I wake up the next morning refreshed and relieved that nothing had slithered through my hair or crawled over my face during the night. Today the team is going to get the supplies needed to take to Mana. This includes a trip to the local market in Bamako, led by Michelle LeTarte, known affectionately as "The Tart."
Michelle, a research scientist from SickKids Hospital, is heading up the Kitchen Life Team, organizing meals around locally available produce and spices she stashed in her luggage from home. Tiny and tenacious, The (petite) Tart has made her check list and we fall in line to help carry items back from the market. Greg indicates there is only one real supermarket in Bamako and because it supplies the local embassies in the city, its quality standards are higher. We would be buying our meat there. Not chicken. Not fish. Beef - it was safest and best value for the money.
It's 10 a.m. and already the heat is oppressive made worse by a suffocating stench that clotheslines me in the throat. No Google search about Bamako prepares you for the smell. On the way to the market I discover the sources: open, stagnant sewers are at capacity at the side of the road. Sludge from body waste and carelessly strewn garbage blends with diesel fuel from furious vespas rifling through the streets. Makeshift market stands dot the street with vendors selling everything from fruit to pharmaceuticals. We turn the corner and arrive at the market a short distance away.
To the right, a man has tied up the feet of about 20 chickens who appear lifeless laying on the ground next to the road. They aren't; they've just sensed the inevitable or, like me, are just too bloody hot to move. But buyers want the chickens alive at the time of purchase, skinny as they are, I'm told. To the left there is a narrow path with too many peddlers on either side all selling the same produce. It's overwhelming but The Tart navigates us through, saying "Bonjour" to everyone she meets. Having been here before, she knows she has to be fair - there is safety in fairness - even if it appears excruciatingly inefficient in the 40+ degree heat: she will buy a little from every single vendor.
We stand off to the side welcoming any thread of shade we can find. At my feet is a stream of red fluid trickling out of the building next to me. I follow it to the meat market. Large slabs of meat and animal carcasses, each kissed by swarms of admiring flies, lay out on open, unfinished tables. There is no refrigeration, no one wearing plastic gloves. A parking section for vespas with the odd one ripping through the stalls is interspersed with the meat tables, diesel smell in tow. A small teapot-like vessel men use to wash their hands is located at the entrance reminding me there is no running water or washrooms. From tea pot to T-bone, the men are handling the meat.
The scene is a lot of new information to take in; every sense is on overload. Our group heads to the road to wait for The fair-but-inconvenient Tart, disappointed by air that seems no fresher there. And then, we spot him: a young man silently dragging himself down the street, eyes cast down, crossing the sewers and blood tributaries, hands and feet bandaged but not hiding the fact his flesh was rotting, parts disappearing. A curvature of his spine, evident as he crawls past us, explains his underdeveloped lower half. An injury? Disease? There is no way to tell. There is no dignity to how he is forced to move through the crowds. No one pays any attention to him. Except our group. We are grief stricken by the sight, feeling compelled to help the young man whose future would be brief. Of that we knew for sure. He glances up to us with an apologetic smile, his perfect teeth and smile a merciful gift to us.
We lug our bags of fruits and vegetables back to the guest house to the smiling (read: pitying) nods of local women carrying their heavy wares effortlessly on their heads. All I can think of is the man - no, a kid really - moving through the filth on his stomach. And an ice cold Coke. I comfort Gillian as she sobs back at the guest house. This is going to be much tougher than I originally thought.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Africa - Day Two
Paris airport is as expected: expensive. Boutique stores with overpriced designer everything, including a basic cup of coffee, seemed an incongruent overture to our Mali destination. I passed on the urge to spend my mortgage payment on a Cartier necklace or Hermes handbag. Instead, I helped Gillian study her World Religions homework, which seemed much more aligned to our trip. I quietly reserved the right to revisit Paris. Soon.
We would be travelling to Mana, a small village where residents who were Muslim, Christian, or, to a smaller extent, Animisme, came together and did something westerners haven't quite comprehended: they live harmoniously with each other. I was familiar with the first two religions but it wouldn't be until we arrived at the village a couple of days later that I would be introduced to the third, a religion that believes souls live in all forms of life, including animals. Their unfamiliar welcoming ritual kept many of us up that first night in Mana, unclear and not-a-little concerned about the goat they had sacrificed in celebration of our arrival (so not necessary), the brush fires they had lit uncomfortably close to our quarters and the drumming and chanting that continued until dawn.
I also discovered the Animisme don't like having their photo taken, an abrupt lesson I learned at the nearby hospital in Oulessebougou, when I succumbed to the prodding of Karen J., a nurse travelling with our group during a vaccination clinic visit. The haunting image of the Animisme man sitting in the hospital's courtyard was seductive and she wanted the photo. I snapped without permission. And he let me know in no uncertain terms that my camera had captured his image, therefore his soul. He was not impressed with the freckly white woman wearing too much sunscreen and Shape-ups. I quickly buried my camera in my bag, thanked Nurse Karen for the oh-so unique experience and justified in my own mind that a soul was a small price to pay for losing a full night of sleep the evening before. I kept that last little nugget to myself mind you.
The flight from Paris to Bamako was about six hours and I was still loving the luxury and service of Air France. We arrived in Bamako at about 5 p.m., still light enough to see that there wasn't really much to see outside, at least in terms of vegetation or remarkable landmarks. There was however a noticeable military presence all around our plane and we were being held on board. Greg reassured us it was a heightened presence, not normal at all. (Um, good?)
I waited patiently, feeling safer on the plane than off and downplayed the whole scene to Gillian. "It's nothing," I said,"a couple of soldiers with machine guns," consciously under reacting the same way I always did Sunday mornings when Gillian and her sister Veronica would tell me too much about what went on at the teenage parties the night before. My advanced poker-face skills muted Gillian's concerns and before long we learned our hold up was because the Mali Prime Minister had arrived on the landing strip at the same time as our plane. Being very nice Canadians, we gave him the right of way.
We arrived at the guest house in Bamako at 8:30 p.m., a full 24-hours after the journey began at Pearson International Airport. The house was in a gated compound with a security guard on 24-hour duty. It was basic refuge, spacious but not particularly inviting. It wouldn't be until daylight the next day that I realized how pallatial these accommodations were in comparison to the rest of Bamako.
A stack of foam mattresses was piled in the corner. We would each get one and some floor space for the night. With a headcold coming on, I was eager to unpack my sheets and pillow and sleep for a few un-interupted hours.
Some lessons before bedtime:
1. Absolutely no drinking from the taps
2. Any water being used needed to boil for 20 minutes beforehand
3. All dishes, especially cutlery and glasses, would need to be washed in boiling water with Javel bleach
4. No eating fresh fruit or vegetables, especially from street vendors no matter how appetizing they looked; all of it would need to be washed in boiling water and Javel bleach before being edible (The irony was delicious)
5. Cold bottles of Coke were 50 cents
6. Men and women would be sleeping in separate quarters (I was fine with this rule but pitied the married couples who were on the trip together and hoped they had been given the heads up prior to the bus ride from the airport)
I took out my headlight and a roll of toilet paper and placed it next to my floor mat in case I needed to visit the loo in the middle of the night. Beside me on the floor: Vanessa and Sheila, both public health nurses experienced in international relief work; Barb, a senior project manager with Bell and Cathy, a Board member with Hands Across the Nations. We had all given up our comfortable beds to help a village in desperate need of life's basics: health, water and education. Seemed a fair trade to me. It wasn't home, but it felt good.
We would be travelling to Mana, a small village where residents who were Muslim, Christian, or, to a smaller extent, Animisme, came together and did something westerners haven't quite comprehended: they live harmoniously with each other. I was familiar with the first two religions but it wouldn't be until we arrived at the village a couple of days later that I would be introduced to the third, a religion that believes souls live in all forms of life, including animals. Their unfamiliar welcoming ritual kept many of us up that first night in Mana, unclear and not-a-little concerned about the goat they had sacrificed in celebration of our arrival (so not necessary), the brush fires they had lit uncomfortably close to our quarters and the drumming and chanting that continued until dawn.
I also discovered the Animisme don't like having their photo taken, an abrupt lesson I learned at the nearby hospital in Oulessebougou, when I succumbed to the prodding of Karen J., a nurse travelling with our group during a vaccination clinic visit. The haunting image of the Animisme man sitting in the hospital's courtyard was seductive and she wanted the photo. I snapped without permission. And he let me know in no uncertain terms that my camera had captured his image, therefore his soul. He was not impressed with the freckly white woman wearing too much sunscreen and Shape-ups. I quickly buried my camera in my bag, thanked Nurse Karen for the oh-so unique experience and justified in my own mind that a soul was a small price to pay for losing a full night of sleep the evening before. I kept that last little nugget to myself mind you.
The flight from Paris to Bamako was about six hours and I was still loving the luxury and service of Air France. We arrived in Bamako at about 5 p.m., still light enough to see that there wasn't really much to see outside, at least in terms of vegetation or remarkable landmarks. There was however a noticeable military presence all around our plane and we were being held on board. Greg reassured us it was a heightened presence, not normal at all. (Um, good?)
I waited patiently, feeling safer on the plane than off and downplayed the whole scene to Gillian. "It's nothing," I said,"a couple of soldiers with machine guns," consciously under reacting the same way I always did Sunday mornings when Gillian and her sister Veronica would tell me too much about what went on at the teenage parties the night before. My advanced poker-face skills muted Gillian's concerns and before long we learned our hold up was because the Mali Prime Minister had arrived on the landing strip at the same time as our plane. Being very nice Canadians, we gave him the right of way.
We arrived at the guest house in Bamako at 8:30 p.m., a full 24-hours after the journey began at Pearson International Airport. The house was in a gated compound with a security guard on 24-hour duty. It was basic refuge, spacious but not particularly inviting. It wouldn't be until daylight the next day that I realized how pallatial these accommodations were in comparison to the rest of Bamako.
A stack of foam mattresses was piled in the corner. We would each get one and some floor space for the night. With a headcold coming on, I was eager to unpack my sheets and pillow and sleep for a few un-interupted hours.
Some lessons before bedtime:
1. Absolutely no drinking from the taps
2. Any water being used needed to boil for 20 minutes beforehand
3. All dishes, especially cutlery and glasses, would need to be washed in boiling water with Javel bleach
4. No eating fresh fruit or vegetables, especially from street vendors no matter how appetizing they looked; all of it would need to be washed in boiling water and Javel bleach before being edible (The irony was delicious)
5. Cold bottles of Coke were 50 cents
6. Men and women would be sleeping in separate quarters (I was fine with this rule but pitied the married couples who were on the trip together and hoped they had been given the heads up prior to the bus ride from the airport)
I took out my headlight and a roll of toilet paper and placed it next to my floor mat in case I needed to visit the loo in the middle of the night. Beside me on the floor: Vanessa and Sheila, both public health nurses experienced in international relief work; Barb, a senior project manager with Bell and Cathy, a Board member with Hands Across the Nations. We had all given up our comfortable beds to help a village in desperate need of life's basics: health, water and education. Seemed a fair trade to me. It wasn't home, but it felt good.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Africa - Day One
We were leaving on the 7 p.m. flight to Paris, France then transferring to Bamako, Mali from there. Greg Madeley, the trip coordinator and founder of Hands Across the Nations (HATN), requested everyone meet at Pearson International Airport for 3:30 p.m the afternoon of January 12. From there we would travel as a group, sporting our HATN T-shirts with our oversized branded HATN luggage in tow. It had been a long time since I felt part of something special. And there was no denying how good it felt.
Trying to tie up loose ends at work was as possible as parting a mid-sized sea; deliverables and tensions were mounting and more than once I second-guessed my need to be part of the mission to Mali. I say "need" and mean it. There was nothing rational in the decision to go to Africa. I had by-passed logic and awarded my heart full reign for the latter half of January. Too often my intellect had run interference on instincts that had felt right but appeared outwardly irresponsible. Being the eldest child, a single mom and sole breadwinner, I was more than ready to kick responsibility to the curb and follow another vital organ for a change - well... for two weeks anyway. Mali felt right and I was going with it, dragging Gillian along with me.
There were plenty of Everest-sized speed bumps to jolt logic back into the frame: spending $1,200 on international vaccinations was one of them. Greg had warned me that vaccination coverage was expensive but apparently it was a message hard to hear through rose-coloured glasses. Gillian and I endured the countless needles and aching arms, focusing squarely on the purpose ahead and less on the fabulous winter wardrobes that could have been.
Sandra was the first to greet us at the airport. She welcomed us with a smile as warm as a latte, checked off all the appropriate columns on her spreadsheet and made sure we had all the proper documents for customs. The HATN bags were huge, much bigger than Gillian and I had ever packed before - a hockey bag big enough for two goalies, with a 22 kg weight limit. At first we thought we could never possibly fill them, but the list of supplies provided by HATN helped fill the volume.
There were several puzzling items on the mission list: duct tape, head lights, a can of tuna, toilet paper and trail mix. While seemingly unrelated, these items would prove invaluable in the days ahead. Antihistamines, bug spray and my asthma inhalers were also vital, my rescue inhaler most of all. I hadn't considered how the change in climate and air quality would affect my asthma but it did in unforgiving ways. More than once I felt I was in the fight of my life just trying to breathe.
Paul, a veteran traveller with HATN, stepped forward to welcome us. He was clearly ready for the trip, his Tilley hat perfectly positioned over his head kerchief - surefire indicators of the heat and sweat to come I thought. Paul's eyes were brown Smarties: friendly, expressive and yes, smart. He appeared to be in his mid-forties, familiar with the travel routine and the routine of meeting volun-newbies, like Gillian and me. It wasn't until he walked away that we noticed his gait appeared compromised, an injury or stroke I thought. His reassuring presence quickly overshadowed any physical limitation he had and I secretly commended him for taking on the challenge of travelling to Mali. It wasn't going to be easy for the healthiest of us, let alone Paul. I knew then I would need to learn more about this remarkable man.
Gillian and I were lucky to sit next to each other on the Air France flight to Paris. Fifteen days of Gillian's company without a cell phone, Twitter or Facebook to come between us would be an amazing, relationship-defining period for us. Or our Waterloo. Technology has its upside when it comes to required relational space. I chose to ignore the obvious and nestled into my crossword as she programmed The Hangover 2 on her movie screen. Whatever was going to happen, our seatbelts were secured, and we were done taxiing the runway. We were committed to each other and to Mali, Africa.
Trying to tie up loose ends at work was as possible as parting a mid-sized sea; deliverables and tensions were mounting and more than once I second-guessed my need to be part of the mission to Mali. I say "need" and mean it. There was nothing rational in the decision to go to Africa. I had by-passed logic and awarded my heart full reign for the latter half of January. Too often my intellect had run interference on instincts that had felt right but appeared outwardly irresponsible. Being the eldest child, a single mom and sole breadwinner, I was more than ready to kick responsibility to the curb and follow another vital organ for a change - well... for two weeks anyway. Mali felt right and I was going with it, dragging Gillian along with me.
There were plenty of Everest-sized speed bumps to jolt logic back into the frame: spending $1,200 on international vaccinations was one of them. Greg had warned me that vaccination coverage was expensive but apparently it was a message hard to hear through rose-coloured glasses. Gillian and I endured the countless needles and aching arms, focusing squarely on the purpose ahead and less on the fabulous winter wardrobes that could have been.
Sandra was the first to greet us at the airport. She welcomed us with a smile as warm as a latte, checked off all the appropriate columns on her spreadsheet and made sure we had all the proper documents for customs. The HATN bags were huge, much bigger than Gillian and I had ever packed before - a hockey bag big enough for two goalies, with a 22 kg weight limit. At first we thought we could never possibly fill them, but the list of supplies provided by HATN helped fill the volume.
There were several puzzling items on the mission list: duct tape, head lights, a can of tuna, toilet paper and trail mix. While seemingly unrelated, these items would prove invaluable in the days ahead. Antihistamines, bug spray and my asthma inhalers were also vital, my rescue inhaler most of all. I hadn't considered how the change in climate and air quality would affect my asthma but it did in unforgiving ways. More than once I felt I was in the fight of my life just trying to breathe.
Paul, a veteran traveller with HATN, stepped forward to welcome us. He was clearly ready for the trip, his Tilley hat perfectly positioned over his head kerchief - surefire indicators of the heat and sweat to come I thought. Paul's eyes were brown Smarties: friendly, expressive and yes, smart. He appeared to be in his mid-forties, familiar with the travel routine and the routine of meeting volun-newbies, like Gillian and me. It wasn't until he walked away that we noticed his gait appeared compromised, an injury or stroke I thought. His reassuring presence quickly overshadowed any physical limitation he had and I secretly commended him for taking on the challenge of travelling to Mali. It wasn't going to be easy for the healthiest of us, let alone Paul. I knew then I would need to learn more about this remarkable man.
Gillian and I were lucky to sit next to each other on the Air France flight to Paris. Fifteen days of Gillian's company without a cell phone, Twitter or Facebook to come between us would be an amazing, relationship-defining period for us. Or our Waterloo. Technology has its upside when it comes to required relational space. I chose to ignore the obvious and nestled into my crossword as she programmed The Hangover 2 on her movie screen. Whatever was going to happen, our seatbelts were secured, and we were done taxiing the runway. We were committed to each other and to Mali, Africa.
In to Africa
The notion of volun-touring had appealed to me long before the marketing industry had created the handle. Back when I was a teenager, the nuns at my catholic high school in Toronto had organized a mission trip to help school children in Africa. I had desperately wanted to go but times being what they were, my intention of serving gave way to earning much-needed money at a summer job in the CHUM AM promotions department - a fun distraction, but one that offered little emotional depth or reward. Let's be clear, I actually didn't have that insight at the time. As a "CHUM bum", I was handing out concert tickets and cash to cute boys and chubby girls with glasses, infatuated with my power during the three week Canadian National Exhibition. Africa would just have to wait.
And so it did.
Africa, my missed opportunity, had remained on simmer through a varied, hectic career, two children and a failed marriage, proving that some aspects of our selves cannot be suppressed. It's likely why I jumped at the chance to be a part of a 20-person team that headed to Mali, Africa in January, 2012.
I was introduced to Hands Across the Nations (HATN), through a physician friend of mine, Dr. Roland Beaulieu, a pediatric cardiologist, who had become involved with the volunteer organization. His passion for HATN was apparent and after attending its spring fundraising event, I was sold. The question of "if" was bulldozed by "how soon can I go?"; the emotional commitment to head across the pond to help others compromised by geography was a done deal.
My 18-year old daughter Gillian was also in. And when two spots opened up just weeks before the January expedition, we scrambled to find a way to make it work. I was reminded that the timing wasn't good in terms of work demands; not great for school either as it bumped up against exams. But I decided precious few things in life are, in fact, well timed. Infant mortality, high malaria rates and malnutrition seemed to me ill-timed and downright inconvenient too; January seemed as good a time as any to help tackle them. My new fridge, manicures and an all-inclusive vacation would just need to wait. Gillian and I had a personal mission to fulfill.
Together we planned our volunteering adventure to one of the planet's poorest countries. Mali was relatively unknown to me before doing my research -no Hollywood super couple has adopted a Mali baby so it remains under the radar to most westerners (or perhaps this is a glimpse into my own ignorance). Online stats and regional profiles only told a smidge of the real story. Gillian and I would need to wait until we arrived in Bamako and then on to the small village of Mana before the more accurate, mind-warping, heart-warming story would emerge.
The following blogs chronicle our experience with a view to inspiring others to follow suit because it will indeed take the collective efforts of our global village to assume responsibility and affect change as it must happen. And it simply must happen.
And so it did.
Africa, my missed opportunity, had remained on simmer through a varied, hectic career, two children and a failed marriage, proving that some aspects of our selves cannot be suppressed. It's likely why I jumped at the chance to be a part of a 20-person team that headed to Mali, Africa in January, 2012.
I was introduced to Hands Across the Nations (HATN), through a physician friend of mine, Dr. Roland Beaulieu, a pediatric cardiologist, who had become involved with the volunteer organization. His passion for HATN was apparent and after attending its spring fundraising event, I was sold. The question of "if" was bulldozed by "how soon can I go?"; the emotional commitment to head across the pond to help others compromised by geography was a done deal.
My 18-year old daughter Gillian was also in. And when two spots opened up just weeks before the January expedition, we scrambled to find a way to make it work. I was reminded that the timing wasn't good in terms of work demands; not great for school either as it bumped up against exams. But I decided precious few things in life are, in fact, well timed. Infant mortality, high malaria rates and malnutrition seemed to me ill-timed and downright inconvenient too; January seemed as good a time as any to help tackle them. My new fridge, manicures and an all-inclusive vacation would just need to wait. Gillian and I had a personal mission to fulfill.
Together we planned our volunteering adventure to one of the planet's poorest countries. Mali was relatively unknown to me before doing my research -no Hollywood super couple has adopted a Mali baby so it remains under the radar to most westerners (or perhaps this is a glimpse into my own ignorance). Online stats and regional profiles only told a smidge of the real story. Gillian and I would need to wait until we arrived in Bamako and then on to the small village of Mana before the more accurate, mind-warping, heart-warming story would emerge.
The following blogs chronicle our experience with a view to inspiring others to follow suit because it will indeed take the collective efforts of our global village to assume responsibility and affect change as it must happen. And it simply must happen.
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