Heating up in Kafara

19 February 2010

The first several days in Kafara after just any amount of time in Bamako are always tough. But the reasons for these past couple days’ hardships have been different.
First off, power isn’t running like normal during the evenings because the village chief has decided it best to leave it off because he feels a large portions of those who are connected to power in town have started piling up too many month’s pay on credit. Last Monday, he called a village wide meeting to tell those folks “they had the money,” and even if it meant they had to sell a donkey cart or cow to pay off their debt, he expected them to do so. Perhaps even threats of law enforcement were alluded to, but since I wasn’t there myself, I’m only hearing second-hand accounts, which I’m sure are full of dramatic touches. How this hasn’t been an issue before surprises me, because the monthly rate for power is outrageous (3000 CFA), and it troubles me to think the village chief believes a common person in his village has this type of money floating around. Some people have accumulated over a year’s worth of power payments that they now have to cough up somehow before the end of February! At the same time, it’s the responsibility of those who bought the outlets for electricity to pay for that service. The problem is, well, a lot more complex than that. Does it really make sense to have electricity in a village where there are, I believe, more pressing matters to take care of, like health and water sanitation.
For whatever reason, the first two nights here I wasn’t given dinner and were I not to share salad with Siaka, Vieux, and Ma fitini, I’d not have eaten. I’m still lost as to how to even approach this issue, which frustrates me because it only enables the problem.
Secondly, hot season is underway, with the past several afternoons reading 104 degrees under the shade of my gwa. Fortunately my body’s adjusted well so far and the heat hasn’t been too bad yet, i.e. sleeping, heat rash, dehydration, etc.
Finally, unfortunately, a handful of my host siblings are sick, which almost inevitably leads to my getting sick too, as I’ve spent almost a majority of time in Kafara in such a state. The list is staggering though this go-round: Fatim, Oumar, Drisa, Safiatou, Kumba, Koniba. I’ll explain for those of you who may not understand why I say the list is staggering. I’m not sure which of these people got sick first, but you can see from their relationships within my host family that the sickness spread from one set of wife’s children to the next, and from one end of the concession to the other. Then again, one can’t be too surprised by this, as everyone eats from a communal bowl and hand washing with soap is a foreign concept (and frustratingly difficult to reinforce the importance of for this reason).

I backed up all my Mali photos (5,000+) onto my ACORN external hard drive yesterday, as well as my Mali blogs, letters, and music. A trip to Oueléssébougou is in store next week to make photocopies of the baseline food security survey, email a copy of my PCPP grant form to the Bureau (still waiting for reimbursement…), check the bank, and pick up a couple random items.

There was a wedding in town last night. Siaka the chicken seller married his second wife, and the nights were filled with the sounds of balani (wood xylophone), a typical village party mode of entertainment.
Abou has a cool woodworking setup next to his house now. He was upset I’d biked by several times since arriving in Kafara without greeting him. After I let him finish, I asked how he could have a child without letting his siblings in Bamako know (I unintentionally broke the news to Mamadou). We both made each other bashful with this playful teasing exchange.


20 February 2010

The second round classes for men and women in Kafara have begun. Siaka is among the students and constantly asks me to visit class one day. It’s fun for me to watch especially the women come and go from class, in their nice clothes, carrying their chairs on their heads, and in the case of Mariam, Soumaïla’s first wife, toting their notebooks in a canvas bag, evoking images of my own mom.

It hasn’t gotten over 100 in the shade of the gwa the past couple days, a noticeable change (believe me) and thus less uncomfortable. I’ve spent all of today reformatting my observational entries from the very beginning, making edits along the way. Even after all that time, I’m still only through last April.

Soumaïla’s friend Moussa visited today from Dafara to check up on Soumaïla’s health. It was quite evident Moussa had been worried about Soumaïla’s long absence in Bamako to get medical treatment, and he was relieved to see my homologue back home and feeling better.

My PCV friend Jon surprised me yesterday with a text message saying he’s leaving for America Monday. Confused by his phrasing, I mistook his saying so as he’s doing this for good. My other PCV friend Mike told me Jon was actually leaving last night, and might be back in March. I saw Jon at Le Campagnard by chance during my time in Bamako recently but I didn’t expect it to be our last meeting in Mali. We’ll see if it was…


21 February 2010

Two men with camels came through town yesterday. They travel all the way from eastern Mali in this fashion, spending the hot and dry season essentially begging across western Mali before returning to their homes upon the start of rainy season. The camels that accompany them are enormous, often scaring village children who’ve never seen the animal before. My little host sister Awa said seven of these same men came through with their camels Thursday night.

The gate Abou made for my concession is literally deteriorating before my eyes, as termites have hollowed the wood frame completely. This will have been the third gate to fall victim to such a fate during my time here.

I’m thinking I should call my environment sector director and ask him for advice on properly caring for a papaya tree, a constant source of stress and anxiety standing just outside my house. My unfamiliarity with the fruit and, let’s face it, growing trees in general, makes me nervous for its future. All the big leaves have fallen off, leaving only a little tuft at the top and exposing the fruits to the sun’s hot rays. I’ll be quite upset if I lose my second tree, especially with all the fruit it has.

I’ve been having weird dreams lately depicting manifestations of confrontation between my Malian and American friends, full of cultural misunderstandings and failure to resolve issues. PC says we’re working 24/7; turns out that’s literally true, as I do even in my dreams! Dreaming in Bambara was something I’d never thought possible a year ago.

Mangoes can be seen in village growing on trees in all various sizes, some varieties faster growing than others. The grafted varieties common in Bamako are already being sold in markets or by street vendors. I’ve yet to have my first ’10 mango.


22 February 2010

I’ve noticed lately my stomach has begun resisting the daily morning routine of porridge for breakfast. It started during my last stint in Bamako; each day I had porridge I would have an upset stomach until lunchtime. Initially puzzled by my stomach’s sudden rejection, I decided to substitute another breakfast menu, opting for the local shop’s gâteau and yogurt drink. Sure enough, after this minor dietary switch, the coming days were without internal discomfort.
This change was easy enough to make in a city like Bamako, where food options sometimes seem unlimited to those routinely expected back in village. Over the past week, I’ve probably split the days evenly I either eat or skip morning porridge. The mornings I skipped breakfast, I’d usually end up eating two rounds of lunch, one served by the village matron who lives next door to Bissa’s house, where I would edit past observational entries on my laptop, and then another at my house cooked by one the women in my host family.
My recent alteration in daily routine had gone unnoticed until this afternoon. I spent the morning under the shade of my gwa writing up a lengthy series of entries for my cross-culture blog. Appropriately, during the “talking about food” section, Muriama, who’d been in town for wedding observances the past several days, arrived with my lunch. As she collected the bowl of porridge, inspecting its untouched contents inquisitively, she asked whether I didn’t want porridge. The broad nature of this question left me lost in my search for an appropriate answer, and not wanting to be inconsiderate, I said that wasn’t the reason I’d not eaten it today. Since I’d not waken up early this morning, I explained, I decided to wait until lunchtime to eat. Muriama seemed to understand my reasoning, but as she picked up the bowl of porridge to return to Fatou, who’d been responsible for its dispersion this morning, Muriama told me that to regularly skip breakfast wasn’t wise. I told her this was true, and silently appreciated her motherly concern. Sometimes I wonder how strange a precedent my mother and I have set for my host mother regarding American’s eating regiment. Our, perhaps in Muriama’s mind, erratic behavior patterns, like when my mom decided to eat less when she was sick, something Malians do exactly the opposite, or my latest choice to wait until lunchtime to eat, expose my host mother to a completely different orientation towards sustaining one’s self. Based solely on these experiences, Muriama probably thinks we don’t eat enough, and for this reason, may simply think something is wrong with us. I’d prefer this slight misunderstanding to the Malian women in my host family mistaking my differing dietary habits to mean I don’t like Malian food, or the meals they prepare for me aren’t satisfying.
Before she left, Muriama informed me one of my papayas had ripened during my stay in Bamako, and she’d split it amongst the concession’s children. She wanted to let me know this in case I’d been wondering where one of my papayas had gone to, but as I’d not even remarked as a single fruit’s absence (as they’re plentiful), I said this wasn’t a problem and I was glad that the kids got to enjoy the first fruit from my tree.

While editing more observational entries on my laptop at Bissa’s house yesterday morning, I briefly got to greet Dicko as he dropped by to let Kadia know something. It was the first time I’d seen I’d seen him in a month, as he’s been on vacation. Mariam’s younger brother Vieux visited from Oueléssébougou most of yesterday. Soumaïla and he chat under the large mango tree outside my concession. I joined them, along with Fatou, Daouda, and Mariam. At one point, Mariam asked Oumar to fetch her schoolbooks, and while Fatou reviewed one of the texts, I moved my chair next to her’s, and helped her pronounce the words in Bambara she had troubles with reading. All this prompted me to find the textbook I was taught Bambara from, which is full of interesting cultural reminders and background, plus a bunch of vocabulary builders.

Siaka and I biked to Digan to find nowhere with salad seeds or Orange credit more than 1.000F. Sita, who lives in the same concession as Kadia’s grandmother in Digan, was seated on a moto outside the second boutique Siaka and I checked for phone credit. She told me to hop on and take a ride back to Kafara on her moto. Calling her bluff, I asked if she knew how to drive a moto and, if so, to start it up and meet me at the far end of town so I could assess her aptitude. It’s fun to realize my ability to have such joking exchanges with people not only in Kafara, but anywhere I go, due solely to my Bambara speaking ability.


26 February 2010

Because today is Maouloud, an important Muslim fête commemorating the anniversary of Prophet Muhammed’s birth, and thus, a nationally observed holiday, Siaka and I made our Oueléssébougou trip yesterday. My preparation for such involved spending all of the previous day, Wednesday, resting in my hut or reading underneath my gwa, doing my best to avoid the dusty winds and get rid of the head cold I’d acquired that prior evening. Somehow, I woke up yesterday morning feeling much better, and before too long, Siaka and I were biking on our way to Dongorona. Despite a close call (Siaka skid at one point, and were I not to break in time, I would’ve T-boned him and probably gone flying headlong into the dirt), we made it to Siaka’s older half-sister’s place in one piece, before walking to the main road to wait for a ride on public transport the rest of our way to Oueléssébougou. The roadside fruit vendors, exclusively women, all greeted the familiar Toubab and did their best to procure my future business upon my return from the big town down the road. The girl I’ve bought oranges from consistently walked over to where Siaka and I stood on the roadside to share with us millet donut holes. A short moment later, another vendor who knows me gave us each an orange, asking me if I liked Kafara. I said not so much right now, as Kafara isn’t a very happening place this time of year. She asked if I’d prefer to live in Dongorona. When I said no, she said that meant I liked Kafara, and I laughed at her tricky manner of speaking.

Once in Oueléssébougou, while Siaka ate his egg sandwich at the center of town, I walked to the post office with the intention of charging my phone while we did our errands. I found the chef at his normal spot at a nearby shop, and together we walked to his bureau de poste. After the typical greetings, I asked about charging my phone. He took an apologetic tone when replying his power had been cut off since he’d missed a recent payment. I walked back to meet up with Siaka, thinking about how much of a problem power has been lately everywhere I’ve been in Mali, from the capital to big towns to small farming villages.

A funny moment arose during my time at the Internet place, where I was also able to give my phone some juice. While I cleaned out the messages yet to be checked in my inbox, the mouse kept skipping, and upon expiring my patience, I blurted out “What the hell?!” Siaka chuckled, and picking up on my tone, asked what was wrong. I was slightly ashamed, but almost immediately recognized the humor in what Siaka must have just witnessed, and soon was laughing too, at myself no less.

As I did my last Oueléssébougou trip, I opted for something different from the Keita woman’s rice and peanut sauce, for no particular reason. Siaka and I didn’t make it much further than the path entering market when we found what I’d requested: cégé, comprised of whatever grain is found in Lebanese tabouli and mixed with sliced onion, hot pepper sauce, and a fishy oil. I’ve heard it’s a commonly served dish in Cote d’Ivoire. Wherever it’s from, and whatever its ingredients are, it’s tasty. The women selling it sized up their clientele, beginning their dialogue with me through Siaka, unbeknownst to the fact I could understand their every word. They asked how much cégé I wanted, and knowing it was sold by the monetary increment to which I was unfamiliar, I replied to their indirectly asked question myself, saying I wasn’t sure how much I’d be getting for what price. Excited I understood Bambara, one of the women spooned out a portion into the plastic bags that make the food easy to eat on the go and asked me if it would be enough. I guessed its price out loud and said to add half that amount on top of it. This simple phrase convinced these women I was fluent in Bambara, and quite possibly made their day, even though I didn’t add one of the woman’s fried fish to my meal.

Catching a ride back to Dongorona on public transport is never easy, as the crews are usually too bitter about dropping us off along the way to Bamako instead of taking us all the way there, and for this reason making more money. Eventually, a big bus pulled up, and before I could warn him, Siaka was running up to one of the men on the bus asking for a ride. In any other instance, they would’ve turned him down, but somehow he got each of us a place aboard. This was made even more remarkable upon climbing in to see sitting room only in the aisle on top of a cooler. Siaka and I were nearly, in so many words, thrown off the bus when the crew learnt we were only catching a ride to Dongorona, but luckily the man sitting next to us told them it was alright. I’m not sure who this guy was, and how he held this power, but I appreciated his words on our behalf.

Siaka was in a rush most of our trip because he had to be back in Kafara by the class his Bambara studies began at 13h. So it was forgivable when we hopped off the bus and he made straight for Issa’s house before stopping to pick up a couple papayas from my roadside vendor friend. I was glad he was there to weather the storm of selling questions too, because the women are quite aggressive (verbally). It’s hard sometimes because as much as I’d like to buy something from each of them, not only is this impossible, but also, as too often is the case, they’re all selling the same thing! Siaka saved the day by saying I’d like to buy from the same person I’d bought from during earlier trips. And that, my friends, is the best example of saving face I’ve ever witnessed. Getting your point across without stepping on any toes, in an indirect fashion surely, but beautifully executed.

The main reason for Siaka and my trip came to light later in the afternoon, when he delivered plantains, potatoes, and a chicken to Muriama to prepare for my host siblings that evening, as I’d prefer this to be a memorable last Maouloud for my Malian hosts. Siaka says Muriama accepted the gift with a blessing for me, that I may become wealthy in all aspects of life. Amiina! That, and Maman’s wish of Joyeux anniversaire (as I share the Prophet’s name), made my Maouloud of 2010 memorable.


27 February 2010

As I sat down this morning under my gwa to finish up The Human Stain, a book my PCV friend Jon lent me a while back, Soumaïla arrived with his notebook almost presciently, drawing my attention from an escape mechanism back to the task at hand. We sat together and came up with a list of ten villagers for the food security baseline survey I found in my Bureau post office box during a past Bamako trip. After I showed him a translation of the questions in Bambara, along with my own general outline of the survey’s purpose, Soumaïla helped me make a list of five men and five women in village who represent what we hope to be a solid representation of Kafara at large. He was meticulous in his choices, making sure to select people from large and small concessions, as well as mid-sized ones. Once we were satisfied with our list, I took the opportunity to share a couple of work-related ideas I had for the rest of my service. Although I’d like to help out with the women’s community garden in Kafara, particularly assisting them with additional water sources to keep it growing as well as it has thus far, we both agreed that our assistance to this project wasn’t feasible due to its origins with the Spanish group MZC (Mujeres en Zona de Conflicto), a frustrating conclusion. Had we been able to establish some sort of partnership at the start of the project, perhaps such an idea wouldn’t have been too far-fetched at this point. Instead we opted to continue our work with the women’s association in Sougoula, and perhaps transition from our past formation on improved nutrition with a technical exchange on improved porridge preparation. To end our mini-session, I presented Soumaïla with a list of several villages I’ve been asked by those living there before my time in Mali expires. They are, in no particular order, Molobala (to visit Kadiatou, Muriama’s younger sister), Kodialan (to visit Fajiki, a member of Kafara’s Producer’s Co-op BENSO), a homecoming of sorts to Tamala (to visit my original Malian hosts), Denfara (where Soumaïla’s family is from), Oueléssébougou (to see my friend Samba’s workplace and home), and Niengue-Coro (which I’d like to make if possible whenever Maman spends part of her break from school there).


4 March 2010

It’s been a while since I’ve written, well, because not too much has been going on honestly. I’ll do my best to cover the highlights of the past week, as scant as they may seem.

Saturday night Dad and I talked for close to an hour, as I got carried away with my first opportunity to speak English in some time, and the stories to share were endless. My cell phone’s battery, however, is not, so before we got cut off I told one last funny account of my younger host siblings cooking a misbehaved cat the previous morning, and how this didn’t in the slightest bit draw the type of reaction you might expect. I noticed Lamine skinning an animal as I passed through the concession to greet N’Dia (Soumaïla’s mom), and upon recognizing the body form to be that of a cat, I silently made the connection to this event and when I saw Lamine and his younger brothers running wildly after something that morning some time before this. I reacted in no other way than this was a perfectly normal occurrence and continued on my way to say good morning to the oldest member of my host family. Dad said this was easily the funniest story he’d heard from my time here yet and said I’d become truly assimilated. I corrected him, saying that were I to be as such, I would’ve joined in the cooking and consumption, reassuring him that I would do no such thing.

My sister’s quasi birthday (29 February only happens once every four years so we have no choice but to adjust for non-leap year’s 28 February) saw the first rainfall of 2010 in Kafara, a most welcome change in the weather. And if you don’t think I’m too integrated already, with that cooking the cat tale, try this out: I’ve started sleeping outside due to the heat, something most Malians in villages begin doing this time of year, and this morning I woke up under a blanket because of a slight breeze. As I got up and moved my bedding back into my hut, I glanced at the thermometer hanging from my gwa. Upon double-taking, perhaps the sleep in my eyes deceiving what I thought I saw, I realized what I thought this morning’s “cool” temperatures to be around 80.

Today, six days after Maouloud, is the observance of the Prophet Mohammed’s baptism. The radio I bought at market in Digan last Sunday has been playing songs typical of this celebration all day thus far when tuned to any Malian station. Last night was the official beginning of the celebration, and as I lay down to sleep underneath my gwa, these songs served as a pleasant form of lullaby.


7 March 2010

Ma fitini, my younger host sister, had to make a trip to market in Digan to purchase yams, something she’s been cooking up and selling across village to make some money for herself lately. I went with her, and together we visited Kadia’s grandmother’s concession, where I hadn’t been since Kadia was married last year. After initial teasing remarks as to this lapse in seeing me, as well as my lack of informing them of my mother’s visit to Mali, we enjoyed each other’s company, as well as that of passing neighbors who came to say hello.

We’d arrived before market had really begun, which allowed for our visit to my host family relative’s home, and once we’d spent a good part of the morning there, Ma fitini and I went first to Lamine’s stand. He was his normal pleasant self, and shared his morning snack of stewed cow meat and bread with me, as well as treating me to my preferred market food, cégé.

The heavy sack of yams made the bike ride back home during the heat of midday an exhausting one. Upon pulling up to my gate, I could barely get off before I lost control of the bike and its load. As I struggled to untie it, rather than offer me any assistance, three women in my host family stood close by and laughed over my misfortune. Most particularly annoying to me was the reaction of Koniba, who was seated nearby doing nothing and could’ve easily held the bike steady. Then again she’s never been that respectful, and in the past refused to prepare me porridge when I was sick to my stomach. Ma fitini finally noticed me from across the concession and came to help un-strap the sack of yams which I then carried back to the center of the concession to more laughing and lack of offers of help from the women.


8 March 2010

It’s International Women’s Day and I’ll take this opportunity to describe the latest roadblock to understanding between the women in my host family and myself. Normally I would have nothing but praise for them, as my hosts have been excellent overall although occasionally I’m surprised by their behavior. Have I perhaps set a bad precedent, unintentionally, as they know I’m shy and unlikely to make a scene over something like forgetting my morning bucket water? Or is it their simply overwhelming amount of daily responsibilities that causes them to forget?
In my most cynical moments, I wonder how things would be different were I to be just another Malian male. Sometimes this is a valid case to make but unrealistic to apply across the board, as each woman in my host family is at their own comfort level with me and it would be unfair to expect them all to interact with a stranger like me in a similar fashion. Only when it comes to situations where I feel a general lack of respect do I think my complaints to be justified, like the incident yesterday that occurred outside my concession when they didn’t offer to help me untie the yams from my tipped over bike, particularly from Koniba, someone younger than me.

Siaka is attending a sara ka bô in Denfara for the village’s dugutigi, who died last week. Soumaïla’s family comes from that village and he showed me a couple photos taken several years back of the chief, along with other village chiefs holding huge ceremonial spears.

Of all the things living in Mali have resulted in my doing for the first time, and that list is staggering, eating sardines wasn’t one I’d have expected but sure enough it’s on there. Lately I’ve been supplementing my breakfast of porridge with bread and sardines in order to make it to my late lunch on a full stomach.


10 March 2010

Siaka attended a meeting in Oueléssébougou yesterday at O.H.V.N.’s office there, to share the results of Soumaïla’s cotton harvest yields. A hectare field was split in half between the NGO’s improved crop and the normal variety, and the productions were compared. The improved crop yielded close to one and a half times the yield of the normal variety. O.H.V.N.’s representative in Sougoula, a man I only know by his last name, Doumbia, has been visiting frequently to relay messages to Soumaïla about this meeting.

I went to Oueléssébougou yesterday too, but on my own agenda. After leaving my bike at Issa’s house, I walked to the highway and as I stood briefly outside the shop, my roadside vendor friend called me over to sit with her and her fellow villagers. She asked how many papayas to set aside for me when I returned, and commented on the beaded bracelet I was wearing, which upon hearing me say I’d made requested I come another time with more. When a public transport could be see on its way, she hailed the driver for me and told me to hurry so I could catch a place aboard. This turned out to be not an issue, because as soon as the crew saw me I was told to sit shotgun.

Once I finally made it back to Dongorona, having spent the majority of my time in Oueléssébougou waiting for a ride back, my friend called me over to affirm our planned transaction, before taking me back to a place next door to the shop where her papayas were. Two elder villagers, perhaps the girl’s grandparents, sat there and delighted in my Bambara conversational ability. Typically, the girl insisted on loading the fruit into my backpack herself. As I prepared to leave, she asked where my bracelet had gone, noticing I’d taken it off since that morning. Having completely forgotten this, I was glad she’d said something, because I’d done that in preparation to give it to her, as I had no purpose keeping it. I briefly returned with her to the spot she sits with many other village women to say hello. I declined their requests that I sit for a moment, instead saying it was past time I head home. I proposed spending part of a future Oueléssébougou journey with them, which eventually they agreed to.

Power is running once again in Kafara, as it seems credit payments have started rolling in, and this could not be better timed, as Champions League soccer was on hand last night. It was the first match I’ve seen this year and it was excellent, pitting Arsenal against FC Porto. Arsenal was in superb form, devastating their opposition almost mercilessly, the final score tallying five goals to nil. Their captain, Cesc Fabregas, didn’t even play! When Arsenal is at their best, their style of play is a pleasure to witness, full of quick precise passing and specializing in the counter attack.

Ba Seydou biked through the concession yesterday to say he’d spent Tuesday in Bamako with Batima, his younger sister, and she’d asked about me, particularly why I hadn’t called her yet. I said I didn’t have her number, so Ba Seydou said he’d give it to me later. He also told me Batima wanted me to stop by the next time I’m in Bamako and help her with some of her English studies.

Right now I’m seated under my gwa while Ma fitini braids Awa’s hair. Awa is Muriama’s younger sister, and is married to a man from Kodialan but is spending dry season in Kafara probably due to her husband’s absence from their home making money in a big city, a common undertaking of many Malians in small villages this time of year. Tea is brewing and the radio is tuned to a station playing a popular radio drama Jenman ni Finman.
Ma fitini made fun of me for adding roasted peanuts to my seasoned rice for lunch today. The pilaf of sorts I thought was a fun improvisational idea but when Ma tried for herself, her facial expression couldn’t have reinforced her verdict more negative and her assumption I was crazy left confirmed.
Umu, the wife of the concession’s Fulani (ethnicity) Samba, came and joined us and proved to not be as shy as I’d previously thought. Awa, Ma, and her had animated conversation full of teasing and laughter.
Once the third round of tea had been served, my guests all left to begin their daily afternoon duties. Awa arrived with a purple bandanna and I asked her where it’d come from since it wasn’t one of mine. She said Ma told her to give it to me. I saw Ma across the concession and walked to the entry to my gate to ask her why she’d given me someone else’s thing. Did she want Muriama to think I stole her bandanna? Ma doubled over in laughter and was unable to reply. Soumaïla, Daouda, and Nanko, seated under the mango tree, all found my words amusing as well.


11 March 2010

As I sat with Soumaïla and his neighbor friends at their late afternoon chatting spot under a mango tree, two more camel riders could be seen making their way across the southern concessions of Kafara. I asked Soumaïla to explain what they were doing. He said they beg for grain across western Mali during dry season, which later they assemble as a group to sell for a profit. Both his friends and he disapproved of the way the camel riders take advantage of people’s charity, indirectly making income from other’s goods. I was told they are ethnically Bela, considered historically the slaves of the Tomashek people. Their wandering results in a surprising lingual repertoire, as they come all the way from Gao and can at least greet in all the regions along the way.
We also watched from a distance a local villager who’s mentally ill deliver a hand-woven mat to Soumaïla’s mother. Apparently his affliction hasn’t affected this skill, although the same can’t be said for his social life. His marriage fell apart and he now lives with a younger brother. He’s around 70 and exclusively refers to me as “Jacque”, a German missionary in a neighboring village he must remember from years ago. Later he came over to sit briefly with us, and my alter ego came to light for my fellow villagers, one they found very amusing.
Vieux had one of his sons deliver me two papayas as I sat there, perhaps in appreciation for my helping him adjust settings on his cell phone. Nevertheless, a pleasant surprise, and one I hope to reciprocate once my tree’s fruit ripens.

Yesterday evening more Champions League soccer was on hand, this match pitting Real Madrid against Lyon Olympique. I can almost certainly say amongst the twenty or so of us watching at Amadou’s shop, I was the only Lyon supporter. Ending in a 1-1 draw, Lyon advanced on aggregate goals from the previous match, and I relished in Cristiano Ronaldo and Kaka’s early exit, as they’re my least favorite players. It’s a shame too, as their incredible talent is overshadowed for me personally by their egos. Kaka was especially intolerable, notably furious at a late substitution taking him out of the match in place of Raul, the squad’s veteran.

I arrived home from watching soccer to see my door ajar but after a quick search of my house, as well as my neighboring hut and even the nyegen to see if the culprit was still around, the search proved futile. Even more surprising, or distressing actually, was both Siaka and Vieux’s immediate accusation of Ma fitini. The only thing I found missing was my container of cocoa butter, and I was convinced even as flamboyant a character Ma can sometimes be, she wasn’t responsible for this petty theft. Eventually I was joking with Siaka about the whole thing, saying the brazen nature of it all made me nervous. Leaving my door open? No, surely this was a force to be reckoned with! We both laughed at my sarcastic interpretation of the night’s events.


12 March 2010

Didier Drogba was named Africa’s best footballer of 2009 last night, so I wore his jersey today. The Ivorian was one of three finalists, beating out Samuel Eto’o of Cameroon and Michael Essien of Ghana.

As I bought a bar of soap this afternoon, Bob Dylan was heard on a nearby radio hanging outside the shop. I sang and whistled along, causing the shopkeeper to notice I understood the music and ask the singer’s name.

I just finished listening to a cool radio program during which the origin of certain Malian last names was explained linguistically and geographically. Also the names of several Latin American countries, like Guatemala, Paraguay and Uruguay, have Bambara linguistic origin, from what I understood the host detail during his most interesting lecture.

Ma fitini just stopped in to say she’s going back to Djonkalan tomorrow, per request by her husband’s messengers who arrived this morning. His foray to Bamako must be over, and so her time spent in Kafara will come to an end as well. She was discouraged by the news, and later came by as I ate dinner to say she knew that within a couple of days back in Djonkalan, loneliness would set in and she would begin missing people in Kafara. She named me among those, and said from time to time memories of me would cause her to cry. I told her I’d prefer not to be a reason she cries, but I could see I was already too late, as even in the dimly lit space beneath my gwa could reveal a tear streak on her face. And so is the case apparently all too common for young girls in Mali, as I’ve seen with two of my host sisters, married for no other reason than I can see but cultural obligation, and almost certainly the dowries that were paid to their fathers.


13 March 2010

It came to light as Siaka and I were chatting as I made my bed last night that Awa, who I thought was Muriama’s younger sister, is actually her daughter from a previous marriage! Muriama was originally married in Kodialan and had three children. Awa herself used to be married in Kodialan too, but it also ended in divorce, explaining her recent stay here with her mom. Now, Kadiatou, Muriama’s younger sister, will look after Awa in Molobala for the time being. This news surprised me, leaving me to wonder just how little I knew about my hosts despite spending much of my time living alongside them. I was also aghast at the amount of children Muriama has had at her young age (~37): 10! Even Siaka agreed her health is at risk because of this, and we discussed the tricky nature of this issue, because Malian women take pride in having many children, perhaps under the impression this is part of being a good wife. To suggest this to be an unhealthy practice would be inappropriate if not done properly.


14 March 2010

After Ma fitini left for Djonkalan yesterday, I biked to the Med Clinic with the intention of collecting my laptop and camera, both charging batteries there. Instead, I spent the rest of the afternoon there sitting with Dicko, who’d arrived from Bamako that day, and brewed tea. Dicko had two humbling compliments for me that could be interpreted as assimilation into Malian culture. He praised my Bambara after I joked about Kadia’s (the matron) not drinking tea, suggesting this meant something. I proposed the reason could be she was pregnant, as was the case in the past with another friend from Daoudabougou, The way I presented this example impressed Dicko and he was convinced that upon my return to America I would be successful in whatever I pursue as a career. After the second round of tea, Dicko told me I would be appointed that evening’s tea brewer at his place while we watched films on his laptop, because it was clear to him I was a Malian tea brewing extraordinaire.

Before dinner, as I sat at Siaka’s gwa, I found out Rokia was here for the weekend at the request of Soumaïla. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since my mom and I visited her in Kalaban Koura, a south-eastern quartier of Bamako.


16 March 2010

Yesterday marked a year since the death of Soumaïla’s oldest brother, and then head of my host family concession, N’Fany Samaké, familiarly known as Kariba. It would’ve been easy to miss such an anniversary, because the day passed by like any other normal one.

Bara Kassambara arrived this morning to meet with Kafara’s BENSO members to discuss what they felt were the successes brought about by the formation David held for them this past July. Bara also asked for suggestions in order to continue advancing the co-op forward.
He had advice for the board members as well, reminding them to take into account plans for the future when making decisions. This concept is initially difficult to grasp for un-developed country nationals but an important idea to remember and emphasize.
Bara says he met with the PC Mali director and another PCV recently to discuss a project of rice and fish farming. He tells me the new bureau is not far from Winrock’s office in Hamdallaye ACI 2000, and was impressed with the new building.


17 March 2010

Muriama arrived last evening after spending a couple days in Bamako for a younger sibling’s child’s baptism. When I greeted her, I was told Kadia said to be sure I heard her hello.

Last night’s Champions League match could not have gone better. Samuel Eto’o scored for Inter Milan, whose defense played superbly, frustrating Didier Drogba to the point he was sent off after two yellow cards, and Chelsea was eliminated.


19 March 2010

Koniba left yesterday to spend the remainder of dry season in her hometown of Kaban. I joined the group of young men from Kafara who transported Koniba and her belongings the 15 km or so distance. The group split in two from the start, as Vieux, Moussa, Issa, and Daouda went off ahead once their loads were fastened. I rode with Bakary (Bu), Siaka, Mugutari, and Alou. Koniba rode behind Siaka, Bu hauled a large fishnet sack full of cooking utensils and containers, Mugutari a sack of food, and Alou a bucket filled with clothes. Vieux and Daouda each carried 50 kg sacks of food (peanuts and millet), and Issa another bag of clothes.
Passing through Digan, Bougouda, and Tiémba, eventually you reconnect with the red road you originally began your departure from Kafara. It goes from Digan and loops around through Falan, so we took a shorter route through the villages I just mentioned, and have been to previously. Kaban is the village furthest east of Kafara’s surrounding area I’ve been to. Koniba’s house is the first set of concessions you see upon reaching Kaban from the west. We greeted her parents and relatives before walking across town to a friend’s place, where we spent the afternoon chatting, brewing tea, taking pictures, etc. Koniba went to market to buy my lunch and cool pump water was readily available to drink.
Mugutari, a mute, proved to be our entertainment, surprising all of us when he refused to drink the 50 F tea our hosts provided, insisting instead to buy 75 F tea to brew. What I found most interesting about this whole thing was how it just blew over, perhaps due to our guests having pity on Mugutari’s condition. Normally what he did would be an awkward situation; a guest refuses what his host provides him, buying what he prefers instead? We all laughed at only Mugutari’s ability to get away with such behavior, also feeling slightly ashamed when our hosts returned with from the local shop with another 75 F tea. I’m getting better at understanding Mugutari’s sign language, and can sometimes even answer him myself, or interpret for others.
Around Laansara we prepared to leave, but first Issa’s front tire needed patching. The two groups returned to Kafara in similar fashion and eventually we made it around dusk, our postponed arrival due mostly to slipping chains on my friend’s bikes.


20 March 2010

After spending the day with Lamine at market in Oueléssébougou rather than go straight home, I sat until dusk by the road with several of the women selling papayas, grapes, oranges, and mangoes in Dongorona. I was asked to sit there by the girl who I’ve become a loyal customer of late, while her hair was braided. She was taken aback by my arrival with the powdered milk she’d asked for, as well as a couple beaded bracelets. She promised me future mangoes or papayas when I came again.
The laid back atmosphere typical of sitting and chatting with any group of Malians was abruptly broken anytime a car pulled over to purchase any of the women’s produce. Each of them would dash to collect their fruit and in their aggressive manner do their best to garner business. Observing this three or four times while I sat there was very interesting, the marked difference in the women relaxing in contrast to the way they swarmed patrons. Mangoes, having just begun to be available, proved to be the most popular item.

This morning I accompanied Soumaïla and his Oueléssébougou counterpart Guindo as they went about village conducting a survey of farmers. We began appropriately at the village chief’s concession, as is common procedure before beginning any work in town. Then we moved to Dramand’s place next to the cabine, where Guindo interviewed both Dramand and a passing villager, Abdoulaye. After that we went to the mosque, where many men were gathered due to work taking place there, allowing us a chance to ask three more of them questions under a tree on the south side of the mosque. That tree, as I write this, is being cut down to make way for the wall being built around the mosque.

A relative of Kafara’s village chief is getting married in Bamako tomorrow. Many villagers have been invited, and two women from my concession will be among those attending (Fatou, Mariam).


21 March 2010

I arrived at my house to sleep last night around 23hr but was horrified to see it still above 90 degrees. Sleep was hard to find between sweating and constant fanning. Guindo was spending the night in my neighboring hut, so I was reluctant to move outside to try getting rest there. When I greeted Soumaïla, Guindo, and Daouda (the neighbor), they all remarked at last night’s heat. Upon telling them I hadn’t slept well, Soumaïla told me in the future not to hesitate to sleep under my gwa. Guindo said even he wanted to do so, but there were too many frogs. It’s down to 90 degrees this morning but a quick attempt at a nap proved unsuccessful as I just lie and sweat, finally getting up feeling dehydrated. Malians, in their strange manner, are always quick to remind me that the heat will only be getting worse in the coming months.

Guindo and Soumaïla surveyed 25 people yesterday and this morning and are now wandering about town to finish the remainder of their participants. I’m slightly annoyed that I have a survey to do as well that Soumaïla and I told the village chief about and informed our sample villagers of but haven’t yet begun. Hopefully Guindo’s work will help my survey get going but it’s been a source of cynicism so far for me since I’ve wanted to do mine for a month now. The time it takes for simple things like this to do in societies where approach to work is so different is still something I’m getting used to, and although it can be frustrating, it’s important to realize and accept as just the way things are. Rather than change everyone else’s orientation I must adjust to their lifestyle and do my best to produce results accordingly.

I had my first taste of 2010 mango this morning, along with an orange I saved from Dongorona.

Work began at the mosque today as the first cement was mixed and laid for a wall to encircle the mosque. Siaka is among the many male villagers taking part.

Two bush taxis were parked near the shop at the center of town this morning specifically to take Kafara people to the marriage of a grandchild of Kafara’s dugutigi in Bamako today.

The other night Siaka and I saw a hedgehog near where we were finding cell phone reception. Yesterday as I walked home for lunch, I noticed a young neighbor carrying the carcass of a large decapitated snake, almost as long as the boy carrying it, to a nearby field to bury.

Maman plans on heading to Niengue-Coro today to spend part of her fifteen-day break from school there. She says the remainder of her break will be taken in Bamako, leaving me with little belief that she will ever come to Kafara again, as this would’ve been the chance to do so. She wants me to visit her in Niengue-Coro but there’s a lot happening in Kafara this coming week, as there’s a wedding Thursday.

A man I’ve never seen working at BNDA in Oueléssébougou gave me trouble over my bankcard, asking me condescendingly why I’d folded it in half. This was the first time in almost two years, and at all the BNDA’s I’ve been to in three regions of Mali, that anyone has mentioned anything about my bank card. The fact PC hadn’t yet deposited our living allowances furthered my displeasure with the situation.

Last night during Sita’s visit to Siaka’s gwa, I read her a Bambara fairy tale about why frogs grow up in water. The story begins with a promise between a frog and a turtle. The frog asks the turtle for the ability to beat all wildlife in the forest. The turtle agrees on the condition that the frog and turtle remain friends, providing the frog with a special stone. The frog summons all the forest’s wildlife to say he could beat any of them in a fight. They laugh at what they assume to be bluffing and select the rabbit to be the frog’s first opponent. The frog takes the rabbit by the ears and spins it around and around before bringing it down to the ground. The frog then takes on a donkey with similar success. The last animal the frog defeats is the lion, a victory the frog takes to his head, causing him to forget his promise with the turtle. Upon picking a fight with the turtle, the frog is taken by its rear leg and thrown into a nearby river. The turtle had without the frog’s knowledge taken back the special stone during their tussle. The moral of the fable is to not break promises between friends. Together Sita and I began answering reading comprehension questions at the end of the book. As Siaka and I walked her home, she told him how much she’d enjoyed the story. There are innumerous similar fables like this one and I plan on finding more books like this to read during Sita’s future visits, a fun cultural activity.


22 March 2010

I took advantage of an early opportunity to sleep, as it was cooler and I was at that point exhausted having not slept the night before. Siaka arrived around 23hr, surprised both by my arrival home without his knowing and also by the manner in which he found me – asleep. He came to invite me to eat food brought from the wedding in Bamako of Kafara’s village chief’s grandchild. Batima sent Fatou back on the first possible ride to Kafara with food for us – yams and beef along with some popcorn. We both appreciated Batima’s surprise very much and the coordination it must have taken to ensure its arrival to Siaka’s house still warm.

A drop-in to Kadiatou’s this morning revealed her hearing from Soumaïla a couple of days ago that he plans on taking me to visit Maman in Niengue-Coro during her stay there. I received two calls from Fatoumata’s number today, I’m hoping to say nothing more than Maman arrived. Adiaratou also text me to request a credit transfer, but as I have none, I couldn’t return either of their messages.


23 March 2010

I should’ve known from the start how today would go. I was barely beginning to eat my morning porridge when a fly dive-bombed straight into the utensil from which I was about to eat.

A very consistent and unwelcome monthly state of being I’ve for whatever reason accepted as part of life as a Mali PCV, I arrived at BNDA to find there’s still no money in my account and no idea when any might show up, only that I have none until then. My text to the person at the Bureau responsible for depositing our living allowances was unanswered.

Walking from the bank to the cyber café, I saw along the edge of the road something I’ve never seen before: a dead donkey. A car must’ve done it in, and its body has since been butchered, leaving behind a still intact but desiccated carcass of hooves, ankles, head, and all inedible insides. You’d think something like this would surprise me but my reaction was not unlike it was an unordinary sight. Initially I questioned what I saw but almost immediately upon recognizing what it was I just kept on my way, wondering just what other omens to today’s bad luck would arise later.

At Lamine’s house this afternoon, he sat next to me to say his friend had died in an accident the day before. The friend had been sitting on top of a bush taxi when somehow they fell off and were run over, all of this occurring at the center of town. In fact, we later passed by the Gendarmerie on our way to Dongorona where the very bush taxi in question is now in police custody.


24 March 2010

Using a piece of charcoal from a pile lying in my concession, I decorated the wall of my mud hut with Arabic script and my Malian name. The Arabic phrases I wrote are my favorites, hello & welcome (ahlan wa-sahlan), peace be upon you (as-salaamu xalaykum), thank God (al-Hamdu lillaah), and God willing (in shaa’ allah). Above that I have the nickname Ba Seydou calls me, “el americano", and my complete Malian name, Mahamadou Kariba Samaké. Those who’ve learnt my first two Malian hosts shared a similar name, Kariba, find this coincidence to be especially notable.

Fatou laid out some grain I was unfamiliar with later. She picked up a handful and came over to where I sat under the gwa to ask if I knew it. After close inspection, I told her I didn’t. She said it was fini (fonio), and upon affirming it was good she said she’d let me try some once it was prepared.


25 March 2010

For the first time in several months, I biked the entire distance to Oueléssébougou on the bush road that passes through Sikoro and Korobougou. I just needed to check the bank one last time to reaffirm I’ll still be expecting a living allowance deposit next week. Then I biked to the post office, where I generally leave my bicycle if I do take it, and walked back to the entry of market where there’s a haircut place, because it was time to get rid of the horrid job done in Digan on my head this past Sunday.

Mugutari’s wife arrives today, along with a score of people from Bamako and elsewhere to attend the marriage events beginning tonight. So far I’ve seen many people – Soumaïla (Mamadou’s friend), Lasine (Djènebou’s oldest brother), Tchèkoroba and his older brother Salifou, and Mugutari’s younger sister, Djèneba, a friend of Rokia. Djèneba’s uncle just dropped by to greet Soumaïla, and joked about seeing him on TV, in disbelief that his child (family name joking) could do such a thing. Tena is also here, Siaka’s friend who’s studying in Oueléssébougou whilst staying with relatives in Korobougou, and she spent most of last night chatting with Siaka and me at his gwa. Once again, Kafara is no longer a lonely place and thanks to this marriage coinciding with school breaks, village will be bustling with many people I haven’t seen for a while.

A recent developing story in village has really raised a lot of questions for me about how Malians in small villages interact with each other. Last week a car with three men aboard arrived from the direction of Digan, stopping at commerçant’s shop. The driver remained in the car while the two other men approached the shop owner, saying they were there to collect cigarettes, bullets, and pills due to what they claimed was some sort of governmental control action. The shop owner, sensing something was amiss, asked them for paperwork alluding to this course of action. After they said this wasn’t available or necessary, the shop owner refused to even allow them into his shop, concluding to himself their identity to be crooks. The men went just down the road to the next shop, where many villagers sat outside and did nothing despite hearing a commotion from the shop, as the men demanded 200,000 F from the shop owner. He gave them 15,000 F and they went with a carton of cigarettes and bullets. This all occurred in broad daylight in front of many people. Will the men return later at night to reclaim other items, or worse, destroy the shop? Why didn’t the first shop owner warn the other of those men? Why didn’t anyone sitting outside the second shop go to see what was taking place? Are the villagers of Kafara really this complacent and cowardly, allowing harm to fall unto others as long as they are left unaffected? Do they have no pity for what befell the second shop owner? Siaka, Tena and I discussed this matter last night at his gwa only to arrive at cynical conclusions.

I biked into town in the early evening expecting Mamadou to be among Air Digan’s passengers, but he wasn’t to be seen. Transport was packed with folks from Kafara, including Fousseyni and Ba N’Dia Diarra, Soumaïla’s (host brother, not father) wife. A little later as I was biking to the shop, nearby the main road I saw Mamadou and his friend Boubocar Diakité, known as Ivo, walking towards me. I walked with them to Mamadou’s concession and sat until it was time to head home and bathe.
Mamadou has been busy with my Motorola phone, equipping it with a headset, encasing it in plastic, and adding a bunch of photos of Bamako friends, including a hilarious picture of our friend Soumaïla wearing my father’s sunglasses.

Dance music can be heard across town coming from Mugutari’s house, as could moto’s engines and blaring horns earlier, as is typical upon the arrival of a new wife. So far it’s been a fresh set of faces at Siaka’s gwa tonight. Tchèkoroba’s back, and Solo was there with Lasine, a friend from Djonkalan. Vieux, my host brother, stopped by a moment ago with a friend who’d arrived today too. Kafara is full of people again! I was just told Mamadou and Ivo just arrived at Siaka’s, where tea gifted by Tchèkoroba is brewing.

I found a papaya on my desk this evening, with no clue as to who put it there or where it’s from. I’m fairly sure it’s not one of mine, as it’s kind of a weird shape I’d certainly remember seeing on the tree I water twice daily and inspect thoroughly to monitor healthy growth.


26 March 2010

I was lying in bed this early morning after fajiri prayer call and could still hear dance music coming from in town. Perhaps I shouldn’t have tried sleeping and instead spent the night there with Mamadou. Most of my night was spent sweating rather than sleeping.

Mamadou’s Daoudabougou neighbor friend Buwa gifted me tea and sugar. He said she offered a proverb as well, saying if you see a snake and are only armed with a stick, you do your best to ward off the snake with what you have. This proverb was said perhaps because Buwa felt her gift was insufficient, but I couldn’t disagree more. What a Malian exchange – tea and a proverb!
Mamadou told me last night that our Bamako friend Kara may soon have a Land Cruiser 4X4, due to his father’s dugutigi status and the wealth such a social standing carries. I told him the three of us should go on a trip to Mopti for my birthday. Strangely enough, he outlined this very plan in an email he sent my mom a short time ago!

This morning many villagers gathered at the neighboring concessions of Mugutari’s home for breakfast. Rice and couscous were made in plentiful amounts, as well as porridge. Siaka, Soumaïla, Mamadou, Ivo and I then spent the afternoon at Abou’s gwa brewing tea. Djènebou and her elder cousin of the same name stopped by briefly for some group photos.

Before lunch, we went to sit with a group of young village men at Mugutari’s house. Lunch arrived and the men all ate in the same area we’d had breakfast. Once full, the same group moved to the center of town shop to wait for a transport to take Ivo to Bamako. After not too long a wait, a bush taxi passed by and we paid farewell to our guest.
I took pity on Ivo during most of his visit, knowing exactly how hard it can be sometimes visiting another Malian village for the first time. People can be really inconsiderate and sometimes rude. While we sat waiting for lunch, a random Kafara guy repeatedly asked Ivo who he was and where he’d come from, in a most unfriendly manner that left Soumaïla and me with no choice but to defend Ivo’s response that he’d left home and arrived home.

Mamadou and I walked back to my house to rest on a mat under my gwa. Singing and drumming can be heard in town, as women welcomed the village’s new wife.


27 March 2010

Traditional singing and drumming took place at Mugutari’s house last night. I sat with Mamadou and Soumaïla until around 23hr, when Mamadou and I decided to move to my gwa due to its cooler and quieter atmosphere. Sita and her friend Aminata came too to sit with us briefly before heading back to the wedding events. Mamadou set out the large mat to lay down, yet we continued to have really entertaining conversation. I told him of how I learnt Muriama was previously married in Kodialan, but Mamadou took my host family history lesson further, explaining that Soumaïla had spent a day hostage, locked in a house there, for his pursuit of Muriama before her first marriage had ended. He told me this in a hushed voice and said he’d stop there, constantly peeking above my concession’s walls to make sure no one was listening. We both found this exchange most entertaining.

Mamadou’s alarm went off several times around fajiri before he finally got up to go home. The early morning’s cooler temperatures (~70) made my last hours of sleep especially pleasant, and under the comfortable warmth of my blanket.

Most of this afternoon I spent at Mugutari’s house with many male villagers of his age group. There were cultural lessons abound for me, and my faux pas in not taking part in a couple became a quick joke. It is expected that these men spend the night at the new husband’s place during the wedding event’s first several days. I instead slept at my house with Mamadou. Upon the arrival of the new wife at her husband’s home, which this gathering was due to, the new wife’s friend who accompanies her to the husband’s village offers water to each male as they arrive. It’s obligatory to drink, but I couldn’t as it was well water. Most of the men thought I misunderstood the cultural significance of what was taking place, but I quickly reassured them I knew exactly what was going on, and that regardless I can’t drink well water under any circumstances and for them to excuse me if I’d offended them. The new wife will pull water for all her husband’s relatives for a week before she returns home for a couple days, and her new in-laws will pay her donations for this work. Mamadou was the unofficial wedding party photographer, and all the pictures he took are excellent.

Soon, Soumaïla sent a younger sibling from his concession to tell me to join Mamadou and him there, where they were brewing tea and sharing an afternoon snack of beans and cooked peanuts. Samba and his Oueléssébougou friend stopped by on their way back home. Prior to their departure, I lent Samba one of my French/English grammar books. Mamadou and Samba’s farewell greetings were entirely spoken in English!

I briefly refereed that afternoon’s soccer match played between villagers, which saw Soumaïla score for his side and Mamadou draw a free kick that lead to his team’s equalizer.

My gwa was the site of an evening fête-inspired meal shared between Siaka, Alou, Soumaïla, Mamadou and myself. Mamadou prepared the salad himself, and after I showed him the best way to dice the lettuce, I took the bucket of water it’d been soaking in to empty at the base of my papaya tree. Completely startling me upon dumping the bucket’s contents were the twenty or so frogs that emerged.

Vieux Jamayiri arrived as we ate to say Maman requested I go to reception. She’d called to let me know the possibility of her visit to Kafara this coming Thursday. This news left Mamadou and I with mixed reactions, as she’d previously promised Mamadou that she’d come yesterday with him, then changed her mind at the last minute. Now she was again saying to expect her arrival, but I remain skeptical as to whether I will ever see her in Kafara again.

Sita’s friend Aminata dropped by my house to say hi. Mamadou and I poked fun at her late arrival, as she’d missed out on our salad. She joked that I was a bad person, and that I shouldn’t be surprised if she ever came by again. This teasing can be interpreted as an expectation to see her in the future. Mamadou and I chat about my friend Peter’s lack of contact since his trip to Nigeria, and enjoyed looking through my college photos I’d uploaded onto my laptop from an external drive a couple weeks ago.


28 March 2010

Mamadou slept under my gwa again last night, a new pattern and show of friendship I’ve really appreciated during his latest visit to Kafara. This early morning I woke up around fajiri freezing, checking the thermometer to see the temperature had dipped below 70 for the first time in months. I put on long johns and a long-sleeved shirt before lying back down, filled with amusement at the sight of Mamadou cocooned in my blanket.

Later this morning, Mamadou left on Air Digan for Bamako. I spent the rest of the day suffering an emotional hangover, as is typical after any time we’ve spent together only to part ways. Tena swung by Siaka’s gwa to ask him if he would eventually be at Mugutari’s house to chat. She also remarked on my low mood since she’d first seen me, asking whether anything was wrong. I felt ashamed for being so emotionally transparent and unable to explain why exactly I was momentarily down, because there were too many reasons to list.


29 March 2010

I took an morning bike ride to Kaba to hear the four messages Dad left me the past two nights. All his calls were around 19hr, so I decided to be in reception this evening if he tries again, with no other option as I’m out of credit and money.

Ma fitini is here for the day with her mother-in-law, who came to check up on Soumaïla’s recovery. It’s a cultural obligation to give blessings to any relative, co-worker, or friend in Mali, so that’s still going on for Soumaïla despite the length of time since passed from his month in Bamako for treatment. Better late than never, as they say.

I spent the afternoon under my gwa brewing Gazelle tea from Buwa while Ma fitini and my neighbor Adiaratou braided each other’s hair. Umu, Daouda’s wife from that same neighboring concession, was here briefly too. She’s from Djonkalan originally, where Ma fitini is now married, so they talk about there a lot. I brewed tea and studied Arabic the entire time, as host family and neighboring concession’s children filled the small canopy’s area.


30 March 2010

By the standards of my last trip to Oueléssébougou, this go-round could not have started better. No flies in my morning porridge, no dead donkeys on the road, and money deposited in my bank account. In high spirits, I walked into the shop owned by a grandson of Kafara’s dugutigi. The soft drink seller outside the establishment gave me an extended Arabic greeting, and my proper response drew raised eyebrows and approval as well as questions about whether I understood Arabic now too.

Mom received Mamadou’s emails and was impressed by his English. During a visit to a violin shop owner in Portland, the same man who all my violins have come from, she learned he has a connection with a Malian in my home town!

I called Mamadou to invite him to my snack of cégé and a Coke, before going on to update him on soccer news in both the Champions and Premier Leagues.

Soumaïla asked if I’d be attending a marriage this Thursday at his mother’s relative’s place in the village of Mana. When I said if it were possible, he asked why not; the choice was up to me essentially. I’d definitely go, out of cultural curiosity, but that day Maman tells me she’ll be visiting Kafara, and I feel more obliged to be here for that, because it may be the last time I see her in village. Soumaïla was more than pleased to hear my mom’s greetings and that she was doing well. He displayed amazing dexterity as he free climbed up the mango tree outside my concession in order to pick fruit way up at the highest branches, doing so with a super long stick. Little Sori and Kumba rushed to collect any fruit that fell to the ground, and soon most of their siblings were there too joining them.


31 March 2010

I’ve now spent the entire month of March in Kafara. This is the first calendar month I’ve been at site; I’ve spent many other month-long periods of time here, this is just the first time it’s been a complete calendar month. I’ve actually been here just over six weeks now!

I caught my Dad last night while he was at work, mostly to return his calls and see what was up. He recommended meeting with PC Mali’s Director the next time I’m in Bamako to ask for advice post-PC. As I was calling him on my credit, so he said to wait until Saturday for him to call back so we could chat further.

Last night’s soccer match was a pleasure to watch, even though I only saw the second half because I forgot about daylight savings. Bayern Munich made Manchester United look hapless, scoring the winning goal in the ninety-first minute, breaking a 1-1 tie in exciting fashion in front of their home crowd.

Setu is getting married tomorrow in Mana, and arrived yesterday here to prepare for that day. I haven’t seen her since before my mom visited me last year! It’s stranger to think after tomorrow, I may never see her again, even though really she’s not that far away. Mana is between here and Oueléssébougou.

Maman’s friend Jénébani has been here since Sunday, but I only just now saw her as I passed by her house biking home from the med clinic. She says Maman will be here tomorrow, giving me as much assurance as I can think of that it will actually happen.
I continued on my ride home when suddenly the wind blew off my hat near a neighbor’s well. After getting off to collect it, I thought I’d gone mad as it was nowhere in sight. The only possible explanation was that it must’ve somehow dropped down into the well, an improbably hilarious misfortune. Upon my return to continue my search, I saw the hat lying next to the well, soaking wet. It seemed Bu’s wife deftly retrieved it as she pulled water to bring home. She later made sure I’d collected it once more as I passed by again on my bike, this time wearing a beanie that even the strongest wind couldn’t take away.


1 April 2010

Mamadou was so pleased with my mom’s reply to his emails that he printed it off for posterity, or maybe just to have a copy to help translate its meaning. He wants my help with that when I’m in Bamako, as well as drafting a proper response.

Maman again postponed her trip to Kafara, this time giving a vague time frame of between now and Saturday when she hopes to finally make it. Whatever the cause of her late arrival, I know it’s probably not her fault; were it up to her, she’d have arrived last Thursday with Mamadou, or perhaps spent her entire break from school in Kafara.

Last night’s Barça/Arsenal Champions League match was the spectacle it promised, ending in a 2-2 draw and making for an intriguing build-up to next week’s second leg match, in which many starters for each side will not play because of injury or yellow cards.


3 April 2010

I was stung by a honeybee as I washed my hands with a salidaga yesterday at the Med Clinic. Dicko arrived with a morning snack of bread and sardines, after which both he and Dr. Bissa head to Bamako for the weekend.
They’ve incidentally initiated a proposal to Kafara’s village chief requesting permission to bring a doctor to town from Bamako to provide free consultations to each concession.

Today Maman finally will be arriving to spend the final days of her break from school in Kafara. Again, I refuse to believe the explanation for her tardiness is simply due to lack of reliable transport. Something or someone else has been complicating matters, making this whole ordeal completely drawn out and frustrating.

I’d completely not have known yesterday to be Good Friday and tomorrow Easter Sunday, as I’m in a Muslim village and know little about even goings on in town, let alone the outside world! That’s why this little radio of mine has been a great welcome.

Siaka has been in Mana the past couple of nights for a wedding. I spent part of last night at Sita’s house chatting with her and our friend Aminata. I brought tea to brew and enjoyed the opportunity to ease the loneliness brought about by Siaka’s absence.


5 April 2010

Will these past couple of days have been the last I see of Maman in Kafara? I’ve treated them as such, spending the past two days and evenings at the Med Clinic with her.
The night she arrived, we passed by her friend Jénébani’s house. As I waited for Maman by the road, Sita and Aminata passed by on their way from the Med Clinic back towards their houses. Sita asked if my girlfriend had arrived. I wanted to know where she’d heard this from, and she said a lot of folks, causing me to lost faith in her assertion we were fighting. Maman arrived and greeted Sita without knowing it to be her, as it was dark. The next day, Maman jokingly asked me how Sita was, an on-going teasing exchange due to rumors she’d heard that Sita is my village girlfriend. It was then that I revealed to her the fact they’d greeted each other the night before, unbeknownst to Maman!
Among our topics of discussion during our time spent under the mango tree near Kadia’s house and the Med Clinic was Maman’s explanation of the Bambara phrases hakètò and i ya faa ma, both forms of saying excuse me. I’ve learned more about her dad during this visit than all my visits previous, mostly due to her sharing many stories about him. It’s clear he took special care of his first born child, going to great lengths to spoil her at any opportunity, like always taking her through Dongorona during mango season on her way to Bamako, ensuring she had some for her trip.
I arrived this morning to see Kadia in her house getting an IV, but by the afternoon she was back to normal, joking with Maman and me about the proverb I was going to say in Bambara to end a quarrel we’d been having. I came with a pack of chewing gum so they’d quit calling me “white owl” rather than my name. That annoying nickname came from Siaka’s friends back during Tabaski, in reference to the name of Siaka’s hang-out (the owl hang-out) and the other day I said I’d rather not be called it any longer. Ba Kumba and Siaka arrived later and insisted jokingly they’d not yet received any gum and until then would keep calling me “white owl”. The past couple of days, Kadia has extended her teasing of me to my eating lunch there instead of at my house, as well as bathing there one day but not the next.