My new house.
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...
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...
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