Early perceptions of Mali

I've received questions about things have have surprised me, my impressions of people's daily lives and living situations, and how people are responding to me. Although I've only been in Africa for a couple of weeks, I thought I'd try to articulate some of my early perceptions, since it will be interesting to see how they change, or don't, over time.

Mali is one of the poorest countries on earth. It ranks 173rd out of 177 countries using the human development index, which describes the relationship between income and well-being (measuring life expectancy, education, and standard of living). Mali is heavily dependent on foreign aid and there are obvious inequalities in the distribution of resources – essentially, there is no middle class. I've never visited a place where living conditions for many are basically unacceptable and where extreme poverty is visible everywhere.

Life expectancy is about 50 years and almost a third of Malians are malnourished. The proportion of death attributed to malnutrition is 56%. Half of the population is without access to an improved water source. On average, about 7 children are born to every woman. Infant mortality is extraordinarily high: 103 deaths per 1000 live births (compared with a still unacceptable 7 infant deaths per 1000 live births in the US, which is much higher – i.e., worse – than other modern countries).

Less than a quarter of the Malian population can read and write, and the percentage is even lower for women. Teachers and classroom materials are badly needed. Although French is the national language, 80% of the population speaks Bambara. (The Bambara are Mali’s largest ethnic group.) A couple of times I’ve tried to speak with someone here and have sensed that my French is even worse than I thought, until I realized that it wasn’t French that I was hearing but Bambara. Either way, it's disorienting to not be able to converse effortlessly.

The majority of the Malian population is Muslim. Young boys carry empty coffee tins and beg for money, and they'll follow you down the street. I'm told that they attend madrassas, or Islamic schools, and are required to give the money to their teachers. There are a few bars and markets where alcohol can be purchased. Polygamy is common, and still a radically foreign concept to me. Women are generally marginalized here and I’ve been acutely aware of the assumptions often made of foreigners – as wealthy and demanding of preferential treatment.

The expats go out to dinner together because each can pay for his or her meal, but locals who work with them do not. I'll eat dinner downstairs in the hotel restaurant if we don’t go elsewhere as it’s convenient and reasonable, and there’s no kitchen in which I can cook. The food is clean and well-cooked and, fortunately, my health has held up well so far. A meal with fish or meat and rice or a vegetable costs about US$10. It’s easy to spend that amount, and more, on a meal out in the US and it’s within my per diem spending from the NGO. However, I only see foreginers eating at the restaurant and it feels sheltered.

I take taxis more frequently than I had anticipated. Sidewalks are nonexistent and the word "safe" doesn't exactly come to mind when I think of the minibuses. The local currency is the West African franc (CFA, pronounced “say-fuh”), and the exchange rate is about 1000 CFA: US$2. One leg of a trip in a taxi costs 800-1500 CFA around town, more than many families here can spend in one day. Probably designed to seat about 8 people, the buses may have upwards of 15 people in the back, and break down frequently. Seat belts are rarely found unless riding in a private car like a Land Cruiser owned by the NGO, which transports us from one meeting to another. I'm still adjusting to the concept of riding in cars with drivers.

I’ll never blend in, but there's a lot to be learned from other people and room to appreciate our differences. It might sound naïve now but it’s why we travel, right? I think it's easy for foreigners to be jaded and cynical about the realities of life here, even if it’s not our reality. I can always come home, whereas people here, those lacking even the most basic commodities, don’t have the option to makes changes so readily nor comfortably. It’s disconcerting to be confronted with such inequalities and I’m grappling with the ways in which I respond.

I find that it's easy to misunderstand people in Africa and I try to be unassuming. The pace is drastically different than the US, where I usually feel like I always need to be doing something to make the most of every day. It can be frustrating to observe the relatively slow progression of tasks here in comparison to the US, yet it's pretty much community-based work at its core: community projects take time and you have to be flexible in your timeline and expectations, realizing that delays occur and are often out of one's immediate control. It's not easy.

I remember thinking that it was too bad that I often said hello to friends at school quickly in the hallway as we'd all rush off to class or to work. I've found Malians to be open, friendly, and hospitable. It would be rude for me to not stop and say hello and ask how are you. People walk into meetings and greet each person individually, shaking hands. Mostly, I find that it's unpredictable as to when meetings will actually take place and I'm learning to laugh at myself. Nonetheless, I've felt most welcome here.