Under A Million Miles Of Sky: The past month in pictures...

This past month in village has seen continued work in the fields, continued migration of the youth into the city to make money, and the first half of the holy month of Ramadan, which lasts from August 1st through August 30th.

The following are some pictures I took during this time. Beneath each picture I provided descriptions and/or stories to help provide insight into village life and what I have been up to:

The final remnants of 'gingy.' From left to right: Dara 'dɔɔni' (Small Dara), Mami, Bahumu, Drissa (her son), and myself. I have given Dara 'dɔɔni' this nickname to his annoyance due to his small stature in comparison to Dara 'bɛlɛbɛlɛ' (big Dara). He has become one of my best friends in village.

All of the 'dɛnmisɛnw' (young adults) in village have their own 'gɛrɛ,' or group of friends who generally gather together every night to chat until about midnight, and each group has given themselves a name. I have generally become a part of 'gingy,' which is Bambaran for owl. They selected this name because the owl stays up all night and makes noise. I greatly enjoy chatting with this group because it involves both men and women. Normally in this culture, the men chat seperately from the women.

'Gingy' used to be about 12 people strong, but unfortunately, with most young men and women leaving for Bamako to make money 'fini gɔsi' (pounding Baizan clothing) or working as housemaids for well-off urban families respectively, our numbers have greatly dwindled. Dara is actually leaving on Saturday, and Mami already left on Wednesday. I joked with them that 'gingy' has died, but will be reborn in December when everyone begins to return.

My host-uncle Badama cutting 'sɛbɛ,' which became my favorite treat in village. This is a hard fruit that is prepared by cutting the fruit into large wedges, and removing the large seed within the fruit. The wedges, with the fruit still on the hard skin, are then cooked in an iron pot over the fire.

You don't actually eat them, but you pull the orange-colored, pulpy fruit off the skin with your teeth, chew and suck out the juice, then spit out the actual fruit. To be honest, I was not impressed the first time I tasted it - it was alright but not worth the hype the villagers placed upon it. But I quickly acquired a taste for it to the point where I find it irresistible. Unfortunately, 'sɛbɛ' season is now over.

While we were chatting as Badama cut the fruit, he began talking about how people climb the 'sɛbɛ' trees in other parts of Mali and the Ivory Coast. Randomly, he got up and decided to prove to me he could do it.

People don't actually climb these trees for the fruit here. Instead, the fruit fall from the large palm trees on their own. This 'sɛbɛ' tree in my jatigi's (host family's) concession is approximately 50 feet tall, and the fruit themselves are rather large and very hard. They make a huge thud when they fall.

I told my family that a person can easily be killed if they happen to be underneath when a 'sɛbɛ' falls. I was half-joking, but I believe its the truth. They disagreed, and admitted it might kill a small child, but they don't believe it could kill an adult. I joked that it would be a sad phone call to make to tell my family that I died from a falling fruit!

After climbing the tree, Badama then sat down on rug to copy a holy muslim text in Arabic onto his wooden tablet. It is the holy month of Ramadan, and Badama is one of the few people in my village actually fasting. Most men and women go to the fields, and since fasting involves not eating or drinking, even water, from sunrise to sundown, fasting can be a death sentence. But even those who stay in village during the day generally don't fast, it seems to be primarily the elder men. I believe this is somewhat of an anomaly - my village isn't as devout as many in the region.

When I was chatting with Lamissa, the school headmaster, his wife Afu, and Yaoussa, a woman from the Water and Sanitation Committee, we talked about the 'jackow' (ceremonial costumed Bambaran 'mascots') used for traditional ceremonies. In current times, they are primarily brought out for Mali's Independence Day.

But Lamissa told me that several years ago, three of the four 'kinw' (neighborhoods) in village designed their own 'jackow' to celebrate the opening of the community savings bank. They weren't terribly elaborate as the ones I have shown on this blog before. Katilɛla was a cow, Diarrakɛla was a very large man who stomps on rice stalks, and Bokomana was simply a group of 'dɛnmisɛnw' who 'chi kɛ'd (plowed) the center of town with a 'misi shɛri' (plow pulled by two bulls). They explained that the fourth 'kin,' Marakɛla, did not participate because they are all 'muslim.'

My entire village, of course, considers themselves Muslim. But this just illustrates how the conversion of the Bambaran people to Islam did not fully remove their traditional animist religion and culture, and there is a constant tension observed in their religious practices. Indeed, every child still wears a 'boli' (fetish/amulet), which involves a leather belt and various small items, such as the skull of a 'cami' (guinea fowel) wrapped in a leather pouch. The 'boli' is said to ward off evil.

Baysa and a young boy 'chi kɛ' (plowing) the millet fields. They are actually 'ɲɔ shiɛn/bin bon,' which is removing the weeds and grass from the millet fields that can crowd out the actual crop. First, the men use the 'shɛri' to plow alongside each row of crop, removing all growth adjacent to it.

Finally, the men use 'daba' hand tools to hack away at any weeds growing between the plants themselves. My friends Tayluru and Bokari are pictured above.

Many of the 'kinw' (neighborhoods) have begun to establish their own 'kɛsu' (savings account) for use in any projects within their 'kin' in the future. In order to raise money for this purpose, the 'kin' acquires several plots of land within the rice fields to work together. All profits from the harvest of the rice then go into the 'kɛsu.'

Pictured above are men of Katilɛla working their 'tɔn bara fɔrɔ' (neighborhood committee work field). Men to the left are 'chi kɛ' (plowing) the land, while the man to the right is casting rice seeds onto the field. It was a rather impressive operation, with 17 different 'shɛriw' (plows) working at once over two hectares of land.

A young man casting rice seeds across the freshly plowed fields during Bokomana's 'tɔn bara' (neighborhood committee work).

Dara demonstrating the use of an 'ɛrɛshi' during the 'Bokomana tɔn bara.' This is the metal unit being pulled by the bulls above. Emanating from the metal structure are several small blades. As the 'ɛrɛshi' is pulled across the land, it covers the rice seeds that were just casted by hand with soil to prevent birds from eating them.

Two young boys, Noohoo (right) and his friend guiding bulls as they pull an 'ɛrɛshi' during the 'Katilɛla tɔn bara.'

Millet fields just outside of the village on August 2nd.

My friend Senata (center) with her grandmother (left) and sister (right) 'tiga kɔrɔci/bin bon.' Similar to what I described above with the millet fields, these women are using their 'dabaw' to hack away weeds between the peanut plants. Most field work is generally done primarily by the men, although the women do assist in seeding. However, besides plowing, peanut fields are worked by women only.

A couple days before this, I was chatting with Senata along with some other villagers, and she asked me to join her in the fields to 'tiga kɔrɔci.' She rose up out of her seat, grabbed her 'daba,' and proceeded to demonstrate the movement of hacking away at the weeds. But she did so in such an animated way, that she shook her 'juguru' (rear-end) as if she were Shakira as she went along. So I asked, 'If I come, do I have to do that?' They all laughed.

When I came out to the fields with them on this day, I noticed she was much more 'normal' in her motion. But when I was handed a 'daba,' I mimicked her movement from the day before. They all died laughing. I joked, 'why aren't you dancing like you were doing the day before?' Her grandmother joked that the fields had become a 'dɔnkɛ yɔrɔ' (dancing place).

I headed out with Ladji on one day to deliver food on bike to the men working the 'Diarrakɛla tɔn bara' (neighborhood committee work) in the rice fields. He pointed out this temporary settlement along the banks of the canal which was built to water the rice fields. He explained that it belongs to a family of the ethnic group 'Daga.' These families are nomadic, and move here each farming season from the more arid lands to the northeast to work the rice fields and fish in the canal.

This is a picture of the canal as seen next to a bridge. To the right, you can see a 'kurun' (small fishing boat), and a couple small fishing nets floating along the water.