News From Kafara

12 May 2010

Air Digan pulled up earlier than expected, and made for some exciting last second audibles. Mamadou had yet to return from fetching me oranges down the road, and his sack of cell phones was with me. Unsure whether we would cross his path, I left the sack with a cobbler nearby, telling him the Malian I came with would be looking for it shortly. I climbed aboard, and could barely settle myself in as we got moving before Mamadou could be heard shouting instructions to give me the sack of oranges he just passed off relay style to the crewman. Upon finding his cell phones, he text me a thank you and wished me a good trip, all in English!

I arrived in Kafara to see grass sprouting all over, remnants of the monster rain that poured this past Friday. There were the typical amount of changes in the family concession, despite only being away for five days. Muriama’s daughter Awa is back with us in Kafara, after spending some time in Molobala with her aunt, Kadiatou. I’d been wondering what Awa’s last name is today, and thus the family name of Muriama’s first husband in Kodialan. Little Lucas Mohamed is standing on his own now, as of three days ago, and cries of such by any other host family members as he does so alerted me to this development. Little Sori and Kumba ran to greet me, but my happiness in receiving their attention was briefly interrupted at my surprise to see the identical infected sores on each of their faces. I could hear one of Sori’s older siblings telling his mom to get his sickly appearance away from me, but before she could say anything I quickly picked him up into one of his preferred Lucas airplane rides, perhaps the most intimate affection he’d received since I’d left last Tuesday.

Yesterday in Ouélessébougou, I recognized a woman along the road selling mangoes who I normally saw in Dongorona. She told me that Kamba was expecting me. Somehow I knew she was referring to my Dongorona friend, although I’d never learnt her name. I said I’d just come from there, and hadn’t seen her. This was because, her friend tells me, she’s now married in Ouélessébougou!
Then from beyond the curbside, I could hear someone calling my name, and noticed it was Kafara’s matron’s older brother, Ousmane, who owns a shop along the highway. He told me to sit briefly, sending a younger boy off to buy me a Coke, and then I was greeted by a variety of people passing by or working next door. The running joke was that I must understand Fula, as I was sitting with one, and I probably didn’t do much to help the fact I don’t upon answering a couple elementary greetings, thanks to practice I asked from Umu (the wife of the cattle herder in my host family) a while back.

Maman was very upset last night having to call me from Adiaratou’s phone, due to her own being beyond repair. She said that up until my call, since she’d arrived home from the cell phone place, she’d been so upset she wasn’t speaking to anyone. I did my best to lighten her mood.

A big storm passed over this morning, keeping temperatures in the low to mid-80s today, a nice change from yesterday’s sweltering heat, which did its best to ruin me. It seems impossible to stay hydrated in such extreme weather, despite my best efforts to gulp down liters of water.


15 May 2010

My younger host brother Vieux came searching for me at the Med Clinic, where I spent most of Thursday with Dicko, to tell me two American volunteers from Digan were waiting for me at my house. Barely believing what I heard, I hurried on my to catch up to him to confirm he said about Americans in Digan, just down the road from Kafara. We both wondered how neither of us had heard anything about this, but sure enough, we pulled up to my house to see Soumaïla and a neighbor sitting under the big mango tree outside my concession with two young Americans and their host from Digan. During our visit, over a couple rounds of tea, I did my best to steer the conversation around who they were, and what brought them to Mali. Their vague answers kept my curiosity humming but rather than continue prodding, I just listened carefully for subtle cues in order to come to my conclusion without asking directly. For instance, they mentioned the ngo they’re affiliated with, but left me with just an acronym. The only work they mentioned to me was improved farming and composting techniques, but an off the cuff question about the religious affiliation of villagers in Kafara caught my attention. I was impressed with their Bambara and considerable awareness of Malian culture, and we enjoyed sharing experiences we’d had during our similar amount of time spent in the country. Later, I heard one of them explain to Soumaïla that their work focused on the same improved farming and composting techniques they’d mentioned to me, but then he added something about religion. Violà! Since they’d decided for whatever reason to selectively omit that from what they’d told me, I didn’t even acknowledge it, only silently absorbing the information for myself. Later, I biked with them to the north of Kafara, where one of them was getting a door built for his hut in Digan. They fastened it to the back of his bicycle, and the three of us made jokes about such an African moment, lamenting that none of us had a camera to document its hilarity. Upon returning home, I reconfirmed with Soumaïla that they were missionaries before explaining I’d come to that conclusion myself without their telling me so, relaying a story they’d told me about the lack of hospitality they’d received in one of the villages they’d stayed. In a country renowned for its affability, I found this account puzzling. Then again, it didn’t surprise me that perhaps the villagers weren’t too excited about foreigners proposing not only to suggest new ways to do something they’ve been doing for generations (farming), but also to switch their similarly historic religious affiliation (Islam). Soumaïla made an interesting comment on religion, saying each had the right to their own personal preference, but warned against proselytizing.

That night, I went with Siaka to the north of Kafara encore for the arrival of a host family relative’s wife. The concession was packed with young villagers dancing and the area’s perimeter lined with tea brewing groups. As we searched for a place to sit down, a friend of Sita’s greeted us, and quickly lead me to an empty seat where she’d been sitting. Sita’s half-sister Aïssata periodically took her place next to me between her wandering about the party scene, keeping me awake with her seemingly unending energy, yet soon enough the space between big yawns became shorter and shorter. Normally, the point at which I tell Siaka it’s time for me to head home to sleep comes too early for him, but this time I’d made it past midnight so he was happy to walk me partway home.

Yesterday Siaka and I went to market in Ouélessébougou to gather food items for my second birthday fête, this time for my friends in Kafara. Siaka and I got no further than just past the post office where Air Kafara dropped off its passengers when I saw Dramand Bagayoko, the homologue of my site mate in Bassa, Sara Snider. As we approached the entry to market where many other bush taxis park, and a variety of vendors cook up food or sell produce, we crossed paths with three girls from Kafara who are now in Ouélessébougou, Tènin Camara, Tènè Coulibaly, and Banzele Doumbia. Finding our dinner ingredients proved short work, and soon my bag was full of beans, avocadoes, tomatoes, and onions. Siaka had several other errands to look after for host family members, and while he looked after those, I sat outside the shop owned by Kafara dugutigi’s grandson. It was there where Sara found me, and we proceeded to catch up on how things are going with each other for a bit. She’d just come from the radio station, where she’s been doing a weekly program for the past few months. I learned she’s extending at her site for an extra six months, and we also discussed our thoughts on replacement volunteers.

Siaka and I didn’t arrive back in Kafara until past 18hr30, after a miserably slow and tiresome ride back from market. When we walked from Siaka’s house to greet family members, I was pleasantly surprised to see Kadiatou, Muriama’s younger sister, sitting with them. She’d just come from Molobala and would be here for the weekend, particularly for the scheduled distribution of complimentary medication at the Med Clinic the next day. Immediately my mood perked up due to her immediate barrage of teasing, and the quick rebuttals I had to issue in turn.

It was Kadiatou who would assume the late night fête meal’s cooking responsibility, but first she made sure to understand how exactly it was to be prepared. Rather than complicate matters, I just let her prepare each dish separately as she was accustomed, and won’t soon forget when she arrived with my portion at my hut, one big bowl of zamé, a seasoned rice dish of Senegalese origin, and a smaller bowl of beans with a top half layer of guacamole. Her nervousness about how she’d interpreted my preparation instructions made me laugh, and I assured her of my appreciation for her cooking the meal on a night she would’ve spent otherwise chatting with her mother.

The area outside my concession, under the big mango tree, was the scene of dancing, card playing, and Tazo hibiscus tea brewing until very late in the morning. I can safely say children from all neighboring concessions were present, enjoying a chance to have a good time.

By the time I woke this morning, Soumaïla was already at the Med Clinic. In fact, I was woken up by my host brother Vieux, who’d been sent by his father to alert me that the Cuban doctors had arrived. Soumaïla found me near Fodé’s concession, where I sat most of the day observing the event. There were so many people, not just from Kafara but most neighboring villages as well. I met an uncle of Muriama who was here from Bamako, and impressed with my Bambara he chat with me for a while, joined briefly by Soumaïla and later his other niece Kadiatou.
Finally in the afternoon, Bara drove by in the Winrock International truck. Soumaïla called me over to intercept the vehicle, but it had already pulled over when I we arrived. Bara was very happy to see me, as was their newly hired translator from the formation, Bourama Sissoko. They both told me Dave always asks about me in his emails, and now they could tell him they’d seen me. Bara’s boss from America was with them, and soon we learnt we shared the same birthday, after I’d explained why Bara hadn’t found me in Kafara the previous weekend. Several members of the BENSO co-op assembled near the dugutigi’s house, where Bara’s boss asked what each of them thought the best result of Dave’s work was. Eventually I was asked for my input, as Soumaïla said even if I’d been quiet it was possible I had something to add. I told them what stood out to me about Dave’s formation was his capacity building methodology, which allowed the Malians to call the work their own. Bara and his boss agreed, before Bara went on to say this was the answer they’d been hoping for, reinforcing its importance while giving me a big thumbs up. At the end of the meeting, as we ate from a communal bowl, he invited me to come to Winrock’s office just down the road from our Bureau in ACI-2000.
On their way back to Bamako, the Winrock staff stopped by Soumaïla’s concession to take his mother with them, as she had a medical appointment in Bamako on Monday. Bourama, after watching a woman from Sougoula talk to me on her way home, told me he knew many people would miss me when I’d left Kafara. Before they were on their way, I told Bara I’d see him 6 June, noting wordplay with the date, six-six, to jog his memory. Talking with Bourama and him is fun, because we’re constantly switching between Bambara, French and English.

I returned to the Med Clinic, where all the Cubans had just finished eating lunch. An approaching rainstorm forced them inside, and as they passed by one of them shook my hand, giving me a thumbs up. I was so surprised by his doing so, that I completely forgot to even greet him in Spanish, which surely would’ve broken the ice well. Normally, folks that come to town from Bamako like them seem to have little time to say hello to the foreigner, something even Kafara villagers noticed. Kadia, the matron, gave me some of the zamé they’d prepared, along with a healthy dose of hot pepper sauce, which hidden beneath the top layer of rice surprised me as I upon consumed a complete spoonful in one gulp. The storm began and Kadiatou, her friend, and I sat in Dicko and Bissan’s house for the half an hour downpour. The heavy rain flooded parts of roads and knocked down mango trees, but cooled the temperature down almost twenty degrees.

Mamadou and I caught my mom to say happy birthday during an evening visit to the reception spot down the road from my house. He’d bought credit due to today’s Orange bonus, so we took advantage by calling all our friends in Bamako to say hello.


16 May 2010

Dicko had borrowed my camera for yesterday’s event, which he told me overall had gone very well. He filled my memory card with photos and videos of the large crowd, along with scenes at the Med Clinic, Cuban and Malian doctors consulting their patients throughout the day. I expressed my wish to visit Dicko at his home in Bamako, and together we picked 12 June, the Saturday after my close of service conference.

I sat with Mamadou and his dad briefly this evening before we came to my house, sitting under my gwa and chatting until 1hr30. Our conversation began with his latest email from my Iranian friend Monica back home. They’ve been sending emails back and forth for a bit now, and together we draft his replies, beginning in French but eventually translating into English. This has provided me with a good way to practice French while at the same time helping Mamadou with his English. It’s funny, we’re at the same level in each of our studies, barely comprehensible as we confuse words, construct new tenses, and make grammatical errors, only left with each other’s encouragement.


18 May 2010

If you look southeast from the entrance to my concession, you see a concession where an enclave of Bagayoko families live. I was called over there this morning by Awa, Adaman Bagayoko’s second wife, and she walked me over to the house where Siaka’s friend Ma Bagayoko lives. Ma’s older sister, Sata, and I think a cousin, Blantine, wanted me to sit, chat, and brew tea with them. I learnt that Blantine is married in Marako, and hosted a member of my stage of volunteers for our homestay. She helped facilitate explanations of mine about things Americans do differently from our Malian hosts. Each round of tea saw me walk across the road to Adaman’s concession to give a round of tea to his first wife, Mariam, who was busy cooking toh for lunch. She informed me that Drisa, Adaman’s younger brother, would be back again in Kafara soon after spending dry season in Bamako. Before I went home, I brought over my world map to show Awa, Sata, and Blantine where I’m from, the countries I’ve traveled to, and where certain friends are abroad (Ghana and Hong Kong), as well as my sister (Mexico). Sata promised to set aside some paté, fried dough balls with onion, from the batch she would prepare that afternoon and sell around town.


19 May 2010

Even as I began biking to Dongorona on my way to Ouélessébougou, I still wasn’t positive it would prove a worthwhile venture. Nonetheless, I enjoyed the novelty of seeing hornbills, white egrets, hawks, doves and sand pipers on my way to the town where I bank. I arrived at the highway that splits Dongorona, where I was waved over by Issa’s mother, who was among the mango vendors along the road. Issa is the husband of Siaka’s older half-sister, and his house is where I leave my bike. His mother always enjoys greeting the Bambara speaking Toubab, and this time, as she asked whether I was off to Ouélessébougou, I pointed to the bush taxi that had just pulled over and explained I was going to run to catch a place aboard. She excitedly urged me on, as I privately celebrated my luck at finding a ride so quickly.

The unusually positive tone the day in Ouélessébougou took began at the bank, where I was blown away to find no one to wait after, and walked up to the teller without taking a ticket at all. I said I was only needing 5000 fcfa (~$10), but he notified me that June’s monthly stipend had been deposited. Barely believing what I’d heard, I peaked through the window to look at the computer screen, delighted with this completely unexpected development.

Having only eaten the last of my Clif Bars that morning, I found a woman at the entry to market selling cègè, who remembered me from past visits to her stand, asking me how Kafara people were. She mixed her Bambara with French, a stimulating method of interaction I appreciated. I sat down outside the butigi owned by Kafara dugutigi’s grandson, and one of the men who sell water and soft drinks there sat with me preparing small plastic bags of yeast to be sold. He somehow read my mind about the situation; as I sat chatting with mere acquaintances, I purchased avocadoes and onions from a women sitting across the way from my place next to this man. He took the money to pay and collect my produce, before taking his seat again to my right, remarking at how such a series of interactions would be hard to come by in America. I heartily agreed with his assessment.

The opportunity to visit Samba then occurred to me, and since I had yet to do so during all these past trips to Ouélessébougou, I took advantage of this chance to spend the day with him. First we went to another cyber place different from where I usually go, where for the past month their internet would not be working until “tomorrow or the day after tomorrow.” I found a message from my sister, who I hadn’t heard from since March, so that was reassuring. After sending a quick note to my mom, I sent Mamadou a list of people I’d like to visit in Mali during these last months, all written in French! The night before, I told him I was pretty confident with my latest attempt at the language, but a quick grammar correction he gave me on one of the sentences threw me into a panic that it was incomprehensible. Eventually, I’ll get the hang of this Français thing.

Samba works as a secretary for an accountant, who currently is keeping records for a soybean company. His makeshift office is part of a warehouse, where packed in a corner is his desk with a desktop computer, a couple jars of soybeans, and whatever work he’d been drafting before I called him that morning. In case I didn’t make the connection, Samba said, “Lucas, c’est mon bureau.” He did the same upon arriving at his house, where he has one room in his host’s concession, this time referring to the place for me in English, saying, “Lucas, this is my ghetto.” Both these phrases ended in each of us laughing. Samba’s jatigi, the man who hosts him as well as heads the concession, gifted me a big mango from in town.

On my way back home, I struggled biking left-handed while holding the ever heavier plastic sack of guacamole ingredients I’d purchased at market in Ouélessébougou. As I approached Kafara’s perimeter, I stopped to eat mangoes with Bou and Karim, who’d spent the day helping dig a well in Dongorona. Malians are mango-eating machines; the two of them ate over thirty mangoes in less than ten minutes!

Soumaïla’s older brother, Daouda, arrived today in Kafara for the remainder of the week. Their grandmother’s sara ka bò is Friday in Digan. That day is also the second year anniversary of Kafara’s mosque being built, which means many folks from Kafara who are in Bamako will be in town. The first of those I’ve seen is Batima, the daughter of the butigi owner folks in town refer to as Commerçant, who I saw last during my mother’s visit to Mali.


20 May 2010

My little host sister Fatim arrived at my hut this morning to ask me to accompany her to the Med Clinic for a shot. As I sat outside waiting, I thought back about how this time last year I was in the middle of my formation in Sougoula, all the work I’d put into that project and how frustrating I’d found going about seeing it through essentially myself. Pulling off a similar stunt this time may have proved difficult by yet another uncontrollable variable – the weather. It rained this morning briefly, and many people are preparing fields for next month’s planting to begin.

Daouda and N’Dia went to Digan this morning. As N’Dia prepared to mount the moto, Mariam asked across the concession for her to get my assistance, but N’Dia assured she was alright. Upon Mariam’s second urging, I said N’Dia didn’t believe in my ability to support her, a comment that lead to Daouda’s approval of my understanding his mother’s words, which he gave by of laughter, before reiterating that N’Dia would accept help but didn’t think I alone could provide it. I did however help Soumaïla push start the moto before it revved up and they were on their way.

I spent the afternoon at the imam’s concession with Kadiatou chatting and brewing tea. All visitors and members of the concession appreciated our conversation, full of joking and tease-filled bickering.

After Fatim got her afternoon shot, Dicko took a look at her burn scars that spread across her chest, and concluded she would need to get a specialist’s attention, perhaps including surgery in an area where her skin would otherwise stretch to the point of opening again.

Mamadou’s friend Soumaïla arrived from Bamako today, as well as Vieux, Mamadou’s older brother. I saw them both coming to and from in town this afternoon. During my visit to Mamadou’s concession to welcome Vieux, his mother gave me a piece of Bamako bread, a traditional gift folks bring for kids.

Today was so nice, with temperatures never rising above 85 degrees, and I could be seen wearing a long-sleeve shirt comfortably all day.


21 May 2010

Today marked the two year anniversary of the construction of Kafara’s mosque. All morning, the imam and several Muslim clerics read Koranic verses. I went, somewhat reluctantly, with Siaka and his friend but sat outside at first, a bit stubborn in my initial hesitance to go inside with them. For whatever reason, I felt uncomfortable this time about what I should properly due, what was culturally appropriate without perhaps going too far from my own comfort zone. Villagers know I’m not Muslim, and generally we make jokes about whether I’m going to ever join them to pray at the mosque, but that’s on any normal day. I suppose since this day carried a certain significance, I was more understanding of their invitations. Plus, there weren’t any prayers happening at the time I was there today, just observances, I suppose you could call it. Anyhow, I finally was convinced to feel welcome to join in when Amadou Bagayoko, the butigi owner on the south end of Kafara, arrived to see me sitting alone outside on a tree stump, and in a friendly manner asked me to go in with him. We found our place in the final row of prayer mats, just in front of the partition that divides the men from the women. The clerics sat in a circle up front, surrounded by several standing men who’d been assigned to keep them cool, that is to say fan them. Elders and important villagers sit closer to the front, while younger men and boys generally occupy the area where Amadou and I were. I did my best to keep attentive, but after a while the Arabic being spoken just became a sound effect, like a constant humming of electricity. Searching for those in the crowd I knew, I noticed the dugutigi’s son, who’s a high-ranking police officer in Bamako, dressed to impress and sitting up near the front. I also saw Drisa, hard to miss in his new white Muslim cap and neon yellow Ronaldinho FC Barça jersey.

The construction of this new mosque was a project completely undertaken by Kafara villagers. Those in Bamako supplied the funds, and I assume the village provided the workers. It’s easily the most impressive structure in town, and I’m sure an intense source of pride. I assume the fleet of cars parked outside the dugutigi’s concession this morning belong to those folks in Bamako that perhaps played a role in the building process. I heard the dugutigi had a cow sacrificed to commemorate the anniversary.


23 May 2010

Just by chance I biked into town to the butigi around 15hr00, where a group of men told me I’d been chosen among a list of players for Kafara’s side in a soccer game to begin in just an hour’s time. It would pit those from Kafara against villagers who are in Bamako. I was selected for Kafara’s starting lineup, and put up front on the right wing. I was given Vieux’s shoes, which were too small and after only a short amount of play my left big toe was poking out the front. I’d my first scoring opportunity spoiled by a teammate folks told me later was from Kafara but I’ve never before seen. Advancing past the line of defense, it was only the opponent’s goalie that stood between the goal and me, but out of the corner of my left eye I saw what I thought to be a defender swoop in to take the ball from me. Upon realizing it was someone on my team, and I saw an easy scoring opportunity spoiled on an erratic shot over the crossbar, I could only shake my head wondering what type of soccer match I’d found myself in that afternoon. Luckily, I was subbed out right then, before my fatigue coupled with frustration at the lack of organized strategy, my spot taken by a younger player, which pleased me. The first half ended in a scoreless draw, but as soon as the second began, Kafara scored first. Bamako responded later to even the match, but our same goal scorer struck again, securing a 2-1 victory. Play was physical, with two of Kafara’s players suffering injuries. Ba Kumba cut his lip during a collision with a defender, an impact I nearly escaped as I was in the vicinity. I, myself, had the ball taken from me forcefully from behind, in what probably should’ve been called a foul. Siaka told me after the game he joked with the player who committed that offense, telling him that if he’d hurt me Siaka would’ve been on his tail. Moussa I’m fairly certain suffered a concussion that stopped play for several tense moments during the second half. Otherwise, it was not unlike any other friendly, as we’re all from Kafara in the end, family members and friends once again. Each of Kafara’s goals were celebrated in euphoric fashion, with supporters storming the pitch shouting “goal, goal!” and doing cartwheels. Villagers who saw me play were supportive and encouraging of my efforts, even though I didn’t score, for it was the first time they’d seen me on the pitch.


25 May 2010

I thought I just might be able to escape the enormous storm front approaching from the south, especially as I caught a ride on transport after winds began picking up and raindrops started spitting. Ironically, later I would learn less rain would fall in the place I’d originally tried to miss it, Ouélessébougou, than where I’d run to, Dongorona.
This soon became apparent as we passed through the last village you pass through between those two towns, Simidji. Another equally enormous storm front was approaching from the east, and I knew it was coming fast because the crew member riding shotgun slammed a dèbèn shut into his door to serve as a makeshift window. Just as we arrived in Dongorona, heavy winds and rain began, and for the next 30-45 minutes I sat huddled with all the street vendors under a small covering next to the butigi. Within minutes, a small rapid formed between us and the highway. A couple brave younger vendors continued their selling to a couple cars that stopped when the worst of the storm had passed, but most stayed under dry cover. I made my way across the muddy, puddle-filled paths of town to Issa’s concession, still somehow under the impression I would be able to make it back home. But as soon as I’d sat down in Issa’s house, a second round of rain began and that’s when I was beginning to realize the prospect I’d be spending the night at Issa’s place. It was more due to their integrity and hospitality than of the logistical complications of crossing the bigger rapid they recommended I wait until the next morning to continue home. Plus, up until then, I’d yet to spend a night with the friendly folks I left my bike with during past Ouélessébougou trips. Issa’s attempts to reach my host family in Kafara proved futile, and not until his phone rang around 21hr00 did Soumaïla finally get through to learn my whereabouts, though I’m sure he probably had a pretty good hunch.
This morning, I finally arrived back in Kafara, certainly with the appearance of someone who’d been stranded in a rainstorm, but still in good spirits, sharing my host family’s laughter at the latest circumstances of rain and my trips to Ouélessébougou. Upon hearing of my arrival, Rokia came to greet me; she’d been here since Saturday but somehow we’d not seen each other yet!

I learnt a whole bunch of random facts about village recently, as I carefully ask certain folks subtle questions about people’s affairs. Some might call me guilty of searching for gossip, but I’d take offense to such as I’m actually looking for the truth, not rumors. From Siaka, I found out the girl who’s currently cooking meals and pulling water for me is Muriama’s oldest child from a previous marriage. I’ve mentioned this girl before, Awa, but her history has remained a mystery, as my host family never felt it necessary to explain who she was to me. Awa has a younger sister still in Kodialan, where Muriama was married before. The reason Awa is here now I’m told is because she herself had been married in Kodialan but for whatever reason the marriage didn’t last, before she had any children even, or at least that’s what Siaka knows. Kadia, the village matron, thinks Awa’s family name is Sacko, but wasn’t entirely certain. Awa Sacko, the same name given to my mom during her visit to Mali.
During my latest trip to Bamako, a child fell down a well and drowned. The girl was a member of a neighboring concession of Bagayoko folks, and the well she fell in is nearby my house. I only found out today at Kadia’s concession, when Dicko, Ba Kumba and she told me about what had happened. I’d never have known otherwise!
A Fula named Samba has been herding Soumaïla’s cattle for the past year unpaid. He was supposed to be given a monthly stipend, but even one month hasn’t been given to him. Now his mother’s been calling him to come home but he doesn’t have any means to catch a ride back, essentially kept captive for the time being. Kadia told me this as well, another update on village news I otherwise wouldn’t have known, happening in my own concession!
Soumaïla’s mother, N’Dia, is one of the four Kafara villagers who’ve observed Hajj in Mecca. Two of those people are the dugutigi and his wife, so that gives you some insight into the type of company she keeps in that regard.

Rokia braided little Fatim’s hair in a criss-cross pattern I’ve yet to see anywhere. I asked Fatim what the model was and she said “dèbèn”, as in the mat people lay out to sleep or sit on here, that have a similarly intricate stitched design.


26 May 2010

Last night, I called my supervisor, Yacouba Koné, to return the message he’d left over the weekend about his upcoming visit. I’m glad I caught him yesterday, because it came to light his trip to Kafara had changed to today rather than the originally scheduled date, tomorrow. He said he’d be coming once the morning meeting at the Bureau had finished, and to expect him around 10hr00.

Soumaïla placed out several chairs this morning outside my concession under the shade of the big mango tree before heading off to the bank, where he works every Wednesday, something his older brother Kariba used to do. I sat myself in one of those chairs after putting on a nice shirt and waited for Yacouba’s arrival while listening to the radio and playing with little Mohamed. A little before 11hr00, I saw the PC vehicle pull up from across the concession. Yacouba and I chat for a bit while Rokia took my bike to inform Soumaïla of his arrival. I updated him on MZC’s projects in town, how I felt about their presence in town, and the potential collaboration I was initially hesitant about with them. Since he was once upon a time a homologue, I asked him about what it was like when his first volunteer left for America. He said it was a sad time, but he was reassured by the fact a replacement would come in their wake. When my time comes, he told me many villagers and I will be crying together, and there was no questioning this, as he knew it all too well.
Soumaïla came soon thereafter, and described all the things he was thankful for about my time with him. The grace of my presence here resulted in the creation of a cooperative; Programme Sorgho representatives informed Winrock International about the farmers in my area, leading to the formation that they held last year here in village. Yacouba was so impressed by this project, the fact I’d hosted the American trainer for two nights not slipping his mind, and explained it was a perfect work opportunity for another volunteer to assume. Soumaïla also told Yacouba about my work in Sougoula with the women’s association there with the partners I found at Helen Keller International, and the nutrition formation Soumaïla wasn’t ashamed to say we’d funded ourselves. Together, the three of us took the short walk to Soumaïla’s compost pit, recently filled with new material, and nearby the USAID/WACIP cotton test plot where the previous pit’s contents are now spread about in piles. On our way to the field, passing through a mango grove, Yacouba’s attention was diverted to our left, where he noticed something none of the rest of us had yet seen. I followed him, picking up on his intentions, and sure enough, a huge black scorpion just fell victim to my supervisor’s dress shoe heel.
Yacouba also wanted to see the sorghum hybrid Soumaïla has been growing in the garden, during hot season no less, but not before he got to see the family of muskrats Soumaïla has been raising for a project based out of Benin. The calendar my mom gifted Soumaïla was also shared with Yacouba, and he was pleased with this special souvenir. He asked me to send him photos like he saw in the calendar of farmers and me in the fields.
We ate lunch under my gwa, and Yacouba shared stories of his first volunteer with me, and also informed me as to the cultural significance of something that happened to me several days ago. I was sitting alone underneath my gwa when Sita and a friend stopped by to say hello. When they found me sitting outside my hut with the door shut, they quickly opened it and said it wasn’t customary to do as I’d been doing. Yacouba says this is similar to the belief that if you sit in your doorstep, another taboo, the spirits that come and go through the doorway will pass through you as well! These old beliefs that have passed through many generations are so interesting to me, I wish I knew more of them, as I’m sure there are a whole bunch of them I’ve yet to learn, generally by unknowingly violating them, as I did with the door example.
Soumaïla’s courage and work ethic really stood out to Yacouba, enough that he made a remark to me about it after lunch. He said this I think to subtly confirm the luck I had with finding such a work partner. We hopped in the 4X4 and went to greet the dugutigi and his wife, to let them know Yacouba was here to mark the final months of my time in Kafara, and start preparing for my replacement. Then to the other end of town we went to introduce Dr. Dicko to my supervisor in hopes of perhaps building a potential collaboration with MZC. It turns out Dicko and Yacouba share a similar passion for animal raising, and they got along seemingly well, speaking with each other in very educated French.
Before Yacouba was on his way, he stopped back by my host family’s concession to drop off some gâteau for Soumaïla’s kids and got Dicko’s number from me. After sending him off with blessings and thanks, I couldn’t help but share my very high opinion of how the visit went with Soumaïla before he took my bike on his way back to the bank.


27 May 2010

It’d been a frustrating day, and I decided it best to let Soumaïla know how I felt, so after I finished my dinner I walked over to his house and sat next to him. As I rarely do so, he gathered I probably wanted to tell him something, but probably nothing more than letting him know I’d be going to Ouélessébougou or Bamako whichever day. This time, I started by saying that today had been discouraging, before going on to describe my frustration with MZC events in village.
Ever since they’ve been working in Kafara, almost a year now, I’ve yet to be even introduced to the Spanish representatives during their visits to see the progress of their projects. This is the responsibility of Dicko, it’s not my prerogative to introduce myself, that’s not proper protocol in Mali. I’d hoped that yesterday’s meeting with my supervisor would be reciprocated by Dicko today, so I went in the morning to the Med Clinic, where women sang and danced while waiting for the arrival of MZC’s truck to pull up with the visitors from Spain. I took my place off to the side with Alou and Kadia, and just before the truck approached us, Dicko sat across from me. As there was no microphone, the group had to huddle closer to the front where the speakers would be, and I sat in the back, mostly observing, but really waiting for that elusive introduction to the other development workers in this small town. The perfect opportunity for this came when during their tour of the different projects, just as they arrived from the Med Clinic to where villagers have Bambara class, when Dicko and one of the women passed behind me. I was told later that it was then that she asked who I was, and Dicko took the liberty of introducing myself rather than walk the ten yards to where I was sitting and do so properly. He knows I speak Spanish, but this never came up, just that I was an American and here as a PCV. Later, still sitting in that same spot beginning to realize I had been forgotten in the background, Soumaïla noticed my disposition from across the area people were gathered, and called me over to give me his cell phone to charge at the Med Clinic. I walked over there and sat with Dr. Keita, who asked if I’d eaten. When I told him since no one had called me to do so, I didn’t even know about it. He went to see about the food situation, and then Seydou Camara passed by, asking me again whether I’d eaten. His response, upon hearing I hadn’t been informed of lunch or even introduced to the Spanish women who’d come, confirmed my displeasure, as he agreed it was not proper. Even Ba Kumba, the nurse, who was sitting next to me, said he would mention such to Dicko later. When Dicko passed by in the truck as the MZC folks went to greet the dugutigi, Ba Kumba told me to come eat. I arrived to the gwa outside Dicko and Keita’s house where Keita and Kadia were eating, and Kadia quickly asked for my excuse for her forgetting to call me to eat. I told her not to worry, as that wasn’t her responsibility alone, before Ketia and I told her about how I’d yet to be introduced to Dicko’s superiors, like I’d done the day before during Yacouba’s visit. Each of the people who share the concession, Kadia, Keita, and Ba Kumba, agreed with my assessment of the situation as a cultural faux pas, and even more surprising were their words of disapproval about Dicko’s negligence. Kadia recommended it was up to me to tell Dicko this myself later, but just as the Spanish representatives had left, Dicko called me under the gwa again to ask my help with my camera, which I’d lent him for the day’s events, like I’d done for past events too. It was then that Keita told him, in French, about my disappointment at not being introduced to the MZC people. Dicko said I hadn’t been there during the reception, a baffling distortion of the truth, as Keita then reiterated I was sitting in the audience the entire time. Dicko then remembered one of the Spanish women had asked about me, and he told me of her positive reaction upon hearing I was a PCV in town. It still hadn’t hit him such an opportunity to introduce me had presented itself quite plainly. I finally understood Dicko was just a certain personality type that tended to disregard or forget about such things during his affairs. The fact none of this really surprised me either helped to keep me from feeling too upset about it.
That being said, it did help to tell Soumaïla about it, and Muriama laughed in appreciation what she’d interpreted at my expression of anger. I quickly corrected her that I wasn’t angry, just frustrated and discouraged. What could I take from all this but a slight feeling of betrayal, being asked for my camera, seeing my bicycle ridden about on errands, but myself sitting in the background forgotten? Soumaïla’s read-in on the ordeal was especially cynical, concluding that Dicko was not trustworthy and perhaps intimidated by not only my presence in town but also that I understood Spanish and therefore could’ve discussed matters with Dicko’s supervisors in their native tongue. Although this is possible, I certainly hope it not to be the case, as all my interactions with Dicko I’ve had would be irreversibly tainted. It’s also somewhat odd that the Spanish woman who’d asked about me didn’t initiate an introduction to me herself, but then again, that’s fairly typical of most visits by foreign workers. Perhaps I just blend in with the crowd, having become simply another member of the village. Am I supposed to feel culturally integrated by this? Because normally that’s supposed to be a good feeling, not one that leaves me feeling negative.

Soumaïla and I continued chatting until close to midnight about all sorts of things, from family history to Malian culture to bats to the feelings we have about my leaving Mali soon to soccer. Our discussion of family began with Soumaïla giving me his birth certificate, and when I asked about his father’s name, N’Galadiou. I’d heard his father referred to by another name, Moussa, but Soumaïla said this stemmed from a stint his father spent in Guinea, where he was given a name by his hosts, much like me here. Apparently, this is a common cultural practice across the region. Soumaïla told me he preffered his father’s given name, even to the point of naming one of his sons after him. It was then that Muriama asked me whether this was something Americans did. I said I was familiar with a couple instances of such personally, but overall, it wasn’t an overwhelmingly popular name-giving process. This discussion of names reminded me of something new I learnt from Ba Kumba that afternoon. Each family name is given a totem animal; Traoré a magpie-like bird, Camara a turtle, Samaké an elephant, Keita a lion. I told Soumaïla I knew this to be the case in Senegal, but hadn’t yet known about totem’s existence in Mali.
Bats might seem like a random lapse in attention, and that’s somewhat true. A huge bat caught my eye behind Soumaïla’s concession as it flew back and forth between a grove of mango trees. I asked for the name of the animal in Bambara, but it became clear that each type of bat has a particular name. This big fruit bat is called n’tonso. I asked about vampire bats, but Soumaïla told me there weren’t too many of those around here, but was still familiar with them.
We both shared our similar dread for the day I leave Kafara, Soumaïla even inferring he hopes the day never comes! He says whenever he finds himself thinking too much about that, he recalls the first time he met me at Toubaniso and his second thoughts about this whole hosting a PCV idea, because we couldn’t even greet each other in Bambara without an interpreter! Oh how we laughed at this memory and the distance we’ve come from that first awkward interaction.
I asked Soumaïla whether he’d heard on the radio about his favorite soccer club, Real Madrid, hiring a new manager. José Murinho just achieved a historical treble with Inter Milan, winning Italy’s national cup, the Serie A league title, and the European Champions League all in the same season. Soumaïla hoped he could bring similar success to Real, who’ve recently under-achieved in epic fashion despite a roster filled with superstars. All the while, their supporters are lamenting in their team’s floundering amidst the success of their arch-rivals FC Barça.


29 May 2010

While reading through my journal entries from a year ago, I was drawn to several similar themes. It didn’t come as much of a surprise to see descriptions of things that would happen this time every year, like the first big rain storms or the harvesting of nèrè pods from the forest. Cool side note about that, though, while I’m on the subject. The word in Bambara for yellow is the same as the word for the powder of the nèrè fruit (nèrèmugu). A fun story about this occurred not long ago when Winrock International’s West Africa Regional Director visited my family concession. I told her this linguistic fact and her only question was whether or not the powder was yellow. Nearby, some women in my host family were shelling the pods into a basket full of, yes, very yellow content.
But several coincidental experiences could not be attributed to any time frame. Around this time last year, I had my fingertips dyed in red henna, just like I did a couple days ago. In the beginning of this past June, my oldest host brother was married to his second wife, and many of the women in my host family were applying henna for the event. Rokia decided to let me join them, after finishing with her younger cousins. Even stranger was the account of a trip to Ouélessébougou last May and my chance meeting with Abou Kounaté, who hosted Siaka and I for the afternoon while Siaka’s bike tire was repaired by one of his children. Abou’s profession was as a chauffeur, and he’d lived in many West African countries before coming to Mali. Well, it just so happens that during my latest trip to Ouélessébougou, I met Ousmane, completely by chance, as I bought some cucumber seeds. He was sitting with the man I bought the seeds from, and invited me to sit with them to drink tea. During our visit, we spoke almost exclusively in English, as he’s known many other PCV’s and been able to practice that way. His English is not unlike that of an American because of this, and it allowed for casual conversation to commence without loss of comprehension. Ousmane is a chauffeur too, and has also been to other African countries, just like Abou. A PCV from a nearby town took him on a vacation to Ghana several years ago, and he’s also spent a couple years in Libya, which after five years of learning Arabic in school solidified his fluency in the language. He taught me how to say “good-bye”, a phrase I’d forgotten from my writing exercise book, and was sincerely impressed when he taught me the afternoon greeting and I answered correctly. I learnt a phrase in Bambara that alludes to when someone isn’t expressing them self clearly, which is translated directly as ‘keeping you in darkness’ (musalaka). Anyway, I cannot wait to catch up with Yousmanne another Friday at market in Ouélessébougou, as I could’ve picked his brain about such things for hours. Even though I’m fairly certain he shares this hope, his farewell greeting included another appropriate phrase. “Until next time, in shaa’ allah.”