La Nuit

Night~ The crickets are particularly loud tonight, a peaceful night despite the noise of a passing motorcycle or two and the periodic truck on the main road not too far away.  The stars are bright here in a way they never are in Bamako, blotted out only a bit by the mounting clouds.  We (Hannah/Bintou, my American homestay buddy, and I) may have another small mango rain while sleeping outside, just like last night.  Alternating Malian music and rap songs indicate a party going on in a neighboring quartier, and we sit, journaling, attempting to put on paper the turbulent thoughts and feelings coursing through us after a full day with a village family. 

Before today, we were really only halfway here- eating breakfast and choking down fishy dinners with our host families but spending the days with the other American students- dying fabric, painting with mud, learning a bit more Bambara, discussing research proposals, and (in my case) spending some time at the maternity to see if I could sit in on a birth or two.  But today we were completely and totally here- holding babies, hauling up well water (which is a rather terrifying experience if you are even remotely afraid of heights and/or water), stirring ridiculously large pots of food, washing dishes, going through the motions of pounding millet, and even washing lettuce and frying potatoes for dinner.  All of this happened while we were not being mobbed by children asking us to take their pictures. 

So now we have had a very small taste of "village life" in the rather atypical village of Sanankoroba- atypical because of its proximity to Bamako and because of several prominent NGOs's presence here.  But we were absolutely linguistically challenged enough- trying to use our broken Bambara with families who speak limited broken French.  My most successful moments were those in which I discerned marriage proposals and forcefully said no.  Now more than ever, I believe that in order to truly discover a place and its people, one must speak their language.  A translator is not enough, because there are too many socio-linguistic nuances in even the simplest of exchanges that are lost in translation.  However, I also maintain that some things transcend culture- a smile, a willing spirit, laughter.  And the manner in which praise of their God pervades daily life for my family here and in Bamako is also wordlessly inspiring.  As I look at the stars, I cannot help but remember the man I saw today kneeling on his prayer mat as a cow pooped beside him and chickens ran squawking around them both.  That is love.  But now it is time to put up our mosquito net and sleep under the stars...
Kan Si

Mais je ne suis pas encore médecin!!!

But I am not a doctor yet!~Youchaou Traoré has done it again: he has succeeded in being one of the only Malians I have met to actually follow through on any kind of specific time frame.  He told me he would inquire about an internship, and now I have one (the Malian version of one anyways).  He e-mailed me midweek before we left for our village stay, giving me the phone number of the head doctor at Kaliban Kuro's (a neighborhood relatively close to mine-Kalaban Kura) CSCOM (Community Health Center).  A phonecall later, I had a meetng with that doctor the next day.  While going to the meeting, I encountered all of the normal difficulties of being in Mali (the taxi driver not knowing where the CSCOM was, then finding it, leaving me to realize that there are multiple CSCOMs in Kaliban Kuro, so an intern there drove me to the correct place...about 20 minutes away by car), but once there, the planning process was incredibly simple.  My "internship" basically would consist of me shadowing the weekend doctor whenever I want, and I could begin the next morning. Thus 8 a.m. on Saturday morning found me back at the correct health center.  The taxi driver only got us slightly lost on the way.
    It was a fascinating morning.  I was able to watch several consultations (in which all of the diagnoses were Malaria), a few treatments being administered (for Malaria), and a vaccination campaign in action.  The latter was particularly interesting and the part of the experience most different from anything I have seen in the U.S.  Hordes of children came to the CSCOM at the same time, and the laidback nurses sitting in front of the building would nonchalantly inject any arm that happened to present itself in front of them.  They had me give a few of the injections, and I had to fight every fiber in my body that screamed "YOU ARE NOT TRAINED TO DO THIS! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!!!"  Medical training in Mali, as are most things here, is much more hands-on than theoretical.  No matter how many times I say, "but I am not a doctor yet," the child in front of me was not going to receive this essential vaccine if I did not give it.
     Finally, around noon, I realized it was time to go home, or I would miss lunch with my host family.  The doctor pointed to a hill in the distance.  "You live in Kalaban Kura?" he asked.  "It is just on the other side of that hill.  Go down the road, turn left at the cell phone tower, and climb over the hill.  You will reach your neighborhood if you keep going straight."  An hour later, I had no idea where I was but had had quite an enjoyable little hike.  Giving in and flagging down a taxi, I was happy to find that I had somehow been walking in the right direction.  The ride was 3 U.S. dollars instead of the 4 it had been to go to the CSCOM.  That afternoon, I felt quite accoplished all in all, and I now have hope that at the end of this experience, I may be way closer to knowing something about medicine than at the start, even if je ne suis pas encore médécin.

Somogow

La famille~ Avant de venir au Mali, je n'avais pas vraiment pensé à chercher une église ici; le Mali est un pays Musulman, et je ne savais même pas s'il serait trop difficile d'en trouver une.  Or, étant ici pendant quelques semaines, j'ai découvert ce que cela veut dire d'être isolée.  Après plusieurs petites maladies et un peu de choque culturelle, je ne voulais que me retrouver parmi une communauté chrétienne, chez moi à mon église aux États-Unis ou en France, la dimanche suivante.  Je suis allée, alors, comme toujours, aux directeurs de mon programme pour demander s'il y a une église protestante à Bamako, et comme toujours, ils avaient une réponse.  Mon directeur a un ami qui est pasteur à une église au centre ville, alors j'y suis allée... Toute de suite, je me sentais plus chez moi.
     Les croyants étaient beaucoup plus nombreux que ce que je m'avais attendue; après la culte en bambara, le 200 à la culte en français semblait d'être petit.  Je me sentais toujours seule, une toubabou submergée par cet océan des africains...jusqu'au début des chants.  Quelle beauté!!!  Ravie, j'ai chanté les louanges malgré ma rhume et toutes les pensées négatives que j'avais eu pendant les trois semaines précédentes.  Ensuite, le pasteur a prêché un message par rapport aux soins pour les pauvres, un appel clair à s'en sortir et à mettre les autres devant soi.  Finalement, après la culte, j'ai trouvé deux femmes du Canada et une de Suède.  Les Canadiennes travaillent pour un mission ici, et elles m'ont immédiatement invité à leur étude biblique le jeudi en anglais avec des autres anglophones.  Même si je veux toujours pratiquer mon français, je comprends mieux que jamais ce qu'une amie m'a dit le semestre dernier: parfois, on a besoin d'entendre les paroles de Dieu en la langue de son cœur, ce qui reste presque toujours sa langue maternelle.  Donc je suis aussi allée à l'étude biblique, et enfin je me sentais proche aux autres, pas divisés par les grosses différences culturelles, ni par les différences des croyances.  C'est vrai que la diversité est essentiel pour le monde; j'en suis sûr.  En revanche, Dieu vient de m'enseigner une leçon importante par rapport à son soutien.  Je comprends mieux maintenant le valeur des autres pour me rapeller de ma faiblesse, ma tendance humaine de dépendre trop du monde materiel et aussi ma tendance d'oublier que c'est Lui que m'apporte partout pendant la journée.  J'attend avec impatience et à la fois paix une belle amitié avec ces femmes et la communauté chretienne ici et en plus toutes les choses que j'apprendrai en focalisant sur les gens autour de moi dans la vie quotidienne au lieu de moi-même et mes problèmes minimes.
Amiina

Il faut manger!!!

You have to eat~ I sat, doubled up in laughter in my host family's living room, reading and rereading a simple conversation in Camara Laye's l'Enfant Noir (The Dark Child): 
"'Tu ne manges pas?'  disait alors ma grand-mère.  'Si, si, je mange,' disais-je."
This simple conversation, which consists of a grandmother asking her grandson if he "is not eating," and him assuring her that he is, conveys word-for-word any and all mealtime conversation I have with my host mother.
      For some reason, I thought that by coming to one of the poorest countries in the world, I would not be forced to over-eat every night.  Knowing that I would be under the watchful eye of an American study abroad program, I was certain I would not starve, but I figured that there would be enough food; that is all.  Oh how little I knew about Malian hospitality!
     Feeding time begins about an hour after I come home from school with some papaya and/or sweet cream frozen onto a stick- delicious, I know, and especially lovely if that were half of my dinner instead of just a snack.  If I have been throwing up, suffering from a cold, or experiencing any other type of illness, I will likely be offered both.  Next, around 9:30, I hear my Malian name: "Sira! SIRA!!! SIIIRAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!" It does not matter how loudly I yell "OUIIIII!" Various family members and the maids will continue to shout until I go outside (usually walking by my host dad, sitting at the table inside, waiting to be served and to eat his meal with a fork) and sit dutifilly on my stool.  There, waiting for me (much to my chagrin....I tried constantly for my first two weeks to help cook, but am never allowed -probably because I would actually be a complete clutz working with an open fire and no cutting board) is either a bowl of fried or boiled potatoes, spaghetti, or green beans (swimming in oil and animal fat) and always a large salad (consisting mostly of lettuce, also swimming in oil, vinegar, salt, and periodically...mayonnaise).  The first several nights, I thought that this would be my entire meal, but I know now that I am absolutely expected to eat as much of the communal dish as the rest of the family, if not more.
     As we all dig in (literally), after I have eaten my normal one-third of the salad and one-third of whatever else was made specifically for me, my host mom begins her chorus in my general direction: "Il faut manger, il faut manger, il faut manger."  I find myself being melodramatic- looking at the stars and thinking of how these are the same stars you can see at home, drinking some water and forcing myself to take another bite, washing my hands, thanking my host mom, and fleeing.  If I stick around for a while after dinner, I will find myself eating another papaya or some fried fish eggs (that was only one time) about an hour later.  The same principle applies to breakfast and lunch on the weekends.  After my normal half baguette on Saturday mornings, my host mom always wants me to take another half...or two.
     Apparently, this is my family being hospitable.  They want me to gain weight to show they have taken good care of their guest, especially since their guest is a toubabou (white person).  To augment the situation, I am female, and in traditional Malian culture, size means beauty for females.  In the past, women were fed until they threw up just to assure that they would gain weight.  I honestly think that my host mom would have me eat that much as well if I threw caution to the wind and actually ate as much as she offers.  But the problem is not even that I am overly concered about my weight; there just is not enough room in my stomach for all of this food!
     The other side of the matter, however, is that I am never hungry enough to eat everything but always hungry for other types of food.  Never have I had more cravings for skippy peanut butter, fresh cherries, whole grain bread, and chocolate baked goods...not to mention spinach, broccoli, apples, and good French cheese.  Hannah, a friend from the program in a neighboring host family, has it worse, though: she continuously has dreams about such delicacies as mozarella cheese and brownies, and on a recent trip to an "alimentation" (a small food shop), she practically jumped out of her skin when I pensively said hmm..cookies....looking at a questionable package labeled as such.

Food is an interesting conundrum for us study abroad students, but it is a much larger problem, of course, for the Malians.  Here I am, in a host family with the means to buy whatever they want to eat that is available, and they still eat almost the exact same thing every night, lacking in vegetables with substance, severely lacking in fiber, way overdoing the simple carbs, and salting and oiling what vegetables or meat they do have beyond recognition.  It is certainly interesting to see firsthand some of the simplest causes possible for the massive amount of health problems here.  However, I do agree with my host mom on one thing.  At least they have enough food to eat, excess even, because here I am in a country with a larger starvation rate than any other country I have ever visited, and as human beings, il faut manger.