Well, I guess it’s about time I actually write a bit about what I’m researching for my Independent Study Project. After much inner debate, I finally chose to stay in Bamako. I had originally been desperate to get out of the city – away from the pollution, traffic, and noise – but I’m used to it now, and am learning to love it.
The overall theme for my research is to explore the effects of rapid urbanization on health. I’m working in Sikoro, one of the poorest neighborhoods in Bamako on the outskirts of the city that is growing at an explosive rate, with an NGO that focuses on sanitation and access to water in the neighborhood. The organization, called PACAPSI, consists of a couple of Malian men working out of a tiny office in Sikoro. In the past week and a half, I’ve managed to design my research project, complete all of my background research, write up a questionnaire for families in the neighborhood, and start administering the questionnaire. Specifically, I’ve decided to look into the partnership between the NGO and the local government, since it does a lot of things that the government is supposed to do like trash pick-up and water provision.
Sikoro is unlike anywhere else in Bamako, and entering the neighborhood from Hippodrome, one of the more “modern” areas of the city, is striking. Perched on a steep hill on the border of the Manding Mountains, the neighborhood is extremely inaccessible. None of the roads are paved, and a lot of them are even unreachable by cars and wagons. You can imagine how this complicates matters of trash pick-up, which shows: litter is strewn about the streets, and piles of burning trash are ubiquitous. The local government, which, with Mali’s system of decentralization, is supposed to take care of waste management, does not have the resources to keep up with the neighborhood’s rapid growth. Private organizations now have the duty of trash pick-up, but their services are not free, and some families cannot afford the $3.00 a month fee. Access to water is another huge problem for the neighborhood. Only 3 percent of the people have running water access in their homes, and the rest rely on common fountains, wells, and pumps. Transporting barrels of water up steep cliffs is one of the major grievances for the people of Sikoro. The problem is intensified during the dry season (March-May), when many of the fountains are cut off and the wells dry up. Illnesses caused by these problems consist of dysentery, diarrhea, malaria (which is intensified by the stagnant water in the neighborhood, providing breeding grounds for mosquitos), among others.
Since the neighborhood is extremely far from Kalaban Coura, where my host family lives, I’ve had to relocate to Sikoro for the time being. I have a new host family – the Gakous – and am attempting to settle into life at their home, though it’s not easy. No one in the family speaks French, save one of the children (who doesn’t speak much) and the father, who is always at work. My Bambara skills can only get me so far. Fortunately their home is only a five minute walk from PACAPSI, cutting my commute time down immensely. It’s also definitely interesting to be living the problems of water access: we have no running water and have to store the water from the common fountain in buckets and giant barrels around the house.
I can always come back to my host family in Kalaban Coura, and I took advantage of that this yesterday, for the celebration of Tabaksi. The Muslim holiday’s “claim to fame” is the animal sacrifice that occurs in the morning, and the eating of that animal for the rest of the day. In Mali, the animal of choice is a ram. The morning of Tabaksi, I got into a shared taxi filled with Malians dressed up in their nicest bazin outfits. As we drove through the city, I saw a few sacrifices occurring on the side of the road, but managed to turn my head away in time to avoid seeing the blood. As I walked to my house, I saw the ram tied up outside and my sisters digging a hole in the dirt. They explained that the hole was for the ram’s blood. Oh boy.
My dad came outside all excited, telling me to get my camera and laughing at my dread for the sheep’s death. A new knife had been purchased for the slitting of the throat, and he ceremoniously brought it out of the house. Our neighbor seemed to be the man in charge of the actual killing, since he walked around door to door and did the deed at all of our neighbors’ houses.
I guess the actual killing wasn’t that bad, but when my father brought me a chair to view the butchering of the animal it was a bit much for me. After the ram’s entire coat had been removed, I retreated to my room for a nap. I had a really vivid dream that my parents (my real, United States parents), came to visit Mali on Tabaski and to partake in the slaughtering and to meet my Malian parents. When I woke up the worst was over. I went out back to the kitchen, and all signs of the slaughtering were gone, save the ribs that my sister was grilling over coals. My mother told me she’d bought watermelon, papaya, and was making dablennin (the delicious hibiscus drink) – all things she knows I love. She was also making yassa, a really good onion sauce, so I knew I was in good hands.
The meal was great. It really did make up for being here for Thanksgiving. I ate until I could not eat anymore, and then my mother brought out the fruit, so I ate some of that. Needless to say, by late afternoon I had entered a food coma, and spent the rest of the day lying in bed with Nene. Overall, it was a great fête.
looks like you have fall in love with Sikoro. What you are doing is very nice job.
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