Shita is one of my host sisters.  She insanely cute, always smiles huge when she comes home from school and sees me sitting with her mothers.  She loves to wear my sunglasses and always carries my backpack wherever we go anywhere.  We can't communicate that well, but this little girl has my back more than most and has made me smile quite a bit this past week.

As I might have mentioned before, there are a group of children that like to stand about 75 feet from where I sit at the entrance of my house and just stare.  They don't talk, they don't even sit, just stand there and gawk.  I'll smile, occasionally wave and sometimes even call them over in which they run for the high heavens.  It was cute at first, now, it's more annoying.  I'm their spectacle at the zoo and my family can now tell I've grown tired of their glares.  Last week, Shita, was walking into the concession and saw them standing there.  She started yelling at them, pointing at me, throwing words out like "our family", "go away", and "stop looking."  The boys, a couple years older than her, started laughing and completely ignored her.  She pouted, looked at me in which I was smiling adoringly at her for her efforts, smiled a devilish grin back, picked up a couple little pebbles and pelted the kids.  They ran and she followed them with stones all the way down the road screaming the whole way.  The kids haven't been back since and my host moms praised her when she came back and she even got an extra sardine for dinner that night.  I laughed so hard my stomach hurt.

A couple days ago, I was walking home from the school and saw Shita along the way.  She instantly ran up to me, grabbed my backpack and we set off on the road home.  We were making small talk, as I don't understand Maniakan (her first language) and she doesn't understand Bambara (the language I pathetically try to speak).  The conversation went like this:

Me: So, Shita, how old are you? 20? 30? (which as a side note, is not as funny in Mali as it is to American children)
Shita: No.
Me: Oh.  So how old are you?
Shita (casually): I don't know.
Me: Does your mom know?
Shita: Nope!
Me: Well, I think we should give you an age.
Shita: I want to be your age.
Me: No. Let's give you seven years.
Shita: Yes, I like the number seven. I am seven years old.

She smiled at me, grabbed my hand and I walked home with my seven year old sister.

Last week, at about 3:30a, I woke up with a start because it sounded like a flock of birds were pecking at my tin roof.  It was loud, it was annoying, and left me laying in fear thinking the apocalypse was happening.  After a few minutes of panic, I ventured outside to witness the end of the world.  Then, it hit me. Literally.  The rain hit my face and here I was, in the middle of a month that hasn't seen more than .05 mm of rainfall total in over 3 decades, enjoying a short rainfall.  So I did what I thought was appropriate in my moment of fear.  I ran back into the house, closed all the windows, lept into bed, tucked my mosquito net in and waited for the world to end.  Apparently, I overreacted. 

Off to village tomorrow, will be back next week with some more stories hopefully.
Peace, Love, Mali. 

I'm having trouble writing lately.  Not for a lack of inspiration, because I can tell you, spend one week in the middle of nowhere Mali with no electricity or running water and you could have yourself a novel written by the week's end.  More so because blogs only allow a finite amount of writing.  Well, maybe blogs don't have that rule, but I do (which if you scroll down, you can already see I am thoroughly disregarding for this post).  So deciding what I want to write about is the hardest part.  Do I tell you about my 14 little sisters that spent hours braiding and rebraiding my hair?  Or maybe the prenatal consultations I was able to sit in on with the matron of my village?  Or possibly the stand off I had with the spider family of mine that were not holding up their end of the agreement when I found a rather large insect (still unknown what kind) in my "kitchen"?

I guess those will come later, as maybe this post will serve to describe my new family I now live with in Namposella, Mali.

There were two interesting occurrences that happened this week in my new village.  I witnessed one of my mothers beating her child, and found out my host dad's occupation.

My host dad, Wawa (yes, like the New Jersey convenience store) is the village herbal medicine doctor.  He practices traditional medicine from our house; he has bags of leaves, twigs, powders and soils speckling the concession that we all share.  Wawa, while one of the most respected men in my village, has had no formal education.  He has never been to school, does not know how to read, yet is the first point of contact that any villager goes to in a medical emergency.  Whether it is a broken bone, Malaria, or a simple sore throat, Wawa concocts something in his cauldron and treats any patient that comes his way.  

Last week a boy came over with a broken arm (or so it appeared by the angle of his wrist).  I took a particular interest in the consultation as I have grown up with a orthopedic surgeon father in the developed world.  I watched as Wawa poked, prodded, tugged, and bent the child's arm just as I have seen my own father do when my achey knees act up.  He then walked behind his house, grabbed a couple bamboo sticks, cut some mane hair from a donkey and set to work to make a splint.  Ten minutes later, the boy walked left our compound wearing quite an impressive bamboo cast tied around with some donkey hair.  Same problem, dealt quite differently from the first to third world, no?  Now that I write the story, I don't know that it was the best one to tell, but HA, you already read it so jokes on you.

One of the children in my compound was caught stealing.  She apparently stole some groundnuts from the house and I walked up to the conversation as one of my host mothers, Koro, was speaking in her angry mom voice.  Now I surely did not understand what she was saying, but angry mom voices are universal, when you hear it, you know the shit is about to hit the...well, mud hut roof. 

Moments later, she grabbed the girl and walked her away from the family.  It was already 8p there, so I couldn't see anything but was able to hear the cracking of some branches as the child screamed out in pain.  It lasted only a couple minutes, where everyone sat in silence, waiting for Koro to finish with the child.  Now I realize writing this, it sounds cruel and horrifying, but I have to be honest, I wasn't the least bit upset by any of it.  In no way was the child severely hurt--besides maybe a sore butt tomorrow, she was playing with the kids again the next morning.  She stole, and in a country when there is not very much to steal, it's best she learn early that it will not be tolerated.  And I can tell you from looking at the faces of the other kids, none of them will ever steal again.  Because you see, the beating was less about the pain, and more about the humiliation that followed.  The little girl had to walk back over to her dozens of brothers and sisters and see their glares of disappointment.  She stole not from a stranger that she didn't know on the street, but from the very family that feeds her.  

Have more stories to share, but have to let them out slowly as not to lose my audience.  Made it through the first week at site alive and well, I bike back to my village tomorrow to back to the simple life.  

Goal for the next week: Know all of the children in my compound by name.  So far, I remember 3 of the 23...

Hi, My Name is LeeAnn and I'm a Peace Corps Volunteer.

This past Friday I was sworn in as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Mali.  All 40 of us went to the ambassador's house and heard speeches from the Peace Corps Director of Mali, the Malian Minister of Foreign Affairs and the Madame Ambassador herself.  We stood, raised our right hands, and repeated an oath that had more do to with defending our country and upholding the constitution than helping the needy, but to hell with it, I am a volunteer!

There were some thoughts I'd like to share.  Not really anything of interest to any of my readers, but this is a post for me.  Because you see, when you have all this time to think, thoughts go in and out of your frazzled tired brain so quickly if you don't write them down, they are gone forever.  For that reason, I'm feeling especially thoughtful right now and am trying to document as quickly as possible.

So the following are some things I told myself today, a day that I felt a little lonely for my loved ones, to help lift my spirits:

Remember that feeling you had when you took that oath at swear-in.  Don't ever forget that feeling of success, of standing there among new found best friends in a foreign country that has already tested you to limits you didn't know you had and simply thinking, "I can do this."  Because you can; you can do this. And yes, you will be tested everyday, but know that everyday is a day that is building who you are and who you will become.  And while you may feel weak now, you will come away from this stronger than you ever were before.

Understand the seriousness of your mission while in Mali, but also know to laugh when the going gets tough.

Don't diminish the importance of integrating into the local culture, but never forget who you are and your own values.

And most importantly, know that while I may not see immediate results or any for that matter while I am here, what I am doing matters.

Okay, that's my pep talk to myself.  I'm off to bake some brownies my family sent me in a clay oven.  Wish me luck!

_There are definitely a lot of fears making their way into my
overwhelmed brain nowadays.  As I approach January 6th, the day of my
swear in at the embassy, it all begins to feel quite surreal that I'll
be moving to my permanent home in a week.

I'll be leaving my friends, my absolutely amazing family in Kobalakoro
and heading to the unknown that awaits me in Namposella, Mali.

Where if I thought I was living minimally before I was largely
mistaken.  My village of 2,000 people has no running water, no
electricity and only if you walk about 1km down the "road" any cell
phone service.  My house is a two room mud house with enough room for
me and my spider family.  They take good care of me and while for a
little bit I was considering killing them (just the sheer size of them
is scary), I noticed there are no other bugs at all in my hut.
Meaning I need to pick a side; either live with large spiders and no
other bugs, or kill what may be my only allies and find out what kind
of other bugs Africa has to offer.  So for the time being, I will
leave the spiders be and allow them to live rent free in my humble
abode.

My village is roughly 15k away from a major town, but since there are
no roads, my means of transportation are either my Peace Corps issued
bicycle, or a donkey cart.  As I write this, I can see my prospective
visitor numbers dwindling..

My village as a whole is simple.  It's very spread apart, with no
direct roads, just pathways from house to house.  On multiple
occasions I have wandered throughout the village thinking I was
walking down a path, but accidentally walk right into someone's
compound, in which I casually play it off like I meant to, introduce
myself, and quickly leave to only turn the corner into someone else's
compound.

Last night was New Years, where we all walked about 5k down the road
to a Malians house to enjoy a couple warm beers and some sachets of
gin.  We ended the night making up our own countdown, dancing until
our legs gave out and for a little bit of time, forgot we were all far
from our usual New Years company, and ran around giving hugs and being
grateful for the new additions we now have in our lives.  This is our
last week altogether, so there was plenty of love to go around when we
all got the gut check of where we would be next sunday night.

I'm running low on inspiration to write, so if you have any questions
or topics you'd like me to write about, feel free to comment.