Ecole Eco-Poincon

Spring break wasn't much of a break. Between moving and my grad classes, there wasn't really time for rest. We did take a day, however, to go and visit a school I'd read about in this article from France24.

I was intrigued by such progressive measures happening right here in the capital. Blind and sighted children studying together. And a blind teacher on top of it all. This completely inspiring story seemed to be perfect for finding a way to help our students engage in the community and learn something as well.

So, my field trip partner and I took a ride out to the school. Although it is said to be in Bamako, the journey took about an hour. Much of it was on a fairly decent main road and even after we turned onto the dirt road, it was still in pretty good condition.

Typical Malian landscape stretched out before us, dry, hot, dusty. Bushes and small trees dotted the fields, a structured village sprang up at one point which had us navigating a small dirt road with high mud walls on either side. That was the most interesting thing to see, along with a refreshing mango tree providing a bit of shade and a community hang out.

Into the Malian bush

However, most of the land was sprinkled with little cement buildings. One room, mostly finished but not complete. We guessed they were placed by landowners to secure their claim to the spot. I was struck by the emptiness of everything. I wondered how people got even the most basic of supplies. While we did see a few quincailleries, the hardware shops catering to all the construction workers in the area, there was't even one boutique or small items store. I also didn't see many motorcycles, which would have reduced to trip to the main road to about 10 or 15 minutes.

These empty stalls were scattered across the fields

Eventually we turned off behind one of the half finished houses and parked the cars. The school was a small building, just two classrooms and it looked lonely, the only painted building in the middle of a field of concrete shells.

We visited the first class and were met by a cheerful teaching team. The main teacher, a blind woman, and her sighted teaching assistant we warm and welcoming. The children waited patiently while Mr. Diakite explained how the school worked and showed us the materials he'd brought back from France for use in the instruction of the blind children. One of the girls wrote something for us using a pointed stylus and a frame that held the paper. Another child shared his grid with raised braille number tiles.

A cheerful teaching team

A sighted student went to the board to demonstrate his math lesson. The students had been working on math problems and he was solving 8+8. He did this by coming up and making tally marks, creating eight lines on each side of the plus sign. Then he went back and counted all the lines. Part of me was wondering why or when they might teach the tally system, or if they taught counting by groups or other strategies for determining the answer.

The little boy in front seems tired of the interruption

But another part of me was observing this boy, counting out his lines, while the rest of the class repeated everything he said. I've seen and heard this countless times in African schools, and even some not so African classrooms. The choral response. I hadn't given much thought to it before but in this moment, the sense of community was striking. I was thinking about how difficult it might be for some children to come up to the board and put their answer there, and I wondered for a minute if the call and response would be intimidating for a shy child. But just after that thought, I saw the power of having your peers support you in this way. I had new eyes then, seeing this choral response as an enfolding and community encircling. Just another small action that leads to the strong sense of connection to others and a little less to the individualism of America.

I wonder how it would have played out if he'd been wrong,  or if he'd counted wrong. Would the group still repeat him? Would someone offer the correct answer? Or would it be up to the teacher to make the correction?

I didn't have time to interrogate about teaching methods. We visited the next classroom for only a few seconds, no demonstrations. This was the older class, with less students and a more serious teaching team.

After those introductions, Mr. Diakite took us over to view the dormitories. Its a big word used to describe the bedrooms available in another shell of a house. There are three bedrooms, one for teachers, one for girls and one for the boys. The teachers room had two beds with frames and mosquito nets. The girls room had only mattresses on the floor, while the boys room hosted a set of bunk beds and another bed on a frame. Mr. Diakite had been able to have the bunk beds made after a recent trip to France where he'd been given the funds in a donation.

Donations are far from the main source of the school. Diakite offers half of his salary as a government minister to pay for the teachers and the caretakers of the blind children who stay on during the week. He provides food for the children and the family of the woman who watches over them. On the weekends, the teachers and students go home to visit their families. For those whose families are too far away, Diakite opens his own home and hosts them for the weekends.

It was nothing short of remarkable to hear this man talking about the things he is committed to doing for the blind children of Mali. He says he has 10 more blind students who want to enroll next school year, but surely there will reach a limit to his ability to afford it all out of pocket.

I am hoping we will be able t0 establish some kind of kinship between our schools so that can serve as a resource at times. It would be great to be able to get the students together to create art and possibly auction it off. Or even just getting together to create is a likely benefit.

But in the end, it takes funding to do good work. I am hoping that the word will get out about Youssouf Diakite and his progressive school for blind and sighted children. I regret not being here in Bamako longer to try and make some thing incredible things happen.

Two room school house

Half built buildings provide a home for many

We took a walk down the road to see some cows

Our guide, walking with her radio

Hot, dry, dusty and skinny cows

We even passed a pig corral, which I found surprising and rare

Ndomo

We took a trip to Segou this past weekend and by far the highlight of the trip was a visit to Ndomo. Their website has a stunning collection of photographs of the architecture and the bogolan fabrics made there. Ndomo is a school with a fairly intense program that passes on the tradition of natural cloth dyeing. There are five classes and artist must pass through, each for 2 years. The 10 year program appears targeted at developing a knowledgeable and socially responsible citizen, not just an artist.

The first two years are about learning independence and responsibility, an exploration in how to study and be on one's own. The next two are learning traditional things about how animals live and the natural world, followed by two years about how societies are organized (and the interdependence of humans and the natural world.) Finally, there is the study of the plants and dyes and the symbols- the secret society of bogolan creators. It sounds like an amazing process.

We stopped by, without appointment, and were led to a small stage area in the back. We passed a large group of visitors sitting in a circle listening intently to their guide. The workshop we received was informative and efficient. Our guide gave us a story of how bogolan began, presented the plants and barks they use for natural dyeing, and introduced a few of the symbols used in making the designs.

We each received a little patch of cloth, already dyed in yellow plant fibers, and a small cup of clay. We were instructed to choose four symbols to put on our cloth and then we would have to try and tell a story (create a proverb) about them. (To a group of teachers, this translates as "test!" Luckily, I'd already been taking notes for the blog.)

He washed our little squares, interpreted our stories and set them in the sun to dry.  The final piece of the tour included looking at the vats where dyes are stored and heated, and the boutique, housed in traditional Malian architecture filled with handicrafts and stunning designs.

The story begins with a hunter following a deer. [The road to Segou was filled with deer scampering across the roadway, reminding me of NY highways- always look out for the last one, the littlest one who hesitated and will come jetting out at the last moment.] This hunter, who'd been wearing traditionally dyed cloth, managed to kill the deer and brought it proudly home to his family. Along the way, however, his clothes became stained from carrying the deer, who'd fallen in the mud after being shot.

The hunter's wife, who was happy about having a whole deer to feed and clothe the family, was not so happy about the stains in her husband's hunting apparel. She tried every manner of cleaning off the residue from his excursion to no avail.

Being a woman, however, she took the initiative to turn the situation to her advantage. She developed a code for telling the story of her family, giving advice and expounding wisdom. 

In the center of our circle, the guide had laid out a few bowls filled with flowers and barks. He introduced those to us after his story. He presented a small bowl of yellow flowers, the galama. He also brought several cloths of various shades of yellow, achieved by running it through the process of washing and soaking in galama waters. One wash, a light yellow, two washes, a deeper yellow and three washes, a nice mustard color.

The second bowl had bark from the wild grape vines. This was used for making brown. The bark is mixed with water and heated. A similar effect for creating various tones of brown is used- multiple washes result in deeper colors.

The plants are not just used for color however. They also have a medicinal purpose and our guide was ready to share that information as well. The galama plant is also used in treating malaria, as an antiseptic, to regulate blood pressure and for good mental health. Bark from the wild grape vines is an antibiotic and good for cough (he even supplied a prescription: heat with lemon and drink the tea for one week.)   

I took a lot of notes on the meanings of the symbols. Most of them had to do with having good character. The women developed these symbols as a form of moral education. They are about accepting responsibility for making good choices. They encourage sacrifice, social service and taking care of one's family.

There are signs about work ethic and how to be neighborly. The triangle represents the idea that a job well done deserves to be recognized and the points of three triangles (fishbones) represents the idea we need to respect the head of the family. 

Some signs continue to carry great weight, such as the X which represents a crossroads. Even in Bamako, we might see little signs of sacrifice that people have made or left behind - in order to pray for those who are sick or to help with guidance on the path to the four main points- be analytical, be social, live in service to others and stay connected to the spirits. Making this kind of sacrifice at the crossroads allows others to see it, and perhaps offer their own prayers for you, or the sick person.

An interesting sign, which may have been an influence in this bank's logo,  talks about being honest and not having debt.

There are also signs about choosing the right path ( straight lines and lines with dots or double lines, each have a significance in the the pathways that we choose to travel down) and helping with emotional and spiritual journeys (the camel's paw is related to this.)

Other animal related signs include the sacred crocodile, which is apparently common across parts of West Africa (Mali, Burkina Faso and Ghana.) The Malian version says that if you bring it food, the crocodile may accept it or he may just circle it and then go back to whatever he was doing before. If he accepts it, that means there is a solution to your problem. If he just circles it and leaves, then... well, the outlook is not so good for your problem. The sign of the crocodile is also about friendship and being neighborly.

After our introduction to the symbols, we were tasked with creating our own mini bogolan. It was a superb workshop. Although our visit may have been spontaneous, clearly the work of the center is anything but.

The final stop in our tour was the boutique, were I exercised incredible will power and self-restraint, and have been regretting it ever since. Not only was the cloth beautiful, but I regret even more not supporting the work of these artists, healers and keepers of tradition.

It merits a ride back. For the blue one. And to show my support of this incredible work.

Baskets of supplies

Mbalia making her own symbols

Our guide writing and explaining the symbols

Searching for the perfect paintbrush

Designing our fabric

Nabih, Me, Mbalia

Washing the mud off

Galama plants used for making yellow tones

The stoves for heating the wild grape bark

Around back, Nabih snaps a photo of the interior of a pot

Student meeting area and canteen 

The Blue One

Artisanal wares for sale- stunning creation after stunning creation

No space was left undone- artistic flair and design everywhere

3 Little Chairs

Designer

Bogolan symbols for teaching the workshops inside

Malian architecture is so pleasing to the senses

Outside the center

This view is visible to cars passing the route to Segou center

I never got the story behind the crevices and canyons just outside

Attie & Siby

The road stretched ahead, marvelously empty of the city traffic. Trees, tall grasses, and startling rock formations met the eye in all directions. In the hazy distance, an archway appeared on the horizon.

Malian countryside

I missed the most interesting geological formations, but the
colorful plateaus were also a pleasure

Side country roads sprang up everywhere...inviting the curious

This weekend gave me the first chance to get out of Bamako....and it has happily also provided me with a chance to introduce you to my neighbor, Attie. Attie invited me to a little market town of Siby, where she was hoping to stock up on some shea butter before returning home to Holland this Christmas season.

Attie is just one of several people from the Netherlands that I have met here in Bamako; it seems to be another of those interesting, and possibly slightly unknown, migration connections.  There is a pocket of Dutch here in Mali, and West Africa in general, which should, perhaps, not be so surprising since the Dutch have a fairly prolific history of migration and colonization. I distinctly remember learning about the Dutch East India Company in my upstate NY elementary school, likely only because we did a play about it. But they've had strong roots in Surinam, South Africa, and even the Gold Coast.

Attie is also Mbalia's pre-school teacher, our elementary art teacher and a kindred spirit.  She's spent a lot of time in Africa, has a few multi-cultural children and knows her way around a market. She drove us down the Malian highway commenting on the amazing birds in the trees, the beautiful flowering buds and singing to classic blues and African greats. Her commentary was sprinkled with a mixture of euphemisms like "schips" and an out and out m-f@$%er every now and then. She is the best combination of all the titles she wears- pre-school teacher, art teacher, grandmother, strong single mother, bike rider, nature lover, wax print and bazin fabric appreciator, and aficionado of West African culture.

Mbalia & Attie, in the shade of a mango tree

We stopped just outside of town and had a snack in a field of mango trees. The Arch of Kamandjan could be seen in the distance and there was a constant, pleasant breeze. Many small groups passed us- groups of boys, women carrying their loads to the market, men on bikes, motorcyclists. Everyone waved hello and those on foot walked right up to greet us. Most of the kids offered a very proper, "Ou vas tu," which I kept hearing as "voiture." They weren't asking about our car but were wondering where we were going. I guess they were ready to serve as guides in case we needed. Or maybe they wanted a piece of our orange.

Some of the kids just stood there forming a little circle with us for what seemed like a long time. They never asked for anything directly and their intention wasn't quite clear. Curiosity? Hunger? One group of boys watched us taking pictures under the mango and "warned us" of a serpent in there. Attie has been in Mali for a good number of years and can remember "before the crisis" when tourists were abundant. She attributes the friendly and bold nature of people here to their familiarity with tourists from around the world. And of course their generous, joking nature which is a pleasure to be on the receiving end of. (With my best theater face, I put on my courage and looked deep into the tree branches for that snake. Luckily, he wasn't anywhere I could see.)

After our snack, we set off across the plains to take a walk toward the arch. The Arch of Kamandjan holds an important place in Malian history and warrior legend. The fields just below are said to have been the battlegrounds where Sundiata earned his title as King of the Malian Empire. Apparently you can (or could?) rent bicycles and take a tour, although the road gets very steep and is better served by hiking. We passed several motorcycles and an occasional biker or two, presumably on their way to or from the market. Attie and I both agreed it would be an interesting journey, on another day.

Some passing boys warned (or teased us) about
a serpent in the tree. Later evidence suggested
maybe there was something to it after all.

Mango love everywhere

Freedom! No worries about getting
creamed by a motorcycle

The famous arch

Very sweet broken down house- with real doors in place!

The doors had beautiful carvings and seemed
 in remarkable condition. While I've seen them
 in plenty of artist markets, I've never actually
seen them in place on a house before.

We got closer to the arch, but it didn't get any clearer. Heavy haze.

Fresh snake skin just hanging from the tree.

Mbalia drawing circles in the
 sand around Miss Attie

We walked until we ran across this restaurant. As is typical, gems like these are often described as "the French guy's place," although said French guy might not necessarily be on the premises anymore. True to Attie's nature, she saw the open gates and a truck in the drive and said, "Come on man, let's check it out." So we made our way down the dusty drive, marveling at the sweet breeze and relaxing nature of the space.

Restaurant advertising on the road to the arch

Someone came out to greet us and offer a drink. He moved a small table into the shade, set out some chairs and viola, restaurant open. While we were enjoying a beverage, a few other women came along, two on a bike and one older lady on a motorcycle. They all sat together and enjoyed a meal. It seemed like perhaps they were staying there, or had been frequent visitors.

You can rent a small round room for 6,000FCFA per person per night. I could definitely imagine bringing a book, some pencils and maybe some writing gear. What an extremely relaxing and beautiful scene to wake up to. (I did not see a hammock however, the only improvement I could really think of. The couple running the place were super nice, the breeze was constant and the air cool.)

I imagine this would be a beautiful morning or sunset view

Our little table under the shade of the mango

Covered eating area

Solar panels, because, yes.

Looking down this well gave me a terrible
vertige- deep and dark. And of course
Attie had a fantastically bizarre story
to share about a friend and a horse
who fell into a well together......

Hand washing system. This version included:
water in the teapot, strainer cover over the
bowl, and a place for holding soap. Super
 effective and much "classier" than just the
bowl and the pot. It works easiest with two
 people, like most systems in Africa. 

This round hut can be rented for 6000FCFA a night (per person)

After our drink, we made our way back to the car, again passing groups of women and children. One particular group of women were so enamored with Mbalia they walked right up to her and formed a circle around her, asking questions and saying hello. It would have been intimidating for a grown person, let alone a 3 year old, but she handled it mostly well. While she didn't exactly greet everyone in the traditional method, she did make it clear she wasn't a baby when someone suggested as much (as in cute baby. Not a baby, she insisted. Earlier she'd also refused to be called a princess, firmly reiterating her recent claim to be a dinosaur. She relegated Miss Attie to the status of princess and took a lot of pictures of "the princess and the dinosaur.")

The princess and the dinosaur- grinning to the left.

 There was only one group of older boys that was somewhat bothersome, insisting Mbalia should hand over her Spiderman sunglasses. By this point, I was carrying her on my back and she was feeling sleepy. There was no way she was going to stand for a bit of teasing, and definitely not about the "Fiyah man's." She loves those things.

But we did pass another group of sweet boys, the smallest getting a ride in a push cart from his older brother. They exchanged greetings and when Attie turned the infamous, "Ou vas tu?" question on them, the oldest insisted he wasn't French. So they switched over to Bambara for the standard exchange. He had a winning smile and we had a chance to see it again as we drove away, waving goodbyes to all the women and children we passed. Toubabi is the general term they call out for foreigners and there was plenty of that being shouted after us as well.

We passed through a typical African market in our search for the shea butter that had inspired the trip. It was a bit more spacious and there were considerably less flies than the Bamako markets. The smells of fish powders and smooth nut butters filled the air.

Our ride back to the city was unremarkable if pleasant. We did catch a glimpse of a monkey crossing the road. He was as beige as the tall grass and we might have missed him but for Attie's vigilance with all things natural. I noticed a number of boys riding on the outside of the sotramas, Mali's version of the African vans that shuttle people from place to place. Every country does it slightly differently and here the seats go around the inside, with everyone sitting looking in at each other. A campfire circle without the campfire.

On the main roadway, the vans are just as often packed with people as they are overflowing with goods. In addition to being piled high on top with extra baggage, each van had at least one boy riding on the back, his feet perched on the bumper, holding onto the rails on top and one hand looped through a window or grasping the door edge. Some of them faced out, backs resting on the doors, gazing at the landscape as it passed and others clung precariously to the van with an eye facing the road ahead. One boy in particular had a melancholy look on his face. He held loosely onto a back door ladder, head leaning on his arm. Behind him were white doors painted with a Che Guevera portrait.

It was a deeply poetic image, but my phone had long since lost the battery and something about snapping his photo would have surely marred the moment. We gave him a thumbs up for encouragement as we passed and he returned the gesture with a tired smile.

Another van had 3 boys on the back, one perched up on top of the baggage. We passed him further down the road only to find he had descended from his vantage point and was holding on to the edges like the other guys. It seemed like a long, hard, and dangerous journey to Bamako. There can be no getting tired on the way.

I was extremely tired on the return trip and could barely keep my eyes open. All the fumes and dirt of the day had left me with a massive headache.  Mbalia, a robust airplane traveler, fared less well in the car and eventually passed out herself.

In all, it was a tranquil day, calm and peaceful. Worth a return trip to Mande country.