Malian Christmas Trees

People come to Africa for the animals, but boy oh boy, if you come to Mali, your eyes will rather feast in the orchestral femininity of Malian women.  Sparkling like Christmas trees in the stark desolate landscape make them seem all the more mystical, decorated from head to toe in vibrant and bold displays of colors, sparkles, bells and whistles.  Ornamental hair coins, yards of yarn strewn throughout their braids, golden nose rings, tattooed mouths, distinct scarring, and heels, always heels! Oh, I felt like such a poor representative of our gender as I sat in my field gear consisting of cargo pants, white t-shirt and sorting a Chicago Cubs cap. Atleast I had my gold sparkly flip flips on. Despite battling sand storms, disease, dirt roads, muddy homes, and working 24/7, beauty remains one thing Malian women don’t skimp on in their lives, or rather, their Men don’t skimp on.  Crop failures, drought, polygamy, run rampant,  yet these men find ways to sell a goat when they need too in order to make that one woman in their lives (or two) feel like a Goddess. They know the secret to staying happily married, I suppose 😉

Of course, the definition of beauty differs in Mali than from in the States.  Nose rings are perceived as dignified and mature, rather than punk rock or trendy.  Women’s jaws are tattooed black, either to make the teeth look whiter or to display their status of wealth.  The more ear piercings you have, the wealthier you are.  The bigger your jewelry, the more your man loves you (well I made that up, but maybe it’s true). What surprised me what that this emphasis on appearance begins at very early ages, with ear piercings done within days of a child’s birth and nose rings a few years later.  Girls become obsessed with changing their hairstyles routinely and wearing beads of necklaces that make noise as they strut through the village, all without the influence of Hannah Montana or Barbie dolls. Here are some photos I took of Malian women in their day to day environment, often in villages hundreds of kilometers away from a road.

Getting old doesn't mean you stop taking care of yourself. Here are two beautiful grandmothers, one with a hair cowrie shell bead and nose ring, the other with the infamous mouth tattoo.

Less is not more. Nose ring, gold beads cascading down off her braids, amber jewels.

I called her the Angelina Jolie of Mali. Just beautiful. And sassy too!

Head beads, head coins, head braids.

Mother and Daughter decked out. Mother wearing the infamous large gold and red Fulani wedding earrings. I noticed Malian women gave their children funky hairstyles such as the Mohawk above. Why? They said, just because it's fun.

Starting early. Scarring, earrings, funky braids.

 

Women begin tattooing their mouths when they reach maraigeable age. This women looks about 13.

“Lorraine of Arabia”

The color of the turban I chose reflects the naivety I possessed regarding the situation.

When I was first asked to accompany the second team to the North-East desert region of Mali (500 km PAST Timbuktu), I was thrilled.  Sure, I had read about the State department warnings of the region insinuating Al Qaeda activity, and also was privy to many stories of NGO car high-jackings through the expat grapevine in Bamako.  Just months ago, I forwarded a BBC story about four French tourists being taken hostage in the area to my Peace Corps friends, and yet, despite all this, I leaped with both feet forward without thinking, thrilled at the possibility of exploring and working in the desert abyss.
Just as naïve as I had been when I joined the Peace Corps 5 years ago in Senegal, when I packed white sundresses hoping to look like Kim Basinger from “Out of Africa,” this time I chose a white turban to wear out in the desert, subconsciously hoping to reenact scenes from “Lawrence of Arabia”.  I should have known that within minutes of entering the desert winds, my turban would turn the color of the Sahara.
Furthermore, there were several red flags just days preceding the trip.   My supervisor decided to leave our NGO car at the military base in the nearest town for protection, instead renting an old crickety SUV for the desert to pass by unnoticed by the “bandits.”
All wrapped up like a mummy, I dove into the desert Sunday morning immediately tackling sand dunes, dust storms, and extreme heat within minutes.  Our destination was a village that would take 5 hours to get too, given we were riding over sand dunes rather than paved roads.  We stopped at a village two hours in, to relax and eat, when the situation turned for the worse.  We were stopped by  the mayor who alerted our team that they should leave me there.  It was unsafe for me to go any further given recent reports of a car jacking nearby and my visibility and attraction as a foreign hostage.
A split decision was made, and I was told that I was going to stay in the village on my own for four days, at a friend’s home, while the rest of the team went on.   Before they left in a flurry, my colleague looked at me with eyes wide open and whispered in English, “Don’t go anywhere. Stay in this compound.  We’ll be back in four days.  Be careful.”
Fear finally struck me.  And with that fear, came action (also known as adrenaline).  Within minutes of the team leaving, I was on the phone (Thank God there was one in town) with staff in Bamako.  With visions of what could happen to me the following four days, I could not risk my safety an longer.  Normally, very laid back and easy going, this time I insisted on hiring a vehicle to come get me, ASAP, whatever the cost.
When the driver arrived 10 hours later, he looked at me and told me to put on long sleeves and to wrap my turban around my head….he was not kidding around.  No signs of my white skin were to be exposed.
So hear I am evacuated to the nearest town, safe and sound, breathing a HUGE sigh of relief that I am out of harm’s way.
In other news, I have SO much to write about, I don’t even know how to begin.  I have had the most amazing three weeks of work of my entire life.  I am still trying to sort out the photos, the days, the villages, the stories, and the messages that I took from this field experience.  When I get back home this weekend, I promise to begin writing.  One thing is for sure, I have definitely seen the real Mali, the good and the bad.

A Wrinkle in Time

 

View of Djenne from a rooftop

Crossing the floodplain to Djenne

I wouldn’t have been surprised had Moses or Jesus crossed my path yesterday.  In fact, I was kind of expecting it.  In addition to being made entirely out of mud and sand, the sandcastle city that is Djenne, nestled between a river and a flood plain, requires one to take a ferry to even get there adding to its allure and intrigue.  Sharing the narrow pathways, that curve like pasta noodles across town, with donkey carts, livestock and old men wearing turbans draped in yards of fabric, it is ONLY the bright neon colors of young girls’ hair beads and overstuffed cargo vans, that bring you back into the 21st century.  In addition to having and annually preserving the largest mud mosque in the world (after the rainfalls), the residents of Djenne are also proud of living in one of the most important Muslim cities in Sub-Saharan Africa, once a major stop on the trans-Saharan caravan passing through Timbuktu to North Africa.

 

With this image in mind, imagine you are a French fashion magazine conducting a semi-naked photo shoot….Where would you go?  Apparently, you would have gone to Djenne and flaunted half naked ladies deeply offending one of the most devout Muslim communities in Sub-Saharan Africa.  

As a result, the mosque has been OFF LIMITS to foreigners since 1996. However, money talks, and we were able to smuggle in a 5 minute visit inside to my great delight.  Sneaking in through the back women’s entrance, I found the interior charming and meditative, not to mention 15 degrees cooler than outside.

Inside the Djenne mosque

 

Below are some more snapshots from only ONE of Mali’s many magical places.  Enjoy.

 

Sudanese architecture is prevalent in Djenne

Peek-a-boo

And now some pictures of me hamming it up for the camera. 

Checking out the fresh milk that these Fulani women are selling

 

Let's hear it for the boys

 

Last minute souvenir shopping

One last shot

Sandcastle City

There are only a few places that exist in the world that give you a shock as you enter; places where your skin crawls with wonder and intrigue while your mind tries to sort out some kind of logic in the magic.

Djenne is one magical town.  Recently declared a Unesco World Heritage Site, the city is literally made from sand and mud, and will continue its preservation that way. It is home to the world’s largest mud mosque, one that I was able to enter (through the women’s back entrance).  Moreover, it is home to many fascinating people and culture, and its history and mystique is palpaple as soon as you enter.

Here is a short video I compiled today that show snippets of Djenne.  More pictures to come tomorrow.

Scheduling Ramadan

This Thursday and Friday are marked off as holidays on our organization’s calendar.  Since I arrived, I had been planning on taking a mini-vacation and traveling the 8 hours or so to visit a friend in Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso.  However, earlier last week I was informed that the holiday may actually take place today. Monday.  And then mid-week, I heard it might be Wednesday.  And then yesterday, I heard it would be tomorrow, Tuesday.  As a result, I gave up my plans to ‘plan’ long ago.  

The holiday in question is the final day of Ramadan.  The Ramadan schedule is based on the lunar path, and no one really knows when it will begin or end until they see it with their naked eye.  In fact, people are glued to their shortwave radios right now waiting for an ‘imam’ (Muslim religious leader) to declare whether or not the moon is in the right place to put an end to the 30 days of fasting. Not only do we no longer have days off this Thursday and Friday, but at this point in time, it looks as though tomorrow will be declared the end of Ramadan….the very day my organization headquarters schedule an extensive web learning training with 20 other colleagues all day long.  So even though the country will be resting and eating their fair share’s worth, I’ll be back in the office, just as I have been the last 3 weekends in a row (which is why I may have been slacking with the posts….I’m just so doggonit tired).

So Happy Ramadan to all (if it is in fact tomorrow).

The Name Game

The Name Game in Mali has a different objective than the game we play in the States.  In the States, it’s usually played when meeting a person for the first time, and if that person has a friend that shares something similar with you (school, job, hometown), you proceed to recite a list of people both of you may know. 

In Mali, the game is also played when meeting a person for the first time.  However, upon hearing their surname, one (me) proceeds to figure out their story.  A surname in Mali often gives away the ethnic group you are from in addition to what region in West Africa your ancestors came from.  It can even have a staple food associated with it that most people with that surname eat.  It is always a fun game to play when greeting someone for the first time, and often turns into a fascinating lesson about the history of migration in the Sahel region of Africa. 

In the case of first names, I would estimate that 80% of the population in Mali is named one of 20 popular Muslim names including Mahommed (and many derivatives of this name), Ousmane, and Ibrahima for males and  Khadiatou (Mohammed’s first wife), Fatimata (Mohammed’s first daughter) and Fanta, for females.  Another 10% hold Catholic Saints’ names, often very dated in our culture, such as Hedwig, Constantine, and Cyrille, and the remaining 10% have secular names that often tell a much greater story.

The last 10% is worth writing about. Since I’ve arrived, I’ve already met a ‘Monday’, ‘Tuesday’, and a ‘Sunday.’  No, ‘Sunday’ was not named after Nicole Kidman’s newest addition, but rather named after the day the person was born, as were the others.   In addition, I’ve met a July.  Naming a child after their birthdate or month is an easy way to remember when he or she was born, especially for the illiterate.    

Last week I had the surreal pleasure of meeting two new colleagues, ‘God Given’ and ‘My Dear,’ both male.   And for some reason I found myself acting in reverence to ‘God Given’, imagining there truly must be something holy about him and lowering my voice in an endearing tone when addressing ‘My Dear.’

I also had the pleasure of meeting ‘Crappy Basket’ a few weeks ago.  Stymied on that one, I inquired about his name to a friend, who told me that his mother had had 4 infants die before they turned 1 years old.  As a result, she decided to name the 5^th something very ugly and bad so that Allah would not want to take him away.  I’ve learned this is common practice in Mali.  Hence, ‘Crappy Basket’ is still alive and kicking today. 

Next time I meet a Malian with an equally foul name, I will be reminded of the intense love the Mother had for him or her, trying to beat God in the battle for life or death.   

Learning to Cook in Africa

Out of the many goals I set for myself this year in Mali, one of my personal ones is learning how to cook from scratch. This goal is more of a matter of survival, but goal sounds much more pro-active and driven, and as an American rings better to my ears. I’ve been pleased with my progress so far, but am stymied by the lack of diversity in the meals I have prepared. With the limited ingredients readily available on the market, I’ve only figured out how to prepare Spaghetti Bolognese, Polish ‘Kotlety’ (meatloaf burgers), omelettes, and salads.

What's a girl to do?

I was wondering if any of you had any meal suggestions I could make with the list of ingredients listed below? Generally speaking, the following are the only staple food items found in my town. However, I am currently in the capital, Bamako, through the end of the week, so if you know of a good dinner I can prepare with the following and something else, please let me know what that is, so I can try to find it before I head home. Merci beaucoup!

• Potatoes
• Sweet Potatoes
• Onions and garlic
• Milk
• Sour cream
• Flour
• Laughing Cow Cheese wedges
• Tomato Paste
• Cans of tomato halves
• Pasta noodles
• Rice
• Beef (Ground beef)
• Cabbage
• Eggplant
• Tuna in a can
• Cucumbers
• Tomatoes
• Lettuce
• Canned veggies (peas, corn, greenbeans)
• Lentils
• Black eyed peas
• Rice
• Fonio
• Cous Cous
• Parsley
• Boxed red and white wine
• Bananas
• Eggs
• EVOO
• Vegetable Oil

Please note that although I do have an oven and stove-top, both come in only one setting, that mostly burns the outside of your meal crisp and keeps the inside raw. Any suggestions on how to overcome this would be greatly appreciated as well!

These shoes were made for walking…

Remember when I asked you all to help me minimize the amount of shoes I was bringing to Africa, nearly 6 weeks ago? And then instead of minimizing, I took some of your suggestions and purchased more shoes hence maximizing!? Well, out of the following fifteen pairs of shoes that, “I could not live without…”

this is my reality:

1.

The flip flops

These triple as my work/casual/going out shoes. I pretty much wear them all the time, even in the muddy market, as you can see. I probably shouldn’t wear them there, but a sister has gotta look good at all times. As my always mother told me, “You never know who you will meet when you step outside your door. Always look good.”

2.

The black standard heels

This pair is worn to work only. Although conventionally worn with bare feett (as you are probably thinking), I’ve had to wear them with bulky white athletic socks to prevent this from happening to me again:

100 mosquito bites my the soles of my feet (it's rainy season)

and, that’s it! That’s my reality. I have only worn 2 pairs of shoes. Can you believe it?

Modern Oases in the Desert

In the 3rd grade I was asked to draw a picture of what I wanted to be when I grew up. I drew a woman carrying suitcases in one hand and holding a leash in the other hand, a Veterinarian who lived in a Holiday Inn, naturally! Although my love of dogs has indeed intensified since then, my dreams of becoming a vet fell off the rader after I discovered my intense aversion to rodents and squeamish nature to math blood. My fascination and pure delight at staying at hotels however, no matter how many stars they donned, has never diminished. I’ve stayed in a myriad of hotels across the spectrum, ranging from treehouses hundreds of feet high in the Thai jungle to 6 star exclusive hideaways in the Mexican Riviera. And one thing is for sure, I love everything about them.

So naturally, when I moved to the tourist hub of Mali, I set out to explore hotels in the area as soon as possible. Not only was I checking out potential places for friends and family, but I was also checking menus at the restaurants (primarily looking for cheese based items), bar ambiance, wi-fi access and most importantly, pool access. To my delight, I discovered that either for a small fee, a meal or for a few beers, I can use the hotel facilities at my leisure. I’ve already taken advantage of one nearby and discovered a new perk….meeting fascinating people! I mean, if  you are en route to Timbuktu, odds are good you’ve got a a pretty good story or two to tell.  In my humble hotel connoisseur opinion, I’ve been very pleased with the local flavor and modern amenities of the options below and highly recommend both.

Hotel Djembele entrance

Hotel Djembele Lobby

Hotel Djembele Rock Pool

Hotel poolside bar with wi-fi

Hotel Kanaga's local architectural exterior

Hotel Kanaga Lobby

Hotel Kanaga pool

Hotel Kanaga restaurant/bar

Hotel Kanaga Bar/Restaurant

Let’s not forget the best hotel of all though, chez Moi! You are welcome here anytime for a very reasonable fee: your company (and maybe some ranch packets and current magazines).

Rainbows in the Desert

Just as programming in villages has unanticipated results, hiring a French teacher does as well.

I joined the Peace Corps 5 years ago because I always left vacations on sad notes. It was never enough time to see everything, never enough time to meet everyone, and just as I would begin to learn and pick up words and cultural tidbits, it was time to leave. I longed for an experience that would allow me to “walk in someone else’s shoes” and really become part of a fascinating culture so different from my own (fascinating) culture.

This was accomplished in the Peace Corps. I truly feel I am part “Serer” (my Senegalese ethnicity). I was bestowed a Serer name by the chief, ate and cooked the food, spoke the language(s), plowed the fields, performed the dances, and knew the riddles. I relished every new detail I learned throughout my two years. However, while I was serving, I always imagined how perfect life would be if I could be one with the culture AND have my own house, A/C, Diet Coke, internet, etc 🙂

So here I am 5 years later with the latter in Mali. I definitely am grateful for all the amenities I have in my current experience and truly love the type of work I am doing. However, I have been missing out on all those things I loved in the Peace Corps because of my independence and access to convenience.

I realized this just a few hours ago when I stepped into my tutor’s home. I drove through sandy, sandcastle like streets to get to his house.

Entering the old town in Mopti

The only direction I received was “Get to the soccer field in town.” As promised, he was there to then lead me to his house. Upon arrival, dozens of beautiful children came running out shouting warm welcomes. His wife with one child on her back and the other feeding on her front, hurried to bring me a cold soft drink and take my bag.

Meanwhile, ridiculously beautiful women began walking past us, eying me conspicuously, on their way home from the market looking like rainbows in the desert wearing vibrant colorful garments, their hair decadently strewn with multi-colored beads, large red and gold jewelery pierced in their ears and noses, their hands hennaed in intricate designs, and their mouths tattoed in a dark shade of black accentuating their white teeth. I gasped and had that, “OMG, I am in Africa” moment I used to get when I’d see a ritual performed, pass a warthog on my jog, or participate in a village drumming dance. You don’t see this in the office. These women are SPECTACULAR. I need to show you guys…but how do you get the audacity to ask them to take their photos? Here are others’ photos of similar women in Mopti.

Similar to the women I saw today

A woman in Mopti

Also similar (sans the earrings) however these earrings are worn by the women during ceremonies. Amazing.

After two hours of passe compose my tutor insisted I stay for dinner. There, along with 20 other “family” members I ate beans and meat my hand and discussed the differences between Senegalese and Malian cultures.

The best part came when I asked him his last name which he replied was”Ba,” and happening to be familiar with that name from Senegal, I commented “Tu dois aimer du lait! (You must like milk!).” There was a pause….and then the whole room erupted in laughter saying “You really know us! You know our culture. You are really African.”

I love that all it takes is a joke to receive acceptance here. I love that I have a new African host family in Mali.

There is a saying, “You go to East Africa for the animals, to West Africa for the people.”

The people here truly are rainbows in the desert.

Money doesn’t grow on toubobs

It was confirmed by my colleagues today that I am in fact a walking flashing neon dollar sign.

No need for costumes here

My Malian colleagues took me out for lunch today to their favorite local restaurant beautifully located on the banks of Niger River. They have been going there regularly for years and wanted to introduce me to this gem as well. We all ordered the same thing they have ordered dozen times before: the plat du jour (rice) and a soft drink. Except this time, it was double the price. Any guesses why?

After one of my colleagues realized this, he pulled me up off my chair in a fury and demanded to see the manager.

“See this toubob (white person),” he asks the manager, “She lives here, works here, and is not made out of money. Don’t ever overcharge us, or her again. Remember this face. Remember!”

That’s right buddy. I’ll be back, but next time, I’m leaving the bling chain at home.

Lost in Frenchlation

I understand about 25% of what people say here. Actually, even less, considering they often mix Bambara or other local languages into their speech. Let’s say 20%. I am constantly anxiety ridden about improving my French. Before I arrived, I listened to 24 hours worth of French lessons on my iPod. I spent 10 hours of my 20 hour flight going through grammar lessons in order to make a good first impression. I teach myself a lesson a day after work in order to improve. Yet, it seems to be a fruitless endeavor.

Yesterday, I was driving in the market and about to come to the end of a road when another car turned head on to my street right in front of me. I made my way around him and proceeded to run over a board. Just a 2×4 wooden board. 3 guys start running after my vehicle screaming. I stopped the very big visible NGO white vehicle (which probably is the equivalent of driving a bright yellow hummer in the States) and proceeded to talk with the men.

I thought they began demanding that I replace their board, that I own up to breaking their board, but all I really heard was just screaming in general. I had no idea if they were trying to get money out of me or what. So I began defending myself. Then they told me they were going to the Police. Or I believe that’s what they said. At that point I got out of the vehicle to survey the damage but when I saw it was in fact a small wooden board (of many), I got angry because it wasn’t a big deal.

I told the guy that I am sad he is acting so harsh with me, since it was not my fault and no real damage was done. But he kept on screaming. Before I knew it, a few tears were trickling down my face. All my frustrations must have leaked at that moment. I pulled out some money and thrust it in his face. He immediately took a step back shocked and said, “No way, I don’t want any money, I am Malian, we want you to feel welcome in our country, I don’t want your money.” I still don’t understand what all the ruckus was about. But what I do know is that we ended up shaking hands and he invited me to drink tea with him.

I will probably never know what all the commotion was about. But I will still work on my French. I begin lessons with a French tutor tonight. Wish me luck!