The Homestay

When you turn on the television and see those commercials advertising that "for the price of a cup of coffee each day, you can save a poor starving African child's life," you tend to get the impression that all Africans living in rural areas have squalid living conditions, are malnourished, and miserable all the time.  I've spent the last 2 weeks living in some similar conditions in the 3rd poorest country in the world, and while there is obviously a poor food and sanitation situation,  I have seen very little misery, and nothing that resembles the constant pain that Bono and Sally Struthers have been advertising to the West as what dominates Africa.  What I have seen is playing children, hard-working farming families, some of the friendliest hospitality imaginable, and overall one of the most illuminating 2 weeks of my life.

Tuesday morning 2 weeks ago, I awoke with a painful speech-impediment inducing canker sore on my tounge only to find that the previous night's monsoon had swept all my newly washed clothing off the clothesline and into the wet, muddy ground.  All this meant that as we left that day to our Homestay sites where we were going be learning Bambara, the Malian language, and culture while living with a local family, I had no clean clothes and couldn't talk without feeling pain.  Once we hit the road to our villages, I was feeling better.  The driver told us that the five of us going to our site, a town called Marako, were being spoiled since the community had slaughtered 2 goats in our honor.  It only got more exciting as we arrived at the village to see most of the community of 900 people having a whole elaborate welcome party with traditional music, dancing, and welcome speeches.  It was the best possible welcoming.  Afterwards, we were introduced to the families we would be staying with and went off with them to our homes.

In my compound, where the whole extended family lives, I was taken to my home, which is a room with a bed and some pre-supplied Peace Corps-issued goodies like mosquito nets, lanterns, sheets, and 2 buckets, one to hold our pump-water for drinking, and one for us to use as we have our bucket-baths.  The rest of the family, grandparents, parents, children, aunts, siblings, and wives, all live in different houses in the compound.  The buildings are made of cement with corrogated metal roofs, and there are seperate mud-brick and thatched-roof kitchens and storage sheds.  We also have donkeys, goats, chickens, dogs, and a rooster who I think is sick, because rather than a triumphant Cock-a-doodle-dooo! to wake up to, the sound he makes is more like a car engine failing to start.

Within the first day, I had been given a new Malian name: Able Samake, the same name as the family patriarch and the youngest son, who I, in the interest of cross-cultural exchange, have taken to calling Michael Jackson because of his enthusiastic dance moves.  Explaining the significance of his name was difficult, as was getting the family to learn the immense impact Mr. Jackson has had on American pop culture ("Michael Jackson bE donke.  Donke togo Moonwalk.").  Once that had been established, the following days only saw an increase in cultural sharing.  Most of our days have been occupied by learning Bambara and little snippets of Malian culture.  

Some interesting rules of Mali: Never use your left hand for anything involving food or greetings - that hand is saved for post-bathroom cleanup using the teapot-bidet called a "salidaga."  Women never whistle, and men don't at night.  If you dig holes in the ground, you will be thought a sorcerer and regarded with suspicion.  The Earth does not spin - if it did, how come I never wake up on the other side of the room? (Think about it.)  Chairs, first dibs on food, and anything else that requires priority go to guests, and then elders.  Children are very much at the bottom of the pecking order, but that doesn't mean we don't love 'em.  Dogs and any other animals, though, are regularly beaten, or chased into the bathroom while someone is using it.  Tea is drank regularly, and often, and is a very long process that yields about 3 sips per person.  One of these days, I'll post the process here and you can introduce it to your friends and then they will feel so cool to be friends with you and your ethnic worldliness.

Life in the village is fun.  Marako mostly consists of farmers, and that is what most people do all day during the current rainy season.  Nights, I hang out with other PCVs in Marako, or out front of my host father Seydou's butiki, or general store, and socialize with whichever random townsfolk stop by.  Slowly but surely, I am more and more able to carry on small conversations, and the last night there, I was talking about religion in Mali and motorcycles.  Food is another adventure here.  Breakfast is always a loaf of bread slathered in mayonnaise, lunch is rice with a peanut or fish or something else sauce which is occasionally good and usually at least edible.  Dinner has mostly been fantastic and consisting of eggs, french fries, potatoes, or vegetable stew.  It's not well-rounded nourishment, but it's edible and that's good.  I have tried "to," a dish of millet porridge and okra paste which is the national dish of Mali, and it is easily the worst possible food ever.  I didn't even know people could eat things that bad, but I suppose Malians are raised on it, and I give them credit for having stomachs of steel.

On a more serious note, I mentioned earlier that life isn't as bad as people usually imagine.  It's true, though there are problems.  Diseases are plentiful and easily acquired, malnourishment is rampant and babies with bloated bellies are probably the ones who don't live until the life expectancy of 50.  But, the kids play with me and laugh a lot, and while by Western standards they live terribly, you wouldn't get quite that response from them.  One thing I've learned is that those sad looking pictures of unsmiling Malian children are very misleading.  Africans simply don't smile in pictures.  They'll be screaming for me to get out my camera and get all excited, and then as soon as I aim, the adopt the "poor sad African child look" that we all see on TV.  It's actually a little bit offensive how much the West exploits the image of an impovershed Africa to pay for its charities, while ignoring the culturally rich and happy parts of the continent that is full of great people.  How miserable could a people be when they go back and forth for a full minute greeting each other every time they see a friend, and even strangers are waved to with:

-Hi, good morning!

-Good morning!

-How's your day!

-Only peace!

-How's your family?

-They're all fine!

-Yeah!

-Yeah!

Mali is not perfect, and I'm still nervous about the prospect of 2 years here, but I'm sure I will get to the point where I am happier staying than quitting and it will be worthwhile.  I called Dad one night and while he was talking about how I only get one body and nothing is guaranteed, my bed broke, I fell on the floor and lost phone reception.  That kind of irony is the reason I am happy here.  It may not be easy or fun all the time, but it won't be like anything else I ever do.  See you next time, and keep in touch.