New experiences

So, I’m having trouble deciding what to write in my blog, so any suggestions would be nice. Stories? General information? What do you, the reader, want to hear?

This time, I’m going to take an entry right out of my journal.

This trip to West Africa has been all about firsts for me. The first time I’ve eaten lizard for instance, or gutted a chicken with my bare hands. The first time I haven’t spoken English for over a week, and the first time I’ve understood what it really means to live in abject poverty without running water or electricity. The first time I’ve unremorsefully committed genocide (those damn ants actually EAT your walls). The first time I’ve seen worms pulled out of a puppy, only to watch the puppy die a few hours later. The first time I’ve been to a child’s funeral.

This entry, however, is about my first trip to a Malian place of worship, in this case, the makeshift mosque in my village:

It’s the end of Ramadan, here in Mali. The night before the fete, the dugutigi’s wife comes to my house and tells me everyone will be praying at the mosque the following morning at 9, and I should come. Nine AM arrives, and I go to her concession, a little nervous, and she’s nowhere in site. I had a lot to do that day, so I started my laundry. The anticipation started to build. What was this going to be like? Do I really want to go? Will I be accepted, as they all know I’m not Muslim? How can I get out of this? Should I leave my house and avoid the situation, later apologizing? I then thought back on a conversation I had with a fellow EKIer. There was a time when I was making my first trip to the field alone, and I was so nervous I wouldn’t know how deep to dig the well, or where to put it, but he told me that it’s essential to do things that test your boundaries, for only then can you become a better individual. This sure was going to test my boundaries, so I decided I’d suck it up and go. She comes to my house at about 9:45 wearing her new clothes bought for the occasion with her white head covering on. I quickly put on one of my two Malian outfits and came back out. She handed me her nice white head covering, using her older one for herself, because she could tell I couldn’t get mine to stay on. We were a little late, but the ceremony hadn’t started, and many turned to look as we came in. I heard my name, Pamuchen, muttered amongst them, and more people turned to look. The mosque in my small village isn’t really a mosque. It’s three old melting mud walls, and serves as the weighing station for crops as well as a soccer field, and game playing area when the moon is bright enough to see at night. We lined up in the mosque, women behind the men. There was a row of men and 2 rows of women. The musokoroba laid out her mat so that we both could fit on it. We then were reorganized by a man that came around, and moved us in line with the other women. We were packed in like sardines, and the relentless Malian sun was starting to beat full force. As we stood there, people turning to look at me, I was laughing had a huge grin on my face, but tears were welling up in my eyes. I was completely overwhelmed with emotions I didn’t know human beings were capable of feeling. Here I was, in a Malian place of worship with not a clue what to do. I feel superbly awkward in churches in the States, and it’s pretty awkward being around Malians in general, so to combine these two situations was a stress I’d never felt. I’d seen Malians pray a lot, they do it five times a day, but I’d never paid enough attention so that I could do it myself. So, I followed the pack, I moved when they moved, and I did what they did. Finally, we were kneeling and the Imam delivered the service. I sat there, covered from head to foot in clothing with the blazing sun burning down on me, and sweat dripping everywhere, down my arms and legs, and pouring off my face. I was afraid someone might see the puddle that was surely forming underneath me. We kneeled for about a half an hour at which time I noticed that everyone had a dorome or a fila (small change) laid out in front of them except me. I was mortified. Here I am, this Toubab, with all the money in the world, and I didn’t even bring a penny donation to the mosque. The guy came around collecting money in the jar, and I was so nervous that with nothing to give I’d be viewed as just another stingy white person. Luckily, a woman down the row caught this faux pas, and passed a dorome down to me, so that I could donate too. It was truly the Malian way. When the service ended, I was dizzy from the heat, and soaked in sweat. We got up and greeted one another, and headed back home. It was an enchanting experience to say the least.


There are all sorts of days here, fast ones, slow ones, solitary ones, and ones when you can’t seem to get away. Days when you think you understand the language and days when it feels like you’ve never heard it before. Days when you’re so overwhelmed with stress you think you’ll lose it, and days when you’re so overwhelmed with joy you could cry. Days when you’re so inspired by the enthusiasm you see around you and days when you feel so defeated it’s as if you’ll never get anything done. Days when you’re homesick and miss the comforts of running water and electricity and family and friends and food, and days when you realize you have all you need at your fingertips. Days when you can laugh at yourself, and days when you want to cry when they laugh at you. Days when you think Malians are rude, and days when you can realize it’s not being rude, it’s just a cultural difference. One thing I’ve always thought about but never fully understood before is that each day is a new day. Each day is the first day of the rest of your life. If there is something you don’t like about the way you’re living, or the way things are going, each day is an opportunity to make it right. It’s this knowledge that keeps me going through the trials and tribulations that make up Peace Corps service.