Since I'm in charge of assigning who among the three of us on the Communications team goes where (within the eight-country West African region in which we work) -- to cover activities that we can better publicize -- I was looking forward to a Mali event so I could see my good friend, Tommy, from USAID/Rwanda days.
The opportunity came up February 17-18 in the form of a two-day "preparatory" conference in the capital city of Bamako for Malian animal breeders to develop an advocacy statement to be delivered to the President of Mali. ("Breeders" isn't really the correct translation of the French word, "l'elevage", which means more "animal husbandry" in American English, but we don't us "animal husbands", do we?) They have a number of concerns about constraints they face in the areas of production, processing (which in the livestock sector means "meat" instead of selling live animals) and trade, the area in which my project works. Although this was a Malian event, "trade" means to other countries, and that's where our technical and financial support came into play, as ours is a regional agricultural trade promotion project.
There were only two minor problems with my decision: 1) I'd been warned Malians speak a West African-accented French that's difficult for other West Africans to understand, plus they'd probably more often be speaking Bamara, one of Mali's 13 official languages, thus, I might not understand anything going on; and 2) I know practically nothing about raising/selling/buying/butchering livestock.
Unlike the sheep sale that was my first event, how to dress wasn't a problem. A conference center is a conference center anywhere in the world, and everyone just wears regular business clothes. Right?
Well, it depends on what you mean by "regular". A few of the more than 300 Malian livestock "players" (mostly men, as the few women present were government or organization bureaucrats) -- representing all aspects of the livestock trade from hoof to table -- were wearing variations of a European or African urban two-piece suit. However, since they came from throughout this very large and varied country, where cattle breeding is big business and some are tycoons and some are herders, their fashions were as eclectic as their ethnicities and socio-economic levels. Typically in West Africa, it's the women's fashions that catch my eye, but in this conference center, the menswear was exquisite, particularly the voluminous, colorful robes made out of a material that looks and feels like part cotton, part paper. (See photos at <www.flickr.com/photos/paulettelee>)
At one point, I was smothered in this material as I got caught on the steps in the mad dash to the coffee break and I just had to laugh to myself, thinking of friends and family: Gee, look where I am at this moment! However, I was also being overtaken by body odor.
This is as probably as good a time as any to at least touch on some of the personal behavior issues I come across. A whole lot of people in the "third world" don't bathe a lot, much less use deodorant. (Actually, that seems to be true in France, as well, come to think of it...) We Americans are VERY clean. I can't say these men smelled of cows, but many of them them were quite...well, ripe.
And then there's the pecularity of the right hand. In Muslim societies (and many African non-Muslim, as well), it is frowned upon to extend your left hand to anyone for any reason, because that is the hand that (theoretically) is used for ...well, personal hygiene. Never mind which hand you or I use. The point is, despite this prohibition, these men think nothing of picking their noses (in public) or taking off their sandals and rubbing their bare feet (in public) with...that's right, the right hand. The one they use to shake with. Which is why I always carry hand sanitizer.
In the "trade" work group sessions I attended, there was lively debate about the problems traders faced --primarily access to credit, being harrassed and hit up for bribes on the trade corridors, and not being competitive enough in the regional markets. One of the participants kept glancing at me with a smile (see fellow in green in trade group photo). I'd glance at him, smile, drop my eyes -- and then it occurred to me: I'm flirting with a guy wearing a long rag wrapped around his head!! (Nothing came of it -- we didn't even speak; I'm not running off with a cow herder from Mali.)
The work group was marked by the same dynamics I see wherever people are engaged in lively and occasionally contentious debate on topics about which they care passionately. There were those who argued with reason, and those with emotion; there were the firebrands, the cooler heads, the comics, the "politicians" and the "nut jobs" -- and the woman leader who managed them all brilliantly.
Even though there was agreement to speak in French, the sessions on the first day quickly lapsed into Bamara-only, which was even a problem for some from regions where Bamara is not spoken. I guess they were as lost as I was. It's particularly disconcerting when people speak in two different languages simultaneously, because you think you're understanding, and then suddenly, you're not. This happens everywhere. It can be a combination of French and English ("franglais"), or Chinese and Hindi ("Chindhi") or whatever -- when people who are bi- or multilingual just naturally fall into using combinations of languages on the basis of the vocabulary that first comes to mind. I have to shake my head in dismay at how many Americans insist everyone who's an American should speak English -- when so many other countries in the world easily accommodate more than one language all the time, both officially and informally.
At the end of the two days, with help from colleagues whose French I did understand, I found out I really did understand the issues (after all, I've been working on them for a few months now), and it was clear what the conference's process and end results were. I even did some interviews in French, but to make things easier, I've ordered a digital tape recorder to use for future interviews.
And I did get together with Tommy, who is so good for my ex-patriate personna as he helped convince me that rather than throw in the towel and quit my often unrewarding job, as I'd been inclined to do earlier in the week, I should hang in and relish the experience. Heat, humidity, bugs, dirt, loud voices and music, inefficiency, horrible traffic, body odors and all.
xoxxoo Love, Grammy
The opportunity came up February 17-18 in the form of a two-day "preparatory" conference in the capital city of Bamako for Malian animal breeders to develop an advocacy statement to be delivered to the President of Mali. ("Breeders" isn't really the correct translation of the French word, "l'elevage", which means more "animal husbandry" in American English, but we don't us "animal husbands", do we?) They have a number of concerns about constraints they face in the areas of production, processing (which in the livestock sector means "meat" instead of selling live animals) and trade, the area in which my project works. Although this was a Malian event, "trade" means to other countries, and that's where our technical and financial support came into play, as ours is a regional agricultural trade promotion project.
There were only two minor problems with my decision: 1) I'd been warned Malians speak a West African-accented French that's difficult for other West Africans to understand, plus they'd probably more often be speaking Bamara, one of Mali's 13 official languages, thus, I might not understand anything going on; and 2) I know practically nothing about raising/selling/buying/butchering livestock.
Unlike the sheep sale that was my first event, how to dress wasn't a problem. A conference center is a conference center anywhere in the world, and everyone just wears regular business clothes. Right?
Well, it depends on what you mean by "regular". A few of the more than 300 Malian livestock "players" (mostly men, as the few women present were government or organization bureaucrats) -- representing all aspects of the livestock trade from hoof to table -- were wearing variations of a European or African urban two-piece suit. However, since they came from throughout this very large and varied country, where cattle breeding is big business and some are tycoons and some are herders, their fashions were as eclectic as their ethnicities and socio-economic levels. Typically in West Africa, it's the women's fashions that catch my eye, but in this conference center, the menswear was exquisite, particularly the voluminous, colorful robes made out of a material that looks and feels like part cotton, part paper. (See photos at <www.flickr.com/photos/paulettelee>)
At one point, I was smothered in this material as I got caught on the steps in the mad dash to the coffee break and I just had to laugh to myself, thinking of friends and family: Gee, look where I am at this moment! However, I was also being overtaken by body odor.
This is as probably as good a time as any to at least touch on some of the personal behavior issues I come across. A whole lot of people in the "third world" don't bathe a lot, much less use deodorant. (Actually, that seems to be true in France, as well, come to think of it...) We Americans are VERY clean. I can't say these men smelled of cows, but many of them them were quite...well, ripe.
And then there's the pecularity of the right hand. In Muslim societies (and many African non-Muslim, as well), it is frowned upon to extend your left hand to anyone for any reason, because that is the hand that (theoretically) is used for ...well, personal hygiene. Never mind which hand you or I use. The point is, despite this prohibition, these men think nothing of picking their noses (in public) or taking off their sandals and rubbing their bare feet (in public) with...that's right, the right hand. The one they use to shake with. Which is why I always carry hand sanitizer.
In the "trade" work group sessions I attended, there was lively debate about the problems traders faced --primarily access to credit, being harrassed and hit up for bribes on the trade corridors, and not being competitive enough in the regional markets. One of the participants kept glancing at me with a smile (see fellow in green in trade group photo). I'd glance at him, smile, drop my eyes -- and then it occurred to me: I'm flirting with a guy wearing a long rag wrapped around his head!! (Nothing came of it -- we didn't even speak; I'm not running off with a cow herder from Mali.)
The work group was marked by the same dynamics I see wherever people are engaged in lively and occasionally contentious debate on topics about which they care passionately. There were those who argued with reason, and those with emotion; there were the firebrands, the cooler heads, the comics, the "politicians" and the "nut jobs" -- and the woman leader who managed them all brilliantly.
Even though there was agreement to speak in French, the sessions on the first day quickly lapsed into Bamara-only, which was even a problem for some from regions where Bamara is not spoken. I guess they were as lost as I was. It's particularly disconcerting when people speak in two different languages simultaneously, because you think you're understanding, and then suddenly, you're not. This happens everywhere. It can be a combination of French and English ("franglais"), or Chinese and Hindi ("Chindhi") or whatever -- when people who are bi- or multilingual just naturally fall into using combinations of languages on the basis of the vocabulary that first comes to mind. I have to shake my head in dismay at how many Americans insist everyone who's an American should speak English -- when so many other countries in the world easily accommodate more than one language all the time, both officially and informally.
At the end of the two days, with help from colleagues whose French I did understand, I found out I really did understand the issues (after all, I've been working on them for a few months now), and it was clear what the conference's process and end results were. I even did some interviews in French, but to make things easier, I've ordered a digital tape recorder to use for future interviews.
And I did get together with Tommy, who is so good for my ex-patriate personna as he helped convince me that rather than throw in the towel and quit my often unrewarding job, as I'd been inclined to do earlier in the week, I should hang in and relish the experience. Heat, humidity, bugs, dirt, loud voices and music, inefficiency, horrible traffic, body odors and all.
xoxxoo Love, Grammy
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