Happy Tabaski!

November 6th was Tabaski or "Eid al-Adha" (Festival of Sacrifice); locally known as “Seliba”.

Around 8:30 that morning, I put on my finest Malian outfit and rode my bike to a small hill in the center of the village. The whole community was there, laying prayer mats in four long rows, trying their best to avoid getting dust on their freshly cleaned holiday robes. The men stood idly, greeting one another in low, somber tones. The women were all seated in the rear rows, trading gossip and quelling screaming babies.

My homologue led me to a small cluster of houses in front of the clearing where everyone was gathering. The Imam and a few other men were waiting for the ceremony to begin. A narrow path leading to the congregation had been cut through the tall grass behind the houses. They must have been waiting for me because, as soon as I arrived we began marching down the path. My Jatigi (host father) led the procession, chanting in Arabic and counting prayer beads in his right hand. The path opened into the clearing where everyone was standing shoulder-to-shoulder, facing East. A large sheep was tethered to a tree in front of the clearing, braying loudly and, no doubt, fully aware of its role in the ritual that was about to start.

As the Imam unrolled his prayer mat, I squeezed into the front row. I could hear suppressed laughter from the women in the back row who thought my flashy, 1970s revival fabric looked a little strange on a Toubab, which, I think, was an unfair observation because, while I did indeed look a little ridiculous, everyone else around me was wearing equally eye-catching threads to the ceremony. To be fair, a man in the row behind me wore a robe made entirely out of fluorescent-orange fabric embellished with a silver reflective material along the seams. Also, a number of the women were wearing matching, Christmas tree-inspired dresses embroidered with gold sequence and red ribbon.

A year ago I learned that Seliba is as much a sacred occasion as it is an opportunity to show off and express a little fashion solidarity. After the morning ceremony is over, women and children march around the village in their best clothing to greet the men. The men give candy to the children and blessings to the women in return. It’s very similar to Halloween, except instead of parading around in scary costumes, people don their most sumptuous outfits*. As far as I was concerned, I fit right in.

The Imam led us in prayer and we bowed in unison according to the chants and cadences I learned during Ramadan (I prayed with the community everyday during Ramadan and fasted on Fridays). At the end, he announced that the slaughtering of the ram commemorates the willingness of Abraham to sacrifice his son as an act of obedience before god (and if you remember the story, god stops Abraham and gives him a sheep to sacrifice instead).

Several men wrestled the beast to the ground and the Imam knelt over it, mumbled a blessing and sliced its throat. The congregation suddenly rose and broke into a crowd to trade handshakes and benedictions. Between the legs and feet of the men standing around the sheep, I could see spurts of blood gushing from the squirming animal in a series of frothy, rhythmic hisses. Many people touched the growing pool of blood with their index fingers and tapped their foreheads three times. I did not.

They said the blood would prevent headaches for the next two years and I thought about all the hangovers and stress migraines I might suffer between now and the end of 2013. I figured it wasn’t even worth it to entertain such superstition and denied several bloody fingers that were ready to make an application. Besides, the blood showed up as a darker shade of black against their dark skin and I figured it might look a little more alarming against mine. I also had an inkling that they were all just trying to mess with me (as Malians are wont to do).

On another note, I think the whole fetishized blood thing comes from a local animist tradition that predates the arrival of Islam in Mali. While Kalibene is considered one of the more devoutly Muslim communities in the area, its interesting to see what fragments of the past are still alive for this community in particular…or maybe they were just messing with me…

The rest of the day played out like any other holiday in Mali. We mostly just sat around, drank tea and ate a lot of rice. The food wasn’t much better either (something most holidays in America tend to imply). The only real difference between everyday food and holiday food is the addition of meat, which is gamey and, often times, still harry. It’s also accompanied by other parts of the animal that I am not used to eating (or seeing) like the intestines, testicles, and stomach. Perhaps the biggest difference between eating meat here and eating it in America (besides the frequency) is that you always know what part of the animal you’re eating before it enters your mouth. Unlike the questionable combinations of ground beef and filler in a hamburger or even the pristine appearance of a raw tenderloin from the grocery store, prepared meat in Mali provides many clues as to its origin; namely in the form of fat, bone and connective tissue still clinging tightly around a small sliver of muscle.

Also, for Malians, the word for meat, “sogo”, includes almost everything except the hooves and the hide. I can’t even count how many times I’ve been chastised for spitting a chewy glob of fat on the ground or for throwing a bone away before sucking out the marrow. Luckily, the least appetizing part of the animal is left for the children. They make their own fire and roast the skull themselves before scooping out hot chunks of brain with their fingers. They offered me a bite but, unlike the unusual sheep blood ritual, I was certain they weren’t messing with me.

*Instead of “trick or treat” to demand candy, the children say, “Sambe, sambe!” Last year, I explained to the kids that, in America, when a household doesn’t give out candy upon request, a “trick” is in order. I regret telling them some of those good old-fashioned Halloween tricks because this year I ran out of candy and, as a consequence, found a bag of smoldering feces on my doorstep.

Try, try again...

I'm going to try this blogging thing again. This time I promise to stick to the basic blogging format: short simple reports about my daily life. It has taken me a year to realize that blogs are meant to be mundane disclosures about everyday encounters and not long, fully enclosed narratives designed to captivate an audience. Also, now that a year has gone by, things in Mali are starting to appear familiar to me; routine, normal. But then I think, as I'm out in the fields, picking peanuts with my friends and avoiding snakes and scorpions lurking in the brush, that maybe all the boring and tedious everyday activities I do here aren't quite so boring for folks at home.

In the last few months I've developed a keen interest in vegetable gardening; friends call it an obsession. I came into Peace Corps with a sketchy vision of what my living situation would be like. That vision included, along with a whole mess of other exciting artifacts that might satisfy one young-man's naïve search for authenticity, a vegetable garden. It took me until a few months ago to realize just how difficult it is to dig and maintain a garden, particularly here where there is no such thing as a garden hose or a spading fork. There is also no supply store where one might find ready-made compost, seed flats, pesticide and commercial fertilizer. Also, not to mention, I had little or no gardening experience to speak of.

While I may have overlooked some (not so) minor details, I was not discouraged. In fact, encountering all these obstacles only emboldened me. I checked out a food security toolkit from the PC library, which had a comprehensive guide to "Biointensive" vegetable gardening. I read that book cover to cover at least five times; that is, five times over the course of six months during which time I made many, many armature mistakes. Now, I think I'm getting the hang of it. I build two neatly layered compost piles under a tree near my house; I made two seed flats out of a plastic water jug; my hands are rough and callused from working the soil with local farming implements; and my youthful endurance has made it possible for me to water my 100 square foot plot with nothing but a watering can, a 30 liter jug and, at least, five daily trips to the village pump. This last detail will become more complicated once I add another 100 square foot plot to my backyard in December; a time when I can't count on the rain to provide any relief for my aching shoulders. Luckily, (I think) I know a thing or two about gravity fed drip irrigation.

The most surprising thing about my new hobby is that I never get disillusioned or tired after all the hard work (even if my plants suffer an occasional assault by chickens and goats that find a way though my fence). I don't get discouraged. I just want more. I think daily about the possibility (or inevitability) or transforming my living space into a literal oasis; about how I can go beyond the creation of a simple backyard garden and fill every sunlit corner of my concession with some form of vegetation: spices growing along the walls, flower pots flanking the entrance, exotic vines climbing my gua (thatch hangar), rosemary and mint garnishing the windowsills, papayas and mangos hanging heavily from branches reaching into the backyard...

My dream may never be fully realized. Plants can only grow so fast and I will be long gone before my infant trees bear any fruit. Still, I suppose that's not the point. All this work seems to be an end in itself for me (though I suppose it has to be since the yields of my first attempted garden were hardly impressive).

On another note, before anyone accuses me of wasting my time being absorbed in a hobby, gardening is as much a work-related activity as it is a cathartic experience. In December I’m going to help the women in my village develop a community garden. Hopefully they will be as excited about gardening as I am…but I doubt it. People around here get too enthusiastic about all the austere notions I see in growing plants: self-sufficiency, hard work, resourcefulness, patients, contemplation etc. I think they live these ideas everyday without really knowing it, whereas I am experiencing these things, if not for the first time, in a whole new way.

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.