My Work

After months of planning and waiting, my first funded project is finally underway. In early February my proposal to construct 51 latrines and repair one pump was approved by USAID. Three weeks later $4012.25 was sent to my bank account. Getting money was remarkably easy…maybe too easy. I had some initial worries that, perhaps, the community contribution was too small or that the project was way too big and ambitious for a village of only 800 people. I was anticipating a barrage of questions by my superiors in Peace Corps and I fully expected that my project would be scrutinized by USAID. But none of this happened. I was already aware that project money tends to flow freely through nebulous pathways in the developing world, but I didn’t realize just how little oversight I would encounter when I started applying for funding. Without receiving any “heads up” that my project funding was approved (that is, outside of a one-sentence e-mail forwarded by a third party to my inbox) the money simply appeared in my bank account one day. As I rode a bus back to my site with $2000, in cash, stuffed in my backpack, I began to understand why there are so many opportunities for corruption in Africa. In the end, I’m glad the money arrived quickly and without any hassle; I just didn’t expect to be so unquestionably trusted.

Before the money arrived, I conducted a series of demonstrations to ensure that everyone involved in the project would be capable of building each latrine to my standards. The first latrine slab demo was stressful but, all frustrations aside, it was very productive. I wanted to make sure that everything was constructed correctly; strictly by the book. That way, any inevitable corner-cutting could be kept to a minimum.

The most gratifying success came after Brahma, the mason who I hired to manage the project, suggested that there was no need to separate the twigs and dust from the sand before mixing it with the cement. This was clearly untrue but, even if the sand was relatively clean, I needed to set a good example and emphasize the importance of sifting the sand, particularly when it would be used to build critical components like a latrine slab. I’ve noticed that pleading with my Malian counterparts never really changes their minds. They don’t respond well to begging and it’s difficult to make a pointed, rational argument when your vocabulary is reduced to that of a four-year-old. When I want them to do something or if I want to stress the importance of something, it is far more effective to do so sarcastically. So when Brahma decided he wanted to skip a step, I didn’t argue. I simply stepped back, raised my palms to the sky and said, “Fine, the slab could collapse but at least I won’t be the one shitting in that latrine”. We were building our initial slab for the president of the Water and Sanitation committee I set up in Kalibene. The president eyed me suspiciously before looking back at Brahma, whose credibility as an expert mason began to wane in his eyes. The president, pretending as though he didn’t hear me, said, “You know, I know someone in the neighboring village who has an excellent sand sifter…”

In all likelihood, everyone knew that the slab probably wouldn’t break because the sand was dirty and, even if it did, it certainly wouldn’t collapse abruptly and spell certain death for the president. However, the mere suggestion that such a nightmare scenario could occur as the result of such a silly error was enough to make them change their minds. Now, with that idea firmly planted in their minds and the standard for a proper slab set (a standard reinforced by the W/S president), I felt assured that the project would end without any disasters.

After the demonstrations were over, I still had a few concerns about the project: Will we finish before rainy season? Will people continue to build the latrines to my standards, even when I’m not there to supervise? Will there be enough money in the budget?

These worries, and others, were completely moot by the second week of the project. Since the day I purchased materials, the entire community has been working single-mindedly to finish what I started. As of today, all of the pits have been reinforced and covered. Now, all they have to do is build walls around the slab and install soak pits. Also, even with a few unanticipated costs (i.e. the rise in the cost of materials due to the situation in Ivory Coast), the project still might finish under budget. The project has been so successful that I was asked to give a case-study presentation at this year’s in-service training conference for all the volunteers and homologues in Sikasso. My project is now the model example for the entire region.

I’m lucky to have such a motivated community. In the weeks leading up to the beginning of the project, latrines became something of a status symbol in Kalibene. You’re not cool unless you have a latrine and you risk being labeled as “disgusting” if you continue to defecate in the cornfields. Getting people to assume this attitude required a lot of time and effort but I mostly credit “Community Led Total Sanitation” (CLTS) for the transformation.

In November, some UNICEF trucks and buses arrived from Kadiolo, a nearby city. Health workers assembled at least 100 villagers from Kalibene and led them in a three-hour long formation to assess residents’ sanitary habits.

A large map was drawn on the ground and villagers identified landmarks in Kalibene (the chief’s house, the maternity clinic, the pumps etc.) with twigs and rocks. When the map was established, one of the workers wasted no time getting to the point: “Who’s brave enough to show me where they take a shit everyday” (This is an exact quote, loosely translated from Bambara. I’m convinced that the vulgarity was intentional and designed to abruptly redefine the boundaries of public discussion). The question was startling and foreign. Bowel movements aren’t exactly the number one topic of conversation and people were hesitant to answer.

Eventually, after thirty minutes of coaxing, one brave volunteer spread a handful of yellow sand over a small area on the map. The ice was broken. Emboldened by the first man’s confidence, at least 50 other people stood up, one-by-one, to disclose the location of their own personal “sacred grounds”. In no time, the map was riddled with tiny piles of yellow sand. The issue was undeniable, clear and nauseating.

That day, five men stood up and openly announced their intentions to build a latrine in their concessions: “I’m going to build mine next week!” “I’m going to build mine tomorrow!” “I’m going to build mine right now!” Lucky for them, I knew exactly how I could help.