Tuesday, December 25, 2007

NEW PHOTOS

Hey people.

There's a new link titled "My Home" on the right side of the page, under "PHOTOS". There are only a few there now, but I will be uploading a couple hundred more at some point during the next two weeks.

Check back often.

Oh, and MERRY CHRISTMAS:)

TONGUE TIED

Imagine this.

You have recently arrived in a land far from home, where the values, beliefs, practices, and way-of-life are a bit different than you are accustomed to, but where the people, thankfully, radiate with a sense of kindness and generosity that you are familiar with, and which makes you feel more at home. As you settle into your new life and adjust to the culture and climate that envelop you, it becomes clear that the largest challenge you face—one that you must overcome in order to be successful and retain a sense of connectedness with those around you—is communication.

A simple exchange of dialogue, which used to be effortless, frequent, and enjoyable, is now difficult, uncommon, and often marred by misunderstanding. Intellectual conversation, which was once a great source of satisfaction and connection, now ceases to exist. You may think of yourself as decently intelligent and capable of offering words and ideas that provoke thought and encourage discussion, but the broken, child-like sentences that now characterize your everyday speech show no indication of such intellect. In fact, they may suggest something of the opposite: a simple person with little to offer—not the way you see yourself at all.

But despite the general silence that seems to accompany you most places you go, the kindness and generosity from those that surround you remains ever-present—a fact that you are very much thankful for but which you begin to feel unworthy of. You haven’t done anything, and beyond the abundance of friendly greetings that you offer to (quite literally) everyone you see each day, you speak very little to very few people—held back by the vast amount of local language that you don’t know and surviving with only the small bit that you do.

The days, weeks, and months pass, you continue relying on the relatively small set of vocabulary that (by now) you know well, and the people around you continue to treat you as one of their own—with respect and generosity—for seemingly no other reason than that you are here with them, now, sharing space and time. But amidst the feelings of connectedness and belonging that naturally result from the actions of such kind individuals lingers a slight but definite sense of isolation. Because you have thoughts, beliefs, values, dreams, history, stories, knowledge, and advice that you desperately want to share and exchange—you believe they do as well—but a barrier of misunderstanding blocks the way, with only the occasional complete idea or sentence breaking through. With the many thoughts and curiosities that crowd your mind each day comes a feeling of frustration in knowing that you cannot vocalize them—at least not completely, correctly, or well enough to be fully understood.

Welcome to Mali.

THEY HAVE EACH OTHER.

Before leaving the United States for Mali, I remember extensively researching the country online to learn as much as possible about the place I would call “home” for the next two years. Through all the information I found and the facts I discovered, the one feeling that remained with me (other than excitement) was that life in Mali must be difficult.

The United Nations Development Program’s 2006 Human Development Index ranked Mali as one of the world’s three poorest countries; a 2005 estimate put the percentage of the total population living below the poverty line at seventy-two; life expectancy at birth is very low and infant mortality very high. Adult illiteracy is around fifty-five percent.

As I began telling friends, family, and acquaintances about my upcoming adventure to the West African country, including some of the statistics above, I received the same response that had initially filled my mind: Malian life must be tough; perhaps primitive. How do they survive?

Yes, life is tough—no matter what part of the globe you may find yourself in—but after being in Mali for a few months and seeing the people, the land, cultural practices, beliefs, and way-of-life, I can now easily see how the people here survive: they have each other.

It is an unfortunate fact that a significant portion of the twelve million Malians that inhabit this country are living with very few of the basic resources and needs that most in the developed world have never lived without: paved roads, clean drinking water, electricity, access to adequate health care, a solid education system, an ever-present supply and variety of nutritious food, and the right to freely choose one’s profession, partner, or path in life. These are the basics, and they are in serious short supply. If you are wondering about available luxuries, the answer is that, in the rural areas of the country (where a majority of the overall population lives), there aren’t any.

But what Malians lack in luxuries (and unfortunately, basic needs) they more than make up for in family. No, they don’t have Starbucks on the corner, a shopping mall down the street, or a good friend named Google that they can go to at any time for answers, comfort, and advice, but they have each other, and the value of companionship and genuine human-to-human connection far outweighs that of any latté I’ve ever had.

In fact, I would even argue that in many areas of the United States (mostly urban, but some rural as well), if you looked past the Starbucks and Wal-Mart, past the 105-inch flat-screen Plasma TV, and in between the millions of pixels on the computer screen that you sit in front of for far too long every day (reading this blog, of course), you would see that we don’t have each other. How do we survive? In a culture that is completely over-saturated with luxury goods and services, we, as Americans, have a serious shortage of what matters most, and with what Mali appears to be wealthy in: real relationships with the people around us. Sure, we have our family, close friends, co-workers, and acquaintances, but beyond that, we are virtually isolated from those that surround us—too much so to even offer a friendly “hello” to the person we pass on the street.

In rural Mali, very much a communal society and atmosphere, everyone is viewed and treated as family and a friend. Walking through the village, you will be warmly greeted by virtually each person you see, and not simply those that pass nearby—friendly greetings shouted from afar are as common as those spoken softly and within close distance. Greetings, it turns out, are an extremely important part of the Malian culture, and are constantly and consistently exchanged between everyone in the community. The mentality: a friend of yours is a friend of mine.

When you enter a family’s compound, whether your relationship with them is long and well-established or not-yet existent, you will be treated with kindness and generosity. If you are hungry and ask for food, you will likely be fed, and if the family happens to be eating a meal at the time, you will definitely be invited to join them at the communal bowl. The mentality: the food that I prepare is not only for me, it is for everyone.

In the rare occasion that a serious crime is committed within the community—theft, assault, harassment, etc.—the people will swiftly join together and organize a plan for dealing with the problem and reaching a solution. The mentality: a threat to you is a threat to the entire population.

It’s easy to look at the resources, money, goods, services, and luxuries that a community, country, or continent doesn’t have and to feel sorry for the people that live there—to wonder how they survive. But what is more challenging (and more important) is to look closely at what it is that the people of those places do have which keeps them generally happy, satisfied, and surviving despite the severe shortage or absence of the important resources on which you may believe that happiness, satisfaction, and survival are dependent (but in fact, as I have seen, are not).

The people of Mali have each other—something that I believe the United States, which has a ridiculous over-abundance of everything else, could use a whole lot more of.

A TONGUE THAT STRENGTHENS YET RESTRAINS

It is an interesting fact that although the official language of Mali is French (who the country was colonized by), it is actually the second language of virtually everyone here—there are six or seven main local languages spoken by ethnic groups of varying sizes in different regions of the country (Bambara, considered the national language of Mali, is used by around eighty percent of the country’s twelve million inhabitants), and children are raised from infancy in their ethnic group’s native tongue.

It isn’t until around the age of nine or ten that children begin learning French in school, but if you take the fact that a number of females don’t attend elementary school and a large number who do attend do not continue on to high school, and couple it with the fact that French is almost never spoken by children outside of the classroom, you arrive at an unfortunate conclusion: a large majority of adult women, and some men, do not ever speak French, either because they don’t know how to or because the small bit that they do know would be riddle with mistakes that they are afraid of making. And so what you have, interestingly, is an official language (French) that is virtually only used by people—mostly men—in government or other official business positions (in other words, a very small portion of the country’s population).

The tendency to prefer one’s own ethnic tongue over French (or any other language, for that matter) makes perfect sense—I think it represents a large part of the unique cultural identity that Malians value so much, and which separates them from others (after all, they are neither White nor French). But when the focus on one’s local language comes at the expense of understanding and being able to speak French—a much more useful language—I believe it becomes a poor choice, and one whose disadvantages are perhaps greater than the value of the cultural identity that the ethnic language helps to define.

First, the local languages of Mali are largely unwritten—their speakers begin learning them naturally from birth, and are exposed to them only briefly in school (if they attend). What this means is that those who do not learn to speak French are also likely to never learn how to read or write—adult illiteracy in Mali is around fifty-five percent—and the effects of this are clearly negative and potentially far-reaching. And so the exclusion of French, I believe, has a stifling effect on literacy.

Secondly, while an ethnic language (such as the national one of Bambara) carries with it a great deal of cultural identity and value, such tongues are spoken by few in Mali’s neighboring countries, and (surprise, surprise) virtually nobody in the expansive (and opportunity-filled) world beyond that. And so the ethnic language acts as a kind of restraint, keeping its faithful speakers from ever accessing relationships, resources, people, opportunities, or life outside of Mali and Africa.

The point is not at all that Malians should abandon their native language—the identity it helps give them is extremely important and must be carried on through the generations—but that if such tongues were accompanied by a solid understanding of, and ability to speak, French, it would open the doors to opportunity and improvement that they could then walk through with strong cultural identity and pride in hand. Unfortunately, those who cannot read, write, or speak French are likely to find those doors closed, and opening them again will surely prove difficult.

A DIFFERENT SORT OF DYNAMIC

Of all the new and unique things I have experiences and seen in Mali—people, places, animals, ceremonies, culture, climate—one of the most interesting, which I have spent a lot of time observing and thinking about, is the dynamic of “love” (specifically the relationship between a man and woman within the context of marriage) and the primary qualities that are valued and desired in a potential long-term partner.

If I were to make a list of all the different characteristics that my ideal partner might have—the person I may spend the rest of my life with—I have to admit that it would probably be rather long and complicated (hey, in an ideal world, we can have everything we want, right?!). But at the very top of the list, above the abundance of less important items like must love ice cream and will sing with me in the shower would be those relatively few qualities that I respect, and am attracted to, the most—things like honesty, sensitivity, a compassionate and caring heart, genuine respect for one’s self and others, a craving for mystery and adventure, a sense of humor, firmly held beliefs and values, goals and dreams (and the motivation to chase both), and a set of interests that are at least slightly in accord with mine. These are the traits that are most important to me, and whose presence or absence are, at least in some part, the basis on which a potential long-term partner is judged. And although this “list” is mine personally, I assume that a vast population beyond myself would settle on very similar (if not some of the same) qualities—that is, that they are nearly universally valued and sought. After all, they are human characteristics—respect, honesty, a system of beliefs and values, humor, kindness, compassion—and therefore transcend race, gender, class, culture, and geography, right? Perhaps not entirely.

What I am beginning to realize, after noticing a much different and smaller set of valued and desired qualities among Malians, is that many of the traits just mentioned are, in fact, largely shaped by one’s culture and environment, and are at least partially dependent on both the availability of resources and opportunity, and on a knowledge of the expansive world beyond one’s own. A closer look:

It would be very difficult (and in fact, probably nonsensical) to develop and keep a sensitive, soft heart when the environment surrounding you is saturated with struggle and inadequacy. Disease, death, very little (if any) health care, a severe lack of clean drinking water, and a harsh, flood- and drought-prone climate characterize much of Mali—such conditions demand resiliency and create tough and hardened individuals. And so Malians, as far as I can see, are generally not sensitive or soft people—the trait is both valued and sought by few. The result: sensitivity does not make it on the Malian list of desirable traits in a romantic partner.

When a serious lack of resources, money, and knowledge keeps you firmly locked in your poor, routine daily life, it becomes extremely unlikely (although certainly not impossible) that you will develop dreams and goals that lie beyond such an existence—either because you don’t expect to ever break free of poverty or because you simply don’t know what exists in the larger world that you could possible dream about or strive to make a reality. Your goals, in effect, are limited by the absence of the resources that would be needed to achieve them. Here in Mali, where resources and opportunities are scarce and where knowledge of the outside world is rather limited, it appears that goals and dreams are in serious short supply—their existence is both valued and sought by few. The result: goals and dreams (and the motivation to chase both) does not make it on the Malian list of desirable traits in a romantic partner.

A shortage of resources, money, and knowledge also severely limits the hobbies and interests that a person could potentially have. Some of my own interests include photography, music, the studying of psychology, reading, and writing. But the existence of each of these as an interest of mine depends entirely on an environment and a host of resources that, together, have (thankfully) provided me with the opportunity to access and enjoy them—such conditions are clearly not present in many parts of the world. You won’t find reading or writing on a list of the hobbies of someone who never learned to do either; photography is not going to be the interest of a person who hasn’t ever seen a camera; and the studying of psychology (or any other subject/discipline) will not be the favorite of somebody who is the product of a broken education system that never taught, among many other things, the value of knowledge and discovery. And so your interests are both defined and limited by the quantity and quality of the available resources in the environment around you. The result: a set of interests that are at least slightly in accord with mine does not make it on the Malian list of desirable traits in a romantic partner.

So what does all of this mean? Well, besides the fact that I will almost surely not find my future bride in Mali, it means that in the absence of the qualities discussed above, each partner in the rural Malian romantic relationship, interestingly, is both sought and valued for having one primary (and in my opinion, meaningless) characteristic. The details:

Thanks to the rules and dynamic of the religion of Islam, marriage in Mali (a country that is nearly ninety percent Muslim) can almost entirely be described in terms of rigid, firmly established roles. For the man, it is to work—perhaps in agriculture, small commerce, or government service—and earn enough money to support himself and his family completely. He is the sole money-maker, and all the financial needs of each family member depend on him. The woman’s job, in contrast to that of her husband, is to stay home every day and cook, clean, and care for the couple’s children. Her duties likely include sweeping and cleaning shortly after waking up in the morning, walking to the market (where you will rarely spot a man) to buy food, cooking each meal, washing clothes and dishes (by hand, of course), walking some distance to a well to collect water, and bathing her children. When her husband is home, she has the added responsibility of bringing him food and water (or anything else he might want) whenever he demands it—a sort of servant, the way I see it (and one who rarely, if ever, disobeys her husband’s orders or questions the subordinate role she is in).

The dynamic of this typical marriage, although often male-dominated, seems to be one of mutual dependence—men, who never cook and rarely clean or take care of their children, inarguably rely on their wives to do these things each day. Women, who generally do not earn money, depend on their husbands for any need that is financial. And so it is precisely these qualities—in a woman, obedience and the ability to cook and clean well; in a man, the means to make money—and nearly nothing else, which are valued and desired in a potential long-term partner. Their presence, in the eyes of many Malians, seems to create “love” and signal the likelihood of a quality, successful marriage.

But one of the many problems I have with this dynamic is that these qualities can be found in almost any Malian man or woman—yes, she is obedient and can cook and clean well- she has been taught the importance of such things since youth, and yes, he can support you financially- he knows that men like himself are obligated to work and earn money. And so what you have, it appears, is “love” and the conditions necessary for a quality marriage within nearly every person you look—not at all the special and uncommon kind of love that I would like to believe in.

When love and marriage are primarily based on such things as money and the willingness of one partner to be the obedient servant of the other, I believe that they become cheap and meaningless. But this is only true because I am not the product of a society in which love and marriage are commonly this way. For many (perhaps most) Malians, this dynamic is simply life and love the only way they know it. For me, however, it seems rather unfortunate and empty.

ALIVE AND WELL

For those who have been wondering what happened to me for the past few months—why I haven’t posted anything here—let me put an end to your worries: I’m alive and well. Now you can sleep better at night. You’re welcome. :)

Unfortunately for both of us, there is no internet connection in my village or anywhere nearby—the only time I can get online to give you new exciting stories and photos is when I travel to the closest large city, which doesn’t happen very often; probably every few months. Sorry.

I’m away from village for the next three or four weeks, so if you would like to send me an email or message, I should be able to reply fairly quickly. Here’s an update of the past five months in Mali:

FÉLICITATIONS!
For the first two months after arriving in Mali (on July 20), I lived with a host family near the capital city of Bamako and attended a variety of training sessions—language, health and wellness, safety and security, cross-cultural and technical education—intended to prepare me for the next two years of service. During this time, I was constantly among other trainees (our group began with seventy-two—a dozen or so have since gone home) and Peace Corps staff, and the days were very scheduled and full. Finally, on September 21, pre-service training came to an end and I officially became a Peace Corps Volunteer.

The swearing-in ceremony, which was held at the United States Embassy, felt a bit like high school graduation. Our host families came dressed in their nicest outfits, clearly proud of their newest sons, daughters, brothers, and sisters for having made it through such an exhausting and difficult time. Speeches were given, tears were shed, plenty of photos taken, and a few hugs were even exchanged—something very rarely seen in Mali. The only thing missing was the diploma. Emotions were mixed: among the strong sense of relief, excitement, and accomplishment remained a feeling of unease in knowing that we would soon, in a few days, be leaving the company (and comfort) of each other—fellow trainees—and venturing out to our respective villages, where we would once again face many of the struggles we had recently endured, only this time without the support of those to whom we had grown the closest. Nevertheless, it was a time of celebration. We made it!

LA VILLE
On September 23, I left Bamako and the other volunteers and made the fourteen-hour trek to my new home: Bafoulabé. The town itself is located in the western Kayes Region of Mali—the hottest in the country—not too far from the Senegal border. Bafoulabé is the capital of the Circle of Bafoulabé, a collection of seven communes (each of which consists of a few dozen small villages), so although the town is fairly small (the population is around 3,200) there is electricity available throughout, and many houses—maybe around half—are made of concrete, as opposed to the mud brick huts that are found in most small, rural villages. While nearly every family here eats rice with sauce for lunch and dinner each day, there is a nice supply of fruits and vegetables year-round—bananas, mangoes, apples, watermelon, oranges, papaya, tomatoes, cucumbers, corn, eggplant, potatoes, sweet potatoes, peanuts—thanks to the Senegal River, which lies at the edge of town (a five-minute walk from my house).

Bafoulabé has an elementary school (which serves around seven hundred students, ages seven to sixteen), a high school (of several hundred students), a small public library, bank, small outdoor market, a few dozen tiny boutiques (a couple of which sell fabric and small hardware; most of which sell food), a hospital, hotel, a few small restaurants, a bar, a post office, two mosques, and two small Christian churches. The main religion of Bafoulabé (as well as Mali as a whole) is Islam, which is practiced by around eighty or ninety percent of the population. Christianity is practiced by less than ten percent (one of the Christian churches, operated by two Norwegian missionaries, has a regular Sunday attendance of around twenty adults), and Animism by only a few.

LA VIE COLLECTIVE
As you may guess is the case in a communal society, everyone in Mali lives, eats, and socializes together at pretty much all hours of the day—it is fairly rare to see a Malian alone. It is common to find two or three generations of the same family—brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, parents, nieces, nephews—all living in two or three houses within the same walled complex, sharing space, time, food, clothing, and resources, and all referring to each other as “brother” and “sister”. The dynamic at my house is similar—I live with two Malian families within a large walled compound, and sharing is pretty much mandatory (which has taught me that sometimes when you make a big batch of delicious peanut butter chocolate cookies or caramel candy, it isn’t necessary to tell anyone else about it—there are just too many mouths to feed!).

The communal way of living is nice—it’s comforting to always have people around that you know are willing to share in friendly conversation, laughter, food (usually rice, which I will probably never eat again after leaving Mali!), tea, and life.

LA ROUTE: LONGUE ET LENTE
Before leaving the United States, I had a certain (perhaps slightly romantic) vision of traveling to another culture and quickly (and somewhat easily) beginning to help—starting my work shortly after arriving and seeing positive results not long after that. My destination was Mali, West Africa, and I was going to make things better for the people there—to bring new ideas, perspectives, creativity (which is in serious short supply here), resources, and inspiration.

But after being in Mali for a few months and learning more about both the Peace Corps and development work in general, it is now clear that, in contrast to my initial beliefs, change (which is, to some extent, necessary for improvement) is a very slow-moving, difficult process which is not uncommonly resisted, to some degree, by those that you are working with and for the benefit of. Because in order for development to be effective and successful, it must be sustainable—able to continue on in the hands of locals long after outside aid and resources are gone—and so the focus must be on encouraging behavior change (perhaps something as small as convincing a family that washing their hands with soap before eating will reduce the risk of becoming sick) and building the capacity of locals—that is, getting them to recognize and truly believe that they already possess the skills, knowledge, and creativity needed to make improvements in their lives. Neither of these is by any means an easy task.

Perhaps the largest roadblock, as I see it, is communication—speaking and understanding the local language well—but beyond that, there is a host of other hurtles that threaten to slow or even bring to a halt the process of improvement.

Superstition, for example, keeps many Malian families from washing their hands with soap, as they firmly believe that it will rid their lives of good fortune and luck, and long-held family values keep the process of “washing” one’s hands before eating unchanged (and unsanitary)—each person rinses his or her right hand in a bowl of water before passing it to the next, who does the same. This routine, done before each meal, is thought by some to help keep the family together, and any significant deviation is seen as threatening. But as you can imagine, the practice is anything but sanitary—in a large family of eight or ten, the last few to dip into the bowl may be doing themselves more harm than good. Did I mention that Malians eat meals—mostly rice and sauce—from a large common bowl with their right hand? (Note: the left hand is used for cleaning one’s self after using the bathroom, and should never be used for eating or greeting).

The refusal to sign any official paper document, for fear of it somehow being used against them by a mal-intentioned person in some unknown (and probably non-existent) way, prevents some men from opening a bank account that could allow them to save money and greatly help themselves and their families in times of sickness or misfortune (which, I’m pretty sure, are not a result of washing your hands with soap). The examples go on.

But enough about hurtles and roadblocks—life is challenging no matter where you are or what you’re doing. Here’s a bit of what I’ve been up to during the past three months in village, and what I hope to accomplish in the next two years:

CAISSE D’EPARGNE
The local leaders of Bafoulabé originally requested a Peace Corps Volunteer in order to help them re-launch a small, informal bank—savings and credit—that has been out of operation for quite some time, thanks to the former president stealing and running away with everyone’s money—not nice.

Although this now non-functioning institution isn’t the only one in the community (there is a formal, corporate bank here), its small size and informal structure make it extremely valuable to locals, who would benefit greatly from its return. Here’s why:

A large number of rural, working Malian men and women live day-to-day with very little money and virtually no savings. They earn, spend, and loan to friends small sums of cash each day, often without keeping track of any of it—personal money is mixed up with business funds, profits are not calculated, and spending happens whenever there is money in one’s pocket. There is little to no consideration for the value of saving money, and so people often don’t do it. In fact, some do not even understand the simple idea that if you save a small amount of money each day for a certain period of time, you will, by the end of that period, have accumulated the sum of those savings—possibly a substantial (and very useful) amount of money. And so this daily “earn some, spend some, save none” routine continues, and the reason it does so is because, for the most part, it works—people take care of each other, free food is readily available from countless neighbors, friends, or family members, and expensive luxury items, which would require saving money in order to afford, simply don’t exist in many rural towns and villages.

But what does exist, unfortunately, is sickness, drought, flooding, low crop yield, death, and a number of other unexpected occurrences that demand large amounts of money—money that those who earn some, spend, some, and save none do not have. I saw an example of this several weeks ago when a friend of my landlord asked if I could loan him 10,000CFA (equivalent to about $20) because his young son was very sick. This man didn’t have $20—the problem is not that he doesn’t work (he’s an electrician and handy-man) but that he doesn’t save.

So the value of saving money can be huge, especially during emergencies or other sudden, unexpected times of need, but people don’t do it on their own—the presence and guidance of a savings institution is necessary to convince individuals to begin saving and encourage them to continue into the future. But the high account activation fees and required minimum deposits (and account balances) that are standard at most large, formal banks make such institutions useless to the many who cannot afford such charges and demands. The small, informal bank (like the one I will be working with) allows one to create a savings account free of charge (or for a very small activation fee—much less than the larger bank requires), deposit any amount of money as frequently or infrequently as wished, and even receive small loans, despite possibly not having a great deal of cash in the bank. The benefit to one family can be substantial—multiply that by a few hundred and you have the potential to improve the lives of many by the simple act of saving money.

PARLEZ-VOUS ANGLAIS?
Shortly after arriving in Bafoulabé, with everything (and everyone) around me being new and unknown, I naturally gravitated toward the familiarity and comfort of English. I visited the local high school and elementary school and learned not only that English is taught at both, but that the teachers at each school were excited to have me here for the next two years, and wanted me in the classroom with them soon. For me, it would be a great opportunity to work with kids, which is where a lot of my interest is, and to more quickly become known in the community—somewhere around forty percent of the Malian population consists of children under the age of fifteen, and regular visits to both schools would definitely help me integrate into the community. For the students, it would be a chance to hear English from the mouth of a native speaker—something that doesn’t happen very often (I am the only American here, and the only native English speaker—there are two Norwegian missionaries who speak some English as a second language, and the English teachers at both schools are Malian).

So for the past five or six weeks, I have been in class at the elementary school three days a week, for an hour each day. So far, I haven’t really done much—the students learn very basic vocabulary and sentences, and there isn’t an opportunity for me to play an active role in the class—but I believe that my presence along encourages the students to make more of an effort to speak well, and they clearly enjoy having me in class with them. One young student, whose motivation and intelligence inarguably sets him apart from his eighty-or-so classmates, asked if he could have one-on-one tutoring with me a couple days a week to further improve his (already impressive) English speaking and comprehension. We now meet at school for a couple hours every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon.

At the high school, where the students speak and understand a decent amount of English, I come to class on discussion days—every couple weeks—and spend the hour talking (very slowly) to the students and encouraging them to ask questions and contribute to the often one-sided (mine) discussion. An unfortunate aspect of communal society, as I see it, is that people have a fear of standing out among others—of an individual spirit—because of the way they may be perceived by the community: as radical, rebellious, or just simply weird. And so often times the norm—the (perhaps only) established way of doing things—is accepted and taken up by the entire population, which is generally unwilling to experiment with, much less accept, any deviation. In English class, silence is the norm, and the alternative—speaking, asking questions, contributing to discussion—is not often attempted by many. Nevertheless, a handful of students do eventually speak up and begin asking questions (although perhaps not about the day’s topic. How old are you? Why are you here? Are you married? Do you want to be? Do you love Malian women? Are there a lot of jobs in America? Can you take me back there with you?).

The high school currently does not offer computer access to students—few even know how to use one—but they do have a closet full of about fifteen dusty computers, which, with my help, will soon be used to create a large computer lab. Once the room is ready and all the machines are up and running, I will begin teaching the staff and students how to navigate a computer, and about the benefits and uses of various programs.

AVEZ-VOUS L’ARGENT?
Although the primary goal of Peace Corps work is to help build the capacity of locals and to encourage them to utilize their own thoughts, creativity, and resources to improve their lives, the truth is that the one thing which prevents a large number of projects from becoming a reality is a lack of money. Fortunately, Peace Corps Volunteers have access to a few different potential sources of funding that can be used for a variety of much needed construction projects: latrines, hospitals, schools, wells, gardens, fences, etc.

The Mayor’s Office in Bafoulabé has already identified a few dozen such large construction projects that the citizens of various villages within the commune would benefit from—within the next few months, I am hoping to identify the most important of these and begin exploring the idea of making it happen.

LES AUTRES CHOSES
Aside from the small savings and credit bank that I was sent here to help repair and bring back to life, any other work that I do during my two years of service (and the Peace Corps encourages a lot) is completely undefined and will be shaped by my own areas of interest, the needs of the community, and the willingness of local citizens, businesses, and organizations to work with me.

As of right now, I am interested in exploring the accomplishments and needs of the local health center to see if there is an appropriate place there for me (perhaps helping with vaccination campaigns, general health and sanitation education, or even baby-weighing).

I also plan on looking into fruit and vegetable dehydration—possibly teaching some locals how to build a dehydrator and package the dried goods. During the months when crops are largely done producing and food is in shorter-than-normal supply, it would be great for families to have a stockpile of dried fruits and vegetables to rely on.

A few weeks ago, I was told that a volunteer in a nearby village recently started a project to build a school, but is about to reach the end of her two years of service and will soon be leaving. Another volunteer and I are apparently going to be taking over the project for her. Should be fun.