Dogon: doggone good

// June 21, 2009 (my one-year anniversary of arriving in Africa!) -- EDIT: I originally posted this a few days ago, and then yesterday Blogger sent me an email saying they'd had a bug in their system that affected 0.05% of their users -- including me. It reset the addresses of ALL the photos I'd posted, which is why they've been appearing as broken links. It took me a while, but I was able to fix everything just now so the pictures should be properly showing again. //

Most likely, you at some point in your life have suffered the hassle of a delayed flight. The crowd groans as that dreaded announcement is made. A few irate passengers start yelling at the attendant behind the desk (as if that poor soul has anything to do with the postponement). "This is an outrage!" "I have a very important meeting!" "I've been here two hours already!" "I want my money back!"

But eventually, you give up fighting, and you go grab your double tall iced nonfat caramel macchiato, and you hunker down with your laptop and the free wireless internet. In the air conditioning.

In Africa, however, delays do not go quite as such. The bus ride from Bamako, capital of Mali, back to the border of Mauritania ought to take something like six hours. It's a straight shot, all on a newly paved road. We left our hotel at 7 AM. We crossed the border around noon -- the next day.

The long-distance buses in Mali were not exactly kind to us. Sure, I expected them to be hot, I expected them to be uncomfortable, I expected the tattered upholstery, and I certainly expected utterly nonsensical delays -- but a few of our experiences went above and beyond. My patience found new heights never before realized. You want to cry, then you want to scream, then you do scream, and you do cry, and then you’re finally so beaten down that you just go numb. And I force myself to remember that sometime soon, this will all be a memory.

Example: we had hoped our ride from Bamako out to the Dogon Country would put us into our destination before nightfall. But the bus stops constantly, and the passengers pour off, going to relieve themselves or grabbing bread and cold drinks from roadside vendors. There is absolutely no sense of urgency.

At 11 PM, the bus pulled over and the engine was cut, with no explanation. We were no more than halfway along our route. After some inquiry, we learned that the driver was tired and intended to sleep here for the rest of the night, and we could continue at 7 AM. Despite our best efforts, Teresa and I could not get any money refunded to us, but we did successfully procure our bags from the storage chambers. We flagged down another bus, where we had to pay again, and we reached our stop at 3 AM.

We had to wake up our tour guide to come fetch us from the bus station, and as if we didn't feel bad enough about that already, we later found out that he was very ill with malaria at the time. Then after arriving at his house -- sweating, filthy, hungry, exhausted -- we discovered that my bag was open and had been looted on the bus. Among the random things stolen were all my contact lenses (a three-week's supply of dailies) AND my glasses. I was so worn down I couldn't even think about it, so I just collapsed on my mattress pad outside to fall asleep.

But then it started raining.

Also, this was Teresa's birthday.

What are you gonna do.

All that misery aside, however, I absolutely loved our trip to Mali. Bamako is a really neat city. As much as I appreciated Dakar in Senegal, it is just SO big and SO much more developed than anything else in West Africa, so it feels more like Europe. Bamako is big and has a lot to offer, but it is unquestionably Africa. People dress similarly to the Pulaars of Mauritania, and almost everyone is Muslim, but it's not quite as conservative. Certainly attitudes toward females are more open -- it's not strange to see shoulders (shock!), and many women scoot around on ever-present motorbikes. We found some excellent restaurants and a surprisingly well-presented national museum, and we oohed and aahed over all the beautiful green trees (curse that creeping Sahara in Mauritania!). Oh yeah, and alcohol is not illegal. Overall, big thumbs up for Bamako.


And then there was the mystical Dogon Country -- hailed by Lonely Planet as one of the "top 10 places to see before you die." How to describe it? Visually reminiscent of the American West, but with ancient African villages thrown in the mix. Sheer soaring sandstone rock faces, with straw-and-mud huts nestled protectively into the cliffs. We hiked through the area for three days. It was physically exhausting as we climbed up and down under the relentless sun, but worth it for the breathtakingly beautiful sights. My photos do it no justice, of course, but they can give you an idea. (These uploads are brought to you courtesy of the internet in glorious Nouakchott, far faster than that of poor little Boghé.)


Teresa and I after we finally made it to Dogon... with our Malian beers










This is how we crossed the plunging gorges: by scooting over a few little sticks. Looks pretty safe, right?


Houses built into the cliffs


A Dogon girl looks out over her village, split into three sections for animists, Muslims, and Christians


Collection of "fetishes," that is, skulls and furs and other animal parts used for traditional medicine and rituals


...thus, this monkey is perhaps not long for this world.


Traditional mud-built mosque


The Dogon are known for their indigo dyeing


These girls were very excited when they discovered their reflection in Teresa's sunglasses


Baby crocodiles! Eek!


Some villagers enjoy watching an amazing video on Joe's camera of a grown-up crocodile eating a chicken


Ta-da!
Unfortunately, while in the Dogon, we received news that was something of a one-two punch: first, the Mali-Mauritania Peace Corps soccer game had been cancelled, due to some potentially dangerous political goings-on in Mali. A big bummer, especially since we fully intended to return home victorious.

But worse news than that: our new training class, who were due to arrive in-country today, June 18th, has been pushed back indefinitely. We had heard rumors for some time that the Mauritanian government was refusing to issue visas to Americans, a result of the unstable political situation since the coup last August. We were all hoping this could be cleared up in time for the new trainees, but needless to say, it was not. All the current PCVs are very disappointed. The presidential elections that were supposed to take place June 6th were postponed until July 18th, but it is not clear what will be the result of that. We’re all watching and waiting...

Very good to talk fine and beautiful

A lot is happening! I have a new room, so that's a huge blessing. I've gotten pretty much settled, although I have a few things to buy here in Boghé this weekend to put on the final touches. Figured I might as well use this unfortunate situation as cause for some re-decorating! Photos of Room 2.0 will be up sometime in the near future, inshallah.

This school year is all but OVER! So hard to believe. Classes finished the week before last, and final exams began this past week. I will give my tests on Sunday and Monday, and then once I submit my final grades I am pretty much a free agent until school resumes in early October. I will be undertaking some minor projects in my village, and I'll be helping to train and welcome the new class of PCVs, who are slated to arrive June 18th. (We are so excited to receive them!)

But I will also have some time to relax and to travel a bit. First order of business: MALI! It's the largest country in West Africa, and it borders us to the east and south. Peace Corps Mauritania will be playing Peace Corps Mali in the "Olsen Cup," a soccer match for the ages. It would seem a shame to travel such a great distance and not sightsee a little, so a few friends and I plan to visit the capital Bamako and the legendary Dogon Country. Wish me well -- over the course of a week I will be braving more hours of public transportation than you could possibly imagine! ;) Game on...

I will greatly miss my English Club kiddies, some of whom are graduating on to high school. To close out the year I held an essay contest, with two questions to address: What are your plans for the future, and why do you want to learn English? The results were precious. Some said they wanted to be doctors or soccer stars, and many said they wanted to study in America. There was no shortage of heart, if grammar perhaps was lacking. I quote: "I do like to learn English. I learn English, because, English is tongue nationality world English is very good to talk fine and beautiful to write and to talk, thank you." This one in particular touched me: "Next month school will finish unfortunately I will miss my teacher english woman's because you love student and explanation clearly and speak as student are understood well, I LOVE ENGLISH AS I LOVE MEAT AND RICE."


For our final meeting of the club, every student was in attendance. I was so happy -- they didn't know it, but I had a huge surprise in store. I had printed up "certificates of excellence" for them when I was in Boghé. Each was emblazoned with the student's name in fancy script. I knew this was going to be a really big deal to them, since most of them have barely ever even seen a computer, let alone had something printed personally for them. (Keep in mind, this is a place where official school report cards -- and schedules, and everything else -- are all written by hand.)

But it doesn't end there. Due to the generosity of some very kind donors, I had 18 fresh, new French-English dictionaries to present to these students as gifts. To unveil the big news, I wrote a short paragraph on the blackboard. The kids started copying the text obediently -- and an excited buzz mounted as understanding dawned. I handed one book to each student, and they were beside themselves. When I asked if I could have a photo, they were so enthusiastic that you may have trouble even finding me in the shot...


A few days later, I went to my family's house for lunch as usual. There was a man sitting next to my father, but I didn't think much of it because it's not odd for us to have guests. The man greeted me. I responded dutifully -- and he exclaimed to my father in disbelief, "She really speaks Pulaar! It's so amazing!" A minute later, someone called out to me by name. The man again got worked up. "Your name is Raky?! They gave you that name here? How incredible!" I started to wonder what this guy's deal was. I thought most everyone knew me by now.

We all ate in silence, as is polite. After the bowls had been cleared, the man greeted me once again. Then he said, "Do you know why I'm here? I'm here for you." My immediate reaction was a churning in my stomach: not another hopeful suitor! But this guy seemed much too old for that. Maybe I had misunderstood?

No, I had heard him correctly. He went on to explain that he is the father of one of my students. I recognized the boy's name immediately -- he is one of my brightest, and a faithful member of English Club. The father told me he'd heard so much about me that he just wanted to come and greet my family. "You're a good person," he said. "Thank you so much, SO much."

Suddenly I realized why the man didn't know me. That kid doesn't even live in Dar El Barka. The father had traveled from another village, in the heat of the day, just to make this visit.

I did the appropriate thing by averting my eyes and mumbling, "Mashallah, mashallah" -- all things are from God -- but I couldn't help my cheeks flushing as across my face crept an unshakeable grin.

A house; a home

It's been a rough few weeks.

And that is by all standards putting it mildly.

Since September I have lived in the one-room guest quarters of a much larger house in Dar El Barka. The beautiful big house sits empty almost always, but three weeks ago a woman about 40 years old arrived from the capital, Nouakchott. She told me her father had just died, and she was so distraught that she'd left the city and come here to her mother's home village to escape for a bit. I felt sympathy for the woman, naturally, so when she insisted that I eat dinner with her that night, I agreed. And then when she insisted I spend the night with her in the big house, I again obliged.

Within half an hour she already felt comfortable enough to sit completely naked in front of me. Decidedly not normal here -- but I didn't want to judge. She rambled incessantly, pausing only for drag after drag on her cigarette. It was overwhelming to say the least, but I kept her company while she cried and cried through the night.

The woman quickly began to treat me somewhat like a servant. She asked to borrow my cell phone, and my gas burner, and she asked me to go fetch her things from the little corner store. I still felt bad for her, so I continued to obey even though I was getting a bit annoyed.

Fast-forward a few days -- and I was at my wit's end. The woman had declared that she hates everyone in Dar El Barka (except me, inexplicably), and she would stand up on her balcony with or without clothing and scream at children passing by. She hired cars every single day to drive her the hour to Boghé because she simply couldn't survive without icy Cokes. And when she left, she would order that I stay at the house to "watch" it and not let a soul come in. I felt like some bizarre Cinderella. She returned from one such trip with a huge new stereo and car battery to power it, and then she began blasting music each day -- ALL day long, from 6 in the morning to after midnight. She had my cell phone almost continuously, but I had trouble refusing her because she kept transferring huge sums of credit to my account. And if at any point I did try to say no to her, she would inevitably cry, "My FATHER is DEAD!"

In general, she wouldn't leave me in peace. After a few truly absurd incidents, I was at a tipping point. I couldn't live my life anymore. She wouldn't even allow me to visit my family (as if she had that authority!), because she told me they were bad people and thieves. Some of my sisters tried to come greet me one night, but this woman screamed and yelled at them to stay away from her house.

It was too much. Finally I really put my foot down, and we had some strong words. I told her calmly that I was not her slave -- but she flipped and called me an "American imperialist" and then accused me of making this into "the Cold War." She stormed off, and I took this as my opportunity to flee to my family's house for the evening.

I decided I just needed to coexist with this woman while she stayed in the village -- one or two weeks, she'd said -- and then everything could go back to normal. So for the next several days, I was nearly invisible. While at home, I stayed completely locked up in my room, quiet as can be, and I slipped out at times to head to school or to my family's house. This crazy woman continued to blast her music, but I slept with earplugs. An inconvenience, but I felt empowered. I felt in control. Hold on for one more day...


Last Saturday morning I was in my room, happily enjoying some America-sent chai tea and oatmeal, listening to the BBC and doing a crossword -- a.k.a. the perfect start to a day in Dar El. At around 9, this train wreck of a woman came banging on my door. I opened it, and she was standing there with my counterpart (Peace Corps liaison in the village). He greeted me, then stepped back in hesitation. The crazy lady started railing on him: "You tell her now. You tell her right now!! This is not a hotel, this is not the Hilton." What could she possibly be talking about? My counterpart approached me again with some reluctance and announced: "You need to get all your stuff and come up to the mayor's, and we will look for a room." What?? I said I didn't understand, so he switched from Pulaar to French. No, see, I understood -- but I just don't understand.

Finally the woman tired of this and marched over to me herself. "Take your things, come on!!! They'll find you a room." But where, I asked? "I don't know where, just do it!!" In hopeless confusion, I asked: "But --" "There is no but!!!" "I just want to know why," I said. "THERE IS NO WHY!! Now, come on!!" Right now? "Yes, right this minute!! I'm trying to go somewhere, and now I'm going to be late having to wait for you so I can lock this up. Let's go!!" And with that, she just haphazardly started grabbing things off my floor and scattering them all on the ground just outside my doorway. Are you serious?

Too, too many thoughts rushed through my head. Her behavior was entirely irrational and inappropriate, but at the end of the day there wasn't much I could do about it. The room is technically her property. She declared that I had to be out in five minutes. I barely had time to comprehend. Everything. Everything that had made this room my home. My curtains, my photos, my calendars, my clothes line, my beautiful window screens that I had installed myself. In a daze, I threw it all in random bags and boxes and tried unsuccessfully not to cry.


The room was empty in 15 minutes, an unbelievable feat. My counterpart appeared again and said we should take everything up to the mayor's, next-door. It felt degrading and depressing to carry all my things out of this place I had treated so well. Some young girls, about 11 years old, watched us from under a tree for the first load or two, and then they scampered over to greet me. "Raky, we want to help you," the ringleader said. Fine, I sighed, just be careful. Looking at my mess of stuff, she picked up a cardboard box -- and balanced it on her head to carry. Because that's how you carry heavy things here. For some reason, seeing this almost broke me.

And so it has been a long week since then. I have been offered another room in an empty house next to the mayor's, but the door is not secure and needs to be replaced. In the meantime, I have been staying in the mayor's living room, with all my possessions. It's less than ideal, although his house does have some amazing perks like electricity and a real shower.

Please do not mistake this psychopath for being representative of the sort of people I interact with typically. She is anything but. Everyone in Dar El has been exceedingly kind to me throughout this ordeal. Several people, including the village chief himself, have sought me out specifically to apologize for this woman's behavior and declare that she is just out of her mind and no one knows what to do with her. They've also told me that I'm better off away from her -- and, of course, they're right.

May 16, 2008, was my last night at my apartment in Austin, Texas. From that time until I left for the Peace Corps, I didn't have a room of my own.

But stone and wood don't make a place home.

So, a new era. Inshallah.

Le club d'anglais

All school year long, I've wanted to start an English Club. After-school activities here are an entirely alien notion, but I was determined to get one off the ground for the sake of my really bright students. Of course, there is a certain chain-of-command one needs to go through before making something like this happen. Namely, I needed to speak with my school director. Sounds simple enough, right?

The gentleman who had been our director last year was due to return in October -- but he never did. We were assigned a new director, with whom I spoke right away. He was enthusiastic about my club plans, right up until the time that he got re-assigned a few weeks later. For a while, we had no director, and then #3 came along. I was certain I was off to a bad start with him when in our very first meeting I had to ask off for Thanksgiving.

Then this director disappeared. No one really knew where he was. The surveillants (disciplinarians) and teachers begrudgingly had to schedule our Trimester 1 exams ourselves. I returned from December break to a still-directorless school. With no single person in command, week after week I could not get approval for my club.

February at last marked the return of Director #3. My next task was trying to make this man understand what exactly were my intentions. It's amazing the amount of red tape there was to go through at a school with only seven teachers. The director said I needed to talk to both "coordinators." No one had even told me we had such a thing!

But after many conversations and repeated explanations, plans were laid. While in Boghé I typed up and printed out formal invitations to the club for a total of 20 of my best students in 3rd and 4th years. I presented these during class, calling out each one's name for all to hear. These kids never get any kind of honor or recognition for their hard work, and I wanted to make it seem like a big deal, something they should be proud of.


Each school day runs from 8-noon and then 3-5, so I figured if we had club directly after that, all the kids would already be there anyway. Many of my students live in nearby villages, not in Dar El Barka, so they have to walk long distances to get to school and back. So my idea was to meet every Tuesday at 5pm.

But that was only an idea... The very week I'd set to begin, the school decided that from now on, we'd have classes from 8-2 straight and be done. Meaning that now my 5:00 club was NOT immediately after school. Wonderful. Like I could really expect kids to trudge all the way back to school in the worst heat of the day -- for an optional activity? I started counting the strikes against me.

The big day arrived. I left my house and walked to school, entirely prepared to be let down one way or another. I had informed the director, both so-called coordinators, the head surveillant, as well as all the kids... but I expected to find an empty schoolyard, and no one around to open the gate. "Oh, you meant today?"

But I found the groundskeeper and after a few minutes I was in a classroom. I checked my watch. Still a few minutes to spare. I sat down at a desk to wait. On the chalkboard in front of me was a science lesson taught previously that day. It was about electricity. It seems cruel to make kids learn about it if they don't even have it. But I digress.

I totally psyched myself out: It's so HOT right now. And anyway, they probably forgot. I didn't even remind them! It was over a week ago that I gave out those invitations... But, one girl had seen me earlier that day and asked me about it. So maybe if just she comes, at least it'll be something...

My thoughts were interrupted by a skid in the dirt just outside my door.

One of my kids, on his bike.

It was all I could do not to LEAP from my chair. And he opened a small floodgate. Sixteen kids showed up! I was beside myself!! I wanted to hug every one of them.

We've now met twice. It may be the highlight of my week. Mainly I've been teaching them how to use a French-English dictionary, so that we can do more fun activities using them. I've accumulated seven dictionaries now (but I humbly beg you to send more!), so I drag them all with me in my backpack. These kids have never seen a dictionary in their lives. They're 16 years old and don't know what alphabetical order is. These books are magical to them. On my way out of the schoolyard, I walked behind two of my boys, chatting to each other in Pulaar: "Dictionnaire ine moyyi dee!"

My own rendering? "How sweet is that dictionary?!"

La fête Pâcques

I write to you from inside my mosquito net, in the yard of the Boghé house. I hear: rap cassettes that neighbors blare loudly every night; the shuffling of feet and a pair of Pulaar voices (I can't hear the words, but the cadence is obvious); the insistent crickets; an occasional car whooshing by; a donkey braying in heaving gasps; the clip-clip of a horse's hooves pulling a cart on the pavement. It is late, past midnight. The moon is up, waning gibbous, which I can tell you without looking. Bailey, the house dog, is asleep at my feet -- if I'm fortunate, we'll make it through the whole night without her waking up and insisting to be let out of my tent. But probably not.

It's Saturday night, and Easter is tomorrow. That's why I'm in Boghé again, even though I was just here last weekend. On Thursday I mentioned to my host family that I was planning to head into town the next morning (weekends start on Friday, Muslim-style). "Tomorrow?!" They were incredulous. "No way, you'll never find a car." They proceeded to tell me that there was going to be a huge festival in Dar El, with mayors and village chiefs in attendance from many surrounding areas. There was to be music and singing and dancing and even theatre, they claimed. "Tons of people will be coming here," they vowed, "but no car will possibly be leaving."

But it's a religious holiday for Christians, I tried to tell them, very important. "Oh, I get it," they responded. "So you will eat lots of food! For three days!!" -- because that's what a religious holiday means to them. Food is part of it, I thought dryly, but so are photographs with gigantic rabbits, and joyful searches for chicken eggs -- oh, but not regular ones, ones that we've painted bright colors, and put candy inside of. Think these concepts will translate culturally?

As the idea sunk in that I might not be able to spend this special day with other PCVs as I had originally planned, I grew increasingly sad. I let my mind wander over memories of other Easters. When had I not been with family or close friends? When had I not been to church? It almost seemed like a cheap shot to try to pray to God to let me find a way to Boghé, like a "come on, I'm doing this for you!" But could I really spend it this year as just another day in my village, while everyone else goes about their business? The thought depressed me.

Not one to give up easily, I still got up before dawn on Friday to go sit by the road and search for a car. I'll spare you the gritty details, but let's just say not only did I find a car, but I made it to town in probably the fastest time ever. I was here by 8 AM. Alhamdulillah -- thank God!! (Is it sacrilege to say I actually thought, "It's an Easter miracle!")

So, we bought some eggs, blew out the yolks, decorated and dyed them (and dyed Bailey's tail baby blue). We will hide them tomorrow for a competitive big-kids hunt! Along with PCVs Yates and Mark, I've planned a nice little Easter meal. I have some canned turkey (about as close to ham as we can get in an Islamic republic). And thanks in part to American care packages, the menu will also comprise stuffing, mashed potatoes & gravy, okra casserole, buttered corn, bread, and jello. Can't wait! Right now I'm listening to a favorite playlist of "Jesus tunes"... so that's sort of like church? Take what I can get.

Quick school update, because I know I haven't mentioned it much lately. I feel like we're always on vacation -- which isn't far from the truth. Trimester 3 is underway, but not for long! The other trimesters lasted 12 or 13 weeks, but this one had already been cut short by over a month because of presidential elections scheduled for June 6th. (Since August this country has been run by a military usurper, do you recall?) But now, the buzz among teachers is that final exams will be pushed up even earlier. Essentially, I will probably only see each of my classes five or six times this whole trimester. It's crazy. And sad.

I have fun with them. Last week I taught agreeing and disagreeing vocab with my 4th-years. I offered some statements, which they could raise their hands and agree or disagree with. I started with generally accepted truths, like "Akon sings wonderfully" and "English is fun" (they agree emphatically!). Then I threw some curve balls: "Barack Obama is ugly." "To drink alcohol is good." These kids freaked out! "NO, TEACHER!! Sorry, but I disagree! That is NOT true!" You have to smile.

Pulaar and Hassaniya speakers alike refer to the school spring break with a French phrase, "la fête Pâcques." This literally means "the Easter holiday" (despite the fact that spring break was two weeks ago). I'm no Islamic scholar, but in my understanding Muslims revere Jesus as a prophet -- but not as one who rose from the dead to take away the sins of the world. So, they know the word Easter, but have no idea what it means.

Some things here are worth explaining, and others you just let go. "Yes," I told my family. "We will eat lots of food, for three days!"

Bonnes Pâcques à tous!