pry his tire off with, he found it in the dirt. She had no idea what it was, but if I wanted to buy it, she would sell it. I held it in my hands and it *felt* old. I don’t know how, but it just did. I figured, sure, why not, either it is something legitimately old (I think I’ll get it appraised in the US) that maybe a collector wants, or it’s just a curiosity, but either way, I have no problem giving my friend $15. She’s always giving me things, after all. In fact, just the day before, Oumar gave me a little paper package containing a ring Fatimata’s brother had made for me. It’s beautiful: copper with a silver vine-like inlay.
Anyhow, after I agreed to buy it and she took a necklace of mine to fix, she told me that her mother was in the area, in a village called Petaka, about twenty minutes the highway. She really wanted to introduce me to her mother. I agreed whole-heartedly, and twenty minutes later, she and I and her baby son were on my motorcycle, on our way east up the freeway.
As with any village you go to, it is the children first who are fascinated with you. They looked at me in awe and a couple little girls held my hand for a while. We went back into the village and sat down on mats until Fatimata’s mom came over, a woman of about 65, I would guess. We took some photos while the children squealed in delight, then Fatimata ushered me back to a little mud house.
When I stepped into the doorway, I saw a large woman with huge bare breasts giving an enema to a newborn baby girl. The umbilical cord was still tied off and everything. I must have been visibly shocked at the whole thing, since Fatimata was laughing at me, saying something along the lines of how amazed I was. She took the baby into her arms and I took a picture. Then she handed it back and told me to take a picture with the mother. Only in Mali can a total stranger take a picture of a bare-breasted woman and her child and have it not be awkward.
I sat for a little while longer on the mats, then Fatimata came back to show me the road. She brought with her a live chicken, hanging dazed and upside down from a cord around its legs. She held it out to me as a gift. I didn’t know quite what I would do with a live chicken, but I graciously accepted it, and she slung it over my motorcycle handlebars. With lots of waving and goodbyes, I hit the road on my own, enjoying the freedom of not having a passenger with a young child on the back of my motorcycle.
The whole way back the chicken vomited or slobbered on my bare calf. It was gross and I wanted to be mad, but hey, if I were slung upside down off of a motorcycle I would probably be vomiting too.
Since I was already up on the highway and I didn’t want to weave through the market with a chicken on my motorcycle, I stopped at Nicolas’s house. I showed him the chicken and suggested that we just eat it. We both hesitated for a little while, not knowing entirely how to go about that, but then Nicolas said he would just slaughter it. How hard could it be, right? He took the condemned around the house and slit its throat, like we’d seen done numerous times here before. It’s harder when you’re the one doing it though.
I told him I’d go to the market and get some condiments while he plucked it. I decided to try and make a peanut sauce with plantains fried in ginger and chili on the side. With Oumar’s help, I found everything I needed. I’d also recently ordered a small mortar and pestle to be made, which had arrived the day before, so I brought that over to pound my ginger and garlic into a paste. Really, I just wanted an excuse to use it.
I wasn’t entirely sure what I was doing, but everything worked out. Oumar came over and ate with us a while later, and everything I made was a hit. The chicken was good (couldn’t be fresher), the sauce had just the right amount of spice, and the plantains were delicious, as plantains are wont to be. Truly, I was quite pleased with myself. We sat around chatting until almost 10 before I went home.
I got bit by a spider while putting my mosquito net down last night, but I beat it to death with an empty soda bottle, and my hand never swelled or hurt. Then the kittens woke me up at 5:45 in the morning, crying at my door before jumping up and crawling in through a hole in my screen. Stupid kittens.
Tomorrow I will indeed go to Sevare, probably in the morning. I’m envisioning three nights. I figure that’ll be good, and I can get back here before Steve does.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Festing and resting
This village trip, while fun and not too long, was not quite what I expected. Oumar and I left bright and early on Thursday morning and got to the village by 10:30. I was thankful that the hike was not as hot as I expected it to be.
My house was all swept and stocked with water, since Ramata had gotten there the day before and knew I’d be coming. I greeted people as they trickled in, par for course. It was then I was told that the festival hadn’t started on Tuesday, as I had previously been told, but rather started the next day, Friday. I figured this was no problem, since I would still get to see a dance either way.
The millet beer started early. In fact, my first stop in the village after my house was Ramata’s grandmother’s house. This little old lady makes all of the beer for the whole village. Needless to say, she is a popular destination for young and old alike. We sat around in the dim light, surrounded by clay jars full of fermenting millet beer, and passed around a gourd-ful ourselves.
Afterwards, I went with Ramata to her mother’s house. She was glad to see me, as always. Ramata’s older brother Oumar had gotten back from Cameroon, where he had been for at least three years, so his wife seemed to be happy. I must have given her some sort of knowing look, since she got all embarrassed and laughed and smacked my arm. I swear I didn’t do anything on purpose.
I spent some more time reading and drinking millet beer later. Unfortunately, come evening time, I wasn’t feeling very well. My head hurt and I thought I was going to throw up. I made an attempt at eating a little bit of dinner, but I had no appetite. I didn’t push my luck. 7 o’ clock, my mosquito tent was set up outside and I was in bed.
It wasn’t too hot at all to sleep. I think it’s hotter in Douentza than up on the mountain. I slept peacefully, cooled by a night breeze, until around 3 in the morning when my least favorite dog in the world started up its usual racket. Finally that abided, and I drifted back off to sleep, only to be woken up by puffed up roosters and early sunlight. I dragged my mattress inside and lay down for another hour.
Friday passed slowly. Reading, chatting with Oumar and Bureima, drinking bits of millet beer, etc. In the evening, I discussed my solar panel plans with the school director. He seemed very enthusiastic, saying that the school would never forget my name. We decided it would be best to try to get 2 ceiling fans in each classroom in the new building, then light for the director’s office and one classroom, so people can work at night. Everyone was in agreement that lights wouldn’t do much during the day, and I have to take their word for it. Anyhow, when I go to Sevare, I think this week, I’ll start buying supplies and get as much as I can within my budget.
The problem with village festivities is that they start way too late at night. Their market no one goes to until around sundown. We went with the others, milling around the small market place, Oumar taking pictures with my camera since I would feel awkward about doing it myself. While my head was better, my stomach was upset about something else that day, so I eventually had to dash back to the village and camp out for a while.
The dance itself didn’t start until maybe 10 or 11 at night. By this time, I was exhausted and in no mood for festivities. But Ramata came by and brought Oumar and I over to the dance ground, near the elementary school. My spirits were lifted by the sight of chanting stomping groups of men, some carrying burning poles and millet stalk torches. We watched them dance around for a while, each group from a different village (Kendenno, Entaka, Tongo Tongo), until they joined in a large swirling circle of stomping men surrounding a smaller inner circle of clapping teenage girls. It was very cool to watch at first, and I attempted to get video, even though it was clearly too dark. However, it just went on like that, not changing particularly, though evidently the songs were changing.
The point of Ondom Piri (the festival) is to sing about the wrongs people have done in the last year: lies, cheating, stealing. I guess if you understood the songs, perhaps it would be more interesting, since you’d be getting all of the village gossip from the last year. But I didn’t understand them, and I couldn’t even dance, since it appeared only to be men. Eventually I got tired and went to bed.
Everyone was disappointed, since apparently the good dance, where everyone (probably still men) carries millet torches and dances in a spiral, would be happening on Sunday. However, no one told me this before I got there, and I couldn’t stay. I have Fulbright papers Dave printed for me to mail today, and I was told he’d be leaving Douentza tonight or tomorrow. They said it was okay, that it left something to see next time I come back.
Oumar and I hit the road this morning around 8 and were back in Douentza by 11. It was a hot walk back, but not intolerable. As always, it feels good to be back in Douentza. I had an extremely cold soda and a yogurt. Phil, Dan and I all got back into Douentza around the same time, and Ashlely and Dave were already here, so we’re quite a crew. Apparently a car full of other volunteers I met on St. Patty’s will be passing through on their way back from Timbuktu, so I’ll probably get to say hi to them.
I’m kicking around the idea of going down to Sevare on Tuesday to spend a few days before Steve gets here. I’m hoping my computer battery got there and I’m feeling ready for some more good internet. That way, the following weekend I can go plan on going to Ngouma to see Phil’s village and maybe have a goat roast. Just a little over a month to go in Douentza.
My house was all swept and stocked with water, since Ramata had gotten there the day before and knew I’d be coming. I greeted people as they trickled in, par for course. It was then I was told that the festival hadn’t started on Tuesday, as I had previously been told, but rather started the next day, Friday. I figured this was no problem, since I would still get to see a dance either way.
The millet beer started early. In fact, my first stop in the village after my house was Ramata’s grandmother’s house. This little old lady makes all of the beer for the whole village. Needless to say, she is a popular destination for young and old alike. We sat around in the dim light, surrounded by clay jars full of fermenting millet beer, and passed around a gourd-ful ourselves.
Afterwards, I went with Ramata to her mother’s house. She was glad to see me, as always. Ramata’s older brother Oumar had gotten back from Cameroon, where he had been for at least three years, so his wife seemed to be happy. I must have given her some sort of knowing look, since she got all embarrassed and laughed and smacked my arm. I swear I didn’t do anything on purpose.
I spent some more time reading and drinking millet beer later. Unfortunately, come evening time, I wasn’t feeling very well. My head hurt and I thought I was going to throw up. I made an attempt at eating a little bit of dinner, but I had no appetite. I didn’t push my luck. 7 o’ clock, my mosquito tent was set up outside and I was in bed.
It wasn’t too hot at all to sleep. I think it’s hotter in Douentza than up on the mountain. I slept peacefully, cooled by a night breeze, until around 3 in the morning when my least favorite dog in the world started up its usual racket. Finally that abided, and I drifted back off to sleep, only to be woken up by puffed up roosters and early sunlight. I dragged my mattress inside and lay down for another hour.
Friday passed slowly. Reading, chatting with Oumar and Bureima, drinking bits of millet beer, etc. In the evening, I discussed my solar panel plans with the school director. He seemed very enthusiastic, saying that the school would never forget my name. We decided it would be best to try to get 2 ceiling fans in each classroom in the new building, then light for the director’s office and one classroom, so people can work at night. Everyone was in agreement that lights wouldn’t do much during the day, and I have to take their word for it. Anyhow, when I go to Sevare, I think this week, I’ll start buying supplies and get as much as I can within my budget.
The problem with village festivities is that they start way too late at night. Their market no one goes to until around sundown. We went with the others, milling around the small market place, Oumar taking pictures with my camera since I would feel awkward about doing it myself. While my head was better, my stomach was upset about something else that day, so I eventually had to dash back to the village and camp out for a while.
The dance itself didn’t start until maybe 10 or 11 at night. By this time, I was exhausted and in no mood for festivities. But Ramata came by and brought Oumar and I over to the dance ground, near the elementary school. My spirits were lifted by the sight of chanting stomping groups of men, some carrying burning poles and millet stalk torches. We watched them dance around for a while, each group from a different village (Kendenno, Entaka, Tongo Tongo), until they joined in a large swirling circle of stomping men surrounding a smaller inner circle of clapping teenage girls. It was very cool to watch at first, and I attempted to get video, even though it was clearly too dark. However, it just went on like that, not changing particularly, though evidently the songs were changing.
The point of Ondom Piri (the festival) is to sing about the wrongs people have done in the last year: lies, cheating, stealing. I guess if you understood the songs, perhaps it would be more interesting, since you’d be getting all of the village gossip from the last year. But I didn’t understand them, and I couldn’t even dance, since it appeared only to be men. Eventually I got tired and went to bed.
Everyone was disappointed, since apparently the good dance, where everyone (probably still men) carries millet torches and dances in a spiral, would be happening on Sunday. However, no one told me this before I got there, and I couldn’t stay. I have Fulbright papers Dave printed for me to mail today, and I was told he’d be leaving Douentza tonight or tomorrow. They said it was okay, that it left something to see next time I come back.
Oumar and I hit the road this morning around 8 and were back in Douentza by 11. It was a hot walk back, but not intolerable. As always, it feels good to be back in Douentza. I had an extremely cold soda and a yogurt. Phil, Dan and I all got back into Douentza around the same time, and Ashlely and Dave were already here, so we’re quite a crew. Apparently a car full of other volunteers I met on St. Patty’s will be passing through on their way back from Timbuktu, so I’ll probably get to say hi to them.
I’m kicking around the idea of going down to Sevare on Tuesday to spend a few days before Steve gets here. I’m hoping my computer battery got there and I’m feeling ready for some more good internet. That way, the following weekend I can go plan on going to Ngouma to see Phil’s village and maybe have a goat roast. Just a little over a month to go in Douentza.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Dead animals (not my own)
I’m coming home next month! Now I can officially say it.
Not much new to report, but I will indeed be off to the village tomorrow. Around Douentza, things are hot and slow-paced, as usual. A couple observations about dead animals: apparently, Dave and Chris came back from Hombori and found a dead cat in their bathroom. Like under the cover, in the bathroom hole. Who knows. And then as I walk to the market everyday, I can watch the progress of this dead chicken slowly turning into a pile of feathers sinking into the mud, as living chicks peck around it. Always a good time.
I’ll be back on Saturday with tales of dancing and millet beer, I’m sure.
Not much new to report, but I will indeed be off to the village tomorrow. Around Douentza, things are hot and slow-paced, as usual. A couple observations about dead animals: apparently, Dave and Chris came back from Hombori and found a dead cat in their bathroom. Like under the cover, in the bathroom hole. Who knows. And then as I walk to the market everyday, I can watch the progress of this dead chicken slowly turning into a pile of feathers sinking into the mud, as living chicks peck around it. Always a good time.
I’ll be back on Saturday with tales of dancing and millet beer, I’m sure.
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