Obama on the Mind

I headed up to Djenne nervously sporting my Obama pins for November 4th. Djenne is a popular tourist destination in Mali due to a huge mud mosque, but I rode up to Djenne in a mini-bus full of venders from my village heading to Djenne’s market. Typical of buses from my region, the bus was overloaded to an extreme, with all the venders’ wares piled twice as high as the bus on the roof, and the inside equally packed. I had been given a pot of privilege, in the front seat, but of course, the front seat was not only mine to be had. I shared it wit three other passengers, and as we kept stopping over and over to pick up more passengers, despite what looked to me like an already overflowing bus, I found that there were four of us sitting in the front seat and three more facing us, sitting on the dashboard.

A friend of mine is a volunteer in Djenne and had made friends with a Swedish hotel owner there, who had agreed to let us watch the elections on the BBC at her hotel. The day of November 4th, walking around town, we were easily spotted as Americans, and Malians would call out to us asking what we thought the results were or wishing us luck. When we triumphantly skipped home in the morning at 6am after just watching Barack’s speech, the congratulations were already upon us. It was as if we were the ones who had pushed Barack to victory, although, I am shamed and infuriated to report, only one of us had actually received her ballot in time to vote for Obama, despite the fact that we are here in Mali on the behalf of the U.S. government.

Back in my village, I had never expected that my Malian friends could be as excited about Barack’s victory as I. But they were. I continued to receive constant congratulations on the victory, and one friend, every time he entered my concession, would cry “Vive Obama!” Several more were intent on planning a celebratory party that unfortunately never came to pass but was a constant theme of discussion. I never thought that their expectations for Barack would be higher than mine. But they are – my friends are sure that Barack will bring peace to the world and solve all Africa’s problems and just save the world in general, and I find myself worrying that my president will disappoint them. Everyone wants to see the pictures of Barack in my Newsweek’s, to hear the latest on how Obama (commonly and affectionately referred to as “Obamba”) is starting to get things back on track.

However big of a star Barack and his family have become in America, I’m beginning to get a small idea of what fame is like right here in Tene. In my village, there is no bigger star than me, and I am reminded of it every minute.

There are no paparazzi, but there is the village gossip train. Somehow it seems that the whole village knows about my every move, from how much water I use daily to what I buy at the corner shop, to what time I go to bed and whether I received a phone call last Tuesday. Just the other day, a friend of mine started laughing about a story she’d heard about me refusing to cross a road that had become a rushing river one rainy day. It hasn’t rained for a month, but stories of me are always circulating.

But the worst was when I found out that even the people I drank tea and walked around town with were under scrutiny, and that, just like a celebrity, my star would rise or fall depending on how I chose my friends. I had gone over to my counterpart, Aissa’s house for tea, when she sat me down for a serious talk. My neighbor, Kadia, is the second wife of the mayor, and a boisterous and outgoing character. We made friends early on, when we ran into each other both walking to the Independence Day celebration, and ever since, Kadia has taken me under her wing, taking me to greet people around town, and inviting me over for tea whenever she’s not busy in the fields. I’ve always been aware that Kadia is rather meddlesome and definitely in some people’s business, but it hadn’t occurred to me just how much until Aissa told me that she and my host, Lahmine and his wife and family, were now in a heated battle with Kadia, and it was ruining my reputation to be seen spending so much time with not only an enemy, but also with a woman who puts her nose where it doesn’t belong.

What had Kadia done? Lahmine and his wife, Soté, have six daughters and no sons, and apparently Kadia strongly pushed Lahmine to take a second wife, largely based on the fact that Soté seemed incapable of bearing sons. Undoubtedly, Soté was quite offended and upset by Kadia’s intrusion, and Soté and Kadia ended up getting into a big fight, which, as the story goes, ended with mush pushing and hitting and many, many broken calabash bowls and the stalemate that exists between Kadia and Lahmine and his family to this day (it may interest you to note that yes, Lahmine did take a second wife).

The consequences of this for me mean that I am not to spend any time with Kadia. I can say good morning to her from across our compound walls and ask her about her day, but I am no longer to accompany her around the village or accept an invitation for tea. The fact of the matter is that my relations with Lahmine and his family are of the utmost importance, and it has also been made clear to me that all the authorities and highly respected villagers are watching who I’m spending my time with, so I’d better be choose my friends wisely. But how odd to have to choose your friends like this in order to be a successful volunteer! And, really, how difficult, when you have no way of judging and assessing social status and character in a social environment so different from the one you’re used to. (You may disagree with my choice to follow orders and ditch Kadia, but I believe if you were in my place, you’d do the same. It is not my place to question the existing social order in this way at this time, over this, nor is it acceptable for me to provoke conflict for the sake of making a point. Here, I am a member of my host’s family and I am in allegiance with them).

So how does everyone know what I’m doing every second of the day? Well, there is always, always, someone watching. How the white woman washes her dishes, brushes her teeth, does her laundry, and sits in her chair are all burning questions easily answered by watching me whenever I step outside of my little mud house. Little kids and old men and women – no one is above spending a good ten minutes (at least), watching me over the concession walls.

Luckily, I have a bodyguard who shoos away anyone especially troublesome and nosy, or the kids who really would just like to spend hours with their noses pressed up against my door. Her name is Banta, and she’s the old woman who shares my compound. The village kids live in fear of being seen by Banta when all they’re hoping for is a quick peak at me. I’ll see them tiptoeing around Banta’s house, shoulders pressed against the wall and ears pricked in an effort to hear whether or not Banta may stir. Banta encourages me to do as she does if she’s out and unable to protect me from the thirsty swarms – grab a branch off the lonely tree in my compound, and run after them, threatening a whipping. I have, clearly, flatly refused to do so, but Banta continues to lecture me on the proper stroke of the stick in order to most effectively scare the kids out of the compound.

Banta, however, is not able to protect me from everyone, and the attention comes from all directions. Just recently, I was hit on in a most inappropriate manner by the sous-prefet of my village. Commonly known as the “Commandant,” Sekou Boundy is the highest-ranking government official in our commune, the closest American equivalent I can think of would be a governor. He’d always been a bit overly friendly and had many times invited me over (opportunities I had always side-stepped), and given me a hard time for not spending more time with him. He signaled his interest in me by shaking my hand in a particular way, in which, you scratch the other person’s hand with your middle finger. I cannot describe the chills that went through me upon him doing so (the highest-ranking official in the village!), nor my frustration when I told my Peace Corps supervisor, who happened to be visiting me to see how I was doing at the time, and she insisted it must have been an accident. Fame is not all fun and games.

I saw my star brighten a couple weeks ago, when I made my radio debut a couple weeks ago. Tene has a local radio station established with the help of the last Peace Corps volunteer in my village. Part of my job while I’m here is to give health animations out over the radio, which only runs from about 8PM to 11 or 12AM every night, depending on how long the solar batteries last. I had gone down to the radio station just to hang out with the guys working there, but before I knew it, they’d convinced me that I’d just get on air briefly to greet the village and introduce myself. But after doing just that and having a bit of a tortured chat with the broadcaster, in which I was forced to admit at one point that I couldn’t at all understand what he was saying, Adama, the broadcaster turned to me and said, “Okay, Samouhan, so what would you like to tell Tene and the commune about being healthy?” My eyes must have look so betrayed looking back at him! I had told him again and again before we got on air how poor my Bambara was, how it was absolutely impossible that I give a health animation that very night, and yet…! Here he was demanding one. And so I mumbled something about washing your hands with soap and keeping clean. Adama was laughing hysterically at me and after we got off air, he said, “You really can’t speak Bambara, can you?!” No kidding, Adama, no kidding.

Somehow, my dismal Bambara did not distract from an ever-expanding fan base due to my radio debut. For weeks afterwards, people were still complimenting me on my radio emission and when I wasn’t on air the following Sunday, there was much disappointment. I would go over to people’s houses only to listen to them mimic exactly what I had said on the radio. Well, maybe that means the message about washing your hands with soap is really sinking in? Now of course, everyone and their mother wants me to give them a shout-out on the radio. Everyone wants the inhabitants of the 80 kilometers that the radio station broadcasts to know that they are a very close friend of the toubab muso, the white woman.

There are perks to being a celebrity, however. Like being offered a chair to sit in wherever I go, and sometimes little kids will come over to my house after school and curtsy and say “Bonsoir, Madame,” over and over as they bob up and down. And then, just a couple days ago, I was waiting to catch a bus into San on the side of the road outside of the clinic I work at to meet up with other Peace Corps volunteers for Thanksgiving. I had been waiting for about a half an hour for a bus to come by (there is no timetable), when the Chief of the clinic came out to tell me that they’d had to call the ambulance from San to come pick up a woman in labor. Twenty minutes later and I was still there and the ambulance had arrived. The Chief motioned me over, and settled me into the front seat of the ambulance for a speedy ride into San! And what grandeur! The whole front seat to myself, we whizzed by the over-weighted buses and made no stops for more passengers or to let street venders hop onto the bus to screech what they were selling. Although I must admit that my delight in the fast ride in was shaken a bit when we arrived into San and only slowed down to 80 kilometers as we sped through the crowded and narrow streets of San. Was it really any more dangerous than a slow bus with a driver who can barely see for all the people and goods in his bus? Probably not.