Pancakes Round Two

Spent my last day at Fanta’s and I’m really going to miss my Sundays there. Not because every moment of Fanta’s was a respite from Sikoroni-it wasn’t at all. It was a house filled with screaming babies, and older siblings who reciprocated with their own yelling and striking. It was a house where I never truly had a moment’s peace. When we would pass time in the salon, in front of the massive wide-screen TV Nabu, the chubby second daughter would always have her hand on me, trying to claim my attetion. I couldn’t set down my book without one of the younger kids rifling through it. What stressed me out the most was that not even my water bottle was safe. The baby constantly picked it up and I don’t even know how many times he probably licked the top or sneezed on it when I was out of the room. The kids took every opportunity to parade me to their friend’s houses or to introduce me as their cousin. Even when I spent the night, I would be interrupted starting at five in the morning with a series of Fanta’s children checking on me as I tried to sleep. But even though I continued to be a spectacle at their house, they were truly concerned about me. Even though the overwhelming attention and the pushing of food towards me at every shared dinner was exhausting, they were genuinely excited to see me every Sunday morning when I arrived, and I think their house is the one place in Mali I will truly miss.
We spend yesterday afternoon making pancakes. The kids fought over who could flip them- there was no spatula, but it was still an honor to turn the “beancakes” over. The kids- there’s always a different number of them there- devoured them right off the pan. They claimed that the rice cakes that people sell on the streets of Sikoroni are sort of like pancakes, but I don’t believe them. My amoebas have taken away any faith I had that decent Malian street food exists.
We went to see Nabu, the second daughter, play basketball at a sports celebration. Like most events I’ve been to this summer, it started over an hour late, because someone couldn’t find the microphone. There was an entire procession of the different basketball and karate teams of the town. Karate is a huge deal in Mali- apparently there will be a pretty sizable Malian karate team competing in Bejing next week too. Who knew? The karate demonstrations in the middle of the basketball court under the scorching sun were pretty amazing. The teams were announced, and then a series of twenty-minute games were played.
Fanta convinced me to spend the night, and this morning Yatouré (one of the coonskins, I think..) took me to the Grand Marchée. Yatouré is twenty-eight, but just hangs out at the house with the kids most of the time. She said she works in the dress-making business, but apparently work is difficult to find during the summer. She was amazing to shop with- she took me directly to the center of the artisans market and was already friends with most of the jewelers, so she helped me pick out presents at real prices, not tubabo prices.
Leaving Bamako on Wednesday night.

Unhappilly Full of Amoebas

Had brochettes de capitaine and ginger-zabon juice today at a really nice Malian restaurant for a send-off lunch for Caitlin. Not really sure why you would choose Malian food when you are paying a lot to eat, but the skewers were actually pretty good. In other news, I have amoebas. We’re pretty sure (Caitlin’s diagnosis). I’m on metranidozole for a week, but just have been pretty uncomfortable (diarrhea, etc.) since the trip up to Dogon country.
We’ve been working on writing Clinton Foundation grants all day. The grant writing process is so crucial to learn, but so painstaking and so frustrating to revise continuously.
I spent the morning working on the survey results for the Sigida Keneyali baseline. The survey asks basic questions about family size and then about the frequency of diseases like malaria, fever, and diarrhea, as well as use of local clincs. The surveys took forever to go through, because a lot of the responses were undecipherable: How many women are in your family? Response: 8 or 10. How many children have been vaccinated? 10 or 14.

Dogon Buses

More on Dogon country to come, but for now just the bus ride back:

I was definitely the despised tubabo on the busride back. We took a Ghana Transport bus, and since the bus was only half full when we got on, Ben and I lucked out and got seats by the two windows on the bus- windows that only open half way, but provide the only respite from a stifling 15 hour bus trip. I was content. Two hours later, my luck changed because the bus conductor suddenly decided he had the power to assign seats and he placed a serious-faced man carrying a leather briefcase in the seat next to me. I should have known by his look that he was cold, and he took his transport seriously. As soon as he sat down, he reached across me and shut the window. The twelve hour window battle had begun. I almost laughed and slid open the window immediately. There were plenty of other seats of the bus, I told him, that were far from the window. He frowned and zipped up his windbreaker (yes, windbreaker at 4 in the afternoon in Mali). He tried to cover his face with the windbreak to indicate that I was being horrifyingly insensitive and freezing the poor man. He pretended to shiver and I ignored him.
I held on to my window control for as long as possible. He would periodically shiver and look miserable, glancing around him in hopes that other passengers would see what a window tyrant I was being. Yet, when it got dark, windbreaker man thought he could be more devious. Every time I began to close my eyes, he would stealthily try to reach the window and slide it silently shut. I would not give up my territory, but soon I was too tired to put up a fight, and as the night progressed, I gradually allowed the window to be shut halfway. Windbreaker man has probably diagnosed himself with hypothermia by now.

The Wedding, Chapter 6: The Konyoso

The Konyoso
For week after marriage, according to Malian tradition, Massi and Niang had to move (they moved across the courtyard, kicking Papye out of his own bedroom) and follow a strict series of rules. This was no honeymoon, especially not for Massi. Massi and Niang both had to dress completely in white for the entire week. But that was the only similarity in their requirements. Massi was confined to the bedroom, where she sat, uncomfortably idle, under a mosquito net. She wasn’t allowed to leave except to visit the bathroom, and at those times she had to be completely veiled. She had no radio, TV or books with her. After the first day, I found out she had visitors, so I would go in and talk to her, bringing her pain au chocolates or cold Cokes. She was on a special diet as well, provided by a Grand Dame or mananmugo, a woman hired by the family to cook food especially for the bride. She was given only seri (rice porridge) and chicken, weak food that was supposed to ensure her submissiveness.
Niang had to follow strict rules of the Konyoso as well, but the male version seemed like a more acceptable honeymoon. He was confined to his courtyard for the three days following the ceremony, but he had a constant stream of visitors. While Massi sat, bored and hot, inside all day, he would lounge in the courtyard, playing cards and sipping tea with a group of friends.

Niang's Wedding Tales

Niang’s Wedding Tales

Chapter 1: Henna!

We called Mama’s favorite artist in for henna on our feet. With surgical tape and a razor blade (which made me very nervous before I saw how graceful with it she was) she sliced little strips of tape into beautiful designs on my feet. Then she coated my entire food in a cakey henna mixture and tied up my feet in the small black plastic bags that unfortunately cover on the streets of Sikoroni. She was an artist who wouldn’t even allow herself distracted by her little infant crawling around, getting henna on his forehead, and attempting to distract her the entire time. She spent about an hour on each of us- Caitlin, Julie, Cari, and I- and wouldn’t stop for a break or even eat the food Cari bought for her. After being incapacitated for a few hours, with plastic bags on our feet (Caitlin and I watched Sense and Sensibility), we began the long process of pulling off all the tape and scraping off the henna. The artist had wanted us to put on the second chemical after the natural henna- the dye that all the Malian women use so that their henna appears black. But according to the Peace Corps Volunteers, the black dye is also used for rat poison, so we all went with the natural henna color. All the Malian women that see my henna stop me and ask me why the jaba (henna) looks so orange. It’s just not worth trying to figure out how to explain in Bambara that I was trying to avoid poisoning my feet.

Chapter 2: The Cortège

At eight o’clock, the morning of the wedding, all the preparations were still in progress. The massive orange tent was still being lifted up by a group of teenagers to cover the entire street in front of the house, at least a dozen women were cooking rice in the largest iron pots I’ve ever seen in the field to the side of the house, and Mama was entertaining early arrivals without even having changed into her dress outfit. More and more family members and friends decked out in their most ornate Malian prints kept pouring into the courtyard, and Mama served everyone breakfast. She smiled and tore everyone off a chunk of bread, to be eaten with spoonfuls of mayonnaise, and handed out cups of coffee Malian style; lukewarm, intensely sweetened milk, with a small spoonful of Nescafé stirred in.
Suddenly, every one began filing out of the courtyard and packing into waiting cars, motos and sotramas (green buses) lined up outside the house. Niang had ordered a car for us, and since it came with two drivers for some reason, the five of us piled in the back seat. We were close behind Niang’s car, a massive white SUV, so we had a pretty coveted spot in the cortège. As soon as everyone had managed to pack themselves into a car or hop on the back of a moto, the cortège was off, honking and almost causing several accidents along the way. The line of cars drove through the Sikoroni market and about two minutes past the market, to Masi’s family home. In following the tradition of avoiding any pretence of privacy, we had only gone about a quarter mile but had managed to cause traffic jam and alert everyone in the quartier of Niang’s wedding. In Mali, double-checking the guest list is imperative, by nine o’clock that morning, everyone who somehow had’nt noticed the gaudy orange tent in the street had finally seen the cortège and realized they were missing out on the wedding of the summer.
At Massi’s, everyone tumbled out of the cars and into her family courtyard. No one really knew where to go (or at least I didn’t), so we sort of all packed into the courtyard to wait for Massi, and people began handing out sodas, until Massi was ready to hop into the white SUV and the cortege took off.

Chapter 3: Town Hall- A Place to be Seen

Five different corteges converged and the town hall, and the guests of five different weddings piled into the Salle des Fêtes (party room) of the mayor’s office. Five brides lined up, five veiled women wearing sparkling white gowns alternating with five beaming men in Western suits. The families crowded around them, but closest off all were the griots. Each wedding party came equipped with about four of them, and they began to get a little competitive in their singing when confronted by such a large and eager audience. The griots began to sing praises almost aggressively, and would elbow guests out of the way, pressing forward to almost shout their congratulations in the faces of the newlyweds.
The town hall was full of the most amazing brows and hairstyles I’ve seen in Mali. This was the chance to flaunt your hairdresser’s skill in creating a peacock-like sculpture on your head, and at the same time block everyone else’s view of the ceremony. A lot of women had their eyebrows painted in to match the color of their hair weave (purple was a popular choice) and others had gotten even more creative, adding sequins or tiny star jewels to their eyebrow design.

After about an hour, everyone began to grow tired of the griots, and the marriage processions all filed out of the hall. I think every single bride was sobbing as she walked out. Our cortege did a few laps around the mayor’s office, and finally our driver took us back to Masi’s, where one party was starting with dancers and koura players, and finally back to Niang’s.

Chapter 4: Back at Niang’s

I was relieved to see Mama was in her full splendor, in a flowing bessin complet, with an elaborate headdress to match by the time we had returned. (I think this means that she missed her son’s wedding in order to get dressed up.) When we had arrived back at Niang’s all of the chaos of the morning had disappeared. The guests flowed out of the sotramas, and immediately two dancers began to perform under the orange tent.
We were given fluorescent looking frozen plastic bags of pineapple juice. Normally, I never would have eaten something that probably will make my liver glow-in-the dark, but it was so hot, that anything frozen was amazing. We sat in tiny metal chairs that were dispersed through the courtyard, and watched the Senegalese dancers. Soon, the riz au gras (fried rice) began appearing in massive metal bowls from behind the house. The rice supply seemed endless, and a long line of women kept handing bowls through the crowd. Each bowl was enough food for about eight guests, so instead of having assigned seats at wedding tables, it was more like choose your own rice bowl, and bon appetit.

Chapter 5: The Real Party at the Boulangerie

Niang called Caitlin, and told us all to come down the street, to the newly opened boulangerie. To call it a boulangerie is an overstatement. Although the building has paintings of baguettes, croissants and delicious looking patisseries, it only serves one item-Malian style baguettes that are decent compared to most Malian food, but are essentially just Wonder Bread trying to masquerade as French bread. Anyway, the boulangerie has been under construction all summer, and I was dying to go in. There was definitely some miscommunication along the way, because there was no wedding cake, but we walked past the kitchen of the boulangerie, and in the courtyard, found the real wedding party. Behind the façade of the Boulangerie Moderne there was a courtyard with a dance floor, a DJ, and hundreds of chairs surrounding it. The entire courtyard was covered by straw canopés, and was filled with all of Niang and Masi’s young friends. Apparently, we had spent most of the day at Niang’s family party and had almost missed the real dancing and the party the bride and groom actually enjoyed themselves at.
Niang’s younger friends started breakdancing and as we sat and watched, we had dessert. Who needs wedding cake when you can have popcorn and prawn chips?

Chapter 6: The Konyoso

Back from Dogon

Spent last week in Dogon country, doing some trekking with Ben. 12 hour bus ride up to Mopti, and the way back took even longer since we had to turn go back for Ben's passport at the hotel. We got back to Bamako at 4 yesterday morning but lovely Fifi hadn't left our door open for us as promised so we had to try to curl up outside in the courtyard...
Sort of delirious right now, and have grants to write for MHOP, but longer update with pictures coming.

Presidential Lair and Office Space, Bamako Style

This week we had a meeting with Dr. Ina Togo at the Ministry of Health. She was the first woman in Mali to get a medical degree (from a French school). She grew up in a remote village in the Dogon country and somehow financed her education by selling shoes on the street. Caitlin is good friends with her son, so she agreed to get us a list of the equipment needed for the new clinic. The ministry’s offices were up on the hill next to the presidential compound. The president seems to have designed his compound after watching several James Bond movies- its set up exactly like the Goldfinger lair. You can approach the hill in a taxi, but after a certain checkpoint, taxis are no longer allowed. After charging us exorbitantly (tubabo tax) the taxi driver refused to go further, so we had to call Togo. She sent down her chauffeur to pick us up and he arrived a few minutes later, listening to Akon, in a tie-dye boubou in the nicest car I’ve seen yet in Mali.
The streets on the way up the hill were like the wide boulevards of Florida and lined with palms. There were no motos and just a five minute drive from the polluted Marché de Medine, the air seemed much cleaner. When we finally got to the top of the hill, the ministry buildings all looked like brand new versions of seventies style Floridian mansions. The parking lots were filled with sparkling SUVs and the ministry itself was almost chilly from the excessive air conditioning. It was surreal and even more suprising when Togo had the document we were looking for in hand when we arrived.
Unfortunately, Togo doesn’t exemplify typical Malian bureaucracy. After the visit on the hill, Togo sent us with her chaffeur to a regional health office to make sure the dossier registering the new clinic was on file (to ensure that the government will pay fifty percent of the cost of the new clinic and include it in the 2008 budget). Caitlin had the dossier number because apparently files in Mali aren’t organized by name or subject, but just by long 12 digit numbers. It took us three hours and the chauffeur’s amazing patience driving back and forth between two different regional health centers to finally find out that the woman with the correct file had just returned from an extended vacation and needed until at least Monday to put her hands on the file. At one point, Ben and I were sitting in the lobby of the center waiting for Caitlin to find the file. We saw her following a succession of three different secretaries up and down the stairs, and along the corridors, stopping in a series of offices to track down the file number. No one really seemed fazed by the search for the missing dossier. It was just another quest for another nameless file…