Rain~ It is nearly impossible to imagine a dry season before experiencing it. I always knew I loved rain, but I never thought that after three months without it, I would long for it more than I had ever longed for the sun. This was one of my many fleeting thoughts as we drove back to the village of Sanankoroba for our first week of field research. There were six of us total, with four girls staying in the "Case d'Amitié" ("friendship hut") and two who went back to their host family from our village stay a month ago. Our topics range from domestic violence ot plant knowledge to perceptions of prenancy and the role of the midwife in maternal healthcare (the latter being mine); however, we all went to the same village for the sake of convenience, as every moment of our 5-week research period is invaluable. Even with our program's established connections, we ran into some major logistical dilemmas bordering on ethical ones, so I hate to imagine what would have happened if we had attempted the unknown.
However, the week began well for me, with a long afternoon visit to the maternité and a few days of interviews with women that went very smoothly due to my stellar translator. Wednesday afternon found us sitting with some of her friends waiting for my recorder's batteries to recharge from a car battery kept for that very reason in one of Sanankoroba's "boutikis" (since the power had been out at the Case for the past two days). I watched the mounting clouds with cautious anticipation. And then it came, a glorious, two-hour long mango rain (the technical term for such a rain near the end of the dry season)!!! The Malians all ran for cover, but I joyously took my chair outside and sat in the downpour, letting it wash away dirt, frustration, sweat, and impatience. "Everyone is looking at you, you know," one of the men in the group said. But honestly, being a toubabou in Mali, what else is new? I eventually made my way back to our friendship hut, jumping puddles along the way, and there I found the other three girls dancing and playing hopscotch, sharing in the giddy joy that I had felt, alone, among the Malians with whom I had been during the bulk of the rain. The icing on the cake was that our electricity was back on. It didn't even feel like we were in the same country anymore...
I sat that evening reflecting: this rain welcomed in several new seasons--literally, mango season, practically paradise for the girl who had never had a fresh mango before coming to Mali. But it also marked the middle of our research time in the village, which had thus far provided more independence than we had had in ages. There, we made our own dinners with limited salt and oil and no maggi (a disgusting yellow powder used to flavor nearly everything made by our host families). There, I could go for an hour-long run into the African bush, away from pollution and people, every morning if I wanted to. There, I could wash dishes to my heart's content, including an entire cabinet of cups and plates covered in...months?...years?...of dust. We could play with children outside when we were not busy or tired, but if we were, we could go inside and shut the door. It was possible to be silent or to laugh at our own brand of jokes, to be in company or to be comfortably alone. Yet again, we could see the stars. Easter is coming, as are friends' birthdays and our research deadline. Now I am back in Bamako, holding onto the knowledge and hope of new seasons. Happy Spring.
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