kan ben/au revoir

goodbye~  
"So the journey is over and I am back again where I started, richer by much experience and poorer by many exploded convictions, many perished certainties.  For convictions and certainties are too often the concomitants of ignorance.  Those who like to feel they are always right and who attach a high importance to their own opinions should stay at home.  When one is traveling, convictions are mislaid as easily as spectacles; but unlike spectacles, they are not as easily replaced."
                                                  ~Aldous Huxley, Jesting Pilate

      I have never been as ready to leave a place as I am to leave Mali, partially because I have struggled a lot with broken beliefs and constructs of who I am throughout the semester, partially because France is waiting on me, yet goodbyes are always bittersweet.  Last week was time to say goodbye to the kind fruit ladies near the catholic mission, Sunday, to say goodbye to my missionary friends, and a few days ago, I saw the vendor at my favorite mini food boutiki to buy yogurt and the woman who works my favorite internet café for the last time.  When the boutiki owner asked if I will be back, all I could give him was a half-hearted "maybe," but it is highly unlikely, really.  Mali has been one of the important places I have ever visited but not one of the most enjoyable, literally changing my life plans a bit every day, tearing away ignorance and pieces of idealism to the point that I would compare the experience more to a painful waxing than to a relaxing spa treatment (please pardon the ridiculous metaphor).  My time here has been anything but superfluous for personal growth, but the problem is that I in no way am equipped to be important for Mali except for as another mean toubabou who fails at speaking the native language and who does not greet people more often than she does.  The mark I am leaving behind is barely noticeable beyond my research and a few discarded clothes to lighten my luggage.
      However,  it is undoubtedly impossible to be in a place for as long as I have been here and to not find at least a bit of love in the minutiae of the experience.  Today it was time to say goodbye to those who work at the catholic mission, my home for three weeks of the experience and a place where I found shelter from everything that had been difficult or overwhelming for the other three months.  Apparently my ridiculous efforts at writing a research paper in the face of heat and illness inspired Soeur Albertine, the nun who takes care of guests, to begin reading again.  And if it were not for Marie, the kind girl about my age who cleans rooms there and lives with one of the nuns, I would never have experienced the amazing Saturday when we climbed up a seemingly random hill to an abandoned half-built house and overlooked Bamako, eating mangoes and talking about marriage and the future along the way.  I was surprised to find that there are some people who I will miss as much here in Mali as in Rennes, leaving them today to go back to my air-conditioned room in the unbelievably, culture-shockingly upscale hotel down the street where I am staying with the rest of the girls in the program for the last few days.  Yes, I will miss Soeur Albertine and Marie as well as the missionary community, most notably Shari, who literally rekindled the failing Love within me with prayer, brownie baking, and Easter dinner.
     Yet again, Rennes is my next stop, and I cannot believe that three days from now, I will be there, feeling at least momentarily prepared to fill the big place waiting for me, but afraid that I will not quite fit where I did before, given how much I have changed.  After all, if I cannot replace my lost convictions as easily as spectacles, I am at a very raw place right now...but as Rennes is in many ways just as chez moi as Aiken, South Carolina, there could be no better place to go to find my new, and deeper sight instead of merely putting back on my falsely rose-colored glasses...

Kan ben...et au revoir

à la mission

at the mission~ exactly a week ago today, I woke up to my first morning in the Catholic Mission that also serves as a hostel in downtown Bamako.  The day before felt like it hadn't happened-- saying goodbye to the host family for three weeks, packing up almost all of my posessions here, and trekking down the uneven sidewalk...taking a sotrama (for 30 cents instead of a taxi for 4 dollars) downtown, getting hopelessly lost for the next hour, receiving a warm welcome from the nun who most often takes care of guests, buying a yogurt from the Boutiki across the street (soon to become the place where I would always go to break my large bills, as no one ever has change), and going to bed at the ripe hour of 7:30 p.m.
     I knew that I would find it a relief to have some control over daily life, but I had yet to realize how different it feels to be myself again...and how much I would want to hide in the beautifully quiet and tranquil confines of the mission...and of the person I thought myself to be before coming... instead of venturing out into the colorful, dirty, friendly, falling apart, pieced together world of Bamako, followed constantly by cries of "toubabou" and by men wanting to "talk" but really naming all of our future children in their heads and reveling in how I will submit to them once we marry a few months from now (at least that is how I imagine it...surely some of them have less nefarious intentions).  Yes, I have learned how to be much harder on them as well as how to use the carefully honed art of ignoring, after one of them followed me around for two hours and then attempted to teach me names of body parts in Bambara.  Nevertheless, when I do leave the mission, I finally have the opportunity to see what "real" life in Bamako is like, being downtown rather than in the relatively remote neighborhood near the airport where my host family lives.  I begin to feel like I belong as I make friends with the fruit ladies down the street (they always throw in an extra mango or banana, but without my host mom's habitual "Il faut manger"), become a regular at the closest internet café, learn the sotrama lines from here to other neighborhoods, and wave to the server at the restaurant across the street each time I make my way back to the mission, content that he has shown neither an interest in marriage nor teaching me body part names as of yet.
        Research is picking up again as well, with a whopping 20 interviews with women today and tomorrow and a hopeful 9 interviews with midwives all over the city next week (I wonder how far my sotrama knowledge will stretch...).  When I finish transcriptions for the day or momentarily need a break, rest time at the mission is just that--beautiful, glorious rest, whether it be alone time with a book, much-needed sleep, or time in the company of fellow travelers (my first weekend was hugely enriched by the company of Breeta, a German girl my age who just finished working in Togo for 8 months, and of Juan, a 35-year old Spanish guy with a rather pessimistic view on relationships but a traveling heart who loves talking politics and just spent a week pushing a boat to Timbuctou... literally.)  A week of detoxing from salty and oily food with meuslix, fruit, and peanut butter kept on the shelf I have labeled my own in the mission refrigerator, and not only can I breath again spiritually and intellectually but also physically. 
       But yes, seeing the self who I new before coming, I know I will not be able to forget the self that I have seen emerge while being in Mali.  Some things I would have called intolerance before, I now call integrity to one's own principles.  Ideas that I may have called racist before, I now would call intercultural understanding.  And it is important not to forget this other self, because maybe that is even more of who I am than the girl who grew up in a world much more like the catholic mission's sanctuary than the street outside its door.  New seasons indeed.

La Pluie

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.

les hauteurs

the rock outcropping we climbed...

Heights~ SIT study abroad is nothing if not dynamic in its own way.  One day we are taking exams, the next we are climbing cliffs, and the next we are embarking on a month of research.  Or at least that is how it feels sometimes.  My long absence from this blog and from internet in general is due to our 10 day "grand excursion," a vacation period of sorts during which we traveled to Selengué, Sikasso, and Teryabugu-- not necessarily the most popular tourist destinations in Mali but some of the only ones without travel warnings keeping us away.  It was very strange experiencing a bit of tourist life in this country where we have been doing our best to let ourselves be immersed.  Air conditioned rooms and poolside lounging is practically a culture shock compared to my now habitual nights of drowning in my own sweat and days of which the highlight is my favorite peanut sauce that my host mom makes or a simple interaction with the children who live down the street.  However, it was nice, certainly more relaxing than any other period here has been.  Along with this "height" of relaxation, I certainly found my own personal height of physical fitness during my stay here, running three mornings out of 10 for MORE than half an hour each time. 

     In Sikasso, though, we found our highest of highs; we began by checking out some of the caves at the bottom of a rock outcropping, including one that is considered to be a natural mosque and another that serves as a holy place for animists.  Then, with no warning of what exactly was coming (in normal Malian fashion), our guide told us that it was time to climb up the outcropping.  Steeling myself against my normal fear heights to be expected at the top of a mildly rigorous hike, I followed the rest of the group up the first ladder, only to find another ladder awaiting us and then a 75 degree rock wall that we were expected to climb free hand, followed by a vertical one with a chain hanging from it that was supposed to help us reach the top.  I did not even notice it hitting me, the wave of fear and anxiety that I should have expected but hoped to hold off.  The tears flowed nonetheless, pouring from a place I did not even know existed.  There I stood, at the top of a pile of rocks in Africa sobbing from an uncontrollable and only slightly rational fear.  I did not even notice the sheer drop in front of me, only the sheer climb awaiting behind.  However, Lamine, as always, was right there, assuring me that as my "joking cousin," he would help me climb down, that I was brave (even though I am anything but), and otherwise making me laugh through my helpless tears.
     But we made it back down...and to a few more historical sights that day, a waterfall the next, and finally, the pristine village of Teriyabugu, built by a French ex-priest gone rogue and fostering several environmentally friendly projects.  Thus, I would never refute the fact that my fear of heights is as raging as ever, but only that of literal ones.  Heights of laughter, rest, friendship, fitness, food quality (yes, Teriyabugu had PUMPKIN SOUP), and comfort are periodically important for refereshing the soul, and that is what we found.  Even those tears, in a way, were refreshing.  They probably constituted the first "rain" that rock outcropping had seen in a long time during this dry, dry season.  And finally, I found the time again to read, so I leave you today with a quote from my reading, hoping that in leaving from and coming back to Bamako, France, the U.S., etc., I am beginning to let the wild woman flourish within me:

"Where is [the wild woman] present?  Where can you feel her, where can you find her?  She walks the deserts, woods, oceans, cities, in the bar-rios, and in castles.  She lives among queens, among campesinas, in the boardroom, in the factory, in the prison, in the mountain of solitude.  She lives in the ghetto, at the university, and in the street.  She leaves footprints for us to try for size.  She leaves footprints wherever there is one woman who is fertile soil... She is the maker of cycles.  She is the one we leave home to look for.  She is the one we come home to."  ~Women who Run with the Wolves (Clarissa Pinkola Estés, PhD)

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