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.