It is hot like any other fourth of July however this year there is nothing to make me jump up, scurry to the downtown boulevard, throw my blanket or chair between the masses, and shout hurray America, while watching the parade flap by. This time I wake up, do my sit ups, eat some cereal, enjoy the fresh milk, and step outside to admire the explosion of white and red flowers that push up against the street. A brief three minutes of quiet before I hop on my bike and pick my way through the puddle strewn street to my office.
It seems strange that today is the first day I notice the sticker on our guardians motorcycle: a smiling Bin Laden with his fist in the air. Underneath it, there is something written in Arabic and another sticker that seems to imply something about uniting Muslims. Though I respect his choice of religion, I recognize a certain ruffling of my patriotic feathers looking at this sticker. I think today I understand a bit better why Mustaphes’ greetings to me have been so short and why he rarely looks me in the eye.
Today, the day speeds past and I do my best to ignore the fatigue that pushes against my eyes, I try to gracefully hear my officemates comments about Bush and Libby and all the other crazy fucks who come from my country. Today is the first fourth I have ever experienced with an urge of my life to wave a flag.
Instead, I say quietly ‘ you know, today is my countries birthday’. My comment is immediately answered by ‘of course I know, its all over Yahoo, I never see July !7th marked all over the web…’ Bashfully I ask if July 17th might just happen to be Belgiums’ independence day. ‘Yes, but do you think Yahoo is going to post that all over? I mean there are so many countries, why do the states get… I tune out, try to focus on my spreadsheet.
The day rolls on and I look forward to the end with anticipation. My boyfriend has just arrived from Ouaga and I have decided to grill up some fish and drink some beer in celebration of his arrival. The more I think about it, the more I realize how much I also want to celebrate the fact that I am American. With the deepening of my experience here, and the progressive acceptance of the not so positive world reputation, I feel increasingly more and more American. Today more than ever I am more inclined to want to celebrate this day, one that I have only enjoyed as a party in the past. Since I was old enough to understand my nations role in the world I have turned my nose up to the flag waving and audaciousness of this day.
After work, I ride home, joyous after having sweat and happy to see my boyfriend. We take cold beers up to the roof and joke, popping peanuts into our mouths ( I like the way the dry brown skin slips off between my fingers) and admiring the green spreading over the hills to the north. With the help of my roommate and his girlfriend, the fish gets grilled, (Yann is ecstatic to get the head, while we are all happy to avoid it). When we finally sit down at the table, and lift our glasses in a toast, to good food, arrival of friends, celebration together, I again quietly say it is my countries birthday. I am here and I am for some strange reason, proud to be an American.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Thursday, June 21, 2007
My name is...
One comment I often hear in the emails and notes that you send me is that people have a hard time imagining exactly where I am… there is no concrete way to give you a taste of my life here, besides my words, so here is a little montage of who I am here and what I am surrounded by. I hope it fuels your imaginations and sparks your interest.
My name here is Amie. Ahhhhh like a long, sighing, breath: opening, inviting, warm. Meee pulling your mouth into a smiling finish. Two nights after I arrived in Bamako, as I picked my way in and about my neighborhood semi lost, I was helped to find this name by some neighbors who soon became friends. A name; a friend; a breath; a smile; an inevitable entry into this world. When I walk down the street it rings after me like a song. The children who chant it, the friends who call, sometimes it sounds sharp and hard in their mouths, in a way that makes you realize they have been saying this name for centuries, and makes you wonder if it really fits you. Other times it sounds like a laugh, especially when Djelika says it- A sweet sound that makes you feel as if we have been sharing a joke, though the only things we can say to each other are hello, how are you, there was peace in the night.
I live on a growing street. It is young, though somehow far from fresh. Despite the fact that not six years ago, there was a forest standing where my house now asserts its’ cinder block splendor, Mali has quickly moved into this street and adapted itself to the needs of it’s inhabitants. My concrete fortress is beginning to soften with the growth of bouganvilla, oleander, trumpet vine and hibiscus flowers I have planted out front; I keep trying to bring back the forest with my greens, the quiet and peace of my familiar Oregon woods but by seven in the morning, the street begins to shift and move, shuffling feet along the dirt road in front of me; the workers arriving with their shovels slung over their shoulders, the banging of pots and pans as the family down the street begins another day filled with selling morning fateyers (small fried patties made with bean flour), couscous, sauce. From my roof I sit facing north towards the street and the hills beyond the houses. There is a light, scattered frosting of green over the white and orange shadowed cliffs. In the evening, Venus rises above these cliffs and glows bright in the sky. Together they are like a beacon of the peace I keep trying to attain… visible, constant, just a touch out of reach.
The people around me are alternately wonderfully new, happy, and warm, and suffocating, challengingly different. I find a tender balance of wanting to share all with these people and needing to take time, space to myself. The gangs of little girls run around barefoot in their underwear: Baini, Fatu, Maimouna, LaVeille. skinny, with little faces, beautiful eyes, and high voices. Baini has an extraordinary beauty, an loves to dress up in whatever fancy dress she can find, though clothing is really an optional luxury here as 9 times out of 10, and entire arm and chest will be bare, or they will be wearing nothing but underwear. These girls all seem to be about 3-5 years old, according to my eyes, though it is possible that they are actually 6-7, all of them very alert, talkative and smart. Most girls don’t go to school. The boys play soccer and do Karate, a grinning mischievous bunch.
Up the street is my friend Natogoma. Her father seems to have produced an uncommon number of girls with his 2(I think) wives, and has managed to put them all to work cooking for the entire neighborhood. I have counted at least 17 children living in that house; all have the same soft nose and piercing eyes. One goes to school. Though I’ve only seen him once, I don’t like her father much. In the mornings one of Natogomas mothers sits on a wooden bench on a small piece of elevated ground, serving her couscous and sauce from a tin table with an air of regal boredom. The fingers of her right hand, greasy and covered in small yellow meal are also the ones that handle the money. Aside and below, Natogoma serves her frou-frou with spunk and sass, shouting at the men, her quick voice sharp and laughing. twenty men crowd around with their plastic plates and tin spoons. This circus lasts all day long: rice at midday, mangoes with oil, salt, and chile, in the evenings, chopping onions, . When it finally gets dark, sometimes Natogoma and I go for a yahlah yahlah arm in arm through the neighborhood; somehow on these promenades, I don’t feel so strange, even though we can hardly communicate with each other. The truth is though, that I am much closer with the men on the street. I spend evenings sitting in the dark on a rough wooden bench, listening to the endless greetings and jokes of my friends Madou, Souleymann, Adama, and others. It is nice to spend time, especially since the conversation has long passed the “are you married” stage…. or maybe I like being with them because they never got to the “are you married?” questions. In any case through these guys, I learn the reality of unemployment in Bamako. My neighbor, Mohammed comes over for regular Sunday evening cook offs, and shares his poetry with me.
As much as I would like to say that I feel fully integrated here, my relationships with these people are like waves. They come and go, as I seem to run in and out of my commitment to them. Sometimes I feel as if they are still perriferel to my life. I believe one of the main reasons for this is that since I have arrived, I am more deeply concentrated on work than I believe I ever have been in my life. Another reason for the distance is simply cultural and economic differences. I can’t take them all out dancing with me; I can’t communicate entirely openly with them, and so my relationships with locals only take me so far. Sitting and drinking shot glasses of sugar and tea doesn’t fulfill me socially. I also have a pretty good core of ex-pat friends, mostly from my ONG. I spend my days in the office bouncing jokes, frustrations, limericks, movie bits and recipes with my Belgian friend, Kristien who is working on child protection. We join Maria, the wonderfully down to earth, practical Irish lesbian friend and newly arrived, energetic film maker, Fid for gin and tonics and dancing. I have a fantastic new housemate from Paris named Nico. He is typically French in all the right ways ( appreciation for good wine, food, conversation) and typically not in all the right ways too ( very open, fun, and no zeeeece eeese sooo enyuant French accent.)
He makes the token guy in our group for now, and I am surprised he puts up with us as he does.
So, there you are, take a bite: a tiny morcell of my experience; roll it around on your tongue and taste it; see if it brings your closer to me. I hope it does!
My name here is Amie. Ahhhhh like a long, sighing, breath: opening, inviting, warm. Meee pulling your mouth into a smiling finish. Two nights after I arrived in Bamako, as I picked my way in and about my neighborhood semi lost, I was helped to find this name by some neighbors who soon became friends. A name; a friend; a breath; a smile; an inevitable entry into this world. When I walk down the street it rings after me like a song. The children who chant it, the friends who call, sometimes it sounds sharp and hard in their mouths, in a way that makes you realize they have been saying this name for centuries, and makes you wonder if it really fits you. Other times it sounds like a laugh, especially when Djelika says it- A sweet sound that makes you feel as if we have been sharing a joke, though the only things we can say to each other are hello, how are you, there was peace in the night.
I live on a growing street. It is young, though somehow far from fresh. Despite the fact that not six years ago, there was a forest standing where my house now asserts its’ cinder block splendor, Mali has quickly moved into this street and adapted itself to the needs of it’s inhabitants. My concrete fortress is beginning to soften with the growth of bouganvilla, oleander, trumpet vine and hibiscus flowers I have planted out front; I keep trying to bring back the forest with my greens, the quiet and peace of my familiar Oregon woods but by seven in the morning, the street begins to shift and move, shuffling feet along the dirt road in front of me; the workers arriving with their shovels slung over their shoulders, the banging of pots and pans as the family down the street begins another day filled with selling morning fateyers (small fried patties made with bean flour), couscous, sauce. From my roof I sit facing north towards the street and the hills beyond the houses. There is a light, scattered frosting of green over the white and orange shadowed cliffs. In the evening, Venus rises above these cliffs and glows bright in the sky. Together they are like a beacon of the peace I keep trying to attain… visible, constant, just a touch out of reach.
The people around me are alternately wonderfully new, happy, and warm, and suffocating, challengingly different. I find a tender balance of wanting to share all with these people and needing to take time, space to myself. The gangs of little girls run around barefoot in their underwear: Baini, Fatu, Maimouna, LaVeille. skinny, with little faces, beautiful eyes, and high voices. Baini has an extraordinary beauty, an loves to dress up in whatever fancy dress she can find, though clothing is really an optional luxury here as 9 times out of 10, and entire arm and chest will be bare, or they will be wearing nothing but underwear. These girls all seem to be about 3-5 years old, according to my eyes, though it is possible that they are actually 6-7, all of them very alert, talkative and smart. Most girls don’t go to school. The boys play soccer and do Karate, a grinning mischievous bunch.
Up the street is my friend Natogoma. Her father seems to have produced an uncommon number of girls with his 2(I think) wives, and has managed to put them all to work cooking for the entire neighborhood. I have counted at least 17 children living in that house; all have the same soft nose and piercing eyes. One goes to school. Though I’ve only seen him once, I don’t like her father much. In the mornings one of Natogomas mothers sits on a wooden bench on a small piece of elevated ground, serving her couscous and sauce from a tin table with an air of regal boredom. The fingers of her right hand, greasy and covered in small yellow meal are also the ones that handle the money. Aside and below, Natogoma serves her frou-frou with spunk and sass, shouting at the men, her quick voice sharp and laughing. twenty men crowd around with their plastic plates and tin spoons. This circus lasts all day long: rice at midday, mangoes with oil, salt, and chile, in the evenings, chopping onions, . When it finally gets dark, sometimes Natogoma and I go for a yahlah yahlah arm in arm through the neighborhood; somehow on these promenades, I don’t feel so strange, even though we can hardly communicate with each other. The truth is though, that I am much closer with the men on the street. I spend evenings sitting in the dark on a rough wooden bench, listening to the endless greetings and jokes of my friends Madou, Souleymann, Adama, and others. It is nice to spend time, especially since the conversation has long passed the “are you married” stage…. or maybe I like being with them because they never got to the “are you married?” questions. In any case through these guys, I learn the reality of unemployment in Bamako. My neighbor, Mohammed comes over for regular Sunday evening cook offs, and shares his poetry with me.
As much as I would like to say that I feel fully integrated here, my relationships with these people are like waves. They come and go, as I seem to run in and out of my commitment to them. Sometimes I feel as if they are still perriferel to my life. I believe one of the main reasons for this is that since I have arrived, I am more deeply concentrated on work than I believe I ever have been in my life. Another reason for the distance is simply cultural and economic differences. I can’t take them all out dancing with me; I can’t communicate entirely openly with them, and so my relationships with locals only take me so far. Sitting and drinking shot glasses of sugar and tea doesn’t fulfill me socially. I also have a pretty good core of ex-pat friends, mostly from my ONG. I spend my days in the office bouncing jokes, frustrations, limericks, movie bits and recipes with my Belgian friend, Kristien who is working on child protection. We join Maria, the wonderfully down to earth, practical Irish lesbian friend and newly arrived, energetic film maker, Fid for gin and tonics and dancing. I have a fantastic new housemate from Paris named Nico. He is typically French in all the right ways ( appreciation for good wine, food, conversation) and typically not in all the right ways too ( very open, fun, and no zeeeece eeese sooo enyuant French accent.)
He makes the token guy in our group for now, and I am surprised he puts up with us as he does.
So, there you are, take a bite: a tiny morcell of my experience; roll it around on your tongue and taste it; see if it brings your closer to me. I hope it does!
Friday, May 18, 2007
Marks of life in Africa
18.5.07
This evening I took a shower and shivered as I stepped out of the cold water. Rubbing my body dry I notice so many little marks: the dark plum skin colored scar on my shin where a microbe had dug itself a home in my flesh, just below it the skin is lighter, more the tinted brown of the flesh where I burned myself on the exhaust of my motorbike. This scar actually kind of pleases me as it reminds me of the shape of a bird in flight on the distant horizon. My belly and legs are mostly white, while my face and arms are darkening more and more. Even the zits on my face from the incessant dust and heat seem unfamiliar to me.
Here and there I notice physical changes but I can not begin to list the changes I feel brewing and steaming inside me. I find that there is often a battle fighting itself inside my brain. I find that I am continually trying to come to terms with myself here and it’s a precarious job. The constantly cheery Shey that is so familiar to so many is coming across one of the bigger challenges of her life: balancing the physical, mental and emotional trials of life alone in a brand new culture with her vision of herself and her value in the world. I find that living here puts all my moral concepts of myself into a different context. I work hard to keep from losing track of who I am and why I am here.
Since the VA school shootings, finding this balance became more difficult. Now, however, I am beginning to realize all the things I can do for myself to keep sanity.
Two weeks ago I went back to Burkina Faso to visit one of my best friends, an Italian named Elena who is the only one I truly feel close to here; I also went to visit a guy who has been slowly breaking into my surprisingly hard core with poetry, patience, and passion. I fell ill the last two days I was there and spent the following week trying to recuperate. This week of particularly low energy and uncommon bowel movements turned out to be a blessing in disguise. I still worked, but spent lots of time at home, by myself, sleeping, reading and writing. I slowly came to understand and accept how much space I need here. Being sick, I was able to say no to the constant stream of friends, acquaintances and children who come by regularly. Finally I was able to say yes to myself. I may be developing in a way that is less African than I would have imagined myself but
after three months of accepting and incorporating so much of myself in others, I found myself drained, lost, and ultimately paralyzed. I’ve learned that I can feel loneliest when I am most surrounded by people. I am finally coming to terms with the fact that to be who I need to be, I need to take time and space to myself.
So now I read, I spend time writing each day. I wake and run and relish the sweat that is bold enough to drip off my face at 7 AM. I sit on my roof at twilight. I watch Venus shine over my head as the sky fights to find a color somewhere between orange, violet and black, finally settling on that deep underwater blue that makes me dream of being a whale. I try different mangos: relish the tangerine flower opening after I have cut a checkerboard in its flesh, and pick strings out from my teeth for the rest of the day. Tonight, I will dance till I can’t feel my legs.
So as each day unfolds before me, the marks and scars will undoubtedly change me in some way or another, but ultimately, one day I will come back home toting some version of myself. What a wonderful chance I have to dig into that self; I believe I will find many mysteries, and just as many solid elements that do not change.
This evening I took a shower and shivered as I stepped out of the cold water. Rubbing my body dry I notice so many little marks: the dark plum skin colored scar on my shin where a microbe had dug itself a home in my flesh, just below it the skin is lighter, more the tinted brown of the flesh where I burned myself on the exhaust of my motorbike. This scar actually kind of pleases me as it reminds me of the shape of a bird in flight on the distant horizon. My belly and legs are mostly white, while my face and arms are darkening more and more. Even the zits on my face from the incessant dust and heat seem unfamiliar to me.
Here and there I notice physical changes but I can not begin to list the changes I feel brewing and steaming inside me. I find that there is often a battle fighting itself inside my brain. I find that I am continually trying to come to terms with myself here and it’s a precarious job. The constantly cheery Shey that is so familiar to so many is coming across one of the bigger challenges of her life: balancing the physical, mental and emotional trials of life alone in a brand new culture with her vision of herself and her value in the world. I find that living here puts all my moral concepts of myself into a different context. I work hard to keep from losing track of who I am and why I am here.
Since the VA school shootings, finding this balance became more difficult. Now, however, I am beginning to realize all the things I can do for myself to keep sanity.
Two weeks ago I went back to Burkina Faso to visit one of my best friends, an Italian named Elena who is the only one I truly feel close to here; I also went to visit a guy who has been slowly breaking into my surprisingly hard core with poetry, patience, and passion. I fell ill the last two days I was there and spent the following week trying to recuperate. This week of particularly low energy and uncommon bowel movements turned out to be a blessing in disguise. I still worked, but spent lots of time at home, by myself, sleeping, reading and writing. I slowly came to understand and accept how much space I need here. Being sick, I was able to say no to the constant stream of friends, acquaintances and children who come by regularly. Finally I was able to say yes to myself. I may be developing in a way that is less African than I would have imagined myself but
after three months of accepting and incorporating so much of myself in others, I found myself drained, lost, and ultimately paralyzed. I’ve learned that I can feel loneliest when I am most surrounded by people. I am finally coming to terms with the fact that to be who I need to be, I need to take time and space to myself.
So now I read, I spend time writing each day. I wake and run and relish the sweat that is bold enough to drip off my face at 7 AM. I sit on my roof at twilight. I watch Venus shine over my head as the sky fights to find a color somewhere between orange, violet and black, finally settling on that deep underwater blue that makes me dream of being a whale. I try different mangos: relish the tangerine flower opening after I have cut a checkerboard in its flesh, and pick strings out from my teeth for the rest of the day. Tonight, I will dance till I can’t feel my legs.
So as each day unfolds before me, the marks and scars will undoubtedly change me in some way or another, but ultimately, one day I will come back home toting some version of myself. What a wonderful chance I have to dig into that self; I believe I will find many mysteries, and just as many solid elements that do not change.
RAIN
4.22.07
THE RAIN CAME. Like an answer to me, the smell like home so fresh and metallic. I lay on my roof. Soaking the heavy crush of water into my cotton cloths, watching fingers of lightning creep across an angry sky. Viens of electricity filling my body, willing me back to life like the pound of a heart attack.
THE RAIN CAME. Like an answer to me, the smell like home so fresh and metallic. I lay on my roof. Soaking the heavy crush of water into my cotton cloths, watching fingers of lightning creep across an angry sky. Viens of electricity filling my body, willing me back to life like the pound of a heart attack.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Reaction to Virginia Tech Shootings
Right now I am reeling from the news of the Virginia shootings and trying to find a safe place to settle and collect my thoughts. It is strange; I have no American compatriots here and never really cared to find them until things started happening at home that I felt the need to discuss. Its not easy when every European I talk to seems to think "serves your bastard country right" and every Malian I speak to has no idea what the hells happening. I rattle along, everything looks good on the outside, but I know that inside the straight backed exterior there is a piece of me mourning for the people of my country, mourning the state of my nation; the one that is so keen on directing the rest of the world that it seems to have troubles facing itself.
I realize that right now I am living in one of the poorest nations of the world; here the people work hard under hot sun for the amount of money Americans spend on Starbucks each day. I see so many physical manifestations of poverty here, yet when I think of the states, of the place I am still proud to call home, I sense poverty of the spirit, that manifests itself in ignorance, preoccupation with pettiness, and occasional explosive displays of violence such as the one that just happened. In one way, this knowledge brings me closer to this new home of mine, helps me appreciate the simplicity of physical human need, and the human warmth that shines through it on a daily basis. In another way I feel paralyzed and suffocated by sorrow and hopelessness at the state of this world.
I have chosen one tiny path, and am trying my hardest to follow it but every day I come across more things I could fight, the constant question of 'why: "Why the discrimination? Why the inequality? Why the poverty? Why do I have the right to food and education and health when this right is denied to so many? Living here brings me face to face with these questions every day and I am trying hard not to lay all the answers on my own back. If I do I will surely drown in them and lose the thread of the tiny path I am trying so desperately to tread gently and consciously.
I realize that right now I am living in one of the poorest nations of the world; here the people work hard under hot sun for the amount of money Americans spend on Starbucks each day. I see so many physical manifestations of poverty here, yet when I think of the states, of the place I am still proud to call home, I sense poverty of the spirit, that manifests itself in ignorance, preoccupation with pettiness, and occasional explosive displays of violence such as the one that just happened. In one way, this knowledge brings me closer to this new home of mine, helps me appreciate the simplicity of physical human need, and the human warmth that shines through it on a daily basis. In another way I feel paralyzed and suffocated by sorrow and hopelessness at the state of this world.
I have chosen one tiny path, and am trying my hardest to follow it but every day I come across more things I could fight, the constant question of 'why: "Why the discrimination? Why the inequality? Why the poverty? Why do I have the right to food and education and health when this right is denied to so many? Living here brings me face to face with these questions every day and I am trying hard not to lay all the answers on my own back. If I do I will surely drown in them and lose the thread of the tiny path I am trying so desperately to tread gently and consciously.
Gifts
3.30.07- Village
I write by the light of a ¾ moon. Light that makes my paper glow and my words melt together. I am listening to the voices of men who tell stories around the glowing coals of the teapot. I bathed under the stars this evening, watched the first star rise from the gentle violet haze of sunset. Venus glows. The voices rise and fall. My breast matches the roundness of the moon.
Here I drink tea till the sun goes down then lay my mat under the tree, crawl under my mosquito net and let the rolling voices of the storytellers lull me to an easy sleep. I awake at four in the morning to watch the women trickle towards the well. Through the early grayness and sleep fogged eyes, I watch the women gather. One bends, lets out the long rope, then stands tall and pulls her left hand high into the air, while making a loop with the rope in her right. like an African sun salutation, this action is repeated until the black rubber water holder emerges dripping fresh clear water and is dumped into the bright plastic bucket, and lifted to the head. The chickens begin clucking. The days work has begun but I drift back to sleep for another 2 hours, until the young girl comes to summon me for my morning shower. The luxury of the bucket of hot water is intensified by the knowledge of hoe much has gone into creating this one steaming bucket of water. I thank gracefully and effusively, though still faltering and at a loss for words. How could I possibly explain the poetry of hot water patiently lathered over my skin as the sun rises in Bambara?
4.9.07 - NIger Pirogues
The pirogues are long, smooth, elegant, like ancient swords slicing through fine colorless silk. Their reflections are just as real as the boats themselves, easing from a skinny point, shuddered by ripples to a wider shadow that melts somewhere into the smooth dark underwood of the boats. The effect is of one entity, gracefully connected forever to its shadow. Men stand wide legged on the bow or the stern, guiding with a long pole. The body bends at the waist, the pole lengthens, becoming horizontal as it pushes against the river bottom and glides forward. The body straightens, the arms raise, the pole grows tall. This vertical diagonal movement leading to the smooth horizontal glide looks to me like a slow graceful dance.
4.15.07
These gifts are all I can part with right now. the reality of my life here is far more complex, and goes far beyond the sensual pleasures of what I observe. So much of me is deep and getting deeper, trying to figure out who I am, where I am, establishing a sense of self in this brand new place. I am treading water, watching the ease with which the boatmen navigate the shallow river, and trying to find solid ground on which to pose my own two feet.
Something about the depth of what I am experiencing makes it hard to write the whole truth of it. I think that is because the whole truth includes race and economics and gender and education and ultimately, identity. It is not easy to write about these while living them as well. Nonetheless, I find these everyday observations are not only the salve to ease the entry, but also portholes through which I may perhaps enter a stronger sense of who I am here.
I write by the light of a ¾ moon. Light that makes my paper glow and my words melt together. I am listening to the voices of men who tell stories around the glowing coals of the teapot. I bathed under the stars this evening, watched the first star rise from the gentle violet haze of sunset. Venus glows. The voices rise and fall. My breast matches the roundness of the moon.
Here I drink tea till the sun goes down then lay my mat under the tree, crawl under my mosquito net and let the rolling voices of the storytellers lull me to an easy sleep. I awake at four in the morning to watch the women trickle towards the well. Through the early grayness and sleep fogged eyes, I watch the women gather. One bends, lets out the long rope, then stands tall and pulls her left hand high into the air, while making a loop with the rope in her right. like an African sun salutation, this action is repeated until the black rubber water holder emerges dripping fresh clear water and is dumped into the bright plastic bucket, and lifted to the head. The chickens begin clucking. The days work has begun but I drift back to sleep for another 2 hours, until the young girl comes to summon me for my morning shower. The luxury of the bucket of hot water is intensified by the knowledge of hoe much has gone into creating this one steaming bucket of water. I thank gracefully and effusively, though still faltering and at a loss for words. How could I possibly explain the poetry of hot water patiently lathered over my skin as the sun rises in Bambara?
4.9.07 - NIger Pirogues
The pirogues are long, smooth, elegant, like ancient swords slicing through fine colorless silk. Their reflections are just as real as the boats themselves, easing from a skinny point, shuddered by ripples to a wider shadow that melts somewhere into the smooth dark underwood of the boats. The effect is of one entity, gracefully connected forever to its shadow. Men stand wide legged on the bow or the stern, guiding with a long pole. The body bends at the waist, the pole lengthens, becoming horizontal as it pushes against the river bottom and glides forward. The body straightens, the arms raise, the pole grows tall. This vertical diagonal movement leading to the smooth horizontal glide looks to me like a slow graceful dance.
4.15.07
These gifts are all I can part with right now. the reality of my life here is far more complex, and goes far beyond the sensual pleasures of what I observe. So much of me is deep and getting deeper, trying to figure out who I am, where I am, establishing a sense of self in this brand new place. I am treading water, watching the ease with which the boatmen navigate the shallow river, and trying to find solid ground on which to pose my own two feet.
Something about the depth of what I am experiencing makes it hard to write the whole truth of it. I think that is because the whole truth includes race and economics and gender and education and ultimately, identity. It is not easy to write about these while living them as well. Nonetheless, I find these everyday observations are not only the salve to ease the entry, but also portholes through which I may perhaps enter a stronger sense of who I am here.
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
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.
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.
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