Written July 15
Pandemonium!!
It’s a like a Wall St. fire drill. Shoving, shouting, and a powerful tide of people running and brushing past from every direction. Peace Corps had warned us not to come here. I’m constantly rubbernecking to keep track of the other volunteers and scanning the crowd as we try to cut across the undertow, but Peace Corps’s advice is kept far from my mind. I’m too busy looking for what everyone is after– a cool drink of water.
It’s halftime at the Mali-Ghana soccer match, and we’re circling the concourse outside the stadium. The sun went down around the twenthy-fifth minute, but the pre-game hours of line standing and seat saving has left me - and 30,000 of my closest friends - a bit parched.
I can say with some confidence that these entirely non-threatening skirmishes were not what PC had in mind when they questioned the wisdom of going to a World Cup qualifier in West Africa, especially when the visitors are heavily favored to win. In fact, just last year a number people got trampled at this very same stadium - and that was just an Alpha Blondy concert!
But here, all has been law and order. The pre-game traffic wasn’t any heavier than you might expect in the States, but the fast and (literally) loose passenger safety regulations meant hundreds of pick-up trucks and vans with dozens of people overflowing from every door, window roof and bumper, each one clutching on to ‘post-market’ and ‘user-installed’ oh-shit bars. Impressive, too, was the line outside the stadium. Lacking any snaking corrals to keep the line compact and single file, a tight line coiled around the stadium. Strangers stood chest to back for easily a kilometer. Police enforced no-go zones on either side of the line by blindly swinging clubs like General Grievous as they paced up and down either side of the line. Those who thought they were too good to conga with the rest of us were quickly corrected. One-and, two-and, one, kick!
And even the current brouhaha isn’t all tooth-and-claw greed. My friends wave me to the outside wall of the concourse overlooking the property behind the stadium. Then I see them – thousands of men, shoeless and prostrate in prayer. Whatever residual tension I'm harboring downshifts two gears. In Madagascar, my friends and I would have had to Houdini out of potentially thousands of handshake manacles and suffocating vapor clouds of ethanol. But not here - every Muslim in sight is sober. The most we'd have to worry about was staying out of the way as they race into the bathrooms, roll up their pant legs and crowd the sinks for the ablutions. After all, Allah waits for no conga line.
As I'm taking in the view, man brushes past, his arms full of the coveted polyethylene pouches of water. The American in me immediately thinks scalper! and I chase after him. When I ask him if he’s selling, he smiles, shakes his head. In an archetype of Malian patience, tries to push one into my hand.
In Mali, it’s impolite to refuse a gift, something that I tend to forget. For example, one morning in Koulikoro, the capital of my region, I’d walked downtown to get breakfast from possibly the best meat & egg sandwich stand in Mali. The woman makes this onion sauce that is at once an aphrodisiac in the short term and a guarantor of abstinence in the long.
On the way, I practiced an obligatory gesture I learned in Madagascar but perfected in Mali – greeting. It usually goes something like this:
Good morning! How’d you sleep? How are you? How’s your family? My name? Madou Coulibaly.
From here, it can go one of two ways. If they, like me, are a Coulibaly, we wish each other a nice day and I’m on my way. If they go by any other last name, I’m told in the warmest tones and with the heartiest of handshakes that I am an uncircumcised slave donkey who farts a lot, or some permutation thereof. It’s a complicated relationship.
I'd finally made it to the sandwich stand and had begun the trip back home. I'm cradling the warm sandwich like a football to keep any onion sauce from escaping the baguette. One of the not-Coulibalys I identified earlier hollered from across the street. Where are you going with that? Coulibalys are too poor for anything but beans! Give it here. Feeling a little insult fatigue, I decided to call her bluff. I crossed the street, marched up the steps and I was halfway into my play-action pass before I realized it wasn't what either of us had intended. But it's too late. So inexorably, with my confusion mirrored in her face, she took the sandwich.
Likewise, back at the soccer game, with a well-practiced smile of resigned gratitude, I take the water.
****************
Mali eventually lost, 2-0, so thankfully halftime was as lively as things got for us. Granted, we left after the second goal, and even then we had to battle our way through congested streets with no public transport in sight. We had the good fortune of being picked up by a Malian couple driving a luxury SUV paid for in diamonds. “It's nothing,” the woman said. “Somewhere in America, I’m sure someone is doing the same for a Malian.” My mind ran through the particulars of a wealthy American couple picking up five West Africans from the streets of DC in the dark of night, and I briefly considered contending her assertion. Once again, good fortune intervened and a combination of inadequate Bambara and nearly adequate judgment kept my tongue in check. It’s easier to pay it forward from here.
But why did it have to be the sandwich!?
Thursday, August 20, 2009
De-Consolidation Homesick Blues
Written March 2, 2009
I’ll admit, I flipped the switch too early. Sometime during that bumpy, dusty, overnight truck ride, my imagination betrayed me.
Under normal conditions, it takes 11 hours to get from Fianar from Ikongo. That night it took 16, so I had plenty of time to explore all the implications of the inevitable hypothesis of what if this is goodbye? By the time we got to Fianar, I’d worked out so many contingencies, wrapped my head so tightly around the idea of evacuation that I forgot to leave room for any other eventuality.
And who can blame me? Who doesn’t want that narrative? I, a worker for peace, had to be dragged across a tarmac and into a plane while the country self-destructed around me! Who doesn’t want to step out of Reagan National Airport in the middle of February shod in flip flops, unshaven and jacketless because… well, dammit, that’s all the time there was!
So, you understand, during those three weeks of excruciating uncertainty and mind-rattling ambiguity, my stomach tweaked itself a notch tighter every time it looked like my life might not be as exciting as I had imagined. Going back to my village of Ambolomadinika became inconceivable.
I was afraid it’d be weird. That things would be intrinsicially different now that the fragile nature of the relationships I’d built had been laid bare. Afraid that they’d resent me for being a needle drop away (get it? Because Andry is a former disc j—ah, forget it) from writing the whole thing off as an aborted vacation. Afraid that all my half-baked projects would fall apart. They probably will anyhow, but this at least would have given me a scapegoat.
But here’s the punchline, O Patient Reader: Nothing has changed. If anything, things have gotten better. I feel much less obligated to put up with people who only see me as a walking sack of money. Mind you, there are still annoyances. The madness caused by too much time in your head, the stark differences in expectations, the day to day cultural subtleties I’m sure to never truly grasp. They’re all still there. But these annoyances are part of a routine deep enough to swim in and solid enough to stand on. They are family.
Like too many of us, I’ve been to the edge of life-altering moments before and experienced the pre-emptive (perhaps artificial?) hindsight that refocuses and revitalizes the old reality. It’s happened often enough that I reluctantly acknowledge that this new frame of reference will relax into the old. The head time, expectations and culture will likely prevail, and soon enough I’ll be back to staining the pages of my journal blue with ball-point fury. At least until experience and time bring genuine hindsight. The principle behind every Peace Corps service is the hope that this happens before you become an RPCV.
I found this in one of the notebooks I packed out of Madagascar. I wrote it the interim between consolidation and evacuation. I'd intended to upload it during my next trip to Fianar.
I’ll admit, I flipped the switch too early. Sometime during that bumpy, dusty, overnight truck ride, my imagination betrayed me.
Under normal conditions, it takes 11 hours to get from Fianar from Ikongo. That night it took 16, so I had plenty of time to explore all the implications of the inevitable hypothesis of what if this is goodbye? By the time we got to Fianar, I’d worked out so many contingencies, wrapped my head so tightly around the idea of evacuation that I forgot to leave room for any other eventuality.
And who can blame me? Who doesn’t want that narrative? I, a worker for peace, had to be dragged across a tarmac and into a plane while the country self-destructed around me! Who doesn’t want to step out of Reagan National Airport in the middle of February shod in flip flops, unshaven and jacketless because… well, dammit, that’s all the time there was!
So, you understand, during those three weeks of excruciating uncertainty and mind-rattling ambiguity, my stomach tweaked itself a notch tighter every time it looked like my life might not be as exciting as I had imagined. Going back to my village of Ambolomadinika became inconceivable.
I was afraid it’d be weird. That things would be intrinsicially different now that the fragile nature of the relationships I’d built had been laid bare. Afraid that they’d resent me for being a needle drop away (get it? Because Andry is a former disc j—ah, forget it) from writing the whole thing off as an aborted vacation. Afraid that all my half-baked projects would fall apart. They probably will anyhow, but this at least would have given me a scapegoat.
But here’s the punchline, O Patient Reader: Nothing has changed. If anything, things have gotten better. I feel much less obligated to put up with people who only see me as a walking sack of money. Mind you, there are still annoyances. The madness caused by too much time in your head, the stark differences in expectations, the day to day cultural subtleties I’m sure to never truly grasp. They’re all still there. But these annoyances are part of a routine deep enough to swim in and solid enough to stand on. They are family.
Like too many of us, I’ve been to the edge of life-altering moments before and experienced the pre-emptive (perhaps artificial?) hindsight that refocuses and revitalizes the old reality. It’s happened often enough that I reluctantly acknowledge that this new frame of reference will relax into the old. The head time, expectations and culture will likely prevail, and soon enough I’ll be back to staining the pages of my journal blue with ball-point fury. At least until experience and time bring genuine hindsight. The principle behind every Peace Corps service is the hope that this happens before you become an RPCV.
I found this in one of the notebooks I packed out of Madagascar. I wrote it the interim between consolidation and evacuation. I'd intended to upload it during my next trip to Fianar.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Stuck inside of Mali with the Madagascar blues again
[Written 14th May, 2009.]
First, the bad news. Peace Corps has suspended their program in Madagascar. As a result, my service there has come to an end. In Peace Corps' official jargon, I completed my service, but really there's very little about it that feels complete. If you really want a sense of this, I direct you to blog posts by friends and other volunteers. For now, I'd rather focus on the more practical consequences for you, the hypothetical reader of this blog.
First, I can no longer punt the responsibility of regular updates to other volunteers via the group blog, so I'll be posting here for the time being. Second, I've moved to Mali to continue my peace corps experience. Again, "continue" seems like the wrong word, since I'll be starting over in a new country, new climate, new culture and new language. Certain adjustments have been easier to re-do, others have brought unexpected surprises. We'll explore that cubist Venn diagram in due time.
But before we move on to Mali, I need to make one last plug for Madagascar. I need to point out that though the gunshots have quieted and news coverage has thinned out (was it ever thick?) the political crisis isn't over. Recently, USAID has told the non-profits it funds to discontinue their work with any government agencies. These include institutions like schools, community health centers and local mayors - often key stakeholders that help development projects reach the rural poor.
Let's be clear about something. Life in rural Madagascar doesn't change much from day-to-day, much less president-to-president. In fact, it sucks rather consistently. Additionally, the national government is pretty low on the list of organizations with the capacity to change that. So it pains me when the international community tries to punish an illegitimate government but ends up hurting the people who are largely (and rightly, mind you!) indifferent to that government.
I don't blame USAID or other international organizations like the African Union or SADC for taking these types of actions. It's important to send signals that make it clear that military coups are unacceptable and they also have limited means to do so.
But these NGO's must continue to function and operate, with or without international funding. For example, the NGO I worked with, Ny Tanintsika, continues to build capacity and supports rural villages as they become communities that can help themselves. It's supported by a razor-sharp Malagasy staff and coordinated by a British woman who has lived in the country for 10 years and shows no sign of leaving. If you are so inclined, their donations page is a great way to keep the Malagasy government irrelevant in all the right ways.
First, the bad news. Peace Corps has suspended their program in Madagascar. As a result, my service there has come to an end. In Peace Corps' official jargon, I completed my service, but really there's very little about it that feels complete. If you really want a sense of this, I direct you to blog posts by friends and other volunteers. For now, I'd rather focus on the more practical consequences for you, the hypothetical reader of this blog.
First, I can no longer punt the responsibility of regular updates to other volunteers via the group blog, so I'll be posting here for the time being. Second, I've moved to Mali to continue my peace corps experience. Again, "continue" seems like the wrong word, since I'll be starting over in a new country, new climate, new culture and new language. Certain adjustments have been easier to re-do, others have brought unexpected surprises. We'll explore that cubist Venn diagram in due time.
But before we move on to Mali, I need to make one last plug for Madagascar. I need to point out that though the gunshots have quieted and news coverage has thinned out (was it ever thick?) the political crisis isn't over. Recently, USAID has told the non-profits it funds to discontinue their work with any government agencies. These include institutions like schools, community health centers and local mayors - often key stakeholders that help development projects reach the rural poor.
Let's be clear about something. Life in rural Madagascar doesn't change much from day-to-day, much less president-to-president. In fact, it sucks rather consistently. Additionally, the national government is pretty low on the list of organizations with the capacity to change that. So it pains me when the international community tries to punish an illegitimate government but ends up hurting the people who are largely (and rightly, mind you!) indifferent to that government.
I don't blame USAID or other international organizations like the African Union or SADC for taking these types of actions. It's important to send signals that make it clear that military coups are unacceptable and they also have limited means to do so.
But these NGO's must continue to function and operate, with or without international funding. For example, the NGO I worked with, Ny Tanintsika, continues to build capacity and supports rural villages as they become communities that can help themselves. It's supported by a razor-sharp Malagasy staff and coordinated by a British woman who has lived in the country for 10 years and shows no sign of leaving. If you are so inclined, their donations page is a great way to keep the Malagasy government irrelevant in all the right ways.
Monday, July 07, 2008
Moving to Dagu Diaries
We finally got the group blog rolling, so I'm going to be posting to that from now on. The idea is that it will be updated less erratically than this blog, and also provide a wider range of experiences from a very diverse country. See you there!
Friday, April 25, 2008
Lost in the Grass
We've now left our community-based training, and are tying up a few loose ends in the capital before heading out to our respective sites.
I can't say much other than the experience has so far been wonderful. I had a great host family and our training class is full of incredible people. I will have more to say about my site in the near future, and Peace Corps forbids I mention it by name, but it's also very fascinating. Stereotypically remote, it takes 3 days of travel from the capitalm by bush taxi and train - before I get to the 12km hike/bike (interrupted halfway by a short canoe ride) to my village.
The other news is I'll be delivering a speech in Malagasy on behalf of our class at the swearing-in ceremony on Tuesday. The Malagasy culture requires 2/3 of your speech be devoted to appologizing to the audience for speaking in front of them. Luckily, my language instructor helped me litter it with amusing proverbs to keep it interesting. Among them, "Let us not be like the wild boar who, when he visits his father-in-law, is pointed at by his host's lips and then carries his head on his shoulders. Instead, let us be like the little red bird, who whistles at the big brown bird when he visits, and the host sings in turn." The audience in this case, unfortunately, is anyone who happens to be tuned into the Malagasy equivalent of NPR or C-Span. Not a huge deal, but really? Lip pointing? We'll see how it goes over...
But to paraphrase another Malagasy proverb - if the grass is long, the pig is lost and if the blog post is long, the point is lost.
Miss you all!
I can't say much other than the experience has so far been wonderful. I had a great host family and our training class is full of incredible people. I will have more to say about my site in the near future, and Peace Corps forbids I mention it by name, but it's also very fascinating. Stereotypically remote, it takes 3 days of travel from the capitalm by bush taxi and train - before I get to the 12km hike/bike (interrupted halfway by a short canoe ride) to my village.
The other news is I'll be delivering a speech in Malagasy on behalf of our class at the swearing-in ceremony on Tuesday. The Malagasy culture requires 2/3 of your speech be devoted to appologizing to the audience for speaking in front of them. Luckily, my language instructor helped me litter it with amusing proverbs to keep it interesting. Among them, "Let us not be like the wild boar who, when he visits his father-in-law, is pointed at by his host's lips and then carries his head on his shoulders. Instead, let us be like the little red bird, who whistles at the big brown bird when he visits, and the host sings in turn." The audience in this case, unfortunately, is anyone who happens to be tuned into the Malagasy equivalent of NPR or C-Span. Not a huge deal, but really? Lip pointing? We'll see how it goes over...
But to paraphrase another Malagasy proverb - if the grass is long, the pig is lost and if the blog post is long, the point is lost.
Miss you all!
Friday, January 25, 2008
It's not you. It's me.
Boy, this is awkward.
I have no right to be here, and I know that. I left so suddenly. I didn't even leave a note explaining why I had to leave or where I was going.
But you know I'm no good at apologies, so I'll just skip it if that's alright with you.
Anyways, I'm sorry I left. Just give me another shot. It'll be just like old times.
Well, it might be a little different.
I have no right to be here, and I know that. I left so suddenly. I didn't even leave a note explaining why I had to leave or where I was going.
But you know I'm no good at apologies, so I'll just skip it if that's alright with you.
Anyways, I'm sorry I left. Just give me another shot. It'll be just like old times.
Well, it might be a little different.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Silly things
These artists seem to be pursuing wealth and fame using the business model pioneered by Alex Tew at the million dollar homepage.
First, there's onethousandpaintings.com, where Swiss artist Sala is selling "unique" paintings of every integer (not number, as she says. I have to nitpick) from 1 to 1000. She calls them unique because each is a different number and she doesn't make copies. I put it in quotes because each uses the same font/color scheme. In her words:
Next up, via a link on her own site, is theblackcubes.com which is slightly more pretentious. Again, from the site:
The current price is $85.50 USD.
In both of these cases, no matter how lofty their rhetoric, their greed gets in the way of the message they're supposedly conveying. In the first case, it's obvious that the number is the art is the limit, but is not the price. The $40 minimum interferes with the idea. Not to mention she's trying to buy back popular numbers and sell them again at a profit.
I'm less clear about the black cubes. I feel that their increasing value over time conflicts with my idea of "human curiosity." I don't see how uncertainty adds value to itself over time.I suppose if I buy a pack of baseball cards in 1989 and don't open it, I will be able to sell it at a higher price today. But in that case, it's what the pack contains that gives it value, not the curiosity of the owner. Yes, those 20 cards would be worth less if not in a factory sealed pack. But consider this. If you burgled a house and found a sealed envelope with "20 mint-condition 1989 baseball cards" written on the outside. Would you be able to sell this for more or less money than the sealed pack? Decidedly not. Which would you be more likely to tear open? Probably the envelope. To me, this says that the extra information implied by factory sealed package (they are baseball cards, they are from 1989, they are more likely in mint condition) increases the price. In other words, more information, higher price, but less curiosity.
I guess I can go on as long as I want about hype, artificial demand and over-priced, pretentious art, but they're selling Why does seem that collective action never works the way I want it to?
First, there's onethousandpaintings.com, where Swiss artist Sala is selling "unique" paintings of every integer (not number, as she says. I have to nitpick) from 1 to 1000. She calls them unique because each is a different number and she doesn't make copies. I put it in quotes because each uses the same font/color scheme. In her words:
One number, one painting - the number is the art is the limit is the price. Each of the one thousand paintings is unique, showing a number between 1 and 1000. This is an experiment of art and mathematics, on the web, the first of its kind.She later mentions the minimum price is $40, plus $20-30 shipping.
The value of each painting is defined by its number (value = 1000 - number). The earlier you buy, the more you save.
Next up, via a link on her own site, is theblackcubes.com which is slightly more pretentious. Again, from the site:
I'm making 999 wooden black cubes. Every cube has the same shape, appearence and dimensions (every facet is 20 cm.). The strange thing is that there is something inside the cube!. But nobody can take possession of its real sense, because if the cube is opened this sense is lost irreparably. The cube is the material representation of human curiosity.
[...]
There is a reason for the number of the cubes, 999. If i sell a good number you will know it
- What is it inside the cubes? I can only say that there is something different for every cube, that make your cube unique;
- You can't get its sense if the cube is opened (that means breaking it).
- Every cube is a part of an unique project
- DON'T OPEN IT!!
- Something else will happen to my project some day (when i have sold all cubes)
The price of the cubes is determined by the number of sold cubes; every cube sold the price will increase of 0.50 USD. If you buy now you save your money!
The current price is $85.50 USD.
In both of these cases, no matter how lofty their rhetoric, their greed gets in the way of the message they're supposedly conveying. In the first case, it's obvious that the number is the art is the limit, but is not the price. The $40 minimum interferes with the idea. Not to mention she's trying to buy back popular numbers and sell them again at a profit.
I'm less clear about the black cubes. I feel that their increasing value over time conflicts with my idea of "human curiosity." I don't see how uncertainty adds value to itself over time.I suppose if I buy a pack of baseball cards in 1989 and don't open it, I will be able to sell it at a higher price today. But in that case, it's what the pack contains that gives it value, not the curiosity of the owner. Yes, those 20 cards would be worth less if not in a factory sealed pack. But consider this. If you burgled a house and found a sealed envelope with "20 mint-condition 1989 baseball cards" written on the outside. Would you be able to sell this for more or less money than the sealed pack? Decidedly not. Which would you be more likely to tear open? Probably the envelope. To me, this says that the extra information implied by factory sealed package (they are baseball cards, they are from 1989, they are more likely in mint condition) increases the price. In other words, more information, higher price, but less curiosity.
I guess I can go on as long as I want about hype, artificial demand and over-priced, pretentious art, but they're selling Why does seem that collective action never works the way I want it to?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)