Filling the Senses

I am now back in the United States. I can revel in my sweet tea, sleep alone in my room, drive down a paved road and watch it rain, but I find I miss the heat, the dust and the crazy traffic. My closet is full to brimming with clothes; I have much less than many Americans, but so much more than my Malian friends. As I look at people passing on campus, I do not see smiling faces or hear laughter, everyone is concentrated on themselves and their lives. Yes, we have so much in America, but we lack so much also.

There are some experiences which stay with you forever. Mali will be one of those experiences for me. Mali filled my senses. The pleasant smells of flowers filled my nose, acrid smells of meat and fish attacked my senses and the dust was so thick you could smell it. Vibrant colors constantly filled my line of sight, backdropped by smoggy skies, red soil and the rolling waters of the Niger. Sounds of people, cars, sirens, horns and animals continued throughout the day and night. The cuisine of Mali introduced me to capitaine, a fish variety from the Niger, and met my craving for lamb. But, most of all, Mali touched me. The country, the people, touched my heart, and this is what I will never forget.

A Celebration of Culture

Malian Visa: $100. Vaccinations: $750. Plane ticket: $2,100. Mali: Priceless.

Often, travelers do not venture “off the beaten path,” becoming the “tourists” who only see the obvious. Only by moving beyond the traditional experiences does one begin to understand the culture that is Mali.

From the time we entered the dusty terrain that is Mali in March, we heard about “the joking cousins phenomenon,” the compounds (rather than houses), the extended “families,” the traditional foods, the market (“Your last, last price?”) and the life of Malians. But only on our last evening in this West African country did we truly EXPERIENCE Malian culture and become part of it.

Our experience began with a surprise from Assoumane: live music from four Malian musicians, three playing traditional African instruments. Dancing and clapping from the rooftop of Assoumane’s compound in the way one might in an African village, we enjoy a soft breeze as it lessens the waning heat of the setting sun. The music speaks of bringing peace to the world; we experience the peace of friendship and fellowship. Not only are Assoumane’s wife and two of his children among the revelers, but also everyone in his compound, it seems, has joined us for this event. Some of the women weave Rachel’s and Lora’s hair into “cornrows.” We play with the children. What a celebration!

In the darkening evening, we prepare to eat a traditional meal from Northern Mali, the area near Timbuktu, Assoumane’s native area. We wash as the Malians, using a pan and kettle of water poured over our hands by Assoumane. We sit together around a steaming bowl of toukassou, a dish not unlike roast beef with LARGE dumplings. We use our right hand to eat; no plates, silverware or napkins clutter the experience. We are like the Africans of the desert as we sit on the rooftop east of Bamako. We eat. We enjoy. We experience. The toukassou is followed by a second course, pomme frites and plantains, and complemented by sodas. We quickly are full and content.

As we leave our new friends, we share handshakes and hugs. As much as we are ready for the United States and its conveniences, it is hard to leave those who give so much and have so little. Oh, that we might learn from them.

Thank you, Assoumane and family, for making our experience in Mali more memorable and perfect than you can imagine. You are special. You are Mali.

Sharing the Joy

The Toubabou Times, 3-22-07 by Terry Clark

This is my new newspaper, The Toubabou Times. Headline: An oasis of people.

The streets are dirt; the waste water runs down the middle of the dirt streets in small rivulets. The buildings are decaying adobe or rough concrete block. You can hear the bleating of sheep. The heat is over 100 degrees. Dust hangs in the yellow late afternoon sky.

We are packed into a Toyota van, on the south side of the Niger river, where the “village people” live in Bamako—the poorest of the poor—they come here from the rural areas in the dry season hoping for work, before the rains come and they go back to their villages. Each family has a one room home, or a compound of several families around a dusty plaza(too nice a word). Most of these people get by on less than $1 a day—and they have to buy water, that we’d not consider safe. This is a slum in a city many of our culture would consider a slum.

We are going to see the parents of our driver Mamadou, who dye imported cotton cloth into beautiful cloth for the peoples’ Boubous (the main daily dress of these people, a sort of toga with a head tie of a different color for women. The Malians are known for their dying abilities.


In the family compound, the “kitchen” is a wood burner outside on the dirt, to heat water, to form a daily paste of millet and rice with okra that is the main meal. The “master bedroom” is a five by eight place with a clean rug on it, and their sandals placed outside. The other bedroom for the entire family is no more than 12 by 12, with a cloth hanging in the open door as the “screen” door. It could be an abandoned adobe in my beloved New Mexico.

The real artisan is the sewer of the white cloth, sewing by hand. Behind him a goat-sheep bleats in a corner.

They are excited to see us, and so dignified. They bring out their dyed cloth and hang it on clothes lines for us to admire. I buy one brilliant piece and head tie for the equivalent of $40—in most places in Mali, you barter to lower the price to about a third asked (we did this in the market earlier today), but not here. I pay 20,000 CFA—about $40 for some cloth that I may not use, or we may make into curtains. Shelly Sitton buys one and it will be made into a boubou for her for $3 for a presentation.

They bring out soft drinks (coke and fanta) for us. They are poor, but You cannot refuse. One young woman standing beside a post holding up the tin roof is wearing a shirt with an American flag on it.

They are so friendly. The dying vats are also here. Our guide “A” shows us how they “iron” the cloth. It looks like a huge mariachi but of slid wood—you can hear thumping in the background. In a hot, but dark thatched hut, pairs of Malians spend hours rapidly beating the cloth over and over until it is flat and creased.
Before we get there however, we have the experience of a lifetime.

The children are eager to see the toubabous (the first whites these people saw were Arab doctors and that’s where the word comes from. ) Every African nation has a word for whites, as do American blacks but unlike Honky, this is a term of wonder.

Sam Knipp of the Farm Bureau chases some of them down the alley and they squeal and jump and run and laugh, and then chase him. He has not had this much fun since he can remember.

We walk down the street heading for the sound of the beating “irons.” The children surround us, wanting to talk to us, stretching out their hands to shake. I am swamped. I repeatedly say to them, shaking their hands, smiling, Bon Jour monsieur or madamoiselle, Ces Vas, Enchante, ‘n I ce (thank you in Bambara), Merci, I use the word toubabu over and over, and they laugh and smile and I can’t reach them all—they are so happy, so full of energy. There. are some who are part blind, some with head lice-who knows what diseases I’m touching—I don’t care, Girls in lacy dusty dresses, others almost nude. We –the children and I--start chanting “toubabou, toubabou” over and over, , shaking hands over and over, moving through the streets. All ages, from 2 or three up to 7-8-9. Sheep and goats wander the streets, a few young teenagers are kicking a dilapidated soccer ball around the streets.

We are so welcome here. We visit our driver’s home with his wife and children, walls built into a cliff…they are so dignified. They offer us water and we can’t refuse, but we fake drinking. These people are better off—they have a mango tree in their compound, and it is almost ripe. But these people have no papers or title to their property—urban development can move them out at any time.

I still don’t know where to start writing about this—these people are free and happy. I America, the media is driven by money and advertising—I always thought that advertising and a media were necessary for a free society. Not so. There is no advertising here to speak of. Our advertising is primarily designed to create a sense of need so we buy some stupid stuff we don’t need.

You don’t need to create need here—need is all around.

And the term “No sweat” has no meaning or place in Mali, for the people or for Toubabous. Everybody sweats, working hard and playing in the heat.

My God, my God, Allah, this is unbelievable. I didn’t bring my candy (I brought two bags of peppermints—I should have brought truckloads. I cannot express what happened to me today…I need more words. Sometimes words don’t work.

I have learned that if you make a little effort to learn people’s languages and show them respect, they return the courtesies in more ways than you can count. In the market earlier today after we had bought some gifts, I said “Vive Mali” and the vendors broke into smiles and laughed and hugged us. And gave me a free gift. They love it when I point to myself and say “Toubabou.”

The people of Mali have given me more than I could ever imagine—of spirit, or attitude, of richness.

The swimming pool may be brim full, but these people are overflowing at flood tide with lessons and gifts Americans can not even imagine. They are an refreshing oasis in a parched land. We talk about how our photos and video and audio won’t be enough—I think we need to capture the smells too.

Walking down one of those dirty streets in the slums, surrounded by children and people, I tell Jim Hynes of Sam Houston University that “I’m at home.” And he agrees.

That means we’re accepted, we’re comfortable, we have no fear, we fit in. It does not mean we feel like we’re home, because we are all ready to come home, and yes, we come back to the hotel and enjoy a shower and good food and fresh water. And we treasure our American passports…but this toubabou really doesn’t possess anything those children and wonderful people don’t have inside. They have refreshed my soul. They are medicine for this toubabou.

The threads of Mali

I thought about my Mom and my Nana today, about the hours they spent making clothes for me, clothes I never fully appreciated. That is until today.

Yesterday, we visited the poorest of the poor in this city of 2 million people. They live in conditions worse than those in which our livestock on our family farm. For that matter, I am pretty sure our cattle eat better food to eat than they do most days. In spite of the dirt, they exhibit genuine, generous smiles, sharing cold soft drinks with their American guests. These strong Malians eek out an existence by purchasing white cotton cloth and dyeing it with the most vibrant colors I think I have ever seen. The unique patterns they create are sometimes breathtaking. Once the dyed cloth is dry, it goes to a hut where young men (probably about mid-20s) press it with large wooden tools that look like mallets turned sideways. (I will never complain about ironing again.) They pound with a hypnotic rhythm that should be reserved for jungle drums. It echoes through the village, a captivating song of intense work.

Fast forward to today. Rachel and I traveled with Mamado and Assoumane back to the village. We retrieve our “pressed” cloth and travel to the tailor, who is a friend of Mamado. The tailor’s shop is about half the size of my office (or less), has a door but no windows, and includes a small, wooden bench on the left for customers and an older sewing machine on the right. It’s about as old as the sewing machines Mom and Nana had when I was a small girl, but in this area with little or no electricity, it is powered by using a large foot pedal like the sewing machine my great-grandmothers would have used. In the small open space (Did I mention the temperature today probably 100 degrees F? Imagine what it was like in that small space!) , the tailor measures us for our boubous (traditional African dresses). He tells Assoumane we are crazy for the length of shirt we want, but he agrees to meet our requests for, get this, 3000 CFA each (that’s $6 of U.S. cash). Yes, only $6 to cut and sew a top, skirt and headscarf! You cannot get a McDonald’s combo for that in some places!

So what, you may ask, does this have to do with Mom and Nana? After this visit to the Malian tailor who lives in the midst of poverty, all I could think about was the countless thankless hours Mom and Nana sat in front of their sewing machines creating beautiful garments for a challenging little girl they loved very much. They were passionate about caring for their family, and so is the tailor. I hope his family members appreciate the work he does to provide them with what little they have. I know I do.

Across the Times

Stacks of VHS tapes pile high in broken cabinets in a TV station, tape decks and cassettes, even record players, make up radio station equipment, these reflect the "ancient" technology used by many of the Malian media outlets. But "extinct" technologies exist beside recently released Mac computers and advanced digital editing hardware. The USAID worker we visited agreed with our observation, Malians have one foot in the 17th century and one in the 21st. Villagers farm by hand, city dwellers carry everything on their heads, but there are affordable cyber cafes and cell phones are as prevalent as in the US. Education is on the rise, but the availability of teachers prevents student-teacher interaction and practical learning. Malians try their best to move forward in the world, ages of oppression slow them down, but an even longer tradition of tolerance and cooperation will lead them to success.

The slums

This afternoon, Mamadou, the driver, had suggested he knew someone who dyed the fabric Mali is famous for. So, he took us to the place. It was his cousin or someone, and the people lived in worse poverty than I have ever, every seen. It was the first time I have cried since I have been here, and I am crying as I write this just thinking about it. They spend all day hand dying this white cloth. The place is filthy and I don't know how they keep it clean. About seven families live in the compound where they operate the business and there were goats running around. Many of the children did not have shoes and had on shreds of clothing or none at all because they didn't have any. There were fleas and lice everywhere. But everyone there was so happy that we had come! They greeted us, Mamadou's parents came to meet us there and they bought pop to give us. It was too much. Then, they showed us all the cloth they had dyed. After we saw that process, we walked down the dusty streets with a herd of about 100 children. They just wanted to shake our hands. We went to a thatched hut where they beat the cloth until it is shiny. They beat it with these big pieces of wood that kind of look like milk jugs. They sit on the floor in the hut in the heat and beat the cloth with the blocks on top of another piece of wood. It irons the cloth, and the rhythm of the jugs beating the other piece of wood below the fabric makes a kind of music. It was one of the most amazing things I have every seen. I bought some of the fabric, and I can't wait for you to see it, it is unlike anything I have ever seen.

After we saw that, we spent more time with the kids in the street. We shook their hands and played with them while they chanted "too baboo" The phrase means "white medicine", and it is what they call white people.

When we left there, Mamadou took us to his compound to meet his family. I just can't describe what it is like. The compound was adobe and was built into the side of a cliff. We were greeted by a girl with one eye and then his wife and aunts and uncles and tons of other children. They are the most hard working people I have ever met. They pound millet every day to make flour that they can make this porridge paste from and that is what they eat for dinner. I guess the poverty really hit home for me today because I have been sitting next to this man for the last ten days as we have driven around Bamako and the surrounding areas. He is kind, amazingly, he never smells and he is a really good driver...and he has nothing. His baby that is two months old would not rival a newborn's weight in the U.S., his little girl had holes in the bottom of her sandals, but they were some of the happiest people I have ever met.

I knew I had to wash everything tonight to avoid bringing lice and fleas home, but I looked at the water and the soap and the white towels twice when I used them.