My parents have always said that the best part of having kids who move abroad is that it gives you an excuse to visit somewhere new. They were thrilled with the chance to send my oldest sister Simma to study abroad so we could take a family vacation to Edinburgh and go (mini)golfing in St. Andrews. Just as exciting was my other older sister Aviva's stint in Hawaii working on organic farms so we could spend a Passover break eating pesticide-free avocados the size of rugby balls on cheese and matzoh sandwiches while hiking around active volcanos. But it was with a good deal more trepidation that they agreed on a vacation to come see me in Mali, a place that maintains an off-the-beaten-path sense of romantic danger and uncertainty, in spite of – and I'm sure also because of – all my enlightening blog entires.
Deciding that the best thing to do to break in my mom and little sister to Africa before continuing to Mali would be to have them come with my dad to Ghana, the "Africa for Beginners" country, to make sure that continuing on to my mud hut in the bush was something that could be handled. They talked to their travel agent, I talked to my fellow PCVs who had travelled, and we decided on a general itinerary to see X, Y, and Z, hiring a guide to drive us around and help us out. It seemed like a fun plan, and as a well-adjusted resident of West Africa, finally moving to an Anglophone country, I figured I'd feel perfectly at home. So I wasn't expecting it to be there that I experienced some of the strongest culture-shock I've ever felt .
In Mali, I could speak Bambara fluently, I knew the value of the CFA Franc, could bargain accordingly, knew how to converse the way Malians do, eat rice and sauce with my hands, and basically feel like I fit in, aside from the glaring exceptions of my skin color and accent, and the odd unavoidable screw-up that even the most seasoned ex-pats are bound to make. I could walk down the street feeling completely unself-conscious because I knew that as soon as I opened my mouth, I could become, for all intents and purposes, a Malian. In Ghana, I didn't know the language, other than English, I didn't know the currency, the foods, or the proper way of addressing others. To make matters harder, I was staying in the fanciest hotels in every city (per my parents' insistence), I was being driven around by a local professional guide in a big white van, eating almost exclusively at hotels and mostly-white restaurants, and visiting all the typical tourist attractions. The whole country seemed almost like a exhibit in the Smithsonian: "look, but don't touch." I quickly began to feel like the thing I'd begun to pray I'd not soon again become: a Tourist.
I took some steps to make myself feel more like I was still living in the Africa I'd adopted as my home, but I knew deep down that all these steps were merely signs of self-consciousness and denial. I only drank the local tap-water, as opposed to the bottled mineral water the guide supplied us, despite how saline or rotten it sometimes tasted. I bargained hard for souvenir masks at the Artisan's Market, using the same benchmarks of etiquette and price-value I'd learned in Mali, but without the Bambara to give me "street-cred," I ended up feeling less like a savvy shopper and more like a stingy tourist brat. Within a few days, I was aching to get back to Mali, where I could feel the little thrill that comes with knowing that you are home, and can make a snappy retort in an obscure local language to anyone who says otherwise. Thinking about my situation, I began to worry whether I would ever feel comfortable traveling as a tourist again.
That all happened this past January, when I was still a Peace Corps Volunteer. Now I'm not. I COSed (closed my service) August 12 and that night, I was heading to the airport to fly north, over the Sahara, to Tunisia, with fellow PCV Zac for a romp around the country for a few weeks before I meet my little sister Rena at her study-abroad program in Rome and Zac heads home for the LSATs. I'd been excited to see the country from having read through the Lonely Planet's guide. Ancient Roman and Carthaginian ruins, endless desert landscapes, elderly Berbers wearing those red fez caps sitting in cafes all day, Troglodyte pit-homes and four-story-tall Ksour granaries that look otherworldly enough to pass as the setting for George Lucas's vision of Luke Skywalker's homeward in a few of the Star Wars movies.
*Danger Sign #1: Everything I was planning to do in this country was pulled straight from one of the world's best-selling travel guides.
Before I left Mali, I made sure to stock up a lot on AA batteries to power my discern and my camera, since I was worried that Tunisia, like Mali, would only be selling good AA batteries in the capital. The only frame of reference I had to Africa at all was the impoverished West Africa, which other than a few examples like Dakar, Senegal and Accra, Ghana, are places where one would be well advised to come over-prepared as opposed to insufficiently so.
*Danger Sign #2: I was planning to take a lot of pictures.
*Danger Sign #3: I don't speak Arabic or French, Tunisians don't speak English or Bambara, which means that even if we do get some respect from Zac's functional Arabic, and his more useful Fluent French, I'm still playing the "Silent Bob" to Zac's "Jay" and if we are a step above the standard tourist, it still doesn't help me feel any less out of place.
So clearly, all the signs point to me being sucked back into tourist mode. We acted like tourists and in turn, we were treated like tourists. We wanted a tour of the Ksour surrounding the southern desert town of Tataouine, tall, Dr. Suessian structures used as granaries and sometimes homes, and we couldn't even get the Lonely Planet suggested prices for renting a cabbie. We tried to bargain down, but with the combination of a strong tourist industry that allows for high pricing and the fact that we had fairly little in the way of bartering tools (there was usually only one tour guide in sight), we basically had to take what we were given or go through the whole painful process of looking for somebody else. Knowing that this kind of exploitation can happen at all means that we are constantly vigilant against the next perpetrator, and instead of spending all our time enjoying the views of the country and partaking in friendly banter with the locals, we are mostly just paranoid about what that friendly guy in a turban is REALLY trying to peddle.
One of the few saving graces is that unlike Mali, being a tourist in Tunisia is not nearly as brutally soul-wrenching an experience. As a tourist in a desperately poor country, one is constantly hounded to buy souvenirs, give money to beggars, help out "unfortunate" locals who come up with all sorts of rip-off schemes to lighten your wallet ("I was robbed at X festival! I only need you to come to the bank with me and loan me some money. You can give me your phone number and I will pay you back as soon as I get home, I promise!"), or simply pay ridiculous exorbitant fees for everything from taxis to bellhops. Here, bargaining tends to have a very take-it-or-leave-it mentality. If you don't want it for their price, somebody who does won't be far behind. And rather than shopkeepers who follow you down the street to hound you until you go into their store to buy something, they simply put air conditioning units in their shops – a perfect example of passive-aggressive marketing. Overall, compared to Bamako or other Malian cities, I never have a sense of doom when I go out into town that my affluence will precede me and lead me into a constant struggle to avoid taking the Sucker's Bet.
Anyway, we certainly weren't as ridiculous as some of our Western World compatriots. There was the middle-aged man walking through the Tunis Medina, a place cluttered with
mosques, Muslim theology schools, and women buying produce, wearing a button-down shirt but making no use whatsoever of his buttons; rather, he was exposing his corpulent stomach in a manner that's as offensive to a traditional Muslim as seeing girls in flashy miniskirts, who were also in no short supply. Just as bad was the number of people smoking cigarettes in the marketplace. I never would have guessed that it was taboo, but all we had to do was ask one cabbie who gave us a rundown of all the things Tunisians hate that tourists do – something anyone could find out easily. There are also the camera-fiends. Now I hate to stereotype and make cultural generalizations, so I will let one of tour guides do it for me. He saw me taking perhaps an excessive number of pictures and remarked that I was "almost like the Japanese people. They take pictures of EVERYTHING! Are you sure you're not Japanese?" Technically, there is nothing inappropriate about taking pictures, as long as they are not of other people, but the implication from the guide was strong: stop looking at everything through the camera and use your eyes and ears.
Now the fact of the matter is that not every trip I can take can be a two-year Peace Corps stint. I won't be able to count on knowing the language and being able to relate and empathize with the locals everywhere I go. If those are my demands, I won't make it very far beyond JFK International Airport. So why can't I just suck it up, treat the world as my oyster and be a tourist like everyone else? Why can't I just travel the world, see the exciting things there are to see, and hopefully have some serendipitous encounter with a chatty, English speaking local who enjoys being able to expand my mind me as much as I enjoy having my mind expanded?
Because I myself have been the main attraction too. In Matmata, where I began writing this article, there were at least a dozen huge tour busses and countless other small rented or touring company-owned 4x4s that come through the town every day, giving Europeans a look at the exotic Troglodyte houses carved out of caves and pits in the ground, giving a bird's-eye view of the town a moonscape crater-like quality. It's unique, fascinating, and quite photogenic; and it's very easy to forget that this is where Berbers live. This is literally their hometown that hundreds of people every week come to drive through, stare at, take photos of, giggle about, and leave without contributing anything except the odd souvenir or coffee purchase. Seeing this makes me think back to my Niantanso days, where starting two years ago and occurring even as recently as a month ago right before I left my village, I was the tourist attraction. With a combination of having a house situated on the corner of high-traffic intersection and the fact that I never lost my curious New White Guy appeal, I consistently and frequently saw locals and strangers alike strolling past or through my yard, often greeting, sometimes not, and usually making some comment about me and what I was doing which about half the time I could hear and understand. I felt like a zoo animal, or a diorama in the Museum of Natural History, and no amount of social integration ever really changed that.
It was the people who stopped at my house and talked to me who made me feel less like an exhibit. The out-of-towners who came by, asked me my business as a white American in a poor Malian village, and even invited me to come with them to drink tea were much more welcome than the mothers who pointed me out to their kids as they trailed behind, "Hey M'bamisa, look at the white guy! You see the white guy? I think he's sleeping. Bonjour, White Guy!!" They had no reason to think that I understood Bambara, and were probably too shy to come over and find out, but their garish excitement at seeing me at all is just as obnoxious as the flashbulbs of Nikons and the chatter of immodestly mini-skirted women sipping soda bottles on Ramadan in a Muslim country as they pass through the town that has become, through no wish of most of the locals, a living museum piece.
This is what I've come to realize in my travels, and this is what I beg for you all to adopt. I know you only get a couple weeks of vacation time a year and you want to take your tours of the new exotic destination as efficiently as possible. I know the most stress-free way to do this might be hiring a van to take you to all the most photogenic spots around the country inside of a day so you can get back to the hotel with the buffet of familiar Western-style foods in time for dinner. But ask yourself what you are really getting out of this trip? How different is it from watching the Anthony Bourdain special on the Travel Channel? Find locals who speak your language and try to get a more in-depth perspective on what you are seeing. Eat at the hole-in-the-wall restaurant where other tourists fear to tread – if it's freshly cooked, it's safe to eat – and eat the cuisine the way everyone who lives here does, and save a bundle of money on it too. Learn even just a tiny bit of the local language, even if it is just the greetings and thanks you and how to find the restroom. Ask people before photographing them or their homes, and when you do, if possible, engage in conversation so they don't feel like they are being used. Buy souvenirs not at the major artisan's market in the middle of the capital city, but from independent merchants who sell their own products on the roadside by the less-frequented sights, since they charge less, need your business more, and generally sell the same quality products anyway. Learn the standards for dress, PDA, and other general public behavior and abide by it and you will see far fewer glares and snickers directed at you. Do all this, and you will find yourself having a richer, more memorable experience, acquire a deeper understanding of where you went, save a surprising amount of money, and dispel the stereotypes of the Obnoxious American Tourist.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
My Last Blog in Mali
It's my last day in Mali. I've been thinking for a week about ideas for the topic of my Grande Final Opus – the last chapter in the epic saga of "Dembele Be Sho Dun," the story of how I moved to Africa, changed my name to Dembele, and embraced a culture of eating with my hands, making jokes about eating too many beans (hence the blog title making fun of farting, bean-eating Dembeles). I tried to think of a suitable epitaph for leaving my work, leaving Africa, returning to my motherland, and learning how to be an American again. I needed some great statement, a commentary on how the last two years in Africa have effected me, or even better, how I've effected the last two years in Africa. I tried to capstone this point in my life with something that does justice to the weighty epoch I'm living.
But instead, I went out with my fellow PCVs to the bar to get some drinks. Just like I used to do back in The States, just like I will soon be doing again. Later, lying in bed, beer still sloshing around in my belly, I fought with all my might against the spins that accompany lying down while still drunk, and it occurs to me that this too is just like it was back in the US, and I don't plan to learn my lesson before I head home again. And it hit me right then and there, the reason I couldn't think of any great way to express the feeling of finishing this part of my life is that this part of my life isn't really ending. Or more accurately, "this part" of my life doesn't really even exist. Life isn't divided into chapters. Nothing really ends, it just sort of melts into something else that likewise doesn't really "begin" so much as become noticeable. There is no Big Bang in life, it is all just a continuous flow of events that change from one thing into another, like a camera panning from one side of a room to the other, rather than a series of jump-cut shots.
It's not that leaving Mali and finishing the Peace Corps isn't a big deal, or a momentous occasion for me. After all, I did celebrate by buying a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label Scotch. But this is not the end. My life isn't over, my travels aren't over, my relationship with Mali and the people there, African or American, isn't over – not even this blog is over. The only thing ending is my Peace Corps service. I could try to summarize everything I've learned, all the new ways that I will understand the world, but I don't really think I could articulate want I want to convey while I'm just sitting here writing. I'm not even finished learning everything I will learn from doing the Peace Corps. I know there are thoughts that will come to me long after I've left Mali, long after I've arrived in America and only realize months later after when something hits me all of a sudden.
Last night, we were drinking in a bar in Bamako called Appaloosa. It is the most ludicrously contrived American-style institution I've ever seen. All over the bar are statues, memorabilia, posters and wall-hangings of cowboys and Indians, American whiskies, race cars, rifles, flags, and more of the most over-the top Americana possible. Wednesday is Karaoke Night, so we rocked the night away with "Bohemian Rhapsody," Creedence, and more. It was as if in honor of the dozen of us who are on their way back to America, we spent our last big night in Mali being as heavily American as possible. And in this way too, American life has begun before Malian life has even ended.
More accurately, there isn't a difference between American Life and Malian Life. America and Mali are as different as any two countries can be, but it's all part of My Life. It's like going from a best guy friend's house to a girlfriend's and the two have completely dichotomous personalities. You talk with one about favorite athletes and beers, and get nice and cozy with the other, but you love them both to death. I came to Mali partly to get away from American Life for a little while and try something new, but not to completely break off my American Life. More accurately, I am just adding more to My Life as a whole. Besides, part of the mission of the Peace Corps is to draw bridges between America and the areas where volunteers serve (as outlined in a previous entry, "Scoring the Third Goal). I find that I'm doing this, not just externally, telling people how others live, but in my own head, I'm creating new paradigms for how to look at the world. I'm adapting what I've learned and seen in Mali for the last two years, and when I come home, I will be that much more able to deal with the unfamiliar and exotic.
All that said, I'm still pretty psyched to be leaving here. There is a pretty cool sense of accomplishment for having done a complete Peace Corps Service. And there is a reeaallyy cool sense of accomplishment for having finally finished all my paperwork, closed all my projects, returned all my Peace Corps property, picked up my last paycheck, and, as I will soon be doing, getting on an airplane and getting the F*** out of this crazy country! My plans for the immediate future take me and my fellow PCV Zach to Tunisia, Italy to meet my sister, and perhaps even a treck to Munich in time for Oktoberfest. There's a great "graduation" sort of feeling in the air, as we all depart this bizarre version of our lives that took up the last two years. I'll eventually go home at the beginning of October and start trying to, not "start my new life" or even "embark on the next chapter" as the cliches say, but just move forward. So here's to moving forward, but continually looking backward to what is being left behind. Here's to my friends, the food, and the life that is Peace Corps Mali!
Lechaim!
P.S. There are a whole lot of new pictures up on my Flickr account: flickr.com/photos/29040473@N02/
But instead, I went out with my fellow PCVs to the bar to get some drinks. Just like I used to do back in The States, just like I will soon be doing again. Later, lying in bed, beer still sloshing around in my belly, I fought with all my might against the spins that accompany lying down while still drunk, and it occurs to me that this too is just like it was back in the US, and I don't plan to learn my lesson before I head home again. And it hit me right then and there, the reason I couldn't think of any great way to express the feeling of finishing this part of my life is that this part of my life isn't really ending. Or more accurately, "this part" of my life doesn't really even exist. Life isn't divided into chapters. Nothing really ends, it just sort of melts into something else that likewise doesn't really "begin" so much as become noticeable. There is no Big Bang in life, it is all just a continuous flow of events that change from one thing into another, like a camera panning from one side of a room to the other, rather than a series of jump-cut shots.
It's not that leaving Mali and finishing the Peace Corps isn't a big deal, or a momentous occasion for me. After all, I did celebrate by buying a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label Scotch. But this is not the end. My life isn't over, my travels aren't over, my relationship with Mali and the people there, African or American, isn't over – not even this blog is over. The only thing ending is my Peace Corps service. I could try to summarize everything I've learned, all the new ways that I will understand the world, but I don't really think I could articulate want I want to convey while I'm just sitting here writing. I'm not even finished learning everything I will learn from doing the Peace Corps. I know there are thoughts that will come to me long after I've left Mali, long after I've arrived in America and only realize months later after when something hits me all of a sudden.
Last night, we were drinking in a bar in Bamako called Appaloosa. It is the most ludicrously contrived American-style institution I've ever seen. All over the bar are statues, memorabilia, posters and wall-hangings of cowboys and Indians, American whiskies, race cars, rifles, flags, and more of the most over-the top Americana possible. Wednesday is Karaoke Night, so we rocked the night away with "Bohemian Rhapsody," Creedence, and more. It was as if in honor of the dozen of us who are on their way back to America, we spent our last big night in Mali being as heavily American as possible. And in this way too, American life has begun before Malian life has even ended.
More accurately, there isn't a difference between American Life and Malian Life. America and Mali are as different as any two countries can be, but it's all part of My Life. It's like going from a best guy friend's house to a girlfriend's and the two have completely dichotomous personalities. You talk with one about favorite athletes and beers, and get nice and cozy with the other, but you love them both to death. I came to Mali partly to get away from American Life for a little while and try something new, but not to completely break off my American Life. More accurately, I am just adding more to My Life as a whole. Besides, part of the mission of the Peace Corps is to draw bridges between America and the areas where volunteers serve (as outlined in a previous entry, "Scoring the Third Goal). I find that I'm doing this, not just externally, telling people how others live, but in my own head, I'm creating new paradigms for how to look at the world. I'm adapting what I've learned and seen in Mali for the last two years, and when I come home, I will be that much more able to deal with the unfamiliar and exotic.
All that said, I'm still pretty psyched to be leaving here. There is a pretty cool sense of accomplishment for having done a complete Peace Corps Service. And there is a reeaallyy cool sense of accomplishment for having finally finished all my paperwork, closed all my projects, returned all my Peace Corps property, picked up my last paycheck, and, as I will soon be doing, getting on an airplane and getting the F*** out of this crazy country! My plans for the immediate future take me and my fellow PCV Zach to Tunisia, Italy to meet my sister, and perhaps even a treck to Munich in time for Oktoberfest. There's a great "graduation" sort of feeling in the air, as we all depart this bizarre version of our lives that took up the last two years. I'll eventually go home at the beginning of October and start trying to, not "start my new life" or even "embark on the next chapter" as the cliches say, but just move forward. So here's to moving forward, but continually looking backward to what is being left behind. Here's to my friends, the food, and the life that is Peace Corps Mali!
Lechaim!
P.S. There are a whole lot of new pictures up on my Flickr account: flickr.com/photos/29040473@N02/
Sunday, July 25, 2010
New Photos Up
Check out some newly uploaded photos from my adventures in West Africa! There would be a lot more, but I've temporarily misplaced my memory card from my camera. Hopefully more soon. http://www.flickr.com/photos/29040473@N02
Sunday, June 13, 2010
The End isn't my only friend, but it's a good one!
Hey there, faithful readers! I'm remembering back to a day, almost exactly two years ago, when I published my very first blog entry here. Remember that? It was a nice day, probably sunny, since June in Philly tends to be sunny. Birds were chirping and I was sitting outside on the porch writing, for your reading pleasure, a basic summary of the Peace Corps application and my reasons for wanting to become a Peace Corps Volunteer. Those were good days; innocent days; naive days; they were days when all I knew about the next two years of my life were that they were going to be absolutely bucknutty.
Time and experience has proven the bucknuttyness of my life in the Peace Corps, the incredible degree to which I've learned, changed myself, changed others. I've experienced some of the most fun, insane, depressing, surreal, painful, and irreplaceable moments I imagine that I ever will. No, it was not all good. Some of my time here in Africa has made me a miserable as I've ever been, but that misery never held a candle to the thought that looped through my mind, like a never-ending LP record on the turntable in my head: Cherish what you're doing now, happiness or suffering, because it will never, ever happen just that way again.
I've been reading some of my oldest blog postings, recalling everything that was so new and crazy in my early days of PC, all the reasons I had for joining and the expectations I had for what Mali would be like. And I've been laughing my ass off at the Two-Years-Ago-Jake's expense. It's not just the fact that I was unaccustomed to the new rituals of my daily life and the idiosyncrasies of Malian culture. Of course that was going to happen. What I find most funny is just how much of an idealist I was. The Peace Corps sells itself as a great way for a wide-eyed adventurer to go out into the wild and do all these great work projects that will be welcomed with open arms and teach lessons that will make those who learn them wonder how they ever did without them. The fact is that these goals are noble, and in many cases they will be successful. In my case, and in the case of many others, our accomplishments are often minimal, the appreciation for them is often exaggerated, and the impact of them is fleeting. We try to use logic and reason to explain things like basic sanitation, and they look at us like we are speaking an alien tounge. We try to get them involved in community activities that will be a benefit to everyone, and they only try to pass the buck. This is certainly not the case all the time, but just comparing the outcomes of my service to my original expectations of it, I tend to feel a little bit impotent.
So what impact have I made in the past two years? I've made people aware of matters like health, hygeine and clean water, and given them the capacity to do something to directly improve their quality of life. If they choose to do nothing with the knowledge and ideas I've shared with them, that is fine by me. The worst thing a PCV can do is get depressed that they are not doing enough. I think it takes a lot humility to realize that the way Malians think of the world and their place in it simply does not translate to our way of thought, no matter how hard we try. Their traditions and life experiences are too different and too deeply engrained for a native Malian to readily and eagerly think about things from a Westerner's point of view. There are forward-thinkers and open minds to be found, but they are far less common than the Malian who will stick comfortably to the status quo because, with a lack of quality education and positive influences in life, he has no idea how to rise above it.
And there it is: positive influences. When I try to think about my greatest accomplishments here, the moments that made my service worthwhile, it's not the work and the projects that mean the most. It is the conversations I've had with my friends about how Americans see the world. I tell them that not every American is desperate to make money the way most Malians seem to be. I tell them that Americans like to think for themselves, and don't simply take others' words to be gold, as Malians are taught to do when addressed by their elders or respected peers. And I hope that I myself am living proof to them that where you come from in life does not need to determine where you go. If a man they think of as a spoiled, rich, lazy American can come out to the African bush and make himself a poor farmer (and a decent one at that), then they too can move beyond what they expect of themselves.
But I've also learned a lot from Malians. Those who have resigned themselves to a life of poverty and struggle do it with grace. They complain about their life, but not bitterly. They tell me how they sometimes cry themselves to sleep because of their total sadness, but they tell me with a smile. They may not think of it this way, but they have done a petty admirable job of compensating for their lack of livelihood with a surplus of liveliness. And while it may be confused with laziness or ineptness, their laissez-faire way of life makes America's workplace-hyperspeed seem almost barbaric in its lack of tranquility. Meanwhile, those who have not abandoned hope pursue it with a rabid determination. They will gladly shed their egos like perspiration on a hot summer day to make a dollar, or help someone in need do the same. The reason they are not taught skills like critical thinking comes from a very deeply seated sense of respect for elders and authority, respect that our sometimes overly liberal era neglects.
These are just a few thoughts that I've been dwelling on as my service approaches closure. These, as well as memories from the last two years of pet monkeys, Voodoo priests, train station sleepovers, 50-hour bus rides, Foreign Service Spies, mud huts, bucket baths, and eating rice with my hands every night are all the things I will take with me as I leave. I didn't know it at the time, but this is what my Peace Corps experience was destined to be. So be it, I've had a blast. And I think everyone in Niantanso has too.
Time and experience has proven the bucknuttyness of my life in the Peace Corps, the incredible degree to which I've learned, changed myself, changed others. I've experienced some of the most fun, insane, depressing, surreal, painful, and irreplaceable moments I imagine that I ever will. No, it was not all good. Some of my time here in Africa has made me a miserable as I've ever been, but that misery never held a candle to the thought that looped through my mind, like a never-ending LP record on the turntable in my head: Cherish what you're doing now, happiness or suffering, because it will never, ever happen just that way again.
I've been reading some of my oldest blog postings, recalling everything that was so new and crazy in my early days of PC, all the reasons I had for joining and the expectations I had for what Mali would be like. And I've been laughing my ass off at the Two-Years-Ago-Jake's expense. It's not just the fact that I was unaccustomed to the new rituals of my daily life and the idiosyncrasies of Malian culture. Of course that was going to happen. What I find most funny is just how much of an idealist I was. The Peace Corps sells itself as a great way for a wide-eyed adventurer to go out into the wild and do all these great work projects that will be welcomed with open arms and teach lessons that will make those who learn them wonder how they ever did without them. The fact is that these goals are noble, and in many cases they will be successful. In my case, and in the case of many others, our accomplishments are often minimal, the appreciation for them is often exaggerated, and the impact of them is fleeting. We try to use logic and reason to explain things like basic sanitation, and they look at us like we are speaking an alien tounge. We try to get them involved in community activities that will be a benefit to everyone, and they only try to pass the buck. This is certainly not the case all the time, but just comparing the outcomes of my service to my original expectations of it, I tend to feel a little bit impotent.
So what impact have I made in the past two years? I've made people aware of matters like health, hygeine and clean water, and given them the capacity to do something to directly improve their quality of life. If they choose to do nothing with the knowledge and ideas I've shared with them, that is fine by me. The worst thing a PCV can do is get depressed that they are not doing enough. I think it takes a lot humility to realize that the way Malians think of the world and their place in it simply does not translate to our way of thought, no matter how hard we try. Their traditions and life experiences are too different and too deeply engrained for a native Malian to readily and eagerly think about things from a Westerner's point of view. There are forward-thinkers and open minds to be found, but they are far less common than the Malian who will stick comfortably to the status quo because, with a lack of quality education and positive influences in life, he has no idea how to rise above it.
And there it is: positive influences. When I try to think about my greatest accomplishments here, the moments that made my service worthwhile, it's not the work and the projects that mean the most. It is the conversations I've had with my friends about how Americans see the world. I tell them that not every American is desperate to make money the way most Malians seem to be. I tell them that Americans like to think for themselves, and don't simply take others' words to be gold, as Malians are taught to do when addressed by their elders or respected peers. And I hope that I myself am living proof to them that where you come from in life does not need to determine where you go. If a man they think of as a spoiled, rich, lazy American can come out to the African bush and make himself a poor farmer (and a decent one at that), then they too can move beyond what they expect of themselves.
But I've also learned a lot from Malians. Those who have resigned themselves to a life of poverty and struggle do it with grace. They complain about their life, but not bitterly. They tell me how they sometimes cry themselves to sleep because of their total sadness, but they tell me with a smile. They may not think of it this way, but they have done a petty admirable job of compensating for their lack of livelihood with a surplus of liveliness. And while it may be confused with laziness or ineptness, their laissez-faire way of life makes America's workplace-hyperspeed seem almost barbaric in its lack of tranquility. Meanwhile, those who have not abandoned hope pursue it with a rabid determination. They will gladly shed their egos like perspiration on a hot summer day to make a dollar, or help someone in need do the same. The reason they are not taught skills like critical thinking comes from a very deeply seated sense of respect for elders and authority, respect that our sometimes overly liberal era neglects.
These are just a few thoughts that I've been dwelling on as my service approaches closure. These, as well as memories from the last two years of pet monkeys, Voodoo priests, train station sleepovers, 50-hour bus rides, Foreign Service Spies, mud huts, bucket baths, and eating rice with my hands every night are all the things I will take with me as I leave. I didn't know it at the time, but this is what my Peace Corps experience was destined to be. So be it, I've had a blast. And I think everyone in Niantanso has too.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Life in the Stage House
**This blog entry is dedicated in loving memory of Peri Dansira, the best little monkey a boy could ask for who, despite being a totally uncontrollable mentally bipolar force of destruction and havoc, was also an adorable, entertaining, affectionate friend who relieved the doldrums of village life and will forever allow me to talk about the days when I had a pet monkey. Alah ka lawula sumaya; ka hina a la (May G-d keep her grave cool; may he pity her soul).**
In my small farming village of Niantanso, the average citizen doesn't drink beer, speak English, know who Radiohead are, watch "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia," pay attention to global politics, know how to play Yahtzee, appreciate Taco Night with real cheese, or realize and joke about just how silly Mali can sometimes be. What is a poor Peace Corps volunteer to do when there's nobody in the village with whom to commiserate, make fun of locals, and enjoy the simple pleasures of White-Life? They get the hell outta there and hit the city! Sure, we all joined the Peace Corps to see what life is like in a different kind of culture, and we agreed on Mali because we are probably some of the most adventurous people you know. But even the most die-hard cultural integrators, the deepest burrowed-in site-rats, will sometimes have to leave the mud-and-grass nest of the African bush to plug themselves back into the electrical wiring of Americana. And that is why the benevolent souls who run the Peace Corps established the entity that recharges the sanity, soul, and mp3 players, of volunteers everywhere: The Stage House.
Scattered throughout the country, in the most centrally located hubs around which PCVs are placed, are houses, owned by the PC, operated and maintained by the local volunteers. Most of these houses are located in "banking towns," which as the name implies, are the towns where PCVs excitedly stream at the start of each month, like goldfish at suppertime, to withdraw our monthly allowance. We also take advantage of the trip to pick up our care packages (our immensely appreciated care packages, thank you very much), recharge our iPods and/or double-and-triple-A batteries, check emails, update blogs, stalk Facebook accounts, upload photos (I'll have some up soon, I hope), catch ourselves up on all the news, pop culture, and worldly goings on that we miss out on in our villages.
One thing I've always found a bit ironic is that while I'm practically living under a rock when it comes to current events here – I was in America as well except for when I accidentally read something in the paper or saw something on television, neither of which I get here – I am actually more up-to-date on the latest movies, pop music, and celebrity gossip than I ever was in the states, since that is what the people around me devour with the most vigor. The stage house in Kita, where I occasionally go to get online, is packed with the last six months of People, Us Weekly, and Entertainment Magazines, while when all is said and done, most people spend their spare time lounging around the house watching the DVDs sent by friends or pirated downloads of all the stateside hit new movies. I have also had a couple of real marathon runs, watching in a matter of days, entire seasons of the aforementioned "Sunny," "Entourage," "The Office," and my new favorite addiction, "True Blood" (come on, everyone else loves vampires these days, why can't I have my fun?).
The stage houses are also where PCVs get their supply of books. There are generations, literal decades worth of accumulated books in the library of each house, and since PC tends to attract a rather intelligent and creative bunch of folks, the stock is actually pretty good, although the entire shelf full of Star Wars novels in Kita is a bit of an oddity. Since even the busiest PCVs have periods where they are liable to slip into a coma on account of the sheer boredom alone, we go through enough books during our service to warrant granting each of us an honorary BA in English Lit. My personal tally is in the low 30s, and I feel embarrassingly far behind most of my friends until I remember that it's a really silly thing to feel embarrassed about.
Stage houses are also good places to party, because what would a bunch of rurally-stranded Americans rather do when they get together, aside from watching TV and movies, than party? I don't mean party in the sense of buying a few cases of beer, some cheap liquor, and hanging out with the music blasting and the revelry thriving. Okay, I do mean that. But I also mean the parties that help us pretend that we're still in America. Each major holiday has its own designated location so that by tradition, every year, Thanksgiving is in Sikasso, St. Patty's Day is in San, Christmas is a 3-day hike in the famous Dogon Country, and July 4th is in my own Stage House of residence, Manantali, which is often called the best stage house in all of Mali, thanks to a gorgeous rustic landscape and a property outside the city, a bar and pool right nearby, endless acres of mountains and woods to hike in, whole extended families of monkeys that regularly visit the house, and the Bafin River right next to the property where, as responsible PCVs, we never go swimming or wading because of the risk of river-born illnesses and hippopotami, and we most certainly never buy truck tire inner tubes and spend lazy afternoons floating downstream, though that, too, sounds like fun.
Manantali also just hosted the second annual Seder, the ritual ceremony and meal that celebrates the Jewish holiday of Passover and thanks to my parents and aunt, gave Mali a rare dose of such Jewish standards as gefilte fish, matzoh ball soup, and Manischewitz wine. I'm pleased to say we doubled last year's turnout with a baker's dozen in attendance, only four of whom were Jewish. We even invited the PC's medical officer to come while she was doing checkups in the neighborhood. She arrived just in time for dinner and stayed just long enough to find the Afikomen. (The Search for the Afikomen, for all of you Wikipedically disinclined gentiles who aren't in the know, is to the Passover Seder what, roughly speaking, the Egg Hunt is to Easter Sunday. The major differences are that rather than searching for a chocolate egg, we look for a broken piece of matzoh, the unleavened bread, and while the Afikomen was probably what Jesus ate for dessert at his Passover Seder which later turned out to be his Last Supper, the Easter Egg might well have been the first thing he ate a few days later, if you are of the belief that he awoke in time for Sunday Brunch on Easter.)
Many PCVs consider their banking/stage house town like a second home in Mali. Of course, it's not the US, but as I said, we didn't sign up to be in the US. We signed up to be in Mali, be it the sticks or the city, but even back home, staying in the same place all the time can be a bit of a drag. I think most of us also feel stronger personal connections to our fellow PCVs than our neighbors at site, and it is in the context of the stage houses that we build and strengthen those bonds. They are like our college roommates; the people we see the most of now, and will probably keep closest in touch with when we go back to the "real world." For my part, I have loved my life here in the Manantali area. I take a 2 1/2 hour bike ride from Niantanso to our house in the woods, and spend my time lounging by the river, hiking in the woods and cliffs around the lake (the dam is visible on Google Maps!), eating delicious and dirt-cheap local street food which I know I will never find again in the States, spending afternoons at the bar, and of course, being with the other members of Team MANantali (gender imbalance would be an understatement) and also my slightly further away Team Kita crew. But Manantali will always hold that special piece of high-class real estate in my heart. While other stage houses make you feel just a bit like you're back in America again, Manantali feels like your at your vacation house in America – the cabin in the woods. I could easily see myself retiring there, or at least, as well as I can see myself retiring period at this point in my life. And when it's time for me to leave West Africa and come home, I'll remember my stage house with as much fondness, and sometimes even more, than my house in Niantanso. Life at site is the real Peace Corps experience – it's what I came for, but Manantali is what made it just a little more fun, and that is justification enough for me.
In my small farming village of Niantanso, the average citizen doesn't drink beer, speak English, know who Radiohead are, watch "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia," pay attention to global politics, know how to play Yahtzee, appreciate Taco Night with real cheese, or realize and joke about just how silly Mali can sometimes be. What is a poor Peace Corps volunteer to do when there's nobody in the village with whom to commiserate, make fun of locals, and enjoy the simple pleasures of White-Life? They get the hell outta there and hit the city! Sure, we all joined the Peace Corps to see what life is like in a different kind of culture, and we agreed on Mali because we are probably some of the most adventurous people you know. But even the most die-hard cultural integrators, the deepest burrowed-in site-rats, will sometimes have to leave the mud-and-grass nest of the African bush to plug themselves back into the electrical wiring of Americana. And that is why the benevolent souls who run the Peace Corps established the entity that recharges the sanity, soul, and mp3 players, of volunteers everywhere: The Stage House.
Scattered throughout the country, in the most centrally located hubs around which PCVs are placed, are houses, owned by the PC, operated and maintained by the local volunteers. Most of these houses are located in "banking towns," which as the name implies, are the towns where PCVs excitedly stream at the start of each month, like goldfish at suppertime, to withdraw our monthly allowance. We also take advantage of the trip to pick up our care packages (our immensely appreciated care packages, thank you very much), recharge our iPods and/or double-and-triple-A batteries, check emails, update blogs, stalk Facebook accounts, upload photos (I'll have some up soon, I hope), catch ourselves up on all the news, pop culture, and worldly goings on that we miss out on in our villages.
One thing I've always found a bit ironic is that while I'm practically living under a rock when it comes to current events here – I was in America as well except for when I accidentally read something in the paper or saw something on television, neither of which I get here – I am actually more up-to-date on the latest movies, pop music, and celebrity gossip than I ever was in the states, since that is what the people around me devour with the most vigor. The stage house in Kita, where I occasionally go to get online, is packed with the last six months of People, Us Weekly, and Entertainment Magazines, while when all is said and done, most people spend their spare time lounging around the house watching the DVDs sent by friends or pirated downloads of all the stateside hit new movies. I have also had a couple of real marathon runs, watching in a matter of days, entire seasons of the aforementioned "Sunny," "Entourage," "The Office," and my new favorite addiction, "True Blood" (come on, everyone else loves vampires these days, why can't I have my fun?).
The stage houses are also where PCVs get their supply of books. There are generations, literal decades worth of accumulated books in the library of each house, and since PC tends to attract a rather intelligent and creative bunch of folks, the stock is actually pretty good, although the entire shelf full of Star Wars novels in Kita is a bit of an oddity. Since even the busiest PCVs have periods where they are liable to slip into a coma on account of the sheer boredom alone, we go through enough books during our service to warrant granting each of us an honorary BA in English Lit. My personal tally is in the low 30s, and I feel embarrassingly far behind most of my friends until I remember that it's a really silly thing to feel embarrassed about.
Stage houses are also good places to party, because what would a bunch of rurally-stranded Americans rather do when they get together, aside from watching TV and movies, than party? I don't mean party in the sense of buying a few cases of beer, some cheap liquor, and hanging out with the music blasting and the revelry thriving. Okay, I do mean that. But I also mean the parties that help us pretend that we're still in America. Each major holiday has its own designated location so that by tradition, every year, Thanksgiving is in Sikasso, St. Patty's Day is in San, Christmas is a 3-day hike in the famous Dogon Country, and July 4th is in my own Stage House of residence, Manantali, which is often called the best stage house in all of Mali, thanks to a gorgeous rustic landscape and a property outside the city, a bar and pool right nearby, endless acres of mountains and woods to hike in, whole extended families of monkeys that regularly visit the house, and the Bafin River right next to the property where, as responsible PCVs, we never go swimming or wading because of the risk of river-born illnesses and hippopotami, and we most certainly never buy truck tire inner tubes and spend lazy afternoons floating downstream, though that, too, sounds like fun.
Manantali also just hosted the second annual Seder, the ritual ceremony and meal that celebrates the Jewish holiday of Passover and thanks to my parents and aunt, gave Mali a rare dose of such Jewish standards as gefilte fish, matzoh ball soup, and Manischewitz wine. I'm pleased to say we doubled last year's turnout with a baker's dozen in attendance, only four of whom were Jewish. We even invited the PC's medical officer to come while she was doing checkups in the neighborhood. She arrived just in time for dinner and stayed just long enough to find the Afikomen. (The Search for the Afikomen, for all of you Wikipedically disinclined gentiles who aren't in the know, is to the Passover Seder what, roughly speaking, the Egg Hunt is to Easter Sunday. The major differences are that rather than searching for a chocolate egg, we look for a broken piece of matzoh, the unleavened bread, and while the Afikomen was probably what Jesus ate for dessert at his Passover Seder which later turned out to be his Last Supper, the Easter Egg might well have been the first thing he ate a few days later, if you are of the belief that he awoke in time for Sunday Brunch on Easter.)
Many PCVs consider their banking/stage house town like a second home in Mali. Of course, it's not the US, but as I said, we didn't sign up to be in the US. We signed up to be in Mali, be it the sticks or the city, but even back home, staying in the same place all the time can be a bit of a drag. I think most of us also feel stronger personal connections to our fellow PCVs than our neighbors at site, and it is in the context of the stage houses that we build and strengthen those bonds. They are like our college roommates; the people we see the most of now, and will probably keep closest in touch with when we go back to the "real world." For my part, I have loved my life here in the Manantali area. I take a 2 1/2 hour bike ride from Niantanso to our house in the woods, and spend my time lounging by the river, hiking in the woods and cliffs around the lake (the dam is visible on Google Maps!), eating delicious and dirt-cheap local street food which I know I will never find again in the States, spending afternoons at the bar, and of course, being with the other members of Team MANantali (gender imbalance would be an understatement) and also my slightly further away Team Kita crew. But Manantali will always hold that special piece of high-class real estate in my heart. While other stage houses make you feel just a bit like you're back in America again, Manantali feels like your at your vacation house in America – the cabin in the woods. I could easily see myself retiring there, or at least, as well as I can see myself retiring period at this point in my life. And when it's time for me to leave West Africa and come home, I'll remember my stage house with as much fondness, and sometimes even more, than my house in Niantanso. Life at site is the real Peace Corps experience – it's what I came for, but Manantali is what made it just a little more fun, and that is justification enough for me.
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