My house!
My neighbor's house. And my clothes on the line.
The door and inside of my latrine, nyegan in Bambara.
Also, the crucial salidaga, used to rinse hands and feet.
Sam! Thanks for the pictures.
Walking to the next village.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Pictures. Courtesy of Sam.
The door and inside of my latrine, nyegan in Bambara.
Also, the crucial salidaga, used to rinse hands and feet.
Sam! Thanks for the pictures.
Walking to the next village.
Come eat!
Before I begin my narrative for today, I want to thank everyone who donated to my village's pump repair project. I walked out to their village just to tell them the good news, that we could proceed with repairing the pump come October. Pierre clapped his hands together, smiled and said, "good news indeed!" I'll do my best to post pictures.
About a week ago, I was in yet another village, presenting an animation on clean water. Afterward, I decided to bike up to the nearest large city--about 20 kilometers. It had just rained the night before, and there was that wonderful cool, fresh feeling in the air.
Since it's rainy season, everyone is in the fields, and around noon, I saw a familiar scene: men were waving out, shouting the often heard phrase at mealtimes to each other, "Na dumunike!" Come eat! Around noon, you'll see five, six, seven men, crouched around one large metal bowl, filled with toh and sauce. They eat, thank everyone else, then leave the bowl to drink some tea under the nearest tree with each other. Sometimes there's conversation afterward. Sometimes just sitting or napping until it cools off enough to work again.
I'll briefly relate this scene to one particular moment in the U.S. About two years ago, just returned from Scotland, I subletted a single-person apartment for the summer. I welcomed this new living arrangement; I had just spent a month staying exclusively in hostels with 10 and 12 beds to one room, with communal showers, communal sinks, you get the idea. After having nothing to call my own, I loved coming home to an empty house, making dinner for one person, sitting squarely in front of my laptop and wathcing movies.
After several weeks of this, I got tired of cooking only for myself, and started inviting friends over for dinners. Then on a weekend when my immediates were all out of town, I asked a co-worker to come over for dinner. I tried to convince her to break her routine and come over, saying "I can never eat the entire box of macaroni and cheese! It always goes bad!" My boss, the practical woman she is, started making 'helpful' suggestions: "well just cook half the box. Or put the cheese sauce in the refrigerator." My boss never understood why I always shot her suggestions down. I invited my co-worker over, not because everything says '2-4 servings' on the box, but to give some acceptable spin to what no American can say: "I'm lonely, and I'd really just like to have someone else."
I remember that incident in particular because there's this weird feeling of being weak or needy in America when you seek out other people. Along the same vein, everyone can relate to the elementary or highschool lunch room: you scan the crowd, finding your people, the group that always saves you a seat. Otherwise, you're forced into some other group that only grudgingly accepts you, making polite small talk, and then just wishing you'd leave.
I tell Malians about American eating habits. I explain single-person apartments, and coffee shops, about how there is a high priority on individual space and time. We Americans understand this about each other, and will give you your space until you say otherwise.
And and they are not only shocked, but perplexed. "Why would you not invite someone to come eat with you? Why would you every exclude someone? Why would you do anything, especially eat, by yourself?". They ask me these things, and I can't give them an answer they'll understand. Malians are joiners. Everything, everything, is done together. Not only does exclusion seem odd, they consider it downright greedy and mean.
Growing up Malian, you'll probably share not only a room but a bed with two or three other siblings. If you're smart enough to go to high school (lycee) and move to the city. But rather than live in a dorm, American style, you'll live with a host family, who you pay to cook your meals, clean your clothes, and functions as your family. Even after highschool, if you're an unmarried woman, you'll live with your brothers or your family until you find a husband. As a man, you live with your parents and grandparents, and if they have died, take over as head of the house. It was a startling realization when I put the obvious together: Malians are never alone!
One Malian, a Muslim I believe, explained their collective attitude as such: "Only God is One. Man? Independent? Never. What makes us human is that we are in this together. Whatever 'this' is, we can't know, we are not God. So it is everything that we do--farming, eating, celebrating, mourning- we must do these things together."
I still need to retreat for several hours every day, to have my own space. But now, I will read American publications and novels, nearly gagging at the 'individualism' that has come to define America. So much of American culture is based on exclusion: what you do or don't wear, who you do or don't know. Your affiliations. Your personal politics. Everything is categorized so that every person can sit and consider themselves 'independent' and 'unique.'
Biking up to Kolokani, I pass a third group of farmers. They all simultaneously yell for me to come and eat, twice as is custom. And again, as custom dictates, I decline twice by saying I've already eaten. I think back to the American cafeteria experience, to the shame I felt trying to invite my co-worker over for dinner.
But in Mali? Come! Join!
About a week ago, I was in yet another village, presenting an animation on clean water. Afterward, I decided to bike up to the nearest large city--about 20 kilometers. It had just rained the night before, and there was that wonderful cool, fresh feeling in the air.
Since it's rainy season, everyone is in the fields, and around noon, I saw a familiar scene: men were waving out, shouting the often heard phrase at mealtimes to each other, "Na dumunike!" Come eat! Around noon, you'll see five, six, seven men, crouched around one large metal bowl, filled with toh and sauce. They eat, thank everyone else, then leave the bowl to drink some tea under the nearest tree with each other. Sometimes there's conversation afterward. Sometimes just sitting or napping until it cools off enough to work again.
I'll briefly relate this scene to one particular moment in the U.S. About two years ago, just returned from Scotland, I subletted a single-person apartment for the summer. I welcomed this new living arrangement; I had just spent a month staying exclusively in hostels with 10 and 12 beds to one room, with communal showers, communal sinks, you get the idea. After having nothing to call my own, I loved coming home to an empty house, making dinner for one person, sitting squarely in front of my laptop and wathcing movies.
After several weeks of this, I got tired of cooking only for myself, and started inviting friends over for dinners. Then on a weekend when my immediates were all out of town, I asked a co-worker to come over for dinner. I tried to convince her to break her routine and come over, saying "I can never eat the entire box of macaroni and cheese! It always goes bad!" My boss, the practical woman she is, started making 'helpful' suggestions: "well just cook half the box. Or put the cheese sauce in the refrigerator." My boss never understood why I always shot her suggestions down. I invited my co-worker over, not because everything says '2-4 servings' on the box, but to give some acceptable spin to what no American can say: "I'm lonely, and I'd really just like to have someone else."
I remember that incident in particular because there's this weird feeling of being weak or needy in America when you seek out other people. Along the same vein, everyone can relate to the elementary or highschool lunch room: you scan the crowd, finding your people, the group that always saves you a seat. Otherwise, you're forced into some other group that only grudgingly accepts you, making polite small talk, and then just wishing you'd leave.
I tell Malians about American eating habits. I explain single-person apartments, and coffee shops, about how there is a high priority on individual space and time. We Americans understand this about each other, and will give you your space until you say otherwise.
And and they are not only shocked, but perplexed. "Why would you not invite someone to come eat with you? Why would you every exclude someone? Why would you do anything, especially eat, by yourself?". They ask me these things, and I can't give them an answer they'll understand. Malians are joiners. Everything, everything, is done together. Not only does exclusion seem odd, they consider it downright greedy and mean.
Growing up Malian, you'll probably share not only a room but a bed with two or three other siblings. If you're smart enough to go to high school (lycee) and move to the city. But rather than live in a dorm, American style, you'll live with a host family, who you pay to cook your meals, clean your clothes, and functions as your family. Even after highschool, if you're an unmarried woman, you'll live with your brothers or your family until you find a husband. As a man, you live with your parents and grandparents, and if they have died, take over as head of the house. It was a startling realization when I put the obvious together: Malians are never alone!
One Malian, a Muslim I believe, explained their collective attitude as such: "Only God is One. Man? Independent? Never. What makes us human is that we are in this together. Whatever 'this' is, we can't know, we are not God. So it is everything that we do--farming, eating, celebrating, mourning- we must do these things together."
I still need to retreat for several hours every day, to have my own space. But now, I will read American publications and novels, nearly gagging at the 'individualism' that has come to define America. So much of American culture is based on exclusion: what you do or don't wear, who you do or don't know. Your affiliations. Your personal politics. Everything is categorized so that every person can sit and consider themselves 'independent' and 'unique.'
Biking up to Kolokani, I pass a third group of farmers. They all simultaneously yell for me to come and eat, twice as is custom. And again, as custom dictates, I decline twice by saying I've already eaten. I think back to the American cafeteria experience, to the shame I felt trying to invite my co-worker over for dinner.
But in Mali? Come! Join!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
