Sunday = Family Fun Day

The National Park of Mali

I can’t believe it has been almost six months since I have seen my family.  Sure, we have great skype dates (often on Sundays!) and share nice email exchanges (even my brothers have written me kind emails during my absence), but it has been a while since I’ve been part of a family gathering or a holiday at my home.  But don’t worry… I am getting to experience many of the joys of family events here in Mali!  From weddings and birthday parties to holiday feasts and family dinners, my host family from my first stay in Bamako has been sure that I have the opportunity to get a little family life in every once and a while.  Last weekend was one of those times.

  

Everyone back home knows how difficult it can be to plan a family event.  Especially as children get older and more involved in their own activities, it can be difficult to find a weekend where everyone is free to visit grandparents or go out to eat together.  I know my family even struggled to plan holiday activities around various sports schedules, school functions and work commitments.  Despite the strong family ties in Mali, I learned last weekend that as siblings grow up and move out, it becomes increasingly difficult to get everyone on the same page here, as well. 

  

Oumou and Boubar, Koke and Mama- newlyweds

Let me set the scene for you:  Back in December, 2 of my sisters got married (on the same day!)  (This was during my delinquent blogging phase… The event was certainly worthy of a blog, but I failed to give you one.  But check out the pictures from the day here).  Following some of the wedding festivities, the brides and grooms and I went with the photographer/videographer to the National Park of Mali for a photo-op.  As our entourage paraded around from the park entrance to the fountain to choice foliage backgrounds and back again (to take photos next to the fancy car, of course), we saw groups of family and friends enjoying picnics and relaxing on the grassy grounds (we also provided a little late afternoon entertainment for park goers as we posed for photos and traipsed around in fancy clothes).  Since that day, my sister Oumou has talked about how much we NEEDED to have a picnic in the park.  Honestly, this suggestion for an afternoon activity was voiced with such concern and urgency that I began to think it should happen sooner than later.  Finally, when she revisited the idea at my oldest sister’s birthday party the last weekend of February, I got my calendar out and started looking at dates. 

Upon my return from Burkina Faso, I sent out the signal to all my siblings.  “Let’s have a picnic in the park,” I suggested in a text message, “How about this weekend?”  The only response I received was from Oumou, whose sense of urgency about planning a picnic had prompted me to take action.  “Actually,” she responded, “This week doesn’t really work for me.  Sorry.  I hope you are well (all in French).  Goodbye (in English).”  So, I regrouped and proposed a date for the next weekend- March 20.  This date seemed to work for everyone, and I actually got affirmative responses from 3 of my 4 siblings (of those 4 who are old enough to text, anyway).  Mama, my oldest sister, suggested that we all prepare something and then bring it to the park to share at 2pm.  “Perfect,” I replied, and volunteered to bring pasta salad and chicken salad sandwiches to share.  Mama promised to inform the rest of our siblings of the plan and I made it through a week of work and spent the greater part of my Saturday afternoon in the kitchen making chicken salad, starting some pasta salad, and chopping fruit for a fruit salad to take to a BBQ at a friend’s house that night.

After a day of kitchen work, I got a frantic call from Oumou, “Aissata!  You did not inform me of the plans for tomorrow and what I am supposed to bring!”  I apologized, explaining that I had planned to call that night to confirm the time.  After all, my other sister had volunteered to relay the plans for preparations to my other siblings.  I went on to say that I was making a sort of chicken and mayonnaise sandwich as well as a pasta salad and some lemonade to share.  However, it wouldn’t necessarily be enough for everyone to eat a full meal (I have learned by this time that if you say it’s enough for everyone you better have a vat of food- not just enough for all invited guests but for expected group members and every friend or family member they might think to bring along).  “Well, Aissata,” Oumou explained, “I had planned to make fries.”  Sounded good to me (most of you know how much I LOVE fries)… “You must make some beef sandwiches as well so that everyone will have a sandwich!”  After a day in the kitchen, this is not what I wanted to hear…. I explained that I had already made a lot of food and that I was planning for everyone to bring things to share.  “What is Mama going to make?”  I asked.  “She is making Zamé (a fried rice dish that includes some veggies and often fried fish… a filling Sunday favorite),”  Oumou explained.  “Great!”  I said, confident now that there would be more than enough food for everyone and unsure as to why Oumou was making this into a stressful situation.  “You make fries, and I am sure we will have enough to eat.”  This was met with relief and confirmation… “I’ll see you tomorrow at the park at 1pm.”  “I thought we were eating at 2pm?”  I said… but agreed that I was the one who had made an error and planned to be ready to go before 1 the next afternoon. 

On Sunday morning, I woke up late after a bit of a late night with friends at a house party.  I called my brother, Papou, several times to see if he would be interested in carpooling to the park.  When I continued to get his answering machine, I called Oumou, who informed me that she didn’t have a ride anyway, so I should come to her house at 1:30 so we could go to the park together.  At first I was confused… Wasn’t the rendez-vous supposed to start at 1:00?  I wondered.  But, in all honesty I knew I could use the extra hour to finish the pasta salad and take a quick shower, so I agreed to the arrangement.  I buzzed around the kitchen chopping tomatoes, cucumbers, onions and olives, mixing vinaigrette and tossing pasta with veggies and feta cheese.  I showered and packed up in time to leave before two, but my kitchen was a mess and the lemonade wasn’t cold.  I arrived at Oumou’s at 2:00 apologizing for being a little late, but I was ready to get the show on the road- after all, chicken salad is not good if it sits in a hot car for too long! 

Adja and Oumou serving up treats last weekend

I should have expected the scene that I arrived to find… Oumou and our sisters Adja and Bibi were waiting at the house for Oumou’s husband to return with the car.  Oumou was actually ready to go, but when Boubar arrived he was hungry and wanted to eat- not understanding that the point was to eat at the park.  So, while he ate, we got his two daughters (more on them later) bathed and dressed and started loading the cars.  After a frantic call from Mama who was dealing with loading food and children, we set off for the park.  The timing was actually nearly perfect- we pulled in and began unloading picnic wares and Mama arrived with her Mercedes full of food and kids.  We entered the park and paid for 7 adults and 8 children under the age of 10!  “It’s like we brought the SOS Children’s village* with us!” Mama exclaimed as we trekked through the park in search of the perfect picnic spot near the swings and far enough away from other visitors. 

We found the perfect spot and spread out blankets, coolers, and dishes, and the kids headed for the playground.  I served up chicken salad sandwiches and reveled in the praise (and, I sensed, shock and awe) that I got for my cooking.  I’m pretty sure that all of my Malian friends (and possibly most of my American ones) are convinced that I can’t cook anything.  This was a pleasant surprise for my host family, and every member of our party from the adults to the youngest child got to try a chicken salad sandwich.  The pasta salad was not such a hit… but that just meant I had lunch and snack for the rest of the week! J 

Our group- lounging in the lovely grass!

After all of the hectic preparations and coordinations, the picnic itself was pretty low key (as picnics and most well planned family gatherings usually turn out to be).  The children played on the swings and the climbing toys and the adults took turns watching and playing with them.  The exception to this rule was when Damba, my sister Mama’s son (well, really he is the son of her husband’s first wife… but he’s her son, too), took off wandering on his own.  We found him across a large green space down playing quietly by himself near a creek.  I spent time following him around after that and also took my turn pushing kids on the swings and helping them play on the exercise trail equipment (think updated version of the fitness trails from the 90s- like the one near the field hockey field and the mandala on DPU’s campus).  I took this opportunity to talk with Oumou about the children present (2 belonged to Mama’s husband and his first wife, 2 to Oumou’s husband and his first wife, one was my younger host sister, Bibi, another was the daughter of Mama’s best friend, and the final two were our twin cousins- the daughters of my host mom’s sister and her husband- whew!).  It was a surprise to me that the majority of our party turned out to be young children.  It's hard to believe that my siblings (and peers) are starting families and chasing babies.  The afternoon was a bit of a reality check in that respect.  But at least a reality check in a choice locale...   

Five of those climbers belonged to us!

The National Park is truly an oasis in Mali.  It is one of the very few clean and well kept spaces in the city and it has remained as such since its reopening last year.  The entry fee is a bit pricey for most Malians (200- 500cfa depending on age and day of the week== 50cents to $1), and even more expensive for foreign visitors like me (1,500cfa or $3… I still haven’t convinced them to create a foreign residents price… ).  Thus, it attracts what I would consider the more privileged of the Bamako crowd.  On this particular afternoon (and during other visits to the park) I saw lots of well dressed couples canoodling on the lawn, totally cool teenagers hanging out with friends, photo shoots and picnicking groups.  Even the youngest children playing on the playground were dressed in fancy bazin outfits and complets that I would have liked to get copied in my size!  Across from the swings, a group of 4 teenage girls dressed in skinny jeans and form fitting tanks huddled together to take a self portrait- faces close together with one friend precariously tilting the camera with an outstretched arm, trying to get the best angle.  A well dressed Mauritanian man tried to spark a conversation with my near the swings.  He was in business and possibly a very eligible bachelor, but the fact that he swore he had seen me at the park the previous weekened even though he also claimed to have arrived only 2 days earlier was a bit of a deal breaker... The other parents monitoring children on the playground were equally as fancy, and those adults in the area who weren't were likely housekeepers or nannies along to watch the kids.  Maybe they were necessary because the children's mothers were some of the many women I saw wearing high heels- stumbling through the gravel paths and sinking into the soft freshly watered ground! 

The place to see and be seen- sweet photo shoot in the park

The Park is clearly the place to be and to be seen.  And with a visit to the bathroom running 25 cfa (or about 5 cents- the cost of a banana or small sachet of water), it is sure to attract a certain kind of crowd.  When a park attendant came by to give us a trashbag so that we could clean up our mess, the joke was whether or not we’d have to pay for that, too!  It’s amazing what maintenance and care can do in terms of limiting fly infestation and helping air quality.  The Park is a gleaming example of these principles, and of course it takes money to maintain the beauty of this oasis- you honestly don’t feel like you’re in Bamako when you’re there!  It’s just a shame to me that more Malians do not have the opportunity to visit this beauty of a place to enjoy fresh air and cool trees during the hot season or to allow their children to roll around and play in the grass rather than the red dusty dirt of a side street.  Maybe one day the National Park management will be able to offer free admission one afternoon of the week or find a way to make such a lovely and important space more accessible to all Bamakois.

So, family and friends, don't be too worried that I am missing out on the stress, bickering, and eventual relaxation and enjoyment associated with family gatherings.  Last Sunday I got to enjoy a true family gathering in a home away from home (a lovely park with GRASS and shade!) with a family away from family.  Complete with a little bit of planning stress, some relaxation and down time, squirrely children, and a couple of minor arguments, I enjoyed my Sunday family fun day- and trust me, no one went hungry!  

*The SOS Children’s village is an international project with a few sites in Mali.  It is a unique sort of orphanage in which children are placed in homestead settings with a caregiver- a stand in mother who lives with them and cares for several children at one time.  It is actually quite logical in a place like Mali where family is a central part of life and it is unusual to find orphans who aren’t taken in by other family members.  

"Nah Nah Nah Nah, Hey Hey Hey, Goodbye"

"Excited" for the long bus ride

Two weeks ago, my friend, Zak, and I woke up early early (i.e. I got up at 5:15- yikes!) to catch a big bus and kiss Bamako and Mali goodbye.  We took a weeklong trip to Mali’s neighbor, Burkina Faso, to get a little taste of life elsewhere in West Africa and to see some films at the West African festival, FESPACO. 

We were both a little nervous for the bus trip- a 14 hour ride from Bamako across the border to Bobo-Dioulasso (or just “Bobo”) and another 5 hours into Burkina’s capital, Ouagadougou (ou bien, “Ouaga”).  It turns out, I needn’t have been so nervous.  Aside from the fact that 20 hours on the bus is long no matter where you are, the ride was not bad at all.  The TCV company from Burkina Faso runs a really professional show- their buses all have drivers and attendants who wear uniforms, the boarding process is pretty organized, everyone has his or her own individual seat, the luggage loading and unloading process was efficient, they do their best to keep salespeople off the bus at stopping points, and (most importantly) the bus was clean and had A/C!!!  We settled into a spot near the rear door and saved a seat in front of us for Zak’s Tanti Ami, an aunt of his who happened to be traveling back to her home in Bobo on the same bus (more on her later… )!  It was great to have a seasoned veteran, and a West African woman, on our team during the ride.  She told us when to get out to get drinks, and she told other people what do to in order to help us out- this woman knew how to give some orders!  However, I did follow her off of the bus once to use the bathroom during a stop that apparently was not long enough for using the bathroom.  Thanks to Zak’s alertness and Tanti Ami’s lungs, they were able to notify the driver and hold the bus for me while I used a lovely (note the sarcasm?) bathroom in Koutiala.

Aside from a lot of reading and some excitement about getting to Burkina Faso, our trip was none too noteworthy.  We did make friends with the 4 other toubabous (white people) on the bus- a couple finishing Peace Corps and traveling through Burkina, Togo, and Benin, and a pair of young European women who had traveled from Senegal following a conference and were making a loop of West Africa.  These women found themselves in a predicament at the border because they hadn’t purchased visas before leaving Bamako and they didn’t have the money to buy them on the spot (the Burkina visa price doubles at the border- from $100 (already expensive, if you ask me) to $200!!).  The rest of us toubabous were able to pull together about $300 they needed and again our bus was on the road.  We had a couple of hours to spend in Bobo before leaving for Ouaga, so we said goodbye to Tanti Ami and got some yummy chicken dinners at a great restaurant with our new American and European friends (and also visited an ATM to settle up).  It was a nice stop, but we were really ready to get to Ouaga….

Hanging on the streets of Ouaga

We rolled into Ouaga around 3:30am and eventually found our way to the hostel where I had made a reservation.  I regret not taking a picture of this place… It was tiny, but every nook and cranny was used in a way that gave us plenty of space.  The price was good and the staff was great- it would have been perfect except for power outages that left us without a fan and quite hot (little did we know, we should get used to this…)!  We got a bit of a slow start that first day, due to fatigue and a cold that Zak acquired during the bus ride L, but we did get ourselves installed in our more permanent lodgings in Ouaga- the guesthouse of an NGO called Reciproka that I found on CouchSurfing.  The staff of Reciproka was marvelous and they took great care of us!

I won’t hash out every day that we spent in Ouaga, but the basic routine was to sleep in a little bit, get something to eat or do a little exploring, go to a movie or two and eat some more.  Since we were feeling a little under the weather we didn’t get to check out much of the night life scene, but Ouaga is full of “maquis,” little outdoor bar restaurants with cheap beer, brochettes, fries, fried plantains, and roasted chickens (yum!!), so we made sure to try the food and drinks at several of those (we even drank beer that you can’t get in Mali!).  We rented a moto for a few days which allowed us to have a lot more freedom and to see more of the city.  It doesn’t feel as big as Bamako, yet there were lots of open and empty spaces (though one can’t really call them green spaces… ) and people and houses didn’t seem as piled on top of one another.  Especially on the south side of the city, the government district which houses the presidential palace (it’s bigger than the white house) and many foreign embassies was eerily empty and undeveloped- think big fancy buildings and compounds in the middle of empty scrubby fields…

YUM- Goat cheese!!

My favorite day of the whole trip was when we visited Loumbila, a small village 30 minutes north of Ouaga.  Thanks to an old guidebook at the NGO where we stayed, we found out about a treasure of a place where the owners raise goats and produce their own goat cheese!!  An aside:  I honestly don’t think I knew how much I loved cheese until I came to Mali.  Sure, one of my college roommates and I had a pact not to bring cheese into our dorm room for fear of devouring it all in a single afternoon, but I never realized that I loved cheese as much as I have in the past months.  You never know how much you love something until it’s gone (or super expensive and hard to get)…. Anyway, I have developed a particular fondness for goat cheese, and so this trip was perfect!  We had herb crusted cheese as an appetizer, and delicious goat cheese salads.  Also, I had goat milk yogurt with sugar for dessert.  Heavenly!  After eating, we explored the area and discovered an odd sort of resort nearby.  It was a little haven tucked into the side of a lake called Loumbila Beach.  We decided to check it out and the individual grass huts, arcade games, bathing suit boutique, bar/restaurant and attractive pool convinced us to stay a while (granted… the boutique was closed, the arcade games didn’t work, and we didn’t eat there… ).  Since we didn’t have our suits with us, we decided (against better judgment) to rent bathing suits for a bargain $2 each!  The swim was marvelous and refreshing and we both (mostly) fit in the suits.  Following our swim we relaxed on the wooden pier stretching out into the lake and giving us a lovely view of the late afternoon sun.  The ride back from Loumbila was enjoyable and we even stopped to do the bumper cars and jump on trampolines at Ouaga’s amusement park.  We are becoming quite the West African amusement park connoisseurs!  It was a wonderful vacation of a day!

Lovely afternoon setting

Relaxing by the lake after a swim at Loumbila Beach

We followed up the great day of swimming and eating with a film at Ouaga’s French Cultural Center.  A word on the films…. FESPACO is a big festival and it would have been impossible (it seems to me) to see all of the films being screened.  There were showings at 8am, 11am, 2pm, 4pm, 6pm, 8pm, 10pm (and even some times in between) at about 10 different locations… that’s a lot of movies!  We opted not to buy a badge ($50 and entry into all films, plus “events”) but instead bought tickets to individual films ($1-$2 a piece).  However, we were too late to find a catalogue of films with titles and descriptions… rather, we just used a schedule that included film name, director name and nationality, and time/location of the film.  Basically, we picked films based on their titles and their countries of origin- not necessarily the best way to do it, but oh well!  Most of the films we ended up seeing had a sort of political undertone… one about the UN Peace Keeping Forces sent to Mozambique after a civil war there in the 1990s (the plot also included bits of traditional witchcraft, and thus some interesting effects), and a film on xenophobic violence in South Africa (black South Africans killing Zimbabwean immigrants).  We saw a film by a Canadian film maker, one from Burundi, and another from Algeria.  It was impressive to see some of the theaters in Ouaga and the films were interesting, though some far more professional than others. 

By the end of the week, we felt like we had seen about all of Ouaga that there really was to see.  The city felt much smaller than Bamako, and far less crowded in most of the neighborhoods.  The streets were more organized (even a designated moto lane!) and cleaner- with few open sewers that are standard along Bamako roadways.  Ouaga was full of bikes, and our host even told us it was second in the world in bikes per capita to China (I take this with a grain of  salt… I mean, what about Amsterdam?).  We bid goodbye to the capital, the festival (and all of the other tourists) and headed back towards Mali on a 4 hour bus ride to Bobo.  At the bus station, we were greeted by Zak’s cousin, Nah, and her friend/neighbor, Chaka.  They guided us in darkness back to Nah and her mother, Ami’s, house.  Frequent power outages linked to the conflict in the Ivory Coast (Burkina is a close neighbor and depends on their power grid for electricity) were characteristic of our stay in Burkina and especially in Bobo.  Because it was too dark to see much, our orientation to the house was minimal that first evening, and we were happy to hit the mattresses after dinner. 

Zak and Nah on her moto

Our stay in Bobo was comfortable and lazy.  It was really nice to be with a family and to get to spend time chatting with Ami, Nah, her friends, and the other people who were in and out of the house.  Ami’s father and Zak’s mom’s stepfather are twin brothers, so Ami maintained that they were direct sisters seeing as twins are really one and the same!  I got to know a lot about the family- her two children (her son is studying in Ghana), her late husband, her time in Mauritania, Niger, and Burkina—I even saw all the family photo albums!  Ami is a true Malian matriarch- a sweet woman, but one who knows how she wants things and tells you about it!  Along with Nah, she is taking care of the handicapped daughter of her deceased sister.  The girl, Hawa, is a twin and her sister is healthy and living in Mali with other relatives.  Ami has been caring for Hawa since she was a baby, and she has made great improvements between that period and her recent 5^th birthday.  As it is, though, she is still unable to walk or use most of her left side.  She doesn’t talk, and she spends most of her time with a caretaker- tied on her back, or in a special chair that allows her to sit without falling down.  She was such a sweet girl and really enjoyed attention from visitors- she especially loved Zak!  They played a game with some balled up socks used as a ball- she absolutely loved throwing them at him!  Ami is looking vigorously for a way to help take care of Hawa and get her the therapy she needs to regain control of part of her body and even to walk and talk.  If any of you have any ideas of international organizations who work with handicapped children, I'm all ears!  

I did do something touristy in Bobo- I
visited the beautiful old mosque 

We spent most of our time in Bobo visiting with family and friends.  Nah was a really sweet hostess and we even got to meet her (secret) boyfriend!  We also spent a lot of time with her and her friend, Ben.  He is a really enthusiastic neighbor who wants to learn English, and really wasn’t doing too badly for having little to no instruction (he was, for example, just as good at spoken English as Chaka, who is studying at the University!).  The evening before we left, the four of us were chatting on the front porch after dinner.  Zak started singing “Nah nah nah nah, hey hey hey, goodbye” to Nah, and she got upset because she thought he was taunting her about leaving when she had made it clear she didn’t want us to go.  We decided, though, that this was her song!  We were trying to come up with a song for Ben (I thought of the Michael Jackson song “Ben” about his pet rat) and he said, “Oh I know!  Jingle Ben, Jingle Ben, Jingle all da waaaay!”  Zak and I cracked up and explained to him why this was so funny to us and what the song was really about.    Hanging out with Nah and company was really a joy.  She hopes to come to Mali during the summer months for her vacation from classes, and we hope to see her in Bamako!

Our bus ride home.  Notice the window "altar"
and the yellow jug in the foreground... a
makeshift seat

After a couple of days in Bobo, it was clear that Zak and I were both ready to go home.  I was frustrated that we missed out on the market and didn’t get tickets for the fancy bus home (it was already sold out when we went to get tickets!).  Zak was ready to be home and not have to do the touristy things I was interested in doing (he was a good sport for doing most of them with me).  So, early Monday morning, we got up and got ready to catch our bus back to Bamako.  This bus was much more of an African transportation experience.  It was less organized, dirty, and unairconditioned.  Actually, the lack of A/C was better than I imagined because we were able to get a seat near the front door which was open during the whole ride.  The more annoying part of this trip was that we stopped constantly to pick up people along the route who were hoping to catch a bus to Bamako.  When we boarded the bus, I had been suspicious about why there were big empty water jugs in the bus aisles, and it became clear later that they were for the extra passengers we picked up along the way- no need for them to get a seat, they just sat on the plastic canisters in the aisles!  So, I had two very close “seat” mates… Zak and some guy bundled in a winter coat and ear muffs, sweating by my elbow on a jug in the aisle.  It was definitely great to get off the bus (after a flat tire on the way into Bamako and a painfully frustrating wait for luggage stored underneath) and get a cab back to a good shower and yummy meal.  Just like any vacation, it was fun to get away and exciting to see a new place, but really great to get home!


*As always, you can see more photos (from the trip and recent events) on my Picasa account:  https://picasaweb.google.com/alysmmoore/MaliMarch#

'There's No Place Like Home' or 'Change is Good'

It has been so long since I offered an update on things here in Bamako.  Honestly, the time seems to have flown and crept by at the same time!  It is hard to believe that I am 4 ½ months through a 10 month grant!  A lot has happened since I last posted, and I feel as though I find myself now in a period of change.  I hope this post will give a bit of an overall update on the months that have passed since I last blogged. 

Happy New Year from Siby! Love, Ryan, Sonja, Gaelle, Bodil,
Zak, Alys, and George

Many changes have taken place since Decemeber… first and foremost: I have a new home!  As some of you know, after a long and arduous search, I found a lovely little apartment right at the end of 2010.  I have been waiting to write a blog post about the apartment hunt until I had a positive outcome, and now I do!!  The road was long—I saw places that were missing toilets, that involved entrances of rickety stairs leading to the street, that were furnished with plastic chairs and tables yet twice my budget!  Despite precise descriptions of preferred locations and neighborhoods, I saw places in probably a 20 mile radius.  I made a list of agents I used during my search and came up with no less than nine numbers saved in my phone.  And those are just the guys I called!  But after many disappointments (and photos to prove it), I found set of brand new buildings with 16 plausible apartments to choose from. 

A view of the salon in my new home!

My favorite and most receptive agent, Keita, found the place with the help of a friend, and it responded to all my criteria- 1-2 bedrooms, living room, bathroom, kitchen (i.e. a room with a  sink), and it even had extras- a patio, potentially a balcony, and a spacious kitchen (with a satisfactory sink).  I grew excited and realized that the most difficult part of the decision might just be choosing which unit I preferred!  I returned a day later with Bodil for a second opinion, and chose one of the corner apartments with spacious rooms.  The next day I discovered that the price I had been quoted did not match the current asking price.  Following a brief meeting with the building owner, the price had almost doubled overnight!  I was outraged and convinced that he had taken one look at me and decided I could pay more than the 60,000/month (About $130) he was asking.  I decided that the apartment wasn’t even totally finished, this guy must be a jerk, and I would look elsewhere—on principle.  But, after another fruitless week, some seriously whiney frustrated phone calls to my agent, two more visits to the same apartment building with different agents, and a nice conversation with the wife of a fellow Fulbrighter, I decided to take the place.

At my housewarming party with my Malian parents
and sister Bibi

The apartment I had originally “picked” had by this time been reserved by a French man, so I ‘settled’ for my second choice… though in retrospect, I feel I really got the better deal.  I now have a delightful little place with a terrace and balcony, cheery yellow walls, and a slowly developing interior ‘design’ scheme.  After installing most of the furniture, getting cushions made for my couch, and having curtains hung on my doors and windows, I eagerly invited friends and family to show the place off.  The housewarming party was a big hit, and I packed more people on the terrace than a firemarshal would have liked.  Even my Malian parents made an appearance at the soirée!!  Mali has always felt enough like home to me.  I am comfortable here, though sometimes it is a shock to remember that I actually live here- it’s not just that I’m on vacation or visiting friends.  This apartment has helped me remember that over and over again- as I wait for internet installation, or curtain hangers, or look for refrigerators, or try to furnish a seldom used second bedroom (hint hint—I love guests!!)- I really am “home.”

The change in location has been a big one for me, even though I didn’t move too far from my old stomping grounds.  Along with the change in scenery, I have felt like January into February have been major times of change for me in Mali.  The end of the string of holidays has meant I have not been quite as constantly social with other ex-pat friends, and the reality of life is sinking in even more acutely.  Things are “back to normal,” if you will, though for me, trying to describe a “normal” day is difficult.

I think this new year is going to bring with it plenty of new experiences, and I am trying to open myself to all of these- positive and negative.  I have already been getting out of Bamako a bit by ringing in 2011with friends on a mountain in Siby, going to a world class music festival in Segou, and spending more and more time in Banankoro.  I am looking forward to a potential trip to Burkina Faso, some trips around Mali, and maybe a vacation trip or visit from loved ones in the coming months.

Observing at a prenatal care day in Banankoro with
Salif (a community health worker), Doumbia- the head nurse,
and Bintou, a nurse's aide 

One of the biggest recent changes involves my work.  I have spent the last four+ months meeting with my advisor, working on creating a study protocol in English and in French, meeting with different experts in the fields of public health and development, and inquisitively observing in Banankoro once a week or so.  Though this is not particularly taxing (trust me… I have fallen quickly and easily into a routine that would shock most of you.  I am pretty good at doing nothing most of the time…. ), I have not been satisfied with the way my scholarly efforts here have unfolded.  I have done some goal adjustment and tried to remind myself that we constantly have to redefine our objectives, especially when it comes to field studies.  I have also tried to convince myself that I am learning every day whether it happens formally or not, and maybe learning how to pay my electric bill in Africa is an important part of this stage in my life… but I can’t convince myself that the Fulbright committee would see it that way.  To put it simply, I have been a combination of lazy and frustrated about the fact that I am not doing what I came here to do!  And in fact, as I wait and the time drags on, I have come to doubt the very goals that I arrived with so enthusiastically several months ago.

However, some of these things are beginning to change.  Frustrations about not being able to conduct interviews turned last week to frustration with the sheer volume of interviews I tried to conduct in one day!  I have finally turned a corner by really starting my project!  In the past 2 months since the new year, I have been doing more of the waiting game, but this time with some permission to start preliminary interviews.  I found a fabulous research assistant, thanks to the suggestion of a fellow Fulbrighter and friend.  Binta is a young wife and mother trained in Socy/Anth who has more experience conducting field studies and interviews than I do!  She has worked on anti-excision campaigns, and other projects evaluating women’s group projects and health initiatives in Mali!  Last week, we traveled together to Banankoro first for introductions and later to begin work!        

The stage on the river at the music festival in Segou

So to date, I have conducted 6 interviews in 2 days!  Given the way my research crept along the first time I was here in 2009, I was pretty psyched about getting 5 interviews on day one!  I think that there will only be more discussions to come, and already my appetite is whetted by some of the first responses I got from women who have participated in the prenatal education program and are expecting or celebrating the births of children.  A goal for today is revising questionnaires to include even juicier questions about pregnancy and preparation for child birth here in Mali.  These changes certainly will be good ones!

Bumper cars on Valentine's Day

Honestly, many lovely moments have passed since I last wrote an update in December.  I have enjoyed many memorable and delicious meals with friends, heard beautiful music along the riverside in Segou, enjoyed the moonlight on a clear night in Bamako, reveled in a view of the city from the university perched on top of a hill near my house, sweated and smiled in an African dance class, been the first to hold two new babies that I helped deliver, gone on my first Valentine’s Day date, and enjoyed the atmosphere from the balcony of my new home with a book and a beer.  Despite the difficulty that I am having making a big change and getting back into the swing of doing work, I am reminded that all of these lovely moments have come about through moments of change: celebrating the arrival or departure of a friend, taking a trip and changing the scenery, joining a new class and trying a new activity, deepening a relationship- small or large, they all mark moments of transition.

Proudly holding a healthy baby boy that I helped deliver!

To get even more introspective, I could share with you that I am also sensing and anticipating the change that is taking place more generally in my life during these months that I spend in Mali.  I am beginning to ask myself (for better or for worse… ) what comes next.  When I start to really completely freak myself out by wondering where I’ll be in a year or even in 6 months, I try my best to remind myself (and often to convince myself)… Change is good!  My dear friend, Bodil, left Mali at the first of February to return to her home and teaching commitments in Europe.  We spent a lot of time the day of her departure discussing the changes she was going to have to make in her lifestyle in order to return to a routine back at home.  At that moment, it took a little convincing, but we decided that many of the changes would be good ones- regular hot showers, the availability of sushi, the ease of doing things like grocery shopping, the proximity to family, etc.  When I dropped Bodil off at the airport, I gave her a card that said on the front, “There’s no place like home.”  (Yes, I still love the Wizard of Oz… ).  I think that Bodil (and maybe even me at this point) has found a second home here in Mali.  No matter what changes she makes in her location, Mali will always be with her because she is home when she is here.  Maybe just changing the way we think about home is important and really ties these two thoughts together for me.   

I really began to feel the winds of change the night that Bodil left, and I think her departure really impressed upon me the fact that change is good.  And even if not, it’s not irreversible… she’ll  be back in June!  J   


*To see more recent photos, visit https://picasaweb.google.com/alysmmoore

An Introspective Moment

So, I’ve been on a bit of a hiatus from the blogging world as a lot has been going on in Bamako.  So much, in fact, that I want to devote entire blog posts to some of the specific events that have taken place in the past month.  I hope to write a post chronicling my long, frustrating, and finally rewarding journey to find an apartment, one about my impressions of the police here in Mali (there was a week earlier this month during which I had three run ins with the police…), and another about some of the varied and neat things my friends are doing with their time in Bamako (because they’re all doing pretty cool stuff!!).  Doubtless, the entries about apartment searching and police encounters will be laced with descriptions of the frustration I have experienced and the ridiculousness of some of the protocol here in Mali.  But tonight all of that seems somewhat insignificant given some of the events of the past week. 

I spent my evening thinking about life and death issues… things that go way beyond being stood up for appointments or led on and let down by the internet company (some of the things that have really gotten me down in the past week or so).  My dinner plans tonight were cancelled because my good friend, Bodil, found out that the seven year old son of her best Malian friend, Koti, had died earlier that day.  Bodil has been coming to Mali for several years to do research and has spent almost 2 years (in bits and pieces) living in San, a village north and east of Bamako studying Bogolon mud cloth production.  Koti is a Bogolon artist and the two became good friends in a place where it is often hard to for white women to break into female circles because of language barriers and cultural differences (I often find I relate more to men here because they are more generally the independent, freer thinking sex in Mali).  Koti has been in Bamako for the past six months trying to make money because things in San’s Bogolon world are a bit tight.  So, not unusually, her son has been living with an aunt back in San while his mother is gone for a while. 

Tomorrow, the two friends will get on an early morning bus and make the long journey to San.  But tonight thoughts weren’t on that trip, but rather the gravity of the situation and the greater issues it represents in a country like Mali.  It is never easy when a child dies.  But here, it is not the rare occurrence that it is in Europe or the states.  Here, three hundred children die every day- half of them never reach their first birthday and the rest don’t make it to age five.  Koti’s son made it past both of these milestones, but he died after an apparently sudden illness.  (7 of 10 children who die do so at home without having the opportunity to get care at a health facility) The details of his sickness and death are unclear at this time, but it appears that he became ill suddenly and his health deteriorated so quickly that his mother did not even receive a phone call about his sickness until it was too late.  I imagine that, like many children here, the boy was probably sick for some time with a “standard” respiratory infection, and some other infection took advantage of his suppressed immune system. 

Bodil and I spent several hours discussing the injustice that occurs when a child dies.  She described to me how she initially found the young child a bit bothersome and annoying as small children often are, but that in recent visits she realized he was really growing into a beautiful, kind boy.  We shed tears together as we discussed the multitude of reasons that children here have such a hard road to hoe.  In a sad coincidence, a good mutual friend had also lost a young Malian friend earlier in the week, also in San.  She wrote a moving account on her blog that I think will express some of the thoughts and emotions that I can't here.  I found myself remembering a specific passage in her book, “Dancing Skeletons,” in which anthropologist Katherine Dettwyler reflects on death in Mali.  She spends several pages recounting interviews in which women describe to her their childbearing histories- number of pregnancies, miscarriages, births, and often subsequent deaths.  Her research assistant explains that, “death is a fact of life here in Mali…. Every person has experienced the death of numerous relatives, friends, and neighbors… No on escapes.  You never really get used to it, exactly, but you come to accept it, and even expect it.  A woman expects that some of her children will die.  Why should he be any differend than her grandmother, her mother, her aunts, her sisters, her friends?  You can’t let the death of a child destroy your life.  You have to laugh.  Otherwise you’d have to cry” (Dettwyler 157).

Though I have been told that crying is not appropriate in cases of death here, women do cry.  Dettwyler describes women crying over lost children after twenty or thirty years.  Bodil returned from San reporting that she and her friend Koti had spent a great deal of time crying and grieving together.  I know that just reading these passages out loud to Bodil and talking with her the night she found out about Koti’s son were enough to make me come unhinged.  

I have become interested in the phenomenon of childbirth in great part because it is a universal phenomenon that is approached in a multitude of ways throughout the world.  Similarly, the interpretation of death shares similarities and exhibits differences throughout different cultures.  But I feel comfortable enough making the following generalization based on recent experiences and observations- in almost all cultures and in most situations, birth brings feelings of excitement, happiness, and wonder at a new life entering the world, while universally, death entails at least some sliver of sadness and sobering finality.  Even when Christians rejoice that a soul goes to heaven or Buddhists prepare for reincarnation, I believe that there is a sense of loss involved when a death occurs.

I find myself with little resolution to this post, just as my conversations with friends and reflection time left me with little sense of an “answer.”  Why is it this way?  Why do children here have to fight such a hard battle?  It’s not that there is no answer, it’s just that it is a long, hard, complicated one.  I think all that I can do is use this experience as renewed energy for growth.  It is unfortunate that it takes something so serious to remind me how lucky I am here and in general and how much I have to be positive about.  Maybe that will be this little guy’s legacy… he can remind us to be thankful and positive day in and day out, and to look forward to a day when childhood death is not something to be ‘expected.’ 

*Note- I started writing this post on Jan. 26^th, and finished it today- Feb. 17^th

Banankoro, Bambara, and Babies!

As I enter the choke point in traffic just in front of the big Halles de Bamako market, my phone rings.  I check the caller ID and realize I have to answer even though I’m in traffic.  It’s Assana asking if I am still coming tonight.  “Yes, I’m still coming,” I tell him, “I’m sorry I am late, but I am on the route.”  Ok, he says and hangs up, not wanting to waste any more credit than necessary.  I make it through the crazy intersection (luckily I’m turning right, not left) and out of town to the more open road.  Twenty five minutes later, I enter Banankoro and keep my eyes peeled for the small gas station that I use as a landmark to prepare for my turn off leading to the CSCOM.  I have been to the health center enough times that I know where to turn, but I like that when I look just beyond the station I can just see the little building on top of a small hill, the red cross denoting a ‘dogotoroso’ (doctor’s house) poking up above the gas station and the roadside boutiques and confirming I am headed in the right direction.

A Sotrama (public bus) that I saw one day just in front of the
Halles de Bamako... disguised as a Limouzine!

I turn left onto a dirt road and down shift into second gear as the terrain gets bumpy.  I steer the car through a crumbling cement gate that seems to serve no purpose other than to guide me and remind me where the “road” is.  At the top of the hill, Nanaisha, the midwife, and Doumbia, the technicien de sante*, seem to be waiting for me.  They are seated under the hangar outside the CSCOM with a few other villagers.  I stop the car and greet them… “Good afternoon.  How are you?  How is your family?  And your children?  It has been a little while!” They return the greetings, and after a minute of this exchange, the attention shifts to my car.  It is the second time Nanaisha has seen it, but still she is excited and amazed that I am driving.  “You’re going to give it to me when you leave,” she says.  “Sure,” I say.  “I’ll give it to your for $2,000!”  We both laugh and she gives me a high five of a hand shake, sealing the joke between us.  I apologize that I can’t stay long because I need to get to Salif’s house soon, so I hop back in my car and make my way a few hundred meters down the main road to the Coulibaly compound. 

As I enter the compound, I greet the family members milling around the courtyard.  This will be my first night in my new home away from home in Banankoro.  The Coulibaly family has been extremely generous by offering me a room anytime I come to the village to work (if only it was so easy to find a place in Bamako…. ).  This concession is home to Salif, one of the community health workers for the prenatal education program I work with.  He lives just near the main road with his parents, his wife, their four children, several of his brothers, a gaggle of young kids, and a handful of other people who are most likely related, but I’m not yet sure how (and I may never be).  Papa Coulibaly offers me a chair and after exchanging greetings, he begins to tell me about how bad the Maiga’s are**.  I beat him at his own game, however, by asking how the Maiga’s can be bad if they bring gifts… and I procure a cheap plastic bag that contains a kilo of bananas and a kilo of sugar.  A grin appears on his face and he begins to hand out bananas to the children and show off the bag of sugar.  “Aissata brought all of this sugar!” he announces, “Now we will really be able to drink good coffee,” he adds to me as an aside (Malian coffee is really just watery powdered milk with a lot of added sugar and just enough instant Nescafe to make it slightly brown). 

I go through the greetings with other family members and ask the children if they want to eat bananas.  Then I ask if they like to eat bananas.  My Bambara abilities nearly exhausted, I ask where Salif is.  “He is in the garden.  He will be back soon,” I am told.  I sit patiently, proud of all the things I just asked in Bambara and actually a little bit surprised by what I am able to understand and say now.  The high continues as I realize that Papa Coulibaly is concerned that I’ve left my car outside of the concession near the road.  I agree to move it and he tells me he can do it.  Unable to really refuse this old man who is giving me a home, I willingly agree and we go out to the car together.  I unlock the door and help him adjust the seat… he checks his mirrors and starts the engine on the first shot (sometimes it takes me 2 tries when the car hasn’t been used in a while).  We reverse and make it in to the compound with little difficulty, but lots of fanfare as the whole swarm of children from the compound follows us and a crowd of outsiders is attracted as the old Malian man drives the strange toubabou in her little car.   

My room 'chez Coulibaly' in Banankoro

We get out of the car and I carry my backpack into the small but pleasant room where I will stay the night.  When I return to the concession, Papa Coulibaly is motioning me over to show me something… it is his ancient driver’s license!  He used to be a chauffeur, he explains to me, and sure enough, there are his certifications from the 1970s saying he can drive even the big trucks!  The best part is that his birthday is listed as “envers 1945” (around 1945), so he is not quite as old as I might have guessed.  After a moment inspecting the old driver’s license, Salif arrives and my attention shifts again to greetings and then chatting with him.  I learn about his wife and his four kids- the oldest is 15 and the youngest is 4.  I didn’t even think he was married!!  I guess he is aging better than his father… I learn a little more about his family- he is one of 11, and I think he tells me that his father has four wives.  This is when my Bambara begins to falter.  I ask questions and get responses that are unintelligible.  The pride that I felt a few minutes earlier fades to frustration and disappointment.  I realize how far I really do have to go and that this living situation will be the real key to truly learning Bambara!  These language skills will be necessary for communication, but things move slowly enough that I can ask and point and ask enough times to begin to understand the words for things. 

Assana, the local school teacher and my liaison, arrives to greet me.  Dinner appears in two large bowls- one for the men and one for women.  Everyone gathers around them except for me… “It’s toh,” Assana explains for me.  I noticeably hesitate before telling them in Bambara “N be se ka toh dun” (I can eat toh!).  Clearly they sense my lack of enthusiasm and after a brief exchange, Assana announces to me in French that they will buy me something else to eat… what do you I want?  I protest, but the decision has already been made, so I at least convince Assana that I will go with him to find some dinner.  Salif and I set out with his daughter, Kadiatou, in tow, and I said a silent blessing for Assana for saving me from toh!  We end up following Assana to his house where his mother sellings rice on the corner.  While Assana washes up, Salif and I sit down in the courtyard to wait.  Shortly after, a TV appears and a crowd of children gathers.  Assana emerges from the “shower” and hooks the TV up to some kind of generator that was loudly operating behind his set of rooms and a great color picture appears on the TV.  So, we sit for 20 minutes watching a Brazilian soap opera dubbed in French that almost no one can understand.  The highlight of the program is when I get the chance to hold a cute baby that everyone is cooing over…. But my excitement is short lived.  While enjoying cute little Sadio, she lets loose, and due to the lack of Malian diapers, I get to wear baby pee on my dress.  “Don’t worry,” Assana assures me.  “Here in Mali we consider this a good sign of luck that soon you, too will have children.”  Great… just what I was hoping for!

We return home, and I convince Salif that I shouldn’t eat alone in my room and settle for eating  alone under a  tree a few feet away from the others in the compound.  I eat my rice with peanut sauce and then find my bucket of warm water waiting for me in the “bathroom.”  I smile as I look up at the stars and dip my hands into the warm water to wash my face, arms, and feet.  But, my smile quickly fades as the warm water dries and I realize how chilly it really is outside at night!  Before I head to bed, I am treated to a practice lesson on malaria prevention during pregnancy.  Salif is scheduled to do an educational session the next morning, so he gets out his stack of images and explains them to me.  I find myself buoyed by the fact that he gives me correct information (as far as I could understand in Bambara), though none of it is very complicated.  I don’t get the feeling that the lesson will be too engaging, and I try to ask questions to get more information and to help him practice.  After a glass of tea with the rest of the onlookers, I excuse myself and tuck into bed in my little stuffy room that smells of kerosene. 

Salif posing with his images describing malaria (in colorful outfit)

The next morning, I wake up and head straight to the negen (bathroom… a structure of 3 ½ dirt walls without a roof that has a hole in the middle for using the bathroom and a hole in the back where wash water runs out), wrapped in a piece of pagne fabric.  It is quite chilly out, and the other compound occupants are dressed in various pieces of warm clothing- kids in old reindeer sweaters, men in hats and jackets, women in oversized old sweatshirts.  I get a lot of looks that say “look at the crazy toubabou” as I wait for some hot water and wash myself before dressing for the day.  Maybe it’s not normal to wash in the morning?  Once I’m clean, I eat my bread and drink my milky sugar coffee water and before 8 am it’s off to the CSCOM. 

When we arrive, not much is happening, so I chat with Nanaisah and begin to greet women as they arrive.  At around 9am, Assana decides that enough people have gathered and he instructs Salif to start the educational session.  The women gather round, moving chairs and benches around a giant pile of expired medical supplies and trash in order to get a view of Salif as he talks and me as I hold the pictures (ever the lovely assistant).  I try to get the ball rolling by giving my best “Aw ni sogoma” (“Good morning!”) and greeting the women.  Usually this attempt at Bambara gets a laugh and wins some support if nothing else.  My ploy seems to work, and the women appear to listen to what Salif is saying.  From what I can gather in Bambara, the explanations go well, although they are none too engaging or in-depth, as I predicted.  Much to my dismay, no one has questions at the end of the presentation and I am too nervous to try to pose a query in Bambara. 

The animatrice from Marie Stopes giving a lesson on IUDs to
women as they wait for vaccinations 

The real eye-opener comes as our presentation is follow by a woman from Marie Stopes International, visiting the CSCOM to do a program on family planning and specifically on IUDs.  She carries on for nearly thirty minutes- talking, asking questions, showing examples of family planning products.  The numbers of the women and babies increase, and now they even become engaged in the discussion- laughing and asking questions or shouting out answers to the instructor’s inquiries.  Even Nanaisha, the midwife, gets involved in this “causerie” and spurs the women to laughter, leaving me wondering about what she said and frantically noting this question in my handy dandy notebook. 

By the end of the Marie Stopes presentation, at least 75 women have assembled based on my estimates, and the area beneath the hangar is teeming with women and babies all bundled up against the cold (that seems to be diminishing pretty quickly, if you ask me…. ).  By now, there is a constant din of noise: fussing, suckling, cooing, crying, the occasional shout, and lots and lots of coughing.  The vaccinator, Ali, begins vaccinations by calling the first lucky baby’s name.  I look at the table covered with haphazard stacks of small and large cards in pink and yellow and wonder about the organizational system- is there one?  How is he keeping the records straight?  How on earth do they know who is next??  These questions don’t seem to be bothering the many women waiting outdoors with babies on their backs and no chairs to sit in. 

I adopt a similar air of confidence in the “system,” and take my place next to Ali.  For the next several hours, I follow his lead and act as his assistant.  I weigh babies and shout their weights to him as he administers vaccines to other children who cry in their mothers’ arms.  Sometimes he instructs me to give the babies an oral polio vaccination (2 drops on the tongue) or a Vitamin A supplement.  In these cases, I rip open the plastic ampule with my teeth as Ali does and squeeze the flavored gel into a baby bird mouths.  After I weigh the baby and give my oral supplement, Ali gives the child a shot in the theigh, records it, and we move on.  It’s a bit hard to use the sling for chunky babies or those who want to bend their legs and resist, then sometimes, they’re top heavy and tilt forward so it’s hard to get a good reading of their weight!  I also eventually work out a system where I give the polio or Vitamin A after Ali gives a shot because this way the child is already crying and I don’t have to struggle to the little one to open its mouth!

Ali recording a vaccination as mothers look on.
The big mountain of boxes and trash in the background is all
expired and used medical products!
Something must be done about this!

After a lot of weighing and poking and squirting of oral supplements, Ali disappears.  The crowd that has been shockingly patient and calm up until this point begins to get restless and I begin to get impatient, too.  I escape a mother accosting me about why her daughter didn’t get weighed even though she’s less than six months old and make it to the nurse’s room in the CSCOM.  Ali and his daughter are hiding out inside eating- taking their time even though women are outside waiting without even as much as a place to sit!  The mood changes when we finally get back to business and when a woman’s name is called, she rushes to get the baby off her back and find the quickest path to the table in the center where we’re working.  “You’re the next contestant on The Price Is Right!”

The routine begins to get old and I am getting tired of fussy babies and yelling weights to Ali and trying to figure out which child gets polio, which gets Vit. A, who needs to be weighed… I get the feeling I am just supposed to be picking up on these things.  I am amazed that Ali doesn’t have the children’s actual birthdates recorded… he asks the ages and then uses me to help calculate the birthdate based on the age in days. While trying to do mental math, I look around me and do a little more mental calculating… at any given moment, I can probably see 10 visible breasts busy feeding or pacifying babies.  I see two kiddos playing with old plastic packaging near the mountain of expired and used medical supplies that I have vowed to myself will be removed before I leave Mali.  Finally, we are down to the last 25 or so… there is a moment of complete silence which is utterly bizarre, and then the noise starts in again.  When we make it down to 10 moms, Ali starts picking up cards, reading them, and sending the owners home.  He has run out of vaccines and they will have to come back the next month for the next vaccination day.  I get the sense that it’s not urgent. 

I go into the CSCOM, remove my shoes, and sit down on a woven plastic mat next to the aide-soignante.  Nanaisha is splayed on the bed and she taps some powdered laundry soap into my hands and pours water over them so that I can wash them before eating.  When everyone is clean, a young girl enters bearing a BIG bowl of rice, and I am amazed at her timing in what seems to be such a chaotic world in Mali.  I am grateful to be learning to find the order in this chaos.  And I eat.


* A technicien de sante is like the equivalent of an LPN in Mali.  A Technicien Superieur is like an RN.  They both go through three years of training after high school to become health professionals.  The biggest difference is that a Technicien Superieur's training is a bit more rigorous because he or she has actually graduated from high school and passed the BAC (a type of degree).  Techniciens de Sante only have to prepare the CAP, a professional diploma, which does not require as much high school or as much rigorous preparation.

**Papa Coulibaly says that Maiga's are bad because Coulibaly's and Maiga's are joking cousins.  Joking cousin relationships ease ethnic tensions in Mali and members of specific ethnicities (certain family names belong to certain ethnicities) joke with other ethnic groups.  Everyone jokes with the Coulibaly's (this name is the 'Smith' of Mali)!  The most popular series of jokes is telling people that they eat beans (and thus fart a lot).  You get the idea-- it's quite fun!