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.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Friday, March 23, 2007
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.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Happy National Ag Day!
OK, so it's only Ag Day in the good old USA, but I thought about it frequently today as we interviewed prospective participants for the Oklahoma portion of the Mali Exchange Program. So many of the candidates we interviewed came from rural villages where everything is related to agriculture. And what do they want to do with what they will learn in the U.S.? How to provide more and better agricultural information to their villages, communes and districts. They have a passion for journalism and a commitment to making a difference, some as owners of their own radio stations.
Between the morning and afternoon interview sessions, most of us ate lunch by the swimming pool Terry mentioned in his post today. What a beautiful day it was! I don't know if I've ever spend any time by a swimming pool during Spring Break; I could have stayed there all day, I think (with a lot of sunscreen). Cindy, I went to the pool just for you!
Near the entrance to our hotel is a shoe-shine stand. About $1 of U.S. funds will buy you an amazing shoe-shine job on one pair of shoes. I paid the young man $4 for two pairs because he did such a good job and was SO nice. Today, he brought me a gift: a wonderful giraffe statue. It surprised me so much I almost cried. I don't even know his name. He is just one concrete example of how gracious, generous and friendly the Malians we have met are. I am glad we chose this country.
Maybe Mali needs a National Ag Day.
Brim full swimming pool: Terry Clark
The pool at the Hotel Salam is brim full—rather than a curb, it has a convex drain around the perimeter and the water laps gently into it. You can sit and dangle your feet in the water and enjoy the coolness of the evening.
It is an apt metaphor for Mali … this is an ancient culture that is brim full of opportunity, and much deeper than what appears on the surface. After you get past the dirt and heat and trash and poverty, the people are a refreshing oasis of hard work and ambition and courtesy and happiness, despite factors that would daunt many people, especially Americans.
If these people had the same opportunity that we do, they would astound us with their accomplishments. This is what Friedman wrote about in The World is Flat, but respect to India. These people are intelligent and driven to improve and learn and help their country. They lap at the problems in their country like the ripples in the pool.
If America wants friends, they are here, they are eager,--if we’d invest an iota of what we’re spending in Iraq, we’d reap more than we could imagine. I started to say that its too bad the country doesn’t have oil, so we’d b e interested in it. But given our reaction to the part of the world that does have oil, maybe the Malians are fortunate … there has to b e a better way .
It is an apt metaphor for Mali … this is an ancient culture that is brim full of opportunity, and much deeper than what appears on the surface. After you get past the dirt and heat and trash and poverty, the people are a refreshing oasis of hard work and ambition and courtesy and happiness, despite factors that would daunt many people, especially Americans.
If these people had the same opportunity that we do, they would astound us with their accomplishments. This is what Friedman wrote about in The World is Flat, but respect to India. These people are intelligent and driven to improve and learn and help their country. They lap at the problems in their country like the ripples in the pool.
If America wants friends, they are here, they are eager,--if we’d invest an iota of what we’re spending in Iraq, we’d reap more than we could imagine. I started to say that its too bad the country doesn’t have oil, so we’d b e interested in it. But given our reaction to the part of the world that does have oil, maybe the Malians are fortunate … there has to b e a better way .
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Pt. 3 - Photos tell the story ... The People
I have wrote a lot about the people of Mali. They are extremely friendly. Always upbeat. They work hard for everything they have, which isn't much. However, to them it is plenty. They have welcomed us with open arms in their villages, radio stations, newspapers, universities, homes, etc. Below are just a few shots of the people of Mali we have encountered during our visit.
Pt. 2 - Photos tell the story ... Confusion
Jeremiah takes a view of the Niger. We ponder many questions including the direction the river flows. Interestingly, the Niger flows West to East, going opposite what one might think.
Confusion abounds!
The next two photos show our wonderful guide Assoumane playing with a team members camera while entertaining village children. Assoumane's efforts in planning our trip have been nothing short of amazing!
On the banks of the Niger, several team members and Malian colleagues talk about the flow of the Niger and how it gets more narrow as it flows upstream. Again, interesting and confusing.
Finally, some of the smallest things can be difficult when you are not fluent in the either of the local languages. Shelly is attempting to order from the menu at a local restaurant, finally resorting to the "finger point" while Lora (the only one who has any vocabulary in one of the languages (French), attempts to talk with the waiter.
We have seen many things. Confusion abounds. The team certainly has more questions than answers. However, one thing is sure ... in a culture of such friendly people, we can adapt.
Photos tell the story...The Team
The U.S. team has been hard at work discovering Mali. These pictures show just a few of our many stops along the way. Whether posing with children, talking/interviewing village farmers or visiting a local rural radio station, the sites have been unbelievable and the people have been wonderful.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Just like home
Having grown up on a farm, living in the country all of my life prior to college, I took for granted all people were "neighborly." In my hometown, people might argue with one another, but they form a community in which people help each other when help is needed. They wave when they meet on the road; they always speak when they see you (and when it's been a long time, you may get a hug). Half way around the world, I found the same atmosphere in the African village of Bancouanan.Bancouanan is generally south of Bamako, and it has more people than my hometown. The villagers are cotton farmers; they probably always have been and probably always will be. The only reason they had time to meet with us was because they are between cotton seasons. You could tell from their weathered faces they knew hard work. And I honestly don't think they would consider doing anything else. Maybe it's that rural people have to work hard to survive. Or maybe it's because there is not as much to "do" in the country. But what I observed, more than anything else, was the friendliness and passion for agriculture I find in my family -- my father, my brother, my uncles and their families -- in Adair, Oklahoma, USA. Rural people are rural people whether in Oklahoma or Africa, if the villagers of Bancouanan are any indication. I only wish I knew more of their language so I could have communicated better with them. I didn't have to know French to know they were pleased to have us visit their radio station, their community building, the NIH research facility, their cropland and THEM.
The best part of the day is best described in the photo. A Malian mother allowed me to hold her 40-day-old little girl. What a privilege. Of course, it only made me miss my own boys that much more. She seemed to enjoy seeing the pictures I brought of Jacob and Matthew; she had a big laugh about the snow in some of them. Snow is definitely something she had not seen before yesterday.
Life is about sharing moments in time. I appreciate the time we shared with each other and with these Malian villagers (in spite of the heat, red dust and two flat tires). I would do it all over again.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder
Once again, I sit here covered in Malina dirt and grime. The dust from the day covers my body like a second skin and coats every strand of my hair. Today we visited Bancoumana, a village over an hour of dusty, bumpy roads from Bamako. The vast expanse of land surrounding the village stretches endlessly into the smoky gray sky of the horizon, dotted occasionally with trees, the only sources of color other than the red of the dirt road. In this arid environment, it is hard to find beauty in a landscape of sparse colors and scant water, but just as monsoon rains bring color, growth and prosperity, the people of Bancoumana color the area surrounding their village. The bright colors of their clothes, a mix of traditional buobuos and modern jeans and T-shirts, their quick wit and laughter, and their love of the land and their community, create an atmosphere with vibrant colors. Colors which mask the effects of persistent dirt, dust and heat, an unquenchable passion for life I can only hope to exude.
Passion in Poverty: Observations by Terry Clark
3-17-2007
What stands out here among all the people we’ve interviewed and met is their passion for their country, for their work. They take you into their meager, dusty offices and show you around with pride, much as we would with a new car, but unlike us, if we have someone in our home, we always make excuses—“we’re working on this, and we need to do this….”
Not them. Their attitude toward newspapers and radio and television is one that begins with the 1991 revolution—the all mention the dictatorship—they all mention that their biggest need is more trained journalists—but they’re all committed to the work.
The link between journalism, and improving agriculture and the economy and politics is apparent to everyone. It is journalism with a cause.
“Our weapon is the antenna” one radio owner told us, being the “voice of the voiceless.” Another woman in a dusty rural area where solar panels powered car batteries so the radio could stay on the air has a half hour program on women’s issues…almost all are volunteers. Asked about their training, they say they need more. “We try” they say. One man at the station can barely read and write, but there is a blackboard on the floor in the next room where he’s working on his literacy. At midmorning, under the tin roof, it is about 90 degrees at least. Law students and grads take jobs at radio and newspapers so they can have jobs.
We see no malnutrition. There is food
--some unbelievable produce by the sides of the roads. There is meat. There is however, very little water and very little money.
Radios are everywhere because of the illiteracy. I am keeping a daily journal and notes, and I’m up to 60 pages plus now, and I intended this to be a transcription, but it just starts pouring out. Running together. I know some of it is repetition because I can’t always remember what I wrote.
We met Monday with head of the one TV station, subsidized heavily by the government. The motto is La passion por service le public.
He works seven days a week, from early to late—“If you don’t have passion, all the technology won’t help you.”
Every office you go to you see empty boxes—for computers, printer toner, monitors, bottled water, VCR tapes, other equipment. They’re like us—get the material unloaded and stash the box someplace, you might need it.
Every place we go we ask questions about ethics and the answers are interesting. Almost all of these radio and newspapers and the TV have been in court in the past few months to years defending themselves against slander and libel. Different laws over here.
And the lessons on ethics are interesting too. The top TV guide says “If you expect people to respect your ethics, they first must know what they are, what your job is.”
American journalists, are you listening? We don’t explain ourselves to our audiences. Newspapers over here have declining circulations like we do, and part of that is because the journalists are not well trained. The editor and owner we met Monday however of the paper 26September (the date of the revolution) has been to US at Freedom Forum, to Baltimore, the Modesto Bee. He got his education in Cuba when the Russians were big in this country and there…but he is not a communist—he is Malian. “We want to make a paper for all people, not just the officials.”
All of these people in all media are crying out for more training for their journalists….including the university we visited that is thinking about starting a journalism program.
I’m out of steam for this session—the lesson is that these people are poor, and they’re hungry—not for food necessarily—but to improve.
What stands out here among all the people we’ve interviewed and met is their passion for their country, for their work. They take you into their meager, dusty offices and show you around with pride, much as we would with a new car, but unlike us, if we have someone in our home, we always make excuses—“we’re working on this, and we need to do this….”
Not them. Their attitude toward newspapers and radio and television is one that begins with the 1991 revolution—the all mention the dictatorship—they all mention that their biggest need is more trained journalists—but they’re all committed to the work.
The link between journalism, and improving agriculture and the economy and politics is apparent to everyone. It is journalism with a cause.
“Our weapon is the antenna” one radio owner told us, being the “voice of the voiceless.” Another woman in a dusty rural area where solar panels powered car batteries so the radio could stay on the air has a half hour program on women’s issues…almost all are volunteers. Asked about their training, they say they need more. “We try” they say. One man at the station can barely read and write, but there is a blackboard on the floor in the next room where he’s working on his literacy. At midmorning, under the tin roof, it is about 90 degrees at least. Law students and grads take jobs at radio and newspapers so they can have jobs.
We see no malnutrition. There is food
--some unbelievable produce by the sides of the roads. There is meat. There is however, very little water and very little money.
Radios are everywhere because of the illiteracy. I am keeping a daily journal and notes, and I’m up to 60 pages plus now, and I intended this to be a transcription, but it just starts pouring out. Running together. I know some of it is repetition because I can’t always remember what I wrote.
We met Monday with head of the one TV station, subsidized heavily by the government. The motto is La passion por service le public.
He works seven days a week, from early to late—“If you don’t have passion, all the technology won’t help you.”
Every office you go to you see empty boxes—for computers, printer toner, monitors, bottled water, VCR tapes, other equipment. They’re like us—get the material unloaded and stash the box someplace, you might need it.
Every place we go we ask questions about ethics and the answers are interesting. Almost all of these radio and newspapers and the TV have been in court in the past few months to years defending themselves against slander and libel. Different laws over here.
And the lessons on ethics are interesting too. The top TV guide says “If you expect people to respect your ethics, they first must know what they are, what your job is.”
American journalists, are you listening? We don’t explain ourselves to our audiences. Newspapers over here have declining circulations like we do, and part of that is because the journalists are not well trained. The editor and owner we met Monday however of the paper 26September (the date of the revolution) has been to US at Freedom Forum, to Baltimore, the Modesto Bee. He got his education in Cuba when the Russians were big in this country and there…but he is not a communist—he is Malian. “We want to make a paper for all people, not just the officials.”
All of these people in all media are crying out for more training for their journalists….including the university we visited that is thinking about starting a journalism program.
I’m out of steam for this session—the lesson is that these people are poor, and they’re hungry—not for food necessarily—but to improve.
Bon jour will get you far in Mail, daily blog of Terry Clark
3-16-2007
Some of this may be repetitive, and much of it is random at the end of the day. There is such an assault on the senses in Mali, and therefore so much to try to think about and synthesize.
There are no lazy people here, even in 110-degree heat, even when poor, even when begging, they have a dignity. . Ask some if you can take their photo, and many will shake their heads. Why is “No” so universal in languages?
The people are incredibly friendly. We are among the few “tubabu” (whites) many have seen—they stare, especially the children, but they smile and wave, and if you just make eye contact and say Bon Jour, you get smiles and return greetings.
We visit government minister of communication and others working with the press today. They speak in French….and it seems like the first 20 minutes or so are rehearsed and formal, and then they say “You have the floor,” and after many questions they start loosening up.
Everyone refers to the 1991 revolution when the dictatorship was ousted. These people can remember the dictatorship and all discussions of media start there
Asked if Mali’s many radio stations play music, the minister says, “they’ll play music when all Malians have something to eat.”
Actually they do play music, depending on the station, but everyone is aware how much is riding on radio. The people are committed to “decentralization,” a real federal system in reaction to dictatorship.
Accordingly, the country is divided into 750 communes (do not think Soviet style), where the communities pretty well run their areas. They elect mayors and representatives to the district level, of which there are eight, and the district elects 3 to the regional area. There are also elections for parliament and the presidency.
Next month is the presidential election—all terms are five years.
Each commune is allotted three radio frequencies, and the stations, most of which are fairly weak (one had a radius of about 60 km (40 miles) concentrate on agricultural matters, health, the fight against AIDs, women’s issues, etc.
It is a source of pride to work for a radio station –one we visited Sunday in a rural area had solar panels charging car batteries—it is on a few hours in the morning and a few in the afternoon, but not at night (no sun).
In Bamako, the capital of 1.3 million there are about 20 radio stations and about 17 newspapers (most in French the official language.) Most of these papers are tabloid size, have almost no advertising, and small circulations (I think the largest of them have about 17,000 circulation, another 10,000). There are 7 or 8 dailies, 12 weeklies, 2-4 bi-weeklies and 3-4 magazines. Average circulation less than 2,000 (literacy rate is somewhere between 28-47 percent).
We hear more than one person talk about “vision” and where they hope the country will go.
I think that is the key word—hope. How else can you explain that we don’t find any angry people? Most are smiling, working hard…we saw one guy pushing a cart down the middle of the street with about 1,000 pounds of rebar (steel for concrete construction). So it may look hopeless here to outsiders (the trash, the heat, the dirt, the poverty), but these people get along and something motivates them to work.
Radio is seen as a crucial tool in what these people call “mobilization”—getting the country moving up. They don’t deny they have problems, they talk about them, but they don’t complain or whine about them, and they don’t ask for handouts (other than the street children begging with coffee cans in the streets). Others will constantly accost you on the street at stop lights and in traffic jams, and try to sell you something.
Other than being persistent however, they are not threatening.
You can tell I have much to write—the more I write the more comes to mind. I’m not even through with the log from my journal for this one day, so I’m far behind, and so there will be more tomorrow.
One note on journalism—we work with an interpreter—our guide “A” who is an English teacher. It’s the first time I’ve worked with an interpreter in journalistic interviews, but it really helps. Here are some of the effects I see:
It makes you slow down and carefully phrase your questions so your words will translate better; it gives you time to write while the foreigner is speaking. It makes you listen carefully, both to the speaker and the interp. You find anew how important eye contact and body language is.
One final note to prepare for next blog—there are similarities here with American press in loss of credibility and circulation, and journalism pay is low.
Another quote of day from the newspaper owner we interviewed, when asked what he thought was necessary to train journalists: “To be a good journalist, you first need to love it—the rest will come.”
And that’s what’s brewing in my coffee pot, in Mali, West Africa—Terry Clark
Some of this may be repetitive, and much of it is random at the end of the day. There is such an assault on the senses in Mali, and therefore so much to try to think about and synthesize.
There are no lazy people here, even in 110-degree heat, even when poor, even when begging, they have a dignity. . Ask some if you can take their photo, and many will shake their heads. Why is “No” so universal in languages?
The people are incredibly friendly. We are among the few “tubabu” (whites) many have seen—they stare, especially the children, but they smile and wave, and if you just make eye contact and say Bon Jour, you get smiles and return greetings.
We visit government minister of communication and others working with the press today. They speak in French….and it seems like the first 20 minutes or so are rehearsed and formal, and then they say “You have the floor,” and after many questions they start loosening up.
Everyone refers to the 1991 revolution when the dictatorship was ousted. These people can remember the dictatorship and all discussions of media start there
Asked if Mali’s many radio stations play music, the minister says, “they’ll play music when all Malians have something to eat.”
Actually they do play music, depending on the station, but everyone is aware how much is riding on radio. The people are committed to “decentralization,” a real federal system in reaction to dictatorship.
Accordingly, the country is divided into 750 communes (do not think Soviet style), where the communities pretty well run their areas. They elect mayors and representatives to the district level, of which there are eight, and the district elects 3 to the regional area. There are also elections for parliament and the presidency.
Next month is the presidential election—all terms are five years.
Each commune is allotted three radio frequencies, and the stations, most of which are fairly weak (one had a radius of about 60 km (40 miles) concentrate on agricultural matters, health, the fight against AIDs, women’s issues, etc.
It is a source of pride to work for a radio station –one we visited Sunday in a rural area had solar panels charging car batteries—it is on a few hours in the morning and a few in the afternoon, but not at night (no sun).
In Bamako, the capital of 1.3 million there are about 20 radio stations and about 17 newspapers (most in French the official language.) Most of these papers are tabloid size, have almost no advertising, and small circulations (I think the largest of them have about 17,000 circulation, another 10,000). There are 7 or 8 dailies, 12 weeklies, 2-4 bi-weeklies and 3-4 magazines. Average circulation less than 2,000 (literacy rate is somewhere between 28-47 percent).
We hear more than one person talk about “vision” and where they hope the country will go.
I think that is the key word—hope. How else can you explain that we don’t find any angry people? Most are smiling, working hard…we saw one guy pushing a cart down the middle of the street with about 1,000 pounds of rebar (steel for concrete construction). So it may look hopeless here to outsiders (the trash, the heat, the dirt, the poverty), but these people get along and something motivates them to work.
Radio is seen as a crucial tool in what these people call “mobilization”—getting the country moving up. They don’t deny they have problems, they talk about them, but they don’t complain or whine about them, and they don’t ask for handouts (other than the street children begging with coffee cans in the streets). Others will constantly accost you on the street at stop lights and in traffic jams, and try to sell you something.
Other than being persistent however, they are not threatening.
You can tell I have much to write—the more I write the more comes to mind. I’m not even through with the log from my journal for this one day, so I’m far behind, and so there will be more tomorrow.
One note on journalism—we work with an interpreter—our guide “A” who is an English teacher. It’s the first time I’ve worked with an interpreter in journalistic interviews, but it really helps. Here are some of the effects I see:
It makes you slow down and carefully phrase your questions so your words will translate better; it gives you time to write while the foreigner is speaking. It makes you listen carefully, both to the speaker and the interp. You find anew how important eye contact and body language is.
One final note to prepare for next blog—there are similarities here with American press in loss of credibility and circulation, and journalism pay is low.
Another quote of day from the newspaper owner we interviewed, when asked what he thought was necessary to train journalists: “To be a good journalist, you first need to love it—the rest will come.”
And that’s what’s brewing in my coffee pot, in Mali, West Africa—Terry Clark
Saturday, March 17, 2007
The Music of Mali
The Malian culture is one of interaction and a sense of community. No where has that been more evident than on a dirt street today on the outskirts of Bamako.
As a community gathered to celebrate the Day of Women, they invited us to join them, to photograph them, to celebrate with them. Males and females, from the oldest to the youngest, they smile and laugh, dance and sing, and share time together. No one is shy. No one is left out.
It was an honor to be part of this special time and of this community. Music is its own language; it crosses the barriers in ways words cannot. For that, I am thankful.
It's all about perspective
As I wash my face and watch the water run down the drain, tinted brown by the relentless Malian dirt, I cannot help but ask myself if I could survive in a place like this. The dirt constantly seeps into your pores and the sweltering heat makes you long to do nothing, but still Malians work to make a living and put food on the table, whatever that table may be. I have seen men pushing carts through the streets loaded with everything from bottles of drinks, to potatoes, to rebar, women carrying products on their heads from eggs to gasoline and babies on their backs, children begging at every stopped vehicle or trying to sell some trinket, phone card, or box of tissues. I hear sirens blaring, car horns honking, and an endless din of voices of all types, but, in the midst of all this I see the bright colors of "buobuos", soccer games in dirt lots, smiling faces as friends tell jokes. I hear radios blaring tunes from as far away as the US and Nelly to as close to home as local musicians. There is dancing in the streets and laughter in the air. Malians might not have material things, but they do have democracy and above all, they have hope. I guess everything is just a matter of perspective.
Sam's Thoughts
Sensory overload is a good way to describe Friday. Crowded, dusty streets, many people trying to sell me something. These people are amazing. Most seem polite, happy despite deplorable conditions. It may take a long time to get the smell of burning trash out of my nose.
Many of the people seem filled with optimism. I pray for them to have better living conditions, but I'm afraid that may never happen.
The abject poverty is really working on my subconscious. Don't know how much more I can really absorb.
Many of the people seem filled with optimism. I pray for them to have better living conditions, but I'm afraid that may never happen.
The abject poverty is really working on my subconscious. Don't know how much more I can really absorb.
Friday, March 16, 2007
A long, yet productive day
On our second full day in Mali, we learned significant issues related to the Malian media, including that the papers do not separate their editorials from their news; the reporters' opinions are mixed with the story itself. Definitely a topic for the sessions in Oklahoma in July.
The information sessions today with the Mali Ministry of Communication were quite informative (that's where we learned more about the issue above). The director of publicity indicated he knew of no American-trained journalist in the country of Mali. Will that change as a result of this program?
We also have a better understanding of the impact of radio and its setup in Mali. Our visit to two radio stations late this afternoon showed us how committed these journalists are to providing information to their listeners. At Radio Bamako, stacks of 33 rpm albums are just the first indication of the outdated technology used to get the station's messages to the people. The cassette decks look like the ones we used in the '80s in college. Back to the 33s: the station director indicated the "older" listeners like the "old music." At least he knows his audience! Since I grew up with 45s and my Mom's 33s, does that mean I'm old? I'll have to ponder than more.
The people of Mali are friendly and genuinely seem to want to help others. They also want you to help them by buying their wares or giving them money. I still can't help being attracted to the children. In the dirt, dust, trash (which is bad, especially on top of the hills overlooking Bamako), and noise, the children play soccer, peak shyly from around their mothers' skirts, and smile when they want you to take their picture.
Believe it or not, we ate pizza today. Twice!
Ou revoir!
The information sessions today with the Mali Ministry of Communication were quite informative (that's where we learned more about the issue above). The director of publicity indicated he knew of no American-trained journalist in the country of Mali. Will that change as a result of this program?
We also have a better understanding of the impact of radio and its setup in Mali. Our visit to two radio stations late this afternoon showed us how committed these journalists are to providing information to their listeners. At Radio Bamako, stacks of 33 rpm albums are just the first indication of the outdated technology used to get the station's messages to the people. The cassette decks look like the ones we used in the '80s in college. Back to the 33s: the station director indicated the "older" listeners like the "old music." At least he knows his audience! Since I grew up with 45s and my Mom's 33s, does that mean I'm old? I'll have to ponder than more.
The people of Mali are friendly and genuinely seem to want to help others. They also want you to help them by buying their wares or giving them money. I still can't help being attracted to the children. In the dirt, dust, trash (which is bad, especially on top of the hills overlooking Bamako), and noise, the children play soccer, peak shyly from around their mothers' skirts, and smile when they want you to take their picture.
Believe it or not, we ate pizza today. Twice!
Ou revoir!
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Bulb's are blooming in Mali just as they are in Oklahoma!
Although the bulb might be different, there are certainly some similarities to the developing democracy in Mali with the wonderful spring blooms happening back in Oklahoma. Our day took us through major parts of the city of Bamako. If you merely stare at the desolate housing and shops, you can quickly lose sight of the beauty of this budding democracy, its people.
Every one we have had contact with while in Mali have been respectful and polite. Even at the airport when we first arrived yesterday, the mania that ensued to get our luggage and get out the door was just plain madness. People everywhere with carts seeking to help. It truly was a miracle we made it out of the airport door with all our belongings. Once outside, we began "the walk." The rush of warm Malian air almost took me back as I took my first step. Step two required me to cough a few times as I inhaled Malian dust for the first time. Yes, it is dusty here. By the end of a day it looks like thick fog engulfing the city. As we approach the end of the sidewalk there are many people waiting. My first thought was that they were waiting for family or friends. I quickly realized their mission was much different. As we neared the end of the sidewalk, I heard many saying "Americans, Americans, Teobobu (Bambara for white person) Teobobu." An alley quickly formed as the masses spread for our walk to the taxi. Once in the alley, we were asked, nudged, encouraged, begged to allow them to help in any way they could. All of them!! They followed us to our vehicle. Our interpreter, Assoumane, worked hard to push them away, but they came from every angle. At first sight, this was overwhelming. However, in hindsight it was merely a way of life for society members in one of the poorest countries in the world. We quickly loaded into a taxi and motored down the road toward the city (leaving behind some luggage, two team members and our coordinator because not everyone would fit on the first trip). Of course, I will have to let Jeremiah or Jim blog about their experience and the flat tire story!
Today, we met with Stephanie Syptak, the public affairs officer for the U.S. Embassy in Mali. "Welcome to Mali" she said as she started her conversation with us. It was an honor to hear her share important information about the culture and social makeup of Mali.
Later in the day, we had an opportunity to take a taxi downtown to a market. This ride provided probably the most visual perspective of this country. Again, however, looking past the desolate architecture and landscape, you quickly see the beautiful people dressed in richly colored attire working and playing and socializing with each other.
Today was just the first of many positive experiences we will have while in Mali. We have a lot to learn and a lot to share as we move forward with this project. I am so excited about tomorrow, I find it hard to stop writing this blog. However, the time has come that I must stop and get some sleep as morning will come all too soon (it is now midnight in Bamako, 7 p.m. for those of you in Oklahoma who are struggling to get the kids ready for baths and bedtime).
I ni wonla!
Bonjour!
Goodnight!
Every one we have had contact with while in Mali have been respectful and polite. Even at the airport when we first arrived yesterday, the mania that ensued to get our luggage and get out the door was just plain madness. People everywhere with carts seeking to help. It truly was a miracle we made it out of the airport door with all our belongings. Once outside, we began "the walk." The rush of warm Malian air almost took me back as I took my first step. Step two required me to cough a few times as I inhaled Malian dust for the first time. Yes, it is dusty here. By the end of a day it looks like thick fog engulfing the city. As we approach the end of the sidewalk there are many people waiting. My first thought was that they were waiting for family or friends. I quickly realized their mission was much different. As we neared the end of the sidewalk, I heard many saying "Americans, Americans, Teobobu (Bambara for white person) Teobobu." An alley quickly formed as the masses spread for our walk to the taxi. Once in the alley, we were asked, nudged, encouraged, begged to allow them to help in any way they could. All of them!! They followed us to our vehicle. Our interpreter, Assoumane, worked hard to push them away, but they came from every angle. At first sight, this was overwhelming. However, in hindsight it was merely a way of life for society members in one of the poorest countries in the world. We quickly loaded into a taxi and motored down the road toward the city (leaving behind some luggage, two team members and our coordinator because not everyone would fit on the first trip). Of course, I will have to let Jeremiah or Jim blog about their experience and the flat tire story!
Today, we met with Stephanie Syptak, the public affairs officer for the U.S. Embassy in Mali. "Welcome to Mali" she said as she started her conversation with us. It was an honor to hear her share important information about the culture and social makeup of Mali.
Later in the day, we had an opportunity to take a taxi downtown to a market. This ride provided probably the most visual perspective of this country. Again, however, looking past the desolate architecture and landscape, you quickly see the beautiful people dressed in richly colored attire working and playing and socializing with each other.
Today was just the first of many positive experiences we will have while in Mali. We have a lot to learn and a lot to share as we move forward with this project. I am so excited about tomorrow, I find it hard to stop writing this blog. However, the time has come that I must stop and get some sleep as morning will come all too soon (it is now midnight in Bamako, 7 p.m. for those of you in Oklahoma who are struggling to get the kids ready for baths and bedtime).
I ni wonla!
Bonjour!
Goodnight!
Daily journal of Terry Clark—in Mali—these are reflections of our first Democracy lives and poverty abounds
Our questions are why and how? There is a who, what, when and where, but why and how?
We start getting answers from the public affairs officer and info specialist
The dust hangs in the air, as does the heat
The embassy PAO is from Texas; she asks if this is first trip to sub-Sahara, and when we say yes, she just laughs….a lot—what an omen
I see many similarities with American media—she talks about freedom is here, but there are questions about responsibility
“When you get past the dirt and the poverty, you see the color and hard work and laughter and warmth”
Chinese fabric comes here and the people make garmets: does Oklahoma cotton go to China to come here in fabric?
This isn’t the hot season—the hot seaqson is April-May, 46 to 48 degrees C
Story ideas galore—ag is at basis of a poor country—how different from USA—yet America is based on iterate ag basis—is this just three centuries behind—America survived with luck and isolation—Mali is indeed isolated, will it survive? They have more history than we do
Mali is a success in governance and democracy wen you consider the situation—in the economic and political region. A society where you can speak your mind, don’t resort to violence to solve issues—due to leadership
Quote4 from PAO person—they are jealous of democracy
Our guide A says when asked if the people have certain time of day to sing national anthem, etc., that no, they have been under dictatorship and they don’t like mandated ceremonies—what would they think of the lpledge of allegience?
It seems to me that the terms “No Sweat” would never be used here—although I don’t see the native sweating under the hot sun
We are the minorities here—everybody is a minority somewhere—it is good to be a minority—it opens your eyes
The swimming pool is brim full—a metaphor for the people—and the land—so much here—a surprise in West Africa—Democracy in the desert—a product they market.
PAO says it is a model to their neighbors—but if neighbors are not democracies—what do they really think and are they threats?
Economy is so bad here, that law school grads go to work for low paying radio just to have jobs.
“This is a lab for democracy—to what it grow—and to water and nurture.”
We are trying to help cultivate it.”
This is a backwater, it is poor, landlocked, but a Democracy. Why and how.
There are no American newspapers here, I don’t know the news there—What do Americans see and think (Other than Fox), therefore I’m isolated from my country and part of the world. So Americans are isolated from the rest of the the world, and have no idea about here? Is that dangerous? Are we becoming more provincial even as media is more digital and global, but we narrow our views?
Maybe Mali’s isolation will allow it to develop as our isolation once did. Does it feel isolated? Does it care?
This country raises a lot of questions. Therefore, there are more stories than we can count—we saw a few today in a visual overload.
Terry Clark
We start getting answers from the public affairs officer and info specialist
The dust hangs in the air, as does the heat
The embassy PAO is from Texas; she asks if this is first trip to sub-Sahara, and when we say yes, she just laughs….a lot—what an omen
I see many similarities with American media—she talks about freedom is here, but there are questions about responsibility
“When you get past the dirt and the poverty, you see the color and hard work and laughter and warmth”
Chinese fabric comes here and the people make garmets: does Oklahoma cotton go to China to come here in fabric?
This isn’t the hot season—the hot seaqson is April-May, 46 to 48 degrees C
Story ideas galore—ag is at basis of a poor country—how different from USA—yet America is based on iterate ag basis—is this just three centuries behind—America survived with luck and isolation—Mali is indeed isolated, will it survive? They have more history than we do
Mali is a success in governance and democracy wen you consider the situation—in the economic and political region. A society where you can speak your mind, don’t resort to violence to solve issues—due to leadership
Quote4 from PAO person—they are jealous of democracy
Our guide A says when asked if the people have certain time of day to sing national anthem, etc., that no, they have been under dictatorship and they don’t like mandated ceremonies—what would they think of the lpledge of allegience?
It seems to me that the terms “No Sweat” would never be used here—although I don’t see the native sweating under the hot sun
We are the minorities here—everybody is a minority somewhere—it is good to be a minority—it opens your eyes
The swimming pool is brim full—a metaphor for the people—and the land—so much here—a surprise in West Africa—Democracy in the desert—a product they market.
PAO says it is a model to their neighbors—but if neighbors are not democracies—what do they really think and are they threats?
Economy is so bad here, that law school grads go to work for low paying radio just to have jobs.
“This is a lab for democracy—to what it grow—and to water and nurture.”
We are trying to help cultivate it.”
This is a backwater, it is poor, landlocked, but a Democracy. Why and how.
There are no American newspapers here, I don’t know the news there—What do Americans see and think (Other than Fox), therefore I’m isolated from my country and part of the world. So Americans are isolated from the rest of the the world, and have no idea about here? Is that dangerous? Are we becoming more provincial even as media is more digital and global, but we narrow our views?
Maybe Mali’s isolation will allow it to develop as our isolation once did. Does it feel isolated? Does it care?
This country raises a lot of questions. Therefore, there are more stories than we can count—we saw a few today in a visual overload.
Terry Clark
mangoes and such
We've been in Mali for nearly a full day now, and I think we are taking our time to adjust. We spent several hours today talking to a lady from the embassy and our interpreter about what we can expect and ventured out to a grocery store for bottled water. We attempted this evening to leave the hotel for food (I am excited to try some fish porridge, which I understand is the national dish). However, our venture was rather unsuccessful. We walked down the dirt paths next to an extremely busy roadway filled with mopeds and bikes and cars and green taxi vans with no doors.
As we walked toward what we expected to be a rather nice dinner, we passed street vendor after street vendor with their neatly stacked fruits. It's almost as if they live next to the cardboard mats they stack their fruit on. It was the dinner hour and they had very pungent fires burning, which I guess were for food.
We never found the now infamous restaurant. We found the sign for the restaurant but it led us down a very dark path to the Niger River where we found a crumbling white building and a large brush fire. Two men came from the dark bushes as we were leaving, I think it left some members of our team a little spooked, but overall we were still just hungry. Then, we came back to the hotel for our second meal of the day.
Tomorrow, we will start our tours, and I am excited to see more of this amazing city. Oh, I forgot my title. This morning we saw a man picking mangoes outside our hotel room. The Malians eat mangoes like apples (peel and all). After having a mango at lunch, I understand why, they are delicious.
As we walked toward what we expected to be a rather nice dinner, we passed street vendor after street vendor with their neatly stacked fruits. It's almost as if they live next to the cardboard mats they stack their fruit on. It was the dinner hour and they had very pungent fires burning, which I guess were for food.
We never found the now infamous restaurant. We found the sign for the restaurant but it led us down a very dark path to the Niger River where we found a crumbling white building and a large brush fire. Two men came from the dark bushes as we were leaving, I think it left some members of our team a little spooked, but overall we were still just hungry. Then, we came back to the hotel for our second meal of the day.
Tomorrow, we will start our tours, and I am excited to see more of this amazing city. Oh, I forgot my title. This morning we saw a man picking mangoes outside our hotel room. The Malians eat mangoes like apples (peel and all). After having a mango at lunch, I understand why, they are delicious.
"Welcome to Mali!"
... the words of the public affairs officer for the U.S. Embassy in Mali who met with us this afternoon. She shared background information about the media in Mali and the United States role in assistance here.
Food at lunch in the hotel was tasty, different, but tasty. We're going to what is reported to be a "good restaurant" for the evening meal. Should be interesting.
The most eventful part of the day was traveling by van (12 of us in a van designed to haul eight or nine; you thought the OSU vans were crowded on ACT trips!). No air conditioning except opened windows. We ventured with our Malian coordinator to a supermarket. To me it smelled like the Homeland store in Stillwater before the converted it to the Hastings store -- Rob called it the "old grocery store smell." It wasn't much different than our stores; bottled water and pop were fairly inexpensive while non-food items seems a little more expensive than at home. What was EXTREMELY different was the trip and the conditions we saw. Oh, my goodness. I have seen pictures of poverty, but nothing prepared me for this, which probably is not the worst of it. Everyone wants to sell you something. It seemed every inch of sidewalk and building fronts was taken by someone's "store." You name it, I think we saw it. Even the goats -- well, Lora said they were hair sheep -- live in this capital city. There is dirt everywhere, and the sun is hidden in the haze. The brightness is in the clothes of the people, every color imaginable.
What seems always to catch my eye are the children. Many are homeless, living on the streets; some are orphans, while others are just from poor families. How can they enjoy childhood in this situation? They are forced to grow up too quickly, from what I can observe. In spite of this, they are so cute. Maybe as this young democracy can make advancements in the plight of its future leaders. Improved education, required classes beyond sixth grade, would do much to help this country, but where will the money come from?
Food at lunch in the hotel was tasty, different, but tasty. We're going to what is reported to be a "good restaurant" for the evening meal. Should be interesting.
The most eventful part of the day was traveling by van (12 of us in a van designed to haul eight or nine; you thought the OSU vans were crowded on ACT trips!). No air conditioning except opened windows. We ventured with our Malian coordinator to a supermarket. To me it smelled like the Homeland store in Stillwater before the converted it to the Hastings store -- Rob called it the "old grocery store smell." It wasn't much different than our stores; bottled water and pop were fairly inexpensive while non-food items seems a little more expensive than at home. What was EXTREMELY different was the trip and the conditions we saw. Oh, my goodness. I have seen pictures of poverty, but nothing prepared me for this, which probably is not the worst of it. Everyone wants to sell you something. It seemed every inch of sidewalk and building fronts was taken by someone's "store." You name it, I think we saw it. Even the goats -- well, Lora said they were hair sheep -- live in this capital city. There is dirt everywhere, and the sun is hidden in the haze. The brightness is in the clothes of the people, every color imaginable.
What seems always to catch my eye are the children. Many are homeless, living on the streets; some are orphans, while others are just from poor families. How can they enjoy childhood in this situation? They are forced to grow up too quickly, from what I can observe. In spite of this, they are so cute. Maybe as this young democracy can make advancements in the plight of its future leaders. Improved education, required classes beyond sixth grade, would do much to help this country, but where will the money come from?
We're Here!
After nearly 24 hours on airplanes and in airports, we are in Bamako, Mali! And I will never again take clear air for granted. The sky is gray with a yellow cast from the sun; imagine a foggy day with one-mile visibility and you have an idea of how it looks outside our room window. The air smells like wood smoke (and so does the room, if you don't have the air conditioning on). The room is quite clean, and hey, it has WiFi! Awesome! The beds are FIRM foam, but they sure beat sleeping on the airplane.
I have decided AirFrance has the best airline food I've ever tasted. Speaking of planes, when we arrived last night in Bamako (pronounced Bomb a ko; rhymes with go), we discovered armed military servicemen all along the path from the plane to the terminal. It may be a democracy in Mali, but it is not like being in the USA. I did notice tribal-like crafts, quite primitive at the least, used to "decorate" the drab airport terminal; the American marketing people would not be impressed, but I was by the efforts to improve the surrounding.
I am excited about what today will hold for us. This is the opportunity of a lifetime!
I have decided AirFrance has the best airline food I've ever tasted. Speaking of planes, when we arrived last night in Bamako (pronounced Bomb a ko; rhymes with go), we discovered armed military servicemen all along the path from the plane to the terminal. It may be a democracy in Mali, but it is not like being in the USA. I did notice tribal-like crafts, quite primitive at the least, used to "decorate" the drab airport terminal; the American marketing people would not be impressed, but I was by the efforts to improve the surrounding.
I am excited about what today will hold for us. This is the opportunity of a lifetime!
Friday, March 9, 2007
Getting Ready to Travel
Wow! We leave in four days! After all the shots, medications, forms and meetings, the day is nearly here. Having never traveled beyond the continent of North America, I am experiencing a tremendous amount of excitement and just a little nervousness (when we used to compete in speaking contests, our FFA adviser said being a little nervous was a good thing).
What I am looking forward to the most is the opportunity to see landscapes and sights I never dreamed I'd get to see. While I don't know what those will be exactly, I am confident the sights, sounds, and smells of Mali will be memorable.
Now, if I can just remember to get Dwayne the copy of my passport!
What I am looking forward to the most is the opportunity to see landscapes and sights I never dreamed I'd get to see. While I don't know what those will be exactly, I am confident the sights, sounds, and smells of Mali will be memorable.
Now, if I can just remember to get Dwayne the copy of my passport!
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