I thought Fifi was reaching out to me...

Fifi (Niang’s sister) and Batouma came for a bedtime chat the other night- this was the first time Fifi actually reached out to me in any way. Under her frighteningly high eyebrows painted in henna, I thought she was finally loosening up and was ready for a gossip sesh. I asked her about the guy I saw her talking to the other night. She told me that he was just a friend, showing her how to use computers at the Cyber Café down the street.
Finally, she broke into the exciting story and began to tell me about the policeman she was engaged to. I was completely surprised, but she continued nonchalantly about how their engagement wasn’t going to be announced until mid July, because her fiancé was extremely busy with police training right now. I bought every word of it and was effusive in my congratulations. I was thrilled that Niang's judgmental sister was finally ready to tell me about her petit-ami and fill me in on the Sikoroni gossip. Only after our conversation had finally drifted to other things did she relent that “Je me blague”- that she had been joking the entire time and that there was no such gendarme that existed.
What turned out to be true, however, was that Batouma was leaving at the end of June (tomorrow). She is going to return to her home town, not for a visit, but permanently, to get married. Fifi laughed, telling me the man was extremely tall and very big. I asked his name, but neither of them new it. It was to be an arranged marriage, the man had been chosen by Batouma’s father. I asked Batouma and Fifi to show me where Batouma’s hometown was on a Mali map from my guidebook. Neither of them knew where to look, only confirming the permanence of Batouma’s move. She is going to escape from Fifi’s glaring eyebrows only to find herself the captive of her anonymous fiancé.

Birthday Cake and the Rainy Season

Dominike! -Niang’s description of Sunday’s in Mali was exactly how Sunday’s should be spent universally- going to friends houses, sitting around the courtyard to causer (chat), drinking tea, and sharing the Sunday meals. Spent another weekend of visits across the river. Before the CHAG meeting on Saturday, I visited Adama and his family, and then spent another Sunday at Fanta’s. On the cab ride over, the cab driver asked me if I was married. I’m getting used to the unabashed, personal questions constantly posed to me by complete strangers, but it’s still really hard to keep a straight face when I’m telling a random Malian cab driver about my husband.
Celebrated Fanta’s second daughter’s birthday. It seems like forward questions were the theme of the day, because as soon as daughter #2 saw me, she asked me where her present was, joking (but not really) that if I had forgotten, she would never speak to me again. It’s always hard when you don’t remember the name of one of your cousins, especially since last week I already used the let’s-practice-Bambara-and-ask-each-other-really-obvious-questions-like-our-names trick. It’s even worse when you have to sing happy birthday to your nameless cousin, but I tried to avoid that by just singing Bon anniversiare à toi without a name… I had picked up a gateaux aux raisins for the birthday along the way. Mama (daughter #1, short for Fatouma) and I tried to hide the cake in the fridge, but daughter #2 is well acquainted with every object in the fridge so it wasn’t long before she found the cake, and had swung it over her shoulder asking me where I found it.
I loved the start of the hivronage (rainy season) because it means that each morning you’re granted a few hours of cool weather before you realize that it’s just a morning thing and begin sweating profusely again. This morning I was comfortable for the first time since I’ve been in Mali but Fifi and Batouma were both shivering under their large fleeces. But even the rainy season has its downfalls, and recently discovered this weekend were the elusive holes in the ceiling right above my net. Not sure how I didn’t notice them until this weekend, but Niang promised to find someone to patch them up tonight. Listening to the rains at night is amazing- I never thought that the dust cloud that seems to perpetually float above the streets of Bamako would be capable of the torrential downpours that last for hours each night. The rains are spastic and unpredictable. Last night, after the usual prelude to rain- the five minutes of intense dry wind that seem to always be there to give warning to those brave enough to sleep outside under nets- it poured for about thirty seconds. The comforting sound of slamming against the tin roof over head was suddenly interrupted by a bizarre silence. It was as if some mistake had been made- the rainpour had been started prematurely and the weather conductor, realizing this, quickly silenced the anxious percussion, who finally couldn’t bear the excitement anymore, and burst, suddenly into a torrent that was even more forceful than before.

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The Trash Dump where the New Clinic is Going to Be Built

Even the Duggutiggi has a Cell Phone

Met with the duggutiggi today- an old ancient, chief looking man wearing a respectable blue bessin and a white flat-topped hat of the village elders. In the middle of Niang’s <-Djenaba (Julie) et moi

Bambara translation to him, his cell went off, and he reached into the giant boubou to answer his obnoxious ring tone. We presented him with cocoa beans and other gifts and he seemed pleased. No information was gained, but we had officially greeted him, so he was content.
After Bambara lessons, we were planning on eating here at Niang’s, but they hadn’t had enough time to prepare, so we got street food. Tonight’s attempt was much more successful than yesterday. Yesterday, I stopped at a stand for an egg sandwich, and the grinning Rasta-Bambara restaurateur cracked an egg into a sketchy jam jar, and then poured in the same amount of palm oil. So the recipe for an egg sandwich: equivalent parts egg and trans fat= fried deliciousness on a sandwich. Tonight’s meal was much better- pasta, potatoes, and beans for CFA 200 (about 40 cents).

A Few Rendez-Vous

Yesterday, we had three meetings with different political people involved in Sikoroni.
1)Mayor’s office sanitation rep.- really unhelpful and completely infatuated with Julie because she was a Koulibali. He took an extensive cell phone call in the middle of the meeting (there were six of us in there meeting with him).

2)Mayor’s health rep- the largest guy I’ve yet to see in Mali- he was at least 6’6” and easily 3 times the size of a typical Malian. His office was strewn with papers on every surface. The ivronnage (rainy season) had finally started with weekend, so he told us matter-of-factly that he was simply drying out all his important documents. He told us the government was already taking care of a trash truck for Sikoroni (one of our projects is a sanitation project to clean up all of the plastic and all the other refuse that lines each city street), something which the sanitation guy had failed to mention. He reassured us- everything in Sikoroni was under control completely, and we only had to wait until mid-July before the city streets would be instantaneously cleaned up- as his official documents fluttered across his desk on to the floor.

3) Director of the CAMs organization for orphans in Sikoroni. We walked down the muddy streets of Sikoroni, completely destroyed by the first rains of the season past a few mango stands, and open gates, revealing courtyards where dinner was in different stages of being cooked. The road was only a short distance from the chaos of the Sikoroni market, and the sounds of the motos and the general bargaining over CFA had not yet faded. We turned right down an unpromising road (now just a massive puddle) and found CAMS. It was a tidy courtyard of protection from the unkempt city streets and garbage. We were confronted by a somewhat startling Tele-tubbies mural as we walked in which invited us into a yard full of foosball tables (Bamako style, in which the soccer players look like large wooden blocks instead of people), board games, and enclosed by bright murals lining each wall. A group of beaming young men greeted us, and invited us in to meet the director, a solemn man, with a heavily lined face though not more than thirty, with a short, pious beard. After we introduced ourselves, he began to speak thoughtfully and slowly about his organization. He opened his courtyard not only to orphans, but to all the children of Sikoroni- it was the only place which they had to play with games instead of picking through the garbage-strewn streets to find things to play with. He worked with about 80 kids, he recruited children to the center and helped prepare them to enroll in school. Once they were enrolled, he followed up with them consistently, making sure that they attended school, got along with their teachers, and most importantly, that they were healthy enough to continue their studies.
Since malnutrition is such a prevalent issue, the center provided one large meal every day. Each educator who worked there would donate a large dish to create a midday feast that was shared each day with each child who needed it. This way, they could take their lunch break from school at the center, and return for their afternoon classes. The director told us matter-of-factly that the food was not donated by any organization, but that it was always out of his own pocket, and that it was for the orphans who needed it.
Last night, Ben and I went to the French cultural center (tubabo center of Bamako) to see a movie, and then got dinner after at the restaurant at the French center with a few other Tubabos. Taboleh in Mali was delicious- its great to have an occasional dinner without worrying that a fish head will appear unannounced in the next spoonful of rice.

Around the Courtyard

Did laundry this weekend- got yelled at by the grandmother in the house for wasting water and money. Malians have a special technique of washing which requires you to completely soak yourself because you have to scrub so vigorously. I’m pretty sure I completely failed at the scrubbing technique so now its sort of hard to walk around because all my clothes are extremely stiff since the Sebenike (laundry soap) is impossible to get out.


<--Aba helping grind the millet in our courtyard with Batuma, the bonne (my favorite).






I had successfully convinced myself that in Mali, lizards completely replaced rats and mice. I was completely assured that even though lizards scuttle in the same way that rats do across the courtyard, they are much cleaner and are the sub-Saharan version of rats. And, I was completely wrong. Rats most definitely exist, especially in Sikoroni and more startling, even when I’m taking a bucket shower in the nyegen (outdoor bathroom), I’m not even truly alone because there are plenty of cockroaches for company.
This morning I helped Batuma- the bonne (servant), who Fifi treats more like a slave- prepare rice for lunch. We sifted through an entire bucket of rice, searching for the elusive grayish looking grains that apparently weren’t good quality. Since everything is going to be covered in a gumbo (okra) sauce (which looks like a greenish-grey baby food, but possibly more stringy) anyway, I don’t exactly understand the purpose of spending hours sifting through the rice. But Fifi had plenty of comments to make, and she frowned over our shoulders, literally pointing out little grey spots in the rice that we had missed.