O-BAM-A, O-BAM-A!

It’s 10 am in Sikasso, and I’m still cold! For the past three weeks, I’ve been wearing long skirts at site, sleeping under a wool blanket and heating my bath water. Every evening at my homologue’s house, we gather around a small bonfire. I have a clock in my house that measures temperature - it usually reads in the low 70’s, which isn’t that cold, but is certainly not hot. I love it!

I’ve just spent two and a half weeks at site, after my long vacation to the States. Going back to Kourouma after such a long time wasn’t as bad as I’d anticipated. Yes, a lot of people told me I’d been gone for a long time, yes some people told me I’d gained weight, but other people told me that my skin looked really good which was a nice compliment. There was of course lots of news to catch up on, mostly deaths. One old man who had died was the chief of one of the major fetishes, the Waara fetish. Forty days after a person dies, there is an event called a Sarakabo, where community members gather in the concession of the deceased in order to greet their family. For this man’s Sarakabo, the Waara fetish was out the entire day. At around 1 am on the morning of the event, I heard gunshots, drums and singing which lasted until late morning. The fetish came out again in the afternoon and stayed out until evening. After dinner, my homologue and I walked over to watch. I’d seen the Waara fetish several times before, but it never ceases to hold my attention. There were a bunch of women and men dancing in a circle. Some of the men were wearing the traditional outfit of white shorts and no shirts. Many were holding burning branches. My homologue had her six month old baby strapped to her back, and at one point when a guy holding a bunch of burning sticks started walking toward us, she turned around and sprinted fifty yards down the road. It was one of the funniest things I’d seen in a long time.

There was another Sarakabo which took place for a young woman who had died of malaria. I didn’t know her, but am friends with her father and a couple of other people in her concession. When I went to greet her father, he and about seven other old men were sitting in a room. They offered me millet beer and were just hanging out. A couple men had spools of cotton and were sewing shirts. A couple men were trimming branches to weave into mats, and a couple men were sleeping. After I left the concession, I went over to Maminatta’s to hang out with her. I told her about cremation and she was shocked. The thought that someone would have their body burned was just inconceivable to her. In Kourouma, if someone dies, they are wrapped in white and buried immediately. There is no viewing. Visitation occurs immediately after the death and later at the Sarakabo. We also got on the subject of suicide. Maminatta was also interested to learn about this, and then told me that in Mali, if an old man or woman dies, and one of their children is extremely unhappy; they can ask the dead parent to kill them, and then they’ll die as well.

A few days after getting back to site, I went to visit another friend whose name is also Maminatta. She had a little girl, Wassa, who was about a year and a half old. Wassa was underweight and had attended a porridge-making session last Spring. When I got to Maminatta’s, I casually asked how Wassa was doing. Maminatta hesitated and said that Wassa had left. Not really thinking, I asked where she had gone. Maminatta said that she had died. Apparently she had malaria, although I’m sure the fact that she was malnourished didn’t help. Although Wassa was scared of me and wouldn’t let me hold her, I knew her well, and so her death was harder to hear about than any other child’s deaths that I’ve heard about since coming to Mali.

I spent one week at the school, wrapping up HIV/AIDS animations. I want to turn my focus now to family planning, as teen pregnancy is a major problem in the commune. One day, I had started speaking with one of the 7th grade classes but they would not settle down and listen. The 2nd cycle school director walked in holding a rubber strap. I thought he was just going to threaten the students, but he walked over to a boy and gave him a quick swat on the head. Then he turned to a girl who was talking and smacked her one, two, three times on the back with the strap. Some of the kids around her were kind of smiling and laughing, so I thought it must not hurt that bad, but when I looked at the girl, she had tears running down her face. So yes, there are a few differences in school discipline between the United States and Mali.

There are a couple of young teachers in Kourouma who are huge fans of Barack Obama. Anyone who regularly listens to the radio knows who Obama is, but these two men absolutely love him. I gave each of them an Obama sticker to put on their motorcycles, and an Obama/Biden poster to hang in their house. They were really excited about these gifts. On January 20th, as I was returning to my house from the water pump, I heard “Awa” and then “O-BAM-A, O-BAM-A” and turned to see one of the teachers, Amadou, looking over his concession wall and pumping his fist in the air. I went over and he and the other teacher, Coulibably, were listening to the inauguration ceremony on the radio. They switched it to an English station so I could listen for a few minutes. I know there are some concerns about the pressure that people in African countries may place on Obama, but the enthusiasm of these two men was fun to see nonetheless!

Here’s looking at you, kid.

I like the movie Casablanca, but after spending fifteen hours in the city I can safely say that I will never live there! It’s a fairly clean city with little trash, and it’s located right on the Atlantic coast, with a beautiful beach. The second largest mosque in the world (next to Mecca in Saudi Arabia) is there and it is stunning with doors and other decorations made from tiny, colorful mosaic tiles. There are many patisseries and shops, reminding me of Paris. The traditional Moroccan food that I tried was also very tasty. But then there was the traffic. I thought Bamako traffic was bad – not compared to Casablanca. There are a gazillion cars on the road, all rushing and never really paying attention. I have never been more scared for my life!

Overall my day in Casablanca was good. I was there on layover from New York to Bamako (I spent three weeks in North Carolina for the Christmas season). On the flight, I was sitting next to a Moroccan woman named Souad who had lived in South Carolina for ten years but was going home to spend three weeks with her family. When she heard that I had a fifteen hour layover in Casablanca, she basically took me under her wing and suggested that I go home with her. We met her parents and two siblings at the airport and the six of us squeezed into her father’s tiny car for the forty minute drive to the city. They lived in a nice apartment with a view to the ocean. Her mom made enough breakfast to feed an army, consisting of crepes and honey butter, hard-boiled eggs, homemade English muffin-type things with cheese, and lemon bunt cake. After the meal I took a three-hour long nap and awoke to a heaping plate of couscous with vegetables and a glass of buttermilk. Needless to say I had my fair share of traditional Moroccan food. That afternoon, Souad and I walked to the coast, went to see the mosque, and wandered around the shops downtown.

My fear of the traffic was justified that evening when I got in a taxi to go to the train station. It was dark at that point and drizzling. I was sitting behind the driver and there were two other passengers in the car. At one point we ended up in the middle of a busy intersection (I don’t know how). There was one car parallel to us on the right side, thus blocking the driver from being able to see cars driving toward us from the right. The taxi driver inched forward at first and then must have thought we were in the clear, and pushed harder on the gas to go forward. Unfortunately we were not in the clear and a car ran into the side of our taxi. I hit my head a little bit and the lady sitting next to me hit hers pretty hard, but luckily no one was injured. I got out to see a big dent on the right side of the car and then caught another taxi as quickly as possible and kept my eyes shut for the rest of the drive to the train station. The second taxi got there safely and I got a train to the airport. So now I can not only say that I’ve been to Casablanca, but that I was in a car accident in Casablanca!

Right before boarding the plane to Bamako, I was suddenly switched to first class which was pretty awesome. The seat was roomy and we got a three course meal, including a cheese sampler consisting of brie and two other types of cheese. I ate every bite of the cheese, anticipating the only available cheese in Mali: Laughing Cow which has a consistency similar to plastic. I’ll be honest; I wasn’t incredibly eager to get back to Mali. When the plane landed though, and I started hearing more Bambara and seeing familiar sights, I was happy. I’m not looking forward to my immediate return to site where I already know for a fact that I will be bombarded with comments on how long I was gone and how much weight I gained, but after settling in, it will be good to be at my house and see my friends. It was great to see some of you over Christmas. I truly had a wonderful time catching up with family and friends, eating lots (avoiding rice, corn, potatoes and pasta when possible), listening to and singing carols, going to the Winston-Salem Candle Tea, playing on the Wii, running outside in cold weather, and hiking in the mountains. Happy New Year!

Awa