Reflection: Homestay, Sweet Homestay

Jim's Impressions of Homestay:

In order to prepare us for service at our host site, Peace Corps Mali incorporates homestays as part of its training. Homestays are where trainees are assigned to a real-life Malian household in a real-life Malian village, and we live there while attending daily training sessions for both language and technical skills. Our first homestay training chunk lasted two weeks, and during that time, I bathed, ate, and slept in the Traoré household of my village along with seven other environment volunteers; I could classify it as two of the most challenging weeks of my life.

When I arrived, nervously anticipating where I may end up, everything detail around me was overwhelming foreign. Jagged dirt paths ran between mud brick compounds, and I had to play hopscotch to move forward while avoiding the trash, stagnant water, and shouting children. The eight of us were brought before the village chief, who graciously welcomed us before introducing us to our host fathers. After a quick greeting, each father was tasked with bestowing a new Malian name upon us. I was visibly stunned when my host father met my eyes and said coolly, “Numujo Traoré.” It took me two days to get the pronunciation right [Nou-mou-djo Trow-or-é]. Then, they made us dance.

But life in the Traoré compound was instantly less stressful. The family was noticeably excited to be hosting an American guest, but they didn’t overcrowd, and they weren’t pushy. Luckily, my host father spoke French and so we could communicate – first, about where my mosquito net should go, and eventually, about where I would be going for classes. But despite this blessing, my first night was tormenting. The heat and humidity forced me to wave a fan all night, so that I would snooze for seconds before my fan fell and hit me in the face. I wanted to go home.

That was my lowest point, and it was all uphill from there. Once we got started on our garden and learning Bambara (Mali’s most common language), I was too busy to sulk and too tired to not sleep. To communicate, I relied on charades, and as my language improved, I gained the ability to greet my family, take leave, and even express simple commands. It was just enough to give me entrance into after-dusk conversations, huddled around a kerosene lantern, laughing hysterically about how the Traoré’s “joking cousins” – another family name with whom the Traorés jest regularly - liked to eat beans. And yes, it’s funny because beans make you fart.

However, as word spread that Noumoudjo existed and was learning Bambara, life outside of the Traoré compound became more demanding. I became (and still am) a spectacle to behold. This was not the fault of any Malians, but simply the nature of trying to immerse yourself in a culture to which you are an obvious foreigner. Kids call your name from miles around, adults correct your pronunciation for every word, and it seems nearly impossible to be alone. Combined with a new diet of rice and sauce, the unending noise of animals, and the 4:30am call to mosque, this attention can be exhausting.

Another constant source of frustration and discouragement was my separation from Joye, who has a homestay in a nearby village with three other education trainees. I went to go visit her after only a few days, and did so by hitching a ride on a bright green taxi-bus and asking townspeople where she was. Only that, she had a new Malian name too, so all I could ask was “N muso be min?” literally meaning “My wife is where?” It was pathetic, but I found her, and she was happy I did. After we made that first connection, we were able to meet periodically. This was much easier once Peace Corps delivered our mountain bikes. After that, we met each other half way for an chilled Fanta, and I even got to spend the night one Saturday. Then, for her birthday, we spent Sunday exploring the rock outcroppings on the outskirts of my village and enjoying fresh oranges under the shade of a tree.

Relaxation with Joye was probably my most effective method of dealing with culture shock, which came in many shapes and sizes. First, even though I was mentally prepared for it, I still wince at how dirty Malian children can get, though I am impressed by how cleanliness is very important for adults (though soap is rarely part of the equation). I also have had to adjust to Malian family structure and gender roles, which means allowing the Traoré women to do all of the household chores – though I insisted on doing my own laundry. Moreover, I have had to get used to seeing breasts regularly, and holding conversations with women who breastfeed their newborns.

Celebrating small victories also helps me to cope with culture shock. Mastering a Malian card game with the children, sharing about how as a Christian I still believe in one God as well, and creating the household’s family tree give me hope that integration is truly possible. There are also humorous situations that lighten the mood. Imitating a zombie and getting the Bambaran word for a cow plow, dancing to Michael Jackson’s Thriller, and starting a running joke in my family about how a pregnant resident is really growing a fruit tree in her belly have helped me to recognize how much Malians like to laugh. And as these relationships continue to grow over our next month or so of training, I am confident that it will get easier and easier to call this place home, instead of a simply homestay.

Thank you for your comments and prayers.

-James