Defining Poverty (8.4.09)

Poor and content is rich, and rich enough. -William Shakespeare

Many months ago I happened to be in Bamako when Mali won its first World Cup qualifying match. Shortly after the scoreboard clock indicated time was up people flooded to the streets. I don’t know where they all came from. I am surprised I didn’t see anyone killed as the wild celebration occasionally meted out its threat to spill into the busy street. All of the rumors I had heard about the dangers of soccer matches now seemed justified.

The last time I found myself in the capital Mali was slated to play the favorite, Ghana, for a spot in the World Cup. I was apprehensive about going to the game due to all the warnings telling us not to, not to mention my limited prior experience with the crowd’s reaction. I also figured this would most likely be the biggest match Mali would take part in while I lived here, so I left all my valuables behind and joined up with some friends to head over to the stadium.

The main traffic changed from mopeds, cars, and busses to boisterous masses of pedestrians as we approached the stadium. I wasn’t sure what to expect other than continued pandemonium. Nevertheless, I was surprised. Instead of the chaos we experienced a fairly normal sporting event. Drums echoed across the field instead of a marching band and vendors sold questionable meat on a bamboo skewer as opposed to hot dogs, but order was maintained. We were not squished or shoved. Nothing was thrown at us. I didn’t even see anything on fire. To be honest, I was a little disappointed – not just because Mali lost.

I have now lived here for over a year and would say my experience thus far has a lot in common with those soccer matches – I saw chaos at first and then slowly recognized the order hiding inside it. Although the rankings have now changed a little, when I arrived here Mali was said to be the third poorest nation in the world. Initially, my eyes were open in amazement as I stared out the windows of the Land Cruisers at the conditions these people were forced to live it. It was tough to imagine a place more different from where I grew up. I remember reading in the paper and subsequently laughing about some old lady who had electricity hooked up for the first time when I was in High School. The power company even bought her a few appliances. I found it hard to believe there was still someone without power. How could anyone live without it?

My village is the rare home of an affluent man. He has a generator. His house has running water and air conditioning. He even has a vehicle. All of these things are unheard of in rural Mali. It seemed to me like an inverted world at first. A world lacking so many things I had taken for granted – a poverty stricken world – the Third World.

Merriam-Webster defines poverty as “the state of one who lacks a usual or socially acceptable amount of money or material possession.” I tend to think of it differently now. Perhaps it has more to do with freedom – or lack thereof. Like a windshield covered in salt that obscures the view in broad daylight, at first I could not see past the lack of material possession. I have been here long enough for the sun to set and now the outside world seems much clearer. My vision can now penetrate what was once so glaringly obvious and see into a bit of that which lies beyond.

The community I live in has a wealth of social interaction, family cohesion, interdependence, and physically laborious time spent outdoors. Western society often finds these things lacking. Here they are natural. Our society, the younger generation anyway, needs to be convinced of the importance of interacting in person as opposed to online and over the phone. Here, convincing people of the importance soap and clean water carry is quite difficult.

In the same way inadequate diet and hygiene leads to increased sickness and shortened life span, the relative isolation of the American individual can foster diseased minds and lonely hearts, spreading like a cancer throughout society. People don’t want to spend time alone here. The days are spent either working together or sitting together and talking. Children are like the electrons in iron as opposed to a ceramic – they flow relatively freely through the adult world, not contained within a nuclear family. Dysfunctional parents don’t have nearly the same negative impact on their children because all kids are disciplined and looked after by the community. If fights, domestic or otherwise, break out they are witnessed by half the village and quickly fizzle out. There is no need for law enforcement where I live in as the community here naturally and effectively governs itself.

Like the many dented and scratched Mercedes, lacking air conditioning and tires that match, that clutter the streets, Mali is pretty beat up on the surface. Those cars are built so solidly and reliably that they refuse to break down even though superficially they look ready for a junkyard. It took me awhile to see past the exterior shortcomings but what I have found has caused me to view my time here as an exchange instead of a contribution. I have a lot to learn and so do they. Fortunately we happen to be in a place where we can teach each other a few things.

Artisana (4.26.09)

In addition to normal traffic the streets of Bamako are choked with bicycles, mopeds, barnyard animals, the occasional camel, and a multitude of small green busses called Sotaaramas. For some pocket change and a little knowledge of how the routing system works the green Sotaaramas will take you most places throughout the city with the central market serving as a hub. This market is huge, unbelievably congested, and has streets lined with shops and tables selling everything from fish to faucets. Artisana is contained within the sprawling market, located next to the splendid Bamako Grand Mosque, and is a destination unto itself.

Let’s just pretend you are visiting the great metropolis known as Bamako and make the decision to work up enough courage to check out this Artisana. Your guidebook said it was the place to pick up a few mementoes. While trying to hail a cab hail a cab you spot a Toubob (white person) and hoping for an English-speaker strike up a conversation.

Turns out your new friend, Jeff, is on his way to pick up a few gifts before heading back to Canada. He insists cabs are too expensive and for the real experience you should take one of those green deathtraps. Just then, one rambles up, so you both hop on only to find there is no room. But there is always room for one (or two) more when it comes to Malian public transportation.

After ten minutes of baking inside the green sauna the bridge-bottleneck finally unsticks itself, and a much-needed breeze filters in as you peer down into the funny colored Niger River. You make up your mind to spring for a cab on the way back. Soon the streets begin to narrow and fill with people as the smell of fish, fried food, and sewage envelops the green plow that is inching its way through the masses.

While rubbing your head because it would seem the bus was made for midgets you squeeze your way through the crowd, trying to keep eyes on Jeff and where you are stepping at the same time. Finally the crowd dissolves and your heart rate begins to slow as you pass under the archway and into a sunny, open courtyard lined with all sorts of interesting things.

The moment of respite lasts only for a few seconds. As Toubob = Money you are immediately accosted with salesmen trying to drag you into their shops, get a phone number, or give a business card. All space is used, inside and out. Merchandise spreads across the ground, hangs from trees, and covers the walls as high as they go. Masks, drums, carvings and paintings permeate throughout. The sound of workers pounding, chiseling, shaping art into being echoes in and out of doorways. A few persistent salesmen succeed in drawing you into their dimly lit shops. The occasional screech of a table saw momentarily flickers the lights. The artwork is amazing. Completely worth the agonizing journey.

Everything is made on site. As many shops have similar items bartering is the name of the game. I am pretty good at getting the sellers to a third or less of the original asking price. This can be exhausting, but fun. It is easy to spend hours there, just staring at the seemingly endless expanse of human creativity.

I would love to open this Artisan Market up to those who cannot make it to Bamako. I even have a Malian friend who has been pushing me to make this happen. But it hasn’t for good reason. There are basically two ways to export artwork made in this part of the world. One is the bulk-shipping method where it is almost impossible for the Artisans to make a profit. The second is through a free-trade organization. It is not yet practical for a Malian business, let alone individual, to export goods themselves. The laws here make it difficult and the shipping costs are rather prohibitive. Most companies will not accept Malian debit cards so establishing a website is quite infeasible. Transferring money also poses a significant challenge. While the Internet, in theory, should make such an exchange possible the system at this point will simply not allow it. For the time being, I guess you just need to know someone who lives there.

Such Are Our Bedtime Stories (3.4.09)

I awoke with the gift of extra ambition. At times it is hard to do much more than read due to energy-sapping heat, little to no accountability, and lack of English-speaking people for miles around. The desire to eat something sweet drew me to the Butiki (general store) to hunt down some flour. During the twenty minutes of sending kids out to find some (as this particular Butiki was fresh out), I noticed some fresh bananas for sale. I figured banana bread might be the way to go, and why not make some cinnamon rolls too? In fact, why not turn the whole day into an impromptu cooking lesson?

Malian males do not take part in domestic labor. While the women work hard all day cooking, cleaning, and pounding grain (usually with a baby on their back), their husbands sit around and drink tea or work in the fields when necessary. They like tea more than the British and make it espresso style: extra strong, out of a shot glass, with too much sugar. I decided to blur the gender roles and convinced a few of my friends to come over and learn how to make buru (bread) by enticing them with their much-loved tea and some beef stew I cooked up the day before. After the bread was in the oven and lunch was finished (with me graciously accepting the request to teach their wives how to cook) we dispersed to our respective places of rest for the midday siesta.

As the mercury began to dip below 100, my three-person class found their way back to school. The cinnamon rolls were still warm after baking to perfection in my charcoal-fired brick oven, and as such, promptly devoured. Roles then quickly reversed as the tea began to flow.

Flipping through pictures on my camera to make conversation I came across a photo of a strange place I had been meaning to ask about. The picture was taken a couple of months before, and in a state of bewilderment, I was trying to figure out what this Malian Stonehenge was doing in the middle of a cornfield. At least 100 meters across and roughly circular (most of the wall had dissolved back into the ground from whence it came) this strange structure was kilometers from any human dwelling. I thought perhaps it had some kind of religious significance.

After many questions and a few answers I could understand (strangely enough I find it easier to express myself than understand what others are saying contrary to most foreign language learners) the history became clear. The wavy ruins were constructed around 200 years ago. I did not believe this at first as my own mud-brick walls have already been rebuilt in a few places and are only a few years old. My former students, now my teachers, explained how the walls had once been wide enough to ride a horse on top of and were built to protect their ancestors from the (mostly) French slave-traders.

A vicious battle was fought at this once heavily fortified village some 150 years ago. The Toubobs (Frenchmen) came on horseback armed with rifles and chains seeking strong, healthy Africans. Apparently the ancestors of my friends (at least on this particular day) were a little bit too strong. They rushed behind the walls that protected their homes and aimed their rifles (which I am told didn’t work very well) at the men on horseback. Shooting commenced and soon after the French saw their hopes for a payday vanquished, retreated.

I was told the walled cities worked well until the Toubobs became clever many years later and started dropping bombs on rebellious cities from airplanes. Fortunately, my village is now home to over 1,000 people and animosity toward the French is mostly a memory.

The ruins of another similar village exist on the other side of town. Once there were three walled towns, the location of the third being where I live today. The now consolidated families can easily trace their origin to one of the three based on their last name. Although the walls have come down and peace now pervades, the past lives on within the rich oral history possessed by the Malian people.

Thanksgiving 2008 (12.20.08)

I had to make a game-time decision. The choice perilously teetered between attending a lavish dinner at the new ambassador's house and stepping onto the idling charter bus that was headed toward the gathering of volunteers in my regional capital. The suffocating crowd of Malians shouting and jostling for the next banana or chunk of meat quickly squeezed me toward the door and up the steps of the dinosaur-like contraption that I was to cram inside of, sweating, for the next four hours on my way to Sikasso. Leaving nothing behind but a cloud of black smoke and the lingering vibrations of the thunderous engine, my fate was sealed. The Thanksgiving spent in the regional capital was nothing like going home but well worth the ride over. We feasted like only Peace Corps volunteers can, and the fact that I almost got a free ticket home (inside a box) was the whipped cream on my pie.

The Saturday after Thanksgiving about 30 volunteers remained in Sikasso. I slept late (until 8 or so) and watched as about 20 people packed into 3 old station wagons equipped with safari-type roof racks set to journey out to the waterfalls. A few of us stayed behind to finish digesting and take advantage the free Peace Corps transport that was headed our way. The large group chaos clunked away with the sound of the departing station wagons and we were left with a strangely quiet house. Instead of sitting around idly we decided to put our bicycles to use and explore some caves that were rumored to be about 12k outside the Malian metropolis we found ourselves trapped in.

We asked a stranger for directions and not only did he tell us where to go, he kindly escorted us partway there to make sure we didn't get lost. At least the adventure started well. Sooner than later I discovered keeping up with my friends proved most difficult. Assuming it was just amoebas, anemia, or some other energy-sapping ailment I didn't thing to check out my bike (turns out the brakes were rubbing – a discovery made after the day had come to its exhausted end).

After the scorching African sun and aching legs coaxed me into a mild state of dehydration (Mom, you should probably skip to the end) we were met by possibly the most persistent individual I have encountered during my short time here on Earth. He wanted to take us (and our money) on a tour of the caves and would not take no for an answer. After about 20 minutes of extreme rudeness on our part he finally buzzed off. We lost him inside the big cave used by the locals as a mosque.

Frustration serving as fuel, we clambered to the top of this holy rock formation that towered above the farmland like a medieval fortress. Naturally, I made it my mission to find a way up to the very top. Apparently the others valued their lives more than I did as they refused to climb the extra 10 feet. Looking back, that may have been a wise choice.

As I am reveling in my uncontested kingship of the mountain, the fact slowly dawns on me that I am not quite sure how to get back down. The small platform I claimed as my throne featured death on three sides and a beautiful view. Meanwhile, my comrades were trying to find a different route of descension from the towering battlements. What they discovered instead was an army of bees. I quickly abandoned my quest for lower elevation in exchange for the free entertainment. Unfortunately I soon became part of the show. Punching a few in the face just seemed to attract a bigger, angrier crowd until the swarm persuaded me it was high time to abandon my crown. So here I am, now the closest offender to the nest, trapped on top of a thousand-foot cliff flailing about wildly as the offensive force threatens the delicate integrity of my position. It is amazing what adrenaline can do for you. I chose to jump off the one side that offered mere broken bones (somehow avoiding that fate) and continued jumping off ledges until the flies were the only things buzzing around my head.

We all managed to make it off that rock with only a few scrapes and bruises and no major allergic reactions. Our dejected guide didn't even mess with our bikes. The ride home was long (especially for me) but the promise of something cold to drink and a movie to watch kept us going. The return to civilization and plentiful sources of clean water never felt so good.

Bamako (11.13.08)

Contrary to popular belief Africa does, in fact, have cities. Mud huts with thatched roofs group together in villages to form the stereotypical images of African life and poverty. The farmers who live inside form the backbone of the economy that supports the skyscrapers towering above the nearby urban communities. Even in the world's poorest countries one can take a taxi downtown, purchase the latest in cell phones, head to a coffee shop that has wireless, and surf the Internet under the shadow of the banks and hotels that dominate the skyline.

Bamako (crocodile) is the capital of Mali (hippo), a city split in half by the Niger River, one of the main waterways in West Africa. I think the crocodiles and hippos are long gone as the city is home to a few million Malians (depending on the time of year). There are also plenty of nice hotels, decent restaurants, a few supermarkets, and even several nightclubs. Mopeds and taxis dominate the streets because owning a car is far too expensive for the average citizen. At almost every main intersection people selling stuff and young boys begging for change swarm the stopped cars. The side streets are often flooded with livestock; one time our cab hit a bull! This city can be pretty chaotic, but then, what city isn't?

About a month ago Mali played in the first qualifying round for the world cup. My friend, Jeff, and I went to a nice restaurant to catch the tail end of the game. Mali won in a close match. As soon as it finished all of the cars and mopeds on the four-lane street outside the restaurant started honking. Soon thereafter the sides of the street transformed into walls of people materializing from who knows where in parade-like fashion. The beggars turned their cans upside down to use them as drums. Little boys took off their shirts and everyone was jumping up and down and making as much noise as possible. People would even climb onto the outside of some vehicles to bang on them. I sure wouldn't want to be around if Mali loses!

I live a mere two hours south of the big city so it is easy to drop in from time to time and enjoy a few of its many modern amenities. Some volunteers are more than twenty-four hours away. While it is not New York or Chicago, Bamako is also not what many people think of when they envision Africa.

The First Month of Freedom (10.9.08)

As the buzzing of flies gives way to the whining of mosquitoes I watch the stars slowly appear while swinging lazily in my hammock. I proceed to light the lantern that allows me to become engrossed in yet another novel only to be interrupted by Bacar, my ten-year-old neighbor who loves to hang out at my house. He wants to take some pictures with one of the most incredible devices his young, inquisitive eyes have seen, my camera. I think to myself, just wait until you see the laptop!

Bacar is a smart kid. I taught him how to play chess in under an hour and he helps me to learn Bambara and French. If he grew up in the States and attended a normal grade school he would probably be ushered into a gifted and talented program (if one existed), breeze through the few AP classes offered in high school, attend a prestigious university and continue on to the career of his choosing.

Bacar's future looks a little different from the one we may be used to, as he is not growing up in the world's wealthiest country, but the third poorest. Perhaps he will become a teacher in the school next to my house that was built by Japan. Maybe even one day the headmaster. He might make enough money to afford a couple wives and a moped. He will have a nicer house with more than one room, a tin roof instead of thatch, and even concrete floors. Along with 80% of Malians, the fields will occupy his time and energy during the rainy season.

While there is nothing wrong with this drastic difference in lifestyle (in many ways I find it better) a big problem becomes evident when people start getting sick or hurt. One of my neighbors was sitting in a hammock when the support snapped and caught her on the wrist. It quickly swelled up to twice its normal size, demanding professional attention. I asked, how far is the doctor? Too far. How much does an x-ray cost, or even some aspirin? Too much. I guess all that is left is to give the standard benediction: "Ala ka nogo ye ke (May God heal your pain)."

Despite many difficulties, village life is incredibly peaceful. It is always like a breath of fresh air to come home from a weekend in the loud, dirty, unfriendly city. A small Malian village is a place where everyone knows each other and it can take an hour to walk from one side to the other, as it is rude not to greet everyone in sight. I am slowly learning names and making friends but still don't have the language ability to take conversation much beyond the weather and discussing plans for the rest of the day. Little by little I continue to settle in, pick up a new phrase here and there, and get to know some of the nicest people I have had the privilege to meet.

N Ka So (9.10.08)

The initial excitement of discovering a new and different place has worn off for the most part. The lack of freedom regarding food choice and time management along with acquainting myself with various parasites caused the training period to get rather old toward the end. My host family and language teacher were a big help in acclimating to Malian culture. These first couple months flew by. In a matter of days we will be sworn in as official Peace Corps Volunteers at the Embassy and everyone is really exited about it! Peace Corps did a great job of keeping us safe and well prepared even though they tossed us into the deep end for a week. We set out with a non-English speaking village representative whom we had just met to visit our respective sites. Peace Corps dropped us off at the transport station in downtown Bamako where we got onto a 30 year old coach bus. My window was missing so it was kind of like sitting through a tropical storm for a couple hours (rain included). My new friend and I got off in one piece and started our 8k hike through the 95-degree heat into the small village of Sakoro. Sakoro is located right on the border of the Sahel and the Tropics about 20k north of Bougouni in the Sikasso region of southern Mali. Having only 1200 people Sakoro is a Malian anomaly as it contains one house with running water, air conditioning, satellite TV, and a fridge. Most villages that size are lucky to have a manual water pump and alternating current is wishful thinking. Fortunately, the transport situation spurred my return to Bamako a day early. We were able to hike up to a rock arch and cool off under a waterfall. This was the best way the most intense week of our training period could have ended. I have many ideas for my house and am really exited to move in. Everything about it is better than I had hoped for. I will get some lights powered by a car battery, paint the walls, add a window, tile the floors, build a kitchen with running water and learn how to cook in my charcoal-fired brick oven. The first few months will be spent settling in, making friends with my new neighbors, and learning the language. Starting actual work is a long way off as more language and technical training is yet to come.

Month One (8.7.08)

The temperature is a perfect 75 degrees, but the crickets, music, and Malians peering over my shoulders make it difficult to put my thoughts into writing. It is also hard to take my eyes of the light show that has just replaced the setting sun after dropping some rain on Marako, my host village. The combined effect of cell phones and a lifestyle out of the 10th century present here makes for an interesting atmosphere. Goats, chickens, and cows wander aimlessly thru the smoke from cooking fires and time is kept by the call to prayer while 50 Cent blasts from car battery powered boom-boxes. My host family takes good care of me: cooking, cleaning, washing my clothes, and ensuring I make it to school. I was warned countless times about how tough things would be here; I must be missing something. Maybe it just hasn't hit me yet that I will be living here for more than the next two years, but I have had no trouble adjusting thus far. I actually like it!

It seems to me Mali is like the overgrown sandbox in the corner of the playground that everyone forgot exists, one of the few places kids can put on their happy face and play nice together, perhaps because nobody seems to notice. Mali has a stable government and very good diplomatic relations with wealthier nations, so lots of kids come to play. They build schools, hospitals, hotels, pumps, and monuments leaving no doubt as to who paid for it. It is like a friendly competition that fills this country with a lot more cultural diversity than I would have guessed. So much of the globe is well represented: France, Germany, Japan, Libya, Saudi Arabia, Russia, China, and naturally, Ameriki. This atmosphere means that a bilingual Malian has little chance of playing the International Aid Game. Our staff is almost entirely Malian. One Bambara teacher speaks eight languages; the average for our language instructors seems to be around 4 or 5. (The analogy goes a lot deeper, but I will let you fill in the blanks.)

Over the course of the next week all 75 trainees will distribute across Mali to visit the places they are to live for the next two years. This will cause a significant number to head back to the states. It is weird to think that 30-40% will leave for various reasons before their time is up. Two have gone already. I am really exited (and a little nervous) to see my site! I will be living 20 km north of Bougouni in the Sikasso region: southern Mali, right between the Sahel and the tropics. I will spill the details in the next update.


Things I Have Learned…

1) Nobody is left-handed in Mali.
2) Polygamy is a viable alternative to divorce.
3) Animals are food, not pets.
4) Shorts do not make good diapers.

Day One (7.12.08)

So what can you buy with $4,000? A home theater? A lifetime supply of Snickers bars? A one-way trip to Bamako? I opted for the last option and the U.S. Government was kind enough to pick up the tab. I left Escanaba on the 7th, almost missing my connecting flight to Philadelphia where we spent a couple orientation days in the Historic District. The bus then took 77 of us to JFK where we flew to Paris and then on to Bamako. The journey was over 7,000 miles in all. It took almost 30 hours to just to get from Philadelphia to Tubani So, our training site (just outside Bamako on the Niger).

We are staying in round huts with thatched roofs for the first few days and will be relocated to our host families on the 15th. I did attach a picture that shows an example of our bathroom facilities, recently upgraded to include a shower. Nobody seems to have had a problem with them yet, but that might change when Mr. D. decides to show up. Food has been good so far; the staff here is doing a good job of easing the transition. We start eating with our hands in a couple days. The weather also takes getting used to. My watch told me it was around 34 much of the day. This is the rainy season where the temperatures are moderate but humidity is high, making our business-casual attire that much less comfortable. The cold and a hot season are yet to come.

We started culture training classes and as expected, many customs are very different from those I am used to. Unless in a bigger city, every person is to be greeted at least with a hello. If a longer greeting is appropriate, a firm handshake is viewed as aggressive and the soft grip is held for an incredibly long time. Looking someone in the eyes while shaking their hand can be offensive.

Anyway, just wanted to let y'all know I made it without any problems. Amazingly all of our luggage made it through. I have only been here 24 hours so I can't offer much more than a couple pictures, but more updates are sure to come. I would love to hear back from ya! The address below will be good until September 12 (airmail will probably take 3-4 weeks) and email should be somewhat regular until then.

So Where is Timbuktu Anyway? (6.9.08)

As some of you know, I just graduated from the University of Michigan with an Engineering degree and will be leaving for Mali, Africa in early July. As a Peace Corps volunteer I will be stationed fairly close to the capital, Bamako, which is about 700 km southwest of Timbuktu. Mali is a big country, slightly less than twice the size of Texas, much of it stretching into the Sahara. The national language is French although local languages such as Bambara are also spoken, both of which I will need to learn. The time commitment is 27 months and I will be working as a water sanitation engineer and extension agent. According to Wikipedia, Southern Mali gets more rain on average over the course of a year than Detroit although for 5 months out of that year less than a quarter inch of precipitation is recorded. This adds up to big water problems as they do not have adequate methods for storing up water for the dry season. This is one problem I will be addressing along with health education. Mali is one of the poorest countries in the world with a life expectancy of just under 50 years and the median age of 15.8 years. As my sister pointed out, I am soon to be a middle-aged man!

Rice and millet are sometimes the only food options available so I have been eating as much as possible before I leave. I will send out updates every so often and would love to hear back from you! I want to stay up to date with what is happening in your lives, even if it is just some random things you did that day. It will probably take some time to answer your e-mails as internet will be sporadic, but I am sure they will me most valuable to me. Hope to hear from you soon!