Nothing gold can stay

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