This past week has been a rollercoaster of emotions. My stage and I are currently in the throes of our In-Service Training where we are learning all about project design management, funding, budgeting and other practicum. After our three month lockdown at site, many of us arrived motivated, inspired, and ready to mobilize as we are finally allowed to start executing projects after these two weeks of training. However, as each day passes I feel the weight of the expectations (mine, my village's and Peace Corps') press heavily on my shoulders. We all desperately want to make a difference- a tangible difference- but are lost as to where to even begin. As I continue to try and reconcile with these feelings, I stumbled across a Huffington Post blog article that sums up these woes better than I am able to at this moment:
What The Peace Corps Taught Me About Failure
Volunteer life bursts with cultural faux pas, fruitless projects and second guesses. For two years, I felt like the joke was on me. Even on my best days in Senegal, the sudden scream of "toubab," a taunting word for foreigners, reminded me that my cheerfulness was jinxed, my presence perhaps unwelcome.
In West Africa, I confronted the toubab version of myself, a self previously foreign to me that was lethargic, cynical and at home with failure.
For a long time I hesitated to admit that I felt incompetent as a Peace Corps volunteer. I felt that if I expressed my suspicion that I was inept, it would confirm criticisms that the program itself is irresponsible and presumptuous. I signed up largely because I saw myself as a go-getter and I wanted a challenge. I have a childlike loyalty to getting things right; I lack a cleverness for bullshitting. Yet these traits, from which I had previously derived strength, became the source of my immense heartbreak.
I did extra work in my demonstration garden only to find out later that agriculture agents resented me for it. I had lengthy, optimistic conversations with a village chief about starting a community garden only to discover that I misread his reaction and that he was, in fact, against the whole endeavor.
When a project faltered, I wondered if I should blame the cultural difference or my language skills, my lack of expertise or my accidental impropriety. I never knew for sure.
And yet, seeing my confidence unravel was helpful. Maybe everyone needs a period in their lives when they barely recognize themselves.
The story that Peace Corps volunteers like to tell -- and Americans like to hear -- is one of urgent and awe-inspiring work. Americans like to feel that at least someone is out there fighting all those incomprehensible African problems.
This narrative is too simplistic.
As the Peace Corps celebrates its 50th anniversary, some still find it hard to put a finger on what exactly the program achieves. There are both quantifiable yields, like number of wells dug and trees planted, and unquantifiable gains, like the intimate bonds volunteers make with people all over the world.
One benefit of the program that is never trumpeted (and likely never will be) is that it produces a group of young Americans who understand failure.
Americans, especially the variety who join the Peace Corps, are raised to believe that hard work pays off. We come from a place where the phrase, "We'll meet tomorrow at 5," means, "We'll meet tomorrow at 5" -- where you put a stamp on an envelope and it gets delivered.
"Failure is not an option," according to the locker room poster likely brought to us by the same people who birthed "Impossible is Nothing." Americans are immature when it comes to honestly accepting failure and maybe that's why so many of us lack the emotional depth to make sense of it.
We all have failures, yet we bury them in the folds of our pasts as curious gaps in our résumés and cryptic replies to direct questions. If we are unable to emerge triumphant, our failures eat away at us.
My Senegalese comrades are less brittle. They admit freely that their lives are full of fiascoes, delays and disappointments.
When I asked locals in Pulaar how work was going, I didn't often hear: "Oh, just fine!" Instead, the response was a more honest, "I'm trying, little by little." It seems to me that growing up with unpredictability has better equipped the Senegalese people to persevere in the face of real obstacles.
The same barriers Senegalese people manage to climb over regularly ended some of my projects. When I tried obtaining a grant for a women's farm, the land rights had to first be legally transferred to the women themselves. While the paperwork lingered in a government office, I foolishly kept preparing for the project that would never be, blocking off months in my calendar that I would devote to it. Meanwhile, the women moved on, continuing their own, smaller version of the farm they wanted. They knew not to rest their hopes in government offices and the men who shuffle within them.
I don't mean to give the impression that Peace Corps volunteers don't accomplish anything. We do a lot of the things other aid organizations do, but our version is less grandiose: We hold small-group trainings on childhood nutrition and organic pest control. We help small businesses grow, often through a series of one-on-one interactions. Our hyped-up expectations of success are often quashed--we learn quickly that smaller is better.
I survived two years in the Peace Corps. My proudest accomplishment during my time in Senegal, one that can't be expressed on a résumé, is how much I grew up.
I now know that no occupation, despite my generation's obsession with passion-following, is without compromise or disappointment. And I know that failure, despite its negative connotations, takes practice.
Maya Lau
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Friday, November 18, 2011
Update!
A little while ago, I wrote about a one month old infant boy who was struggling to survive after the passing of his twin brother. Little Fouseyni, sick and fragile, seemed to be wasting away in my arms.
However, after a few weeks of consistent bottle-feeding, he began to drink from his mother's breast again. Dooni Dooni, I have noticed that he has been gaining weight and is now looking much healthier! Here is a picture of myself and my little soldier:
However, after a few weeks of consistent bottle-feeding, he began to drink from his mother's breast again. Dooni Dooni, I have noticed that he has been gaining weight and is now looking much healthier! Here is a picture of myself and my little soldier:
Monday, October 24, 2011
So, I am now a first grade teacher?!
After missing the first 2 days of the new school year due to illness (it was only a middle ear infection this time-very painful, but a piece of cake compared to my first bout with being sick in Mali), I arrived at the school reliving the same excitement and nervousness that would enveloppe me as a student each new school year. Yes, I was one of those who loved going to school and would never miss a class.
That day, I held a meeting with the teachers and the CGS, the Malian equivalent of the PTA. With the help of my homologue, we had a very indepth conversation about the difficulties and challenges with education that the school and village faces. We even briefly breached how they would like me to help them-which projects they would like to start. However, as none of that work can commence until December after my In-Service Training, I spent the rest of the week observing each class. It became apparent quite quickly how disfunctional the education system within my village is, and these challenges are something I would come to understand first-hand as by the end of the week, I had become the First Grade teacher.
To have one teacher instructing two grades is overwhelming, especially if it is the first and second grade filled with 5-8 year olds who can't sit still. Madame was so clearly exhausted by midday that I offered my assistance in any way that I could and thus became Madame Sira, Maitresse of the premiere annee. In this new role, I have come to clearly understand and appreciate how hard the teachers work and what they are up against. In the first grade class, I have children crammed in their seats- 4 to a table-bench that is supposed to seat 2. Some benches don't have backs to the seats and one bench doesn't even have the table. As I attempt to instruct the children (in French/Bambara) in the ABC's and introduce the basics to writing, half the class sits idle as they don't have a chalkboard or chalk. While the lack of learning materials poses quite the challenge, the students make up for it in their eagerness and motivation to learn. I always have a sea of hands to choose from when asking for a volunteer and usually have to shout over the cries of "Madame, Madame!".
As each teacher is overwhelmed with the 2 classes, I have noticed that some students fall behind never to catch up because there is no time for individual attention. These students are simply passed on to the next grade where they continue to get overlooked and eventually do not return. It is a vicious cycle. On the weekends, I have begun to give extra lessons to the children in my host family because as 4th and 5th grade students, they struggle to add, subtract, and even write ledgibly.
As this experience progresses, I have come to truly appreciate my own education and the opportunities it has afforded me. It has reinforced my belief in the importance of basic education as a tool for development. If you really want to enact change within a culture, to empower women, improve basic hygiene and healthcare, and fight high rates of infant mortality, the answer is education.
That day, I held a meeting with the teachers and the CGS, the Malian equivalent of the PTA. With the help of my homologue, we had a very indepth conversation about the difficulties and challenges with education that the school and village faces. We even briefly breached how they would like me to help them-which projects they would like to start. However, as none of that work can commence until December after my In-Service Training, I spent the rest of the week observing each class. It became apparent quite quickly how disfunctional the education system within my village is, and these challenges are something I would come to understand first-hand as by the end of the week, I had become the First Grade teacher.
To have one teacher instructing two grades is overwhelming, especially if it is the first and second grade filled with 5-8 year olds who can't sit still. Madame was so clearly exhausted by midday that I offered my assistance in any way that I could and thus became Madame Sira, Maitresse of the premiere annee. In this new role, I have come to clearly understand and appreciate how hard the teachers work and what they are up against. In the first grade class, I have children crammed in their seats- 4 to a table-bench that is supposed to seat 2. Some benches don't have backs to the seats and one bench doesn't even have the table. As I attempt to instruct the children (in French/Bambara) in the ABC's and introduce the basics to writing, half the class sits idle as they don't have a chalkboard or chalk. While the lack of learning materials poses quite the challenge, the students make up for it in their eagerness and motivation to learn. I always have a sea of hands to choose from when asking for a volunteer and usually have to shout over the cries of "Madame, Madame!".
As each teacher is overwhelmed with the 2 classes, I have noticed that some students fall behind never to catch up because there is no time for individual attention. These students are simply passed on to the next grade where they continue to get overlooked and eventually do not return. It is a vicious cycle. On the weekends, I have begun to give extra lessons to the children in my host family because as 4th and 5th grade students, they struggle to add, subtract, and even write ledgibly.
As this experience progresses, I have come to truly appreciate my own education and the opportunities it has afforded me. It has reinforced my belief in the importance of basic education as a tool for development. If you really want to enact change within a culture, to empower women, improve basic hygiene and healthcare, and fight high rates of infant mortality, the answer is education.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Nurse Taz
As I mentioned in the previous post, this time of year is especially perilous for young children and infants. Unfortunately, this became even more evident this past week.
Two of the women in my village, with whom I have become quite close, each lost a child. These are babies that I have held and carried, so the reality of how succeptible to sickness and death these children are has hit hard.
One of the infants that passed was from a set of one month old twin boys. When I first met the twins, I was shocked at how extremely tiny and fragile they were for their age. Their mother explained to me that she was having trouble feeding both of them as she could only breastfeed from one side as her other breast was infected.
Sidenote: Breasts are a very common sight here in Mali. Since they serve the purpose of feeding a child, there is no 'taboo,' so they are whipped out and exposed very regularly.
It is my guess that one of the reasons a twin passed was partly due to malnutrition. The mother had bought a bottle and supplementary powdered milk, but when she showed it to me, it was an ordinary sugary powdered milk, not an infant formula. I tried to reinforce that breastmilk was the best source of sustinence for the babies, but...
When I visited to give my condolences, I noticed that the surviving twin look emaciated. As he stared at me with his sunken eyes, it was both frightening and heartbreaking. I could clearly see his protruding ribs and hip bones- it seemed as if he wasn't carrying an ounce of fat on his tiny frame. I have never ever seen a skinnier baby. For a month old, he looked like a dying, decrepit old man.
The baby was still having trouble breastfeeding, but this time, thankfully, the mother showed me baby formula. I got the hint that she didn't know what to do- as she couldn't read the instructions on the cannister- so I became her guide. I showed her how much water to boil, how much formula to add, and explained that she had to wait and check that the mixture is not too hot before feeding the child. I gave instructions on how many times a day to feed the baby and that she had to wash (with soap) and sterilize the bottle after each use. After I made the first batch, we attempted to feed the baby- which was made all the more difficult as the bottle was broken and would not screw shut. As the mother held the child, I placed the bottle's nipple into the baby's mouth and poured the formula little by little. I was afraid that the baby would not accept the formula as most prefer their mother's milk, but thankfully, after some coaxing, the baby drank it all.
I have become invested in this child's well-being. I want him to live. And it is depressing that that is the first priority- that a child has to struggle to survive and live. But, that is very much the reality that each newborn faces here en brousse in Mali. I visited the baby every morning since then and will continue to do so, hoping that everyday he is eating, gaining some weight and simply living.
Two of the women in my village, with whom I have become quite close, each lost a child. These are babies that I have held and carried, so the reality of how succeptible to sickness and death these children are has hit hard.
One of the infants that passed was from a set of one month old twin boys. When I first met the twins, I was shocked at how extremely tiny and fragile they were for their age. Their mother explained to me that she was having trouble feeding both of them as she could only breastfeed from one side as her other breast was infected.
Sidenote: Breasts are a very common sight here in Mali. Since they serve the purpose of feeding a child, there is no 'taboo,' so they are whipped out and exposed very regularly.
It is my guess that one of the reasons a twin passed was partly due to malnutrition. The mother had bought a bottle and supplementary powdered milk, but when she showed it to me, it was an ordinary sugary powdered milk, not an infant formula. I tried to reinforce that breastmilk was the best source of sustinence for the babies, but...
When I visited to give my condolences, I noticed that the surviving twin look emaciated. As he stared at me with his sunken eyes, it was both frightening and heartbreaking. I could clearly see his protruding ribs and hip bones- it seemed as if he wasn't carrying an ounce of fat on his tiny frame. I have never ever seen a skinnier baby. For a month old, he looked like a dying, decrepit old man.
The baby was still having trouble breastfeeding, but this time, thankfully, the mother showed me baby formula. I got the hint that she didn't know what to do- as she couldn't read the instructions on the cannister- so I became her guide. I showed her how much water to boil, how much formula to add, and explained that she had to wait and check that the mixture is not too hot before feeding the child. I gave instructions on how many times a day to feed the baby and that she had to wash (with soap) and sterilize the bottle after each use. After I made the first batch, we attempted to feed the baby- which was made all the more difficult as the bottle was broken and would not screw shut. As the mother held the child, I placed the bottle's nipple into the baby's mouth and poured the formula little by little. I was afraid that the baby would not accept the formula as most prefer their mother's milk, but thankfully, after some coaxing, the baby drank it all.
I have become invested in this child's well-being. I want him to live. And it is depressing that that is the first priority- that a child has to struggle to survive and live. But, that is very much the reality that each newborn faces here en brousse in Mali. I visited the baby every morning since then and will continue to do so, hoping that everyday he is eating, gaining some weight and simply living.
Observations
After almost 2 months in ville I have made some significant observations that will indicate the direction of my work here within my community.
I have noticed that my village is very self-sufficient. Almost everything crucial they need: food, oil, soap, etc., they produce or gather themselves. Right now, it is nearing then end of rainy season, so everyday almost the entire village goes out to the surrounding fields to farm peanuts, millet, corn, and rice which are the main staples of the village diet. However, this self-sufficiency also means that there is very little money within the village (which seems to be a recurring theme for the root of many problems within Mali). Thus, this augments the viciousness of hunger season which we are currently experiencing the worst of. It has been almost a year since the last harvest, so the stocks of food and cereal banks are very low if not empty. This lack of money means that many families struggle to feed themselves sufficiently. This then also augments the frequency of illness, especially among young children. Most Malians have an insufficient diet to begin with; therefore, this, coupled with unsanitary practices, such as not washing their hands with soap after going to the bathroom (there is no toilet paper here, so use your imagination) or before they eat, they are more vulnerable to disease and illness. It is also the peak season for mosquitoes which means the threat of Malaria is substantially higher at the moment and threatens the lives of the weak and malnourished. Again, the lack of money means that many families have to forgoe efficient treatment of illnesses.
As an Education and Literacy volunteer, I thought that my main focus would be improving the access to and quality of education within my community. However, through my observations and conversations, all problems within my village, even those regarding education, seem to lead back to the lack of money.
As the farming and harvest season runs into November and December, and since this is the main livelihood of my village and surrounding hamlets, many children are needed to work in the fields to help sustain the family in lieu of going to school. This, coupled with the inability to pay the school fees, many families opt not to send their children to school. (Families also have so little money that they can't afford to buy their children a pen and notebook, so as my host mother said, "how are they supposed to learn?") Here in Mali, the government pays for part of the teacher's salary and the village pays the rest. Thus, the fee is split on a per child basis and will fluctuate based on the number of children attending school. From what I have gathered, each family usually pays around 400-600 cfa to send one child to school. That is approximately the equivalent of $1. This inability to pay results in a low attendance rate, with an average of 20 children per class in grades 1-6. We were taught that overcrowding was a major issue within the Malian educaion system with most classes packed with around 100 children, but my village, with a population of approx. 800-not including the students that come from surrounding villages-this number is shockingly low.
Again, this lack of money creates a problem for the teachers as well. Many times they go unpaid for months at a time which results in strikes. These gaps in the school year negatively affect the students learning. My village struggles to pay the three teachers they employ. Yes, only 3 for the 6 grades. One teacher splits their time between two grades in the three room school house. So, the 2 consecutive classes (1 & 2, 3 & 4, 5 & 6) must share a room and a teacher. Again,this impacts the efficiency of the students learning.
This is just the beginning.
While the tasks ahead of me may seem daunting (where do I even begin?!) I am hopeful that I can enact some sustainable change within the community to allow for their continual development and success long after I have completed my service. This may be the wishful thinking and hoping of a nieve, new volunteer, but I believe that positivity is the best way forward.
Peace and Love.
I have noticed that my village is very self-sufficient. Almost everything crucial they need: food, oil, soap, etc., they produce or gather themselves. Right now, it is nearing then end of rainy season, so everyday almost the entire village goes out to the surrounding fields to farm peanuts, millet, corn, and rice which are the main staples of the village diet. However, this self-sufficiency also means that there is very little money within the village (which seems to be a recurring theme for the root of many problems within Mali). Thus, this augments the viciousness of hunger season which we are currently experiencing the worst of. It has been almost a year since the last harvest, so the stocks of food and cereal banks are very low if not empty. This lack of money means that many families struggle to feed themselves sufficiently. This then also augments the frequency of illness, especially among young children. Most Malians have an insufficient diet to begin with; therefore, this, coupled with unsanitary practices, such as not washing their hands with soap after going to the bathroom (there is no toilet paper here, so use your imagination) or before they eat, they are more vulnerable to disease and illness. It is also the peak season for mosquitoes which means the threat of Malaria is substantially higher at the moment and threatens the lives of the weak and malnourished. Again, the lack of money means that many families have to forgoe efficient treatment of illnesses.
As an Education and Literacy volunteer, I thought that my main focus would be improving the access to and quality of education within my community. However, through my observations and conversations, all problems within my village, even those regarding education, seem to lead back to the lack of money.
As the farming and harvest season runs into November and December, and since this is the main livelihood of my village and surrounding hamlets, many children are needed to work in the fields to help sustain the family in lieu of going to school. This, coupled with the inability to pay the school fees, many families opt not to send their children to school. (Families also have so little money that they can't afford to buy their children a pen and notebook, so as my host mother said, "how are they supposed to learn?") Here in Mali, the government pays for part of the teacher's salary and the village pays the rest. Thus, the fee is split on a per child basis and will fluctuate based on the number of children attending school. From what I have gathered, each family usually pays around 400-600 cfa to send one child to school. That is approximately the equivalent of $1. This inability to pay results in a low attendance rate, with an average of 20 children per class in grades 1-6. We were taught that overcrowding was a major issue within the Malian educaion system with most classes packed with around 100 children, but my village, with a population of approx. 800-not including the students that come from surrounding villages-this number is shockingly low.
Again, this lack of money creates a problem for the teachers as well. Many times they go unpaid for months at a time which results in strikes. These gaps in the school year negatively affect the students learning. My village struggles to pay the three teachers they employ. Yes, only 3 for the 6 grades. One teacher splits their time between two grades in the three room school house. So, the 2 consecutive classes (1 & 2, 3 & 4, 5 & 6) must share a room and a teacher. Again,this impacts the efficiency of the students learning.
This is just the beginning.
While the tasks ahead of me may seem daunting (where do I even begin?!) I am hopeful that I can enact some sustainable change within the community to allow for their continual development and success long after I have completed my service. This may be the wishful thinking and hoping of a nieve, new volunteer, but I believe that positivity is the best way forward.
Peace and Love.
Monday, September 12, 2011
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.
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.
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.
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