So I lied. TODAY was glorious. Glorious. GLORIOUS. That hike Julie and I had planned out? Totally happened and turned out to be better than we could have ever imagined. We woke up early, had some delicious rice porridge with powdered milk and chai mix, then headed out on our delicious adventure. As it turned out, we never did make it to the ridge we saw from the cliff yesterday. But we did end up walking for a solid three hours outside of Bamako into the boondocks of towns whose names we could not pronounce and whose beauty we never expected. Early on the trek, we found a little river (read: trickling creek) in the middle of the road and just decided to follow it, since the water had a breeze nearby where it seemed to open up a bit. The riverbed opened up into a flat rock canal of sorts and we just decided it was more fun to follow the water than to find our mystery hill. As we followed, the river opened up and we found people washing their clothes, bathing, playing in the water, and we seemed to be on some of the only waterfront property in all of Bamako (and Mali for that matter), which was strange and nice.
About an hour along this path, the trash heaps just stopped appearing and the houses got more spaced out until suddenly, we looked around and realized that there was GRASS! There were TREES! And in some places, there were even baby farming plots! We stopped for a while under one of said trees and just hung out for a while with our first of many hoards of children to play with us. We played soccer for a bit by the river’s edge, took a brief respite under the minimal shade of the tree, then kept on walking. Surprisingly, the further away we got from Bamako proper, the less we heart toubabou cries, which was great. For the majority of our trip, we got to travel without harassment (though certainly we were noticed). And as our trek brought us more and more visions of this strange green Paradise, that lack of attention became critical and so valuable. Honestly, at points, we both looked around and just said, “WHAT THE HELL? How is this still in Bamako?” It was so unbelievably beautiful. Though most people who might see what we saw would have smelled outdoor toilet water and seen algae blooms in the water, I legitimately felt like I had found the land of milk and honey after forty years in the desert. There was something distinctly holy about the precious quality of where we were and I loved being able to cherish it.
We eventually walked into town from the river and found a food vendor (harder than in in Sikoro, for certain). After turning down a pot of fly-covered fish heads and the oh-so-sour piles of zabans, we found a quaint little shack that was serving our favorite foods ever: tiga dega nah (peanut mush sauce – don’t knock it ‘til you try it), and nadji (generic sauce), both with copious amounts of rice and only costing a quarter for a heaping plateful. It was a great treat.
As if the day couldn’t get any better, an hour or so further down the river, we found ourselves our very own rock climbing gym. WAY bigger than our own rock formation in Sikoro, this place had some INTENSE climbs that were likely too dangerous to tackle, though we did anyway. The fact that dozens of local children could scramble up around us to get to the top in under five minutes made me feel that it was certainly do-able, though we took slightly more strenuous routes. It was so nice to get the exercise and be doing something physically challenging outside. And the views were great. From that formation, we could look back and see all of Bamako from the suburb we were in. It was quite a view – one that really brings it home that Bamako is the fastest-growing city in all of Sub-Saharan Africa.
After a long day, we just high-tailed it back and went to our respective homestays for well-earned bucket baths. But let me tell you, I could not have been prouder of the day’s work. It was so worth it, one of the most satisfying days I’ve had here to date.
Mmmm…
X Adama X
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Saturday, 7/5
Today was a glorious day. Glorious is really one of the only ways to describe it. It was a Saturday and the day was largely filled with fun, as Saturdays should be. It’s strange that almost every day in Sikoroni has the potential to be a Saturday, but it’s still remarkable when that potential is fulfilled. Then again, I suppose that phenomenon is in no way unique to Sikoroni. ☺
I woke up early to help Niang set up our mosquito net impregnation station in one of the communities we work with. We set up a bunch of water containers, brought tons of bloc (mosquito net chemical treatment packages), and basically just set up camp at the top of Sikoroni’s big hill by Caitlin’s house. We were there for about two hours or so and in that time, the combination of our previous attempts to spread word of the impregnation day and the peculiar presence of two toubabous sitting with Niang in an open lot seemed to attract quite a few children with their families’ respective mosquito net collections. I was not surprised, but happy to know that they all knew WHY they were treating their nets and furthermore, that it was necessary. The entire operation went very smoothly and we treated several dozen nets with the supplies we had before we called it quits. All in all, I was really pleased and it was one of the first days I really felt like I was making a measurable impact in Sikoroni, though again, I was really just a spectator.
One of the strange things about this encounter was the duality of being a toubabou trying to help. On the one hand, we are white foreigners trying to bring health equality (and blah blah blah…) to underprivileged Sub-Saharan Africans, yet our identities as toubabous also helped our cause in that the oddity of us being there likely attracted more mosquito nets to be treated. The crowd was appreciated, especially because each packet of bloq came with an educational image pamphlet describing how and why to treat a mosquito net, which we figured was good information to distribute; however, because toubabou were distributing the information, the pamphlets were treated more like baseball cards than actual information. It continues to prove difficult to walk the line of being helpful and being overbearing as a white person here, but again, I am comforted in knowing that this line will never be clear.
After the mosquito treatment extravaganza, the day was wide open and it was gorgeous out. My mama was having a big dinner party in the courtyard for her girlfriends later that night, so I helped prepare food, which was fun. I mashed parsley with garlic in a monstrous mortar and pestle, picked out bad rice grains from the batch, and diced onions just like all the other girls and, while tedious, it was actually really nice. There was a brief moment when I was mashing a few fresh garlic cloves into the parsley paste that I just smelled the courtyard and had to melt a little. It was a great smell, a great feel in that moment – it all just fit somehow.
After food prep, Julie and I decided to go for a baby hike up to our local rock formation, where you can not only see all of Bamako, but also have a few Cliffhanger moments if you dare. We had a few children accompany us for the climb, but the air was cool and they just wanted to listen, so we stayed put. We had an intense and unresolved discussion about the overall difficulty and ambiguity of NGO work in a place like Mali. Specifically, we talked about the fact that it is so hard to know what exactly needs fixing and why we are so certain something is broken in the first place. Again, it’s the fine line of acknowledging that everyone in Sikoro CLEARLY wants running water and electricity, but that doesn’t mean their way of life is crippled for lack of it. There are lots of problems that keep Mali and other similar countries so poor and disenfranchised in a global context, but in the absence of some easily identifiable outcome to be changed, it is so hard to figure out what can and should change to improve the standard of living. In short, it’s hard to feel like you’re making a difference when the problems you are dealing with are not only ubiquitous, but also nebulous and ambiguously camouflaged within cultural norms that seem to be too precious to adjust.
So after we settled that debate (piece of cake…), we decided to just sit on the rock formation and wait for the rain to come. And surprisingly, it never did. It went right on by us and for once, missed Sikoroni, leaving the air heavy with suspense and pleasantly cool in the late afternoon shade. From the top of the hill, we saw two great mounds in the distance and decided we would go there tomorrow. I have no idea where we are taking ourselves, but that’s part of the joy. I hope we figure it out and if we don’t that we at least have fun along the way. We can always take a taxi back if we get totally lost. ☺
On the way back down to Sikoro, we found this neat little climbing tree embedded in the rock and decided to have a treehouse moment right here in Bamako. And then, right in the middle of that great second childhood moment, realized that we were actually in someone’s backyard. And that there were a few people just looking at us from ten feet away wondering why toubaboux were climbing in their tree… So we promptly got to the ground and introduced ourselves only to find we had landed in the yard of one of Sikoro’s own rare artisans who is trained in woodcarving. He invited us to sit and we just watched for quite a while. Admittedly, it was strange watching this many carve the same wooden giraffes that they hock in the grand marche to tourists who will never know that there ARE no giraffes in Mali. But all the same it was fascinating to watch him carve so boldly with his jagged knife tools, not caring where the scraps fell, knowing that he has already carved this giraffe a hundred times before and this one will be just as perfect. We eventually decided to leave, but not before we made him promise to teach us to carve smaller giraffes alongside him the next time we come back. I totally intend to make good on that promise, too. Souvenirs, anyone?
The night came quickly, but not before we met up with Caitlin and Cari to play with Kuma and get a quick 50 cent dinner from Caitlin’s favorite beantigi. I’ll be honest. After watching Batouma and Fifi cook all of these intricate sauce dishes all day long at Niang’s, I still kind of just prefer basic beans with onion sauce and a side of macaroni... That may be because these foods have no fish heads in them. Or because they have less visible amounts of deliciously seductive red palm oil. Or maybe because I eat them less and therefore, I’ve come to exoticize things that I once only picture coming from cans. However, honestly, I don’t care why I love the beantigis. There is just something about waiting for the darkness to come so you can meet your favorite old woman (or young child) at a tiny wooden table to be served these delicious foods in plastic bowls. It’s strangely like having a business meeting on a playground. And just as much fun.
However, without a doubt, the greatest part of today was the balanie. If you’ve never been to a balanie, and I assume most of you haven’t, it’s hard to convey the energy of these parties to you. Don’t think of a dance club. Don’t think of a campfire. Don’t even think of a birthday party. Think of the happiest thing you can. And then rip it apart and blow it up bigger than you possibly think if could ever become. Then step inside and look around and you’re there. A balanie is essentially a block party and during they seem to happen quite frequently, from what I’ve seen, though usually they are in celebration of a marriage or some other great news. The thing about these parties though is that they are an entire community celebration. NOTHING is private in Sikoro and in the case of the balanie, that is a great thing because in the absence of privacy, what would otherwise be a small family gathering is allowed to explode into an entire community’s joy. All balanies are loud and usually have an MC, but the tones vary. Sometimes the energy comes from the endless groups of slum dance teams that take center stage and show off displays ranging from the little girls’ oh-so-popular “bo bara ba” (fatass) booty shakes to tiny boys breaking out the biggest break dance moves I’ve ever seen in my life. Sometimes I swear it’s impossible to believe the ways these kids move – I’m always impressed and intimidated to join them, and that’s saying a lot, given that these kids are all under ten and I love to dance. Regardless, I will eventually be dragged into the circle by either a grinning griotte with a gap-toothed smile or a crowd of eager wives who want to see the white boy dance with them. And that’s fine, because all they want is for me to try and I can handle that, even if it means making a fool out of myself.
The thing about balanies is that they are, in essence, the heartbeat of Malian love and life. I was sitting in the drum circle tonight at a smaller balanie and all of a sudden I literally became aware that my heart was beating in time to the drums and every movement, every smell, every light flicker, just seemed to match my soul dancing inside. Somehow, I’m not sure how, I was invited to take that moment’s pulse with my body and it was an amazing feeling. I just looked around and no longer saw dancers, just energy. My mind immediately ran back to the conversation Julie and I had about the problems of Sikoro and somehow, this moment seemed to explain it without words. These people are likely going to lack things that I know and love for quite some time, but they have something that we don’t: spirit. They can get together every weekend and love the drumbeat with their bodies and just dance. I know that sounds strange, corny, and likely even patronizing, but I think most Malians would agree that there’s a primal and beautiful side of life in Mali that you can only see in the firelight of a balanie. And it was nice to see that side after feeling so helplessly disconnected from this place just a few hours earlier. I think of all the moments I’ve had in Sikoro proper, the balanies will be what I miss most when I leave. Thankfully there will be plenty more before that time comes.
As a side note, my recent faux flirtations with Niang’s sister seem to have backfired. At first she was rather cold towards me and I played off of that with a boy/girl cooties theme until we both thought it was funny. However, it seems that kind flirtation has turned into something altogether different and now I am led to believe that she actually has a romantic interest in me. I have made it clear that I already have “multiple wives” back home and that I am not romantically interested in her, but despite this knowledge, she and the bon (house servant) continue to conspire against me and tempt me to sleep with her. This is not only a sticky situation, but also a really funny and seriously awkward one. For once, I can’t get out of this by just explaining that I’m gay… strange. Let’s hope I end up NOT returning with a Malian bride. I’ll keep you posted on that one.
X Adama X
I woke up early to help Niang set up our mosquito net impregnation station in one of the communities we work with. We set up a bunch of water containers, brought tons of bloc (mosquito net chemical treatment packages), and basically just set up camp at the top of Sikoroni’s big hill by Caitlin’s house. We were there for about two hours or so and in that time, the combination of our previous attempts to spread word of the impregnation day and the peculiar presence of two toubabous sitting with Niang in an open lot seemed to attract quite a few children with their families’ respective mosquito net collections. I was not surprised, but happy to know that they all knew WHY they were treating their nets and furthermore, that it was necessary. The entire operation went very smoothly and we treated several dozen nets with the supplies we had before we called it quits. All in all, I was really pleased and it was one of the first days I really felt like I was making a measurable impact in Sikoroni, though again, I was really just a spectator.
One of the strange things about this encounter was the duality of being a toubabou trying to help. On the one hand, we are white foreigners trying to bring health equality (and blah blah blah…) to underprivileged Sub-Saharan Africans, yet our identities as toubabous also helped our cause in that the oddity of us being there likely attracted more mosquito nets to be treated. The crowd was appreciated, especially because each packet of bloq came with an educational image pamphlet describing how and why to treat a mosquito net, which we figured was good information to distribute; however, because toubabou were distributing the information, the pamphlets were treated more like baseball cards than actual information. It continues to prove difficult to walk the line of being helpful and being overbearing as a white person here, but again, I am comforted in knowing that this line will never be clear.
After the mosquito treatment extravaganza, the day was wide open and it was gorgeous out. My mama was having a big dinner party in the courtyard for her girlfriends later that night, so I helped prepare food, which was fun. I mashed parsley with garlic in a monstrous mortar and pestle, picked out bad rice grains from the batch, and diced onions just like all the other girls and, while tedious, it was actually really nice. There was a brief moment when I was mashing a few fresh garlic cloves into the parsley paste that I just smelled the courtyard and had to melt a little. It was a great smell, a great feel in that moment – it all just fit somehow.
After food prep, Julie and I decided to go for a baby hike up to our local rock formation, where you can not only see all of Bamako, but also have a few Cliffhanger moments if you dare. We had a few children accompany us for the climb, but the air was cool and they just wanted to listen, so we stayed put. We had an intense and unresolved discussion about the overall difficulty and ambiguity of NGO work in a place like Mali. Specifically, we talked about the fact that it is so hard to know what exactly needs fixing and why we are so certain something is broken in the first place. Again, it’s the fine line of acknowledging that everyone in Sikoro CLEARLY wants running water and electricity, but that doesn’t mean their way of life is crippled for lack of it. There are lots of problems that keep Mali and other similar countries so poor and disenfranchised in a global context, but in the absence of some easily identifiable outcome to be changed, it is so hard to figure out what can and should change to improve the standard of living. In short, it’s hard to feel like you’re making a difference when the problems you are dealing with are not only ubiquitous, but also nebulous and ambiguously camouflaged within cultural norms that seem to be too precious to adjust.
So after we settled that debate (piece of cake…), we decided to just sit on the rock formation and wait for the rain to come. And surprisingly, it never did. It went right on by us and for once, missed Sikoroni, leaving the air heavy with suspense and pleasantly cool in the late afternoon shade. From the top of the hill, we saw two great mounds in the distance and decided we would go there tomorrow. I have no idea where we are taking ourselves, but that’s part of the joy. I hope we figure it out and if we don’t that we at least have fun along the way. We can always take a taxi back if we get totally lost. ☺
On the way back down to Sikoro, we found this neat little climbing tree embedded in the rock and decided to have a treehouse moment right here in Bamako. And then, right in the middle of that great second childhood moment, realized that we were actually in someone’s backyard. And that there were a few people just looking at us from ten feet away wondering why toubaboux were climbing in their tree… So we promptly got to the ground and introduced ourselves only to find we had landed in the yard of one of Sikoro’s own rare artisans who is trained in woodcarving. He invited us to sit and we just watched for quite a while. Admittedly, it was strange watching this many carve the same wooden giraffes that they hock in the grand marche to tourists who will never know that there ARE no giraffes in Mali. But all the same it was fascinating to watch him carve so boldly with his jagged knife tools, not caring where the scraps fell, knowing that he has already carved this giraffe a hundred times before and this one will be just as perfect. We eventually decided to leave, but not before we made him promise to teach us to carve smaller giraffes alongside him the next time we come back. I totally intend to make good on that promise, too. Souvenirs, anyone?
The night came quickly, but not before we met up with Caitlin and Cari to play with Kuma and get a quick 50 cent dinner from Caitlin’s favorite beantigi. I’ll be honest. After watching Batouma and Fifi cook all of these intricate sauce dishes all day long at Niang’s, I still kind of just prefer basic beans with onion sauce and a side of macaroni... That may be because these foods have no fish heads in them. Or because they have less visible amounts of deliciously seductive red palm oil. Or maybe because I eat them less and therefore, I’ve come to exoticize things that I once only picture coming from cans. However, honestly, I don’t care why I love the beantigis. There is just something about waiting for the darkness to come so you can meet your favorite old woman (or young child) at a tiny wooden table to be served these delicious foods in plastic bowls. It’s strangely like having a business meeting on a playground. And just as much fun.
However, without a doubt, the greatest part of today was the balanie. If you’ve never been to a balanie, and I assume most of you haven’t, it’s hard to convey the energy of these parties to you. Don’t think of a dance club. Don’t think of a campfire. Don’t even think of a birthday party. Think of the happiest thing you can. And then rip it apart and blow it up bigger than you possibly think if could ever become. Then step inside and look around and you’re there. A balanie is essentially a block party and during they seem to happen quite frequently, from what I’ve seen, though usually they are in celebration of a marriage or some other great news. The thing about these parties though is that they are an entire community celebration. NOTHING is private in Sikoro and in the case of the balanie, that is a great thing because in the absence of privacy, what would otherwise be a small family gathering is allowed to explode into an entire community’s joy. All balanies are loud and usually have an MC, but the tones vary. Sometimes the energy comes from the endless groups of slum dance teams that take center stage and show off displays ranging from the little girls’ oh-so-popular “bo bara ba” (fatass) booty shakes to tiny boys breaking out the biggest break dance moves I’ve ever seen in my life. Sometimes I swear it’s impossible to believe the ways these kids move – I’m always impressed and intimidated to join them, and that’s saying a lot, given that these kids are all under ten and I love to dance. Regardless, I will eventually be dragged into the circle by either a grinning griotte with a gap-toothed smile or a crowd of eager wives who want to see the white boy dance with them. And that’s fine, because all they want is for me to try and I can handle that, even if it means making a fool out of myself.
The thing about balanies is that they are, in essence, the heartbeat of Malian love and life. I was sitting in the drum circle tonight at a smaller balanie and all of a sudden I literally became aware that my heart was beating in time to the drums and every movement, every smell, every light flicker, just seemed to match my soul dancing inside. Somehow, I’m not sure how, I was invited to take that moment’s pulse with my body and it was an amazing feeling. I just looked around and no longer saw dancers, just energy. My mind immediately ran back to the conversation Julie and I had about the problems of Sikoro and somehow, this moment seemed to explain it without words. These people are likely going to lack things that I know and love for quite some time, but they have something that we don’t: spirit. They can get together every weekend and love the drumbeat with their bodies and just dance. I know that sounds strange, corny, and likely even patronizing, but I think most Malians would agree that there’s a primal and beautiful side of life in Mali that you can only see in the firelight of a balanie. And it was nice to see that side after feeling so helplessly disconnected from this place just a few hours earlier. I think of all the moments I’ve had in Sikoro proper, the balanies will be what I miss most when I leave. Thankfully there will be plenty more before that time comes.
As a side note, my recent faux flirtations with Niang’s sister seem to have backfired. At first she was rather cold towards me and I played off of that with a boy/girl cooties theme until we both thought it was funny. However, it seems that kind flirtation has turned into something altogether different and now I am led to believe that she actually has a romantic interest in me. I have made it clear that I already have “multiple wives” back home and that I am not romantically interested in her, but despite this knowledge, she and the bon (house servant) continue to conspire against me and tempt me to sleep with her. This is not only a sticky situation, but also a really funny and seriously awkward one. For once, I can’t get out of this by just explaining that I’m gay… strange. Let’s hope I end up NOT returning with a Malian bride. I’ll keep you posted on that one.
X Adama X
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