“Change Your Attitude.” Remixed

Part II begins…

…Overwhelming has been the only real way to describe not only site visit, but the last three weeks of my life. Although I feel as though my emotions and mind were finally keeping pace, by the time I got sick at the end of my site visit my brain once again shut off and I was once again rendered incapable of processing what was going on around me. The issue with this, unlike the first time around, was not so much my inability to conceptualize myself living and working here in Mali, but conceiving myself within the weird and somewhat unique social sphere I found myself becoming increasingly aware of.

A few main things happened over the course of the weeks I struggled to come to terms with the experiences of my site visit: I met a large amount of the fellow volunteers I would be seeing the most of over at least the next coming year if not longer, I moved back into my homestay site to spend my final two weeks there, and I experienced both Christmas and New Years in a social context completely unfamiliar to anything I have ever known previously. Needless to say that trying to process all that while at the same time trying to navigate an illness made the entire experience not only overwhelming but at times acutely emotionally challenging.

That being said I navigated the waters successfully and emerged on the other side of the entire debacle with good moments, lasting memories and even better stories. Although I did not expect it nor at all feel prepared to deal with it, I made it through to the other side successfully and did so because of a few key things: presence, family and friends at home, friends here and the ever growing realization that I may be victim to the circumstances and unpredictability of Mali, but in the end I will dictate on my own whether or not my experience here is a good one based on the decisions I make about my actions and attitudes throughout  the course of the next two years.

When I refer to presence I mean it in the sense of being present in everything that I do here. Although, as I have previously stated I struggled with this concept and idea throughout basically all of my first month here and now feel as though I am here, I’m not here in the sense that I wish I was. Instead, the issue has not so much been alleviated as it has shifted from one issue to another. Although I now find myself present in what I do here, my ability to find a middle ground between where I am now and where I was 3, 4 even 5 months ago has become much harder. I’ve found that the weeks directly following my site visit have shaken any lingering sense of a honeymoon with Mali that I might have had, and forced me into trying to better understand not only who I am and why I came here, but also how I am going make it through the next two years taking on a split persona: Mali me, and American me. I think I can attribute a lot of my malaise over the past two weeks to trying to balance what is slowly developing into two distinct lives: two families, two distinct sets of friends, two/three languages and two homes. That being said, I think that I am slowly moving out of this malaise, realizing that such a lifestyle is not as improbable as I originally thought.

I said presence, but presence has taken on a new sense here, and one that is very hard to qualify in a direct and literal sense. On the one hand my success as a volunteer here and my happiness as a human being over the next two years will be in large part a direct result of how I interact with my community, accepting them as my own and getting them to accept me in the same way. Although this has been stressed over and over again in all of our training, the part that I didn’t realize, and what proved to be harder for me, was to take on this new persona with a grain of salt, not compare it to the life I left behind in the states, and just accept it in the same manner I have with everything in my life: love it for its very imperfections.

This seems like a simple enough task in the short run (ie: study abroad or living in a country with less stark differences from back home), the definition is much harder within the conceptualization of a (possibly) uninterrupted two year stay here in West Africa. It’s more difficult because it demands two things that other experiences haven’t: a deeper acceptance of the difficulties and realities of life here, and a much stronger desire/need to keep in close touch with those back home. Christmas and the week following were strong reminders of this. Talking with my parents and some of my closest friends has centered me once more, helping me to realize why I came here in the first place and why I made the sacrifices I did to do what I am doing currently. It helped remind me that although life was chugging along without me back home, I wasn’t missing as much as I sometimes felt like I was, and that regardless of my absence the people who I care most about were and still are standing behind me in everything I was doing, and willing to support me as best they could. Those conversations, those comments, those letters and packages en route keep me focused and present here because they are a constant reminder that this is not only what I was meant to do, but that everything that I am feeling currently is merely a temporary stumble, a “defining moment” if you will, that I will persevere through and emerge on the other side a better person for it. So, in a sense life here is a dual presence, a global presence, balancing a life flung far across the world and in the process enhancing the state of mind and knowledge of an increasingly growing base of open-minded and caring individuals in a way that would have never been possible if I had stayed at home and mitigated my personal risk. Remembering this, and staying present in this mindset will no doubt be essential to my success and sustained happiness throughout my Peace Corps service.

On the topic of mindset, there is one more piece of the last few weeks that I have left out of my analysis: how I view myself within the context not only of my Malian community but the small group of fellow PCV’s and expats that are my best cultural connection to back home. To be honest, I’ve feared on multiple occasions that I would run into issues and personality conflicts with other people, which is a very large worry to have when a small knit community of only a few hundred people is all you can really rely on, and burning bridges can lead to blowback, and you have very little control and very little leeway over the people you find yourself forced to trust and rely on here.

Although I still think this is a legitimate fear, I think I viewed it in a much more fatalistic light than I should have. I interpreted the situation from a position of no control, as if my own person had no impact on the social sphere I found myself trapped within. As if my own personality and actions would not have any effect on the people around me, only vice versa. Looking back on those worries and fears I expressed to myself in my journal in the weeks following my site visit, I realized that they were very one sided. I had forgotten in this trainee state of feeling like a child that I was still very much a master of my own fate, and that how I chose to define myself within the cultural and social spheres I found myself caught in here.

In the end, and I think in life in general, fate is a very easy way to relinquish control but also to shift blame. I think that in order to be happy not only here, but in general that a certain sense of ownership and decision-making capability must always rest in your own hands and in that sense I will re-quote the very same individual who was responsible for the title of the very first post I ever made on this blog:

 

“If you don’t like something, change it. If you can’t change it, change your attitude.”

-Maya Angelou

 

In the end I alone will dictate how I live, work and enjoy the next two years and in the longer run my life in general.

These concepts, everything I have just said feels as though it is very basic life philosophy, psychological mind vomit of no real application in the real world, but the Peace Corps training (which will officially end in under two days) has taught me that, much like international development work, what is discussed in Ivory Towers is extremely different from the realities on the ground. Only until you put your feet on that ground do you go from understanding to living, thinking to being, watching to acting. Until life forces you to come to terms you can only read those terms and try to understand them in a philosophical context.

This is, in every sense of the word, as real as my life has ever gotten, and it’s those moments, as cliché as the words I may use to describe them are, that will teach you the most about your life.

Site Visit, Etc. Part 1 of 2

12/9/11

Yesterday was the big day, the day that set the tone for the next two years of my life. It’s funny how the entire course of your life can be dictated by such small moments in time. As we sat in our large group, watching region by region announce the sites of myself and my fellow trainees, I sat patiently awaiting my name watching region by region disappear from my prospects. Finally, as we reached the end my name was finally called. I would be living in a small village outside the sub regional capital of San. (I am not going to get into specific details on a public blog, so you’re going to have to call me on skype (cell phone or when I have internets) if you want the full story on where I am heading).

(11 Days Later…)

I’ve found that life here can be exhausting, especially when bacterial and viral internal infections here are treated much like I treat the common cold back home (Disclaimer: I am fully on the road to recovery and feel spectacular as I write this, so no worries). And in conjunction with said exhaustion, I find it extremely difficult to sit down and write these. I know that if I continue to go back to this point my blog will become a broken record, but the reason why I reiterate this point again is to take solace now in the fact that I found my inspiration. Somewhere between reading Hemmingway, re-reading my journal and having a moment of silence for the envelopes in bookmark purgatory that were destined for America before I fucked up an address in the land of no white-out, I found the spark necessary not only to start this post, but the source that will continue to fuel my posts throughout my time here (though the list of authors will no doubt increase as time progresses since for the first time in four years I feel like I really have time to read and am regretting my lack of a kindle).

And, in honor of my newfound inspiration, I think it’s only fair that I try to write post #2/3 a little differently:

This week was one-hundred and ten different ways of completely overwhelming, and the only way to do it justice is to divide it up into two parts: travelogue and reflection. There is no way to contain the experience in one continuous story, because to do so would be a disservice to just how ridiculous this entire week has been in every possible sense of its terming in Webster’s.

My week started bright and early on Monday morning. Well, not so bright, seeing as it was 5:30 in the morning. My work counterpart and I departed the training center to get to the bus station for the 7am bus destined for San. So, overburdened with two backpacks and a PC-issued Trek mountain bike we bopped our way through a 7 hour bus ride to a random village on the side of the road of San before continuing the last bit on bike. After a difficult but short venture out into the African bush I arrived at the place I was going to call home for the next two years.

It’s funny how perspectives change here. Anywhere else, in any other experience you would tell someone who shows you a three room mud house with a thatch roof with a basic gas stove and very simple tables and furniture with an outdoor well constructed cement hole in the ground for a toilet where to shove it, but here it would have been inappropriate not to be extremely grateful for such things. After settling a little bit, I had my first experience with toh and sauce, the Malian staple meal that in texture resembles something most people would never put anywhere near their mouths (It’s a thick porridge made of either rice/corn/sorghum or millet – the corn one is damn good, like grits, but unfortunately sorghum and millet are much more common, and personally legitimately less appetizing). I muscled through the experience, but I think in the future I will learn to love it, since it will probably be at least one of my meals everyday for the next two years. After I was granted the luxury of a much needed siesta before greeting my host family and village chief in the African dusk. And as I fell asleep I prepared for day #2 that could only surpass day #1 in its awkwardness.

And of course, that it did. Day 2 began what I will refer to as the “Welcome Wagon Tour” in which I moved throughout the village with my work counterpart and, at least for day one, my site mate (another volunteer already installed that lives about 4 km down the road in another community). The afternoon consisted of chicken (a cultural means of welcoming me to the community – It was not the first chicken I was offered during the week), and a lot of napping. The day finished out strong by cracking into The Sun Also Rises and determining that my first pet here will be named Ernest Hemmingway.

Day 3 commenced with greeting tour #2 followed by a rather awkward lunch that reminded me of my ever-present fishbowl status. At this point I had still not attempted to venture out on my own, preferring a book over an adventure. I think in some part I foolishly assumed that I would run out of places to adventure to, if somehow such a possibility legitimately existed here.

Day 4 came and the cultural and social overload reached a fever pitch, commencing with greeting tour #3 with special guest Peace Corps staff members before departing to market day in a town a decent but manageable bike ride away. After meeting a third fellow PCV in close proximity to my site, I found my way through the market maze, ate lunch for 10 cents, witnessed the millet beer (dolo or cimicama depending on how specific you care to be) sellers hanging out in the Christian section of the market (though the millet beer consumption doesn’t really follow any sense of religious boundaries in real practice), and finally made my way back home before the sun set. It was only at this point so late in the game that I realized that from where I sat in my compound there was almost no real light pollution for roughly 10-20km in any direction, and that as such the stars lit up in the sky in the most spectacular way possible and decided that in lieu of reading I would instead sit down and just stare up at the sky for a spell. Needless to say it was a good choice.

Nothing of day 5 was of particular note, only that it began with more greetings and ended in illness. There was only one instance worth noting for further experiences: children in my village see a camera and decide that in order for the picture to truly be good they must pose like ninjas and then proceed to scrutinize the picture on the lcd screen and laugh hysterically at themselves.

Day 6 was difficult, but of particular note. After calming my stomach enough to make the trip into San I said goodbye to my village and made my way to the paved road to hitchhike into San with a fellow volunteer. After two hours of sitting on the road luck finally befell us when a Mercedes sedan pulled off to pick us up. As luck would have it the man already sitting shotgun just happened to be the representative in the National Assembly for the region of San, and I was able to check off one more line on my road to trying to be a badass in Mali. The day progressed from there with pork, M&M’s and pepto bismol, but managed to relax away the evening before getting up early and making the trek back Bamako way.

That’s my story, but the mindset I ended the week with is another story in and of itself, but I feel as though I have already rambled this post on for too long, so I will leave you all in suspense for a little while longer as to the rest of the story…

(To be continued)…

And Thus Begins Chapter 3: Mali

So, I have attempted now on 4 separate occasions to start this post, but each time it has failed. This experience is not conducive to my prior writing style, so instead of doing this like I had in Morocco and France, I intend to keep a journal while here, and then edit parts into blog posts for all you wonderful people who still have regular internet access and modern amenities.

1 month in and only at blog post #1. It’s funny how a lack of modern amenities can make a pastime start to seem more like a chore. Step 1: Write in journal. Step 2: Find “reliable” internet. Step 3: Read Journal. Step 4: Write blog post in my increasingly deteriorating English while I continue to lament the fact that I can’t understand the Bambara of anyone in my host community.

As you can see, what started as a cathartic activity in Morocco has shifted into a category closer to work. But, at the same time I have to keep reminding myself that sharing these experiences with those I care about most was the true underlying desire to start this off in the first place.

So, anyway, about this “Mali” place…

Today it finally hit me that I was here. Yes, I know I have been in country for just under a month, and now, today, I finally mentally arrived. I say this because during the last few weeks I felt as though I have been in a dream, floating through my life as I know it, but expecting at any point to wake up and realize that I hadn’t yet begun the journey. I could process and retain information, but my mind had not come to the realization that the environment with which I was interacting was not just a product of itself (Please take that last statement at face value, this is not the place for further philosophical discourse).

Today, however, was unique. I used my broken Bambara to explain to my host father last night that I wished to spend my day off from school working in the fields with him (working: watching him work, making tea and performing simple tasks once every 45 minutes). We departed this morning, and as I made tea under a tree and learned how to irrigate a field using a pump and a well, something came over me, and stopped me in my tracks. Suddenly my brain had reengaged with my body and I realized that “I am actually in Mali, in the Peace Corps, learning how to irrigate a field.” It took a month, but I think I am officially here.

Now to recount the events of my 29 day dream…

The breakdown of the past month goes something like this: 1 week orientation, 3 weeks of homestay/language training. Nothing of any noteworthiness occurred during my first week here, other than the stark realization of everything that I was going to miss most about the life I left behind in the states, and the ensuing struggle to accept this new and drastically different lifestyle.

Highlights:

-  I now have a beard and am debating how far I will attempt to take it.

-  My bathroom is now a roofless brick enclosure with a cement hole in the ground.

-  I officially hate any and all donkeys on sheer principle (due to their 4 am, well, really all day howls that sound as though they are in immense amounts of pain).

Looking back through my journal, I get the feeling that I didn’t arrive here mentally until today due to a processing backlog. When so much changes so rapidly you fail to process quickly enough to keep up, and in the process revert to your college years: more work then you have the time for, so everything gets done later than anticipated.

Now, on to something you really want to hear about: food.

I’ve been relatively pleased with the food here, considering that as a non-tourist I don’t have a whole lot of say over my food choices, and my food options tend to be limited in a small village. Most mornings begin with a piece of bread (I’m relatively sure nothing other than baguettes exist in this country) filled with fried or boiled eggs, and sometimes peanut butter. They use about a quart of oil in everything they fry and every sauce they make, making my use of olive oil at home seem sparing, and also makes the fried eggs just a touch bit gross at times.

Lunch is usually rice or pasta with a peanut or tomato-based sauce and random pieces of gristle, bone and meat I assume were at one point an animal. It’s a decent set up, but starch seems to be an overwhelming dietary staple here. Dinner doesn’t tend to differ much from lunch with only the substitution of potatoes, sweet potatoes (looks just like a regular potato but has a sweeter flavor, and they are awesome) and the occasional yam. Fried plantains and onions add a little color every once and while as well.

Anything that is legitimately cold here tends to be a relatively hot commodity (pun unintended). Refrigeration is hard to come by, so a cold soda is a wonderful thing to stumble across when in larger towns. The options are relatively limited (Coke products and more local brands tend to dominate), but a cold soda is a nice luxury to indulge in from time to time.

Diversity of food here is very much dictated by the seasons and regions, but this place is much more green than I think most people give it credit for, writing it off as a giant chunk of desert with no real diversity in diet. Although the north is more arid, it’s not quite what many people assume: Mangoes and Watermelons are dirt cheap and all over during the correct season and vegetable gardens are quite common. Even more diversity exists in fruits and veggies, but I honestly am not well versed enough to speak on this issue, though I will be sure to address it in later posts in much more detail.

Speaking of misconceptions, let me dispel a couple other ones that were flung my way during the months I was preparing to make my move here:

All Malians are poor, and therefore they are all going to want to steal my nice stuff

Mali is amongst the ten poorest nations in the world. Food security is a major issue even though most of the economy is based in subsistence agriculture. And, on top of all of that, a less than stellar rainy season prior to our arrival has hurt crop yields significantly that are going to need to sustain Mali until next year. So yes, I do witness extreme poverty, and extreme poverty does tend to lead to increased crime rate.

BUT

I have been living in a small village within Mali with my things under lock and key, but at no point in my stay thus far have I legitimately feared that any of my personal belongings were in danger. Many people may be poor here, but communities are communities. If you live in a community of 2,000 people, everyone knows everything about everything, and immoral acts don’t fly. Socioeconomic disparity does not essentially dictate theft, and vigilance in any situation is an effective deterrent.  So no, I can safely say that I don’t feel as though any of my personal belongings will be stolen if I follow the same safety precautions I did in Morocco.

Africa time is real, therefore Africans are lazy which is obviously why they are suffering

Yes, Africa time does exist, it is not a myth.

BUT

I live with a host father who looks like he is easily 70 (though he probably is younger), and every day he leaves for the fields at 8 am, comes back for lunch before leaving for the rest of the evening. And when I mean every day, I mean every day. Monday through Sunday. And after seeing him teach me how to irrigate a field, I can say without a doubt that he does not just drink tea out in those fields, he does back-breaking work that would make me desperately need a chiropractor. As far as I’m concerned there is much more to this story than blatant generalizations, and although this place runs on its own time, there is much more to it than meets the textbook. Although, since I am working in Small Enterprise Development, I’m sure I will spend time discussing this issue in the future.

The all being said…

I get the feeling from the volunteers here I have met that this experience is going to be a difficult and humbling one, and worth every moment. This makes moving out of you comfort zone in a study abroad seem like child’s play.

Until next time…

(K’an b’en)

See you later

Addendum 11/29/11: My first experience with Malian soccer ended in a small flesh wound. Soccer in Mali is a full contact sport, something I will most definitely keep such things in mind in the future. I’m quite fine and healthy, but something to keep in mind during future games.

Tags: Culture Shock, Host Family, Mali, Peace Corps