Noelli Dambele
Mali
After three days in Maourolo, a village of 227, I thought there was no one who spoke French. There weren't even many people who spoke Bambara, the most prominent language in Mali and one that I can get by in. Everyone spoke Bobo, a language in which I am about as useful as a six year old with flailing arms, pointing and trying to make really over-exaggerated facial expressions. But as I was exploring the little village one night before dinner, I was greeted in French by Noelli, the school teacher in Maourolo.
Excited to have a conversation in a language I understood, we started talking. All the while we talked, her beautiful daughter sat quietly, checking out the world from her wrapped-up position on her mother's back.
She told me that she moved to Maourolo from a nearby village and now teaches 50 kids, 7-8 years-old in the cement, one room school house. She moved from Sanekui a few kilometers away after finishing grade nine. She says she would like to continue her schooling but can't afford to live in the city where there is a high school. Right now she's on her rainy season vacation as school is out so that the children can work in their parent's fields. She has her own field in the village which she acquired as part of the deal for her to come teach here. Shyly she tells me she agreed to come to the community only if they gave her some land—a forward thinker who is always making plans for the future. Since the parents are often unable to pay her the $8/per year tuition fee, her only income, the field is providing needed crops to sustain her and her daughter.
After the money comes in from her field she's going to start what she calls "petit commerce" at the nearest market on Wednesdays. Her eyes tell me that she'll succeed.
As we talk, I ask her an endless stream of questions, from how to make sauce with baobab leaves to why she didn't go on in school to what it's like being away from her home. She appears to have infinite patience—perhaps gained from having a class of 50 seven-year-olds.
On my second visit to the town, I needed an animatrice to do an activity with women from the village. She volunteered immediately. Once again her patience helped as we went house to house on what seemed like a never ending voyage asking every woman the same questions. Although she is young she is obviously well respected. All the women felt at home with her. She excitedly explained to me all the things the other women of the village do.
At lunch we went back to her home so she could make me some toh, a millet paste you grab with your hand and dip in a gluey okra sauce. She laughs as she tells me she makes the best toh around. I'm sceptical but don't let on. She continues to run ideas past me about what she wants to do. She is very interested in baobabs and the way they give leaves for sauce but take almost no energy to keep up. She needs to look for other income generating activities because the $8/year per student the parents are supposed to pay doesn't always come in. If you do the math that means she doesn't make the $400 a year she should. She does get about a tonne of millet from the community though, meaning her and her daughter Sarah won't go hungry. Her face turns sad and her eyes sink as she tells me this. After a minute she gives a soft smile and says that it's okay because she knows the parents simply cannot afford to pay. She's very young, in her early twenties at the most, and it is incredible what she is willing to sacrifice for her new neighbours. Usually security comes at an older age when you have built up assets. She's a woman ahead of her time. She is blazing a trail that other young girls will follow although she hasn't noticed that she's a role model to the girls of the village.
by Levi Goertz
