San Boren {part I}

Three days after most of Mali and Muslims worldwide gathered to pray and celebrate the end of the holy month of Ramadan the village decided to join. The new moon was finally seen. Apparently, if the new moon is not spotted by the Imam of the village or other ‘deciders’, than the prayer and feast cannot be held. It says so in the Qur’an (I’m told). So, on October 1st, the men and the more religious women of the village gathered at the exposed bedrock on the cliff between three of the family ‘quartiers’ dressed in their finest ‘tu gara’ (lit. big clothes) to pray and end the days of fasting. Here it is called San Boren, “Little Feast”.
Because I am forgetful and somewhat of a procrastinator, I failed to put together a nice Malian/Dogon outfit for the occasion. This usually requires a lot of fabric (hence “big clothes). Big is better, and if you’re a Peulh man, double it. The fabric should be brand new if possible, in fact the more creases from the packaging the better. Top it off with a rainbow umbrella, yellow tinted sunglasses, the ubiquitous prayer beads and a new fez (the popular one this year says 200E – not a tax document I realized but a design error).



Well, needless to say I looked like a bum. I had been without clean clothes and I opted for a yellow hued blue polo shirt and my cleanest dirty pants. However, I did have some Malian flair – a farmers beanie that looks like the type of winter hat that Charlie Brown’s mother would buy him, and my trusty turban/ scarf/ travel pillow/ towel that I never go anywhere without, or in other words my Linus blanket. So, Charlie Brown hat, Linus blanket, looking a little like Pigpen and – hey, I’m also growing peanuts. Coincidence?
Hadji and Binta would not stand for it. I had to represent the family, the Ba-Hassimi clan, and I was not going anywhere dressed like a bum. The facial expression from Binta reminded me a little of my mother’s when I would go to high school looking like I was going to jump a train to Reggae on the River. Hadji disappeared for a moment asking loudly where his other clothes were. Binta went in the house and emerged with a giant green tent leaving Hadji mumbling indistinctively in the darkness of the windowless rock house. It looked like a huge poncho. I slipped it on and marveled at the length. It was way too long on my 6 foot self and Hadji must be 5’7”. I bunched it up gently, lifting the excess up to my abdomen and we hustled to the prayer ceremony. I felt like a bride in her gown rushing to or away from her wedding.




Three or four rows of prayer rugs covered the sandstone. I joined the men at the back row of the ceremony while the women let out high pitched calls augmented by their fluttering tongues, something like a Norteno fiesta cry, but more reverent if that’s possible. The women do this for the dapper men. I felt honored and a little less foolish. The sexes are separated for the prayer ceremony so I sat as close to the women as I could while still being with the men. The sun was rising higher and we squinted at the Imam under a nest of umbrellas as the prayers began.
I have been to Muslim prayer ceremonies before and have been to the mosques of the village with friends and my host family. I still feel like I just do what the guy next to me is doing. That didn’t mean that I wasn’t performing my own type of individual worship on this particular day. True to my nationality and my generation I went with the flow while introspectively practicing my own individualism: patching together bits and pieces of Islam, Christianity and Eastern philosophy with a soundtrack by Bach and M. Ward and strangely... narrated by Alec Baldwin.
(photos are actually from last year, I forgot my camera this time)

Caga III

"anybody wanna peanut?"

The rains have come to Mali. This means all able bodies are called to the plow. To the fields they go to sow the millet, sorghum, sesame and peanuts for the next year’s subsistence. This initially left me behind in the village with the elderly and the young. I’m not complaining, I can tolerate children for an allotted amount of time and the elderly are some of my favorite people and best friends in village. However, I felt the need to participate and understand the way of life here. I worked on a farm back in Utah as well, to the disbelief of the men in village – “They farm in America?” So, after a brief visit to Bamako to ensure that I was healthy enough to continue service (mid-service check up, I passed) I asked the chief, Hassimi, if I could have a little land to cultivate.
Arrangements were made and I headed off with Alhadji, the chief’s eldest son, and the underrated family donkey, down the cut stone path that switchbacks down the cliff to the valley. The sandy orange dunes temporarily stabilized by the flash growth of grasses create ideal conditions for peanut farming. And O did I have peanuts. When I first arrived here everyone gave me sacks of peanuts as welcoming gifts. I spent the day prior shelling enough to plant about an quarter hectare.
We found the old worn plow and other minimal farming equipment stashed under a tree near the family plot. Alhadji’s son’s, Boucari (+/- 7), and Amadou, (+/-10), spent nearly half an hour chasing down the oxen while Hadji and I broadcasted the seed peanuts in the area that was going to be plowed. Every so often I’d watch the boys corner the longhorn in a gully only to be thwarted by the cunning bull. Hadji would shout unintelligible advice (from my perspective) to the lads until he finally cursed them and ran over to round up the old ox.
Now, there’s an interesting relationship that I have with many of the men in village. They will NOT let me do manual labor. I couldn’t figure it out for a while but I think I have some leads now. At first I thought they just didn’t think I could manage hard work with my delicate Western hands and sensibilities. I think I’ve convinced them otherwise by now so that leads to my next hunch: They view me as ‘outside’ of the farming class. The higher status you have in Mali the less you move. The big shots, the patrons, rarely lift a finger. Other ‘yes men’ types do their work for them. This makes me feel uncomfortable so again I usually insist that I do the work myself or at least try to. There is one more reason and perhaps it’s the most understandable. They see me as someone who has a talent or a skill. In a village of 700 or so perhaps 100 can read and write and most of the literate are under 25. It’s not that literacy and education intimidate them but they want to show me that they have a skill that they’ve been honing for their whole lives. They can wield a hoe like a surgeon can use a scalpel. I can read and write and do the bureaucratic, analyzing type of work that American education has trained me to do and they can cultivate and perform amazing feats of strength and endurance and they’re proud of that. That doesn’t mean that I’ll sit back and let Hadji plant all my peanuts. I wanted a part of the glory, part of the satisfaction that only hard work can bring. So, I allowed him to show me the ‘right’ way to farm and I took the joking laughs when I got pulled around by the ox plow like a puppy. Then I surrendered the plow and let Hadji finish the job proper.



When we had finished plowing I pulled all the weeds out of the plot with help from young Amadou. I had to keep reminding him not to eat the peanuts we had just sowed. He would be pulling out loose grass and I’d hear him say under his breath, “Ooo, a peanut!” and he’d eat it and I’d remind him of our goal. A few moments later… “Eh? A peanut!” Sigh.
It was a good day out in the fields ending in a magnificent thunderstorm that made the greens of the Malian spring even more vibrant. I had forgotten how amazing it feels to get dirty in the red earth and soaked by a cool rain.

Abolutions

I like this photograph because it shows the presence of Islam in northern Mali and depicts everyday life here. This is a man preforming abolutions before prayer with the ubiquitous plastic 'salidaga' or kettle in the door way of his small shop in Mopti. Check out the Arabic graffiti on the door.

Caga {part II}

The Dogon do not name the village well or the broken pump (now the rusted, village equivalent to the garden gnome). However, the spring has a name, a formal name: Caga. It is one of the first words I learned when I came to live here and the first place I visited. It serves as the primary water source for at least two of the six quartiers of the village – approximately 200 people. It is the laundromat and public bath, a place where stories are told and where gossip is exchanged among the women. Children swim and play their carved flutes into the echo of the grotto. It is the foundation of the community. In fact, it may be the sole reason why the village exists.

“The past lies embedded in the features of the earth,” writes Keith Basso, an Anthropologist who lived and studied the Western Apache in southeast Arizona. “[It] shapes the way they think…Knowledge of places is therefore closely linked to knowledge of self, including one’s own community and to securing a confident sense of who one is as a person”. This examination of place – of home really – can be applied to people across the globe. Yes, even suburban middle class Americans like myself. Of course, the further we remove ourselves from communities – such as not knowing our neighbors, isolating ourselves in the comforts of the digital age – and the more we live above or beyond our ecosystems that surround us, the less this applies. I still believe that deep meaning of place is there in all of us. It’s there under the surface. It’s what we long for. For the Dogon, place and identity (both individual and communal) are closely linked, inseparable, and the collective memory of the Spring helps to shape this community.

Perhaps this is a contributing factor to why the pump sits forgotten, why women and children wind down the steep rocky trails that have taken lives from families, why, even now at the tail end of the dry season when only a few inches of water pool below the spring, people choose to come here rather than pull water from the well to the west of the village. These other places have no memory. They have no work or story involved in their existence.

Communities need to grow and build upon the foundation that has already been laid down. “Your not going to invent a new [village], instead you’re doing a strange archaeology, trying to enhance the old, hidden design”, states Jaime Lerner, the city planner of the Brazilian city of Curitiba, one of the most successful examples of sustainable urban planning in recent years. “You can’t go wrong if the [village] is growing along the trail of memory… [it] is the identity of the [village]”.

rainy season passtime

you would think that after nine months without rain all i would want to do would be to stand in the rain and sing praises. well, i did that. it turns out that it doesn't take much time before you get cold and take shelter. so what do you do on rainy days when you have alot of energy? jumping self-portaits of course! this is one of many that i took one rainy day with my new camera that i just recieved (in one piece)via the surprisingly reliable malian postal service. warning: jumping photos are addictive. just ask any volunteer in the mopti region. they may deny it, but i suspect that an investigation of their pictures would reveal the damning evidence: a suspended pair of feet, an awkward landing, a mass of mid flight hair or a deer-caught-in-the-headlights-late-jump stare.

Caga {part I}

To happen upon the village right now, at the end of the dry hot season, you would find a monochromatic, brittle, lazy landscape mostly devoid of color. The greens of the occasional neem or wild grape tree are exaggerated by the red-brown rock expanse that shifts slightly in the heat, threatening to swallow any cool breeze that may pass. At the edge of the village, the cliff drops abruptly. A sandstone scree joins the dirty tang colored dunes below in the Bonbo valley. Standing on the edge of the cliff you can see the Dogon plain beyond the valley to the south and east stretching through the dusty haze into Burkina. There is a subtle yet intimidating beauty here.

At first glance, nothing here even hints at the possibility of water. However, tucked in the folds and boulders of the eroding escarpment, a small wood grows; a veritable forest compared to its surroundings. A closer look reveals several species of trees not found on the plateau. A tangle of vines wind up the varnished stone walls. The Yellow-Billed Egret, the Canary, the Weaver and the bright turquoise Abyssinian Roller flit in the cool air created by the transpiring grove below. Small birds of prey perch in the high limbs overlooking the chasm. I have been told that monkeys come here in the drought years and that the once sacred caiman hides in the stacked boulders. At the head of the deep arroyo a small spring trickles out of the rock and pools, then disappears only to resurface 50 meters down the wash. This is the preferred water source of the Dogon who live here. They call it “Caga”.

THANK YOU ALL!

The funding goal for the well project in Dogon country was met! And it was only up for 5 days! Wow. Thanks to all who contributed to the project. You are changing the lives of many. When I first came here I was shocked by the amount of time and work that goes into simple everyday tasks that we take for granted. Better access to water is the beginning of a better life for this community. It will improve the health and hygiene of the village as well as free up the time it previously took to haul water long distances. This free time can now be used for small income generating projects, education or just quality down time with friends and family under the neem trees.

The community is very thankful.

dogon back alley

this is me in a slot canyon near where i live

peter and the wolf's "lightness"....

this slays me. this song is so achingly beautiful. it's not very new (2006) but it's new to me... enjoy! click on "peter and the wolf" under my music recommendations for more info and songs.

Dogon Humor

When I was eight years old, I made my entire family laugh at a joke I made one Sunday around the dinner table. The joke I have long forgotten but I remember my oldest sister Annie remarking affectionately “oh…Chris’s first Sunday funny”. I felt a certain pride and acceptance at that moment.
Well, the other day at the small village market I successfully delivered my first joke in Dogon. Sure, I’ve made people in my village laugh before, but not exactly on purpose. Like the time I told someone that they were a certain part of the male anatomy rather than asking them what they were selling, or the first time my neighbor saw me without my shirt on (that was kind of a blow to my confidence). However, this time I thought out the joke, executed and got a laugh. Laughter is many things. On this occasion, it helped me feel accepted here.

So if you’re wondering, here’s the joke:

Old man (OM) : Nemben, yala!
Me : Uh huh, njo?
OM : N taga sala. Taga biyeloun.
Me : Kegebe, nko moju. a taga biyeloun?
OM : Aiyo. A ndo taga oso!
Me : Ah… Amba taga sien o!
(Laugher ensues)

Pretty funny, right?

"I've Come to Live With You"

I’m sure some of you are wondering if we do any work in the Peace Corps, or if it’s just a 2 year intensive language course in a language that no else has ever heard of. Well, the rumors are not true. We do work quite hard here regardless of our skeptics (Robert Strauss and maybe Noah, haha). As I have probably stated before, a lot of our work is what we call cultural exchange. I know, it sounds like some new age 1st step to gaining insight into the mysterious peoples of so and so, or a clever way of making us feel better when the work is not going as planned. But really, this is important. We live here. We eat and cook with our neighbors often eating things we never dreamed would (and eventually liking some of it). We defecate in pits dug in our back yards. We have no electricity, no running water. We try so, so hard to understand the language and cultural taboos. We try to put our selves in the position of the people we are ultimately trying to help. Story break:

A villager falls into a hole he can’t climb out of. Later, a missionary walks by. The villager explains his plight, and the missionary throws down a bible, saying, “See you at church”.
An NGO worker walks by. The villager explains again and the NGO worker (not understanding completely) throws down a wad of money and walks away.
A Peace Corps volunteer walks by and once again the villager explains the predicament and the volunteer runs off. After a while, the volunteer returns with a backpack and jumps into the hole. “Did you bring something to climb out with?” asks the villager. “No” replies the volunteer, “I’ve come to live with you”.
(thanks to Ryan Shaw for the story)

Living with people and sharing in the experiences of everyday life gives us insight into what needs to happen to improve the quality of life. Often it’s as simple as really understanding and listening to what the village wants and then proceeding from there rather than coming in and basically telling people what they want and need, like so many aid groups seem to do. From my experience, this takes time.
I’ve been in this village for five months and I’m still learning and listening. When I first got here, many people would tell me straight up what they needed. I came to find out that these are usually individual needs, not in the best interest of the community as a whole. I see my position as an information gatherer and a liaison to financial or material support if that step needs to be taken. Peace Corps volunteers are great contacts for groups that want to help but don’t have anyone on the ground such as Doctors without Borders and Engineers without Borders. We usually speak the local language and can identify honest, motivated and influential people in the community.
As for me, I am not a trained development worker, and no, I don’t have specialized technical expertise (unless they need an archaeological site recorded or a guitar lesson). However, when I see the impact that “development” work has in some parts of Mali, I question whether that work is in any way better than the work that volunteers are doing. Throwing money at problems is not a solution. Example: Brand new school, a pump and a garden BUT no teachers= no students…basically a expensive structure to provide shade for the donkeys. Sadly, this is not uncommon.
As you can probably tell, I feel the need to justify the Peace Corps and volunteers serving all over the world. This is mainly in response to an article by Robert Strauss, published in the New York Times in January. He states that Peace Corps should stop recruiting inexperienced college graduates, that the majority of Peace Corps volunteers lack the maturity and professionalism required to be effective development workers. There are some volunteers who do not take their service seriously, but the majority is here to work and learn and listen and experience life in a developing country.
So, how do you get an effective development worker these days? Do you pick from the best schools? From George Washington and American University? Maybe, but personally (and I recognize my bias) I would want a Returned Peace Corps volunteer on my staff at UNICEF, CARE or whatever agency it might be. I would want someone who knows the frustrations and “dark sides” of development work, someone who has been on the ground, knows how hard it is to pull their own water, knows the realities of illnesses in villages, knows the value of ‘do it yourself’, and above all knows how to listen. Peace Corps trains and provides the world with some of the most experienced young development workers who understand the reality and possibilities of developing countries and communities.

Bouganvilla in Tireli

Toubab!

Ethnicity is very important in Mali. It is important for an American as well, but for us our heritage and ethnicity is just a portion of our identity. In Mali it is everything. It determines who you marry, who you do business with, where you live, who your friends are and what you do for a living. Greetings here are quickly followed by i jamu? (Bamanan) or a ciga? (Tomokan): “‘what’s your last name?”, “who are your ancestors?”. The answer to this question sets the tone of the interaction that follows.
I have a Malian name but the color of skin trumps it. Toubab! When I first arrived in Mali I was quickly irritated by the name everyone had for me: toubab. Everywhere I went excited children and cocky young men would scream it at me (and they still do). Toubab is the word that the Bamanan gave to the French colonists. This is one reason why it annoys me. I’m not French. I’m not even of French decent. Malians use it now as a blanket term for a white person. Sometimes someone will just mention it in passing, as if I was not aware that I was white. Other times it is followed by “give me 500 francs”. I found myself muttering things under my breath when people would call me toubab: “n ye Americain ye, toubabu te”: I’m American not French, “in namba wo, a toubab holo”: I live here, don’t call me toubab, and “mun be? i te folike?”: What? You don’t greet?
I get frustrated sometimes but I know it is far from malicious. The children are definitely not to blame, but I believe I have identified the source. I have witnessed mothers teaching their children to call me and other white foreigners toubab. They think it is hilarious. I quickly (and regrettably) jump to a cultural comparison: can you imagine if white mothers taught their children to scream “African” at black people in America? But, this is definitely not America.
I may have found the reason why Malians use race and ethnicity as identification so prominently. When my language skills improved I realized that Malians are, 1: very proud of their ethnicity and 2: think that all others are inferior. Much of this attitude is in jest, something they refer to as “cousinage” or “joking cousins”, but sometimes tempers flare and you see that the Dogon really don’t think much of the Peulh (a nomadic herding people), neither do the Bamanan (in fact, I don’t think anyone likes the Peulh). Again, this is all kind of a joke- after all, I am an adopted Dogon man, so naturally all Peulh men are out to swindle and turn their cows to pasture on Dogon land.
When you greet someone in Mali and they ask your last name (all foreigners get Malian names), most of the time they’ll say you and your people suck, followed by a hearty laugh, a slap on the back and a handshake. Other jokes are used as well including the very popular “you eat beans” joke among the Bamanans…it’s fascinating, it never gets old. This is all a way to avoid conflict I’m told. If you tease each other than no violence or bloodshed will ensue. I don’t quite understand but it seems to work. Mali is one of the most peaceful countries in Africa despite the fact that it is the third poorest and numerous ethnic groups live side by side (seven in my area alone). Even when things get out of control there is a kind of subtle, mutual affability that trumps the anger.
In November some cattle wandered into millet fields outside of Bandiagara. The Dogons in the area rounded up the usual Peulh suspects and brought them to the police where they were locked up for the day. The Dogon then proceeded to make tea and food for those they brought to jail. They joked back and forth through the fence and the next day the Peulh men were released.
I am beginning to understand that offense in not taken when someone is called by his or her ethnicity. It may seem like racism or intolerance at first, cruel and demeaning. Many times people will just shout out the ethnicity of the person as a way to greet them or get their attention, fula gorko! (hey, Peulh man!) is a common one (another cultural contrast: hey Mexican man! would not fly in the states, especially coming from someone that’s not Latino). However, it seems to me that beneath the teasing and predictable banter there lies respect and a sense of pride.
But toubab? Come on…that’s just annoying.

mali and project red

some fellow volunteers helped with this project to raise aids awareness and create income generating jobs for malians in bamako and mopti. check it out here.
if you want to help out you can purchase a bogolan bag from a hallmark near you or here.
and this is sara's blog, who helped out with the project.

this is home.

Elvis!

i really miss new music. that's one thing i crave here en brousse. so whenever i'm near a computer, and have the patience and time to deal with the slow connection (i shouldn't complain- it's great to just be able to get online period), i try to find new musicians or new albums. son of psycho star anthony perkins writes great songs and bears a resemblance to john lennon- maybe it's the glasses. the song is "without love".