Grains, rains, etc

A few simple phrases can open up a new world in Mali. Today, Lauren and I had our first official Bambara lesson, with a charming old Peace Corps teacher named Doudou. Lesson #1 was devoted to greetings, and we were told that if we did not greet people as we passed, bad things would befall us. Note: a greeting in Mali does not consist of a simple “hello, how are you” – it is also followed with “how is your family, how is your brother, how is your mother, how is your second cousin once-removed.” Suffice it to say, the walk home from our lesson was somewhat longer than Lauren and I expected. With every group we passed, from mango venders to soccer players, our simple “Aw ni wula,” or good afternoon, unleashed a torrent of (albeit disjointed) conversation.

I will admit, some aspects of the greeting ritual may just be a formality (the mango vendor probably did not really care about my second cousin once-removed.) But at the same time, I think the ritual is a good indication of the Malian community dynamic. There is so much emphasis on neighbors checking up on neighbors, friends checking up on friends. It is no wonder that, even in one of the poorest countries of the world, the cell-phone business is thriving, since communication is key. Another ritual is even more telling: every night before dinner, groups of about 10-20 men assemble by age for the “grain”, a.k.a tea time. They slowly make the tea over a small stove-like apparatus the size of a coffee-maker, serving out portions one-by one in a shot glass, and passing it around the circle. Women sometimes join, so Lauren and I had the opportunity to attend a couple of these “grains.” We asked why there were so many parts to the process, and why they served the tea in such small quantities, and only served the glasses one-by-one (very un-Starbucks-like). The Malians simply responded, the longer the process the better, because there is more time to chat.

Other news, here goes bullet form…

-We briefly attended a wedding this weekend. And I mean BRIEFLY. On Sunday afternoon we heard music and drums from right behind our house and decided to wander towards the source. Sure enough, it was a traditional Malian wedding, and all of the women (this was the women-only party) were decked out in glamorous dresses. Lauren and I got ushered into the tent, and all of a sudden this lady gripped our arms and dragged us into the middle of the dance circle. Not knowing how exactly to dance to Malian music, we tried our best (translation- we humiliated ourselves), and within seconds a whole crowd of children were imitating our every move. After a few fateful minutes of this, the same lady dragged us out of the circle, and calmly ordered us, “maintenant, sortez” (now leave). Oops?

-Barack Obama is everywhere. He is on printed on Malian pagnes (women’s clothing), his picture is sold by street vendors, and he is stored on every Malian cell-phone that I have seen so far. We also ran into Obama the other day, in our neighbors house. An EXACT look-alike. He told us he was tired of people telling him that, and didn’t think there was any resemblance, but he did have three pictures of Obama stored on his cell-phone so that we could see for ourselves. World News Headlines: Barack’s twin brother found in Sikoro, Mali. Pictured right.

-We met the peer-educators this weekend, and accompanied them on a TB-Bolo excursion. We all met on Saturday morning at Mme Niallo’s house, who is “la vielle” (the old one) of the group. Though hard to keep up with the peer educators’ rapid chatting, we hit it off before long, and joined the peer educators in a hike through the slums up to a neighborhood perched up on a red rock plateau. We then each followed a peer educator into people’s households to observe the education session. The dynamic was much different from what you’d expect from a door-to-door salesman in the States: the peer educator walked in unannounced, and sometimes before even saying a word, he or she would be offered a chair and possibly a drink. Usually the head mother of the household would offer these in the midst of a flurry of other activities: stirring a pot of stew on the fire, tying a baby to her back, scolding her children and shooing a dog away. Then the peer educator would explain the premise of the program, teach a few simple lessons about tuberculosis, and ask if anyone in the house was showing symptoms. If yes, they were given discount tickets to the local health center. On Monday morning, when we went to the health center as it opened, it was very heartening to see several people arrive with TB-Bolo tickets in their hands!

-We also attended a Here Bolo education session, about HIV, which is done at the “grain.” It was impressive to see 20 young men surrounding the teapot, keenly listening to the educator and asking questions. Even more impressive when a wooden penis appeared upon request of a demonstration of condom application!

-The rains have come. Their arrivals are always announced well in advance. Wind, then lightning, then thunder, then BANG, it’s pouring, and all of Mali seems to rattle. The rain is followed by a blissful coolness. It’s wonderful.


Mosquito-bite count: Lauren has 19. She says it’s because she’s so sweet. I’m too lazy to count mine but I do believe she is beating me.

Picture time!

Here are a couple of pixs that Annie and I have taken over the past couple of days! 
  

Here's as Annie says a "Rasta"guy. He tried to pick me up by asking me if I wanted to "do abb exercises" with him. I must admit that was the first time I've gotten that one--though it was quite endearing. And below we have buying bread

 Now, though it may be a little trite, I'm still a fan of the good old black and white. These two women sell mangoes in "le hippodrome" quite close to our house. The woman on the left has the last name of Traore. That is rather unfortunate for Julie, as Julie's last name is Koné. The Kone's and Traore's are joking cousins, so upon hearing Julie's last name, they started calling her an 'eater of beans.' Apparently joking cousins were once feuding families at one time, but now--as a means to joke around/keep the peace--they make fun of each other. So Julie is an eater of beans. She needs to figure out what the comeback is for the Traore's soon!

The Baptisms of Julie and Lauren

Ok so, I must admit, that in spite the title of this blog, the Converse didn't make it too far in Mali. The ridiculous feeling of wearing chuck's with a past-the-knee skirt and the heat of the day made me to leave ‘em behind and adopt something a little more practical--which is fairly emblematic of Julie’s and my first few days in Mali. Though all of our research for the previous month has proved useful, being here on the ground we have learned how much there is to learn. As Confucius said: "to know is to know that you know nothing, that is true knowledge.” Now I certainly don’t have true knowledge, but instead that I am just realizing how little I know about the people and how they live in Mali, so how can I profess to know any answers?

In Bambara there is a saying "Donni donni” which means little by little, and that is how Julie and I are beginning to grasp where we are.

Today, we had our first and much-anticipated meeting with the peer educators. They are the hinge that will make or break both the general survey on TB and the evaluation of the program of TB Bolo. Of all the rendezvous we have had this week, this is the one I have been looking forward to the most. My heart jumped a bit when two women peer-educators came in 45 minutes early and sat down with us. They were dressed immaculately, just as it seems all Malians dress immaculately—the women in panges of exquisite fabrics with intricate lacings, the men in collared shirts—it makes me feel always a little under-dressed. It puts the way we dress in the States to shame.

These women became our first true Bambara teachers, they sat us down, and began to teach us proper ways of saying hello. In Mali this can be quite an extensive conversation, far surpassing the normal ‘hey what’s up’ I’m used to. After a few laughs, Julie and I started to get the swing of things, kind of.

With the meeting, the peer educators, after some review, thankfully seemed in accord with our project. They also agreed to bring us out this weekend so that we could actually watch them in action both in Here Bolo (the HIV peer education program) and in TB Bolo.

What is perhaps most striking to me is how little my academic knowledge is applicable here. I can sit down with someone and have an extended conversation about structural adjustment programs or how Mali has such a low TB case-detection rate—but on the level of dealing with people, people who are sick, it is so much more than statistics or numbers. Perhaps that is what we sometimes forget when we plan surveys, stage interventions, or even write policy recommendations for a Political Science class: that this might just be an idea for us, but these ideas can have profound consequences on people’s lives. What gives us the right to have such power over people?

On a lighter note, Julie and I have both been given Bambara names, multiple names actually by multiple people. I actually completely forgot my first two names, which I think is a bad sign… but lets hope not. We were originally names by Dr. Tonton at the clinic we are working at (Tonton is his nickname, it means uncle in Bambara), I blame jetlag for me not remembering this one. Julie though, was given the name Salimata Koné.

Next, the woman who sold us plantains in the market named us. The market itself is hidden between two buildings, I missed it the first five times I went past. But in this little market holds a world all to itself, with tomatoes, potatoes, fish heads, and completed by a pange cloth picturing Barak Obama. After having learned just a few simple phrases, Julie and I managed to strike up a conversation that ended up with us being named—again—and me forgetting my name—again.

Back at the house, our Bambara lesson continued, Julie had I would say about a half hour long conversation with Salif about the word ‘you are welcome,’ only to realize, after much confusion, miming and play acting that you just repeat ‘thank you’ in Bambara to say ‘your welcome.’

Donni Donni

We were thankfully given names for a third time. My name is Fatimata and this one is sticking to me.

I guess these first few days have been full of attempts, for example on the first night here, I attempted to light the stove, only to use up 13 matches in the process… I swear I’ve improved in leaps and bounds since then!

Cumulative mosquito bite count: 5 ( Julie 3, Lauren 2)

N’taara

-Lauren

The Sound of Music, and of Bambara

I ni su. It means good evening in Bambara and is pronounced exactly as you would expect. Much simpler than the vocal gymnastics that Lauren and I were attempting in the CDG airport in Paris, trying to master the three tones described our 1977 Peace Corps Bambara textbook. Incidentally, Malians do not sing “Doe, a dear” when they speak!

Our pre-Mali Bambara attempts speak well for our pre-Mali month: valiant efforts to prepare ourselves and our project, but mostly just feeling through the dark. How could we predict that we would be the most under-dressed passengers in our jumbo jet to Bamako? While boarding, we had lined up in our jeans and cotton tees among the most glamorously dressed African princesses, our Reefs and Converse shuffling among high heels and men’s polished loafers. Less trivially, how could we know how to evaluate and (do I dare say it?) improve a program without ever having seen it with our own eyes, or without knowing the context? If only we could just be eyes and ears for a few weeks, two of many flies on the wall. This is an impossible wish though, for we are “toubabou,” the Malian expression that literally means “poor whites” but realistically translates to “money-bank.” We stick out like discolored foreigners, which we are.

This morning we woke up to a knock on the window from Rama, the HIV counselor from the clinic. We are staying at GAIA headquarters, a lovely house where Tounkara, our guardian angel who also happens to be the director, has his office. The house felt big and empty last night with just the two of us there, but it was nice to chat with Kara and Rama in the sunny front room this morning. We had not slept much (even counting the hours that we passed out on the airport floor yesterday) but we rallied for our first excursion. Hopping in Kara’s rattling car, we headed to the local health center called the CSCom, the lowest rung of the Malian healthcare system. GAIA recently renovated it and doubled its size, and it is bubbling with life, with a rainbow of women fanning themselves in the waiting room and children streaking across the courtyard. Though sleepy-eyed from jetlag, Lauren and I put our French to the test and spoke to Dr. Ton Ton, who is substituting as the head doctor this month, and to Salimata, the TB nurse.

We got their perspectives on TB-Bolo, the new program we have come to evaluate. The program sends out young Malian peer-educators, who teach the community about tuberculosis and ask people if they have experienced any of TB’s tell-tale symptoms: over two weeks of cough, fever, weight-loss. The educators then hand out special tickets to anyone who has had the symptoms, granting them an 80% discount to see a doctor at the local CSCom. Here’s the issue that the program is meant to address: “Ils se cachent.” About 75% of TB cases, for lack of knowledge or fear of stigmatization, do not present to the clinic, do not get treated, and spread the disease further. But TB-Bolo, as we already know, is far from a perfect solution. More on that later (rest assured, this will be our focus for the next 5 weeks).

Sitting under fans and reflecting on what we learned today, Lauren and I keep on interrupting ourselves with long pauses. It is all so surreal. As Lauren just said, pacing across the room, “we have just been airlifted into a completely different life.” Over the coming weeks, as jetlag wears off and Bambara begins to sound familiar, we can only hope to feel a little more part of that life.