En Brusse

Well, my first two weeks at my village have gone by, and I know this will be so much more challenging than I realized, and so full of beauty, friendship and rewards. I am already losing track of the days in this web of the Brusse. Sometimes it feels like I can turn my head in so many directions and still find myself plastered to the same spot; the same children with the same illnesses, the same sanitation deficiencies and the same lack of expectations. The language of simplicity though, while from an outside view is banal, creates such complex layers of relationships. They use charcoal fires in lieu of covalent ovens, and gather around the shaky radio broadcast in the pitch black. And yet they are, as a whole, one of the most vibrant and happiest people I have known. It is cliche, but they have nothing but each other to care about.

Back here in Kita, the 9 of us met up to celebrate getting through the first hump of living off the grid. It is a relief in a way to speak english and feel comfortable in my American skin. It is sometimes difficult, at site, to remember that you are in fact capable of normal social interactions. There is no challenge to the ego like your 12 year old host sister asking you, day after day, if you washed. I gulp down the cynical urge to ask her how often she cleans herself (or just her hands) with soap - and anyway, sarcasim is a concept unsupported in the language here. Instead, I manage an agitated/amused giggle at my sister's strange brand of hospitality, pointing to my wet hair. At this point, I wouldn't be suprised if she asked me about my bowel movements. Privacy, personal space, alone time - these concepts dont quite register with Malians. Enthralled with the novelty of having a white person so intimately joining their space, I have found that the one time I can acutally be alone is locked in my hut, drowning out their calls to me over my wood fence with my headphones. Each day, as hard as it is to leave the safety of my cool mud walls and wonderful english books, I push myself out to wander about - yalayala - through the snakelike paths around the fields and huts, stopping here and there to have tea with the breadmakers, joke with the boutigi owners about taking them back to America with me, or draw animals and portraits with the children. Right now, the feverent rainstorms has made my village overflow with vibrant green fields, and the plants literally sprout out overnight and have drowned the "path" to my cell phone service spot: a little worn down clearing in the middle of the cornfields.

The other day I saw my first natural birth. It seems that almost all deliveries here are made in the middle of the light, dramaticly lit by oil lamp. Of course it is because these women must wait till their husbands get home to get permission to go to the CSCOM, and the state of being 9 months pregnant does not excuse you from pounding millet, chopping wood and pulling water from the well. I remembered this girl from her pre-natal consultation last month. She had just turned 16. She looked petrified, her eyes as big as moons as she yalayala'd around the room, her amniotic fluid dripping down her leg. When she was dilated, the matrone jumped on a table behind her and began pushing down on her belly with all her might, as her mother and her sister, each with an infant strapped to their backs, held her legs open above a jagged plastic bedpan. She was completely silent through the hour long process, the only sign of her pain were her tears gathering in a puddle on the floor and one or two grunts. After my matrone pulled the baby out, she grabbed him by the feet and hit and shook him, yelling "Kuma!" (speak!), laying him down to clear his passageways and pump his chest. The baby was alive, but was almost as silent as his mother. She hardly seemed happy or suprised, as if this was all she had expected; and here it is. Today, talking about my experience with my friend Dave, he pointed out how distinct the difference is between their access to healthcare and ours. If any one of us PC volunteers have any medical issue that surpasses the normal gamlut of moderate bacterial and parasitic infections, we would be shipped straight to Washington, DC. Not even the best hospital in the whole country of Mali would be able to provide the adequate healthcare that we not only covet in the US but expect. Here, in brusse, this woman was lucky to have access to a health center where they clean their tools with bleach - most of the surrounding villages near me don't even have a maternity. The beauty of the 360 vision you gain from living in this village web is you can understand the problems here from so many levels, and try to find solutions that doesn't involve throwing money at them.

And more than anything, it is so incredibly challenging establishing my place in this village with this huge lanugage gap. Most of the people in the village speak a different minority lanugage than Bamabara, called Malinke, and it is frustrating having to be led around like a child. But, I have found that art is an amazing vehicle to teach, and out of my restlessness I painted a mural of the food groups at the CSCOM.

Overall it is great, and I am learning that Mali is a country of contradictions - happiness in simplicity and misery in deficiencies, love and happiness through family and community and imprisonment by it. And I am happy I am here to create even the smallest bit of moderation.