MALI: An Introduction and Explanation in 10 Words or Less, 6/14/08

NOTE: I am writing as often and as much as possible - I never know when power will go out, dust will ruin my computer, or I will die (kidding). Therefore, this entry is long - I apologize, but I have done my best to break it up into sections so you can read snippets and come back to the next as you have time.


ON ARRIVING AND CULTURE: My first few days in Bamako have been a strange but altogether, rather delightful. As a college student, it's become second nature to live life from one devoir (task) to the next. However, here I am not only relieved of all responsibility but I am actually forbidden by my host family to accept do anything for myself. Needless to say, it is strange for me (particularly as an anthropology concentrator and a culturally oversensitive Brown student) to have my black host family insist on tending to my every desire; however, as I have come to learn, it is an honor for them to fulfill this cultural expectation of hosts, a concept known as "djatigui."


I remember stepping off the plane and thinking to myself, "this is where you kiss the ground after three day of travel and say something dramatic (preferable in my limited Bambara)," but I was in fact stifled by an overwhelming humidity and odor of smog. I wasn't expecting it, but Bamako is in fact an extremely polluted place. So much so, in fact, that the swarms of mend and women riding their motos (local slang for motorcycles) can often be found wearing the Royal Air Maroc eyecovers as makeshift respirators. My first day in town, in fact, the first smells that I can remember other than the air were the unmistakable stench of dried, rotting fish in the market sun and the absolutely intoxicating aroma of fresh pastries at a local market. In all honesty, I'm not sure I've ever smelled baked goods that fine before. In fact, it was right around this bakery that I had my first major Bamakois milestone: receiving my Malian name.


This name business requires a bit of explanation. It is, in fact, a HUGE deal to have a Malian name while in the community. While receiving this title is often quite informal - I received mine from a smelly man selling SIM cards and cigarettes on a dirt road - its consequence is quite large. Family names in Malian culture are rarely an indicator of status or importance, but they are referenced in almost every conversation that occurs between Malians. Upon introducing myself, it is imperative that I indicate my full name - Adama Diarra - so my new friend can understand whether or not our families love eachother, hate eachother, or simply make fun of one another for farting excessively. I was lucky enough to be given a name that is uncommon, yet not a common target of general jokes. Julie, on the other hand, is a Coulibaly. And let it be known - not only do the Coulibaly's LOVE to eat beans, they also love to share their last meal with everyone they meet with loud and boisterous farts. Therefore, it should come as no surprise that Julie has quickly had to learn how to take fart jokes from complete with strangers and, as best she can, come back with her own familial insults. In fact, when I received my family name Diarra, I was instantly informed that I was my namegiver's family slave. Luckily for me, he spoke fluent French and I was able to inform him:


Il faut faire attention aux esclaves, mon brave, pour c'est nous qui preparent tout ce que vous mangez! (It would do you well to take care of your slaves then, friend, since we're the ones who prepare your food!)


In short, the family insult name game has been quite a source of comic relief as we attempt to brave the heat. On another culturally interesting note, I have noticed TONS of signs of globalization (one past intern actually found a t-shirt from her high school shopping at the grand marche!), but also some interesting remnants of traditional Mande culture. In addition to the family name game, I have also seen a handful of young children running around naked wearing strange sort of twine belt. Today, I discovered that this belt is believed to secure children (and older women) to their souls and protect them against local sorcerers. Interestingly, when I asked what happens when a sorcerer is found, I was told by one woman that her best girlfriend was in fact a witch and she didn't care. I wasn't clear how strongly Malians actually believe in these old traditions, but regardless, I have seen a handful of spirit belt-clad children running around.


On another note, I have yet to receive my luggage. Therefore, I'm surviving on Cari's loans and, as of tomorrow, whatever I can scrounge up at the local thrift shop. These tables, at the nearby grand marche (a large open air market), have everything from locally handmade cloths and second-hand clothes to fish heads and exotic fruits, including this one delicious mix between a pomegranate and a mango-flavored Sour Patch Kid called a zaban. Apparently, Caitlin has only ever seen it in Mali and it is absolutely delicious - I concur.


ON LIVING AND EATING: Since my arrival, I have been living in a local family's house that often temporarily houses Toubaboux in transition. They charge a whopping $5 per night (2500CFA in local currency - actually kind of expensive, but it's totally worth it) and I am one of 8-12 people floating around at any given time. The two main players are Barou and Ami, brother and sister, respectively. They speak fluent French and have been so much fun to talk to. In general, I try to help out around the kitchen or cleaning up, they refuse and tell me to be a good Toubabou and let my djatigui take care of me and then we get into a good conversation. Last night, Ami asked me if I had heard of weed. It was so funny to watch her elaborately describe how she knows a few people that have done it before and it must have been super potent: their eyes got red, they got very hungry and tired, and they started to faire des betises ("goof off"). I had to hush a chuckle as I thought to myself, "Ami needs to visit Brown on any normal weekend!"


Like I already said, my djatigui LOVE to take care of Cari and me. Every mealtime, they plop a big ol' covered bowl of something in front of the TV and tell Cari and me to eat. It's cultural tradition for djatigui to provide more than their guests can eat, but between Cari and me (OK, particularly me), we always seem to clean the plate. Last night, we had a traditional meal of beans - where's Julie when you need her?! - and a sweet oily onion sauce which seems to be a staple here. For dessert? At least five freshly peeled and cut mangos - YUM! This morning, we woke up to a bowl of a sweet white porridge concoction (sqri in Bambara) that, with a few sprinkles of powered milk, is DIVINE.


Around lunchtime today we headed over to Sikoro to visit with Caitlin's adoptive mother, this zoftig and oh-so-sassy woman who was only too pleased to feed her new summer chickadees. Here we finally got exposed to the Malian tradition of communal eating, which was extremely fun. Apparently, I am told I am a robust and fun eater to watch, perhaps only since I was starving by the time I could eat. We ate a traditional sticky peanut mush called tigadqgq xah. To eat this meal (and most other communal dishes) requires a strict observation of the right-hand rule (seeing as the left often serves as toilet paper in the ubiquitous Muslim community here, this is a rule I follow strictly), a desensitized palm (for shaping the bolus of food), and a sense of adventure. In short, you scoop a small bit of food into your hand, squeeze it into a ball, then lick upwards so it rolls into your mouth as you look into your host mother's eyes with a smile.


As much as I actually did enjoy that experience, I have no problems conceding that the meal left something to be desired, but G-d was it fun to do. I look forward to two months or so of communal eating. In fact, I got to visit the two homestays we will have for the months we are in Sikoroni and I'm SO excited. One host family is that of Modibo Niang, the main go-to guy for MHOP in Mali. His house is like a miniature paradise in the middle of the poorest part of Mali. There is a small courtyard with three enormous mango trees growing (they'll be ripe and falling in a month!) with a well-aired out toilet hole/shower area and plenty of room to string up a hammock (my personal arts and crafts project for the summer is to make one out of rope and fabric). Conversely, the other homestay looks like it was imported from mid-1990's Kosovo and is a more representative living situation of the Sikoronian lifestyle. It does, however, have a TON of amazingly cute children and a wide-open roof space that overlooks a fair bit of the neighborhood. Caitlin has assured us that whoever lives there will have an amazing time sleeping on the roof during hot summer nights. I don't care where I live, but either way, I'm getting my hammock in Niang's courtyard!


ON BEING WHITE: While there have been a few Toubabou ("white person") hotspots around Bamako, we have carefully done our best to avoid them. To give you some idea of the local perspective of Westerners, the Doctors Without Borders group who had a clinic in Sikoroni once upon a time are affectionately referred to as "medecins sans pieds" (doctors without feet"), since regardless of distance, they drove EVERYWHERE. Most other Toubaboux are either rude and/or cliquey or the typical gift-giving tourists that leave every Malian child thinking that I am rich and a coin-filled pinata for their pleasure and benefit. Needless to say, EVERY taxi that passes us on the street honks from three blocks away as if to say, "What are you doing, Whitey? Don't you know you don't have to walk?" It gets old waving them off (in addition to the swarms of SIM card and watch/sunglasses salesmen) and, in Caitlin's case, declining politely in Bambara. This trick is particularly useful in response to the children who cry out "Toubabou, cadeau!" (Whitey, gift!) - it's so funny to watch their faces turn from expectation to amusement as they hear Caitlin say no thank you and casually ask about their families in traditional Malian fashion. Honestly, Ms. Caitlin is absolutely amazing.


ON BEING CLEAN: However, one thing I had not necessarily anticipated, on the note of being white, was how visible every speck of Malian red dirt is on my body. While, for the most part, I stay clean (save buckets of sweat), I often take off my sandals to enter a home and am amazed to discover that my new sandal tan is actually just a temporary dirt tattoo. This gets to be pretty important as Toubaboux are expected to be impeccably clean (Why? Because we do nothing but eat, sleep, and bathe, clearly!). With all this in mind, I have come to enjoy rediscovering the pseudo-orgasmic power of a shower at the end of the day. I am lucky in that my first homestay, I actually have access to a Western shower(!) and toilet(!!!). Let me tell you, after the travel experience I have already described and a day or so in Bamako heat getting accustomed to my new home, that first trickle of water down my back (it's only ever a trickle, but it's more than adequate) was ... breathtaking. I actually made an audible noise of pleasure. Wow. So much for taking simple pleasures for granted!


ON ENDING THIS POST BEFORE I FALL ASLEEP AT THE INTERNET KIOSK: Time for sleep, guys. I'm exhausted and I have a delicious shower to look forward to before I abandon the luxury of flush toilets to move to Sikoroni tomorrow. I'll write soon.

In case you didn't have the patience to read the whole post, know that I am safe, happy, and loving my new Malian lifestyle.


X Adama X