Opulence
August 22, 2005
“The refrigerator locks so that the help won’t help themselves.”
There will be some challenging things about living here. We knew that from the beginning, but it wasn’t real until now. The neighbors told us that there are no Malians living in the mine village. All of the Malians live in Sadiola village. In reality there is a significant population of Malians on the mine, but none of them attend the mine school. The reasons for this are fuzzy and seem to change depending on who you ask. The reality is that the Malians are bussed five miles to the school in Sadiola Village. Maybe it is because they don’t speak English as has been suggested. The people of color who attend our school are ex-pats only, there are no Malians.
There is a Malian school on the campus of our school. It is called the Creche(sp?). It is attended by Malians who are younger than school age. There is a significant number of them. We did not actually learn of this school until we arrived here. Our boss seems to have conveniently forgotten about it. They are completely independent of our school except they share the same (small) campus. We have been encouraged to start a pre-K program. This would effectively isolate the Malians even more. We are new here. Perhaps my perceptions and judgments are misplaced. I hope so, because it all seems so whacked out otherwise.
Mohammed is the man we have hired to care for Zachary. He is from Sierra Leone. If he were educated, the mine might hire him. Since he is not educated and he is not from Mali there is no job for him there. He has worked for the school in the past and came highly recommended. He is very popular on the mine, everyone seems to know him. He speaks English, French, and Bombara (Bombra) and has been very helpful in helping us get adjusted to our new home. He currently lives in Sadiola. He shares his mud hut with several others. He does not dwell on his condition, but it clearly affects him. Today when he showed up for work he helped me find the key to our “shed”. This building has a bathroom attached to it. The room inside is air conditioned. It has a bed, a chair, a light, and a floor. It is really quite nice. The previous gardener, it turns out, had been living there and she left some of her things. Mohammed suggested that he would be willing to do the gardening if we would only allow him to stay in our “shed”.
We are overwhelmed. I am constantly reminded of Kipling novels about the British colonization of India. I am now a “rich” man. I have my own personal staff. The lifestyle that seems so normal to me is nothing less than opulent to him. We have tried to help him feel at home in our home, but he is reluctant. For all intents and purposes, he is the house boy. There is no way around that. I get the sense that no matter how hard we try to break down that barrier, we will never succeed. It is depressing, frustrating, and annoying. For now we are all uncomfortable. It will be some time before we can come to terms with this situation.
The store here is beyond expensive. A can of green beans is $4, a can of peaches is $2, and a jar of spaghetti sauce is $6. We shall have to learn to watch what we eat and eat everything we buy.
“The refrigerator locks so that the help won’t help themselves.”
There will be some challenging things about living here. We knew that from the beginning, but it wasn’t real until now. The neighbors told us that there are no Malians living in the mine village. All of the Malians live in Sadiola village. In reality there is a significant population of Malians on the mine, but none of them attend the mine school. The reasons for this are fuzzy and seem to change depending on who you ask. The reality is that the Malians are bussed five miles to the school in Sadiola Village. Maybe it is because they don’t speak English as has been suggested. The people of color who attend our school are ex-pats only, there are no Malians.
There is a Malian school on the campus of our school. It is called the Creche(sp?). It is attended by Malians who are younger than school age. There is a significant number of them. We did not actually learn of this school until we arrived here. Our boss seems to have conveniently forgotten about it. They are completely independent of our school except they share the same (small) campus. We have been encouraged to start a pre-K program. This would effectively isolate the Malians even more. We are new here. Perhaps my perceptions and judgments are misplaced. I hope so, because it all seems so whacked out otherwise.
Mohammed is the man we have hired to care for Zachary. He is from Sierra Leone. If he were educated, the mine might hire him. Since he is not educated and he is not from Mali there is no job for him there. He has worked for the school in the past and came highly recommended. He is very popular on the mine, everyone seems to know him. He speaks English, French, and Bombara (Bombra) and has been very helpful in helping us get adjusted to our new home. He currently lives in Sadiola. He shares his mud hut with several others. He does not dwell on his condition, but it clearly affects him. Today when he showed up for work he helped me find the key to our “shed”. This building has a bathroom attached to it. The room inside is air conditioned. It has a bed, a chair, a light, and a floor. It is really quite nice. The previous gardener, it turns out, had been living there and she left some of her things. Mohammed suggested that he would be willing to do the gardening if we would only allow him to stay in our “shed”.
We are overwhelmed. I am constantly reminded of Kipling novels about the British colonization of India. I am now a “rich” man. I have my own personal staff. The lifestyle that seems so normal to me is nothing less than opulent to him. We have tried to help him feel at home in our home, but he is reluctant. For all intents and purposes, he is the house boy. There is no way around that. I get the sense that no matter how hard we try to break down that barrier, we will never succeed. It is depressing, frustrating, and annoying. For now we are all uncomfortable. It will be some time before we can come to terms with this situation.
The store here is beyond expensive. A can of green beans is $4, a can of peaches is $2, and a jar of spaghetti sauce is $6. We shall have to learn to watch what we eat and eat everything we buy.
posted by Bronx to Timbuktu at 4:45 PM
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