Toubab's Can't Cry

Around two weeks ago, the dugutigi (chief of the village) passed away. I was conducting my typical morning round of greetings when the concession I was currently visiting became hushed and the radio was turned up. All that I could grasp was the name of my village being repeated periodically. After the announcement, I turned to the women for an explanation and was met with their crestfallen faces. It had just been confirmed and announced that the dugutigi had died. Instead of completing my morning route, I followed the women to the dugutigi's house. As we entered his concession, a mass of people had already begun to congregate. The men were all sitting on the left quietly murmuring prayers while the women were sitting to the right quietly chanting and singing what I assume to be prayers and songs of mourning. I was given a seat among the women to participate in the vigil. As more people began to arrive, the lamenting increased dramatically. Periodically, men would stand and start shouting while women arrived wailing and crying. This would lead to an eruption of crying, sobbing, and wailing on the women's side. Entirely surrounded by these distraught people, I couldn't help but become overwhelmed and shed a few tears myself in this emotionally intense moment.
However, as soon as some of the elder women saw that I was crying too, I was escorted away from the main mass of women and made to sit in the back where the cooking was taking place. I think I even received a scolding about crying as I was harshly told that I was only allowed to give blessings. For the rest of the day all I would hear was that I shouldn't have cried- crying is bad. So, in this culturally sensitive experience, the Toubab screws up-- great.
After about 2 hours, where people from all surrounding villages were constantly arriving to pay their respects, the body was escorted our of the hut for burial in the tomb. According to the laws of Islam, the body must be buried within 24 hours. As the body was carried out, another eruption of crying and wailing ensued while everyone stood and waved goodbye. After the men returned from burying the body, the women, who had been cooking for the mass of people the entire time, distributed the food and everyone ate.
The following week, all work ceased. No one went into the fields. The men all sat around in what looked like meetings and received all the visitors who came to pay their respects. The women would spend all day cooking for everyone. As per Islamic custom, on the third day after the dugutigi's death, a small animal sacrifice was made. Then on the seventh day, the final ceremony and sacrifice was made-2 cows and multiple goats and chickens were offered. On this seventh day, all of the village and all the guests who had been slowly filtering in all week congregated at the dugutigi's concession. There was some teaching and preaching of the Koran, and then the monetary donations were given. Afterwards, everyone was again fed by the women who had been preparing for the final meal the entire previous night and morning.
Now, there is a 40 day period of waiting before the next dugutigi is chosen. All of the men will have a meeting to select from among the chekoroba's (elder men) who should be the next chief.

The Toughest Job You'll Ever Love

As I post this blog entry, I have successfully surpassed the first month mark at site. I am surviving. I must admit though that around the third day I was ready to pack it in. That evening, I was overcome with this intense wave of loneliness and homesickness. It was such a suffocating sensation that it took the greatest of effort for me not to have a physical reaction at that moment. All the familiar aspects of my life had just, a few days prior, been twisted and distorted to where everything became new, questionable and frightening. And these rush of thoughts and impressions bombarded me all at once. I had just spent the past two months with an amazing group of people and formed these wonderful relationships for it all to disappear (I currently have no cell service at my site, so I can't contact anyone!) After all of the trainings and formations during PST, the uncertainty about what to do and how to commence my task at hand as a volunteer was overwhelming.
I endured the night and woke up the next morning trying to wash away those dark doubtful thoughts. I now understand why this is the hardest parf of the 2 year service for many volunteers. Even now, after I have somewhat settled, I still experience these intense moments of doubt and frustration where all I can hope to do is try and swim through those perils of my day and simply exist. But then there are those days where you succeed and make simple achievements like understanding a conversation, having a baby sit on your lap without crying, or making a Malian laugh when you attempt to pound millet or work in the fields. Those are the days that become your life vest when you feel you are lost and drowning in the depths. Those are the moments that you will remember. Those are the moments that make the hardships worthwhile.
As I continue to form and develop relationships with those around me, everything becomes easier- the days flow. Having settled into a routine, I have already become quite comfortable in my village and have even formed an attachment. The people are truly wonderful and my site is beautiful. I spend the day walking in view of the rolling hills of KIta, and on a perfectly cloudless night, the sky is so completely blanketed with stars that I can only stare in awe at how amazing and pure the world really is. I am lucky.
But for now, my day to day life is pretty simple. A typical journee consists of me greeting and yala-yalaing in the morning, then accompaning the women out to the fields in afternoon (where I sit, read, and entertain the babies) and then sitting around and chatting at night. However, if it is a football night and Mali is playing, I can expect to see almost the entire male population crowded around a 15 inch television screen at my host family's home. And God forbid the battery goes out! Since there is no electricity in my village, all electronics run on car batteries. So, if the battery is abanta (finished), all hell breaks loose until someone fetches another. The days do become repetitive though, even right down to the conversations. Not a day goes by where someone doesn't ask me I can farm peanuts, take them to America with me (right now everyone and their donkeys think they are coming home with me, so get ready Mum and Dad!), or if I am married. I receive the most devestated looks when I reply "No" to the last one. My response is always the same: that I am here to work. Almost everyone then says that they will find me a Malian husband to which I reply that if he can cook, wash clothes and watch the kids, then I will consider it. That always ends the conversation in laughter, because no Malian man does that kind of work and the women know it! But however monotonous and repetitive the days are, they are crucial to my integration. As my language skills develop, these converstations are an excellent forum for cultural exchange and will allow me to pursue avenues to discussing why I am here and how I can help my village help themselves.