"No one can develop a people-- only a people can develop themselves"

Peace Corps refers to what I do as "the toughest job you'll ever love." So what is my job description exactly? Succinctly, on a daily basis, I do three things:

1. Help the Malian people meet their goals to develop their country.
2. Share my American culture with Malians.
3. Through living and working with Malians, help Americans better understand Malian culture.

So why is this considered so difficult?

As a health volunteer, I specifically address Malian health development goals: Mali has one of the worst infant mortality rates in the world. I go to Women's Association Meetings and speak briefly on a health topic; this past week I did a demonstration of how to make Oral Rehydration Solution or in Bambara, Keneyaji-- mix specific ratios of water, sugar and salt together, give to child so he does not die of dehydration.

For a fairly accurate account of what I do, take a look at David Werner's book Helping Health Workers Learn: Werner was a health worker in rural Mexico, and his experience and advice has since been applied and adapted by health workers in most of the developing world. (His other book, Where there is no Doctor, is also my go-to first aid manuel as a resident of the developing world.)

Why is what I do so difficult? First, most of the women I work with cannot read.  Most left school at second or third grade, if their parents even allowed them to go to school in the first place.

Second, even some women who have learned how to read--one Women's Association studies Bambara together-most of the written world in Mali is written in French. In my village, even the number of people who can read French is fairly small.  Farmers tend to drop out of school at seventh or eighth grade, while those that even make it to high school tend to work in larger cities. French, I imagine, is a bit like triangle math to me: I vaguely remember some math teacher stressing that I would never succeed in life if I didn't know how to determine the length of that third side, but if you pressed me for some actual ratios or formulas, I'm useless. With French, many can say some phrases or a greeting, but when faced with a native French speaker, they're useless.

Finally, at the end of the day, I can't make people do anything I recommend--washing hands with soap and water, sleeping under a mosquito net.  For everything, I need to give Malians a pretty good reason to justify that buying bleach and treating your water really is going to improve your life and that washing your hands really does kill germs so that the women I talk to see a reason to practice healthy behaviors.

The other frustrating element of the first Peace Corps goal is dealing with other development efforts. In three of the villages I go to, I discovered there were pumps which were long ago broken, neglected, and ignored. I asked some villagers about them, and the story is nearly always the same: "Ten years ago or so, some white people came and built them, and then they broke (or they were in a bad location in the first place). And we can't fix them. So we'll just wait for some more white people to come in and drop some money to repair them."

Meanwhile, three villages have attempted to construct small dams with rocks and metal wiring in order to hold water during the rainy season. Every year they attempt to enhance these areas where water collects in order to raise the level of the water table and the amount of water in the wells. This is development--helping people do what they're already trying to do, and given some slightly better materials, succeeding mostly on their own.

The other part of my job is a cross-cultural exchange: I have a University level eductation, and when I was assigned to Mali, I had to look up on a map to be sure where it was. This is sad, but unfortunately true.

Now, six months have passed, and I can have a short conversation in Bambara, know the regions and ethnic groups of Mali, and am intimately acquainted with the specifics of Malian life.

Finally, for many of the smaller villages to which I bike, I am the first white person they've seen, and further, the first American who will ever come into their houses, and speak with them on their own terms. Even in the village I live in, where people are slightly more acquainted with NGOs, I am one of the few white people that is actually a person.  For example, the volunteer before me liked fish, so when she ate with people, they always give her fish. I hate fish. I think my neighbors thought I was kidding, ("Oh sure, the other volunteer liked meat, so you must too!"), until I came back one village over with a huge bag of lettuce and tomatoes strapped to my bike, stating enthusiastically, "No meat.  Tonight, we're having salad, lots of salad!"

Integrating into Malian culture on a 24 hour basis?

Yes, it is a tough job.

"Fatim, sit down, you can't go en brousse tomorrow."

She had a rare, serious look in her eyes, and I sat, waiting to hear what my neighbor, Cha-Cha, had to tell me.

"Alaima came this afternoon, and she said Komo is coming tomorrow. You can't go in the bush tomorrow, you can't!"

I was warned about this by the previous volunteer, and now I knew the extent of how serious everyone was about it: Komo is a Bambara (animist) religious holiday which occurs once during the dry season, and again near the end of rainy season. My village is nearly entirely Muslim, with a handful of Christians. One neighboring village has a fairly large Catholic minority. But as soon as you head even 1 km into the bush, Muslim, Christian, Bambara--everyone practices animism to some degree.

What Komo is exactly is what's more difficult to articulate: as described to me, the Komo comes to a village for two or three days. Women can't see it, otherwise, they'll die. Men can go outside and see it. I'm told there is beer involved, and that some villages eat dog meat, except in some villages where eating dog meat is prohibited and lizard meat is the animal of choice. I get the gist that the Komo is one man who wanders from village to village with a giant mask, and some women have demonstrated the strange noise it makes outside their doors.

What is strange, almost disconcerting, is how seriously this is believed: Alaima walked into my village, 3 km, to tell me to be sure not to come out in the unfortunate instance that I would "see it" and die. The Komo has ceased in my own village since traditional animists were nearly entirely converted to Islam or Christianity, but if you even mention it, there is the same stock warning: "You can't go into the bush! You can't see it or you'll die!"

But a more general animism runs deeper than one or two traditional celebrations. I always wear this hemp necklace that I made: it means nothing, just something that I always wear and as a result, is now one of my distinguishing characteristics by people who know me. The questions started slowly, first the family I ate with, then Ya, the girl who takes money when I call people at the phone cabine--"What is that around your neck? Why do you wear it?" I would look perplexed, saying something to the effect of "no reason, I just like it, the same reason you wear earrings or bracelets."

Finally, I asked someone in the next village over of the significance of the Malians' dry grass necklaces which happened to look quite similar to mine: "If you're hurting in that area, say your wrist or your ankle, you wear this, and the pain is gone." Several more people confirmed it: the Malians thought my necklace had medicine or special powers that gave me good health.

Similarly, Malians wear silver metal rings, not as a sign of marriage, but "as a way to protect themselves against sorcerers, which during the day turn into cats." I have been told other stories of someone who lives in the village, who knows if you steal or trick people, and at night, he changes, and if you're walking alone, he will kill you.

This is my American rationalism, shocked by the absurdity that women must stay inside for two, three days, while men drink beer, and that objects like dried grass and rings have special powers.

But of course Christians and Muslims have their own superstitions too: Friday the 13th always has a drop in airline passengers, and the number '13' is generally thought to be unlucky: there were thirteen people at the Last Supper. I talked with my language tutor, asking why Friday mornings, right before Mosque let out at noon, were particularly quiet: "when unfortunate events happen, they always happen Friday morning (the Islamic Holy Day) right before Mosque. People don't like to travel, to come out of their house until they are sure any danger or possible mishap that is beyond a person's control has past."

Malians wearing metal rings or shirts, thought to protect from harm, have ceased to have any real connection to a specific religion: these practices are now cultural attitudes that respond to the unexplainable like, say, our own irrational fear of going into a graveyard at night (ditto for Malians) or that a black cat is bad luck. I do reflect the American culture's reverence of rationalism, but I am fairly sympathetic to any culture's attempt to deal with the unexplainable and unfortunate--I've studied Jungian symbolism, tarot cards, astrology, and honestly, there are moments in Philosophy, especially metaphysics, which I felt pushed up against the bounds of rationalism.

I have yet to wear a cotton shirt or metal ring to protect myself from misfortune.

But I am certain to stay inside at night, with my window shut, and to never go into the bush without asking first, "The Komo is gone, right?"

A few more pics

The sign when arriving in my village.













Outside of the CSCOM, or community clinic














In the bush or en brousse, as said in French.