I did my presentation for that employment agency today. Beforehand, the guy told me that I'm not trying to sell the program, because they're already in it, and that I shouldn't think of it as a presentation, but that I'm just coming in to chat. He said that the reason they were asking me to come in, is because of how much I've changed since coming out of the program. He said that I shouldn't try and attribute the program as the key to my change, that I need to take credit for that, and that I'm just there to show the current participants that change is possible.
So I went in with nothing. I tried giving a rough outline of what I was like before the program, how I changed afterwards, and what I'd done since then, which basically means Katimavik and Canada World Youth. I started off pretty solid, but moved through each experience fairly quickly. Guess where things stuck? Of course it's going to be my Malian experience.
Soon as I hit that, they were throwing down questions left and right, and I know you guys know how long I can talk about Africa. It turned into a presentation on my overseas experience. We didn't even get through all the photos, and I wound up talking from the start of the day until their lunch break. And they were still asking me questions on the way out. Afterward, one of the participants approached me and thanked me, telling me that I'd done a great job.
Well, it's true that it turned out to be more of a "chat" than a presentation. The supervisors all seemed pleased. When I did that program, I enjoyed every workshop and activity. I felt everything was relevant, so I hope their judgment was sound in asking me to come in, and I hope they can somehow make my rambling relevant.
I certainly enjoyed myself, that's for sure. It's kind of depressing, though. I outlined all the things I'd done in life, and the popular demand fell on Africa. I've been talking about that experience since I left the program. I was hoping that I was still just stuck on it because of how recent it was, but today I learned that it's genuinely the most interesting experience I've ever had.
People who've seen my motions... How I've traveled from one place to another to another, and seen my experiences grow wilder and wilder, have come to expect bigger and better things to come out of me. People keep asking me "What's next?" and "Aren't moving to God-knows-where soon enough, anyway?"
I have to tell these people "Sorry, I'm done. I can't top Africa. I've done all the programs, and that last saga was the climax of my life."
...It's kind of hard to make a plan to forge a simple and humble life, after experiencing the things that I have. I guess that comes off as arrogant and entitled. Hopefully I'll get over myself.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Monday, February 27, 2012
Quality Malian Products
Let me tell you some of the things in Mali that were better quality than the stuff we've got here.
The number one would have to be shea butter. I can't even think of it's Canadian equivalent. They made it in every village, from natural material, it's exclusively a Malian product, and it's the pride of the country. One guy put it on his bag to make it more flexible, durable and better-looking. Another guy put it on his skin to give him "skin like a little girl's" which is impressive, considering the heavy manual labour he was doing, and how rough and calloused the rest of us got. Somebody else put it on his beans so they would taste better. Basically, whatever you put it on becomes better in all it's relevant categories. I brought back some shea butter and soap to my family, but they don't use it much because it "Smells funny". My brother recently used some of the soap because "We ran out of soap".
Ehhhh, COME ON! They were interested in my cheapo 200 franc Mali soap, but they're repelled by this miracle stuff just because it smells a little different. I just washed my hands with the soap, and let me tell you, I feel clean right down to the bone. I feel like grime and germs are repelled from my hands. I feel like I'm on a whole new level of clean. I just took a shower, but the rest of my body feels like it's covered in muck in comparison to my hands. Maybe they're scared of feeling this intensely clean.
I feel like that cowskin bag that that guy put shea butter on. Not only am I clean, but it's made my skin more beautiful and simultaneously stronger and more durable. No joke, and I swear it's made of 100% legal substances. You can even get shea butter in Canada.
Another thing that was better were the fruit-flavour soft drinks. You could get these little bottles of cola or fruit soft drinks in Sirakorola. They were sold in the established shops that were open all week, that had electricity and refrigeration. You could get them in Bamako, too. They were a little on the expensive side for most subsistence Malians, and even caused the Canadians trouble. The Sirakorola Canadians managed to sink most of their money into soft drinks. I think they were mainly for people who wanted to show off their bling to their not-girlfriends.
Yeah, I know I haven't gone much into the Malians on the topic of relationships, romance, marriage, or anything like that, and to be honest, I'm probably not going to publically blog about it, so sorry to touch on it like that.
The cola wasn't as good as what we've got here. I mean, you could buy standard Coka Cola, which cost a bit more, but the Mali brand was worse. The Fanta knockoffs were better than the Fanta, though. You could get "Quench" or "Djino" or "Ya" brand drinks that were orange, pineapple, banana, or pear flavoured. I'm probably missing some of the flavours, but just trust me, they were goooood. A world apart from our "Fanta", "Crush" or "C-Plus" and after you'd walked for five kilometers under the African sun to get to Sirakorola, it tasted like heaven.
The other thing I'm thinking about right now that was surprisingly good, was the beer. It was strange, because the consumption of alcohol was so frowned on. The country was 90% Muslim, who were forbidden to drink, and there was a certain cultural stigma against it in general. You could buy it in Bamako fairly openly, but in the villages, a normal Malian should be discrete. My Animist village was known for it's more liberal take on alcohol, because the dominant religian didn't forbid it, but they still didn't drink, mainly because it was outside their price range.
If a Malian drank, it would be less for the effect, and more for the excitement of "being bad", I found. Even the Malians in our group who drank (not naming names) had never had enough to get drunk, because they couldn't afford to.
Also, there was only one brand. I'd think the absence of competition, and the fact that people were drinking for it's reputation moreso than it's effect or taste, would mean that the company wouldn't feel the need to make a quality product.
I won't lie, I don't even have much of a taste for beer. I mean, I generally enjoy it, but unless I'm drinking one brand back-to-back with another, I generally can't tell the difference. There are definitely some exceptions, but take any major 5% beer that you can be sure to find in any bar in Canada, and to me it will taste pretty much the same. This is probably the least manliest thing I've ever said on my blog, but I think people my age are too brand obsessed over beer.
But the Castel brand beer, brewed in Bamako, seemingly a knockoff of Budweiser (it was advertised as the Queen of Beers), was just really, really good. And it didn't have any kind of weird exotic taste, either. And I definitely wasn't the only one to notice.
The number one would have to be shea butter. I can't even think of it's Canadian equivalent. They made it in every village, from natural material, it's exclusively a Malian product, and it's the pride of the country. One guy put it on his bag to make it more flexible, durable and better-looking. Another guy put it on his skin to give him "skin like a little girl's" which is impressive, considering the heavy manual labour he was doing, and how rough and calloused the rest of us got. Somebody else put it on his beans so they would taste better. Basically, whatever you put it on becomes better in all it's relevant categories. I brought back some shea butter and soap to my family, but they don't use it much because it "Smells funny". My brother recently used some of the soap because "We ran out of soap".
Ehhhh, COME ON! They were interested in my cheapo 200 franc Mali soap, but they're repelled by this miracle stuff just because it smells a little different. I just washed my hands with the soap, and let me tell you, I feel clean right down to the bone. I feel like grime and germs are repelled from my hands. I feel like I'm on a whole new level of clean. I just took a shower, but the rest of my body feels like it's covered in muck in comparison to my hands. Maybe they're scared of feeling this intensely clean.
I feel like that cowskin bag that that guy put shea butter on. Not only am I clean, but it's made my skin more beautiful and simultaneously stronger and more durable. No joke, and I swear it's made of 100% legal substances. You can even get shea butter in Canada.
Another thing that was better were the fruit-flavour soft drinks. You could get these little bottles of cola or fruit soft drinks in Sirakorola. They were sold in the established shops that were open all week, that had electricity and refrigeration. You could get them in Bamako, too. They were a little on the expensive side for most subsistence Malians, and even caused the Canadians trouble. The Sirakorola Canadians managed to sink most of their money into soft drinks. I think they were mainly for people who wanted to show off their bling to their not-girlfriends.
Yeah, I know I haven't gone much into the Malians on the topic of relationships, romance, marriage, or anything like that, and to be honest, I'm probably not going to publically blog about it, so sorry to touch on it like that.
The cola wasn't as good as what we've got here. I mean, you could buy standard Coka Cola, which cost a bit more, but the Mali brand was worse. The Fanta knockoffs were better than the Fanta, though. You could get "Quench" or "Djino" or "Ya" brand drinks that were orange, pineapple, banana, or pear flavoured. I'm probably missing some of the flavours, but just trust me, they were goooood. A world apart from our "Fanta", "Crush" or "C-Plus" and after you'd walked for five kilometers under the African sun to get to Sirakorola, it tasted like heaven.
The other thing I'm thinking about right now that was surprisingly good, was the beer. It was strange, because the consumption of alcohol was so frowned on. The country was 90% Muslim, who were forbidden to drink, and there was a certain cultural stigma against it in general. You could buy it in Bamako fairly openly, but in the villages, a normal Malian should be discrete. My Animist village was known for it's more liberal take on alcohol, because the dominant religian didn't forbid it, but they still didn't drink, mainly because it was outside their price range.
If a Malian drank, it would be less for the effect, and more for the excitement of "being bad", I found. Even the Malians in our group who drank (not naming names) had never had enough to get drunk, because they couldn't afford to.
Also, there was only one brand. I'd think the absence of competition, and the fact that people were drinking for it's reputation moreso than it's effect or taste, would mean that the company wouldn't feel the need to make a quality product.
I won't lie, I don't even have much of a taste for beer. I mean, I generally enjoy it, but unless I'm drinking one brand back-to-back with another, I generally can't tell the difference. There are definitely some exceptions, but take any major 5% beer that you can be sure to find in any bar in Canada, and to me it will taste pretty much the same. This is probably the least manliest thing I've ever said on my blog, but I think people my age are too brand obsessed over beer.
But the Castel brand beer, brewed in Bamako, seemingly a knockoff of Budweiser (it was advertised as the Queen of Beers), was just really, really good. And it didn't have any kind of weird exotic taste, either. And I definitely wasn't the only one to notice.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Cultural Dimensions
I know I've joked about the Cultural Dimensions program, how I hadn't realized it was a separate program from CWY, and earned a certificate without understanding the language around me, but to be fair, both the woman in charge of the training camp, and the one in charge of the reintegration camp, were very nice and I did manage to catch a few somewhat relevant pieces from them.
I don't know exactly how these went, as I had them translated on-the-spot by people who were also adjusting to the language, but I think I can convey the gist of it.
We were told a story about four men who were blindfolded and requested to touch an object, and then to describe it. Each man touched the same object, but one reported that it was long and thin, like a rope. One reported it was wide and flat, like a wall. One said it was thick and round, like the trunk of a tree, and the other one said it was round and hollow in the middle. So, if all four men touched the same object, how could each one give such a different explanation?
The object was an elephant. The first man touched the tail, the second touched it's stomach, the third touched it's leg, and the fourth touched the tip of it's trunk. The point of the story is, that we can only know what we experience, but each of us can only experience a very little in this life. And depending on what we experience, we will derive different conclusions, that can appear to contradict one another, when in reality, each can be correct.
Yeah, so basically that's what each of our personal quests for enlightenment amounts to: briefly touching an elephant while blindfolded. Couldn't have put it better myself.
Another thing I heard was, if you something happens that bothers you, before you get upset, you should think about whether it will still bother you in: five minutes, five hours, five days, five weeks, five months, five years.
I remember we were in Quebec City, and we went to this ice cream place. The woman asked me if I wanted something in French, and I said no. Turns out it was chocolate, and we were in Quebec City's famous chocolate place. Like, it served it on ice cream, but it was more about the chocolate than the ice cream. And I missed out on the chocolate because I didn't want to admit I didn't understand something. Using that formula above, it's been over five months, and I'm still bothered, so I think maybe it's worth getting upset about!
I remember, Cultural Dimensions lady got us to play a card game. We separated into groups of four, and we were forbidden to speak once the game was in motion. Whoever won, would rotate to a different table and continue there.
Each group received a set of instructions, but each one had different rules. Some said Hearts were the highest suit, and some said it was spades. Some said Ace was the highest, and some said it was the lowest. So eventually, everyone's rotated around, and everyone thinks the game is supposed to be played in a different way. But nobody can talk, and there needs to be a decision on who won by the end of the round.
It was a test of our ability to adapt to an situation that falls outside our personal beliefs and what we've been taught. That game was hard, because it didn't seem like, at the end of it, there was a correct way to have done it. If you tried to impose the rules you thought were right... That doesn't sound good, and if you always cave and allow other people to tell you what the rules are, even though you're in a position of equality... does that sound better?
She just told us to "keep in mind" how we played that game. I must say, I kept an eye on how most people played, and it was a pretty accurate reflection of their behaviour further down the line
I don't know exactly how these went, as I had them translated on-the-spot by people who were also adjusting to the language, but I think I can convey the gist of it.
We were told a story about four men who were blindfolded and requested to touch an object, and then to describe it. Each man touched the same object, but one reported that it was long and thin, like a rope. One reported it was wide and flat, like a wall. One said it was thick and round, like the trunk of a tree, and the other one said it was round and hollow in the middle. So, if all four men touched the same object, how could each one give such a different explanation?
The object was an elephant. The first man touched the tail, the second touched it's stomach, the third touched it's leg, and the fourth touched the tip of it's trunk. The point of the story is, that we can only know what we experience, but each of us can only experience a very little in this life. And depending on what we experience, we will derive different conclusions, that can appear to contradict one another, when in reality, each can be correct.
Yeah, so basically that's what each of our personal quests for enlightenment amounts to: briefly touching an elephant while blindfolded. Couldn't have put it better myself.
Another thing I heard was, if you something happens that bothers you, before you get upset, you should think about whether it will still bother you in: five minutes, five hours, five days, five weeks, five months, five years.
I remember we were in Quebec City, and we went to this ice cream place. The woman asked me if I wanted something in French, and I said no. Turns out it was chocolate, and we were in Quebec City's famous chocolate place. Like, it served it on ice cream, but it was more about the chocolate than the ice cream. And I missed out on the chocolate because I didn't want to admit I didn't understand something. Using that formula above, it's been over five months, and I'm still bothered, so I think maybe it's worth getting upset about!
I remember, Cultural Dimensions lady got us to play a card game. We separated into groups of four, and we were forbidden to speak once the game was in motion. Whoever won, would rotate to a different table and continue there.
Each group received a set of instructions, but each one had different rules. Some said Hearts were the highest suit, and some said it was spades. Some said Ace was the highest, and some said it was the lowest. So eventually, everyone's rotated around, and everyone thinks the game is supposed to be played in a different way. But nobody can talk, and there needs to be a decision on who won by the end of the round.
It was a test of our ability to adapt to an situation that falls outside our personal beliefs and what we've been taught. That game was hard, because it didn't seem like, at the end of it, there was a correct way to have done it. If you tried to impose the rules you thought were right... That doesn't sound good, and if you always cave and allow other people to tell you what the rules are, even though you're in a position of equality... does that sound better?
She just told us to "keep in mind" how we played that game. I must say, I kept an eye on how most people played, and it was a pretty accurate reflection of their behaviour further down the line
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Another Perspective on the Malian Phase
Check out my group's logbook. There's been four updates after my final post, but two in particular I want to emphasize. Philip goes into detail about his feelings during the Malian phase. I know you don't know Philip, but it might be useful to hear about the trip from a perspective other than my own. I tend not to go into detail about how the experience was for the others, but Phil's posted this to be seen by the public, so I call it fair game, and I'll let him be the one to tell you with his own words:
http://logbook.cwy-jcm.com/maliquebec1/2012/02/01/at-its-worst/
http://logbook.cwy-jcm.com/maliquebec1/2012/02/01/together/
I told you I regretted not taking any photos of the Sirakorola market (or even the interior of Sirakorola) or any good pictures of Bamako. I said I regretted not getting any individual photos of my host mothers. Let me tell you what else, or rather, who else I regret not getting photographed.
There was this kid named Nono. Nono means "Milk" in Bambara, so I guess that's what he was named after. At first, he really freaked me out. I first met him when I was watching a spectacle (some kind of dancing performance), and he climbed up on my lap and fell asleep. One time he followed me home and watched me sleep. He never said anything, except one time when I was making the children laugh by saying cuss words in Bambara and pretending I didn't know what they meant. He looked up at me ans said "No" (kind of funny since his name is Nono). One time I saw a kid hit him with a ton of force, that would have left any other child screaming and in tears, but he didn't even flinch. One time, all the children were dancing, and I cast a look around for him, having trouble imagining him dancing. He was doing a series of still poses. Eventually, all the other children started dancing around him while he did his poses.
One time, he gestured for me to give him his backpack. For some reason, I did, and I told him to open the bag and share the items with the other children. I told him what to give who, and I told him where I was going. He did everything as I instructed him. I told him that in French! When I brought him to the other Canadians, I told them he understood French, but he didn't understand anything they said.
One day, he started going ballistic, trying to get me to play fight with him, or get me to lift him up. These were things I did with the other children, but it was the first time he ever wanted to play a game. He didn't seem to know how to play, or how to ask, but he went from being the most chill child, to being the most spastic.
Nobody seemed to know who's family he belonged to. I don't know that he had one. He'd catch and kill mice, and try to give them to people, like a cat would do. He really seemed half-wild. I took him to the fields with me, and I taught him how to work. More than once, Canadians referred to him as my son. When I was leaving, and bawling my eyes out, he sat next to me and held my hand.
Another person I wish I had a photo is, is a guy named Mozo. He was the chief's son, and the host brother of a pair of CWY counterparts. If the group ever met after work, he'd be there. Him and someone else were basically honourary members of the group, in my opinion. He was the one who first called me "Elephant". He was fluent in French, and was the one responsible for me realizing the extent to which my linguistic skills had improved.
It was when I was still new in the village, and it was probably the first time I'd spoken to him. Some of the other Canadians sitting nearby were speaking in English, and what they were talking about was getting kind of iffy. I remember thinking "Those guys better watch themselves, this guy can speak English". It was then, that I did a double take, realizing that he did not speak English, he spoke French, and I had assumed that I was speaking to him in English because communicating had been so easy.
I wish I had a photo of Hawa Coulibali. She was the sister of Sedio, the guy on the motorcycle from that photo I posted. She was my neighbour, and she was the one who put my hair in cornrows. I gave her a few English lessons, and she was the second person I'd consider an honourary member of the group, aside from Mozo. She was also fluent in French. I think I've got her in one of the photos, but it's only like, her arm or the back of her head or something, standing around in the background. She left Karadie partway through the rotation to marry a man in another village, and I didn't see her again afterward.
Then there's the Crazy Dog Man. All the Canadians loved the Crazy Dog Man. He danced with the wild dogs, and they respected him and danced with him. He would just show up at random places and times, dancing his heart out and handing out peanuts. He went to women-exclusive bellaphones and danced in the centre with the women. He knew how to work, though, and I saw him working frequently.
And there's the ice cream merchant from Sirakorola. He would walk through town on market days, bellowing "YASSMELO! MELLOMELLOMELLOMELLOMELLO! YASSMELLO!". You'd expect some giant beast of a man to be making that kind of racket, but if you caught up to him, he'd be the most mild-mannered looking guy, with the softest talking voice.
Nobody else seems to have photos of Nono, Mozo, Hawa, Crazy Dog Man, or Loud Ice Cream Merchant either.
http://logbook.cwy-jcm.com/maliquebec1/2012/02/01/at-its-worst/
http://logbook.cwy-jcm.com/maliquebec1/2012/02/01/together/
I told you I regretted not taking any photos of the Sirakorola market (or even the interior of Sirakorola) or any good pictures of Bamako. I said I regretted not getting any individual photos of my host mothers. Let me tell you what else, or rather, who else I regret not getting photographed.
There was this kid named Nono. Nono means "Milk" in Bambara, so I guess that's what he was named after. At first, he really freaked me out. I first met him when I was watching a spectacle (some kind of dancing performance), and he climbed up on my lap and fell asleep. One time he followed me home and watched me sleep. He never said anything, except one time when I was making the children laugh by saying cuss words in Bambara and pretending I didn't know what they meant. He looked up at me ans said "No" (kind of funny since his name is Nono). One time I saw a kid hit him with a ton of force, that would have left any other child screaming and in tears, but he didn't even flinch. One time, all the children were dancing, and I cast a look around for him, having trouble imagining him dancing. He was doing a series of still poses. Eventually, all the other children started dancing around him while he did his poses.
One time, he gestured for me to give him his backpack. For some reason, I did, and I told him to open the bag and share the items with the other children. I told him what to give who, and I told him where I was going. He did everything as I instructed him. I told him that in French! When I brought him to the other Canadians, I told them he understood French, but he didn't understand anything they said.
One day, he started going ballistic, trying to get me to play fight with him, or get me to lift him up. These were things I did with the other children, but it was the first time he ever wanted to play a game. He didn't seem to know how to play, or how to ask, but he went from being the most chill child, to being the most spastic.
Nobody seemed to know who's family he belonged to. I don't know that he had one. He'd catch and kill mice, and try to give them to people, like a cat would do. He really seemed half-wild. I took him to the fields with me, and I taught him how to work. More than once, Canadians referred to him as my son. When I was leaving, and bawling my eyes out, he sat next to me and held my hand.
Another person I wish I had a photo is, is a guy named Mozo. He was the chief's son, and the host brother of a pair of CWY counterparts. If the group ever met after work, he'd be there. Him and someone else were basically honourary members of the group, in my opinion. He was the one who first called me "Elephant". He was fluent in French, and was the one responsible for me realizing the extent to which my linguistic skills had improved.
It was when I was still new in the village, and it was probably the first time I'd spoken to him. Some of the other Canadians sitting nearby were speaking in English, and what they were talking about was getting kind of iffy. I remember thinking "Those guys better watch themselves, this guy can speak English". It was then, that I did a double take, realizing that he did not speak English, he spoke French, and I had assumed that I was speaking to him in English because communicating had been so easy.
I wish I had a photo of Hawa Coulibali. She was the sister of Sedio, the guy on the motorcycle from that photo I posted. She was my neighbour, and she was the one who put my hair in cornrows. I gave her a few English lessons, and she was the second person I'd consider an honourary member of the group, aside from Mozo. She was also fluent in French. I think I've got her in one of the photos, but it's only like, her arm or the back of her head or something, standing around in the background. She left Karadie partway through the rotation to marry a man in another village, and I didn't see her again afterward.
Then there's the Crazy Dog Man. All the Canadians loved the Crazy Dog Man. He danced with the wild dogs, and they respected him and danced with him. He would just show up at random places and times, dancing his heart out and handing out peanuts. He went to women-exclusive bellaphones and danced in the centre with the women. He knew how to work, though, and I saw him working frequently.
And there's the ice cream merchant from Sirakorola. He would walk through town on market days, bellowing "YASSMELO! MELLOMELLOMELLOMELLOMELLO! YASSMELLO!". You'd expect some giant beast of a man to be making that kind of racket, but if you caught up to him, he'd be the most mild-mannered looking guy, with the softest talking voice.
Nobody else seems to have photos of Nono, Mozo, Hawa, Crazy Dog Man, or Loud Ice Cream Merchant either.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Dreams
I am really bad at this dream diary thing. I finally caught one for the first time in many nights. Here, I'll relay it.
Yeah, so I'm playing this video game, but I'm supposed to be talking to someone and planning something. The video game is these two little figures. You control one, and the other is the enemy. You have a sword and the enemy has a gun. The enemy is firing bullets everywhere and you have to navigate through the bullets to get near him so you can stab him.
I keep telling myself I'll do it after I finish this game, but the game drags on for a really long time. Eventually, I decide to quit playing the video game so I can do whatever it is I'm supposed to be doing.
After I finish talking to this guy, I go back to my game, expecting my character to be dead and all my progress lost (you can't pause this game apparently). To my surprise, not a single bullet has touched him. He's done better than I could do, if I were controlling him. Then, the enemy suddenly dies, for no reason.
That's when I wake up, feeling guilty for some reason.
I remember another one. In this one, I'm climbing a mountain with an old friend and two girls and a guy I don't recognize. Me and the two girls are walking in front, and my old friend is a little ways behind, next to the guy I don't recognize.
I have a sack of potatoes, and the girls are telling me to throw a potato at my friend behind me. I tell them "I was put in charge of the potatoes for a reason. If one of you were in charge, we already would have wasted all the potatoes by throwing them around". But they keep nagging me and eventually I throw one. It explodes on my friend but doesn't hurt him beyond irritating him a little. He's like, "Dude, what are you thinking?! Why'd you do that?!"
Yeah, so I'm playing this video game, but I'm supposed to be talking to someone and planning something. The video game is these two little figures. You control one, and the other is the enemy. You have a sword and the enemy has a gun. The enemy is firing bullets everywhere and you have to navigate through the bullets to get near him so you can stab him.
I keep telling myself I'll do it after I finish this game, but the game drags on for a really long time. Eventually, I decide to quit playing the video game so I can do whatever it is I'm supposed to be doing.
After I finish talking to this guy, I go back to my game, expecting my character to be dead and all my progress lost (you can't pause this game apparently). To my surprise, not a single bullet has touched him. He's done better than I could do, if I were controlling him. Then, the enemy suddenly dies, for no reason.
That's when I wake up, feeling guilty for some reason.
I remember another one. In this one, I'm climbing a mountain with an old friend and two girls and a guy I don't recognize. Me and the two girls are walking in front, and my old friend is a little ways behind, next to the guy I don't recognize.
I have a sack of potatoes, and the girls are telling me to throw a potato at my friend behind me. I tell them "I was put in charge of the potatoes for a reason. If one of you were in charge, we already would have wasted all the potatoes by throwing them around". But they keep nagging me and eventually I throw one. It explodes on my friend but doesn't hurt him beyond irritating him a little. He's like, "Dude, what are you thinking?! Why'd you do that?!"
Preparing for the Workshop
Yesterday, I met up with one of the employment counselors who asked me to do that presentation next week. We went over a bit what I'll be covering. Nothing too strict, he just wants me to go over what my life was like before the program, and how it effected me afterwards. He wants me to go over what I've done since then, and say what some of my goals are for the future, even if they're in the process of being formed. He also suggested I can hook up their laptop and show my Africa photos over their projector. He says he hopes they'll be asking questions, but since they're new they might be a little bit reserved. He says that he and the other guy who runs the program will be there to ask questions or whatever if worst comes to worst.
Sounds good. I can also probably pitch the youth programs as some kind of alternative to school or work, since it's cost effective, gives a variety of different experiences for people who are undecided in their futures or don't want to make a serious commitment to one path at the moment, and on a resume it can count for work experience, volunteer experience, and education. It's a path that most people don't consider.
Well, in any case, I'll just try to get through it. I don't really have anything scripted, but I don't think I'm expected to.
Today I met up with the other counselor who runs that program, to talk about post-secondary opportunities. He really seems to know his stuff. He's talking about getting me interviews with people from various fields so that I can ask questions about what it's like to work in those areas. He's given me some research directions and I'm seeing him again next Monday.
Sounds good. I can also probably pitch the youth programs as some kind of alternative to school or work, since it's cost effective, gives a variety of different experiences for people who are undecided in their futures or don't want to make a serious commitment to one path at the moment, and on a resume it can count for work experience, volunteer experience, and education. It's a path that most people don't consider.
Well, in any case, I'll just try to get through it. I don't really have anything scripted, but I don't think I'm expected to.
Today I met up with the other counselor who runs that program, to talk about post-secondary opportunities. He really seems to know his stuff. He's talking about getting me interviews with people from various fields so that I can ask questions about what it's like to work in those areas. He's given me some research directions and I'm seeing him again next Monday.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Final Round of Photos
Okay, I changed my mind. Let's finish these photos in one pip, so I can get back to talking about my boring Canadian life.
Top photo is of Nyaduku, the Canadian fan favourite from my family, and the bottom is Fanta, a participant from my group. I just thought these two came out well.
Top photo is a cotton plant, and the bottom photo is Boffy, my host father. Me and my CP did our Educational Activity Day on subsistence living, so we toured them around the gardens. Although not quite subsistence, since much of it is sold to the government, the cotton was a very popular part of our presentation, at least among Malian participants. They all wanted to stop and have pictures of themselves taken with the cotton, and they had a lot of questions. It might be because cotton is Mali's largest export, and we were making this presentation for agricultural students. I don't know.
This is some kid I met on the street in Bamako.
So, these kids came by my house on Halloween night with this mask. I didn't realize what the date was until after they'd left. Then my CP busted out a bag of candy. I forget why, but it wasn't because of Halloween. I was kicking myself so hard. The children had come by our house, in costume, on Halloween night, and we'd had candy with us, and we didn't give it out, because I didn't remember the date, and I didn't know we had candy. The kids never said "Halloween" but somebody from a previous group must have taught them. Too much to be a coincidence.
Top photo is the infamous toh, and the bottom photo is beans. I didn't take these photos. Today I leafed through some more of my friends albums and found pics of key things that I missed out on. I never took pics of the food, because I would eat lunch indoors. I tried taking photos indoors, but they either came out too dark or ruined by the flash, and I wasn't willing to step out under the sweltering African sun during the three hottest hour of the day, just so I could take a picture. At night, it was the same issue with darkness. I have a photo of breakfast in the image of the wooden chairs that I posted yesterday.
Anyway, yeah, I know. They're using spoons in both images. Normally, you use your hands to eat this stuff, especially the toh, but CWY gave spoons to the program's participants. Those beans are made with onions and shea butter, but usually they wouldn't get fancied-up that much. These were special beans that came from that huge harvest that my host father brought.
"Traore eats beans and then he farts. Traore love their beans!" It was a common cousinage joke. This was a proud harvest that brought honour to my family, and it was important to them that I appreciate it. So when people asked "So how do you like those beans, Traore?" I never knew what to say. Honour my family's harvest by complimenting them, or protect my family's name by insulting them? I'd say something like "It's the day of the beans, man" and they'd say something like, "And you love it, don't you Traore?! HAHA!"
These are the best images of the Sirakorola market I could find. One of them's a soap merchant, and the other's a more general shot of the market. I didn't take these.
Sort of funny. I had some Malian soap when I came back, just to use through Bamako and in Canada during the reintegration camp if I needed it, and also just because I had it handy at the time. Found it in my luggage when I was unpacking, and I was like "Oh, some Mali soap. Don't need that" and my mom was like "Is it handmade?" And I was like "Yeah, I was kind of cheap and didn't spring for that Bamako stuff" and she was like "Cool!" It was like me not realizing the Canada photos would be interesting to the Malians. Didn't occur to me the Malian soap would be interesting to Canadians.
Top photo is my daba. That's what we used to till the fields. It's also what I used to kill a scorpion. There's an image of the group working with them on my Gallery blog.
Second photo is a round cement container that held our work equipment. There were a few of these in each field.
When we were in Bamako for the mid-phase, we had the opportunity to tour around the countryside bit. This was at a restaurant in a more touristic, although still kind of rural, region. The restaurant owners kept a pet porcupine, I guess to show to tourists. They also had a pet crocodile, but I can't find my picture of it. Whenever people ask me if I saw any cool animals in Africa, I say not really, except for some scorpions and snakes. Maybe I'll mention the Guinea hens. I always forget the porcupine and crocodile. I guess it's because they were more domestic.
Best photo of Bamako that I could find.
Here's a random sign that was somewhere between Karadie and Sirakorola. I thought it was kind of cool for some reason. Look, it has both Bambara and French.
So, I guess that's it for the Malian photos. I think between this blog and my Gallery blog, there's almost as many as what I have on Facebook, and you got quite a bit more context to go along with it.
Top photo is of Nyaduku, the Canadian fan favourite from my family, and the bottom is Fanta, a participant from my group. I just thought these two came out well.
Top photo is a cotton plant, and the bottom photo is Boffy, my host father. Me and my CP did our Educational Activity Day on subsistence living, so we toured them around the gardens. Although not quite subsistence, since much of it is sold to the government, the cotton was a very popular part of our presentation, at least among Malian participants. They all wanted to stop and have pictures of themselves taken with the cotton, and they had a lot of questions. It might be because cotton is Mali's largest export, and we were making this presentation for agricultural students. I don't know.
This is some kid I met on the street in Bamako.
So, these kids came by my house on Halloween night with this mask. I didn't realize what the date was until after they'd left. Then my CP busted out a bag of candy. I forget why, but it wasn't because of Halloween. I was kicking myself so hard. The children had come by our house, in costume, on Halloween night, and we'd had candy with us, and we didn't give it out, because I didn't remember the date, and I didn't know we had candy. The kids never said "Halloween" but somebody from a previous group must have taught them. Too much to be a coincidence.
Top photo is the infamous toh, and the bottom photo is beans. I didn't take these photos. Today I leafed through some more of my friends albums and found pics of key things that I missed out on. I never took pics of the food, because I would eat lunch indoors. I tried taking photos indoors, but they either came out too dark or ruined by the flash, and I wasn't willing to step out under the sweltering African sun during the three hottest hour of the day, just so I could take a picture. At night, it was the same issue with darkness. I have a photo of breakfast in the image of the wooden chairs that I posted yesterday.
Anyway, yeah, I know. They're using spoons in both images. Normally, you use your hands to eat this stuff, especially the toh, but CWY gave spoons to the program's participants. Those beans are made with onions and shea butter, but usually they wouldn't get fancied-up that much. These were special beans that came from that huge harvest that my host father brought.
"Traore eats beans and then he farts. Traore love their beans!" It was a common cousinage joke. This was a proud harvest that brought honour to my family, and it was important to them that I appreciate it. So when people asked "So how do you like those beans, Traore?" I never knew what to say. Honour my family's harvest by complimenting them, or protect my family's name by insulting them? I'd say something like "It's the day of the beans, man" and they'd say something like, "And you love it, don't you Traore?! HAHA!"
These are the best images of the Sirakorola market I could find. One of them's a soap merchant, and the other's a more general shot of the market. I didn't take these.
Sort of funny. I had some Malian soap when I came back, just to use through Bamako and in Canada during the reintegration camp if I needed it, and also just because I had it handy at the time. Found it in my luggage when I was unpacking, and I was like "Oh, some Mali soap. Don't need that" and my mom was like "Is it handmade?" And I was like "Yeah, I was kind of cheap and didn't spring for that Bamako stuff" and she was like "Cool!" It was like me not realizing the Canada photos would be interesting to the Malians. Didn't occur to me the Malian soap would be interesting to Canadians.
Top photo is my daba. That's what we used to till the fields. It's also what I used to kill a scorpion. There's an image of the group working with them on my Gallery blog.
Second photo is a round cement container that held our work equipment. There were a few of these in each field.
When we were in Bamako for the mid-phase, we had the opportunity to tour around the countryside bit. This was at a restaurant in a more touristic, although still kind of rural, region. The restaurant owners kept a pet porcupine, I guess to show to tourists. They also had a pet crocodile, but I can't find my picture of it. Whenever people ask me if I saw any cool animals in Africa, I say not really, except for some scorpions and snakes. Maybe I'll mention the Guinea hens. I always forget the porcupine and crocodile. I guess it's because they were more domestic.
Best photo of Bamako that I could find.
Here's a random sign that was somewhere between Karadie and Sirakorola. I thought it was kind of cool for some reason. Look, it has both Bambara and French.
So, I guess that's it for the Malian photos. I think between this blog and my Gallery blog, there's almost as many as what I have on Facebook, and you got quite a bit more context to go along with it.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Malian Restaurant
Today, I got a Facebook friend request from the representative of the most prestigious agricultural school in Mali. He was in charge of Canada World Youth while we were there, and I'm hoping his friending me coincides with his having received my mail. He was the guy I sent my photos to, so he could send them on to Karadie.
I was wondering the other day if it would be possible to open a restaurant based on Malian cuisine. Probably not the stuff straight from the villages, but you know how there's Chinese restaurants which are Chinese-themed but tailored to North American taste? I've even eaten at an Ethiopian restaurant. So let's see what we've got here.
It wouldn't be Malian cuisine without toh. It's probably the most Malian food out there. A lot of the Malians in our group struggled with the village food, because even though they were Malian, they were still upper-middle class, and there is a difference between the food in the villages and the food in the cities. But they all loved the toh, whereas the Canadians struggled with it. Even people native to Bamako, where they don't serve it for some reason (every other major city in Mali serves it, so I don't know why Bamako is the exception) were eager for the chance to eat toh.
So, question is, how do we tailor it to appeal to North Americans? It's a pastry that you rip chunks off of and dunk in sauce. The sauces available were a kind of green sauce, which was made from the leaves of local trees, there was a gumbo sauce which was made from a wild plant in the area. I remember when we were ripping out the plants to make the field, we were specifically instructed not to weed out the gumbo plants. Then there was a red sauce. I don't know what the red sauce was, but it was what you hoped to get if you were eating toh.
Anyway, the concept of a pastry and sauce isn't really unappealing. The red sauce was mild and kind of spicy. The green sauce... is hard to explain, but it didn't taste like something you should be eating. The gumbo sauce was like mucus, but it was still better than the green sauce.
You could also mix the toh with milk and sugar to make a porridge. That was pretty good. They had a couple more traditional porridges made from corn and millet. Millet doesn't usually fly so well over here, but they might like the corn porridge.
They'd naturally serve rice. Yo, Wikipedia says there is no rice in Mali. HOW IGNORANT! Anyway, yeah, rice. When we were in Canada, we served chicken on rice, with peanut sauce as the representative Malian food. They mainly used the chickens for eggs, but we could still serve it, with the option of goat or beef.
There was quite a bit of fish, depending on region. Remember, I spoke on the fishing-people who were sometimes referred to with the derogative term "Bozo". We ate quite a bit of fish in Bamako, too.
The best meal I ever had in Mali was chicken, that came with these huge, round things of bread that had the consistency of pizza dough. It was served with an onion sauce and the bread was fresh. I put the chicken on the bread, and the onion sauce on the chicken. It was near the end, and I was trying to look toward Canadian food as an incentive to want to go home. I remember thinking that this experience ruined my fantasy, because it was better than I could imagine anything being in Canada. We ate this in the village, too, not the city.
They served something that sounded like Kon-kon, which was basically a salad, but it didn't use lettuce, and instead used a lot of hard vegetables like cucumber, tomato, and onion. You could stick quite a bit of other good stuff, like hard-boiled eggs in there, too.
They had something called "Malian steak" which was steak served ultra-thin, and covered in spices. They had shish-kabobs sometimes, but they'd only put meat on the sticks. You could eat it with vegetables, but they'd be on the side.
There was something else, which was a type of sauce that went on those big balls of pizza dough bread. Kind of a meaty sauce. I had mine with goat head, but I don't think most North Americans would find that palatable. Apparently, it's not necessary, too. More of a delicacy. Anyway, this stuff was good.
There'd be beans, too, naturally. And French fries. If served together, they'd be mixed up. If you had mayonnaise, you'd mix that in, too. Not the classiest meal, but it tasted REALLY GOOD. Sometimes the fries were these sweet potato fries, too, which were even better.
And they had these diced potatoes or sweet potatoes, that would be served with a kind of sweet tomato sauce.
Depending on the season, they'd roast corn or peanuts to eat casually outside of meals. Those were both very nice. Apparently, mangos are huge in Mali, but only during hot season, so we were never exposed to them.
As far as drinks go, the Malians loved their tea, but it was more of a social occasion type deal. We had some kind of fruit drink during Canadian phase as the representative juice of Mali, but we never drank it again. In Mali, we had something that tasted sort of like grape juice. Thing is, it was served hot, like the tea. I was not in love with the warm grape juice. You could get it cold in Sirakorola, since a few of the shops had refrigerators there.
You might be able to make some kind of menu with the material I've listed here.
Random photos today. I figured out how to put more than five photos in an update, but I'm not going to. I'll stretch it out more this way, just so that I have more material to blog about.
The children here are trying to play chess by imitating what they saw the Canadians doing. They'd sit there, glaring at the pieces. Then one kid would put a piece from his side somewhere completely random on the board. Then the other kid would scream in mock rage. It was pretty funny.
This is a construct built to provide shade. The word for it in Bambara is... is the N-word. When they'd be giving me Bambara lessons, they'd get to that one, and I'd be hesitant to say it. When I did, they'd be all "That's good, Ali! Ali speaks such good Bambara!" They must have thought I was worried about my accent or something. On the theme of words that sound the same but have different meanings, the word for "shut up" is "boner". Pretty funny.
This is a barn. Not much to say here.
This is the only evidence that I ever had cornrows. A girl in the other group tried to take a picture of me, but I guess she didn't understand my camera, because it's not on there.
I'm pretty sure this is a girl's hairdo. All the women had cornrows, and all the men were bald. When the girl offered to tress my hair, I asked her if it was a girl's haircut, and she said no, it was for boys too, so I went along with it. Afterward, all the villagers, men and women alike complimented my hair, so whatever.
I didn't realize that I wasn't supposed to wash my hair when it was like that, so in three days, my hair was back to normal.
It's true that all the village women had cornrows, but if they were going anywhere even remotely formal, like the weekly market or a village meeting, then they'd wear a wig. All the Malian women had short hair, and in every photo you see of a long-haired Malian, it's a wig.
This is a well. They invited me to fetch water a few times. It's basically what you probably imagine. You throw a bucket attached to a rope down there, and then you pull it up when it's full of water.
I was wondering the other day if it would be possible to open a restaurant based on Malian cuisine. Probably not the stuff straight from the villages, but you know how there's Chinese restaurants which are Chinese-themed but tailored to North American taste? I've even eaten at an Ethiopian restaurant. So let's see what we've got here.
It wouldn't be Malian cuisine without toh. It's probably the most Malian food out there. A lot of the Malians in our group struggled with the village food, because even though they were Malian, they were still upper-middle class, and there is a difference between the food in the villages and the food in the cities. But they all loved the toh, whereas the Canadians struggled with it. Even people native to Bamako, where they don't serve it for some reason (every other major city in Mali serves it, so I don't know why Bamako is the exception) were eager for the chance to eat toh.
So, question is, how do we tailor it to appeal to North Americans? It's a pastry that you rip chunks off of and dunk in sauce. The sauces available were a kind of green sauce, which was made from the leaves of local trees, there was a gumbo sauce which was made from a wild plant in the area. I remember when we were ripping out the plants to make the field, we were specifically instructed not to weed out the gumbo plants. Then there was a red sauce. I don't know what the red sauce was, but it was what you hoped to get if you were eating toh.
Anyway, the concept of a pastry and sauce isn't really unappealing. The red sauce was mild and kind of spicy. The green sauce... is hard to explain, but it didn't taste like something you should be eating. The gumbo sauce was like mucus, but it was still better than the green sauce.
You could also mix the toh with milk and sugar to make a porridge. That was pretty good. They had a couple more traditional porridges made from corn and millet. Millet doesn't usually fly so well over here, but they might like the corn porridge.
They'd naturally serve rice. Yo, Wikipedia says there is no rice in Mali. HOW IGNORANT! Anyway, yeah, rice. When we were in Canada, we served chicken on rice, with peanut sauce as the representative Malian food. They mainly used the chickens for eggs, but we could still serve it, with the option of goat or beef.
There was quite a bit of fish, depending on region. Remember, I spoke on the fishing-people who were sometimes referred to with the derogative term "Bozo". We ate quite a bit of fish in Bamako, too.
The best meal I ever had in Mali was chicken, that came with these huge, round things of bread that had the consistency of pizza dough. It was served with an onion sauce and the bread was fresh. I put the chicken on the bread, and the onion sauce on the chicken. It was near the end, and I was trying to look toward Canadian food as an incentive to want to go home. I remember thinking that this experience ruined my fantasy, because it was better than I could imagine anything being in Canada. We ate this in the village, too, not the city.
They served something that sounded like Kon-kon, which was basically a salad, but it didn't use lettuce, and instead used a lot of hard vegetables like cucumber, tomato, and onion. You could stick quite a bit of other good stuff, like hard-boiled eggs in there, too.
They had something called "Malian steak" which was steak served ultra-thin, and covered in spices. They had shish-kabobs sometimes, but they'd only put meat on the sticks. You could eat it with vegetables, but they'd be on the side.
There was something else, which was a type of sauce that went on those big balls of pizza dough bread. Kind of a meaty sauce. I had mine with goat head, but I don't think most North Americans would find that palatable. Apparently, it's not necessary, too. More of a delicacy. Anyway, this stuff was good.
There'd be beans, too, naturally. And French fries. If served together, they'd be mixed up. If you had mayonnaise, you'd mix that in, too. Not the classiest meal, but it tasted REALLY GOOD. Sometimes the fries were these sweet potato fries, too, which were even better.
And they had these diced potatoes or sweet potatoes, that would be served with a kind of sweet tomato sauce.
Depending on the season, they'd roast corn or peanuts to eat casually outside of meals. Those were both very nice. Apparently, mangos are huge in Mali, but only during hot season, so we were never exposed to them.
As far as drinks go, the Malians loved their tea, but it was more of a social occasion type deal. We had some kind of fruit drink during Canadian phase as the representative juice of Mali, but we never drank it again. In Mali, we had something that tasted sort of like grape juice. Thing is, it was served hot, like the tea. I was not in love with the warm grape juice. You could get it cold in Sirakorola, since a few of the shops had refrigerators there.
You might be able to make some kind of menu with the material I've listed here.
Random photos today. I figured out how to put more than five photos in an update, but I'm not going to. I'll stretch it out more this way, just so that I have more material to blog about.
The children here are trying to play chess by imitating what they saw the Canadians doing. They'd sit there, glaring at the pieces. Then one kid would put a piece from his side somewhere completely random on the board. Then the other kid would scream in mock rage. It was pretty funny.
This is a construct built to provide shade. The word for it in Bambara is... is the N-word. When they'd be giving me Bambara lessons, they'd get to that one, and I'd be hesitant to say it. When I did, they'd be all "That's good, Ali! Ali speaks such good Bambara!" They must have thought I was worried about my accent or something. On the theme of words that sound the same but have different meanings, the word for "shut up" is "boner". Pretty funny.
This is a barn. Not much to say here.
This is the only evidence that I ever had cornrows. A girl in the other group tried to take a picture of me, but I guess she didn't understand my camera, because it's not on there.
I'm pretty sure this is a girl's hairdo. All the women had cornrows, and all the men were bald. When the girl offered to tress my hair, I asked her if it was a girl's haircut, and she said no, it was for boys too, so I went along with it. Afterward, all the villagers, men and women alike complimented my hair, so whatever.
I didn't realize that I wasn't supposed to wash my hair when it was like that, so in three days, my hair was back to normal.
It's true that all the village women had cornrows, but if they were going anywhere even remotely formal, like the weekly market or a village meeting, then they'd wear a wig. All the Malian women had short hair, and in every photo you see of a long-haired Malian, it's a wig.
This is a well. They invited me to fetch water a few times. It's basically what you probably imagine. You throw a bucket attached to a rope down there, and then you pull it up when it's full of water.
The Malian Restroom
Okay, we're covering the restroom facilities today. Please excuse the strange order, I just scroll through my photos and choose them as I see them. Could probably fix that, but I'm too lazy.
So, the structure is an outhouse/shower room. Mine had two rooms, one for showering, and one for doing your business, but not all of them were like that. Some were one room, where you did both.
The bucket is my shower. They'd fill it up with water, and I'd splash it on myself. I would do this three times a day. In the morning and at night, they'd heat the water for me, and during the afternoon, it would be cold.
The hole in the ground is my toilet. I read somewhere that squatting was better for your health, because it reduces the chances of intestinal cancer. When you sit, all your intestines are loose, and stuff can get caught in the crevices, which decays and causes cancer, whereas when you squat, your intestines are bunched up, closing the crevices. You can create the squatting-effect on a sitdown toilet by putting a stool in front of your toilet, resting your feet on it and lean forward while you poop. Yeah, I'm not doing that. I got used to squatting, but, like the food, it's one of the things I won't miss.
The teapot is for washing your hands. See, the Malians didn't use toilet paper, so you would apply water while you wiped, and then wash your hands after. A number of Canadians, including me, were going "Full Malian" by the end of the program. Somebody said that his ass felt cleaner that way. Yeah, so did mine. Thing is, my hand felt dirtier. And I'd rather have a dirty ass than a dirty hand. Another person said they felt sore after wiping with toilet for the first time in months. I sure didn't. Toilet paper was something I was glad to start using again.
But you'd wash your hands with that teapot before and after meals, too. It wasn't just for the toilet.
Bamako had these electric squatters which were pretty gross, and they had these electric showers that didn't have shower heads and you couldn't control the temperature. They were the first ones we saw, and since they were more similar to our own electric appliances, we Canadians felt they were "Practice" before we had to do the real thing.
When we came back for the mid-phase camp, I said I missed my hole and bucket, because "My bucket doesn't turn off when I'm halfway through, and my hole doesn't spray shitty water when I flush it".
Honestly, the bucket was pretty relaxing. I got pretty comfortable with my bucket.
These are mud stoves that we built for the villagers. I only took one picture of them, and I regret it. In this photo, it's only partially finished. Later, we would dig out those grooves, and that's where the fuel would be placed. The alternative method for cooking is to just have a pot sit on three rocks. The stove is good, because it requires far less fuel, but the advantage of the three rock method is that you can put the rocks closer or further away from each other, depending on the size of the pot. A stove only works for one size of pot.
For some reason, this was the only real demand the village put to Canada World Youth. They were like "Sure, we'll feed and shelter you, but if you're going to stay here, you'd better build some stoves!" Thing is, building the stoves was way easier and more interesting than our regular work. And not everyone in the village wanted them. We had a few days where we would just tour around the village, asking people if they wanted to make them stoves. If they did, we would, but most people either didn't want one, or they didn't have the material ready. We had a few half-days because of this.
So, the structure is an outhouse/shower room. Mine had two rooms, one for showering, and one for doing your business, but not all of them were like that. Some were one room, where you did both.
The bucket is my shower. They'd fill it up with water, and I'd splash it on myself. I would do this three times a day. In the morning and at night, they'd heat the water for me, and during the afternoon, it would be cold.
The hole in the ground is my toilet. I read somewhere that squatting was better for your health, because it reduces the chances of intestinal cancer. When you sit, all your intestines are loose, and stuff can get caught in the crevices, which decays and causes cancer, whereas when you squat, your intestines are bunched up, closing the crevices. You can create the squatting-effect on a sitdown toilet by putting a stool in front of your toilet, resting your feet on it and lean forward while you poop. Yeah, I'm not doing that. I got used to squatting, but, like the food, it's one of the things I won't miss.
The teapot is for washing your hands. See, the Malians didn't use toilet paper, so you would apply water while you wiped, and then wash your hands after. A number of Canadians, including me, were going "Full Malian" by the end of the program. Somebody said that his ass felt cleaner that way. Yeah, so did mine. Thing is, my hand felt dirtier. And I'd rather have a dirty ass than a dirty hand. Another person said they felt sore after wiping with toilet for the first time in months. I sure didn't. Toilet paper was something I was glad to start using again.
But you'd wash your hands with that teapot before and after meals, too. It wasn't just for the toilet.
Bamako had these electric squatters which were pretty gross, and they had these electric showers that didn't have shower heads and you couldn't control the temperature. They were the first ones we saw, and since they were more similar to our own electric appliances, we Canadians felt they were "Practice" before we had to do the real thing.
When we came back for the mid-phase camp, I said I missed my hole and bucket, because "My bucket doesn't turn off when I'm halfway through, and my hole doesn't spray shitty water when I flush it".
Honestly, the bucket was pretty relaxing. I got pretty comfortable with my bucket.
These are mud stoves that we built for the villagers. I only took one picture of them, and I regret it. In this photo, it's only partially finished. Later, we would dig out those grooves, and that's where the fuel would be placed. The alternative method for cooking is to just have a pot sit on three rocks. The stove is good, because it requires far less fuel, but the advantage of the three rock method is that you can put the rocks closer or further away from each other, depending on the size of the pot. A stove only works for one size of pot.
For some reason, this was the only real demand the village put to Canada World Youth. They were like "Sure, we'll feed and shelter you, but if you're going to stay here, you'd better build some stoves!" Thing is, building the stoves was way easier and more interesting than our regular work. And not everyone in the village wanted them. We had a few days where we would just tour around the village, asking people if they wanted to make them stoves. If they did, we would, but most people either didn't want one, or they didn't have the material ready. We had a few half-days because of this.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Workshop Invitation
So, I just got an email from one of the instuctors that hosted my first youth program, the one that I got all the certificates from, that took place in an employment agency. He asked me if I'd be willing to talk to the new group. This will be after the program's started, so it's not like the focus group, or the information session that I've done guest-speaking roles for. This time, I'll be legitimately hosting a Workshop, which the day's schedule will be organized around. Nice!
This is going straight on my resume. Not as anything fancy, but I already have them down as somewhere that I've volunteered, performing guest-speaking roles for the focus group and information session, and writing an article for their newsletter. Now I can just add "Hosted Workshop" and extend the time I've been volunteering there to 2012.
More pictures. Kind of off people today.
These are the Karadie and Sirakorola signs, next to the road. The Sirakorola one means "Now entering Sirakorola", while the Karadie one means "Now leaving Karadie". I think I took both photos in one trip while I was walking from Karadie to Sirakorola, and that's why they're like that. There were always "Now leaving" and "Now entering" signs for each village, with the "Now leaving" marked by a red slash. I always wondered where I was when I stood between the two signs.
These are the chairs we had in the village. We would sit on those wooden chairs, those plastic ones, on benches, mats, or on these little wooden stools. Some were seen as better than others. The order of preference was the same as how I just listed them. The wooden chairs were the best. The plastic ones were the second best. The plastic ones were shipped to Sirakorola from Bamako, and purchased with money, whereas the wooden ones were made using subsistence material, but there were a lot more plastic chairs than wooden ones, and they were seen as worse, so city-produced stuff wasn't always seen as being better. The plastic strings were always breaking, and they'd be fixed by tying the strings together. When that eventually became impossible, they'd buy new plastic string, but reuse the frame.
After the plastic chairs, it was benches, and after benches, it was mats. If there really was nowhere else to sit, people would sit on these little wooden stools, which the women would normally use while they were working. Normally, the host would let the guests sit on the better seats, and he'd take a worse one.
When we were doing an Educational Activity Day at the village chief's house, I happened to be the last person there, so I went and got one of those little stools. No hard feelings, it's just a first-come first-serve deal when everybody's an equal, and the chief gets his wooden chair because he's a chief. Also, it's pretty funny, Ali the Giant sitting on a tiny little stool. But apparently the village women didn't think so, because they walked up with some wooden slats and they built me a chair on the spot that was larger than the chief's.
This is Sedio. Doesn't need to be said, but not the same Sedio as the eldest son in my family. He was a member of our group, but he grew up in Karadie. The school seemed to try and pick participants from the Sirakorola area. In the other group, there were two people who grew up in Sirakorola, and one that grew up in Karadie.
Anyway, what Sedio's sitting on is something the Malian's called a "Moto". The Canadians were always saying "They aren't quite motorcycles and they aren't quite scooters" and were fascinated with them.
Okay, I'm going to admit something. To me, that looks like a motorcycle. I don't really know where this "Not quite a motorcycle" jazz is coming from, but then again, I don't really know motorcycles...
This is going straight on my resume. Not as anything fancy, but I already have them down as somewhere that I've volunteered, performing guest-speaking roles for the focus group and information session, and writing an article for their newsletter. Now I can just add "Hosted Workshop" and extend the time I've been volunteering there to 2012.
More pictures. Kind of off people today.
These are the Karadie and Sirakorola signs, next to the road. The Sirakorola one means "Now entering Sirakorola", while the Karadie one means "Now leaving Karadie". I think I took both photos in one trip while I was walking from Karadie to Sirakorola, and that's why they're like that. There were always "Now leaving" and "Now entering" signs for each village, with the "Now leaving" marked by a red slash. I always wondered where I was when I stood between the two signs.
These are the chairs we had in the village. We would sit on those wooden chairs, those plastic ones, on benches, mats, or on these little wooden stools. Some were seen as better than others. The order of preference was the same as how I just listed them. The wooden chairs were the best. The plastic ones were the second best. The plastic ones were shipped to Sirakorola from Bamako, and purchased with money, whereas the wooden ones were made using subsistence material, but there were a lot more plastic chairs than wooden ones, and they were seen as worse, so city-produced stuff wasn't always seen as being better. The plastic strings were always breaking, and they'd be fixed by tying the strings together. When that eventually became impossible, they'd buy new plastic string, but reuse the frame.
After the plastic chairs, it was benches, and after benches, it was mats. If there really was nowhere else to sit, people would sit on these little wooden stools, which the women would normally use while they were working. Normally, the host would let the guests sit on the better seats, and he'd take a worse one.
When we were doing an Educational Activity Day at the village chief's house, I happened to be the last person there, so I went and got one of those little stools. No hard feelings, it's just a first-come first-serve deal when everybody's an equal, and the chief gets his wooden chair because he's a chief. Also, it's pretty funny, Ali the Giant sitting on a tiny little stool. But apparently the village women didn't think so, because they walked up with some wooden slats and they built me a chair on the spot that was larger than the chief's.
This is Sedio. Doesn't need to be said, but not the same Sedio as the eldest son in my family. He was a member of our group, but he grew up in Karadie. The school seemed to try and pick participants from the Sirakorola area. In the other group, there were two people who grew up in Sirakorola, and one that grew up in Karadie.
Anyway, what Sedio's sitting on is something the Malian's called a "Moto". The Canadians were always saying "They aren't quite motorcycles and they aren't quite scooters" and were fascinated with them.
Okay, I'm going to admit something. To me, that looks like a motorcycle. I don't really know where this "Not quite a motorcycle" jazz is coming from, but then again, I don't really know motorcycles...
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Physical Activity & Healthy Living
I've been doing a pretty good job of staying in shape. I guess I've been home for two months, and I haven't been that active. I thought I'd start putting on pounds pretty fast, but haven't. If I was able to lose 30 pounds in three months when I was overseas, it's not impossible to imagine that I'd start to show my relapse by the two month mark.
I haven't been doing Karate. I'm never sure how long I'll be staying here, so I don't want to make any commitment, and when I don't have a form of income, I don't want to be draining my savings. I've been doing some light exercises on a daily basis. Nothing much, just 30 pushups, 30 situps, 30 leg raises. I don't always remember, but I have to say I do it at least every other day. I didn't think it would make a substantial difference, but to my surprise, the exercises have become less difficult for me. If I was really going for fit, I'd increase the difficulty, but honestly, right now I'm just playing maintenance.
Eating healthier, too. Don't know why it's easier for me now. Maybe it's because I'm sick of starchy foods after putting down so much rice and toh, so now appreciate fruit and vegetables more. I also don't have too much to think about, other than my health.
I've got a pair of dress pants which were two sizes too small before I started Katimavik, but which I could wear afterwards, but not when I started CWY, but I could after that program as well. My goal is to stay capable of wearing those pants.
I think it's mostly dietary. I mean, I exercised a lot before I left for CWY, but I was plump. I'm pretty confident I was exercising substantially more then, than I am now, actually. Put on muscle, but didn't do so much to remove fat. I was a big, fat, muscular manly-man. Now I'm a bit slimmer, and I think the difference is more my dietary habits than my exercise ones. After all, I subtracted my level of activity, but increased my good nutritional habits. I'm going to say that between those two changes, decreasing my level of activity isn't the one that made me lose weight. That leaves eating habits.
I gain/lose weight so fast in comparison to other people. I inflate and deflate like a balloon. So far as I can tell from watching other people trying to lose/gain weight, it usually doesn't happen very fast, but here I am, toggling between a 30 pound range. I don't know what's up with that.
Yo yo yo, I found a hair in my beard that isn't the same colour as the rest of my beard! Funfact: oftentimes, people will have singular strands of hair in their beards that are different colour to the rest of their hair. I know a guy with natural red highlights in his beard, and I have both blonde and red ones in mine. Thing is, this hair I found... WAS WHITE!
I'm telling myself that it's platinum blonde. If I turn out to be greying and balding at the same time when I'm 22... I'm gonna shave my face and head. Seriously, what's going on? I'm ageing badly or something. I still feel fit and full of energy... I don't feel any less vital... I'd arguably say I'm sort of at my physical pique right now. But it looks like I'm ageing at an accelerated rate. If this keeps going, I'll be dead from old age in ten years.
My brother's taking Karate now. He started it in his school, which struck a deal with one of the local dojos to do a class that can net them a physical education credit, like gym. Now he's got the credit, and a few stripes on his belt.
But the dojo took it in their fancy to offer Karate scholarships to the most talented students at this school. Well, guess who's getting free classes? Yeah, my brother's like a Karate genius or something.
By the time I'm out of college, this guy could be ahead of me! If he stays dedicated, he could be a belt above me in two years.
I don't know why they don't offer martial arts as an equivalent of physical education in high school more often. I know a lot of people who aren't into traditional gym classes, but who are interested in the martial arts. Right now, you can skirt the physical education credit prerequisite by putting off taking any gym classes until Grade 11, and then doing some kind of healthy active living course that's held in-class.
I kind of appreciate making that an option, for those who really hate Phys Ed, but I feel like it's a last resort. That's why I also like that they make it a little bit inconvenient. You aren't going to just drop gym because you're indifferent, you've got to actually have some resentment as motivation if you want to dodge it. But I think that teaching people about the relevance of physical activity, and getting people actively involved in it, is ideal.
I didn't dodge gym class, but I certainly never appreciated the merits of physical activity until I started doing Karate, which was after high school. I don't think gym is taught very well in high school, which is too bad...
Anyway, martial arts is easily just as physically stimulating as more traditional sports and activities, and I would have definitely shown interest had that option been available back in the day.
Here's more photos. I've run down my family, and now I'm doing randoms.
Isn't this photo absolutely radiant? I never learned her name, but she was one of the more savvy kids. She realized that my camera sucked, and so when she asked me to take a photo of her, instead of demanding that I find it for her, she'd say "Don't worry about it. Thanks for taking my picture!" and she'd skip off. It kind of wounded me that she never got to see how well this one came out.
This kid's name was something like "Dih-dih". He was the one who bestowed on me the nickname "Ali the Giant". At first, people tended to favour calling me "Elephant", but over time, the general populace settled more on Giant. I still had my niche that never called me anything but Elephant, but in the end, Didih's nickname was the most prevalent.
This is Mody. I used to tease him by pretending I didn't know his name properly, and called him "Mobily", which means "car" in Bambara. After a while, the other kids started calling him Mobily, and he would introduce with that title. This guy was a little bit on the rough side, but he helped out with the younger children a lot.
A Canadian girl from my group, Alex, with two of the children from her host family. Her children were some of the first to ask what my Canadian name was. They mistook my last name, "Sibbald" for "Sei bonne" which means "is good". They all thought it was hilarious and would call me "Gryphon Sei Bonne" all the time. I've had worse nicknames than "Gryphon is Good".
Girl on the right is Soongura, the one in the middle I don't know, and the one on the left I don't know. The middle and right ones used to come hang out with my family regularly, and I'd interact with them. I feel bad that I never found out what Star Earring Girl's name was, considering how much I talked to her, but that's an awkward question to just throw down after you've interacted for a certain length of time. None of the Canadians in my village area knew her name, either.
I haven't been doing Karate. I'm never sure how long I'll be staying here, so I don't want to make any commitment, and when I don't have a form of income, I don't want to be draining my savings. I've been doing some light exercises on a daily basis. Nothing much, just 30 pushups, 30 situps, 30 leg raises. I don't always remember, but I have to say I do it at least every other day. I didn't think it would make a substantial difference, but to my surprise, the exercises have become less difficult for me. If I was really going for fit, I'd increase the difficulty, but honestly, right now I'm just playing maintenance.
Eating healthier, too. Don't know why it's easier for me now. Maybe it's because I'm sick of starchy foods after putting down so much rice and toh, so now appreciate fruit and vegetables more. I also don't have too much to think about, other than my health.
I've got a pair of dress pants which were two sizes too small before I started Katimavik, but which I could wear afterwards, but not when I started CWY, but I could after that program as well. My goal is to stay capable of wearing those pants.
I think it's mostly dietary. I mean, I exercised a lot before I left for CWY, but I was plump. I'm pretty confident I was exercising substantially more then, than I am now, actually. Put on muscle, but didn't do so much to remove fat. I was a big, fat, muscular manly-man. Now I'm a bit slimmer, and I think the difference is more my dietary habits than my exercise ones. After all, I subtracted my level of activity, but increased my good nutritional habits. I'm going to say that between those two changes, decreasing my level of activity isn't the one that made me lose weight. That leaves eating habits.
I gain/lose weight so fast in comparison to other people. I inflate and deflate like a balloon. So far as I can tell from watching other people trying to lose/gain weight, it usually doesn't happen very fast, but here I am, toggling between a 30 pound range. I don't know what's up with that.
Yo yo yo, I found a hair in my beard that isn't the same colour as the rest of my beard! Funfact: oftentimes, people will have singular strands of hair in their beards that are different colour to the rest of their hair. I know a guy with natural red highlights in his beard, and I have both blonde and red ones in mine. Thing is, this hair I found... WAS WHITE!
I'm telling myself that it's platinum blonde. If I turn out to be greying and balding at the same time when I'm 22... I'm gonna shave my face and head. Seriously, what's going on? I'm ageing badly or something. I still feel fit and full of energy... I don't feel any less vital... I'd arguably say I'm sort of at my physical pique right now. But it looks like I'm ageing at an accelerated rate. If this keeps going, I'll be dead from old age in ten years.
My brother's taking Karate now. He started it in his school, which struck a deal with one of the local dojos to do a class that can net them a physical education credit, like gym. Now he's got the credit, and a few stripes on his belt.
But the dojo took it in their fancy to offer Karate scholarships to the most talented students at this school. Well, guess who's getting free classes? Yeah, my brother's like a Karate genius or something.
By the time I'm out of college, this guy could be ahead of me! If he stays dedicated, he could be a belt above me in two years.
I don't know why they don't offer martial arts as an equivalent of physical education in high school more often. I know a lot of people who aren't into traditional gym classes, but who are interested in the martial arts. Right now, you can skirt the physical education credit prerequisite by putting off taking any gym classes until Grade 11, and then doing some kind of healthy active living course that's held in-class.
I kind of appreciate making that an option, for those who really hate Phys Ed, but I feel like it's a last resort. That's why I also like that they make it a little bit inconvenient. You aren't going to just drop gym because you're indifferent, you've got to actually have some resentment as motivation if you want to dodge it. But I think that teaching people about the relevance of physical activity, and getting people actively involved in it, is ideal.
I didn't dodge gym class, but I certainly never appreciated the merits of physical activity until I started doing Karate, which was after high school. I don't think gym is taught very well in high school, which is too bad...
Anyway, martial arts is easily just as physically stimulating as more traditional sports and activities, and I would have definitely shown interest had that option been available back in the day.
Here's more photos. I've run down my family, and now I'm doing randoms.
Isn't this photo absolutely radiant? I never learned her name, but she was one of the more savvy kids. She realized that my camera sucked, and so when she asked me to take a photo of her, instead of demanding that I find it for her, she'd say "Don't worry about it. Thanks for taking my picture!" and she'd skip off. It kind of wounded me that she never got to see how well this one came out.
This kid's name was something like "Dih-dih". He was the one who bestowed on me the nickname "Ali the Giant". At first, people tended to favour calling me "Elephant", but over time, the general populace settled more on Giant. I still had my niche that never called me anything but Elephant, but in the end, Didih's nickname was the most prevalent.
This is Mody. I used to tease him by pretending I didn't know his name properly, and called him "Mobily", which means "car" in Bambara. After a while, the other kids started calling him Mobily, and he would introduce with that title. This guy was a little bit on the rough side, but he helped out with the younger children a lot.
A Canadian girl from my group, Alex, with two of the children from her host family. Her children were some of the first to ask what my Canadian name was. They mistook my last name, "Sibbald" for "Sei bonne" which means "is good". They all thought it was hilarious and would call me "Gryphon Sei Bonne" all the time. I've had worse nicknames than "Gryphon is Good".
Girl on the right is Soongura, the one in the middle I don't know, and the one on the left I don't know. The middle and right ones used to come hang out with my family regularly, and I'd interact with them. I feel bad that I never found out what Star Earring Girl's name was, considering how much I talked to her, but that's an awkward question to just throw down after you've interacted for a certain length of time. None of the Canadians in my village area knew her name, either.
Monday, February 13, 2012
End of Malian Family Photos
Okay, so here's my counterpart, Ousmane Diallo. I've already spoken on him quite a bit. In this photo, we're at the Malian kiosk in La Pocatiere. We put up a booth at the local farmer's market, and served Malian food and drink. We played Malian music, and there was Malian dancing. The food was chicken and peanut sauce with rice, and the drink was some kind of fruit drink we'd never have again.
We would only have chicken once during our stay in Mali, and that was only for a really special occasion, and I think only because of Canadian request. Would have been more accurate to serve goat. The juice we drank in the village was something closer to grape juice, but I don't think there were any grapes, so it must have been one of the fruits that grew on the trees.
In this photo, Ousmane's wearing his prayer robe. He would wear that once a week, as some kind of tradition that I guess the others didn't follow.
This is my host father. His family name is Boffy Traore, and his village name is Dosun Traore. I called him Boffy. He was a really cool guy. Never beat his children or his wives, his kids all went to school, he helped me and Ousmane do our Educational Activity Day by giving a tour of the fields in the village and answering questions about agriculture. He seemed to reach out and support a lot of people when they needed it, and include them in the family. He came by and helped the Canada World Youth with group work a few times. He took an active interest in including me in the family. I really can't say anything bad about him.
He worked for the government, harvesting cotton, so he was one of the few people who didn't live in an entirely subsistence way. In Mali, everything is shared, though, so he didn't really get to keep his hands on it or give his family a lifestyle that was different from other villagers. The village lives in an entirely subsistence way throughout the year, with one exception. There is a "Marriage season" which I think is about one month, when all the marriage ceremonies happen. At this time of year, the people who are earning money from the government (cotton pickers and schoolteachers), give their money to the village, and they use it for the celebrations.
My host father's family had some mammoth bean harvest while I was there, too. Everyone knew about it, and all these visitors would come over and spend all day in the family, working and preparing beans. Apparently, it was a pretty noteworthy time, and brought a lot of honour to my family.
I regret not having individual photos of my host mothers. You can see them both in the family photo on my Gallery blog, and I've got a picture of Ma, standing with another village woman, but as I've explained, I was never in a position where I could take photos freely, and opportunity never really showed itself.
This is Baby Ali. The first photo is inside the first week of his birth, and the second photo is after two months. See? He changes colour. The lighting doesn't fully support me here, but you can still kind of see it.
He was able to recognize me by the time I left. When he would cry and nobody could calm him down, they would bring him over to me, and I'd calm him without fail. When he saw me, he would laugh and try to speak to me. I held him quite often. Everyone loved how he was named after me, and how he took to me.
This is Budjuh. This was the only kid that kind of got on my nerves. There's this phrase, Tubabu, which means "Whitey". The Canadians debated on whether or not it was a racist term. I thought it was kind of a misplaced sentiment, taking issue with the term, because racism doesn't exist in Mali, the way it does here. They've never had reason for there to be racial tension, so people remarking on the colour of your skin doesn't have any negative connotation. Rest assured, I learned the word for "Blacky" (Fatafini), and used it liberally.
But this kid was ridiculous. He would sit in front of me, and just say "Tubabu... Tubabu... Tubabu..." over and over again, with the most blank stare. He'd do this for HOURS. I was like, "Don't you have anything better to do?" I tried repeating "Fatafini" at him, but he always beat me on stamina. Even the other kids were getting annoyed with him. They'd say, "No, Budjuh! Say Ali! Say Ali!" Eventually he did learn my name, but he kept doing his thing... He'd sit in front of me, stare blankly at me, and say "Ali... Ali... Ali..."
I'm sure the next white person he meets, he's going to call "Ali".
In this photo, he's in a cotton patch. He followed me and Boffy out to work, when Boffy was giving me a private lesson in Malian agriculture.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
More This and That
We got a little bit flooded the other day. A few things in a closet got a little water-damaged, but it's not so bad.
Weather's been ridiculous around here. One day it's winter, the next day it's spring. We've never had snow on the ground for a seven-day streak. Kind of sad. We're supposed to be the Great White North.
Maaaaan, I ain't got nothing interesting to talk about except for Africa. You guys are probably getting sick of it.
I ran out of water purifier partway through the rotation. My Project Leader said we needed to prepare to drink 1-2 litres of water per day, and recommended we bring two kits. Yeah, well, I drank 5-6 liters per day, and a few times worked up to nine. So I ran out, and bought purifier from Sirakorola.
They were official Aquatabs. Each tab purified 20 litres, which was perfect, because we used those 20 litre jugs. A strip of ten tabs cost 100 francs.
To put that into perspective, one Canadian dollar is 400 francs. I got two strips. That means, I purchased 400 litres of water for 50 cents. Didn't even make the water taste bad or anything.
It was so cheap, even the subsistence villagers could afford it. Hell, if you want to buy a soft drink, it's 250 francs. How can Aquatabs possibly be making a profit on this?!
One of the Sirakorola tailors was Italian. Can you imagine that? Being like, "I'm middle-class around here, but if I moved to a subsistence village in Africa and changed my money to the local currency, I'd be rich, and while I can't live on my skill here, it's in-demand over there" and then you actually DO it?! I respect anyone who can make a decision like that. Honestly, the village Malians had a higher quality of life than we Canadians do. They're way happier. But making a decision like that just isn't something that happens very often.
Here's more African children.
This girl's name is Mama. Some Canadians told me tha all mothers are called "mama" and that it's not a name, it's a title. But I really, really think they're wrong, because this girl was definitely named Mama, and she definitely wasn't a mother. She confused me at the beginning, because she'd do the cousinage bit, making fun of my name, but I thought she was in my family. Turns out though, she was just some kid who hung out with us constantly. She was practically a member of the family, so I've included her. Picture quality isn't that great, but I love the fist pose. I don't know who the baby is.
The one on the left is Mariam, and the one on the right is Nyaduku. All the Canadians thought that Nyaduku was "Unreal" in how cute she was. She was a fan-favourite among the Canadians, in the same way that Mariko was. It's true, she was really, really cute. Mariam was more shy, and followed Nyaduku's lead, but then she'd get jealous of her. I never really figured how out how to deal with that. I tried to draw attention to her more, but she was always too scared to play any of the games that the other children wanted to play.
This is Kafrinae. She thought that my hideous straw farmer's hat, with the giant fleural buckle, was beautfiul. Whenever the children were carrying my stuff home (yeah, they would wait for me to finish work, and then want to carry my stuff) she would always want to be the one to wear my hat. To avoid conflict over who got to carry my bag, I would have each child carry one item, to the point that I would bring extra stuff so there was enough for everyone. I'd have one kid wearing one work glove, another kid wearing the other, and usually Kafrinae wearing my hat. She would spin around while wearing it and pretend that she was going to steal it. When I left, I really, really wanted to give her my hat, but the way the gifts were distributed, there was no possible way that I could do that without looking like I was committing MASSIVE favouritism. So I didn't.
This is Salief, the yooungest of the three eldest male children. He looks really sinister in this photo, but he was a really sweet kid. Some people called him Zangei, and some people would tell me to call him Zangei. But some people called him Salief, and tell me to call him Salief. He told me to call him Salief, so that's what I went with. He was a little warrior kid, always shouting battle cries. He'd always want to carry my heaviest item after work.
This is Konima. He's one of the three youngest male children. I don't know if he's younger or older than Nene or Budjuh. Something about him makes me think he'll be athletic. He'll be one of those guys who goes to the soccer field every day.
Weather's been ridiculous around here. One day it's winter, the next day it's spring. We've never had snow on the ground for a seven-day streak. Kind of sad. We're supposed to be the Great White North.
Maaaaan, I ain't got nothing interesting to talk about except for Africa. You guys are probably getting sick of it.
I ran out of water purifier partway through the rotation. My Project Leader said we needed to prepare to drink 1-2 litres of water per day, and recommended we bring two kits. Yeah, well, I drank 5-6 liters per day, and a few times worked up to nine. So I ran out, and bought purifier from Sirakorola.
They were official Aquatabs. Each tab purified 20 litres, which was perfect, because we used those 20 litre jugs. A strip of ten tabs cost 100 francs.
To put that into perspective, one Canadian dollar is 400 francs. I got two strips. That means, I purchased 400 litres of water for 50 cents. Didn't even make the water taste bad or anything.
It was so cheap, even the subsistence villagers could afford it. Hell, if you want to buy a soft drink, it's 250 francs. How can Aquatabs possibly be making a profit on this?!
One of the Sirakorola tailors was Italian. Can you imagine that? Being like, "I'm middle-class around here, but if I moved to a subsistence village in Africa and changed my money to the local currency, I'd be rich, and while I can't live on my skill here, it's in-demand over there" and then you actually DO it?! I respect anyone who can make a decision like that. Honestly, the village Malians had a higher quality of life than we Canadians do. They're way happier. But making a decision like that just isn't something that happens very often.
Here's more African children.
This girl's name is Mama. Some Canadians told me tha all mothers are called "mama" and that it's not a name, it's a title. But I really, really think they're wrong, because this girl was definitely named Mama, and she definitely wasn't a mother. She confused me at the beginning, because she'd do the cousinage bit, making fun of my name, but I thought she was in my family. Turns out though, she was just some kid who hung out with us constantly. She was practically a member of the family, so I've included her. Picture quality isn't that great, but I love the fist pose. I don't know who the baby is.
The one on the left is Mariam, and the one on the right is Nyaduku. All the Canadians thought that Nyaduku was "Unreal" in how cute she was. She was a fan-favourite among the Canadians, in the same way that Mariko was. It's true, she was really, really cute. Mariam was more shy, and followed Nyaduku's lead, but then she'd get jealous of her. I never really figured how out how to deal with that. I tried to draw attention to her more, but she was always too scared to play any of the games that the other children wanted to play.
This is Kafrinae. She thought that my hideous straw farmer's hat, with the giant fleural buckle, was beautfiul. Whenever the children were carrying my stuff home (yeah, they would wait for me to finish work, and then want to carry my stuff) she would always want to be the one to wear my hat. To avoid conflict over who got to carry my bag, I would have each child carry one item, to the point that I would bring extra stuff so there was enough for everyone. I'd have one kid wearing one work glove, another kid wearing the other, and usually Kafrinae wearing my hat. She would spin around while wearing it and pretend that she was going to steal it. When I left, I really, really wanted to give her my hat, but the way the gifts were distributed, there was no possible way that I could do that without looking like I was committing MASSIVE favouritism. So I didn't.
This is Salief, the yooungest of the three eldest male children. He looks really sinister in this photo, but he was a really sweet kid. Some people called him Zangei, and some people would tell me to call him Zangei. But some people called him Salief, and tell me to call him Salief. He told me to call him Salief, so that's what I went with. He was a little warrior kid, always shouting battle cries. He'd always want to carry my heaviest item after work.
This is Konima. He's one of the three youngest male children. I don't know if he's younger or older than Nene or Budjuh. Something about him makes me think he'll be athletic. He'll be one of those guys who goes to the soccer field every day.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Library Card & African Children
I got my library card replaced. I can't remember how long it's been since I got my card, but it was so worn down you couldn't see the numbers that allow you to access their Internet. I saw that happening, and always thought I should write the number down, but never did. Probably for the best that I get it replaced, anyway. I don't even know if I would have been able to sign out books with that faded barcode. I don't really need their Internet access right now, anyway, it's the book thing I'm probably more concerned about.
They've got a completely new card design, and now you can get just the barcode in keychain format, so you don't have to lug around a whole card.
Here's some photos of children in my Mali family. All of the photos, with the exception of Nene, were taken while I was riding on a donkey cart with them on the way to Sirakorola for Thursday's market.
This is Nene. He bonked his head once and cried. Usually when a child cries, he just cries until he stops. I was playing catch with some other kids at the time, and when I saw him crying, I put my hand on his shoulder. He stopped crying and I gave him the ball. He laughed and passed it over to me. All the children cheered, and whenever I passed the ball to one of them, they would give it to Nene. Afterward, if a child got hurt, the other children would try and comfort them. My host father asked me if I would adopt Nene and bring him back to Canada.
This is Sakura. I guess it's not appropriate to call her a child. For the longest time, I didn't know what her relationship was with the family. She was a good bit older than the rest of the kids, and since she was of childbearing age and worked with my host mothers, several times she was mistaken for one of my host father's wives, but she wasn't. I thought she might have been the younger sister of one of my host mothers, because it's a tradition for a younger sister to move with her older sister if the older sister moves away from their home village, and one of my host mothers was a foreigner, but then I learned that Sakura was a Traore, which wasn't the family name of either of my host mothers (in Mali, women don't change their family name after marriage).
What I think it was, was, in Mali, if you call somebody a relative, it's considered the hard truth, and nobody questions it. If you have a falling out with someobody you've called your brother, or your father, you can't just bail on your words. You have all the responsibilities and obligations of a blood relative. It's not cool to ask about genetics. If a father has two wives, and one wife gives birth to a child, the child must honour both mothers equally.
I remember, my host father had another daughter, who was obviously too old to be his daughter. She was like, ten years younger than him, maybe. I think Sakura may have had that kind of relationship with my host family, as an adopted daughter.
This is Nasu. It might not be fair to say, but she was probably one of my favourite children. I don't know how to interact with children in the 10-13 year old age bracket, though. She was really shy, and really responsible.
This is Madu. He lived in the same hut as Sedio, before we came along. Another boy, named Salief, lived in it, too. It was the hut for the three eldest sons, but Sedio was the chief of it. Madu was the second eldest son. Isn't this a good photo of him? He's going to be psyched when he sees it. Note: he's not smiling.
This is Sedio, the future chief of the family. He's the oldest son, and the house I was living in belonged to him before me and my CP arrived. A lot of family responsibility, especially responsibility regarding me, was left to him. I felt kind of bad for putting him out so much, but he never showed any signs of resentment at all. It's kind of hard for me to imagine him as a chief, since he was only 13.
I can only post five images to Blogger at a time, so I'll post more tomorrow.
They've got a completely new card design, and now you can get just the barcode in keychain format, so you don't have to lug around a whole card.
Here's some photos of children in my Mali family. All of the photos, with the exception of Nene, were taken while I was riding on a donkey cart with them on the way to Sirakorola for Thursday's market.
This is Nene. He bonked his head once and cried. Usually when a child cries, he just cries until he stops. I was playing catch with some other kids at the time, and when I saw him crying, I put my hand on his shoulder. He stopped crying and I gave him the ball. He laughed and passed it over to me. All the children cheered, and whenever I passed the ball to one of them, they would give it to Nene. Afterward, if a child got hurt, the other children would try and comfort them. My host father asked me if I would adopt Nene and bring him back to Canada.
This is Sakura. I guess it's not appropriate to call her a child. For the longest time, I didn't know what her relationship was with the family. She was a good bit older than the rest of the kids, and since she was of childbearing age and worked with my host mothers, several times she was mistaken for one of my host father's wives, but she wasn't. I thought she might have been the younger sister of one of my host mothers, because it's a tradition for a younger sister to move with her older sister if the older sister moves away from their home village, and one of my host mothers was a foreigner, but then I learned that Sakura was a Traore, which wasn't the family name of either of my host mothers (in Mali, women don't change their family name after marriage).
What I think it was, was, in Mali, if you call somebody a relative, it's considered the hard truth, and nobody questions it. If you have a falling out with someobody you've called your brother, or your father, you can't just bail on your words. You have all the responsibilities and obligations of a blood relative. It's not cool to ask about genetics. If a father has two wives, and one wife gives birth to a child, the child must honour both mothers equally.
I remember, my host father had another daughter, who was obviously too old to be his daughter. She was like, ten years younger than him, maybe. I think Sakura may have had that kind of relationship with my host family, as an adopted daughter.
This is Nasu. It might not be fair to say, but she was probably one of my favourite children. I don't know how to interact with children in the 10-13 year old age bracket, though. She was really shy, and really responsible.
This is Madu. He lived in the same hut as Sedio, before we came along. Another boy, named Salief, lived in it, too. It was the hut for the three eldest sons, but Sedio was the chief of it. Madu was the second eldest son. Isn't this a good photo of him? He's going to be psyched when he sees it. Note: he's not smiling.
This is Sedio, the future chief of the family. He's the oldest son, and the house I was living in belonged to him before me and my CP arrived. A lot of family responsibility, especially responsibility regarding me, was left to him. I felt kind of bad for putting him out so much, but he never showed any signs of resentment at all. It's kind of hard for me to imagine him as a chief, since he was only 13.
I can only post five images to Blogger at a time, so I'll post more tomorrow.
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