I want a Hippopotamus for Christmas (Real Grassroots Development!)

In preparation for black Friday, I've prepared my own commercial with the hottest of items for this holiday season. The selling points include

• the price is whatever you want it to be,


• it is tax deductible,


• there are no lines to wait in, no parking spaces to find,


• and even after Christmas, it won't go out of style.

But that's not all!

The best part is that you'll be helping a small village in Mali, West Africa accomplish one of its community initiated projects for its own development.

This is simply a basic video of the outlay of village, with our beautiful village mosque in the background. For those of you whose media players won't allow my video message, here's the transcript (sung a cappella with a cold):

I'll be home for Christmas, you can count on me. Please have snow (but not a lot) and no Malian toh (a food I eat every day), as for presents on the tree (I'd much rather that you make a contribution to our community maternity, see the details below!!!). I'll be home for Christmas, not only in my dreams.

Check out our project and make a donation by following this link:

Bassa's Maternity Project

or by going to www.peacecorps.gov, clicking "donate," and then entering either my last name (Snider) or the project number (688-319).

Since I arrived in Bassa last September and began working with the women's association, they have consistently mentioned their need for a clean, safe place to give birth. Currently, children come into this Malian world in the unsanitary conditions of a village hut floor, often by lamp light and with the help of our aging birthing attendants. This definitely is not to say that the children are presently doomed to bad beginnings, as the two women who assist are amazingly experienced and trusted- they have seen most everything in their days (one of them is my host mother, Babintou). But just because they are successful does not make village births any easier. And my host mom has already asked for help from younger eyes and hands that can complement her experience. As you know, I have yet to bring a child into the world, but I can only imagine the (non)choice when labor begin between a mud-creped floor and a 8 km (5 mile) sojourn on a bike path to the nearest health center (by motorcycle or donkey cart). Just look back a blog post or two and see how great that path is during rainy season.

The average Malian woman has 7 children (yes, average) and is expected to work up to the day of child birth and to resume a week after. Work is defined by hard physical labor, like carrying more than 30 liters (that's 8 gallons) of water on her head from the pump to her concession enough times to fill a metal barrel. And then do that work with a child strapped to your back. I would do anything to ease the most important and difficult moments of these mother's lives. Although we are only a town of 500 people, over the last year we've seen 20 children born. We are lucky that all children have been happy and healthy, but I cannot even count the stories I've heard about children lost during childbirth-- most women have lost at least one, some two, some three-- that I can't imagine.

We also have the support of the village men- they mentioned a maternity as one of their community priorities. These are their wives and their children. Providing them with a maternity means providing them with an avenue to safe beginnings. The men have played an integral part in the organization and planning of the project: searching for the perfect 1 hectare (2.5 acre) location with aspirations for expanding the basic maternity facilities to include a garden and related buildings to address other village health needs. It was their idea to invite our "twin city" Folona to join us, as they live only 1.5 km (less than a mile) away and with the same lack of proper facilities. Their population of around 1,500 promises to be a great addition to our community's skills.

You might have noticed that the proposal includes the construction costs, some furniture and a solar panel and lighting. In reality, this project extends to include the training of a matron and another birthing attendant and all of the necessary maternity materials (such as a birthing table, a scale, scissors, ya know...). The two young women to attend the trainings were specifically chosen by the community and have been practicing for when their time comes to study. Their literacy and extended studies is something they contribute to the current birthing attendants. As a village, we've decided on committees to work for the management, upkeep and further development of the maternity, followed up with priorities for each of these groups. By developing the necessary relationship with Malian health network, we're doing all we can to insure the correct start for this maternity.

Mes Ami(e)s

The french for my "(female) friends" is the same as a common Malian name- Ami (short for Aminata). Ironically, the two women chosen to go for training are both Amis and, appropriately, my good friends. Both of them are mothers. Both of them are younger than me. Both are family, as they are married to or the sister of one married to my host brothers (one in Bassa and the other in Keleya with my original host fam). Much of the planning process has been prepping these ladies for training. With their new skills, they will complete our maternity project and assist this community toward better health. Since they will not be matron each day of the year, the rest of their time will be used for other health needs, writing their reports, nutrition, etc. and eventually a children's garden with vitamin-rich fruits, veggies, leaves and seeds. We know that a building itself cannot do the work- that's why mes amies were appointed.

On Our Way Out

This project has been in the works for a long time (9-months, maybe...). I feel that every time I speak with my parents I say, "next week, just wait until next week!" After a number of setbacks, next week has become this week and Bassa is still motivated, energized to begin construction and send the young women to their trainings. Granted, I know that the difficulties are far from over, as this is volatile world we live in. Here in Mali, many things run slower than the jumbo snails making their way through the thick forests. I'm glad to say that I've seen just how difficult this is that now I realize how people get discouraged along the way. By training these women and constructing a building, we're giving the villagers of Bassa an opportunity to address serious health inadequacies that prevent them from living the most productive life possible. Healthy children can attend school, healthy adults can work, and healthy mothers make good choices for their children- healthy individuals are happy individuals. Although I'm a Small Enterprise Development volunteer, I've really seen the implications of unhealthy individuals trying to work. As a volunteer living in a tiny community, I realized (more like hoped) that our development efforts would include not only business-related projects, but projects that truly addressed what the village needs and desires the most. The maternity will be income-generating to reinvest in itself and provide villagers the ability to address other health priorities. Especially with the current discussion on health care in the US right now, I'm sure you can justify helping with even the most basic improvements for this community's health and sanitation.

That's what has been keeping me busy during the conclusion of rainy season- really since the beginning of rainy season and promised to keep me busy through the end of my service. As soon as the financing for this project arrives, construction materials will be bought, transported to site for work to begin. Of course, until that point we will be preparing- preparing the land by clearing the site, settling down the rules and regulations for use of the maternity- Preparing to be busy. If all goes right, the trainings and building will begin by February so that mes ami(e)s will be graduated by the time the building is completed (or soon after). I have confidence that we're on our way!

So, no, a village maternity is not a hippopotamus, but it's still my wish for this community where I live, work, play and love. Tell your family and friends, your coworkers and classmates, that even the smallest contribution will make a real difference for Bassa. This project will help them reach their goals for the improvement of village health and will inspire the confidence necessary to undertake similar development projects. I could not think of a better Christmas present.

The Heart of Shrinky

One of my first village friends was a 1 1/2 year old named Basolo. We met when he tottered away from his concession to the center of town and was crying. I hadn't yet become acquainted with which children belonged to which house, so we walked around for a while hand in hand until he pointed me to his mom. He wore a red sweater with a picture of a mouse and the subtitle "the Heart of Shrinky". Now, I've seen strange t-shirts here (San Diego zoo, Jesus loves me more than you, etc), but that one stuck with me.

After that initial meeting, I came to appreciate the children that lived at that concession. They were always quick to greet me politely and with a big smile, not asking for anything except a smile in return. This concession's children were the ones I could tolerate the best, most likely because of their relatively small number. When I got tired of the chaos of my host family or homologue's house, I would make my way to sit in the Heart of Shrinky's concession to read, write or play.

Just this last week, I think I was the most scared that I've been since arriving in Mali. After returning from our shea butter sale in Bamako on Tuesday afternoon, I was informed that Basolo and his older sibling, Safi, had gone missing since around noon that day. Their parents and other villagers had been keeping their eyes out since then, hoping this 2 1/2 year old and 3 1/2 year old would wander back, but now the sun was about to set and they were still no where to be found. They say that children often get lost this time of year and during rainy season when the grass is high and the crops like corn and millet are not yet harvested. But never before was it children this young. Before the village was called to safo prayer (around 7:30pm), the village chief made an announcement over the mosque's loud speaker, "The children are yet to be seen."

Who had been the last to see them? When? Where? The thought was that they had left to try to find their family working far out in the fields. Usually the village keeps good track of its children, but Basolo and Safi must have slipped away. How, when people had been going back and forth between the village and fields all afternoon? Even I had ridden my bike on the main path that afternoon- others had walked from Keleya and even other had left village to go to Keleya and yet no one had seen them. Well, perhaps they hadn't taken that path.

Flashlights came out in numbers; our neighboring community, Folona's hunters joined our villagers with their rifles for an attempt to search the vast forests surrounding our town, Bassa. The village women searched every inch of town, looking behind doors, under grain storage untis and in Basolo and Safi's favorite places to play. Some people thought of the worst and checked the uncovered wells and ditches where the children could have fallen, also in the bog and fishing hole still filled with water. Not to mention the possibility of injury or the threat of scary forest-living animals. By 10 pm, cold had set in- probably the mid-60s, but that's freezing in comparison to the day high of 95. And we're nearing the new moon, meaning pitch dark until the early hours of the morning. Without extra clothing, dinner, any kind of light, Basolo and Safi were in the Malian wilderness alone. I wrapped my shawl tighter around my shoulders as we sat on watch at the entrance to town.

About midnight, some of the villagers had returned to their houses for a few uncomfortable hours of shut eye. Others stayed up through the night with the hope that the hunters would come back with the children in hand. Others said the children were in Allah's hands. Early the next morning, the message from the mosque was the same- still not found.

While someone called the radio stations in the area, the rest of the village split off to search the forests once again, this time in light. Many people said that even if the hunters had passed them last night it was quite possible they didn't see them considering that they might have been asleep on the forest floor. I went with my host mom, Babintou, and the children's grandmother to search the fields south of town. Two hours, three hours passed that way.

It was lunch time when a motorcyclist entered town with Basolo and Safi behind-- and a village parade behind it. We all streamed out from our respective concessions where we had been taking a break in order to then congregate at their family's concession. Many people cried with joy as the mosque announced their return. 24 hours had elapsed from the last time they'd been seen, with a good portion of that time in darkness. I get frightened sometimes, just walking to the edge of town at night. These two toddlers walked over 6 km to spend the night alone in the woods. They were found on a road that runs from another brousse town at an angle 45 degrees from ours. There are no direct paths that connect these road except when passing through other villages. Some villagers are sure that a spirit must have taken them at least part of the way- because 6 km for a 3 year old is a marathon. I, myself, am not yet convinced, but it's hard to believe that they crossed paths with no one that afternoon or evening.

Regardless of how they got there, they have come back and with that relief, I swear the entirety of Bassa went inside for a long and restful midday nap.

Riding Against the Current

It seems ironic that during the two months that I was actually in Bamako with decent internet services, I wrote no blog entries and uploaded no photos. Perhaps it's a testament to how much I was working at the new volunteers' Pre-service Training (PST) or perhaps it's a reflection of the general malaise that arises with me spending extended periods of time in front of a computer (I'm not sure how you do it, Matt). Regardless, apologies for the hiatus and for the lack of photos meant to accompany this entry; I left my camera cord at site and my usually trustworthy USB/SD jack is faltering. Hopefully, it won't be long before I am able to update this in color.

Riding Against the Current
The rainy season has earned its name with record rainfall in some parts of Mali. Where we were, we received over 121 mm (approx. 5 inches) of rain in 12 hours, which does not even compare to the 300 mm (almost a foot!) of rain that they got in Burkina Faso. My homologue and I had planned to travel the 8 km to our market town to speak with the Chef de Poste at the CSCOM or local health center to make plans for our village project (I promise to write more on this just as soon as I can). We covered up in our rain jackets, stuffing extra plastic bags in the pockets to cover our backpacks and other goods on the return trip. We mounted our bikes and began the trip on the now mud/wet sandy road that is our one possible route to leave village for a main gudron (paved road). This trip usually takes 30 minutes in the dry season with only the occasional pot holey, gravely section or hot persistent sun to delay us. This day it took at least a hour and 15 minutes, plus or minus a few moments of my complete shock at the amount of water on our road.

I usually enjoy the trek from village to market, often feeling that biking isn't the worst method of transport available and believing that automobiles really aren't a better solution for the movement of people and goods. This day's experience, however, has allowed me to face this contentedness that has been brewing. Now I ask myself if my enjoyment of this mode of transportation is purely because of my lack of necessity- my acceptance in the knowledge that after my two years of service, this will not be my reality of everyday living. I have a choice where my fellow villagers do not. If someone was sick or needing to leave our village, this- walking, riding a bike, motorcycle or donkey cart- would be the only option. And I did it in full health, with an amazing bicycle, no child on my back or goods to get to market.

We were honestly riding against the current of this river that had previously been our road. At one point, we dismounted when the water was too high so that we could wade across a section of the dike. This dike, created with the very purpose of providing a way to leave 3 villages, is in dire need of repair or complete replacement. I asked my host mother what they did before it was there and she said there was a small raft they would use. If you look to my previous entries, this was the area I referred to as "the troubled bridge over waters" and then I couldn't imagine just how troubled it could be. After my homologue removed his sandals and I tightened my Chacos, we braved the rushing stream of water flowing over the usual path. Afraid as my bicycle was being pulled from my grasp, I asked my homologue to help me place it back on the rocky ground (under a foot and a half of water). He demonstrated with his own bike the best way to stabilize the bike at the same time as we moved forward. We made it safely to the main road, accomplished our tasks, and then waited for the afternoon, in hope that water would have receded with the end of the storm.

(These are two pictures of the dike taken from the path that you can ride during dry season. When my other SD is working, I'll provide you with pictures of when this entire area is FULL of water and moving over the dike. Use your imagination until then and listen to "Have You Ever Seen the Rain" by Creedance Clearwater Revival)

This metaphor seems extremely fitting for much of the situations faced here (so forgive its corniness)- that my friends and family members in Mali are riding on not-so-great bicycles in the midst of ever-changing circumstances or the unnecessary and unexpected current. A bike is not the best option for traversing muddy paths completely submerged in water, but is the best option currently available. To make it out, one must trust one's memory of the road, the reliability of transport, one's own determination, and make up for the rest with a good sense of humor. It's hard not to become discouraged- that even after the valiant efforts by the local government and the hard manual labor by those who often use the road- still not enough gets done to keep up with the constant deterioration of the road, let alone to stand for improvements. To think that this is only one of the thousands of examples of inadequate infrastructure and definitely not the worst.

I'm not quite sure what the appropriate solution would be to solve these issues or where to start, because it seems many questions need to be asked: do you begin with providing improved methods of transportation to deal with the poor road, or work at fixing the road itself? with what technology should the road be fixed? should they start at the dike? what are the appropriate materials for such work? would it be better to look at making broussey villages self-sustaining so they wouldn't have to rely on this road so much? whose responsibility is all this? And you can't blame the rain when you live in a place that droughts happen so often.

My Malian friends are doing the best that they can given what they have, but often it still does not adequately address their needs. Like I said, there is not even a choice to have. Where I find biking the 22 km to my banking town fun and amusing way to avoid having to pay 350 CFA (all the while singing all parts of the ND Glee Club's version of "Beautiful Rain"), they find it a necessity. And when the natural bridge that connects us to the next village falls because of the Noah's Ark amount of rain, there is no choice but to bike the 6 km detour in hope that the next bridge is accessible or retrace the already treacherous path back to the main road, pray for a vehicle to pass and take you 11 km, to then bike the 8 km into brousse (and hope that the dike isn't flooded...). When I write about the inadequacy of these routes, it is only after having unconvinced myself that the path was more than sufficient for the transportation and travel needs of these communities. My detour was only briefly inconvenient, while the same detour for my homologue made him late for a meeting that he still ended up attending wearing sopping wet clothes, although we left plenty early and plenty prepared (internal play list changes its track to REO Speedwagon and "Riding the Storm Out").

In addition, most women do not own bicycles and therefore find themselves either at the whim of a mototigi who often charges outrages fees, the mobilitigi who comes once a week on market day and has a limited number of places for our village and the surrounding villages, or their own two feet and the possible elements to be encountered during the 2 hour walk. So their "riding against the current" becomes an attempt to "run/jump/swim against the current" when none of those activities are taught or even encouraged for young women. It seems that there's just so much that they are up against (re-enter CCR and "Who'll Stop the Rain").

And yet my homologue, as an representative of the others, was helping me through this with a smile on his face; a smirk sometimes, when he snickered at my amazement and general ineptness at voyaging across the flooded paths. "Just grin and bear it" seems to be the motto for so much. Although we are riding bikes against the upstream against innumerable currents present here (malaria, corruption, illiteracy, poor infrastructure, etc), we are doing it as a team, knowing that we want to return to make sure that others can make it as well or providing them with new options and letting them decide the best solution. Perhaps bikes are not the best way to ford the river, but truthfully, cars would not be any better. Realizing that not all technology is directly applicable or appropriate will help us determine which questions need to be addressed first. Until then, we'll take things as they come, keeping optimistic in the face of being pulled downstream. Leave it to say, we're not drowning. It would just be better not having to use our tires as floatation devices in the first place.

One Full Sky and One to Go

Last week, exactly a year after our July 9th arrival, I returned to Bamako in preparation for the new stage of Peace Corps trainees. Along with the help of some of my best PCV friends, our Associate Peace Corps Director (APCD) and others, I will be co-facilitating some training sessions for the 2009-2011 Small Enterprise Development volunteers. We will be back at the training center, Tubaniso, again and also visiting the trainees in their homestay villages in order to provide the best mixture of structured and experiential learning. Although I can hardly believe that I have completed one full sky (the Bambara word is the same for “year”), I am more than excited to share my experiences with the hope that all can benefit, including myself. Our group has brought along a refreshing outlook that will provide me with inspiration for reevaluation one year in.

Mali’s north country
Since I last wrote, I have spent most of my time either in my village or traveling around Mali. My trip to the northern part of the country was amazing- I got to visit some of my fellow volunteers and their actual work places in addition to the more touristy hot spots. It seems that every time I leave site I am stunned by the phenomenal diversity of Mali. Before arriving a year ago, I honestly never expected to experience such a vast variety of peoples, cultures, languages, beliefs, or environments. And then here I am, traveling through the Sahara, the largest and most well-known desert on earth. (FYI, Mali is 65% desert or semi-arid desert, who would have known!) Regardless of where I was in Mali, I was able to greet at least a few people in Bambara, allowing me to feel very welcome and a part of something larger, like the trade network that has been established throughout West Africa since who knows when. That might sound somewhat ridiculous, but this connection was reinforced when part of my original homestay family from my first months as a trainee, who moved out to Gao over 20 years ago, came to meet and greet me as I waited for my bus back to Bamako.

This is the "Dune Rose" located just outside of Gao. Since the Niger River is so low at the end of the hot season, we walked a good distance on the dry river bed before being able to take boat across. We hiked to the top, like at the Michigan dunes, but this dune is so absolutely gorgeously pink that it almost looks like a fake background, n'est-ce pas? The city of Gao is far in the distance behind us and you probably wouldn't be able to tell. Lots of little villages line the Niger (like the one in the background to our left) and some are only accessible by water. I hope to someday travel at least part of the Niger by boat.

Now I've been to both the equator (when in Uganda) AND the prime meridian (out in Gao).

We drove by the "Hand of Fatim" which is a rock structure that juts strangely out of the desert. Some people like to rock climb there, but I just enjoyed seeing the strange formation in Hombori, between Douentza and Gao.

If you want to check my travels out on a map, I made it out to a city called Gao in the northeastern part of the country. I passed through Mopti to Douentza to Gao. I really enjoyed the feel of the northern cities, although I prefer the lushness of Sikasso’s flora. Of course I believe that I could have survived well had I been placed up north a year ago, but I cannot be more thankful for the community that I have become a part of where I now live. My friend (who soon will be moving to Bamako for the next year!) and I rode back the 18ish hours from Gao to Bamako together. For the most part, I would describe my travels as “remarkably mishap-less”—no buses broke down, got flat tires, or had any ridiculous riders to disturb the voyage. I’m thinking about asking some of the engineers here to explain just how roads are built on and next to the sand dunes of the north. Two weeks away from my real host families made me anxious to return to my Bambara-speaking home.

I ni faama, sa! (It’s been a while)
With the shea season and rainy season officially underway as of recent (it has actually been a little late, which has delayed the beginning of planting and field work in my community), the groups with whom I have been working decided it would be best to focus on planning rather than developing infrastructure. The women’s association is communicating with the communities surrounding my village that were also trained at our formation in April. At one point I biked over 200 km in a week to visit and do follow-up trainings in 6 additional towns. Some of the trainings went much better than others, with attentive and active participants who asked lots of questions. It is my village’s hope that they will be prepared when the time comes to buy either well-processed shea nuts or butter from the communities in an attempt to refine and then sell their higher quality product. Again, the difficulty lies in properly sun drying and then storing the boiled nuts during the unbearably humid and wet rainy season.

I went si tomono (shea fruit picking) with two of my younger host sisters. It is their daily Easter egg hunt with only green and brown eggs-- either shea with the fruit still on or not. If the fruit is still on, it makes a nice snack for when you want to take a break. This picture is only of the smaller container that they can carry by balancing on their heads. For the women my age, picture them steadying a flat bottomed punch bowl full of golf balls with one hand, all the while squatting to pick up two or three more golf balls and throwing them on top. Each time I see them returning from the forest (sometimes three times a day), I am astonished. It is truly an extraordinary feat.

While at my site, I assisted a few groups to complete basic feasibility studies for the activities they are looking forward to pursue (i.e. chicken raising, matron training and building a maternity). It was interesting for me to participate and act as a consultant for these meetings, with the members appreciating my feedback, but taking it with a grain of salt considering that they are the experts (literally) in the field. My recommendations related more to the organizational and business aspects of their propositions and I was able to prod for the answers to various questions they either did not think of or did not (initial) see the value in asking.

For a few days, I also sat with the secretary and treasurer of our women’s association to develop a method of accounting that they themselves can understand and continue using to track their shea activities and savings. At first, I was somewhat frustrated with the fact that providing them with an example for their notebook would not be providing them with the methodology. I had thought “Here is a perfect layout for basic accounting!” and had wanted to just give them the paper without an explanation. At that point I was afraid that the process of teaching them would be seen as a vote of “no confidence” in their abilities. But then I recognized how simply delivering a piece of paper could have been the worst way to convey an idea. Giving a piece of paper is not sharing knowledge. I came here to transfer skills, which means more than that—it means teaching with patience to someone who honestly desires to learn. Although I myself have never done such accounting in my life, my high school and university education provides me with the tools to share these concepts with the secretary and treasurer, who absolutely LOVED learning! They could not get enough.

Mo Rocca in Mali
In addition to being in village, I biked a few times (okay, many times) to my banking town in order to plan and prepare for some shows on the radio. Ah! With the help of the radio technicians and DJs (who have amazing amazing radio skills and voices), we did a half an hour live show and recorded two others to be played in my absence. There will be plenty to say about radio during the upcoming months, because I hope to hold the same slot every week. Many PCVs have come to value radio as an ideal medium for sharing their American culture with lots of people. I won’t go into detail now, but want to mention that doing radio well is much more difficult than I anticipated. Coming from a theatrical background, I usually exaggerate facial expressions and body motions for the performance. Radio is completely different and demands more attention to pronunciation and breathing techniques, analysis of audience needs and their reactions. In order to best employ mass media, much research and follow-up is necessary. It has been fun exploring appropriate themes to write shows on, practicing and recording the shows, and then talking with people in the area who might have heard the show.

Although my language skills reflect my continual effort for the past year, I am much more aware that I still speak with an “American” accent. Think about any of your friends whose first language isn’t English, but who have been speaking English for years. Many of them will still have an accent, regardless of how remarkable their grammar or vocabulary knowledge is. My American accented Bambara is now much easier for many Malians to understand (my homologue re-translates my Bambara less and less), but I am continually looking for local phrases to improve my speech. For example, phrases like “gonna, cuz” or “like” honestly advance how natural the language flows—usually we won’t even think about these phrases and even write them off as too informal.

Malians commented after the show that some did not even know I was a “toubab” on the radio until after the introductory show was finished and they repeated who I was (might have been a slight exaggeration). It’s a fantastic compliment to my language tutors and my host families and the patience they have shown me over the last year. I’ve given myself the studio name Mo, which is a nickname for my Malian name and what they call who I am named after. It reminds me of two of my radio idols, Mo Rocca and Todd Moe, not that I’ll ever get to their level—it’s still hard for me to wear the earphones and listen to myself speak!

The first show was an introduction to myself and Peace Corps. They asked me to play some American music, but the only two tapes I had brought with me were Eric Clapton and Ace of Base. It was fantastic. The show aired on July 3rd, so I explained the American holiday of July 4th- what we do (fireworks, parades, travel to historical locations, where flag colors), what we eat (mmm… ice cream and barbeque), and why (because America has been around for over 200 years!). I truly enjoyed remembering my middle school history classes and any number of Independence Day celebrations. This year I celebrated in my village. Sitting in the middle of town, I played even more American music gave out an Ameriki bonbon or an American treat if anyone asked me a question about America. The opportunity for cross-cultural exchange expanded when others asked about their own Independence Day and history and our conversation continued on that. We each sang our national anthem a few times and ended the night with popcorn (wish it could have been apple pie).

P.S. The braiding didn't hurt as much as they said it would... the problem was after two weeks, my head began to itch. Next time- new style.

Photojournal Entry

Okay. For lack of a desire to write a lot, here are some of my favorite photos from village outlining the past few weeks.

Mango season has arrived!
Below, a girl tries to reach the mangoes ripe from the top of the tree, it's probably difficult to see, but the pole (bamboo, I think) goes all the way to where you can't see in my picture. Personally, I like the mangoes that eat like an apple- ones that you can bite right into without it being too mushy. Some of the more ripe mangoes go for dorome dorome, or a penny a piece.

My homestay brother at site enjoying a mango.

Konyon (wedding)

So, the wedding happened and was a lot of fun. Here we all are on the first day, dancing to the djembe, or special celebration drum. There were two fabrics that most of the town bought and had sewn for the wedding... both this beautiful lime green. I refer to the pattern in the foreground as the "dead stump" fabric and don't like it one bit, so I'm glad there was another option. We danced to the djembe for the first day and night and then the second day was the celebration, followed by a late night of dancing to dj-ed music. A lot of fun.

Here I am trying to take a group photo with the bride and her friends (see our "uniform"?). Everyone was so riled up-- everyone just wanted their picture taken with the bride and no one wanted to listen. So in general, not necessarily the best picture, but some of the best memories of the chaos that ensued from taking it.

A video of some of the live action from our djembe dance circle.

A picture of the 12 braids I had for the wedding. They refused to braid my hair into corn-row type braids because they insisted that I would scream and tell them to stop halfway through. Although this might have been true, we'll never know until it actually happens.

Shea Butter and Association Formation

The formation to teach the improved method of good shea butter production happened at the end of April. With 30 participants from my village and 11 friends from surrounding villages, it was quite an event for our small town. Over the next few weeks, I hope to visit the villages who sent participants to follow-up on their experience. The women definitely understand the techniques, so we'll have to see how this shea season works out.

My homestay sister from my original training village came with her mother and was more than patient during the two day formation.

Here the women are washing the nuts to remove dirt and other impurities.

Work and Chores

My homestay mother is amazing at making dagas or their mud pottery. The small pot I made is sitting, drying a little before I finished it (right in the front of the picture.) I've tried to make bigger ones, but they usually collapse. Unfortunately, these dagas are extremely heavy and therefore difficult for the women to get to market.

Sunday morning is dirty laundry day for everyone... including my little brother! I thought this was so cute... and could definitely picture American kids playing in piles of clothes as well.