I was reading through the journal I’ve kept (not very periodically) to record my experience in Mali. I came to my first entry and wanted to share it here. It seems to speak for how I am feeling in the midst of my last week.
“It is the night before we leave for our sites. I am sitting under the hanger looking at the empty chairs around me, the hanger where our first PCT meetings took place. It’s always pleasantly surreal to go back to this familiar place that was so unfamiliar in the beginning.
There is a map of Mali painted on the front wall of the hanger. Green, yellow and red the color
of Mali’s flag. The yellow part has a map of Mali pained on it. I remember the first night we arrived to Tubani So (our training center) and looking at the map—the regional capitals painted on and noticing how huge Mali really is. Now that map is full of post-its with each volunteer’s name and their site. Scattered across the whole country just like we will be and piled together side by side. I look at everyone’s name and it makes me think about what the next couple of years are going to be like for us. Names and sites on the wall-what are our lives going to look like?
I am getting that calm feeling I always get at transitional moments such as this. Really though, I think there is a fearful anticipation all of us are having tonight. It’s just so hard to expect too much—just so unrealistic. I am preparing myself for the reality that this is going to be one of the hardest parts of my life. I know I am going to feel inadequate and frustrated and then at moments feel so empowered by what is in front of me. What I want is to be happy and to have real people in my life that I can work with and make a life with—that’s the core. And just thinking, this is it, this is going to be your life what are you going to do with it? Through all of training and home stay, I don’t think I can really say that I am ready. I want to be ready but I am scared. I sort of want to run back in time. I want to know that I am going to be okay.”
Two years later… I think I’m okay.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
All dogs go to heaven..even a Malian one like Boo.
It’s down to my last week in Mali. I don’t know how many times I have said how crazy this is—but yes, it is all pretty crazy.
The biggest news is that Boo my canine companion for my two years of service decided to peace out on me. Yes folks—Boo Sagara died last week. I am still a little shocked about it and get moments when I really miss him. The odd thing is how he died. I came home last Friday and noticed he was walking in circle—yes very odd. I called for him and he seemed to try to get to me but couldn’t because he keep walking in circles to the left. I got some help from other volunteers with vetenary contacts in America and then went on to contact the vet from town. He was just as confused as the rest of us. The days to follow were horrible to watch. Boo just got worse and his whole sense of space and direction was deteriating to the point where he was just bumping into things and could not even stay still enough to eat. I ended up feeding him toh from my hand to his month and pouring water from a kettle to let him drink. By day three, he was not able to get up and was basically paralyzed. The nights were horrible; he was crying and moaning until morning. By the end of the weekend, I made the decision that putting Boo to sleep was the best thing for him. He was in so much pain and personally, I could not take seeing him the way he was. I talked to the vet and gathered that he had something to put Boo to sleep and we planned for Wednesday morning. The night before, Boo was pretty much out of it. He was defecating on himself and gathering thick spit around his month. By morning, I work up to see that Boo had passed. I was relived that he died naturally. Rob and Musa helped bury Boo and Marium laid yellow flowers. All my close Malian friends were great about Boo passing. They gave him blessings—May his soul rest, May he be forgiven for his faults. I even got calls from women in my women’s group asking about Boo. Then of course the other PCVs who stuck around with me through the whole event. Boo made his mark with Peace Corps Volunteers—not always the best but he was such a character.
Boo was a monster of a dog—he used to chase fruit sellers, drag kids’ clothes and pretty much bark at any Malian coming towards my house. He liked to sleep in the most opportune places: on top of my table, right in the middle of the kitchen floor (even as I am cooking and having to step over him every time), or up against me between my mosquito net tent. He would follow PCVs into town and walk into places like he owned them—cyber cafes, stores, stranger’s homes. Then of course there was his way of running around my concession getting worked up by any loud noise outside my gate. He had amazing speed and even hopped at times over 2 feet high, it was quite a sight! Local kids were terrified of Boo and yes this is not nice but it was soften funny to see him chase kids down the road or tug on a boy’s pair of pants to get hold of a soccer ball. It was all fun and games right?
Yes so that is the story of Boo. The thing is, I have never been the dog loving type of girl. My sisters and friends know I am personally scared of the dog my family has at home. I was even surprised at myself of having Boo in the first place—not to mention in Mali. But I guess that’s way he is so special to me. He is another reminder of my life here and was a learning and growing experience. Malians tell me Boo knew I was leaving so he died because he couldn’t take being with another owner. I don’t know about that but it leaves me with another part of my life here that Ive had to say goodbye to.
The biggest news is that Boo my canine companion for my two years of service decided to peace out on me. Yes folks—Boo Sagara died last week. I am still a little shocked about it and get moments when I really miss him. The odd thing is how he died. I came home last Friday and noticed he was walking in circle—yes very odd. I called for him and he seemed to try to get to me but couldn’t because he keep walking in circles to the left. I got some help from other volunteers with vetenary contacts in America and then went on to contact the vet from town. He was just as confused as the rest of us. The days to follow were horrible to watch. Boo just got worse and his whole sense of space and direction was deteriating to the point where he was just bumping into things and could not even stay still enough to eat. I ended up feeding him toh from my hand to his month and pouring water from a kettle to let him drink. By day three, he was not able to get up and was basically paralyzed. The nights were horrible; he was crying and moaning until morning. By the end of the weekend, I made the decision that putting Boo to sleep was the best thing for him. He was in so much pain and personally, I could not take seeing him the way he was. I talked to the vet and gathered that he had something to put Boo to sleep and we planned for Wednesday morning. The night before, Boo was pretty much out of it. He was defecating on himself and gathering thick spit around his month. By morning, I work up to see that Boo had passed. I was relived that he died naturally. Rob and Musa helped bury Boo and Marium laid yellow flowers. All my close Malian friends were great about Boo passing. They gave him blessings—May his soul rest, May he be forgiven for his faults. I even got calls from women in my women’s group asking about Boo. Then of course the other PCVs who stuck around with me through the whole event. Boo made his mark with Peace Corps Volunteers—not always the best but he was such a character.
Boo was a monster of a dog—he used to chase fruit sellers, drag kids’ clothes and pretty much bark at any Malian coming towards my house. He liked to sleep in the most opportune places: on top of my table, right in the middle of the kitchen floor (even as I am cooking and having to step over him every time), or up against me between my mosquito net tent. He would follow PCVs into town and walk into places like he owned them—cyber cafes, stores, stranger’s homes. Then of course there was his way of running around my concession getting worked up by any loud noise outside my gate. He had amazing speed and even hopped at times over 2 feet high, it was quite a sight! Local kids were terrified of Boo and yes this is not nice but it was soften funny to see him chase kids down the road or tug on a boy’s pair of pants to get hold of a soccer ball. It was all fun and games right?
Yes so that is the story of Boo. The thing is, I have never been the dog loving type of girl. My sisters and friends know I am personally scared of the dog my family has at home. I was even surprised at myself of having Boo in the first place—not to mention in Mali. But I guess that’s way he is so special to me. He is another reminder of my life here and was a learning and growing experience. Malians tell me Boo knew I was leaving so he died because he couldn’t take being with another owner. I don’t know about that but it leaves me with another part of my life here that Ive had to say goodbye to.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
c'est la vie
C’est la vie and the French cliché becomes the motto for my last month in Mali. Yes folks, its been two years already! I did not know what I thought this part of my service-this part of my life was going to be like and now that its here…I am sort of at a loss of words. I just got back from our close of service conference in Mopti, three days of reflection of two years of service. It was pretty surreal and I still can not believe I have a month left here.
I realize also that I have not blogged as much as I had wanted—I guess that’s another effect of reflection, saying your what ifs and I should haves. This is just to let folks know that I will be back in California by August 25th. The plan is to just be back and be with the family and live those California dreams that have alluded me these past years.
I’ll keep folks posted. Peace
I realize also that I have not blogged as much as I had wanted—I guess that’s another effect of reflection, saying your what ifs and I should haves. This is just to let folks know that I will be back in California by August 25th. The plan is to just be back and be with the family and live those California dreams that have alluded me these past years.
I’ll keep folks posted. Peace
c'est la vie
C’est la vie and the French cliché becomes the motto for my last month in Mali. Yes folks, its been two years already! I did not know what I thought this part of my service-this part of my life was going to be like and now that its here…I am sort of at a loss of words. I just got back from our close of service conference in Mopti, three days of reflection of two years of service. It was pretty surreal and I still can not believe I have a month left here.
I realize also that I have not blogged as much as I had wanted—I guess that’s another effect of reflection, saying your what ifs and I should haves. This is just to let folks know that I will be back in California by August 25th. The plan is to just be back and be with the family and live those California dreams that have alluded me these past years.
I’ll keep folks posted. Peace
I realize also that I have not blogged as much as I had wanted—I guess that’s another effect of reflection, saying your what ifs and I should haves. This is just to let folks know that I will be back in California by August 25th. The plan is to just be back and be with the family and live those California dreams that have alluded me these past years.
I’ll keep folks posted. Peace
Monday, March 24, 2008
Gifts
Gift giving—a love language my good friend Jess told me way back during our collage days. She said that people are accustomed to receiving and giving love in different ways—each person having their own type of love language: gift giving, quality time, acts of service, words of encouragement, physical touch. I think I am finding out that Mali’s love language is acts of service.
Acts of service in the hospitality and humble beauty of the people I have been lucky enough to be around. Malians do not have much. Many of the people I am surrounded by do not live extravagantly by any means but they are comfortable. And yet there is always the act of going out of there way to make a guest feel welcome and comfortable. You are giving a seat right away, a cup of water to drink, complements on your dress and how happy they are to see you. It’s a great welcoming.
I was feeling a little off a couple of weeks ago and could not pin it down to any particular reason or event. Maybe it’s the end of service blues –but I feel I hardly qualify for that since we have about 6 months left. I will consider myself close to the end of my service once we are in June. Its March now—there is still a long way to go. Anyway back to feeling “off.” Things at my service and the women’s cooperative are going well. Nothing particularly exciting at the office but my homologue and I did agree that we will start jogging in the evenings. He just had his blood presser checked and did not get very good news. So we are going to start evening jogs from his house to his corn fields. I am looking forward to it since Katie and I have put our running on hold due to the heat. The evenings will be cool and I think it will be a good and healthy challenge for my homologue to get fit.
I spent time at Madame Diawara’s last night to celebrate the prophet Mohammed’s birthday. She is the president of the women’s cooperative I’ve been working with. I have been meaning to spend some time with Madame Diawara in the last couple of months. After getting all caught up with putting the design on and then heading to Kita for a tech exchange training, I only get to see her at the Cooperative and not have any down time so last night was a nice get together. While sitting on her porch and contributing to dinner by being assigned the cutting of the onions and tomatoes, I forgot how “normal” her life is. Normal? What do I mean by that? Well its just that I am looking at this Malian lady preparing dinner, watching her four year old monster of a son, stopping to breast feed her newborn and still making space to watch the rest of her favorite Brazilian soap opera. This is just like anything I would see in America—just that its in Mali. I think I have the tendency to forget that I cannot contextualize things in an American frame. This is life in Mali for this particular family and at this given time, I have been given the opportunity to be part of it—to observe. The dinner is one of the best meals yet-grilled fish in a salad of boiled potatoes, carrots, peas and lettuce. How did I get this lucky. We sit and while watching her menace of a son overfill a cup full of water, spilling it in giant plops then spinning around slashing the rest of the water on his mattress and front door, we talk about disciplining children, the effectiveness of spanking and how difficult it is to raise children in any culture. Yes just normal and I was not only happily full at the end of the evening but was also lucky enough to have quality time with a woman I have so much respect for.
The plan was to go home but as I was riding out to the dirt road I saw all these people just walking around in the streets. Night time in the city is pretty busy for the most part but last night there was extra hustle. Women were walking in bunches, their heads wrapped and prayer beads in hand coming from or going to mosque for the late night prayer marathon. I took a quick turn and decided to ride over to Koro’s house. Koro, another member of the women’s cooperative is married to a distant relative of the ruler of Sikasso, in addition to a nice family history, she also gets to live in the family’s old house which is this deep red mud building with little hallways, staircases and a mosque—which was the meeting point for last night’s prayer session.
Its dark for most of the ride besides the motos that decide to come out of nowhere and thank goodness I had my headlamp. I am hitting speed down a little hill when I wonder if I am even going the right way—then I see the lights and of course the prayer call over the microphone. There are people gathered in a half circle with men in the front and women in the outer circle. I get a little closer to see the front is occupied with silver bearded men dressed in white Muslim attire. Behind them are the small garabu boys—looking obediently at their small chalkboard of koranic writing. I park my bike in the back, greet the family staring (wide-eyed) at me and call Koro. We meet in the back and as any great hostess, she offers her seat which I do not take and instead sit beside a woman and her little daughters on a mat. Beside Koro’s occasional check-ups, I spend the next two hours just sitting and listening to everything going on around me. There is a main speaker telling stories through the microphone, the group of older men leading people in prayer and kids running around. I find myself lost in the drone of the prayers, the clinging of coins and the humming of motos. I look up and see that the whole area is not only lit up by the fluorescent light but by a beautiful bright round moon. I am happy that I decided to take a detour and explore the night. I am happy that I was given a chance to receive a wonderful act of love from the Mali where I found myself under a bright beautiful moon.
Acts of service in the hospitality and humble beauty of the people I have been lucky enough to be around. Malians do not have much. Many of the people I am surrounded by do not live extravagantly by any means but they are comfortable. And yet there is always the act of going out of there way to make a guest feel welcome and comfortable. You are giving a seat right away, a cup of water to drink, complements on your dress and how happy they are to see you. It’s a great welcoming.
I was feeling a little off a couple of weeks ago and could not pin it down to any particular reason or event. Maybe it’s the end of service blues –but I feel I hardly qualify for that since we have about 6 months left. I will consider myself close to the end of my service once we are in June. Its March now—there is still a long way to go. Anyway back to feeling “off.” Things at my service and the women’s cooperative are going well. Nothing particularly exciting at the office but my homologue and I did agree that we will start jogging in the evenings. He just had his blood presser checked and did not get very good news. So we are going to start evening jogs from his house to his corn fields. I am looking forward to it since Katie and I have put our running on hold due to the heat. The evenings will be cool and I think it will be a good and healthy challenge for my homologue to get fit.
I spent time at Madame Diawara’s last night to celebrate the prophet Mohammed’s birthday. She is the president of the women’s cooperative I’ve been working with. I have been meaning to spend some time with Madame Diawara in the last couple of months. After getting all caught up with putting the design on and then heading to Kita for a tech exchange training, I only get to see her at the Cooperative and not have any down time so last night was a nice get together. While sitting on her porch and contributing to dinner by being assigned the cutting of the onions and tomatoes, I forgot how “normal” her life is. Normal? What do I mean by that? Well its just that I am looking at this Malian lady preparing dinner, watching her four year old monster of a son, stopping to breast feed her newborn and still making space to watch the rest of her favorite Brazilian soap opera. This is just like anything I would see in America—just that its in Mali. I think I have the tendency to forget that I cannot contextualize things in an American frame. This is life in Mali for this particular family and at this given time, I have been given the opportunity to be part of it—to observe. The dinner is one of the best meals yet-grilled fish in a salad of boiled potatoes, carrots, peas and lettuce. How did I get this lucky. We sit and while watching her menace of a son overfill a cup full of water, spilling it in giant plops then spinning around slashing the rest of the water on his mattress and front door, we talk about disciplining children, the effectiveness of spanking and how difficult it is to raise children in any culture. Yes just normal and I was not only happily full at the end of the evening but was also lucky enough to have quality time with a woman I have so much respect for.
The plan was to go home but as I was riding out to the dirt road I saw all these people just walking around in the streets. Night time in the city is pretty busy for the most part but last night there was extra hustle. Women were walking in bunches, their heads wrapped and prayer beads in hand coming from or going to mosque for the late night prayer marathon. I took a quick turn and decided to ride over to Koro’s house. Koro, another member of the women’s cooperative is married to a distant relative of the ruler of Sikasso, in addition to a nice family history, she also gets to live in the family’s old house which is this deep red mud building with little hallways, staircases and a mosque—which was the meeting point for last night’s prayer session.
Its dark for most of the ride besides the motos that decide to come out of nowhere and thank goodness I had my headlamp. I am hitting speed down a little hill when I wonder if I am even going the right way—then I see the lights and of course the prayer call over the microphone. There are people gathered in a half circle with men in the front and women in the outer circle. I get a little closer to see the front is occupied with silver bearded men dressed in white Muslim attire. Behind them are the small garabu boys—looking obediently at their small chalkboard of koranic writing. I park my bike in the back, greet the family staring (wide-eyed) at me and call Koro. We meet in the back and as any great hostess, she offers her seat which I do not take and instead sit beside a woman and her little daughters on a mat. Beside Koro’s occasional check-ups, I spend the next two hours just sitting and listening to everything going on around me. There is a main speaker telling stories through the microphone, the group of older men leading people in prayer and kids running around. I find myself lost in the drone of the prayers, the clinging of coins and the humming of motos. I look up and see that the whole area is not only lit up by the fluorescent light but by a beautiful bright round moon. I am happy that I decided to take a detour and explore the night. I am happy that I was given a chance to receive a wonderful act of love from the Mali where I found myself under a bright beautiful moon.
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