Why Join the Peace Corps?
By Francis Peters (Mali 1986-1988)
I recently received a phone call from a new college graduate thinking of joining the Peace Corps. He knew I was a returned Volunteer and was asking for my input.
"It was one of the best experiences of my life," I said.
"But what was it like?" he asked. So I explained.
I was sent to Mali, a landlocked country in West Africa, where I worked as a gardening Volunteer, helping villages set up community gardens. Malians have traditionally grown millet and rice, supplemented with some occasional fish, domesticated animals, and a handful of local plants.
The role of a gardening Volunteer was to fill that nutritional gap in the diet by encouraging villagers to grow vegetables. Many of the vegetables I helped introduce—cabbages, bell peppers, and potatoes—were still considered exotic in Mali. But the villagers quickly adapted to growing them.
My housing was a hut made of dried mud without running water or electricity. It was very dry—I arrived at my site in September and didn't see any rain until the following June. In the hot season, temperatures commonly would soar over 110 degrees Fahrenheit.
When the heat made the inside of my hut feel more like a kitchen oven, I would sleep on my flat adobe roof. That is one of my favorite memories—lying on my roof while gazing at the panorama of stars in the desert sky, serenaded by the melodious prayers emanating from the village mosque.
Each Volunteer was "adopted" by a Malian family—in my case the Coulibaly family. I was given the name of Bakary. Thereafter, in my village I was known only as Bakary Coulibaly. As a family member, I took my meals of rice or millet squatting around a communal bowl, each person eating with his right hand. We spoke in Bambara, the local language. After we finished eating, we sat outside in the cool evening air talking, joking, and laughing. I learned much about Mali through these discussions.
I also learned a lot about Malian culture through daily experiences. Once I received a care package from the States full of granola bars. I gave one to my little seven-year-old neighbor, Madu, who had just helped me carry in some water. He was standing with a group of neighborhood children outside my door. Madu's eyes opened wide with delight as he took the granola bar and sped away. I thought, he's off to eat that bar by himself. But a few moments later Madu came running back, holding a dull but sturdy knife. He counted the number of children present, sat down on the floor, and proceeded to cut the already small bar into nine pieces, one for each friend.
