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.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
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.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Song of my home
Bamako. Beautiful, and graceful in a very dirty, haphazard, unexpected way. It calls to you in the stretched fabrics, freshly died and drying the sun, colors: rich and clean and full. It calls to you in the ballad-like songs of guitar and Kora, in the call and answer greetings, in the voices that rise and fall throughout the music. Long notes that make you imagine stretches of sand and sky. Bamako. The rough roads, the small boutiques, the faintly fishy peanut sauces and sticky rice, always still a bit dirty. The women who wash: Straight backed and long pushing and scrubbing and dipping, legs straight bent from the waist like chairs folded in two. Bamako. Small grass huts: the constant, rhythmic pounding of bassins--fabrics... glimpses of shirtless men in grass huts, legs spread out, facing each other, each pounding one after another with heavy wooden mallets, held in both hands. One raises his mallet while the other crashes his own down upon the bright colored fabric, pounding it into a smooth glossy sheen. The array of huts at dusk: the sound emerging like music. Wood on wood, pounded by so many hands, the music held together by the soft, low grinding of the mill where the women gather to collect flour. They crowd around carrying half gourds on their heads, chattering and laughing, the grainy grey flour falling from the dull metal mill. Bamako. The dirt pitch and makeshift goals- two long beams, stuck in the earth, with a string tied across the top. Swift colors darting, grunts and calls, and the ball rolls fast from one to another. Teams sauntering past, laughing, joking, running. Bamako. Little ones with protruding bellybuttons. Wide eyes, patient faces, runny noses, sticky hands, smooth shoulders. Voices that imitate my own with uncanny accuracy. "TooBahBoo” the sound that follows my footsteps when they glimpse me from the street. Bamako. Wide grins and teeth, smooth heads, skin like night, but deeper, smoother. Muscles that move like the music, quick hands that sew together the bassins, creating patterns around which the dye emerges. Tie- dyed with plastic bags and scrap rubber. Under the trees, smooth skin melts into the night, hands move automatically assured. Bamako. My home.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Patience & Honesty
2.17.07 Patience & Honesty
It is Saturday again and somehow I have slipped into a routine of living here. Without realizing it, I slide through the days. I can’t believe that another week has passed; I am slowly becoming accustomed to this place, learning to live in it and trying to be realistic about the stretch of my own arms while my eyes and heart stray daily into the multitude of temptations that come with the emergence of a new life.
There are so many things to say. Monuments of sensation are being constructed on rickety foundations in my mind. While the days melt away, everything that is new slowly sifts itself into the common activities of daily life. Perhaps it is fatigue, but I feel as if the shiny lacquer that glosses everything that is slowly being covered by a fine layer of orange dust. Now, I remember that one of the duties I have chosen for myself is that of housecleaner: with my writing, I intend to wipe my finger through the dust and uncover pieces that still awe me. By doing that, I intend to build a stronger foundation based on honesty to myself and to the new place I call my home.
Right now, unfortunately, the difficulties are what keep coming to me. I know myself well enough to realize that one of the biggest reasons for this is fatigue. I have never, in all my travels, jumped so deeply into a job as quickly as I am doing right now. The day after I arrived, I went to work, and have worked every weekday since, including moments today and a significant chunk of tomorrow. I go to work by 8:30 and generally return home around 5:30. I am still trying to situate in my new home, which means that time spent not working on CFH is spent trying to get my house together. I must clarify that “get my house together” is a very broad term. It encompasses spending a lot time getting to know my neighbors, trying to speak Bambara, figure out prices, clarify boundaries with my guardien (more on that to come), find food, meet women, set up furniture, build a garden, cook, get my laundry done, etc. It means trying hard to get my bearings in my immediate surroundings rather than exploring the hills or the centre ville or the night clubs or the supermarket or the artisan village, or writing as much as I would like to. I know this will all come and I am content where I am, knowing that I have three years here. I have chosen to try holding patience in my right hand and honesty in my left for these weeks. Despite my intentions, they are both proving to be very slippery elements in my driven life these days.
It is Saturday again and somehow I have slipped into a routine of living here. Without realizing it, I slide through the days. I can’t believe that another week has passed; I am slowly becoming accustomed to this place, learning to live in it and trying to be realistic about the stretch of my own arms while my eyes and heart stray daily into the multitude of temptations that come with the emergence of a new life.
There are so many things to say. Monuments of sensation are being constructed on rickety foundations in my mind. While the days melt away, everything that is new slowly sifts itself into the common activities of daily life. Perhaps it is fatigue, but I feel as if the shiny lacquer that glosses everything that is slowly being covered by a fine layer of orange dust. Now, I remember that one of the duties I have chosen for myself is that of housecleaner: with my writing, I intend to wipe my finger through the dust and uncover pieces that still awe me. By doing that, I intend to build a stronger foundation based on honesty to myself and to the new place I call my home.
Right now, unfortunately, the difficulties are what keep coming to me. I know myself well enough to realize that one of the biggest reasons for this is fatigue. I have never, in all my travels, jumped so deeply into a job as quickly as I am doing right now. The day after I arrived, I went to work, and have worked every weekday since, including moments today and a significant chunk of tomorrow. I go to work by 8:30 and generally return home around 5:30. I am still trying to situate in my new home, which means that time spent not working on CFH is spent trying to get my house together. I must clarify that “get my house together” is a very broad term. It encompasses spending a lot time getting to know my neighbors, trying to speak Bambara, figure out prices, clarify boundaries with my guardien (more on that to come), find food, meet women, set up furniture, build a garden, cook, get my laundry done, etc. It means trying hard to get my bearings in my immediate surroundings rather than exploring the hills or the centre ville or the night clubs or the supermarket or the artisan village, or writing as much as I would like to. I know this will all come and I am content where I am, knowing that I have three years here. I have chosen to try holding patience in my right hand and honesty in my left for these weeks. Despite my intentions, they are both proving to be very slippery elements in my driven life these days.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
In the Heart of the Moon
12.2.07 In the Heart of the Moon
Ali Farka Touré, a famous Malian musician has an album called “in the Heart of the Moon”. The music starts slow, a constant rhythm that is patient and calm, repetitive yet playful, elegant in it’s assurance of itself. It has an effect that leads a listener out of the world he knows, floating him away into a realm of .
As a newcomer to Mali, I find myself feeling as if I am being led into the heart of this music and into the heart of the moon itself. It is vast here, without doubt, a grand stage for discovery and beauty. It is also a bit lonely.
I arrived in Bamako after weeks bursting with social engagements, energy, inspiration and play; after weeks of hearing “ You are invited” from every person on the street; after a lovely and lingering disease of twitterpation. Living with an overflowing cup, I come to Bamako to find I can only fill it half way. It is only reasonable that walking into the echoing rooms of my brand new home be a little disconcerting. I feel overwhelmed by the space, by the sound of it, by the knowledge that it is all mine for the next three years, by my position in regard to those around me. I feel as if I have been spinning with my arms outstretched, face to the sky and I stop, let my arms hang and feel the whole world tilt around me. It is only now, listening to the album in the quiet of my home that I take a lesson from the late Farka Touré: to have patience with myself and with my new home.
I feel the need to address the emotional adventure before I can lay claim to the physical one. Soon, I will find the words to bring life to the world that continues to build behind this dam.
Ali Farka Touré, a famous Malian musician has an album called “in the Heart of the Moon”. The music starts slow, a constant rhythm that is patient and calm, repetitive yet playful, elegant in it’s assurance of itself. It has an effect that leads a listener out of the world he knows, floating him away into a realm of .
As a newcomer to Mali, I find myself feeling as if I am being led into the heart of this music and into the heart of the moon itself. It is vast here, without doubt, a grand stage for discovery and beauty. It is also a bit lonely.
I arrived in Bamako after weeks bursting with social engagements, energy, inspiration and play; after weeks of hearing “ You are invited” from every person on the street; after a lovely and lingering disease of twitterpation. Living with an overflowing cup, I come to Bamako to find I can only fill it half way. It is only reasonable that walking into the echoing rooms of my brand new home be a little disconcerting. I feel overwhelmed by the space, by the sound of it, by the knowledge that it is all mine for the next three years, by my position in regard to those around me. I feel as if I have been spinning with my arms outstretched, face to the sky and I stop, let my arms hang and feel the whole world tilt around me. It is only now, listening to the album in the quiet of my home that I take a lesson from the late Farka Touré: to have patience with myself and with my new home.
I feel the need to address the emotional adventure before I can lay claim to the physical one. Soon, I will find the words to bring life to the world that continues to build behind this dam.
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
Goodbye Ouagadougou
2.6.07 Goodbye Oaugadougou
My final day in Ouaga. I walk slowly home; anticipation perks itself on one of my shoulders while reluctance sits firmly on the other. In the three weeks I have been here, I have come to really appreciate the loud music shifting from Maquis, the dirt roads that wind like bumpy veins through the city, the deep smoky barbeque aroma that sometimes mixes with such acrid pollution I can hardly breath, the masses of motorbikes and bicycles that swerve across the roads, and the people. The people, how do I begin to describe the warmth and humor and generosity with which these people have welcomed me into their country?
I have made friends with an old woman who sits under one of the makeshift structures that line the outer walls of the Mosque. She wears a sunshine yellow shawl over her shaved head and her hands are dry as sandpaper. She sits on a green rug, and today she has hung a piece of fabric up to keep out the blazing sun. It is still hot when I squat to greet her; I know because immediately the sweat begins to collect in the places my legs touch each other. We shake hands over and over, her rough palms enclosing my one damp hand. I feel desert in her skin. Our conversation is more an exchange of gestures and repetitions than a conversation. In fact, all I understand of what she says is her name “Mariam, Mariam” and my own “Say-la, Sayla” as well as the names of her daughter and grand daughter “Fatimata, Kahdou, Fatimata, Kahdou” we shake hands and say each others names. I think she is telling me that Fatimata and Kahdou have gone back to the cluster of rooms they share with many other families. She will return in the evening, but I will be gone. Mariam offers me a bunch of carrots, a small cluster of orange on the ends of straggled leaves. I try to refuse, I have just eaten and I believe she probably needs them more than I. Nevertheless, she insists, and I take the small bunch, eat a piece and thank her. “Barrakah, barrakah” Thank you. She responds in my own language “mesi, mesi” thank you, merci. I move to leave. She bends her head forward and touches the top of it. I do the same, then touch the top of her head too. Her grey hair bristles under my fingers and she laughs.
As I turn up my road, and walk a few steps towards my house, shrieking bits of laughter fill my ears, and I look up to see two small children sprinting towards me, hands outstretched. One in a dirty yellow shirt with gaps in his teeth, the other in a dress, her hair in five tightly metal wrapped ‘horns’ sticking out from her head, a small mousy face. They giggle up to me, I shake their hands, and they turn around and sprint back to the skeleton of a car they had been playing in while the second shift of two children follow their lead. They run, bare feet over the red dust, towards me, hands outstretched, laughing. I shake and they run back to the car.
There is a certain bittersweet challenge to leaving a place like this. I have developed relationships. I feel, in some way, that I have committed myself to these people, the children in the car, the boys who slack line with me, and play football in the streets, throwing marbles in the dirt, Mariams’ bending head and desert hands. I can’t resist their shy smiles, tentative handshakes and laughter. The exchange is so precious to me, and yet I feel almost guilty for getting to know them then walking away from them. One part of me asks Why not share yourself with these people? Why not open to them, give them what you are, share your own smile? The other part cringes when they say “don’t leave, it makes me sad”. I am trying to find the balance because I am beginning to believe that the life of a westerner in a place like this is bound to be full of such interactions, and the inevitable truth is that, one day, we will all leave. I will always have Oregon to go home to, and I think it is that knowledge sets me apart from these people more than anything else.
I remember an afternoon in Washington DC saying goodbye to someone I cared for. I stood in the arching hall of the metro station, feeling the woosh of air as the trains flew by. In my hand was a fresh, ripe plum. As he boarded the train, and it swept away, I felt the smooth curve of the plum in my palm. I took a bite, the smooth skin resisted a moment before breaking and a sweet, subtle, violet flavor flooded my mouth. I could not imagine anything better than enjoying that plum at that instant, having known someone and shared with him some small part of myself, the fruit now tasted so much more alive. I have come to believe that relationships are what make life sweeter. The moments we share with others are the ones that help us receive greater pleasure and participate to a fuller extent in our lives. I hope that all my interactions will end with the same ease as the children running, laughing back to their gutted car: A smile, handshake, an acknowledgement of each others differences just as much as an appreciation of them. And after, the great appreciation of life itself, as it is, full and sweet and delicious.
My final day in Ouaga. I walk slowly home; anticipation perks itself on one of my shoulders while reluctance sits firmly on the other. In the three weeks I have been here, I have come to really appreciate the loud music shifting from Maquis, the dirt roads that wind like bumpy veins through the city, the deep smoky barbeque aroma that sometimes mixes with such acrid pollution I can hardly breath, the masses of motorbikes and bicycles that swerve across the roads, and the people. The people, how do I begin to describe the warmth and humor and generosity with which these people have welcomed me into their country?
I have made friends with an old woman who sits under one of the makeshift structures that line the outer walls of the Mosque. She wears a sunshine yellow shawl over her shaved head and her hands are dry as sandpaper. She sits on a green rug, and today she has hung a piece of fabric up to keep out the blazing sun. It is still hot when I squat to greet her; I know because immediately the sweat begins to collect in the places my legs touch each other. We shake hands over and over, her rough palms enclosing my one damp hand. I feel desert in her skin. Our conversation is more an exchange of gestures and repetitions than a conversation. In fact, all I understand of what she says is her name “Mariam, Mariam” and my own “Say-la, Sayla” as well as the names of her daughter and grand daughter “Fatimata, Kahdou, Fatimata, Kahdou” we shake hands and say each others names. I think she is telling me that Fatimata and Kahdou have gone back to the cluster of rooms they share with many other families. She will return in the evening, but I will be gone. Mariam offers me a bunch of carrots, a small cluster of orange on the ends of straggled leaves. I try to refuse, I have just eaten and I believe she probably needs them more than I. Nevertheless, she insists, and I take the small bunch, eat a piece and thank her. “Barrakah, barrakah” Thank you. She responds in my own language “mesi, mesi” thank you, merci. I move to leave. She bends her head forward and touches the top of it. I do the same, then touch the top of her head too. Her grey hair bristles under my fingers and she laughs.
As I turn up my road, and walk a few steps towards my house, shrieking bits of laughter fill my ears, and I look up to see two small children sprinting towards me, hands outstretched. One in a dirty yellow shirt with gaps in his teeth, the other in a dress, her hair in five tightly metal wrapped ‘horns’ sticking out from her head, a small mousy face. They giggle up to me, I shake their hands, and they turn around and sprint back to the skeleton of a car they had been playing in while the second shift of two children follow their lead. They run, bare feet over the red dust, towards me, hands outstretched, laughing. I shake and they run back to the car.
There is a certain bittersweet challenge to leaving a place like this. I have developed relationships. I feel, in some way, that I have committed myself to these people, the children in the car, the boys who slack line with me, and play football in the streets, throwing marbles in the dirt, Mariams’ bending head and desert hands. I can’t resist their shy smiles, tentative handshakes and laughter. The exchange is so precious to me, and yet I feel almost guilty for getting to know them then walking away from them. One part of me asks Why not share yourself with these people? Why not open to them, give them what you are, share your own smile? The other part cringes when they say “don’t leave, it makes me sad”. I am trying to find the balance because I am beginning to believe that the life of a westerner in a place like this is bound to be full of such interactions, and the inevitable truth is that, one day, we will all leave. I will always have Oregon to go home to, and I think it is that knowledge sets me apart from these people more than anything else.
I remember an afternoon in Washington DC saying goodbye to someone I cared for. I stood in the arching hall of the metro station, feeling the woosh of air as the trains flew by. In my hand was a fresh, ripe plum. As he boarded the train, and it swept away, I felt the smooth curve of the plum in my palm. I took a bite, the smooth skin resisted a moment before breaking and a sweet, subtle, violet flavor flooded my mouth. I could not imagine anything better than enjoying that plum at that instant, having known someone and shared with him some small part of myself, the fruit now tasted so much more alive. I have come to believe that relationships are what make life sweeter. The moments we share with others are the ones that help us receive greater pleasure and participate to a fuller extent in our lives. I hope that all my interactions will end with the same ease as the children running, laughing back to their gutted car: A smile, handshake, an acknowledgement of each others differences just as much as an appreciation of them. And after, the great appreciation of life itself, as it is, full and sweet and delicious.
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