The look of quiet strength

Life after the sudden and unexpected coup d'etat and evacuation has slowly simmered into...a lot of contemplation.

In my last blog, I wrote candidly about my feelings after being unwillingly removed from Mali. I joke that I have "refugee" status, but really that's not funny. There are real refugees in Mali, and all around the world, who have had no such shelter and no such luxury as I did to flee the country...safely.

With that said, the taking of my Peace Corps life has told a very telling story. Just a month ago, my life for the next 12 months was perfectly planned out. Just a month ago, I was researching vacations, graduate schools and job prospects for my post-Peace Corps life. And now, in just one month, I'm on a new continent, contemplating in which country to live and just exploring what it feels like to live by the seat of my...gut.

Evacuation has taught me how short life is. I took it for granted that I would live another year of my Peace Corps life. What things would I have done, had I known? To me, it's important, to live with no regrets, to try new things and to be audacious, and never have to look back and wish I had done something I didn't do. So, when I look back at my Peace Corps life, I have no regrets. This experience has taught me that life is too short not to tell people how much they mean to you. That life is too short not to dig into those relationships that make it worthwhile. That life is too short not to live the life you deserve. And it's also too short to give up on your dreams.

What would you do if you weren't afraid? (in short)

I am so glad I worked hard on the language acquisition in Mali. It taught me so much about the beautiful depths of the culture and it illustrated how hard I was willing to work for my Malian friends. I am so glad that I spent all that time walking down the streets, greeting literally every person I saw. Strolling down the street, greeting, was always something I enjoyed, but now I see its true importance, in retrospect. I guess it was about a willingness to integrate...mutual respect, that I could show my Malian friends.

I am so grateful I spent time chatting with people under the constantly moving shade, dancing my way through the hard times and telling jokes left and right, as Malian culture dictates.

I can squeeze my eyes shut and see Sabou's smile. Sabou is the President of my women's shea butter cooperative. She is one of the most inspirational, strong-willed and saavy women I know. Sabou is a feminist in a country marked as one of the worst places in the world to be a woman. Sabou survives Polio, and cannot walk, in a country where there are no legal rights for people in her position. She strongly and slowly cranks her hand-crank wheelchair around the rough edges of Mali, without a complaint and often with a fabulous sense of humor. In a country where it is stigmatized to A) be a woman, B) a strong, outspoken woman and C) living with physical handicaps...AND running her own business with more than 1,000 members, as a WOMAN? Yeah, that's Sabou. She's awesome. She graces us all with her incontrovertible strength.

One of my up-and-coming friends (right before the coup) and a new English student of mine, Mami, lived down the road from me. Almost daily, Mami would call on me from her concession, while she was busy juggling the pounding of grains for her family's meal, the care of her younger siblings and her studies. She would yell, "HEY RAMATA! AN BENA ANGALAKAN KALAN WA?" (Hey, Ramata! Are we going to study English?) And she never stopped asking me.

I would tell Mami that when work lessened, then we would start studying together. Mami is one of the very few students chosen to explore Holland on a student exchange program with the Dutch organization, Voorshoten. She wanted very badly to learn English so that she could speak it when she arrived in Holland.

When I finally went to spend some time with Mami and her family, I was overcome with an incredible sense of respect for her, and for the quiet strength of all the women I had met in Mali.

I sat there, with my hands in my pockets while Mami welcomed me into her home one night. This meant sitting outside under the one, flickering light, while Mami and her dozens of family members and friends buzzed with chatter. We sat, joked and drank tea. They all begged me to stay for dinner. It was getting late and I really wanted to get some work done, but I relented.

Mami pulled out her English books, proudly. She told me how much she wanted to learn English and she smiled at me with a big, toothy grin. As she did this, her brother, who is about five years or so younger than she, started hitting her, telling her she was stupid and protesting that she couldn't speak English at all.

The insults being a product of youth immaturity, I can understand that, but what I witnessed that night represented a greater obstacle that women in Mali, and really, in the world, experience...all the time.

How could Mami ever build the confidence to persevere when she was constantly told she "Can't do it"? How could Mami ever convince her parents to keep her in school when the entire society thinks she's not the right gender to complete the task? Furthermore, where could Mami turn when searching for the possibility of an English-speaking Malian woman when there are none in her environment?

Often, people say that there aren't adequate numbers of women in politics or science, for example, because women don't want to be in these fields. It's way more complex than that.

And Mami is a great example. Did Mami want to learn English? Did she want to stay in school? Did she want to make good grades and eventually graduate to college? Did she want a career of her own, able to function as her own autonomous individual? The answer to these questions is Absolutely! But when she had people, especially those stereotypically in power, telling her that she cannot do it, that she isn't good enough, that it's not appropriate work for her gender...It's just not that easy. And that night, I could understand the plight of women in Mali just a little better.

Mami, of course, prevailed, and continued to badger me to teach her English. That night, I invited her to my English club and she met some wonderful English learners.

There is this look that I noticed when I was in Mali. I saw it when I looked up to Sabou during big decisions. I saw it when I glanced at Mami that night, amid her brother's insults. I, myself, stared unwaveringly, when my male boss at my women's sewing school refused to shake my hand because I am a woman. It's the look of quiet strength. Quiet perseverance.

When I told Sabou and my Si Nafa people "Good-bye," Sabou told me not to worry. Although Mali seemed to be crumbling and sliding away like sand slides through fingers, Sabou told me that they would not stop working. They would keep going. And she gave me this look, and I understood.

Do you see it? 

Update: After the Coup

Four weeks ago, I would have never imagined that in one month's time, I'd be in consolidation with all of the people in my region for two weeks, evacuated out of Mali, closing my service to become a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer and sitting here writing a blog at my best friend's house in Ukraine. So, greetings from Ukraine.

It's amazing how absurd life is. One minute you have an entire life planned out for yourself, and the other minute it's suddenly over. 

On Wednesday, March 21, my friend, Cary, came into Kita to head into Bamako the next day. After he showed up, we all got text messages from Peace Corps warning us about gunfire in Katy, neighboring Bamako, and in Bamako. Cary was advised not to go into Bamako. 

That night, I went to bed thinking the protests and unrest would settle down immediately, like it had in the past...And then at 8 AM, Thursday, March 22, Cary called me to inform me that the military had officially declared a Coup d'etat and the Malian government had been overthrown. The news came as such a shock that I thought he was joking. 

Rehashing the details of the coup, the eventual rebellion in the north, our consolidation and evacuation feels a lot like rehashing the saddening details of a break-up. I will love Mali forever and I will be eternal grateful for all of the lessons the country and its people taught me. 

That Thursday, all of Peace Corps were ordered to be on "Standfast." We were to stay at our sites and hang tight until further notice. Cary, Steph and I were the only ones in Kita during the coup. We checked the news obsessively and anxiously awaited any and all updates from PC and the US Embassy.

The media, and PC, were shocked by Mali's sudden upheaval. Mali was considered Africa's model democracy. In a matter of hours, its government was overthrown, its constitution suspended, the national television station overtaken by the junta, the borders closed, a country-wide curfew imposed, the April 29th democratic election called off, some Ministers, Presidential candidates and Governors arrested and the President, Amadou Toumani Toure, vanished without a trace...not to be found or heard from for weeks. 

While the news was unfolding, I had a bad feeling that the situation would worsen. Not only was Mali's government squashed by a pissed off military, but it left a gaping vulnerability where the separatist groups in the north could easily take over...Which is exactly what happened in the following weeks. 

By Friday, we got the news from PC that we were being consolidated. I worked with Cary, Steph and two Malian staff members to call all of the Volunteers from our region declaring our consolidation by Saturday or Sunday, to my site of Kita, the regional capital. 

Volunteers were confused and angry. Their villagers were even more perplexed because, there, in the small villages, everything was normal and peaceful. The villagers, of course, weren't being barraged with news and they weren't in the epicenter of chaos, like the Volunteers who were stuck in Bamako or the northern regions of Mali. For the next few days, constant gunfire could be heard in the northern region of Mali, and blanketing the streets of Bamako. 

The first day of consolidation blew my mind. Suddenly, I was seriously questioning whether or not I would be able to finish my service in Mali while the questions piled up. When Volunteers arrived in Kita, we were all begging for answers...What did this all mean? What was going to happen to us...What did the future hold for Mali? How could this even happen...to Mali of all places??

Consolidation dragged on. Every text message from PC or the Embassy was yet another chance to glean answers. We were on the edge of our seats every single time our phones beeped. We would read PC emails and text messages together, as a group, tearing apart every sentence our Country Director wrote, wondering what it all meant. And the waiting, wondering and questioning stretched on...

Creative stress relief was a big deal breaker during this stressful and uncertain time. We made a Risk board, ping pong table, cooked family dinners and shot water balloons from the roof of the stage house as healthy stress relief.

We made a Zombie A"coup"alypse movie during our consolidation.

As the situation unfolded, each day it was looking more and more likely that something drastic was going to happen. Our PC staff seemed so optimistic, but many PCVs had that sense of gut-dropping dread that we were leaving. We were consolidated to our regional capitals on March 24 and de-consolidated on April 2. In the middle of the night on April 2, all of the Volunteers in the northern region of Mopti were evacuated and told they were all going home. We were re-consolidated on the morning of April 3. By the afternoon of April 3, we all got the news that the entire country was being evacuated.

After nearly two weeks of consolidation and uncertainty, with days after days in which the 25 or so of us in Kita (in one small house) were not even allowed to leave the house, we finally got some answers - our service in Mali was over.

The rebels in the north took over Timbuktu, Gao, Kidal...cities that they had been fighting for for up to two decades. Most foreign aid was cut off...including the US's foreign aid. And then ECOWAS decided to impose its sanctions, closing the borders, strangulating fuel quantities, cutting off commercial banks. These events led to an impossible situation for PC...and evacuation was the only option.

There is nothing that can prepare you for the news that the life you had planned for yourself was going to be ripped out from under your feet. There is nothing that can prepare you for saying goodbye to an entire city of people while you're numb and so in shock that what's happening isn't even registering. There is nothing that can prepare you for closing a very important and powerful chapter of your life...so immediately, so suddenly, so without warning. But, like I've learned in PC,  you deal with the hand that's been given to you.

We were evacuated from Mali, to Accra, Ghana, on April 8. The buses left almost two hours late, broke down on the way to the airport and the trunk of our bus flew open while on the road, jettisoning luggage across the road...but alas, we made it and were safely evacuated.

Upon arrival to Ghana, Peace Corps Washington flew in special staff to help us with the transition. On Monday, April 9, we started our official "Close of Service (COS)" conference. We spent five and a half days contemplating our options - from direct transfers to other countries to going back to the States to re-doing our Peace Corps service from scratch. Peace Corps put us up in a luxurious, freezing-cold air conditioned ocean-side resort with amazing and delicious meals, a casino and Vegas-style pool.

Imagine going from your village, speaking Bambara, living with the poorest people on the planet to abruptly thrown into an early COS conference in a five-star resort on the ocean in an English-speaking country where you have to make several major life decisions in a matter of days.

Peace Corps handled the evacuation really well. They kept in constant contact with us, sending us important updates and trying its best to communicate as honestly as possible. Our COS conference was...surreal...but it was a great transition to the next stages of our lives. How many of us would continue to live in mud huts without electricity or running water if most of us were going back to America? The ocean-side weather, English speaking and western food were a great way to transition from Peace Corps Volunteer to Returned Peace Corps Volunteer.

During our COS conference, we had a group counseling session. During the session, people were visibly upset. We had been evacuated for fewer than 24 hours and there we were talking about how to healthfully handle this new stage of our life. At the breaking point, after several people had started crumbling into soft, vulnerable tears, the counselor compared Mali to our first love.

That's when I left the room.

I've really started to accept the sudden transition and realize that I may not be going back to Mali again for a long time. But there's something absolutely gut-wrenching about comparing Mali, one of the world's top 10 poorest countries, one of the top 10 worst places in the world to be a woman, one of the hardest Peace Corps countries to be a Volunteer, to your first love...the love you'll never forget and always love.

It's because that's exactly what it is.

They say that Africa changes you forever because it's real. You don't get any comforts, cushions with Africa. You go and you live. And the people take you in and change you for the better. They may lie to you (Mali's indirect communicative style), but they live more honestly than we all do in the States. They may be malnourished, but they're the strongest people in the world. They withstand hardship that millions of people can't even imagine. They may be poor, but their culture, their sense of community and family and unity, is intensely rich. Mali is not a place you forget. It's a place that grabs you and devours all of your previous conceptions about the world and teaches you lessons that turn you inside out.

The people take you in like their own. They call strangers their family. They honor you by giving you their family name. They joke with you to show you they love you. They give you their last meal, during a famine. They'd do absolutely anything for their "brothers," their "sisters," their "mothers," their "fathers..." because, to Malians, it doesn't matter the color of your skin, where you're from, who you are or what you've done, you're family...and a family takes care of each other.

Damnit, Mali, I will miss you terribly. Mali, you are my first love and I can never, ever, ever forget you. I'll think about you every day and keep working on the sidelines to give back to you.

I still have so many stories to tell. I will continue to tell them on this blog. I strongly believe in the power of story-telling, of keeping the Malian traditions alive...that's what Malians would do anyway. So, stay tuned. From me, and from Mali...

It ain’t no use to sit and wonder why, babe

It don’t matter, anyhow

An’ it ain’t no use to sit and wonder why, babe

If you don’t know by now

When your rooster crows at the break of dawn

Look out your window and I’ll be gone

You’re the reason I’m trav’lin’ on

Don’t think twice, it’s all right

Saying goodbye. For now. 

Reflections, 358 Days

Being here in Mali allows me to do so many cool things with my time and my life. When my PC friends express concern that they're not going to obtain a job post-PC, I always remind them that their everyday life is the answer or the story for every interview question out there.

Interviewer: "So, tell me about a time when you had to be self-motivated."
PCV: "Well, that was my life for more than two years! I had to work in the middle of nowhere, barely able to speak the language, in an unfamiliar culture, adjusting to blasting furnace temperatures soaring over 100 degrees, kids screaming "White person!" at me, gawking, pointing, without a boss, a support system, English speakers, an office, written literature in an illiterate culture. Every day was a struggle to be self-motivated. But I did it. And I did it for more than two years."

Interviewer: "Can you describe a time in which you dealt with challenging people?"
PCV: "Well, I have two years of dealing with difficult people and situations. When you're constantly misunderstanding each other and don't speak the language or fully know the culture, it makes every single thing very difficult...When it's the culture not to show up on time and you've spent all week preparing for something only to have to wait for an hour...or four...and then they can barely understand what you say...Well, dealing with challenging people and circumstances was my life for more than two years."

Interviewer: "Tell me about a time you created something from scratch. Describe a time when you solved a problem. Explain a situation in which you showed leadership skills. Describe a situation in which you had to work with little or no resources. Tell us about an experience in which you handled several challenges at once, successfully, or a time you had to work under pressure. Detail a time when you persevered and didn't give up, but wanted to. Explain a time in which you didn't succeed, and how you handled it. Detail a work experience in which you had to think outside of the box. Elaborate on a situation in which you had to work under stressful circumstances and how you handled it..."

The list goes on. Peace Corps coaches us through every "challenge" question life could hurdle our way. When we leave this country, we will not only be better citizens of the United States, but more aware, insightful, alive, dynamic citizens of the world.

I've been in Mali about 358 days now. Yeah, that means that my one year anniversary will commence in one week. In one week, I will step forward from the "One Year Volunteer," to the new shoes of a "Second Year Volunteer."

Some PCVs describe their Peace Corps experience in two intriguing ways. One - it's all a dream. Two - it's a mini life. Agreed. I've described these same sentiments on this blog. In one week, the monumental occasion of my half-life will occur. I will be the equivalent of 50 years old. Wasn't it just a month or so ago, when I hit 37 years old? And I'm already 50??!! Wow, time sure zips by.

The life lessons I've learned here would require a book to illustrate them all.

Patience. Go with the flow. Perseverance. The journey. Have faith that life will connect the dots. Yes, we can. You get what you give. Think big. The secret to life is falling down seven times and getting up eight. Drink more water. It's all about the relationships. Just dance. Smile. A positive attitude is your best friend. Push yourself. The way you think matters. Stressed? Journal, work out, listen to music, talk to friends. Give back...and many more.

I want to write something official on the  year mark, so I'm withholding some of the lessons I've really developed here.

My sister emailed me the other day, responding to a previous email of mine during which I asked for her advice. She answered that, "Soon, Laura, I am afraid you won't need my wisdom anymore." Wow...

Living in a third world country with the everyday realities of Mali is not something that anyone just chooses to throw themselves into. This is something that only 200,000 out of the 300,000,000 Americans have taken an oath to uphold regarding their service to their country. This is an elite club of crazy, activists, people who are used to changing the landscape of the world around them, people who are used to getting it done...who come to places such as Mali and Ukraine and Vanuatu...and begin to comprehend the heart-wrenching realities of life on the other side...of the life of the forgotten majority...life of the unacknowledged majority of the world. And oftentimes, we waltz in with idealism and the passion to match, and immediately fathom that...it's not that easy. And that's when the answer to that interview question about dealing with failure and learning from it comes in.

The mornings when the alarm clock is snarling repeatedly. Beep! Beep! Beep! And you think, "Today, I'm just going to sleep in because I can...and because I just don't want to go outside my hut." But, you get up. You think about letting down the little kids you work with, or the street food lady smiling at you when she sees you. You pull on your Malian clothes. You jump on your bike and ride across town, though reluctantly, and you greet and wave excitedly at the locals on the dirt sidewalk. And you go and spend the day, drinking tea, eating with your hands, stuttering through Bambara, chatting and greeting at every corner. And next thing you know, the sun is setting and you did it. And it was a damn good day. That's when you can answer the interview questions with stories about self-motivation.

The late nights in our hut...when the only sound is the crickets or the mosquitoes buzzing in your ear...with thoughts bombarding you like a nagging kid tapping your shoulder. The nights when you sit there and honestly ask yourself if this is what you're made of. When you position your head in your hands and sigh out loud...and seriously ponder what the hell you were thinking of when you locked yourself into this decision. Those late nights...those are the ones that we look back on with strength and power and pride, after the fact. That's when the answer to the interview question about perseverance comes in.

At the end of the day, I know that I can't stride into my town of Kita and change the world. I just can't. Behavior change doesn't occur like that. But, I can do my best. I can make friends and peace. And I think the most valuable thing I will bring back to America in the next 15 months or so...is the character I built within myself. Because I will come back not as Laura Vest, but as a different, renewed, better, more honest, strengthened version of that Laura. And I'll be able to tackle anything life hands to me. 

Pics - Patience, the chosen path & shea butter

"The keys to patience are acceptance and faith. Accept things as they are, and look realistically at the world around you. Have faith in yourself and in the direction you have chosen."

In Mali, people normally don't show up on time, if they show up at all. Your meetings get interrupted for greetings, or because they traveled by donkey cart and it took ages. People get sick and their lives get canceled for a while. You feel proud of yourself that you understood a full conversation to ask again and realize you understood nothing. People tell you you're going one place when you're going to another. Every day this happens, so it seasons you to accept this as your life and roll with it. 


It's a great life lesson. Life doesn't always go as planned and flexibility is key when life throws you a curve ball.


Saturday illustrated this point. My service patron (boss), Sabou, asked me to come into Si Nafa, our women's shea butter cooperative. She wanted me to come in with my bike, so that I could bike with an old man to look at some shea. That's the information they gave me. 


So, Saturday morning I showed up at Si Nafa to go to some shea-producing village with an old man on our bikes. When I left the house, I told my friend, Michelle, I'd probably only be gone for an hour or so, and that I'd be back sooner rather than later.


When we get on our bikes, they asked me where my water was. I told them if the place isn't far, then I can get some water there (dumb move - I know by now that I need water everywhere I go, it's so easy to get dehydrated here). They made me buy some water because they said the place was far, which was news to me.


Now, this old man I was going with was about 60 years old. He rode his bike really slowly...think of how fast a turtle crawls. I could have walked faster than our pace.


When they told me the place was far, I got a little agitated because I wanted to hang out with the new volunteers who came in on Saturday. I hadn't planned on spending my entire day riding my bike around in the brusse, especially without understanding why they had sent me there. 


I wanted to tell the old man that I had stuff to do and that I needed to be somewhere soon...but instead, I decided to focus on the positive reasons I was doing this...to have faith that there was an important lesson on the other side of this village.


I thought about the fact that I would witness the shea butter producing process, and that I would get to meet some people in the brusse/bush (small village). I thought about how even if I didn't want to spend my Saturday in the middle of nowhere, I needed to respect this old man and abide by my patron's wishes. It was more a sign of respect and dedication to learning than anything else. As I rode my bike, I mentally listed all the benefits of going to this small village.

A tiny village on the way to Dambanan.

And...the ride was beautiful! It was quiet and serene and the only passersby were old men on bikes and younger Malians on donkey carts. We rode through what mirrored an autumn forest - with red and orange leaves splattered across the ground. After that, we cruised by a small distribution of mud-brick huts with thatched roofs and bamboo fences.

When we arrived in the small village of maybe a few hundred people, the stampede of kids in awe by the white person began. The old man sat me down under a small hangar surrounded by a few mud-brick huts. He told me he was going to call the people of the village. I had no idea what this guy was doing, or really what I was doing there, but I decided to just roll with it.

When the old man left, groups of staring kids circled the place where I was chillin'. In small villages like this one, most of its inhabitants have never seen a white person - so you start to get used to the crowds of children, staring, gawking and screaming "Toubabu! Toubabu! Toubabu!."


I also couldn't help but feel like I needed to just sit there and not say much.


I was wearing American jeans and a T-shirt, with big sunglasses, an iPod, a nice bike, expensive shoes and a gold ring. These kids were wearing their soiled, shredded, too-big or too-small shirts on backward, inside out or hanging off of their shoulders. Most didn't have pants on. Or shoes, for that matter. Their faces and legs were layered with dust and chalk and mud. Many were probably nine years old or younger and many had rotting teeth. My eyes wandered to the shoeless mass of children whose feet were weathered like the older people's feet in my city of Kita. All these kids wanted to do was be my friend. 

Just a small sample of the crowd of kids gawking at me, probably the first white person they've ever seen. They decided to become "one" with me by chalking their faces white. Interesting.

As the kids' eyes stayed fixated on the white woman in American clothes, women would come in and introduce themselves to me, shaking my hand and inquiring about my family and the people of Kita. One woman handed me a big bowl of peanuts, and joked that I was a bad person because my last name is Coulibaly.


When I would say something in Bambara, or eat a peanut, I could hear the crowd of about 20 kids' whispers ripple throughout the group.


Every now and then the old man would come back and shoo off the little, gawking kids and he'd leave again.


And then something strange happened, that other volunteers said they haven't witnessed before - a small group of the kids ran off into their huts to come back with completely white faces.


Double take - these kids dressed up in white face!


I talked to my tutor about it, and he humbled me by saying the kids noticed our skin wasn't the same, so they changed theirs so we would become one. And, they were curious. I guess if I saw my first purple person, I'd probably stare too, hahaha.


After about an hour of eating peanuts and laughing with the congregation of children, the old man returned to whisk me off to where the women start the shea butter production process.


In Kita, my women's shea cooperative buys already produced shea butter from more than 100 women in women's associations situated around Kita. My coop packages, markets and advertises the shea butter to sell.

Shea nuts before they're pounded

A woman with an infant strapped to her back, sorting the grain

The group of older women pounding grain

This village was one such village with a women's association. Sabou, my patron/boss, wanted me to see how shea butter was produced at the association level so that I could understand the work, effort and dynamics of the production process.

In one corner, women were chatting with each other and pounding millet, corn or other grains. On the road behind us, men were directing donkeys on donkey carts barreling through with five feet high sticks and logs. The little boys segregated themselves by playing a marble game, with boys only. And the girls were doing the pounding of the shea nuts. I asked how old one of the girls who was pounding the shea nuts was. She was five years old. 

Although child labor is illegal in America, after studying Mali for the past 11 months, I understand the need and cultural significance behind child labor here. I'm not saying it's right or wrong, but they need these children for a labor force, and for these children, it's an honor to be doing "man's" or "woman's" work. These are people who have little more than each other...


After they pounded the shea nuts to access the shea seeds, they separated the seeds out again to continue pounding them until shea oil was squeezed out. They'd put the pounded shea seeds into a big bowl, tip the bowl on its side and let the heavier, unpounded pieces of shea seeds glide to the bottom. The girls would pound the seeds again and again.

That's the old man, and the bowl of peanuts the woman gave me. They eventually sent me home with the bowl of peanuts. Malian hospitality.

The little girls separating out the broken shea nuts and the shea seeds. The next step is to pound the shea seeds - which will squeeze out some of the shea butter.

Once they had pounded the seeds enough, an old lady came to sift the chunks out of the shea. She turned the sifter on its side and shook it until the heavier scraps of shea nut and seed sunk to the bottom.

After pounding the shea seeds

The old woman sifting the chunks of shea nut/seed out of the shea butter

Then, the old woman piled rocks and sticks and started a fire. She boiled the shea butter in a pan until it was creamier and oily.

I asked why the old woman did this work. My tutor explained that the pounding of the shea is extremely labor intensive work that an old woman cannot do anymore. The sifting and sorting and boiling of the shea takes intense concentration and work knowledge that only an old, experienced woman can do. 

Next, two little girls, who were about eight years old, positioned these tablet-sized, smoothed, sloped-inward rocks so that they could push the shea butter out with a smooth rock. They placed sand under the rocks so the shea butter could fall onto the sand. The old woman detailed that the sand will easily wash out in the next step.

It had been several hours at this point and I was ready to go home, knowing that I had at least a one hour bike ride back to Kita on a dirt road.


The people of Dambanan welcomed me graciously, feeding me an enormous bowl of peanuts, offering me the best seat they had, smiling and joking with me just like I was Malian, one of them.

Women's work

A girl, with a small baby tied to her back (probably her little sister or neighbor's kid), pounding the shea. Child labor starts early here!

The best seat in the house - that they dragged all the way over to the shea production area so I could sit down as I observed

Turns out, they also listen to my radio show on Wednesdays. It was quite remarkable, because now I know I have a listening audience who has no such access, except through my radio show, to the nutritional, cultural and small business talks I give each week. I promised them I would greet them on the radio next week, and I asked God to keep us together in the future.


Although it seemed as if this little bike trip with an old man threw a curveball into my day, I am really happy that I took the opportunity to witness the exhausting work these women put into making shea butter. I always say on my radio show that buying shea butter helps women, and helping women helps their entire village. But now, because of Dambanan's hospitality, I better understand the domino effect shea butter has on women, and thus, girls, families, entire communities, and especially, this country. 


Shea butter is women's work here.


And when one person learns the benefits of shea, and they purchase just one bottle of it, that 1,000 CFAs (=$2), goes directly into empowering these women financially. And when one woman is helped, women usually give that time and money back into their families, and also their villages. So, helping women helps us all.

Saturday I learned a little more patience, a little more flexibility, and the women of Dambanan had no idea that they reinstated my faith in the path I have chosen. 

Ripped off eyelashes, puking chickens and singing the National Anthem

I have sat here thinking, "I would have never thought THIS is what I'm doing with my life."

Such as riding my bike into town behind an old, rusty, squeaking bike. An old, old man, donning tattered clothes, with his prayer cap sitting on the back of his head is riding the bike. And there are little poops dropping from the back of the bike. A goat is tied up into the size of a small box to fit in the basket of the bike and its poop is creating a trail in front of me and my bike.

Or the time I got the funniest text message from my friend Matt, telling me that not only was he sick on the four hour public transport ride, but a chicken puked all over his pants and then died right then and there.

Or the text message I sent my friend, exclaiming that not only did I not have eyelashes, but I was also peed on. More on this at the end.

And what about the re-writing of rap songs that we did in Bamako? My friends and I were sitting on the roof of the Bamako stage house, loudly laughing because we changed all the words of "b*tch" in rap songs to very common animals in Mali. "Move donkey, get out the way, get out the way donkey, get out the way!" Or "There is one thing I know, cats they come they go."

The time I made a list of things I wanted to do to make my experience in Mali more enjoyable. One of them included riding something taller than a horse - so a camel, or the roof of a bus would work. So, my friend and I strapped ourselves onto the roof of a bashi (beaten down, graphitti-d bus) for the six hour bus ride to Manantali. The road is pretty much a river bed. You go about 10 miles per hour. My body was so sore the next day from maneuvering through the mattresses, bikes and luggage secured to the top of the bus. And dodging the slapping tree branches that eventually cut up my face and arms. But, alas, it was such a fun experience.

The training I gave last week to my women at the women's sewing school. It was on the basics of good business. These women are between the ages of 17 and 27, most with babies strapped to their backs and used clothes sent from western countries, who don't understand the French they're writing (if they can write it). I never thought I'd be teaching women as old as 27 years old that planning ahead to open your business, keeping your place of business clean or respecting your clients were keys to good business. Oh, and all in a random West African language.

And, the little creepsters who stalk my every move - scorpion spiders, monster cockroaches and millions of tiny, scheming ants. They're everywhere! If someone would have told me five years ago that I'd be battling flying cockroaches the size of my big toe, spiders almost as big as the palm of my hand that happen to look like scorpions and hammer head sharks, or Rambo'ing (can of pure poison) thousands of little ants a night - I'd have thought they were crazy.

Similarly hitching rides in the back of trucks, sleeping outside in a tent in the sweltering furnace temperatures, swimming with hippos, shaving my head and getting a mohawk, craving salad from a lady on the street corner, turning down marriage proposals every single day, laughing about how funny it is when someone says you sleep in the bathroom, my level of familiarity with diarrhea, living my life "one day at a time," actually knowing about the real Timbuktu, freaking out if I don't drink six liters of water a day, that every sickness is ameliorated by drinking more water, actually saying "This is Africa," the flash mob dance we did to "This is Africa" at the end of the shea bootcamp, falling in love in a hopeless place (Rihanna), singing the National Anthem in the back of a moto-taxi on Thanksgiving, having people break into my house to steal only American candy, living in a hut under a mosquito net, being caged in by screaming kids shouting "white person," laughing about hearing stories about people literally shitting their pants (and it not being uncommon), eating goat liver and heart, breakfast sandwiches of egg, french fries and grease sauce, serving my country, describing my everyday life as an "emotional roller coaster," finding that my greatest support system had become a tiny device called an iPod, or seeing those stars and stripes waving and getting chills.

...this is my life now. And I am grateful for every crazy story I have.

On Thanksgiving, we asked ourselves what we were thankful for.

Last week, I read a line in a book that caused me to deeply reflect on where I stand in the world. The author asked his readers to ponder all the things we have in the world, to show us how truly happy we are. So, I've been thinking about all the things I'm blessed to have in my life.

I am thankful that I chose this experience.

Being here, I have realized that I am indeed, one of the richest and most educated people in the world. That is stunning to wrap my mind around.

And I live in a place, speaking their language, practicing their culture, living with them, eating with them, in a place where up to 75% of the country cannot read or write and most live off of less than $1 a day.

I am thankful that I can read and write. Today, as I wrote (at normal cursive-writing pace) the name of a restaurant, La Deliverance, my friend remarked how great I could write. He was having difficulty writing people's names.

I am thankful that I am from a country that believes (although there is still a very long way to go), in equality for all people. A country where I don't get forced to have my genitals cut off and am obligated to marry a kid I don't know when I'm as young as 13 years old. And that I can get a job, be president, be a preacher, wear the clothes of my choosing, speak up in meetings, have as many kids or no kids, get through the 5th grade, can have male friends, don't have to go into prostitution, am not seen strictly as my dad or husband's pet/object/worker. America is not perfect, but we are damn lucky.

I am thankful that I have both of my parents. That my parents show me love and affection. That they don't hit me or put me to work, taking care of babies at the age of five. I am thankful that they are both in good health and that we all know how to use computers to Skype and keep in touch. Here, Malians will always ask you if you have both of your parents. I guess it's because it is so common here to be my age and not have both of your parents.

I am thankful for my own health. If I get malaria, I can go to the Peace Corps med office and take medicine right away, for free. Most Malians have no luxury of this kind. I have had education on good nutrition my entire life, on good dental health, on good physical exercise. And being here I know that I need vitamins, veggies, fruits, protein, to maintain my healthy weight. Millions of others in this country don't ever get the adequate nutrients they need in their diets - their entire lives. The average life expectancy here is in the late 40s. Americans' are in the late 70s. We live an average of almost 30 years, three decades, longer than the average Malian! Whoa.

I am thankful that the education of my country teaches its students how to think critically and creatively. We are innovators and we contribute to the global economy. We are taught to challenge assumptions, do research and think for ourselves. We are encouraged to think outside the box and never give up. We are told that the sky is the limit and that we can do and be anything we want to be. We are not pigeon-holed and we are not socially nudged to do things one way. You know, it's easy to take stuff like this for granted. But here, they only memorize in school. It's not explained. They're not taught they can be anything, or to think for themselves, or to be creative and express themselves.

At home in America, I have clean drinking water, electricity, paved roads, cars, bank accounts, healthy family, hospitals with real doctors, Barack Obama as my president, things that start on time, real buses and safe transport with seat belts and doors that open, clean, regulated food that doesn't give me Mr. D, libraries, lights, clean toilets that aren't bug-infested holes in the ground, hand washing with soap, enough teachers, reading and writing, small change, job opportunities, politicians we can actually elect, women and human rights, choices, multi-culturalism, police who aren't corrupt, government and security forces who don't operate on bribes...

I love Malians like my own family. No, I don't agree with every way of life here, but the people and culture here have taught me so much about the world, their world and myself. I have built character, learned life lessons, gained amazing stories and experienced adventures of a lifetime here while finding an entirely new way of seeing the world. And I've obtained new families and identities.

This experience has shown me that I am freaking lucky. I have more, WAY more than what I will ever need. I hope this blog doesn't come off as negative, but rather, appreciative.

I've realized how lucky I am in life. And how I am full, so I need to give back.

Because there is A LOT of work to do here, and it's usually very overwhelming to know where to start. But, we always say it's just about being there. Just being there is the most important thing we can do.

The list goes on and on. This experience is such a wild ride, and it's worth every minute.

Oh, and PS - the text message was when my friend and I got Malian fake eyelashes for Halloween. When we went to take them off, the glue was so strong that it literally removed more than 75% of my real eyelashes! The same day this happened, I was playing with a little Malian baby and he peed all over my pants. Not only did I have no eyelashes, but I was covered in pee. Another day I wouldn't take back.

I'm trying my best to live it up here, because the clock is already ticking and I can feel my Peace Corps life flashing by. They say that this entire experience - before, during and after - is like a big dream. Here I am, waking up in Mali. 

Life at 35 years old

I have decided that I am 35 years old.

I'll get into the details of my soon-coming mid-life later, but first, I want to do a very short update on Thanksgiving.

This is us at about 2 AM, the night before Thanksgiving, helping my friend Chelsea tear 30 loaves of bread into 1 inch pieces for the stuffing. It was fun!

Most of the Peace Corps volunteers in country attended Sikasso Thanksgiving. Here is everyone crowding around, waiting in line to get their Thanksgiving plates.

So, thanksgiving was awesome! I traveled to Sikasso region, which is southern Mali, where about 90 volunteers gathered to celebrate Thanksgiving together with a huge feast and some going out.

Thanksgiving dinner! Mashed potatoes with gravy, turkey, stuffing, green beans. It was one of the best meals I've had in this country. 

True to Malian fashion, any time the Toubabs gather for something, you usually have a group of Malian kids gathered, prying themselves into the mix, watching with big, curious eyes. There were dozens of kids outside, eating our scraps, taking our plastic silverware. They kept running back and forth to the trash can, sprinting, and taking silverware and food, sprinting back. 

The food was delicious, the organizers in Sikasso did an awesome job, and it was a good time. Christmas is coming up and we are thinking of going to the river town to celebrate.

As PCVs, we like to work hard and play hard. This is us at the disco dance club on Thanksgiving night. So fun. 

The day after Thanksgiving, we cooked a Mexican dinner and sat by the pool at a local hotel all day. Here is a pic of a bunch of the guys playing some pool football. 

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about my Peace Corps life. I mean that as in my service representing a mini-life. It's true. Giving up everything you ever had, everyone you ever knew and everything you ever knew to start completely over in an extremely foreign place...it represents the beginning of a new life.

The infant years
And when that life starts, from Pre Service Training through the first two months at site, you are in your infant years. You literally can't speak. Everyone is doing things for you, you have no independence, no perspective, you don't know anything. You can't have long conversations, you can't eat, you have no friends yet. You don't know anyone and you're just trying to figure out the basics. How do you adjust to the water? To the new climate? People who are totally new to you? How can you make sense of a way of life you don't understand at all? These are the infant and toddler years.

The school years
And then they drop you off for the first two to three months at site, called integration. Integration is kind of like your first years in school. You are starting to make friends and get to know some people. You are learning to communicate - learning the grammar rules and ways of speaking the language. You are learning what your favorite foods are and where things are situated in your city/town/village. But things are so up and down, you're crying all the time, throwing fits, not knowing how to handle what is going on around you (ahhahhahha, oh, the roller coaster).

The college years
Then you graduate to your college years - or IST. All you want tot do is hang out with friends and go out, because you're finally independent for once. (IST is our In Service Training, after being at site for the first two to three months, and it's two weeks long). You've been studying your entire "life" and now you are finally a on your own, free from the quicksand of dependence on everyone else. All you want to do is be a little crazy, get some studying done, but get it out of your system before you are pushed into the real world. But as soon as IST/college is finished, you are really on your own. You have to go and find a "job" and be a grown up. You've developed philosophies on life there. You have your coping patterns in place. You have a group of friends and you kind of know what you want to do with your "life."

Post-college
And then you are dropped off at site again, except this time you don't have any IST/college years to save you when you are freaking out. It's completely you on your own, just like your post-college years. You have to be really self-motivated. You must know your resources. You must be serious about your work and start figuring things out so you can find meaningful, fulfilling work. You start figuring it out and contemplating the projects you're going to do during your service/life.

At this point in my service, I'm the equivalent of 35 years old. I've been here long enough to know the language pretty well, to start to figure out what my life's work will be, but I still feel pretty new. It's been 10 months and I still feel pretty new. There is still so much to explore and to know! I'm just beginning, but I feel kind of old.

The mid-life
Soon, in about two months, I will hit my mid-life crisis.

They say that the time after your one year mark is the lowest of the lows when it comes to the emotional roller coaster and valleys and peaks that exemplifies a Peace Corps volunteer's experience.

At around 50 years old/mid-life/mid-service, you've been around the block. You've got most things figured out and all you can really feel is the clock ticking. One more day gone. One more week gone. One more month gone. Then, it's almost all over. Things don't feel as new anymore and you're just struggling to squeeze it all in before it's too late, before it's all over.

And the last half just flies by.

This place is like a time warp.

Usually, it crawls by. The days lurch on and the months zip by. Next thing you know, you're 35 years old and wondering if you've done everything you could have done, because you're starting to feel old, even though you're really not.

The end of a life
And when we COS (close of service = when our service is ending),  you're saying goodbye to everyone you've known for your entire life. All your friends, your family, your everything. You say goodbye, and it's totally bittersweet. Because you can't wait to see what's on the other side, but you know that you're going to miss everything so much. So you go on a huge COS trip, usually to Europe or Asia, and then you go back to America. And as your old life ends, your new life begins.

And it's all cyclical. It changes and flows and moves along. But it's about taking chances, having no regrets, loving every minute and putting your heart into your work. So, that's where I am at.

I can already feel the clock ticking. Sometimes it actually snaps by in my head. Click, Click, Click, Click.

But that is life. My philosophy is to take my chances, put my heart into it, live it up and have no regrets.

Happy 35th birthday to me.