Ups and Downs and in Betweens

2.25.07

I flip flop between a deep gratitude and commitment to being here and the challenging helplessness of being separated from my friends by a massive gulf of economics. It is difficult to feel like I am a true part of the community here, when I recognize that most of the other women my age are married and spend 80% of their days cooking and cleaning, or they are young, unmarried, and waiting for the right man to come along and offer them enough money to marry. As much as I would like to put myself at their level, I would not ever choose to trade places with these women. I appreciate my education too much, my outlook, my support system, the knowledge that at any given time I can have a good meal, sleep in a nice bed. I work hard every day to see the best of the world I live in and on most days, I find it easy to do. Nonetheless, behind the brilliant fabrics and entrancing music, there is also always the reality that most of the children here wear no shoes, their bellybuttons stick out; they have runny noses; My friends either wake early to spend all day stoking the coal fire, cooking rice and sauce that I buy for 20 cents.

The feeling of distance is compounded by the house that I live in. I may have mentioned that it is big. It is massive, brand new, shiny and bright and even has turrets that stretch along the wide expanse of roof. There are five bedrooms, six bathrooms, three big living spaces… a small kitchen. ( though something makes me think that Malians don’t use showers like we do in the states—every shower rains directly onto the toilet.) Luckily for me, I can close off an entire section, leaving me in a home that feels more homey, but this space is still bigger than the cabin I grew up in with five other people. I feel a bit ashamed to invite friends over, having seen their quarters.

Nonetheless, I make do with what I have, and am beginning to really appreciate the space and small solitude I find here. Now I have Hibiscus and Gardenia in the courtyard, I’ve planted Bougainvilla, a yellow trumpet flower, an Acacia, a Ficus and a delicious smelling flowering tree in front, and am fighting the goats to keep them from enjoying these before I do. I would like to start a vegetable garden, though I am hesitating because of the many community gardens around my neighborhood.

One Sunday afternoon, while on a run, I stopped and tried to ask how I could help at one of these gardens. The woman who was watering, a thin, old woman named Sita asked me to come back the next day. Now, after a long days work, I try to stop by the garden. I pick green leaves off the vines, leaning over the patch, trying to keep my back straight, trying to avoid thinking about my hamstrings, loving the fresh earth smell and the continuous automatic movement of my hands. No one in this garden speaks French, so I barely get by on laughing greetings and silence. It is a wonderful test of patience to stand quietly next to someone, accepting their presence with little communication. I work with a woman named Amounata Coulibaly, she has hands that are rough like my mothers. And strong arms. After only 20 minutes, I begin to feel quiet and patient, meditative, almost, though my hamstrings are crying. Amounata brings over a cup of water and pours it over my hands, waiting as I scrub at the dirt between my nails.

I have a full time guardien whos name is Lamine. Though it was a rough start, we are beginning to understand each other. I had a really hard time at first, trying to establish a relationship that was both friendly and firm. Defining limits and setting boundaries was not easy, when I felt that I had no more right to all the things in my house than he did. I’m still not very comfortable with the power dynamic here, but feeling it out and trying to accept the fact that I am expected to pay people to do things for me, rather than do them myself. Now, even though he falters in French and I, in Bambara, Lamine has become one of the people I trust and, one with whom I feel comfortable being only OK with rather than great. He is kind of like a little brother who looks after me, tapping on my door in the morning to tell me that a new hibiscus has bloomed, then standing back and chuckling in a bubbly boyish way at my obvious excitement. He makes tea like a professional and an addict; I enjoy coming home to sit in front of the house, watching him transfer the dark liquid from one shot glass to another, then to the small silver pot and back again. He uses small, precise movements, pulling a thin thread of tea into the air with a dramatic flair. White foam mounts in the tiny glasses, and he sets the silver pot on the coals to warm as he rinses the outside of the glasses, then pours a steady half glass and hands it over with equal amounts of ease and pride. The tea is sweet, bitter, hot, and I suck the last bits to get some of the foam.