And so it is over. I am currently sitting in the counter-culture coffee is shop Coffee Exchange in Providence RI, sipping on an unsweatened tea while other students burry themselves in books and old white men discuss the New York Times front page.
It is quite frightening, how quickly one can forget Africa, how it is so easy to slip back into one’s old routine. The two worlds I have seen are juxtaposed almost beyond the point of comparison—two lines in different planes. I just am afraid that I will forget, because it is so easy to slip back into the comfort that has been my life for the past twenty years.
When I got back to Brown, my friends all asked me: so how are you holding up with the culture shock? They are a little late though because the culture shock did not come in Providence though but rather in Paris. Between leaving Bamako and coming back to Providence, I decided to extend my layover in Paris for one week and explore one of the world’s greatest cities. We took the red eye out of Bamako and arrived in Paris at about 6am. Going through customs, in a sleep deprived haze, I think to myself: why are there so many albinos here?...Oh wait…I’m in Europe…They’re white.
After saying good-bye to Julie, I brave the Paris metro alone with my 27 kg suitcase. I get off a stop too late for my line transfer, and ascend the steps. I find myself in a completely deserted square, Notre Dame, bathed in the perfect yellow light of dawn rises above me. I am alone with the most famous gothic cathedral. Talk about surreal.
My first day in Paris I spent wandering around the streets, a bit like Baudelaire. The contrast was incredible, to go from one of the 5th poorest countries in the world to one of the five capitals of world. The two worlds were so different; it was almost impossible to compare the two as it might have driven me to insanity. I floated along, taking in the beauties of Paris. It was only the smallest details that forced me into comparison. One girl at my hostel was wearing jelly sandals identical to the ones all Malian boys would play soccer in. What was a fashion statement of youth to her were the only affordable sport shoes for these boys.
I am also infatuated by the rental bicycle system in Paris, perhaps because of how many transportation problems we had to deal with in Mali. Throughout the city there are bikes that you can rent if you have a metro card. What a public service I thought: What a great example of how governments can actually provide for their people and not just leave them hanging. I, as a tourist there for one week, had an assured cheap means of individual transportation.
Other things: the joys of stop lights, paved streets, pedestrian walk and don’t walk signs—all these little things.
And yet, despite all of these differences, I found more similarities than I was expecting. Just as Malians go out at night to take tea and talk about the day, so too do Parisians—except they go out to cafés and drink wine. This habit of communal culture I find to be beautiful and yet it is lacking in American culture.
I was sitting reading my book outside at night and two bugs land on the page. I swat them away, then realize I don’t have to because they are not mosquitoes and so not harmless. Then I realize I miss the mosquitoes.
And yet of course there was the opulence, the variety and cost of Parisian life. My first night there I went to one of those local cafés and ordered a café au lait. Much to my surprise it cost 4 Euros, which is about 5.7$... WHAT?!?! I was not expecting that! I mean this was a tiny coffee, probably 8 oz. I mean it was really good, but that is about what we paid one of our translators in Mali for a day’s worth of work.
It was only in leaving then that I realized what power I really had in Mali. It was a power that I had not because I was white, but because I had enough money to fly away. I was not ‘powerful’ because I was American; I was ‘powerful’ instead because being American meant that I had money.
In our last conversations with our Malian friends, the topic came up several times: why is Mali so poor? It is not in the midst of a civil war or famine, and yet it consistently underperforms in major socio-indicators. In our conversations, I seemed to focus on issues of social capitol: the 90% illiteracy rate, the poor health of the population. Yet the Malian’s we spoke with (who were highly educated and healthy and yet had meager employment options) tended more toward explanations of an old stagnated government and a continued ‘hidden’ imperialism from Western countries.
What is the right answer? Is there a right answer? The field of development studies seems to be notorious for proving that theories fail rather than that they work. I obviously have no answer; if I did I would be writing a book right now rather than a blog.
How than can I make these two worlds that I now live in mesh—this coffee shop I am sitting in on Wikenden with the late night tea gatherings in the unpaved streets? Can I make them mesh, or must they live independently in my mind, as they are so different? In fact, how can the two exist together, how can they be so much apart of the same world? How can people here in Providence not know about what life is like in Mali (people in Mali are very aware of what life is like in western countries from all of the movies and TV shows)? I do not know how the two can exist together, or why I deserved to be born into such privilege.
Being back, people have asked me: so is TB BOLO program effective? Do you think you made a difference? The program in itself is young and still have kinks to get straightened out, though I am happy that Julie and I helped straightened out a few. As for making a difference, on a grand scale: no. This was my first time in Mali, and so much of it was me learning about the culture and what it means to be Malian. I could not just come in with my Western Idea of what to do and impose upon people who obviously know their own lives a lot better than I do. Instead of claiming that I have made sweeping changes, I take pride in the anecdotal evidence—of individual people that we have helped.
And so this may be the end of my writing on this blog. I may have some sort of revelation that I absolutely must post in the future. In the instance that this is my last post though, I would like to thank you all for reading, I hope you enjoyed learning about our experiences as much as I enjoyed writing about them. I also hope that the blog proved to be humorous when necessary and I hope that you found some new fresh kernel of thought to chew upon.
Mali may not be quite as far as I thought though. As I was sitting in Coffee Exchange writing this, Habib Koite came on. I froze, shocked back, while the coffee shop conversations continued around me.
Kambe
Lauren
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Quote of the trip
"It is going to be so strange going back to the first world and have men pay so much less attention to us"
-Julie
-Julie
If the dress doesn’t fit, pin it
And so our stay in Mali comes to a close. The survey’s are finished, the reports remain to be written, and several last minute meetings are in store for us tomorrow. We leave tomorrow evening and I am in by no means ready. Usually when I leave a place, I get a certain kick in my stomach and I start recording ‘lasts’ in my head: last time I will see someone, last night, last dinner, but here: no. On no level of any sort of consciousness am I ready to leave this place. I have become accustomed to it. I am not even at the point where I can say I will miss it terribly because I have not yet realized I am leaving.
The idea of leaving though has given me a certain ‘do or die’ attitude, because if I don’t do something now, I won’t have the chance again. This philosophy has led to several interesting situations: primarily, I managed to convince Julie it would be a good idea to witness a birth at the local clinic we work at in Sikoro. I then talk with the Sage-femmes (i.e. mid-wives) and ask if we can witness a birth. One woman looks me up and down and she seems to be judging me on the fact that I have never carried a child. She hesitates, and then invites us to spend the night with her at the clinic to watch a birth.
Julie and I return at 6pm the next day to spend the night. The clinic is bare except for a young man and squat women recording numbers from vaccination campaigns. We sit down, and wait. And wait for about 3 hours watching Malian television. At about 9pm it suddenly dawns on me that I have no idea what I am doing. In no way am I prepared to watch a life come into this world. I have not reached that level of maturity. I turn to Julie and explain my minor panic attack, and propose we leave—she seems rather relieved at my revelation. I then quickly stand up, explain to the squat woman that I have a terrible headache and so unfortunately will have to watch a birth another night. I then proceed to run away.
Looking back on it, it was probably good we didn’t go through with spending the night to watch a birth. We had nothing to bring to the table, we have no medical experience, we don’t know any of the Sage-femmes at all really. In fact, we would have been tourists to a birth.
It seems that so much of my time here I have worried about fitting in. At the beginning of my time in Mali, I was afraid to go out on my own, as I did not want to disturb Malian life. I was afraid to take pictures, as I did not want people to think I was just another American tourist.
Now though I realize, any attempt for me to fit in is utterly futile. I am white, I am American, and I can never walk down the street in Mali without getting some sort of special attention—whether is be kids crying out Toubabou (white man) or taxis honking to get a fare. I cannot fit in, and so I should not try to change what is essential about me. However this does not mean that I should stop trying to understand and learn from what is happening around me.
In fact, because Julie and I don’t fit in, we made it onto one of two of Mali’s television channels. Saturday night we wend out to watch one of our friends, Ba, sing. We thought she was going to be singing at a small bar or a local club, but no. We enter into the Palais Culturel to a theatre full of people arranged in sections. Each section was holding up sighs such as B12 or B6. After several minutes of confusion and eavesdropping on others conversations, slowly it begins to dawn on me that we are watching a game show. Ba will be singing in the opening act, and then the competition will begin.
The show consisted of 6 women who were fighting for the title of the women who best espouses the traditional qualities of a wife of a king. The show seemed to be an attempt to preserve Malian culture in face of modernization. The values they presented were that of subservience, respect and kindness (at least as far as I could tell, it was all in Bambara.) What was crazy though was the contrast between how boisterous and crazy the women were in the audience cheering for their ‘candidates’ and the tranquility of the candidates on stage. The voting process also seemed to reflect Malian culture in that the populaces vote did not win. Though people would text in who they wanted to keep on the show, this only counted for 50% of the ballot. The other 50% was decided by the ‘King of Mande’ and his counselors.
The audience was crazy, everyone dancing, banging on Tam Tams, and old water jugs. At one point in the melee, I look over, and there is this camera about 2 feet from my face. I become extremely self-conscious and start telling myself: just look ahead, act natural. Don’t look at the camera, don’t look at the camera. I look at the camera and smile painfully. Apparently, the cameramen like to zoom in and take long pauses on the 2 Toubabous in the room.
Kara informed us later that he had seen us on TV and we looked great. I laugh at the comment. Though I am rather excited to have had my debut on Malian television, I am not so much excited that the only reason I was on TV was because I am white.
It is strange that when I feel more at ease, when I feel more at ease with myself, I take my camera out more. Julie and I and one of our friends spent two nights in Segu, the ancient capital of the Bambara kingdom and a current economic hub of Mali and a MVP (Millennium Village Project) site. During those short days, my camera made more appearances than it has all trip. Perhaps this is because here in Segu I am officially a tourist, I am ok with standing out and looking ridiculous. In Bamako however, I am trying to get work done, and so I am afraid that by taking out the camera I become less of a worker and more of a tourist.
Segu in itself though is stunning. It is on the Niger and from Segu’s port you can take a boat all the way up to Timbuktu (which takes about 3 days). Julie and I attempted to take a much shorter journey in a pirogue to the other side of the Niger. Before we got in to the boa though, a slick looking boy came up to us and told us that Toubabou’s couldn’t take this pirogue for 150CFA (about 35 cents); we instead had to take a private boat from the other side for 7500CFA. Naturally, being college students, we decided to pursue the cheaper option and climbed into the pirogue. The boat filled up with people and wood and chickens and I think a motorcycle. As the crew began to push off, a man waded through the water and presented his license from the office of tourism to us. He promptly asked us to get out of the boat. I jumped out a little too enthusiastically and got my jeans soaking wet. It turns out that we Toubabou’s can’t take the cheaper option out of respect for the people who live here, because this ride is a joy ride for us, but it is a way of life for them.
The Piroque
The trip to Segu was absolutely stunning, the place so weighted with history. The means of getting back to Bamako though is another story in itself. For any writer currently suffering from writers block I highly suggest they take some public transportation in the developing world. I guarantee they will leave with a good story. For example, we left Segu to go on a day trip to the Bridge of Markalla, about 40km away. The bridge was built in the 1940’s by hand using forced labor. About 4,000 people died in constructing the bridge. To get to the bridge we jam our way into a public taxi. As we start out, the taxi man is obviously looking to pick up other fair, though at this point I could not imagine why—the taxi was already full.
In returning from Marakall to Segu, we get in a normal taxi with space for 5 people. Except there aren’t 5 people in the car there are 8: 4 in the front and four in the back. I have the joy of sitting in the back next to a Malian woman about twice my size. The front window is completely cracked and the doors have all lost their handles. As we start off down the road, I begin to plot favorable reactions and possible escape routes in case of an accident. Fortunately, I did not need to use any of these possible escape plans, however we did have the misfortune of a flat tire in the middle of nowhere and the second misfortune of this very sketchy taxi man not having a spare. After waiting around for a couple of hours, another taxi man in an equally sketchy car gave his spare tire to us and we were on the road again.
However, the joys of developing world transport do not stop with public taxis. One really must experience the charter bus. After we missed our first bus in the name of lunch, and after we sat at the bus stop for about 4 hours, we finally caught a charter back to Bamako. The bus is completely packed and with no air conditioning. This lack of circulation remedied by leaving the buses door open. I manage to grab a seat near the front. I look to my left and notice that the boy sitting across from me is holding a box full of pigeons that are not making a sound.
Malian bus rides coincide nicely with Malian philosophy as far as I can tell. There are many rest stops in the Malian bus ride, and each rest stop is accompanied by food. When the bus pulls over, a horde of venders crowd around the bus—sometimes entering—selling everything from hard-boiled eggs to cakes to edible roots and milk. This might be silly to write, but I could not help by think of how much I would hate that job: sprinting up to buses to make a single sale, selling things to people that they don’t really need, and to watch them drive away again while you are let behind to make the next sale.
Going back to the idea of fitting in, Julie and I had some Malian clothes made for us. We came home, or at least I came home from the tailor, giddy like a little girl, clutching at the dress. Yet when I put it on, it fits alright, only the chest is huge. I had never thought myself to be particularly deprived in that department, but in this top I am practically swimming in it. Julie’s too doesn’t fit quite right, one pange is too long, another shirt too wide. I take of the dress in anger, throw it on the bed, then come back five minutes later, put it on and pin in the extra fabric. You’ve got to work with what you’ve got I suppose.
It’s fairly similar to another sight I’ve seen a lot in Mali: little boys riding men’s bicycles. At first, I thought to myself: wow that is rather strange that all these boys are borrowing bikes from their older brothers, and then I realized that they don’t have bikes for children here. The boys are just working with what they’ve got.
So I can’t blend in here, the dress will never fit perfectly. And so I realize that I should stop worrying about standing out because of the way I look or dress or act and just be myself. I might not be able to fit into a Malian tailor’s idea for a dress, but I certainly can rock the pinned one I am wearing right now. And though I may not ever be able to walk down the street like a Malian woman, that doesn’t mean I still can’t bring something valuable to the table.
The idea of leaving though has given me a certain ‘do or die’ attitude, because if I don’t do something now, I won’t have the chance again. This philosophy has led to several interesting situations: primarily, I managed to convince Julie it would be a good idea to witness a birth at the local clinic we work at in Sikoro. I then talk with the Sage-femmes (i.e. mid-wives) and ask if we can witness a birth. One woman looks me up and down and she seems to be judging me on the fact that I have never carried a child. She hesitates, and then invites us to spend the night with her at the clinic to watch a birth.
Julie and I return at 6pm the next day to spend the night. The clinic is bare except for a young man and squat women recording numbers from vaccination campaigns. We sit down, and wait. And wait for about 3 hours watching Malian television. At about 9pm it suddenly dawns on me that I have no idea what I am doing. In no way am I prepared to watch a life come into this world. I have not reached that level of maturity. I turn to Julie and explain my minor panic attack, and propose we leave—she seems rather relieved at my revelation. I then quickly stand up, explain to the squat woman that I have a terrible headache and so unfortunately will have to watch a birth another night. I then proceed to run away.
Looking back on it, it was probably good we didn’t go through with spending the night to watch a birth. We had nothing to bring to the table, we have no medical experience, we don’t know any of the Sage-femmes at all really. In fact, we would have been tourists to a birth.
It seems that so much of my time here I have worried about fitting in. At the beginning of my time in Mali, I was afraid to go out on my own, as I did not want to disturb Malian life. I was afraid to take pictures, as I did not want people to think I was just another American tourist.
Now though I realize, any attempt for me to fit in is utterly futile. I am white, I am American, and I can never walk down the street in Mali without getting some sort of special attention—whether is be kids crying out Toubabou (white man) or taxis honking to get a fare. I cannot fit in, and so I should not try to change what is essential about me. However this does not mean that I should stop trying to understand and learn from what is happening around me.
In fact, because Julie and I don’t fit in, we made it onto one of two of Mali’s television channels. Saturday night we wend out to watch one of our friends, Ba, sing. We thought she was going to be singing at a small bar or a local club, but no. We enter into the Palais Culturel to a theatre full of people arranged in sections. Each section was holding up sighs such as B12 or B6. After several minutes of confusion and eavesdropping on others conversations, slowly it begins to dawn on me that we are watching a game show. Ba will be singing in the opening act, and then the competition will begin.
The show consisted of 6 women who were fighting for the title of the women who best espouses the traditional qualities of a wife of a king. The show seemed to be an attempt to preserve Malian culture in face of modernization. The values they presented were that of subservience, respect and kindness (at least as far as I could tell, it was all in Bambara.) What was crazy though was the contrast between how boisterous and crazy the women were in the audience cheering for their ‘candidates’ and the tranquility of the candidates on stage. The voting process also seemed to reflect Malian culture in that the populaces vote did not win. Though people would text in who they wanted to keep on the show, this only counted for 50% of the ballot. The other 50% was decided by the ‘King of Mande’ and his counselors.
The audience was crazy, everyone dancing, banging on Tam Tams, and old water jugs. At one point in the melee, I look over, and there is this camera about 2 feet from my face. I become extremely self-conscious and start telling myself: just look ahead, act natural. Don’t look at the camera, don’t look at the camera. I look at the camera and smile painfully. Apparently, the cameramen like to zoom in and take long pauses on the 2 Toubabous in the room.
Kara informed us later that he had seen us on TV and we looked great. I laugh at the comment. Though I am rather excited to have had my debut on Malian television, I am not so much excited that the only reason I was on TV was because I am white.
It is strange that when I feel more at ease, when I feel more at ease with myself, I take my camera out more. Julie and I and one of our friends spent two nights in Segu, the ancient capital of the Bambara kingdom and a current economic hub of Mali and a MVP (Millennium Village Project) site. During those short days, my camera made more appearances than it has all trip. Perhaps this is because here in Segu I am officially a tourist, I am ok with standing out and looking ridiculous. In Bamako however, I am trying to get work done, and so I am afraid that by taking out the camera I become less of a worker and more of a tourist.
Segu in itself though is stunning. It is on the Niger and from Segu’s port you can take a boat all the way up to Timbuktu (which takes about 3 days). Julie and I attempted to take a much shorter journey in a pirogue to the other side of the Niger. Before we got in to the boa though, a slick looking boy came up to us and told us that Toubabou’s couldn’t take this pirogue for 150CFA (about 35 cents); we instead had to take a private boat from the other side for 7500CFA. Naturally, being college students, we decided to pursue the cheaper option and climbed into the pirogue. The boat filled up with people and wood and chickens and I think a motorcycle. As the crew began to push off, a man waded through the water and presented his license from the office of tourism to us. He promptly asked us to get out of the boat. I jumped out a little too enthusiastically and got my jeans soaking wet. It turns out that we Toubabou’s can’t take the cheaper option out of respect for the people who live here, because this ride is a joy ride for us, but it is a way of life for them.
The PiroqueThe trip to Segu was absolutely stunning, the place so weighted with history. The means of getting back to Bamako though is another story in itself. For any writer currently suffering from writers block I highly suggest they take some public transportation in the developing world. I guarantee they will leave with a good story. For example, we left Segu to go on a day trip to the Bridge of Markalla, about 40km away. The bridge was built in the 1940’s by hand using forced labor. About 4,000 people died in constructing the bridge. To get to the bridge we jam our way into a public taxi. As we start out, the taxi man is obviously looking to pick up other fair, though at this point I could not imagine why—the taxi was already full.
In returning from Marakall to Segu, we get in a normal taxi with space for 5 people. Except there aren’t 5 people in the car there are 8: 4 in the front and four in the back. I have the joy of sitting in the back next to a Malian woman about twice my size. The front window is completely cracked and the doors have all lost their handles. As we start off down the road, I begin to plot favorable reactions and possible escape routes in case of an accident. Fortunately, I did not need to use any of these possible escape plans, however we did have the misfortune of a flat tire in the middle of nowhere and the second misfortune of this very sketchy taxi man not having a spare. After waiting around for a couple of hours, another taxi man in an equally sketchy car gave his spare tire to us and we were on the road again.
However, the joys of developing world transport do not stop with public taxis. One really must experience the charter bus. After we missed our first bus in the name of lunch, and after we sat at the bus stop for about 4 hours, we finally caught a charter back to Bamako. The bus is completely packed and with no air conditioning. This lack of circulation remedied by leaving the buses door open. I manage to grab a seat near the front. I look to my left and notice that the boy sitting across from me is holding a box full of pigeons that are not making a sound.
Malian bus rides coincide nicely with Malian philosophy as far as I can tell. There are many rest stops in the Malian bus ride, and each rest stop is accompanied by food. When the bus pulls over, a horde of venders crowd around the bus—sometimes entering—selling everything from hard-boiled eggs to cakes to edible roots and milk. This might be silly to write, but I could not help by think of how much I would hate that job: sprinting up to buses to make a single sale, selling things to people that they don’t really need, and to watch them drive away again while you are let behind to make the next sale.
Going back to the idea of fitting in, Julie and I had some Malian clothes made for us. We came home, or at least I came home from the tailor, giddy like a little girl, clutching at the dress. Yet when I put it on, it fits alright, only the chest is huge. I had never thought myself to be particularly deprived in that department, but in this top I am practically swimming in it. Julie’s too doesn’t fit quite right, one pange is too long, another shirt too wide. I take of the dress in anger, throw it on the bed, then come back five minutes later, put it on and pin in the extra fabric. You’ve got to work with what you’ve got I suppose.
It’s fairly similar to another sight I’ve seen a lot in Mali: little boys riding men’s bicycles. At first, I thought to myself: wow that is rather strange that all these boys are borrowing bikes from their older brothers, and then I realized that they don’t have bikes for children here. The boys are just working with what they’ve got.
So I can’t blend in here, the dress will never fit perfectly. And so I realize that I should stop worrying about standing out because of the way I look or dress or act and just be myself. I might not be able to fit into a Malian tailor’s idea for a dress, but I certainly can rock the pinned one I am wearing right now. And though I may not ever be able to walk down the street like a Malian woman, that doesn’t mean I still can’t bring something valuable to the table.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)