Hey, do you have any weird body functions that maybe aren't important enough to mention? I've got one. Whenever I'm about to get tired, my calves get sore. It's not quite something that happens as a side effect of being tired, but if my calves are sore and there's no particular reason for it, I can be sure that I will be exhausted in a half hour.
At my brother'school, there has recently been a few new additions. One is a former teacher of his, and another, as a student, is a kid that I used to babysit. Now, here's a bit of a weird experience... When someone you used to babysit has a wife and two children when you still have nothing. Actually, it's not that bad, but still just a touch ironic.
On the street today, I ran into someone I haven't seen since elementary school! My old best friend. We walked right past each other, and it was his double take that brought us together. I didn't even notice him until he called out, but on hearing his voice, BAM! The memories came rushing back. Now that was something.
Do you guys know the story of Ali Baba? Because I didn't, even though it's supposed to be one of the only stories from Arabian Nights that's commonly known. I did know the legendary codeword, "Open Seseme" which come from it. Here, I'll refresh your memory.
Ali Baba and his brother Cassim are the sons of a merchant. After his death, Ali becomes a wood cutter, but Cassim marries a rich woman and becomes well-to-do. One day, Ali oversees a band of 40 thieves returning to their horde of treasure, which is opened from the outside at the mouth of a magical cave with the words "Open Sesame" and opened from the inside with the words "Close Sesame". Ali uses this knowledge to steal from the thieves.
He requests the use of his brother's scales to measure the weight of his gold. His brother's wife, however, wondering what Ali could need a set of scales with, plaves some wax on the scales, which a gold scale sticks to. Seeing this, she notifies Cassim on Ali's riches.
Cassim demands Ali tell him where the thieve's hoard is. In his greed, Cassim charges into the riches as soon as he knows the code word, but forgets the escape word and is captured. The 40 thieves find him, catch him and kill him.
Ali retrieves Cassim's body and enlists the aid of a clever serving-girl named Morgianna to make sure that Cassim is sewn togewther and given a proper burial. Morgianna enlists the help of a trustworthy man, and despite the attempts of the 40 thieves to find Ali, thwarts them time and time again, eventually leading to the deaths of of them all by Morgianna's clever tricks.
Ali Baba is impressed with Morgianna and gives her her freedom, and allows her to marry her son. The end.
I didn't involve everything, but that's the gist of it. Really, the story seemed more about Morgianna than Ali Baba, but whatever.
Other biggest reference for my Malian name is this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aEryAoLfnAA
Sort of inappropriate to talk on the relevancy of that, in regard to my own personal experience, though.
Hey, so do you remember how I called out the Malians on being untruthful when they told us Canadians stories of Pygmys living in a nearby mountain? I already spoke on this in the comments, but it looks like they might not have been fooling with us. Turns out, rural French Africa is the place where you'd find them, and most likely in places optimal for hunting and gathering, just like that mountain, which is where the village hunters would go. Apparently, Pygmys commonly speak languages not familiar to other, taller tribes, and avoid contact with non-Pygmys, from fear of discrimination. So everything except the "Backwards legs" bit adds up, and Dave's even got an idea as to how that might not be deception, either.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
Mariko
Check this out:
That's a drawing of me, done by one of the village children. Right now, it is my Facebook profile image. No, I don't know what the red liquid is in that bottle or what's going on with my clothes.
The kid who drew this's name was Mariko. For a long time I thought his name was "Marko", because English names are used by Christians in Mali (whereas Muslims use Arabic names) and "Mariko" is a family name, but not one in the village. Well, it's true that it wasn't his surname, but truly, his name was Mariko Coulibaly. Using a surname as a given name isn't so noteable in North America, but in Mali, family names are serious business. It determines aspects of your self-indentity, including what kinds of relations you'll have with others, and the traditions you will be expected to uphold. Oftentimes, people refer to you, or you refer to yourself, by your surname. So, if people are calling Mariko by his first name, people will have different expectations of him, as a Mariko, than they would of a Coulibaly.
I asked my CP about it, and he seemed a little confused as well. He was all "You're sure that's not his last name? Maybe there's one Mariko family in the village..."
I guess it.. doesn't really matter, actually, now that I think on it. The main issue I was thinking of was cousinage. Certain families have special relationships with other families. When you speak to people you have cousinage with, you're supposed to dish out the verbal abuse. For example, let's say I, Ali Traore, am talking to... Mozo Diarra (The Traore have cousinage with the Diarra and Malei)
Ali: The Diarra are bad! The Traore are good!
Mozo: The Traore are the slaves of the Diarra!
Ali: The Diarra eat beans, and then they fart!
Mozo: You are my nephew, I am your uncle!
Ali: Your name is Mozo Traore!
Yeah, these were some of the standard insults. And each family seemed to have some that they preferred over others. The Traore liked to tell people they ate beans and farted, and we liked to do the thing where we replace the other guy's last name with Traore.
But contrary to what you might expect, these dissing relationships were actually really positive. If you ever run into trouble, it's those you have cousinage with that you can expect to come to your aid, and people go out of their way to spend time with people they have cousinage with.
Anyway, my entire point is that, Mariko's family name, Coulibaly, has cousinage with EVERYONE! Every single family name in Mali. Well, not quite, but so many that those who don't are the exception. Apparently my CP was the only one in the group who didn't have cousinage with the Coulibaly.
Sooo... if people who had cousinage with the Mariko mistakenly tried to forge cousinage relationships with this kid named Mariko, it wouldn't matter, because they'd probably still have cousinage with the Coulibaly.
Anyway, he was a really great kid. He was a favourite among the Canadians, because he went out of his way to teach us about Malian culture and how to speak Bambara. He was cheerful, talented, hardworking, approachable, kind to the other children, and shockingly good at communicating despite the language barrier. Here's a photo of him:
He's teaching me how to drive a donkey cart in that photo. He was sweet, but I wouldn't say he was my favourite. There were a lot of really sweet kids in the village.
That's a drawing of me, done by one of the village children. Right now, it is my Facebook profile image. No, I don't know what the red liquid is in that bottle or what's going on with my clothes.
The kid who drew this's name was Mariko. For a long time I thought his name was "Marko", because English names are used by Christians in Mali (whereas Muslims use Arabic names) and "Mariko" is a family name, but not one in the village. Well, it's true that it wasn't his surname, but truly, his name was Mariko Coulibaly. Using a surname as a given name isn't so noteable in North America, but in Mali, family names are serious business. It determines aspects of your self-indentity, including what kinds of relations you'll have with others, and the traditions you will be expected to uphold. Oftentimes, people refer to you, or you refer to yourself, by your surname. So, if people are calling Mariko by his first name, people will have different expectations of him, as a Mariko, than they would of a Coulibaly.
I asked my CP about it, and he seemed a little confused as well. He was all "You're sure that's not his last name? Maybe there's one Mariko family in the village..."
I guess it.. doesn't really matter, actually, now that I think on it. The main issue I was thinking of was cousinage. Certain families have special relationships with other families. When you speak to people you have cousinage with, you're supposed to dish out the verbal abuse. For example, let's say I, Ali Traore, am talking to... Mozo Diarra (The Traore have cousinage with the Diarra and Malei)
Ali: The Diarra are bad! The Traore are good!
Mozo: The Traore are the slaves of the Diarra!
Ali: The Diarra eat beans, and then they fart!
Mozo: You are my nephew, I am your uncle!
Ali: Your name is Mozo Traore!
Yeah, these were some of the standard insults. And each family seemed to have some that they preferred over others. The Traore liked to tell people they ate beans and farted, and we liked to do the thing where we replace the other guy's last name with Traore.
But contrary to what you might expect, these dissing relationships were actually really positive. If you ever run into trouble, it's those you have cousinage with that you can expect to come to your aid, and people go out of their way to spend time with people they have cousinage with.
Anyway, my entire point is that, Mariko's family name, Coulibaly, has cousinage with EVERYONE! Every single family name in Mali. Well, not quite, but so many that those who don't are the exception. Apparently my CP was the only one in the group who didn't have cousinage with the Coulibaly.
Sooo... if people who had cousinage with the Mariko mistakenly tried to forge cousinage relationships with this kid named Mariko, it wouldn't matter, because they'd probably still have cousinage with the Coulibaly.
Anyway, he was a really great kid. He was a favourite among the Canadians, because he went out of his way to teach us about Malian culture and how to speak Bambara. He was cheerful, talented, hardworking, approachable, kind to the other children, and shockingly good at communicating despite the language barrier. Here's a photo of him:
He's teaching me how to drive a donkey cart in that photo. He was sweet, but I wouldn't say he was my favourite. There were a lot of really sweet kids in the village.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Stardust Review
Well, looks like that credit card thing isn't going to turn out. Anything available requires a confirmation of income. Don't know why I even wanted one, anyway. Can't really build credit rating if you don't have an income. Also, they want proof of a secure income, which means that temp jobs don't count. Looks like this life feature's going to be unavailable to me for a while, so I might as well put it on the backburner.
I finally got around to sending my Mali family photos. It cost less than $5. If you count what I spent on developing just the photos I sent them, and add the price to mail them, it's just a scratch over $10, but less than $11. That's way better than I would have thought.
I wrote a review for the movie, Stardust. You can find it here: "http://gryphonsreviews.blogspot.com/2012/01/stardust-is-film-remake-of-neil-gaimans.html"
It's kind of an incomplete review. I just give a brief general comparison between the book and movie, and then I point out a few notable things about the movie. But whatever, there you have it.
I finally got around to sending my Mali family photos. It cost less than $5. If you count what I spent on developing just the photos I sent them, and add the price to mail them, it's just a scratch over $10, but less than $11. That's way better than I would have thought.
I wrote a review for the movie, Stardust. You can find it here: "http://gryphonsreviews.blogspot.com/2012/01/stardust-is-film-remake-of-neil-gaimans.html"
It's kind of an incomplete review. I just give a brief general comparison between the book and movie, and then I point out a few notable things about the movie. But whatever, there you have it.
Monday, January 23, 2012
This and That...
Hey, remember how my exotic African infection got me an appointment with my doctor ahead of time? Yeah, well, it's been about a week, and I just got a response from the infectious disease specialist, saying when he'd be able to see me. That's... March 5th.
Okay, so including the 5 days in March, the week or so left this month, and the week I waited for the phone call return, that's almost two months of waiting.
And if the infection doesn't get into the bloodstream for two months... Well, this makes for a very close shave. Especially since I was infected for roughly six weeks prior to my meeting with the doctor. And March 5th is only when I get my evaluation, no guarantee as to when I get treated. Oh well, I guess I'll just let this thing hit me. Looks like I'm stuck in Guelph another month, too...
I got the rest of my photos developed that I want to send to Mali. I never brought any photos of Guelph, and when I got there, I was kicking myself. It was on the list of stuff they suggested you bring... but I just thought "Who would want to see boring ol' Guelph?"
Well, remember how I said my camera scrambled photos, and it was a real pain to find the villagers the pictures you took of them? With any given person, the first couple times I had to scroll through my La Pocatiere photos were never dull. I remember the first time, bracing myself, and then hitting the "Next" button over and over, as fast as I could, to find the photo I wanted as fast as possible, when a child who was watching over my shoulder whispered, in awe "Canada photo!"
That was when I first realized that they found photos of Canada pretty cool. So I'm sending them a picture of my house, a picture of a street, and a picture of a pine tree. I'm also sending them five La Pocatiere photos, and I'm sending them 20 photos that I took of their family.
It'll be cool for them to see snow... I'll label what each photo is on the back. They can take them to their neighbour, Sedio, to translate the French into Bambara. I can label a couple of them in Bambara, too...
I felt awkward getting just three photos developed, and wound up developing eight more, for myself and to show other's when I tell stories. I really only want to post photos that give a real "Pop!" I want them to be of decent quality, and I don't want them to be redundant or boring to the viewer. I got a pretty nice setup on FB, with it's 101 pic album, but every time I add some more on here, I'm afraid of diluting the visual balance.
But whatever. I posted the eight photos I developed for myself onto Gryphon's Gallery, anyway. I even put explanations for each of the photos, including the ones that were already on the blog.
http://gryphonsgallery.blogspot.com/
Three of them were taken by other people. I tried to find relevant images among other participant's albums, to fill in the places I neglected. I could never find a good image of the Sirakorola market, or of Bamako. I guess it makes sense, when you think about it. At the Sirakorola market, most people would demand you buy something if you took a photo, and in Bamako... Well, when people on the street are yelling at you, grabbing at you, following you around... It kind of kills the mood for taking photos. If you whip out something as fancy as a camera, somebody might just swipe it out of your hand.
I haven't developed any photos of individuals yet, unless there's special significance to it, because, like I said before, the variation in quality, and uneven distribution of attention don't always come out evenly, and there's... just so many. If I evelop a photo of one child, I feel obligated to develop photos of every one of them, or else I feel like I'm favouring some over other's.
Funfact: Malians don't smile for photos. They have a really intense, serious face they put on when they get their photos taken. You might try to call my bluff, with the evidence that I've published plenty of images of smiling Malians, but believe me, in all those instances they were trying to look serious, but couldn't contain their happiness.
I was reading Wikipedia's article on Mali, and I noticed they have a page for the Bozo people. It's right here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bozo_people
Do you know why this article is funny to me? Because in Mali, Bozo is a racial slur, denoting a type of dark-skinned fishing-people. It's similar to what we would call a "Redneck". But look how they treat it like it's a proper term for a respected people who consider themselves as such. To illustrate, I'll write a partial article for rednecks in the same format they used for Bozo.
"The rednecks are a North American ethnic group located predominantly in the Southern United States. The name redneck is thought to derive from the colouration of skin surrounding the neck, caused by continual exposure to sunlight. The people accept the term as referring to the whole of their ethnic group but use more specific clan names such as Thompson, Hookey, or Backhouse themselves. They are famous for their agriculture and are occasionally referred to as the "Masters of the Fields""
See? That doesn't quite communicate the true meaning of the term, now does it?
Yeesh. I couldn't think of any redneck names, so I scrolled through my friends list on FB to find names that "sounded redneck". I hope they never see this post...
Okay, so including the 5 days in March, the week or so left this month, and the week I waited for the phone call return, that's almost two months of waiting.
And if the infection doesn't get into the bloodstream for two months... Well, this makes for a very close shave. Especially since I was infected for roughly six weeks prior to my meeting with the doctor. And March 5th is only when I get my evaluation, no guarantee as to when I get treated. Oh well, I guess I'll just let this thing hit me. Looks like I'm stuck in Guelph another month, too...
I got the rest of my photos developed that I want to send to Mali. I never brought any photos of Guelph, and when I got there, I was kicking myself. It was on the list of stuff they suggested you bring... but I just thought "Who would want to see boring ol' Guelph?"
Well, remember how I said my camera scrambled photos, and it was a real pain to find the villagers the pictures you took of them? With any given person, the first couple times I had to scroll through my La Pocatiere photos were never dull. I remember the first time, bracing myself, and then hitting the "Next" button over and over, as fast as I could, to find the photo I wanted as fast as possible, when a child who was watching over my shoulder whispered, in awe "Canada photo!"
That was when I first realized that they found photos of Canada pretty cool. So I'm sending them a picture of my house, a picture of a street, and a picture of a pine tree. I'm also sending them five La Pocatiere photos, and I'm sending them 20 photos that I took of their family.
It'll be cool for them to see snow... I'll label what each photo is on the back. They can take them to their neighbour, Sedio, to translate the French into Bambara. I can label a couple of them in Bambara, too...
I felt awkward getting just three photos developed, and wound up developing eight more, for myself and to show other's when I tell stories. I really only want to post photos that give a real "Pop!" I want them to be of decent quality, and I don't want them to be redundant or boring to the viewer. I got a pretty nice setup on FB, with it's 101 pic album, but every time I add some more on here, I'm afraid of diluting the visual balance.
But whatever. I posted the eight photos I developed for myself onto Gryphon's Gallery, anyway. I even put explanations for each of the photos, including the ones that were already on the blog.
http://gryphonsgallery.blogspot.com/
Three of them were taken by other people. I tried to find relevant images among other participant's albums, to fill in the places I neglected. I could never find a good image of the Sirakorola market, or of Bamako. I guess it makes sense, when you think about it. At the Sirakorola market, most people would demand you buy something if you took a photo, and in Bamako... Well, when people on the street are yelling at you, grabbing at you, following you around... It kind of kills the mood for taking photos. If you whip out something as fancy as a camera, somebody might just swipe it out of your hand.
I haven't developed any photos of individuals yet, unless there's special significance to it, because, like I said before, the variation in quality, and uneven distribution of attention don't always come out evenly, and there's... just so many. If I evelop a photo of one child, I feel obligated to develop photos of every one of them, or else I feel like I'm favouring some over other's.
Funfact: Malians don't smile for photos. They have a really intense, serious face they put on when they get their photos taken. You might try to call my bluff, with the evidence that I've published plenty of images of smiling Malians, but believe me, in all those instances they were trying to look serious, but couldn't contain their happiness.
I was reading Wikipedia's article on Mali, and I noticed they have a page for the Bozo people. It's right here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bozo_people
Do you know why this article is funny to me? Because in Mali, Bozo is a racial slur, denoting a type of dark-skinned fishing-people. It's similar to what we would call a "Redneck". But look how they treat it like it's a proper term for a respected people who consider themselves as such. To illustrate, I'll write a partial article for rednecks in the same format they used for Bozo.
"The rednecks are a North American ethnic group located predominantly in the Southern United States. The name redneck is thought to derive from the colouration of skin surrounding the neck, caused by continual exposure to sunlight. The people accept the term as referring to the whole of their ethnic group but use more specific clan names such as Thompson, Hookey, or Backhouse themselves. They are famous for their agriculture and are occasionally referred to as the "Masters of the Fields""
See? That doesn't quite communicate the true meaning of the term, now does it?
Yeesh. I couldn't think of any redneck names, so I scrolled through my friends list on FB to find names that "sounded redneck". I hope they never see this post...
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Billabillaba
I applied for a credit card the other day. I don't have much of a credit rating, and I thought it might be a good way to start building. I was worried that they wouldn't give me one if I didn't have any income, and I was right, that was a concern. She said I still have a shot, because I do have a little bit of a credit rating, and it's good, and I have a solid amount of money in my chequing and savings account which has never gone in the red, but that it's very likely I will get rejected if I don't have any proof of income. She asked me if I'd like to wait until I had a proof of income. I asked if there would be any negative side effects if I applied and was rejected. She said that if it's just once, it's no problem, but if I failed over and over, yes, it would look bad. Sounded like my rejection would be recorded, and if I applied again someday, with someone else, they would see that rejection and call her to learn why.
It's kind of nerve-inducing when asking for anything from the bank. Even when opening my Savings account (which I did after I came back, but I don't think I mentioned it), it felt like a job interview. The people at my bank are all really nice, but it's not like going to a store... They're not there to service you, no matter what they say. They're there to forge a mutual agreement between you and them which should be beneficial for the two of you, and they have the authority to accept or reject you. Just like a job interview.
The woman I spoke to called me back, and asked if I'd be interested in a "Secured credit card". Sounds like I'd have a better shot with that. I think what that would be is, a credit card that I put my own money on, and then just take money off and pay off over and over again. In that way, I'd be able to build a credit rating.
It wouldn't be a "Real" credit card, but it would serve the function I wanted it for. So I think I'm gonna go for that.
Funny note. Remember when I said "My nicknames were Ali Bilébiléba (pronounced "Billabillaba", Bambara for Ali The Giant) and Samah (Bambara for Elephant)" Yeah, well, that was the first time anyone has ever written "Billabillaba" on the Internet. Ever.
If you Google "Billabillaba" you get only three results (probably four, now that I've said it again) and they're all links to places where I'd said that quote. One of them goes to someplace called "Friends of Samah", but it links to my post on Twitter where I say the quote. I can't figure out what "Friends of Samah" is, but it appears to be a place where they link every Tweet with the word "Samah" in it. Weird.
DON'T use that word! That word's mine now! Right now, everything that word is, is me! I AM Billabillaba! GRAWR!
It's kind of nerve-inducing when asking for anything from the bank. Even when opening my Savings account (which I did after I came back, but I don't think I mentioned it), it felt like a job interview. The people at my bank are all really nice, but it's not like going to a store... They're not there to service you, no matter what they say. They're there to forge a mutual agreement between you and them which should be beneficial for the two of you, and they have the authority to accept or reject you. Just like a job interview.
The woman I spoke to called me back, and asked if I'd be interested in a "Secured credit card". Sounds like I'd have a better shot with that. I think what that would be is, a credit card that I put my own money on, and then just take money off and pay off over and over again. In that way, I'd be able to build a credit rating.
It wouldn't be a "Real" credit card, but it would serve the function I wanted it for. So I think I'm gonna go for that.
Funny note. Remember when I said "My nicknames were Ali Bilébiléba (pronounced "Billabillaba", Bambara for Ali The Giant) and Samah (Bambara for Elephant)" Yeah, well, that was the first time anyone has ever written "Billabillaba" on the Internet. Ever.
If you Google "Billabillaba" you get only three results (probably four, now that I've said it again) and they're all links to places where I'd said that quote. One of them goes to someplace called "Friends of Samah", but it links to my post on Twitter where I say the quote. I can't figure out what "Friends of Samah" is, but it appears to be a place where they link every Tweet with the word "Samah" in it. Weird.
DON'T use that word! That word's mine now! Right now, everything that word is, is me! I AM Billabillaba! GRAWR!
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Image Implications
Here are four more images I'm adding from the photos I couldn't previously access: http://gryphonsgallery.blogspot.com/2012/01/living-quarters-and-first-billet-hosts.html
The first pic is of my original host family in Quebec. In my final update, I went a little bit into the troubles I'd had with them. I also attached/linked some images of my trip in general, which included a photo of my second Quebec host family, but not my first, since I couldn't access the image. I never thought about it until I got a recent email commenting on my photos, but in my update, I complain about my first Quebec family, and then in the images, I'm with a Quebec family. I do mention that I had a second host family for three weeks near the end of the rotation, but I don't go into detail. So it's not surprising that some people would assume that the Quebec family image belongs to the family that was talked about more.
I feel like I slandered my second host family, now, who were actually very good during the time that I was with them.
Similarly, when I was publishing my photos on Facebook, at the point where I started posting Quebec rotation photos, I commented "Last and least: the Quebec photos". I said that, because I was reflecting on my bad experiences in Quebec. That only makes sense to people who understood the situation. For those who didn't, it just came off as anti-Quebec.
And to make it even worse, I had pictures of my good host family in that collection, but none of my bad family. So I slandered them by accident again. Plus, I have my good family as friends on FB, so when they were tagged, they would have been alerted to the image. So they may have looked through and seen the comment. My saving grace is that not a lot of the people that could get offended by that comment speak English, but I know my second host father at least does...
I'm not FB friends with my first host family, so they have no chance of seeing the dig...
Of course, I took out the comment and replaced it, but they would have been alerted at the time it was tagged, not the time where I change the comment, so if there was any damage to be done, it's likely already been done.
And I know at least three bilingual Quebecois friends went through those photos before I fixed my comment, and only one of them would have understood the context.
The only gratification I get out of having fixed the statement is that, after I uploaded the new images and changed my comment, the album was sent over people's inboxes, and another bilingual francophone looked through them. So I avoided attacking at least one Quebecois.
A couple days ago, I spoke with some old friends from Katimavik over Skype. If you don't know what Skype is, it's a handy little device that allows you to talk to people, as if over phone, but with the addition of having video image, and it's free! It's actually really useful, but I almost never use it. I don't know why.
My computer received them just fine, but the audio on my computer was apparently cutting in and out on their side, which sucks.
It's because of talking to one of these people that I know of one of the Quebecois to look through my album. He was also the one who knows the context, as we've stayed in touch.
Thinking on it, I know a lot of Quebecois...
For the longest time, my family's had this ugly robotic answering machine message. It's the default message, and it has always bothered me. Day after day after day... For A YEAR AND A HALF I put off changing that message (although I was only present for the six months between Katimavik and Canada World Youth). Whenever I would think of it, I'd think "Oh yeah, I need to change that! Right after I finish what I'm doing here..." and then forget. When in CWY, I just stewed and stewed, thinking of that stupid message. It scared my friend, who was in the military, it's so warped.
When I got back, BAM! Changed the message. What I put in was improvised and badly received by the machine, but I didn't care. It wasn't the robot voice. My bro heard it though, and changed it immediately to something more proper... A year and a half, and two messages get recorded on the same day....
The first pic is of my original host family in Quebec. In my final update, I went a little bit into the troubles I'd had with them. I also attached/linked some images of my trip in general, which included a photo of my second Quebec host family, but not my first, since I couldn't access the image. I never thought about it until I got a recent email commenting on my photos, but in my update, I complain about my first Quebec family, and then in the images, I'm with a Quebec family. I do mention that I had a second host family for three weeks near the end of the rotation, but I don't go into detail. So it's not surprising that some people would assume that the Quebec family image belongs to the family that was talked about more.
I feel like I slandered my second host family, now, who were actually very good during the time that I was with them.
Similarly, when I was publishing my photos on Facebook, at the point where I started posting Quebec rotation photos, I commented "Last and least: the Quebec photos". I said that, because I was reflecting on my bad experiences in Quebec. That only makes sense to people who understood the situation. For those who didn't, it just came off as anti-Quebec.
And to make it even worse, I had pictures of my good host family in that collection, but none of my bad family. So I slandered them by accident again. Plus, I have my good family as friends on FB, so when they were tagged, they would have been alerted to the image. So they may have looked through and seen the comment. My saving grace is that not a lot of the people that could get offended by that comment speak English, but I know my second host father at least does...
I'm not FB friends with my first host family, so they have no chance of seeing the dig...
Of course, I took out the comment and replaced it, but they would have been alerted at the time it was tagged, not the time where I change the comment, so if there was any damage to be done, it's likely already been done.
And I know at least three bilingual Quebecois friends went through those photos before I fixed my comment, and only one of them would have understood the context.
The only gratification I get out of having fixed the statement is that, after I uploaded the new images and changed my comment, the album was sent over people's inboxes, and another bilingual francophone looked through them. So I avoided attacking at least one Quebecois.
A couple days ago, I spoke with some old friends from Katimavik over Skype. If you don't know what Skype is, it's a handy little device that allows you to talk to people, as if over phone, but with the addition of having video image, and it's free! It's actually really useful, but I almost never use it. I don't know why.
My computer received them just fine, but the audio on my computer was apparently cutting in and out on their side, which sucks.
It's because of talking to one of these people that I know of one of the Quebecois to look through my album. He was also the one who knows the context, as we've stayed in touch.
Thinking on it, I know a lot of Quebecois...
For the longest time, my family's had this ugly robotic answering machine message. It's the default message, and it has always bothered me. Day after day after day... For A YEAR AND A HALF I put off changing that message (although I was only present for the six months between Katimavik and Canada World Youth). Whenever I would think of it, I'd think "Oh yeah, I need to change that! Right after I finish what I'm doing here..." and then forget. When in CWY, I just stewed and stewed, thinking of that stupid message. It scared my friend, who was in the military, it's so warped.
When I got back, BAM! Changed the message. What I put in was improvised and badly received by the machine, but I didn't care. It wasn't the robot voice. My bro heard it though, and changed it immediately to something more proper... A year and a half, and two messages get recorded on the same day....
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Mali Stuff
So, my doctor said that yes, it is most likely Cutaneous Leishmaniasis. Usually, this infection comes with itchiness and irritability, but mine feels fine, even when she touched it. It does appear to be multiplying, though. She got me to have bloodwork done, and I'm going to see an infectious disease specialist. She said she didn't know if I should see an infectious disease or skin specialist, but if she sends me to the wrong place, they'll let her know. She took a sample of the skin of my wound and sent it in to get checked. She also did a light check-up of my internal organs with a stethoscope, and it looks like all's in order there. She also asked me if I've been getting fevers and if I've been digesting fine. I don't know if those are also symptoms of Cutaneous Leishmaniasis, but I'm fine in those areas. I think she's using this parasite as an excuse for me to have a full check-up. Don't really mind. Probably a good idea...
I didn't realize the paper she gave me was to get bloodwork done, so I left the clinic without visiting the lab. Not really a big deal, I just went to the lab at the downtown clinic the next day. I don't know if you guys remember me saying this, but for some reason, there's a wide variety in quality between people who take blood. Someone of about average skill will make you feel a prick, but then it's over and you're good. There's this one woman who's so good, you don't ever even feel the needle touch you. Yeah, well, this lady at the downtown centre was the worst I ever had.
I went to the downtown clinic because it's closer to the house than the one where my doctor works, but I'm never going to use it again. It was like being stabbed in the arm, and it felt like I could feel the blood being sucked out of me while it happened. She did it to my dominant arm, too. I didn't think to ask to have it done on my left, because it's never really been an issue when it was just a blood extraction. But this time I could barely move my arm afterward!
I got 20 CWY photos developed. I didn't know how much it would cost, but it all came to under $5. Somehow, we got the camera to transfer the photos on the physical camera to the computer, too. But only after I got the other photos developed. Now I need to get these six other photos I want to send to the family developed, but I feel weird purchasing such a small number when I know they're so cheap. So I guess I'm gonna get more done.
Random trivia: The word Mali means "Hippo" in Bambara, and the word Bamako means "Crocodile in the river". I asked my CP why they named their country after a hippo, and he said it's because Mali has a lot of hippos.
Mali has a weird relationship with Quebec. Not only does Canada World Youth have an exchange between the two, but in La Pocatiere, I randomly met a bunch of people who had gone to Mali through an internship program. In Bamako, when we were hanging out in the courtyard of the youth hostel, randomly a couple of white girls showed up from amidst the merchants. Yeah, they were Quebec.
It came to the point that the Malians generally thought of Canada as a predominantly French-speaking country. If they saw you speaking English, they would ask you if you were from America or England. After saying you were from Canada, the more savvy Malians would ask you if you were from Ottawa or Toronto. They knew that, even though Canada is a French-speaking country, the Toronto and Ottawa regions had some anglophones in them.
Not everyone in the group had Bambara as a first language. Mali is full of languages. Some family names speak languages specific to their name, and to a few other names they are connected to, just out of tradition. For example, my CP spoke a language called Pill as his first, even though he lived in a Bambara community. This is because he is a Diallo. It's a tradition for the Diallo, Sidibe, Bah, and Sangho to speak Pill. It's strong enough that there were Diallo in Sirakorola, and they were the only Pill-speakers, but they all spoke it.
However, having grown up in a Bambara community, my CP was fluent in Bambara. Not everyone was. There were a few who had a sketchy comprehension of the language, because they lived in remote regions of Mali where nobody speaks Bambara, and they never learned it until they moved to Bamako for school.
So, when the Malians saw that I spoke only English, even though I lived in a French-speaking country, and they saw that I was the only one who didn't speak French between the two groups, they figured I was the Canadian equivalent of a non-Bambara speaker in Mali. Someone who doesn't speak the dominant language of their nation is really exotic, and because I was so different in appearance, being so large, and being the only one with a beard, it only emphasized their views in this way.
All the time, my CP would ask me about my culture. One time, we were eating in a restaurant, and the TV showed ZZ Top. My CP noted that they sang English, and he also noted that they had beards. He asked me why "All the anglophones have huge beards". I told him it wasn't true, and that I knew Francophones with beards. But it was pretty clear that he thought ZZ Top were singers from the Guelph region of Canada, and I was witholding information on the significance of the beard.
When we eventually arrived in Mali, my reaction to the culture and approach to integrating was so different from the other Canadians that it furthered their idea that I must be from a different culture than the rest of them.
They asked me about my beard enough that I finally told them that it was a tradition for Canadian males to grow beards over long journeys. I pointed out that every male Canadian in the group had attempted to grow beards during our travel at one point or another. I said that I had grown mine on my first voyage, and the fact that I kept it, even when I wasn't on the move, was a symbol of being well-travelled.
I probably shouldn't have given them false information, but they wouldn't accept my explanation that I had it, "Just because".
Besides, I was a little skeptical of some of the information they fed us. They told us that there were pygmys in the mountain next to Sirakorola. They said that they didn't speak Bambara, that they were aggressive toward tall people, that they had the muscle-mass of an adult man, that they had backwards legs, and that they only came out at night. They said that if we wanted to see one, we would have to offer a goat to the animist chief at the base of the mountain, and we'd have to be escorted by a hunter, because the Pygmys and the hunters have an alliance, they both hunt at night, and the hunters speak the language of the Pygmys.
Then on a market day, one of the Malians told one of the Canadians "Look! A Pygmy!... Aw, you missed him."
Yeah, except, if the Pygmys come out only at night, why would one be in the market during the day? And if they hate tall people, why would he be in the tall-person market? And if they don't speak Bambara, how would he communicate with the merchants?
Similarly, some small fellow jumped on one of the Canadian's backs when he was out at night. The Canadian delivered him an elbow to the face and ran. He said that, in retrospect, he thinks it was just a child, but the Malians told him it was a Pygmy.
Looking for reactions. When one Canadian asked why Malians were afraid of frogs (they're not, but I guess he met a couple who were), the answer he got was that "The frogs are wizards". And when a merchant gave someone a bracelet for free, the Malians in the group told him it was a cursed bracelet to make money slip through your pockets.
Truth is, I knew the merchant who gave that bracelet. He gave me a couple free necklaces, too. He's not nearly that superstitious. And when I asked some Malians if they thought frogs were wizards, they just laughed at me, and were like "What in the world are you talking about?"
Did you know black babies are born white? I didn't. When Baby Ali was first born, some women called me over, pointed to him, and said "Tubabu!" (Whitey), then pointed at me, "Tubabu!" I didn't speak Bambara at the time, so I had to wait to ask my CP. He said "Everyone in this world is born white... In four months he will be black. For the first four months of my life, I was white." Apparently, it takes a little while for the melanin to kick in. It needs to be activated by the sun.
When I told the other Canadians, one of them said this was true, but everyone else said it was crazy. Black babies are born black, and if your baby isn't, he won't turn that way, is what they told me.
But... sure enough, in just over a month, he was black. But later on, a woman in Sirakorola gave me her baby to hold, and she asked me how old I thought he was. I guessed a month, since he was pretty black. She told me one week. I told her that Baby Ali had been white for over a month. She was all "Really?"
So, I don't know... I guess it depends on the baby. Maybe the melanin kicks in at the later stages of development, and Baby Ali was a little bit premature. I think Baby Ali was a bit of a stand-out, because they all seemed pretty excited about his whiteness.
They would put this powder on his face. I wondered what it was, but figured it was some traditional thing, or some kind of baby thing (I don't know... I don't know babies!). Eventually, I found out it was skin lightener. I didn't really know what to make of that. That seemed kind of iffy. I was worried that because he was named after a white man, and because he was born white, they wanted to keep him that way. I don't really think that stuff worked, though. It was sold all over the Sirakorola market, and honestly, I think anything with the power to do that would be outside the price range of your average villager...
For some reason, some of the Malians had Asian eyes. When I wear my Mali clothes, onlookers think I'm dressing Asian. Honestly, those robes I'm wearing in my return photo are basically a Karate gii with a funky design. Also, there was a strangely high number of names that were coincidentally shared with the Japanese: Sakura, Nasu, Mariko. And done in the same way as the Japanese, with Sakura being a given name, and Mariko being a family name.
I loved the clothes. I always said that if it were more socially acceptable to wear my Karate gii for casual purposes, I would. Comfortable, durable, and good-looking.
I heard a theory that the strangely consistent Asian theme might come from a popular group of Asian settlers. The Malians tend to adopt names and such from people they are close too, Malian or not. Even with me, my family was consistently enough calling Baby Ali "Baby Gryphon" that I would overhear conversations where he was referred as such casually when I wasn't in the same room, or they'd call out to him "Gryphon!" and I'd respond, but it would turn out they were talking to him. Lots of Malians have more than one name, and Gryphon seemed to be Baby Ali's. It's not impossible that, should Baby Ali eventually have grandchildren, that one of them is named after his second name. Then a few generations later, that grandchild's grandchild might be named after his name... Who knows? Maybe Gryphon will become a new traditional Malian name.
Too hopeful. Usually people have one family name and one name they choose when they become older. Ali and Gryphon were both names gifted by the family, so I don't think both will stick, and I think Ali will stick more than Gryphon, because Ali was his original name. Still, had I introduced myself as "Gryphon" instead of "Ali" when I first met the family, a new name might have been introduced to Mali.
I didn't realize the paper she gave me was to get bloodwork done, so I left the clinic without visiting the lab. Not really a big deal, I just went to the lab at the downtown clinic the next day. I don't know if you guys remember me saying this, but for some reason, there's a wide variety in quality between people who take blood. Someone of about average skill will make you feel a prick, but then it's over and you're good. There's this one woman who's so good, you don't ever even feel the needle touch you. Yeah, well, this lady at the downtown centre was the worst I ever had.
I went to the downtown clinic because it's closer to the house than the one where my doctor works, but I'm never going to use it again. It was like being stabbed in the arm, and it felt like I could feel the blood being sucked out of me while it happened. She did it to my dominant arm, too. I didn't think to ask to have it done on my left, because it's never really been an issue when it was just a blood extraction. But this time I could barely move my arm afterward!
I got 20 CWY photos developed. I didn't know how much it would cost, but it all came to under $5. Somehow, we got the camera to transfer the photos on the physical camera to the computer, too. But only after I got the other photos developed. Now I need to get these six other photos I want to send to the family developed, but I feel weird purchasing such a small number when I know they're so cheap. So I guess I'm gonna get more done.
Random trivia: The word Mali means "Hippo" in Bambara, and the word Bamako means "Crocodile in the river". I asked my CP why they named their country after a hippo, and he said it's because Mali has a lot of hippos.
Mali has a weird relationship with Quebec. Not only does Canada World Youth have an exchange between the two, but in La Pocatiere, I randomly met a bunch of people who had gone to Mali through an internship program. In Bamako, when we were hanging out in the courtyard of the youth hostel, randomly a couple of white girls showed up from amidst the merchants. Yeah, they were Quebec.
It came to the point that the Malians generally thought of Canada as a predominantly French-speaking country. If they saw you speaking English, they would ask you if you were from America or England. After saying you were from Canada, the more savvy Malians would ask you if you were from Ottawa or Toronto. They knew that, even though Canada is a French-speaking country, the Toronto and Ottawa regions had some anglophones in them.
Not everyone in the group had Bambara as a first language. Mali is full of languages. Some family names speak languages specific to their name, and to a few other names they are connected to, just out of tradition. For example, my CP spoke a language called Pill as his first, even though he lived in a Bambara community. This is because he is a Diallo. It's a tradition for the Diallo, Sidibe, Bah, and Sangho to speak Pill. It's strong enough that there were Diallo in Sirakorola, and they were the only Pill-speakers, but they all spoke it.
However, having grown up in a Bambara community, my CP was fluent in Bambara. Not everyone was. There were a few who had a sketchy comprehension of the language, because they lived in remote regions of Mali where nobody speaks Bambara, and they never learned it until they moved to Bamako for school.
So, when the Malians saw that I spoke only English, even though I lived in a French-speaking country, and they saw that I was the only one who didn't speak French between the two groups, they figured I was the Canadian equivalent of a non-Bambara speaker in Mali. Someone who doesn't speak the dominant language of their nation is really exotic, and because I was so different in appearance, being so large, and being the only one with a beard, it only emphasized their views in this way.
All the time, my CP would ask me about my culture. One time, we were eating in a restaurant, and the TV showed ZZ Top. My CP noted that they sang English, and he also noted that they had beards. He asked me why "All the anglophones have huge beards". I told him it wasn't true, and that I knew Francophones with beards. But it was pretty clear that he thought ZZ Top were singers from the Guelph region of Canada, and I was witholding information on the significance of the beard.
When we eventually arrived in Mali, my reaction to the culture and approach to integrating was so different from the other Canadians that it furthered their idea that I must be from a different culture than the rest of them.
They asked me about my beard enough that I finally told them that it was a tradition for Canadian males to grow beards over long journeys. I pointed out that every male Canadian in the group had attempted to grow beards during our travel at one point or another. I said that I had grown mine on my first voyage, and the fact that I kept it, even when I wasn't on the move, was a symbol of being well-travelled.
I probably shouldn't have given them false information, but they wouldn't accept my explanation that I had it, "Just because".
Besides, I was a little skeptical of some of the information they fed us. They told us that there were pygmys in the mountain next to Sirakorola. They said that they didn't speak Bambara, that they were aggressive toward tall people, that they had the muscle-mass of an adult man, that they had backwards legs, and that they only came out at night. They said that if we wanted to see one, we would have to offer a goat to the animist chief at the base of the mountain, and we'd have to be escorted by a hunter, because the Pygmys and the hunters have an alliance, they both hunt at night, and the hunters speak the language of the Pygmys.
Then on a market day, one of the Malians told one of the Canadians "Look! A Pygmy!... Aw, you missed him."
Yeah, except, if the Pygmys come out only at night, why would one be in the market during the day? And if they hate tall people, why would he be in the tall-person market? And if they don't speak Bambara, how would he communicate with the merchants?
Similarly, some small fellow jumped on one of the Canadian's backs when he was out at night. The Canadian delivered him an elbow to the face and ran. He said that, in retrospect, he thinks it was just a child, but the Malians told him it was a Pygmy.
Looking for reactions. When one Canadian asked why Malians were afraid of frogs (they're not, but I guess he met a couple who were), the answer he got was that "The frogs are wizards". And when a merchant gave someone a bracelet for free, the Malians in the group told him it was a cursed bracelet to make money slip through your pockets.
Truth is, I knew the merchant who gave that bracelet. He gave me a couple free necklaces, too. He's not nearly that superstitious. And when I asked some Malians if they thought frogs were wizards, they just laughed at me, and were like "What in the world are you talking about?"
Did you know black babies are born white? I didn't. When Baby Ali was first born, some women called me over, pointed to him, and said "Tubabu!" (Whitey), then pointed at me, "Tubabu!" I didn't speak Bambara at the time, so I had to wait to ask my CP. He said "Everyone in this world is born white... In four months he will be black. For the first four months of my life, I was white." Apparently, it takes a little while for the melanin to kick in. It needs to be activated by the sun.
When I told the other Canadians, one of them said this was true, but everyone else said it was crazy. Black babies are born black, and if your baby isn't, he won't turn that way, is what they told me.
But... sure enough, in just over a month, he was black. But later on, a woman in Sirakorola gave me her baby to hold, and she asked me how old I thought he was. I guessed a month, since he was pretty black. She told me one week. I told her that Baby Ali had been white for over a month. She was all "Really?"
So, I don't know... I guess it depends on the baby. Maybe the melanin kicks in at the later stages of development, and Baby Ali was a little bit premature. I think Baby Ali was a bit of a stand-out, because they all seemed pretty excited about his whiteness.
They would put this powder on his face. I wondered what it was, but figured it was some traditional thing, or some kind of baby thing (I don't know... I don't know babies!). Eventually, I found out it was skin lightener. I didn't really know what to make of that. That seemed kind of iffy. I was worried that because he was named after a white man, and because he was born white, they wanted to keep him that way. I don't really think that stuff worked, though. It was sold all over the Sirakorola market, and honestly, I think anything with the power to do that would be outside the price range of your average villager...
For some reason, some of the Malians had Asian eyes. When I wear my Mali clothes, onlookers think I'm dressing Asian. Honestly, those robes I'm wearing in my return photo are basically a Karate gii with a funky design. Also, there was a strangely high number of names that were coincidentally shared with the Japanese: Sakura, Nasu, Mariko. And done in the same way as the Japanese, with Sakura being a given name, and Mariko being a family name.
I loved the clothes. I always said that if it were more socially acceptable to wear my Karate gii for casual purposes, I would. Comfortable, durable, and good-looking.
I heard a theory that the strangely consistent Asian theme might come from a popular group of Asian settlers. The Malians tend to adopt names and such from people they are close too, Malian or not. Even with me, my family was consistently enough calling Baby Ali "Baby Gryphon" that I would overhear conversations where he was referred as such casually when I wasn't in the same room, or they'd call out to him "Gryphon!" and I'd respond, but it would turn out they were talking to him. Lots of Malians have more than one name, and Gryphon seemed to be Baby Ali's. It's not impossible that, should Baby Ali eventually have grandchildren, that one of them is named after his second name. Then a few generations later, that grandchild's grandchild might be named after his name... Who knows? Maybe Gryphon will become a new traditional Malian name.
Too hopeful. Usually people have one family name and one name they choose when they become older. Ali and Gryphon were both names gifted by the family, so I don't think both will stick, and I think Ali will stick more than Gryphon, because Ali was his original name. Still, had I introduced myself as "Gryphon" instead of "Ali" when I first met the family, a new name might have been introduced to Mali.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Camera Issues and Tabasky
I'm getting photos made for my family in Mali. Karadie doesn't have an address, but I asked, and it's possible to mail them to the Direction Nationale de l’Agriculture, which is the partner organization that supported CWY, and the agricultural school from which we got all our Malian supervisors, and if I write a request to have it sent to Karadie, they'll do it. I know past participants have done it.
When I was taking photos, sometimes the memory card would come loose and the photos would move to the physical camera instead of the card. My camera has a weirdly shaped port for connecting with a computer, so at first we didn't think it would be possible, but we found something that fit, but it still wouldn't acknowledge the camera (I know I'm not explaining this very well). So it looks like we can't get those photos on the computer.
There were almost another 100 pictures, but partway through, the memory on the camera ran out, so every time the card came loose, it would say "Memory is Full", which would alert me to the problem. Therefor, most of the pictures on my physical camera are pictures nearer the beginning of the program... That means Quebec, and I don't really care about the Quebec photos that much.
However... As luck would have it, there were a few photos that I'd like to get off the camera. There are pictures of the two houses I stayed in in La Pocatiere, and the mud hut I slept in in Mali, and the only picture I have of my first host family is on there... I'd kind of like to have one photo depicting that experience, just so it's no like I'm trying to delete it from my memory.
Also, I was thinking about just sending four photos originally: Me and Baby Ali, Baby Ali, The family photo, and then one of my host father. I have more photos, but I'm afraid that the family members will be jealous of each other if certain people have more focus than others. I decided that it was better just to send as many family photos as possible, but it still bothers me. One of my inaccessible photos is an individual photo of a girl who didn't get a photo with a focus on her. Kind of would like to send that... And there's another good one of my host father that I would like to send as well.
My camera was so stupid. It had the problem with it's weird port and it's slippery memory card, but also, it would emit a loud beep sound every time I took a picture, it would select whether it would flash or not based on it's own preference, and whenever it took a picture, it randomly placed it in whatever order it wanted.
Every time I took a picture of someone, they would want to see their photo, but because the photos were scrambled, it would take forever to find them. That meant that, I spent more battery power looking for photos than taking photos, and I wound up having to say no to the villagers when they asked for photos, or else I'd burn my batteries out way too fast. But I couldn't explain to them that the problem was battery conservation, or that I could take a picture, but I wouldn't be able to show them. And I couldn't take photos of things stealthily, because every time I took a picture, it would beep, and everyone in town recognized that beep. Then everyone would come running, and everyone would want their picture taken. and once I got started, I couldn't just start excluding people...
My camera was so old, too, that Canadians would think, when they saw it, that it was new. It got a lot of complements, for being all cool and retro.
So, there's this Muslim holiday, called Tabasky. It's celebrated with hype and preparation comparable to how we celebrate Christmas. Part of Tabasky is a mass prayer ceremony. Two Canadians in the group were told by someone that they would be allowed to attend, but only if they took part in all the ceremonies. Another Malian told two other Canadians that we would be allowed to attend, but only if we stayed out of the ceremonies and just observed. Another person said it would be an insult if non-Muslims attended, and yet another person said that it would be an insult if we didn't attend.
So, what do you do in a situation like that? I figured that there would be people sharing opinions with all four of those people, so no matter what you did, some people would be insulted. When things got confusing, the guy who invited the first two Canadians to participate, told them that they should still participate, and that he would take the heat if anyone was offended. So I decided to follow the advice of the person who invited me, and therefore, let him bear the weight of his advice. He had told me to attend, but not participate.
When I got there, a lot of little girls told me to pray, but I told them no. Eventually, a big, important-looking guy in fancy robes told me to pray, and so I did, following his instructions. He only invited me, though, and I was standing with three other Canadians.
I hadn't dressed up for the celebration. The person who invited me told me not to. You're supposed to wear long sleeves and long pants, and be wearing your newest, best clothes. I was wearing short sleeves and short pants that I would sometimes work in. Also, when I was leaving to head for the celebration, I happened to have the most amazing slip in the mud ever. I basically flew into the air, flipped over, face-planted in the mud, and then toppled over on my stomach. I cleaned up, of course, but I still felt too dirty to be praying at such a fancy festival. I remember thinking that that was probably the most awkward series of events that could have happened to me.
After a while, the big robe man thanked me for participating and sent me on my way, so it's not like I participated in the entire festival. I never found out if what I'd done was right, or if I'd offended anyone.
I'm balding so bad. Before, it was about half-and-half, depending on who I asked, whether or not I was balding, but now everyone says yes, and I'm pretty sure it's not something you have to look for to see, now.
You know what I don't like? Words for poop and pee. You have poop and pee, and then shit and piss. One's too childish, and the other's too vulgar. You can say number one and number two, but then it sounds like you're avoiding confronting the topic. You can say urinate and defecate, but those are way too scientific. You can say "Taking a dump" or "Taking a leak" and various other phrases like that, but those are just silly. I feel like they are all situation-specific words. I feel like there aren't any good general-use words for that subject.
When I was taking photos, sometimes the memory card would come loose and the photos would move to the physical camera instead of the card. My camera has a weirdly shaped port for connecting with a computer, so at first we didn't think it would be possible, but we found something that fit, but it still wouldn't acknowledge the camera (I know I'm not explaining this very well). So it looks like we can't get those photos on the computer.
There were almost another 100 pictures, but partway through, the memory on the camera ran out, so every time the card came loose, it would say "Memory is Full", which would alert me to the problem. Therefor, most of the pictures on my physical camera are pictures nearer the beginning of the program... That means Quebec, and I don't really care about the Quebec photos that much.
However... As luck would have it, there were a few photos that I'd like to get off the camera. There are pictures of the two houses I stayed in in La Pocatiere, and the mud hut I slept in in Mali, and the only picture I have of my first host family is on there... I'd kind of like to have one photo depicting that experience, just so it's no like I'm trying to delete it from my memory.
Also, I was thinking about just sending four photos originally: Me and Baby Ali, Baby Ali, The family photo, and then one of my host father. I have more photos, but I'm afraid that the family members will be jealous of each other if certain people have more focus than others. I decided that it was better just to send as many family photos as possible, but it still bothers me. One of my inaccessible photos is an individual photo of a girl who didn't get a photo with a focus on her. Kind of would like to send that... And there's another good one of my host father that I would like to send as well.
My camera was so stupid. It had the problem with it's weird port and it's slippery memory card, but also, it would emit a loud beep sound every time I took a picture, it would select whether it would flash or not based on it's own preference, and whenever it took a picture, it randomly placed it in whatever order it wanted.
Every time I took a picture of someone, they would want to see their photo, but because the photos were scrambled, it would take forever to find them. That meant that, I spent more battery power looking for photos than taking photos, and I wound up having to say no to the villagers when they asked for photos, or else I'd burn my batteries out way too fast. But I couldn't explain to them that the problem was battery conservation, or that I could take a picture, but I wouldn't be able to show them. And I couldn't take photos of things stealthily, because every time I took a picture, it would beep, and everyone in town recognized that beep. Then everyone would come running, and everyone would want their picture taken. and once I got started, I couldn't just start excluding people...
My camera was so old, too, that Canadians would think, when they saw it, that it was new. It got a lot of complements, for being all cool and retro.
So, there's this Muslim holiday, called Tabasky. It's celebrated with hype and preparation comparable to how we celebrate Christmas. Part of Tabasky is a mass prayer ceremony. Two Canadians in the group were told by someone that they would be allowed to attend, but only if they took part in all the ceremonies. Another Malian told two other Canadians that we would be allowed to attend, but only if we stayed out of the ceremonies and just observed. Another person said it would be an insult if non-Muslims attended, and yet another person said that it would be an insult if we didn't attend.
So, what do you do in a situation like that? I figured that there would be people sharing opinions with all four of those people, so no matter what you did, some people would be insulted. When things got confusing, the guy who invited the first two Canadians to participate, told them that they should still participate, and that he would take the heat if anyone was offended. So I decided to follow the advice of the person who invited me, and therefore, let him bear the weight of his advice. He had told me to attend, but not participate.
When I got there, a lot of little girls told me to pray, but I told them no. Eventually, a big, important-looking guy in fancy robes told me to pray, and so I did, following his instructions. He only invited me, though, and I was standing with three other Canadians.
I hadn't dressed up for the celebration. The person who invited me told me not to. You're supposed to wear long sleeves and long pants, and be wearing your newest, best clothes. I was wearing short sleeves and short pants that I would sometimes work in. Also, when I was leaving to head for the celebration, I happened to have the most amazing slip in the mud ever. I basically flew into the air, flipped over, face-planted in the mud, and then toppled over on my stomach. I cleaned up, of course, but I still felt too dirty to be praying at such a fancy festival. I remember thinking that that was probably the most awkward series of events that could have happened to me.
After a while, the big robe man thanked me for participating and sent me on my way, so it's not like I participated in the entire festival. I never found out if what I'd done was right, or if I'd offended anyone.
I'm balding so bad. Before, it was about half-and-half, depending on who I asked, whether or not I was balding, but now everyone says yes, and I'm pretty sure it's not something you have to look for to see, now.
You know what I don't like? Words for poop and pee. You have poop and pee, and then shit and piss. One's too childish, and the other's too vulgar. You can say number one and number two, but then it sounds like you're avoiding confronting the topic. You can say urinate and defecate, but those are way too scientific. You can say "Taking a dump" or "Taking a leak" and various other phrases like that, but those are just silly. I feel like they are all situation-specific words. I feel like there aren't any good general-use words for that subject.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Medical Appointment, Post Secondary Possibilities
So, I booked an appointment for my possible Cutaneous Leishmaniasis. Usually she sets me like, a month from when I book the appointment, but this time it went down like this:
"Hi, I'd like to book an appointment."
"And for what would this be, sir?"
"I just got back from Africa, and I have this cut that's... healing slowly and attracts bugs. Also, someone I was travelling with had a similar injury, and apparently he came down with something. So I was thinking I'd get it checked out."
"Can you come in Monday at 10:40?"
Cuttin' line! Looks like Africa's getting me special privileges even after my trip!
When my friend got his wound checked out, and the doctor made the correct diagnosis, apparently he got really excited because he was able to make that diagnosis even though he'd never had a case of it before. Then he called a bunch of apprentice doctors to look at it, and they all took pictures of it and are going to publish it in a pharmaceutical journal.
I'm tempted to not tell my doctor what it is. Then when she makes a bad diagnosis, I'll be all "Hmmmm... I think it's Cutaneous Leishmaniasis" and when I turn out to be right, she'll think I'm a better doctor than her.
The bus system changed while I was gone. Now there are places where the buses stop and you have to board other buses, at locations that are not the regular bus transferring point. So if I want to go somewhere like the YMCA, then I have to take three buses. Guelph was already horrible in terms of public transit. Even our regular bus changing place was this awkward spot downtown that wasn't suited to hold all those buses. But apparently this makes things more efficient, and they can lay off a bunch of drivers to save money. But with all that money they're saving, I don't know why they felt they also needed to raise the price of bus fare to $3.00. I remember when it was literally half that.
I've been looking at college courses. That one that I was talking about before, turns out just would get me an Ontario College Certificate. That kind of bother's me. You probably haven't been counting, but I have certificates for each of the three youth programs I've completed, and four additional certificates from my initial pre-employment program. That comes to seven certificates. And if you count my most recent Karate certificate and my Cultural Dimensions certificate... I already have plenty of certificates. I want something post-secondary that counts for more than what my single-lesson online Smart Serve quiz got me.
To be fair, it is worth a little more than those. There are courses that are even shorter than what I was looking at, and they're just labelled "Certificates". And on those job applications where a requirement is "Some college or University", I would be able to say yes. But if they ask for a diploma or degree, I have to say no.
Honestly, though, finding an entry-level position in what I want to do is not that difficult. I know people who got in when they only had high school. It's kind of sad, actually. I think the educational requirements for working with mentally handicapped people should be higher, and it almost reflects how there are so few people who want to be involved in that field, that they have to lower their standards in employees. Like, when I was working in Summerside, there was apparently no job placement for a seniors home because of necessary requirements to work with the elderly. But at Community Connections, I was in charge of the seniors club for the elderly disabled... I don't know why there's an assumption that handicapped elderly have fewer needs than elderly people without handicaps.
There's a more general course in social sciences that sort of overlaps with my goal, that would net me a full diploma, but honestly... This Ontario College Certificate course is cheaper, shorter, is stationed in Guelph, and more focussed to my goal. I think it would be more beneficial.
This other social sciences course is only available in a college in a nearby city. My mom went to that college, but we don't have a car, and I still don't really know how to drive. I only have a level 1 driver's license out of a 3-tier graduating license.
My ego's not big enough that I need a University degree... But, I dunno. I don't want my high school diploma to be my strongest-standing piece of paper. I want to say I "Studied" somewhere, not that I "Took a course" there.
Plus, check it out: http://www.conestogac.on.ca/fulltime/1165.jsp
The PSW course includes studies on "home management and nutrition and family responsibilities". That's a girl's program, most definitely. Sure, those are all things every man should be required to study into, but I'd have to transcend a lot of gender barriers... I'd be the only heterosexual male in class, I'm sure.
"Hi, I'd like to book an appointment."
"And for what would this be, sir?"
"I just got back from Africa, and I have this cut that's... healing slowly and attracts bugs. Also, someone I was travelling with had a similar injury, and apparently he came down with something. So I was thinking I'd get it checked out."
"Can you come in Monday at 10:40?"
Cuttin' line! Looks like Africa's getting me special privileges even after my trip!
When my friend got his wound checked out, and the doctor made the correct diagnosis, apparently he got really excited because he was able to make that diagnosis even though he'd never had a case of it before. Then he called a bunch of apprentice doctors to look at it, and they all took pictures of it and are going to publish it in a pharmaceutical journal.
I'm tempted to not tell my doctor what it is. Then when she makes a bad diagnosis, I'll be all "Hmmmm... I think it's Cutaneous Leishmaniasis" and when I turn out to be right, she'll think I'm a better doctor than her.
The bus system changed while I was gone. Now there are places where the buses stop and you have to board other buses, at locations that are not the regular bus transferring point. So if I want to go somewhere like the YMCA, then I have to take three buses. Guelph was already horrible in terms of public transit. Even our regular bus changing place was this awkward spot downtown that wasn't suited to hold all those buses. But apparently this makes things more efficient, and they can lay off a bunch of drivers to save money. But with all that money they're saving, I don't know why they felt they also needed to raise the price of bus fare to $3.00. I remember when it was literally half that.
I've been looking at college courses. That one that I was talking about before, turns out just would get me an Ontario College Certificate. That kind of bother's me. You probably haven't been counting, but I have certificates for each of the three youth programs I've completed, and four additional certificates from my initial pre-employment program. That comes to seven certificates. And if you count my most recent Karate certificate and my Cultural Dimensions certificate... I already have plenty of certificates. I want something post-secondary that counts for more than what my single-lesson online Smart Serve quiz got me.
To be fair, it is worth a little more than those. There are courses that are even shorter than what I was looking at, and they're just labelled "Certificates". And on those job applications where a requirement is "Some college or University", I would be able to say yes. But if they ask for a diploma or degree, I have to say no.
Honestly, though, finding an entry-level position in what I want to do is not that difficult. I know people who got in when they only had high school. It's kind of sad, actually. I think the educational requirements for working with mentally handicapped people should be higher, and it almost reflects how there are so few people who want to be involved in that field, that they have to lower their standards in employees. Like, when I was working in Summerside, there was apparently no job placement for a seniors home because of necessary requirements to work with the elderly. But at Community Connections, I was in charge of the seniors club for the elderly disabled... I don't know why there's an assumption that handicapped elderly have fewer needs than elderly people without handicaps.
There's a more general course in social sciences that sort of overlaps with my goal, that would net me a full diploma, but honestly... This Ontario College Certificate course is cheaper, shorter, is stationed in Guelph, and more focussed to my goal. I think it would be more beneficial.
This other social sciences course is only available in a college in a nearby city. My mom went to that college, but we don't have a car, and I still don't really know how to drive. I only have a level 1 driver's license out of a 3-tier graduating license.
My ego's not big enough that I need a University degree... But, I dunno. I don't want my high school diploma to be my strongest-standing piece of paper. I want to say I "Studied" somewhere, not that I "Took a course" there.
Plus, check it out: http://www.conestogac.on.ca/fulltime/1165.jsp
The PSW course includes studies on "home management and nutrition and family responsibilities". That's a girl's program, most definitely. Sure, those are all things every man should be required to study into, but I'd have to transcend a lot of gender barriers... I'd be the only heterosexual male in class, I'm sure.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Journal Lamentation, Cultural Dimensions
Before I can get back to using this blog as a motivational tool, I have to get all of my Mali talk out of the way. I never managed to maintain a proper journal in Mali. If I was outside, I was playing with the children, and when I was inside, we had no chairs, which meant I was in bed, and if I was in bed, I'd doze off before I got the chance to write anything. If my family ever saw me writing or reading, they would consider it "Work", and I don't think I ever managed to get across that this was something I was doing for pleasure.
In Canada, I was really faithful with my journal. It's just what I would do before bed every night. I filled out an entire book and stopped writing two weeks short of Mali because I thought it would be neat to have a book for Canada rotation, and a book for Mali rotation.
It really sucks that I did such a bad job with my journal in Mali, since that's the rotation I care more about.
One thing I really love about Canada is the cold. When we came back from Mali, I expected to be shocked by the temperature differences, having adapted to the Malian climate. I was right, but it was surprising how pleasant the shock was. Other people were bundled up in huge coats, but I just wore a sweater. Then I took off my sweater and went around in a T-shirt. When group members demanded if I was cold, I was like "Yeah, it hurts... It hurts so good."
I am not the only one to have trouble readapting to Canadian society. When we first got back, five days before Christmas, we were in the midst of the Christmas rush. We went into a shopping mall, and a couple participants had to leave, because it was just too overwhelming to their Malian senses.
At the end of CWY, I received two certificates, for the completion of two programs. One was Canada World Youth, and the other was Cultural Dimensions. I asked what Cultural Dimensions was, and it turns out that it was the three day orientation camp at the beginning of the program.
Wow. I get another entire certificate for sitting through a camp when I had no comprehension of what was said. I wonder if the people who dropped out after the camp got a certificate in the mail. After all, they successfully completed the Cultural Dimensions training program. Replacement participants did not receive a Cultural Dimensions certificate, because they did not attend the orientation camp.
French is a funny language. A lot of the words they use commonly are the same as words we use in English, but we only use them for particularly powerful or formal occasions. For instance, you don't move something, you transport it. You don't ask something, you demand it. You don't cross something, you traverse it. You don't watch something, you regard it. You don't guess something, you estimate it.
By the way, turns out that other guy with the same wound as me DID contract Cutaneous Leishmaniasis, so I almost certainly have it.
In Canada, I was really faithful with my journal. It's just what I would do before bed every night. I filled out an entire book and stopped writing two weeks short of Mali because I thought it would be neat to have a book for Canada rotation, and a book for Mali rotation.
It really sucks that I did such a bad job with my journal in Mali, since that's the rotation I care more about.
One thing I really love about Canada is the cold. When we came back from Mali, I expected to be shocked by the temperature differences, having adapted to the Malian climate. I was right, but it was surprising how pleasant the shock was. Other people were bundled up in huge coats, but I just wore a sweater. Then I took off my sweater and went around in a T-shirt. When group members demanded if I was cold, I was like "Yeah, it hurts... It hurts so good."
I am not the only one to have trouble readapting to Canadian society. When we first got back, five days before Christmas, we were in the midst of the Christmas rush. We went into a shopping mall, and a couple participants had to leave, because it was just too overwhelming to their Malian senses.
At the end of CWY, I received two certificates, for the completion of two programs. One was Canada World Youth, and the other was Cultural Dimensions. I asked what Cultural Dimensions was, and it turns out that it was the three day orientation camp at the beginning of the program.
Wow. I get another entire certificate for sitting through a camp when I had no comprehension of what was said. I wonder if the people who dropped out after the camp got a certificate in the mail. After all, they successfully completed the Cultural Dimensions training program. Replacement participants did not receive a Cultural Dimensions certificate, because they did not attend the orientation camp.
French is a funny language. A lot of the words they use commonly are the same as words we use in English, but we only use them for particularly powerful or formal occasions. For instance, you don't move something, you transport it. You don't ask something, you demand it. You don't cross something, you traverse it. You don't watch something, you regard it. You don't guess something, you estimate it.
By the way, turns out that other guy with the same wound as me DID contract Cutaneous Leishmaniasis, so I almost certainly have it.
Cutaneous Leishmaniasis
The thing about losing 30 pounds on an African diet is that, even though getting a power-up from an epic journey is cool, and all your family and friends back home get to see the sudden change in you since the last times they saw you, you haven't really learned anything about healthy living at all. I don't know how to maintain this state, so I know all that weight's coming back. In Katimavik, I had the same post-program prime, and in that program, I actually did learn about healthy living, but I still regressed. Not much better chance now...
Yesterday I got an email from CWY, saying that I may have Cutaneous Leishmaniasis. That's a single cell parasite transmitted through sand fly bites that causes boils. It's rare, but apparently a CWY participant that just got back from Mali has contracted it, and tipped off CWY about it, so they're informing us. They said that if we have any slow-healing wounds from Africa, we should consult a doctor. Well, guess what I have?
Plus, I know a Canadian participant who had a wound similar to this one that I have. He might have got it checked, and alerted CWY with the results. This wound... It's like a sore on my ankle. I had a lot of wounds in Mali, so it didn't seem noteworthy. It's only notable feature, and the reason I'm saying it was similar to someone else's, is that it... attracted bugs. My other wounds didn't do that.
But, in Mali, so many weird things happen to your body that, unless it's causing you immediate and severe discomfort, you generally don't worry about it.
Now, however, this bug-attracting wound is also notable for it's extremely slow healing. Also, I never remembered how I got it in the first place.
Looking at images of Cutaneous Leishmaniasis, I actually think I have it. The images correlate with what I have on my ankle. I've got another one, too, on the opposite side of the same ankle. I remember I got that one in Canada, and I thought it was from wearing shoes (my feet are used to sandals... I think I have weak feet. They blistered when I first started wearing sandals, too). I can't tell if this one attracts bugs or not, because there aren't enough bugs at this time of year in Canada.
Apparently it's really easily treated with antibiotics, though, so there's that.
Yesterday I got an email from CWY, saying that I may have Cutaneous Leishmaniasis. That's a single cell parasite transmitted through sand fly bites that causes boils. It's rare, but apparently a CWY participant that just got back from Mali has contracted it, and tipped off CWY about it, so they're informing us. They said that if we have any slow-healing wounds from Africa, we should consult a doctor. Well, guess what I have?
Plus, I know a Canadian participant who had a wound similar to this one that I have. He might have got it checked, and alerted CWY with the results. This wound... It's like a sore on my ankle. I had a lot of wounds in Mali, so it didn't seem noteworthy. It's only notable feature, and the reason I'm saying it was similar to someone else's, is that it... attracted bugs. My other wounds didn't do that.
But, in Mali, so many weird things happen to your body that, unless it's causing you immediate and severe discomfort, you generally don't worry about it.
Now, however, this bug-attracting wound is also notable for it's extremely slow healing. Also, I never remembered how I got it in the first place.
Looking at images of Cutaneous Leishmaniasis, I actually think I have it. The images correlate with what I have on my ankle. I've got another one, too, on the opposite side of the same ankle. I remember I got that one in Canada, and I thought it was from wearing shoes (my feet are used to sandals... I think I have weak feet. They blistered when I first started wearing sandals, too). I can't tell if this one attracts bugs or not, because there aren't enough bugs at this time of year in Canada.
Apparently it's really easily treated with antibiotics, though, so there's that.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Scorpions, Snakes, and Dogs, Oh My!
Before we left for Mali, we were told that the most deadly creatures around were scorpions, snakes and wild dogs. After I heard this, it became a goal of mine to see each. I wasn't disappointed. I saw two scorpions, a snake, and probably too many wild dogs to count.
The first time I ran into a scorpion, I was working in the fields and I hit it with my tool by accident. I guess it was under the ground, and I dug it out. It wasn't injured and I was right inside it's sting-range. I moved before it did, and a second swing of my tool cut it in two. Second time, I was with my host family, on my last night in Karadie. We were sitting by the fire, going over memories, when a scorpion ran into the middle of us. All of a sudden, everyone was jumping to their feet, running around, screaming, grabbing the closest, longest object they could use as a weapon. This scorpion was smaller and faster than the other one I saw, and it ran for cover. My family went on a hunt for it, but I didn't they'd be able to catch it. Somehow they managed it, though.
The only snake I ever saw was just lying in the sun, next to the road. I don't even know if it was alive, and if it was, whether or not it was dangerous. It was way larger than snakes in Canada, but apparently, there are certain types of snakes in Mali that are dangerous, and some that aren't.
As far as wild dogs go... There were a lot of dogs. I walked between Karadie and Sirakorola regularly, and I would frequently walk by dogs in the middle of nowhere. I didn't stop and ask them if they had an owner, but I'm guessing they didn't.
They don't name their dogs or cats, in Mali. They're treated like barnyard animals. They have functions, they aren't pets, and they don't need names. There was one man, though, who got on real well with the dogs. He'd play with them and interact with them in ways very similar to how us Canadians would. I remember, when we first met him, he approached us while we were working. Many of the Canadians were feeling kind of put-off by the treatment of animals, specifically dogs, in Karadie, and when this guy showed up it was like a breath of fresh air to them.
To them, it seemed as though they had run into the first sane person since arriving in the village, but little did we know at the time, the village considered him insane.
Kind of funny, if you think about it. If you believe in something because it's the norm of your culture, you will always be considered sane, but if you believe in something because it's a personal value, whether or not you're sane depends on if your culture agrees with that value. A shifting reality is seen more in those that are considered sane.
When I came back from Africa, I had massive digestive difficulties from eating Canadian food. I didn't think I ever managed to adapt to the Malian food... It was always one of the most difficult challenges for me, and as time moved on, I could stomach the food less and less. My appetite was constantly diminishing, and food that before had been delicacies by comparison were losing their appeal to me. I was one of the only Canadians to be served French fries on a regular basis, and I was held in deep envy by many, but by the end of the program, oftentimes I couldn't finish a plate of them. When me and the family were reflecting on what we had learned from each other, my host father said that he had learned that "Canadians don't eat much".
And that speaks volumes. The Malians don't eat much, and it's not really a quantitative problem. They just don't need it. The Malians in the group regularly couldn't put down a full Canadian meal. I was eating considerably less than a Malian. And I was forcing every bite. I was never hungry. I stopped eating when I knew that I would vomit from taking another bite.
I had a lot to lose by leaving Mali, but every time I ate, I used that experience as a motivator to look forward to coming back to Canada.
The first time I ate food similar to what I'd have in Canada, I was actually still in Mali. I was at the hospital in Bamako, getting checked for Malaria (I was showing some symptoms, but they didn't turn out to be from Malaria) and afterward, we went to a restaurant that sold food for tourists (much of the time, locals can't afford to go to the hospital, so they target tourists in the hospital area). Most of the Canadians couldn't finish their plates, but upon the taste of North American style food, my appetite completely resurfaced, and between me and this other guy, we ate all of whatever the other's couldn't. Next day, the two of us were both down with food poisoning.
We thought the cause was bad food, but now that I have more perspective, I'm going to say that maybe our bodies just were no longer capable of handling food like that. I think this because, I had, and still am slightly, suffering side effects to the food I'm eating now which are similar to the side effects of the food I ate at the restaurant.
So, by the end of the program, I was in a weird limbo state, where my body could not handle Mali food, and it could not handle Canadian food, either.
The pain it caused me didn't stop my appetite from resurfacing, though. Even when I was suffering from food poisoning in Mali, I said that, had I the option to turn back time and not eat that food, I would still do it. The brief happiness I experienced from eating it was worth the pain of the day after.
Of course, as it usually turns out, contentment of the soul trumps contentment of the body. The day I left my host family, I cried like a baby. I remember thinking, "I would eat all the rice in the world for them".
I had linked the difference in quality of food so inseparably in my mind as a difference between Mali and Canada, that for a little while after returning to Canada, I would think, "Wow, this food is so great! It's so much better than that disgusting food I would eat... with my... family!!!!"
And then I would want to cry again. I wanted to be back with my host family, eating toh or rice, not eating fine Canadian cuisine.
I have developed an ability to tell the difference in quality of rice. Before, rice was rice to me, but after eating the Karadie rice for three months, going through Bamako and eating the rice there, I was like "Oh my god, this rice is incredible!" Still wouldn't eat any kind of rice voluntarily now, though.
Water goes through my system so fast now, too. I remember, when I first arrived in Karadie, I didn't pee for two days, because all the water I was drinking would come out of my system as sweat. When I finally went, it was out of a sense of worry, rather than need, and what came out was tiny trickle of bright yellow water. Similarly, I went three days before going number two, and what came out there was bright yellow, and the size and consistency of a billiard's ball. I remember thinking at the time "This isn't survival, it's just dying". Somehow, though, I did manage to survive.
All the Canadians had a huge complex about having water with them at all times, even at night, and in cold season, and cold season nights were COLD. The Malians figured the heat was making us sweat out our moisture, which caused us to drink more water, so when we were bundled up in our blankets by the fire, with our 1.5 litre water bottles in hand, they were confused as to why we still needed to drink that much.
And the reason was because, even if you weren't sweating, the air was so dry that it felt like dehydration was a substance in and of itself, that you took in with every breath. Nowadays, I just love breathing. Every breath is just such a delight that I completely overlooked before I went on my trip.
But now I feel like a wet sponge. My body's so used to retaining liquid, and maybe I'm still drinking more water than I should because I have a complex about it. I feel like I'm going to the bathroom every hour and putting out my daily average in Mali.
The first time I ran into a scorpion, I was working in the fields and I hit it with my tool by accident. I guess it was under the ground, and I dug it out. It wasn't injured and I was right inside it's sting-range. I moved before it did, and a second swing of my tool cut it in two. Second time, I was with my host family, on my last night in Karadie. We were sitting by the fire, going over memories, when a scorpion ran into the middle of us. All of a sudden, everyone was jumping to their feet, running around, screaming, grabbing the closest, longest object they could use as a weapon. This scorpion was smaller and faster than the other one I saw, and it ran for cover. My family went on a hunt for it, but I didn't they'd be able to catch it. Somehow they managed it, though.
The only snake I ever saw was just lying in the sun, next to the road. I don't even know if it was alive, and if it was, whether or not it was dangerous. It was way larger than snakes in Canada, but apparently, there are certain types of snakes in Mali that are dangerous, and some that aren't.
As far as wild dogs go... There were a lot of dogs. I walked between Karadie and Sirakorola regularly, and I would frequently walk by dogs in the middle of nowhere. I didn't stop and ask them if they had an owner, but I'm guessing they didn't.
They don't name their dogs or cats, in Mali. They're treated like barnyard animals. They have functions, they aren't pets, and they don't need names. There was one man, though, who got on real well with the dogs. He'd play with them and interact with them in ways very similar to how us Canadians would. I remember, when we first met him, he approached us while we were working. Many of the Canadians were feeling kind of put-off by the treatment of animals, specifically dogs, in Karadie, and when this guy showed up it was like a breath of fresh air to them.
To them, it seemed as though they had run into the first sane person since arriving in the village, but little did we know at the time, the village considered him insane.
Kind of funny, if you think about it. If you believe in something because it's the norm of your culture, you will always be considered sane, but if you believe in something because it's a personal value, whether or not you're sane depends on if your culture agrees with that value. A shifting reality is seen more in those that are considered sane.
When I came back from Africa, I had massive digestive difficulties from eating Canadian food. I didn't think I ever managed to adapt to the Malian food... It was always one of the most difficult challenges for me, and as time moved on, I could stomach the food less and less. My appetite was constantly diminishing, and food that before had been delicacies by comparison were losing their appeal to me. I was one of the only Canadians to be served French fries on a regular basis, and I was held in deep envy by many, but by the end of the program, oftentimes I couldn't finish a plate of them. When me and the family were reflecting on what we had learned from each other, my host father said that he had learned that "Canadians don't eat much".
And that speaks volumes. The Malians don't eat much, and it's not really a quantitative problem. They just don't need it. The Malians in the group regularly couldn't put down a full Canadian meal. I was eating considerably less than a Malian. And I was forcing every bite. I was never hungry. I stopped eating when I knew that I would vomit from taking another bite.
I had a lot to lose by leaving Mali, but every time I ate, I used that experience as a motivator to look forward to coming back to Canada.
The first time I ate food similar to what I'd have in Canada, I was actually still in Mali. I was at the hospital in Bamako, getting checked for Malaria (I was showing some symptoms, but they didn't turn out to be from Malaria) and afterward, we went to a restaurant that sold food for tourists (much of the time, locals can't afford to go to the hospital, so they target tourists in the hospital area). Most of the Canadians couldn't finish their plates, but upon the taste of North American style food, my appetite completely resurfaced, and between me and this other guy, we ate all of whatever the other's couldn't. Next day, the two of us were both down with food poisoning.
We thought the cause was bad food, but now that I have more perspective, I'm going to say that maybe our bodies just were no longer capable of handling food like that. I think this because, I had, and still am slightly, suffering side effects to the food I'm eating now which are similar to the side effects of the food I ate at the restaurant.
So, by the end of the program, I was in a weird limbo state, where my body could not handle Mali food, and it could not handle Canadian food, either.
The pain it caused me didn't stop my appetite from resurfacing, though. Even when I was suffering from food poisoning in Mali, I said that, had I the option to turn back time and not eat that food, I would still do it. The brief happiness I experienced from eating it was worth the pain of the day after.
Of course, as it usually turns out, contentment of the soul trumps contentment of the body. The day I left my host family, I cried like a baby. I remember thinking, "I would eat all the rice in the world for them".
I had linked the difference in quality of food so inseparably in my mind as a difference between Mali and Canada, that for a little while after returning to Canada, I would think, "Wow, this food is so great! It's so much better than that disgusting food I would eat... with my... family!!!!"
And then I would want to cry again. I wanted to be back with my host family, eating toh or rice, not eating fine Canadian cuisine.
I have developed an ability to tell the difference in quality of rice. Before, rice was rice to me, but after eating the Karadie rice for three months, going through Bamako and eating the rice there, I was like "Oh my god, this rice is incredible!" Still wouldn't eat any kind of rice voluntarily now, though.
Water goes through my system so fast now, too. I remember, when I first arrived in Karadie, I didn't pee for two days, because all the water I was drinking would come out of my system as sweat. When I finally went, it was out of a sense of worry, rather than need, and what came out was tiny trickle of bright yellow water. Similarly, I went three days before going number two, and what came out there was bright yellow, and the size and consistency of a billiard's ball. I remember thinking at the time "This isn't survival, it's just dying". Somehow, though, I did manage to survive.
All the Canadians had a huge complex about having water with them at all times, even at night, and in cold season, and cold season nights were COLD. The Malians figured the heat was making us sweat out our moisture, which caused us to drink more water, so when we were bundled up in our blankets by the fire, with our 1.5 litre water bottles in hand, they were confused as to why we still needed to drink that much.
And the reason was because, even if you weren't sweating, the air was so dry that it felt like dehydration was a substance in and of itself, that you took in with every breath. Nowadays, I just love breathing. Every breath is just such a delight that I completely overlooked before I went on my trip.
But now I feel like a wet sponge. My body's so used to retaining liquid, and maybe I'm still drinking more water than I should because I have a complex about it. I feel like I'm going to the bathroom every hour and putting out my daily average in Mali.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Neighbour, Guelph Katimavik
So, I have this neighbour. We were never really close or anything, but if we saw each other, we'd stop to say hi and smallchat, and we even went so far as to go out of our way to hang out a couple of times. When I was gone, my mother made a point of telling him that her son had left for Quebec. He seemed confused, so she described me, but it didn't spark a memory.
I figured he just couldn't really imagine me as being the son of my mother, or that it just didn't occur to him at the time. But I recently ran into him, and guess what? HE DOESN'T REMEMBER ME.
Oh well, I guess it wasn't my most valued relationship, but it's still kind of weird.
Guelph has Katimavik now. I learned about that near the beginning of CWY. I think you may remember me noting that I'd seen a Katimavan, but with no participants, and instead, a bunch of furniture. I wondered if maybe we'd be getting our own group. Yeah, well, we did. I learned about it because I got an invitation to the start-of-program party. I had to tell them sorry, but I'm doing CWY. I just missed the end-of-program party for the same reason, because I was in reintegration camp.
But now, there's another new group, just four days old today, and they've invited me to their party. It's this Tuesday, at the YMCA. It's a new Project Leader, too. I guess the first one was only on for six months.
I figured he just couldn't really imagine me as being the son of my mother, or that it just didn't occur to him at the time. But I recently ran into him, and guess what? HE DOESN'T REMEMBER ME.
Oh well, I guess it wasn't my most valued relationship, but it's still kind of weird.
Guelph has Katimavik now. I learned about that near the beginning of CWY. I think you may remember me noting that I'd seen a Katimavan, but with no participants, and instead, a bunch of furniture. I wondered if maybe we'd be getting our own group. Yeah, well, we did. I learned about it because I got an invitation to the start-of-program party. I had to tell them sorry, but I'm doing CWY. I just missed the end-of-program party for the same reason, because I was in reintegration camp.
But now, there's another new group, just four days old today, and they've invited me to their party. It's this Tuesday, at the YMCA. It's a new Project Leader, too. I guess the first one was only on for six months.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
CWY Book Reviews
This is another link post. I read four books in CWY: The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, The Coral Island, Coraline, and The Concubine's Children. I read the first three in Quebec, and the last in Mali. I found that a lot of people did a lot of reading in Mali, but I found it kind of escapist. I mean, I read the most in Quebec, when I definitely had the most reason to feel escapist. I was reading a cultural book in Mali, too, so it was weird to be like "Wow, it's so cool to be learning about such a different culture" when I was living inside of such a different culture. I'd always feel like, "You should be going outside, creating your own story out of experience, right now."
A lot of people in my group were reading books about Africa, too, which seemed so pointless. Why read about Africa inside Africa, when you can experience the real thing first-hand?
http://gryphonsreviews.blogspot.com/2012/01/books-cwy-reads.html
A lot of people in my group were reading books about Africa, too, which seemed so pointless. Why read about Africa inside Africa, when you can experience the real thing first-hand?
http://gryphonsreviews.blogspot.com/2012/01/books-cwy-reads.html
Friday, January 6, 2012
More Links
I posted five photos of my Quebec rotation to Gryphon's Gallery: http://gryphonsgallery.blogspot.com/2012/01/quebec.html
Here's the final post on CWY to the Migrating Gryphon: http://katimagryphon.blogspot.com/2012/01/final-cwy-update.html
Here's the final post on CWY to the Migrating Gryphon: http://katimagryphon.blogspot.com/2012/01/final-cwy-update.html
Monday, January 2, 2012
CWY La Pocatiere/Karadie 2011 Logbook Instructional Post
This is another redirectory post. I wrote an instructional letter on living in Karadie for our group logbook. While in Quebec, I asked for someone to make an informational post to the logbook concerning Karadie, since we were the first results if you tried researching the name, and because I knew we had a target audience in the next year's CWY group to be stationed there. Information on the village is so scarce that members of my own group this year found --this-- blog when researching the village, just because I'd used it's name.
Anyway, here's the link: http://logbook.cwy-jcm.com/maliquebec1/2012/01/01/karadje-info/
Now I just need to write my own personal newsletter update, and make my final contribution to The Migrating Gryphon and maybe I'll get more into the swing of things here. This past week or so has vanished in the blink of an eye. Canadian time moves faster than Malian time, I guess.
Anyway, here's the link: http://logbook.cwy-jcm.com/maliquebec1/2012/01/01/karadje-info/
Now I just need to write my own personal newsletter update, and make my final contribution to The Migrating Gryphon and maybe I'll get more into the swing of things here. This past week or so has vanished in the blink of an eye. Canadian time moves faster than Malian time, I guess.
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