My Malian Education: The Lesson of 'Yala Yala'

This is one of my favorite spots to 'piga story', as they say in 'Kiswahili.' This phrase literally means 'beating the story.' I spend time most afternoons chatting with friends outside of Ben's 'duka' (retail shop), often gathered around a man known simply as 'Fundi.' 'Fundi' means an artisan/craftsman. This particular 'Fundi' is a cobbler, repairing old shoes already well past worn. Note the chalkboard leaning against the wall, which advertises the English Premier League soccer matches a television hall just behind this building will be airing for the week.

‘Yala yala’ is a 'Bamanankan' word. I may no longer be in Mali. I may now be regularly speaking another language, ‘Kiswahili’, and learning a fourth, ‘olunyala’, but I have yet to come across another word in any language which better encapsulates the practice. Which is fitting, since it is a habit I learned and adopted into my everyday life during my time in Mali. To ‘yala yala’ is to walk about for no particular reason, simply to wander and chat with people.

Pictured above are my 'Wamama wa Sokoni' (my mothers in the market). They gather here each day to sell 'omena' (small fish) and vegetables, sitting outside of the new market structure currently under construction. I like to sit with them and chat, mostly practicing my Olunyala, which has really helped me learn the language. Many of them, on account of their gender and age, have a lower level of education and feel more comfortable speaking their native language. They have taken to telling any visitors 'Mikey ni kwangu' (Mike is our kid).

In America, in the absence of any premeditated plans, I was generally most comfortable spending my free time alone. To be out on the town alone, with no purpose but to talk to people I'd happen to meet, was always uncomfortable for me. And being someone who has moved a lot, this discomfort always made it difficult for me to truly make a place feel like home.

But after Mali, spending time alone now gives me the most discomfort. If ever I find myself alone, my first thought is now 'what am I missing? Am I really making the best use of my limited time here?'

Reflecting upon the near two years I spent in Mali, the most important thing to me is the relationships I built. I had never felt closer to a community than I did in Makili. Not even close.

Jubilee is my favorite 'hoteli' in Budalang'i. Their food is good - I especially like that they serve 'nyama choma' (grilled meat) at lunchtime. But mostly, I love the setup of their 'hoteli'. Their seating area is just in front of the kitchen (pictured above) under an overhang. It is nice and open, and creates a fun, social atmosphere.

People often talk about a feeling of isolation while serving in the Peace Corps. That is certainly understandable - we come from different backgrounds, have different habits, look differently, speak differently...

Whenever you travel around Africa, you are constantly greeted by the chanting of kids, even adults, using whatever the obligatory word is for 'white people' in the local dialect. In Mali, the chant was 'Toubabu! Toubabu!' In Kenya, 'Muzungu! Muzungu!' And people sometimes get no further into interacting with you than a stare.

Winnie, a woman who runs her own small 'hoteli', bringing me a lunch of pork (hooray for living in a Christian country!), kale, and ugali. I have taken to eating all of my meals, except breakfast, at 'hoteli'. It's true, I am lazy when it comes to cooking. But primarily, I prefer to eat at 'hoteli' because it allows me to remain in the community. Cooking for myself would mean additional hours spent alone at my house. For me, the extra money is well worth the time I gain getting to know my community.

But as a Peace Corps volunteer, within the community where you will spend two years of your life in service, you do have tools to get past this. Most importantly is language. Learning 'Bamanankan', the local language in Makili, fluently was key to my integration. It toned down the differences between us. I was able to carry out conversations with everyone in the village. In groups, I was just one of the guys. No need for one person to translate what was being said to me. I could join in completely, follow in real time.

Coming from Mali, and knowing what an impact language learning had on my service, I gave all of my attention to learning 'Kiswahili', the most widely-spoken language in Kenya.

There are two primary types of dedicated 'social hangouts' in rural Kenya. First are the bars, which I generally tend to stay away from. Too much drunkenness. Second are the pool halls. This is the main pool hall in Budalang'i. Not quite a hall, it is an outdoor overhang under which another man known as 'Fundi' (the man keeping score at the board), in this case because he is a tailor, maintains a coin-operated pool table. I like to spend nights chatting with these guys.

And when I found that my area has its own native language, 'Olunyala', I committed myself to learning this language as well, to the best of my ability. This has been a more difficult task. There are no text books and I have no teacher, but I feel that my language is now coming along.

The educational system in Kenya is significantly better than that in Mali. Most people can speak English, let alone 'Kiswahili'. Language learning is not necessary in Kenya like it was in Mali. You can communicate through English, although it often means relying on a translator when speaking to 'wazee' (the elderly) in rural areas. But to me, to gain that same sense of community, it is necessary.

I also spend a lot of time chatting at barber shops in the community. Barber shops are one of the areas at which young men spend their downtime chatting. My good friend Jack (third from the left) runs one such barber shop, but has since joined a local crew in constructing the new market stalls in town.

The most pronounced lesson I learned from Mali, the one that I hope to take with me no matter what community I go in the future, is the lesson of 'yala yala.'

It was a gradual acceptance for me. During my first several months at site, I fell into the familiar concept of spending my free time at home. Everything was too different, communication was too hard. I was reading at a blistering pace, and frequent visits from my good friend Giardia didn't make things easy for me either.

But I soon realized that it was after these times alone when I felt the most isolated. I felt ready to leave, be done with this experience.

And when did I have those glorious highs? Those moments when I found myself so thankful for the opportunities in front of me? Those moments when I could not contain my excitement for the days to come? Those moments when I realized there is nowhere else in the world I would rather be?

During my first couple weeks in Budalang'i, I was invited to attend a meeting of the Mumbaya Youth Group. In that initial meeting, they were disappointed when I could not provide them a sponsor or financial assistance. But I did offer to become a member and participate in their activities as they all do. Since that time, I have been spending my Sunday afternoons at their weekly meetings. This past Sunday, we de-weeded a 'shamba' (garden) in which they had previously planted corn. The opportunity has given me a new group of friends, and another opportunity to get closer to my community.

Those moments always occurred after being with people out in the community. And it dawned on me, the best way for me to live in Makili was to live as a Makilian. It wasn't enough to physically be a part of the community, I had to commit myself fully, mentally.

People in 'third-world' countries seem to be much better at this than we are in America. In Mali, I became another villager. I spent my time as they did. Whenever there was no work to be done, I'd be out in the community, drinking tea and socializing. No invitation required, I'd just roam until I found people to talk with. And I was rewarded with some of the best friends I've ever known.

I have mentioned before that I find Kenya to be a sort of middle ground between Mali and America. While people are generally friendly, they are not as welcoming as Malians. There are no extended greetings asking how everyone in your family is. People did not greet me on the street if I wasn't the one to initiate. People don't see a stranger and invite them to join their friends to chat over tea.

But thanks to Mali, I now knew the type of experience I wanted to have. I knew I wanted to become a part of this community in the same way as I did in Makili, and I now knew how.

The 'how' is to 'yala yala'. I spend all of my free time walking around town, going up to people, striking up a conversation. I have had to more force my way in than I did in Mali. One man asked if I was planning to run for mayor, being struck by my odd behavior. To 'yala yala' is not as much part of the culture.

But I find that the community has been quick to reward me for my efforts. They have opened up to me, accepted me as one of their own. They no longer wait for me to initiate greetings. They readily accept me into their circles. The places have changed... I no longer sit on rugs under shade trees drinking tea. Now I chat in front of small retail shops, by the local 'fundi wa viatu' (cobbler), in the market, in barber shops, at restuarants...

My friend Davies (left) runs the main internet cafe just outside of the center of town. I also spend time here, but prefer the more social environments in town. People often come here to watch downloaded American movies and access Facebook, in addition to searching for work in the difficult job market. Kenya is definitely much more westernized than Mali.

I now find myself just as excited as I was during my days in Mali. Mali was amazing for so many reasons. The culture was fascinating, so different from our own. But the most important component to any experience in life is people. The relationships I built in Mali are what mattered most then, and the relationships I'm building here in Kenya matter most now. And because of those relationships, I will likely become just as attached to Budalang'i as I now am to Makili. This is the biggest lesson I've learned, and I thank my friends in Mali for being such great teachers.