living in heat

Back here in Bamako - the expensive taxis where only the metal frame of the door is left - pool parties in Military houses with ex-pats, NY Times photojournalists, Marines, architects, aid workers, all the Americans who are stranded together in this surreal world of pseudo western living in the poorest city in the world - I can't shake off the creepy feeling of this strange life here in the capital. I like the real Mali better. Well, sometimes.

I came here after a week long training session in Kita, where me and Foune'ba, the Matrone, developed plans for projects we want to work on in the next few months: getting electricity for the health center, cooking fortified porridge for the mothers of malnourished children, making mosquito repellent, etc. We met with several NGOs in the Kita Cercle, and had training sessions on how to deal with food security, an issue Peace Corps is stressing right now with the global food crisis.

Home has been the usual - great but a rough few weeks, I have barely been sleeping and my jaw hurts from grinding my teeth, I realized I really needed a break. In general I have been doing a lot of teaching at the health center and the school, talks on AIDS and pre-natal care, handwashing and birth spacing, etc. Kristin and I did some drawings with the crowded fourth grade Bambara class to send to the States for an art exchange program. All we had were my crayons and colored pencils and the flip-chart paper Peace Corps gave us, but the kids were thrilled and drew pictures labeled in Bambara of their huts (sobugu), drums (tam tams), millet pounding mortars (colon), donkeys (falli) and other things they see in their village. After they would finish a part of their drawing each one would come up I also helped out with a training session for community health workers (Relais) who are trained to go house to house to educate the villagers directly on general family practices such as malaria prevention, family planning and water sanitation.

I think the heat really is beginning to creep up on everyone - the feeling of suffocation clogs your mind and its hard to, well, just deal with anyone. Theres been alot of violence lately. Babies crying everywhere - my host father hits his son with a stick, goes back every time he whimpers, and sits there for the rest of the night slowly hitting it on the side of the house. Does it make you feel like a fucking man? I would love to ask, but I know I need to live with these people for two years, so I go home and draw furious charcoal sketches instead. His wife recently ran off with her 2 year old daughter to her boyfriend's, and he hasn't seen his baby since, I know he's sad. Sitting in my health center a huge commotion at my neighbors house. I watch as the 16 year old second wife runs out, I saw the birth of her baby a few months ago when she was still 15. The first wife and her husband run after her and grab her, each hitting her with a stick. She is screaming and I run halfway out but I know I can't help her. Someone stops them and she runs towards me, I lead her away and tell her to sit at the health center for a bit, just let her calm down for a minute, but no, my host father (who is the Vaccinator at the health center) yells at her to go back and draw water from the well. She stands at the well sobbing with the water pull in her hand, letting the rope down even though theres not even a bucket next to her. Her bright orange shirt reads: Rejoice With Me. I know, its not my place and not worth the risk to get involved. And they don't see any alternative. But hell, who's place is it then? For now, the disgust on my face tells them something, I hope.

So yes, I needed a break, and I am here in the air conditioned PC stage house with wireless internet and I want to go back already. But when I walk outside there is still the street food lady who sells rice and sauce under a shack covered with old rice sacks, and she'll make fun of me for being a Malinke and I'll joke with her about her ethic group. And I'm still in Mali after all.