Wednesday, March 10, 2004
I wrote this a couple weeks ago but only had the chance to type it up now ... I would love to hear how things are going in your parts of the world.
-Oumou
February 16
Today we have started our second week of classes, and it’s hard to believe so much has happened in only 10 days. Bamako’s so different than any place I have ever been before – there’s a kind of chaotic poetry to how people, bicycles, pushcarts, animals, cars, motorbikes and buses share roadspace, a dangerous frenetic dance that everyone (except perhaps us) seems to know the steps to.
I don’t really know where to begin describing my experiences here, but I think that is the best metaphor. For the past 10 days we have been adjusting to rhythms, both literally and metaphorically. Every morning I am awoken by Arabic chanting that is the morning call to prayer, broadcast from a nearby mosques. Then of course there are the rhythms of communication. Already language has begun to return, the ability to speak, listen and think in French, despite the grammatical mistakes and adjustment for the Malian accent. Then there’s the rounded rhythm of bambara spoken everywhere – as greetings, in our families, as the true language of bamako’s streets, music and culture. With our host families’ repetition and our classroom lessons we are slowly learning it, even as we improve our French, and as I switch from language to language to language, I alternate between confusion, frustration, humility and a real sense of accomplishment.
I use the metaphor because there are some literal rhythms we have adapted to as well ... last week, as part of our orientation, we travelled 86 kilometers on an unpaved road (here, rhythm equals bumpy !) to a village called Kangaba, where we visited families in pairs (Beth and I taught hopscotch and Down by the Banks to a dozen kids) and also met with the village chief, who shared the region’s history with us. That night some of the village women taught us their traditional dancing while a crowd of children circled around us, laughing. The atmosphere of the evening had a surreal quality to it and I think we all felt the duality between living in the moment – feeling the drumbeats move through us as we followed the complicated steps and moves, and the awareness that here we were, dancing, sweating, miles from even Bamako, experiencing something very real apart from its stereotypical identity.
There is a rhythm to daily life here as well, and for the women, it is one that starts early and ends very late. At my homestay the women are up by 5 or 6, drawing water from the well, starting the cooking fires, pounding millett with a huge mortar and pestle for the morning porridge or to (basic sustenance food). In our compound there are over 40 people, which means a lot of food to cook, water to draw from the well, clothes to wash and hang on the line, floors to sweep, dishes to wash (all washing is done by hand, in a series of buckets) and children to care for. Even if a woman works outside the home she must do all this, or hire a maid to help, because it is culturally taboo, and in fact against the marriage code, for men to do any of this work.
-Oumou
February 16
Today we have started our second week of classes, and it’s hard to believe so much has happened in only 10 days. Bamako’s so different than any place I have ever been before – there’s a kind of chaotic poetry to how people, bicycles, pushcarts, animals, cars, motorbikes and buses share roadspace, a dangerous frenetic dance that everyone (except perhaps us) seems to know the steps to.
I don’t really know where to begin describing my experiences here, but I think that is the best metaphor. For the past 10 days we have been adjusting to rhythms, both literally and metaphorically. Every morning I am awoken by Arabic chanting that is the morning call to prayer, broadcast from a nearby mosques. Then of course there are the rhythms of communication. Already language has begun to return, the ability to speak, listen and think in French, despite the grammatical mistakes and adjustment for the Malian accent. Then there’s the rounded rhythm of bambara spoken everywhere – as greetings, in our families, as the true language of bamako’s streets, music and culture. With our host families’ repetition and our classroom lessons we are slowly learning it, even as we improve our French, and as I switch from language to language to language, I alternate between confusion, frustration, humility and a real sense of accomplishment.
I use the metaphor because there are some literal rhythms we have adapted to as well ... last week, as part of our orientation, we travelled 86 kilometers on an unpaved road (here, rhythm equals bumpy !) to a village called Kangaba, where we visited families in pairs (Beth and I taught hopscotch and Down by the Banks to a dozen kids) and also met with the village chief, who shared the region’s history with us. That night some of the village women taught us their traditional dancing while a crowd of children circled around us, laughing. The atmosphere of the evening had a surreal quality to it and I think we all felt the duality between living in the moment – feeling the drumbeats move through us as we followed the complicated steps and moves, and the awareness that here we were, dancing, sweating, miles from even Bamako, experiencing something very real apart from its stereotypical identity.
There is a rhythm to daily life here as well, and for the women, it is one that starts early and ends very late. At my homestay the women are up by 5 or 6, drawing water from the well, starting the cooking fires, pounding millett with a huge mortar and pestle for the morning porridge or to (basic sustenance food). In our compound there are over 40 people, which means a lot of food to cook, water to draw from the well, clothes to wash and hang on the line, floors to sweep, dishes to wash (all washing is done by hand, in a series of buckets) and children to care for. Even if a woman works outside the home she must do all this, or hire a maid to help, because it is culturally taboo, and in fact against the marriage code, for men to do any of this work.
