(Nov. 30, 2008)
I haven't had any trouble sleeping so far. I like the food, and eat plenty at each meal. The cockroaches have retreated to the pit latrine, fearing my shoe and all-mighty BOP spray. The language is coming more and more each day. Diarrhea and I have remained distantly respectful of each other. Things are going well--But I don't plan on letting my guard down any time soon.
So what are my worries? What are the x-factors that could still derail my service? Integration. Successful behavior modification in those I'm trying to help. Being able to simply function on a day-to-day basis at site. Thses things are all unknowable until after I swear in (assuming I do) and have been at least a month or two at my permanent site.
For now, spirits remain fairly high, save for attitudes regarding some of our Trainee-Directed Activities, which generally involve us doing some type of prescribed activity that will give us moe technical knowledge and push us further into the culture. Some of the activities are short write-ups that require a few questions asked of our family. Others are presentations about health topics given to groups of village members, which invariably make us feel ridiculous. Imagine a group of young Africans coming to your town square, community center, or whatever, and telling you the benefits of hand washing and mosquito repellent using language kindergarteners would find simple. The language studies, as I said, are going wll, but it's still a frustrating process. Given how long we've been studying, we're doing very well. Still, when a Gambian reels off a solid block of clipped phonemes and expects an intelligible answer, it's hard to feel like such a stud.
My family is a bright spot, certainly. They have a great sense of humor, much of which I appreciate despite the language barrier. My host sister Fatou is a great help in everything. She is 14, and speaks very serviceable English, but unfortunately she just has two settings--English or light speed Mandinka. My friend Kasey named a tiny, snow white goat living in my compound Mustafa. He has become a constant topic of conversation. Gambian greetings (which take up much of one's day) often involve asking "where" people are, really asking how they are doing. The prescribed response is "they are there/here." Where's your wife? She is there. Where's your family? They are there. But now, every day I am asked, with restrained laughter, "Where's Mustafa?" He, along with a host of goods, bads, and in-betweens, is right here.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
A few realities
(November 19, 2008)
We had a funeral today, less than a week into our in-village training.
Up to now, Africa has been only idyllic, only theoretical--almost a novelty. Even the negatives, such as the male sex trade and women's rights issues have seemed abstract, distant--bullet points on fact sheets. The bumsters, who are basically male prostitutes, present themselves so ludicrously, with catch phrases like, "Hey boss lady, it's nice to be nice," delivered between sets of beachside push-ups, that it's easy to forget the suffering and degradation behind the concept.
But we had a funeral today, within hours of hearing the high pitched shriek of a mother with her child dead in her arms.
Does this change things? Directly, no. I don't doubt myself more or less than I did Monday. I had not met the deceased girl, my host family had only a passing connection to her. My service and my life in general continue. But as we crouched behind the mosque and the Imam, both spiritual leader and father of the deceased, muttered a prayer and the tiny body encased in a white shroud was lowered into the ground, something in me felt different.
We had a funeral today, and I wore the new suit of wax-cloth I had had tailored just the day before.
It fit me well, and was more appropriate for the occasion than any of my American clothes. There's something mildly chilling in having a suit made and being given such an opportunity to wear it within 24 hours. The group of trainees met shortly after the ceremony to debrief. As we discussed the issues at hand, in my mind I could still hear the shrieks of the women, feel the stinging of my calves from crouching to pray behind the mosque wall, and taste the chalky, sugary munko rice ball given by the mourning family. As all this swirled in my head, I thought to myself:
We had a funeral today, and if this girl had been American, in all likelihood she would still be alive.
We had a funeral today, less than a week into our in-village training.
Up to now, Africa has been only idyllic, only theoretical--almost a novelty. Even the negatives, such as the male sex trade and women's rights issues have seemed abstract, distant--bullet points on fact sheets. The bumsters, who are basically male prostitutes, present themselves so ludicrously, with catch phrases like, "Hey boss lady, it's nice to be nice," delivered between sets of beachside push-ups, that it's easy to forget the suffering and degradation behind the concept.
But we had a funeral today, within hours of hearing the high pitched shriek of a mother with her child dead in her arms.
Does this change things? Directly, no. I don't doubt myself more or less than I did Monday. I had not met the deceased girl, my host family had only a passing connection to her. My service and my life in general continue. But as we crouched behind the mosque and the Imam, both spiritual leader and father of the deceased, muttered a prayer and the tiny body encased in a white shroud was lowered into the ground, something in me felt different.
We had a funeral today, and I wore the new suit of wax-cloth I had had tailored just the day before.
It fit me well, and was more appropriate for the occasion than any of my American clothes. There's something mildly chilling in having a suit made and being given such an opportunity to wear it within 24 hours. The group of trainees met shortly after the ceremony to debrief. As we discussed the issues at hand, in my mind I could still hear the shrieks of the women, feel the stinging of my calves from crouching to pray behind the mosque wall, and taste the chalky, sugary munko rice ball given by the mourning family. As all this swirled in my head, I thought to myself:
We had a funeral today, and if this girl had been American, in all likelihood she would still be alive.
New Names
(November 16, 2008)
Personal time. That's the wording on the schedule. And my assumption was that the meaning would be the same as it was in the states. But not necessarily so. Yesterday was scheduled as almost entirely personal time, but as my village mates and I were to find out, this was "time to be personal with others," as opposed to "our own personal alone time." The day was spent trying to communicate with laughing children and amused old men, and making "panketos"--the local variation on the donut hole.
Familiar names given to new things and vice have been a common theme during our training. There's Guinness, but it tastes nothing like at home or Europe. There's spam, but it's made with chicken (spicken), as pork is forbidden by Islam. And today, I got a new name.
We had been told about the naming ceremony before we had even reached Bumari, our training village, and it's something that I had anticipated with curiosity. Are they going to shave my head, per tradition? Will it be long and awkward? Will I have to dance? Will my new name be Mustafa? These thoughts swirled in my head as I woke this morning and took my cold bucket bath. Soon, I was called to breakfast by my host family. Eating with my hands next to little Kaadi and Ensaa, I looked around at the adults with trepidation. After finishing and washing my hands I was given some traditional clothes and returned to my room. The pants were easily 40 inches at the waist (with a drawstring) and the shirt all but swallowed me up in a sea of light blue embroidery. The hat? Too small, of course. Jarra, my cousin, laughed openly when she brought me my second breakfast of spicken, potatoes, and bread. I'm constantly given more food than I need, and the process of refusing and explaining that I'm sick or not hungry is so complicated that I eat most of what I'm given. I can barely take the spam, so I eat a piece of two and focus mainly on the potatoes as I wait for Bakari, my teacher, to come and get me. He doesn't seem to be coming, so my Maama, my aunt, finally just tells me to go myself.
Upon arrival I greet my fellow trainees and we share a few laughs at our costumes--ill fitting both for our bodies and our skin tone. A large rug covers the rust-colored dirt under the tree in the center of Bumari, and a number of well-dressed men sit on one side of it. I'm told that I will be first, and am directed to the center of the rug. A man in a bright purple "compleat," or full outfit, feigns shaving my head, and recites a prayer. I'm given some party favors--a small baggie of juice, panketos, and kola nuts--and sent back to my seat with my new name ringing in the air: "Seeku Darboe." Whitney, Tammy, and Kasey, my village mates, are soon christened in the same manner.
Once the formal ceremony is finished, the men leave and the dancing begins. One of the girls drums heavily on a bidong, or large jug, as the girls of varying size erupt into laughter and stomping. They call, "Seeku!", and thrust me to the center, where I awkwardly ape their stomping and bird-like arm flapping for few moments to appease them. After all of the trainees had danced, the crowd dispersed, and Only Seeku, Faatu, Saatu, and Kaadi remained, wondering exactly what just had happened.
Personal time. That's the wording on the schedule. And my assumption was that the meaning would be the same as it was in the states. But not necessarily so. Yesterday was scheduled as almost entirely personal time, but as my village mates and I were to find out, this was "time to be personal with others," as opposed to "our own personal alone time." The day was spent trying to communicate with laughing children and amused old men, and making "panketos"--the local variation on the donut hole.
Familiar names given to new things and vice have been a common theme during our training. There's Guinness, but it tastes nothing like at home or Europe. There's spam, but it's made with chicken (spicken), as pork is forbidden by Islam. And today, I got a new name.
We had been told about the naming ceremony before we had even reached Bumari, our training village, and it's something that I had anticipated with curiosity. Are they going to shave my head, per tradition? Will it be long and awkward? Will I have to dance? Will my new name be Mustafa? These thoughts swirled in my head as I woke this morning and took my cold bucket bath. Soon, I was called to breakfast by my host family. Eating with my hands next to little Kaadi and Ensaa, I looked around at the adults with trepidation. After finishing and washing my hands I was given some traditional clothes and returned to my room. The pants were easily 40 inches at the waist (with a drawstring) and the shirt all but swallowed me up in a sea of light blue embroidery. The hat? Too small, of course. Jarra, my cousin, laughed openly when she brought me my second breakfast of spicken, potatoes, and bread. I'm constantly given more food than I need, and the process of refusing and explaining that I'm sick or not hungry is so complicated that I eat most of what I'm given. I can barely take the spam, so I eat a piece of two and focus mainly on the potatoes as I wait for Bakari, my teacher, to come and get me. He doesn't seem to be coming, so my Maama, my aunt, finally just tells me to go myself.
Upon arrival I greet my fellow trainees and we share a few laughs at our costumes--ill fitting both for our bodies and our skin tone. A large rug covers the rust-colored dirt under the tree in the center of Bumari, and a number of well-dressed men sit on one side of it. I'm told that I will be first, and am directed to the center of the rug. A man in a bright purple "compleat," or full outfit, feigns shaving my head, and recites a prayer. I'm given some party favors--a small baggie of juice, panketos, and kola nuts--and sent back to my seat with my new name ringing in the air: "Seeku Darboe." Whitney, Tammy, and Kasey, my village mates, are soon christened in the same manner.
Once the formal ceremony is finished, the men leave and the dancing begins. One of the girls drums heavily on a bidong, or large jug, as the girls of varying size erupt into laughter and stomping. They call, "Seeku!", and thrust me to the center, where I awkwardly ape their stomping and bird-like arm flapping for few moments to appease them. After all of the trainees had danced, the crowd dispersed, and Only Seeku, Faatu, Saatu, and Kaadi remained, wondering exactly what just had happened.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
2 Months
I will be training up country in a village w/ no electricity, let alone internet, for the next 2 months--More postings in January.
Grown
I turned 24 last month, which at the time made me feel exceedingly old. I think living near a college town full of drunken co-eds contributed to this feeling, as well as my sister and her herd of high school friends frequently high-jacking the house. During the past week, however, I have routinely felt as if I were a minor again. Why? Because Peace Corps training involves being led around by the hand as if this group of college graduates were a junior high field trip.
The whole trend began at staging. We spent 10 minutes drawing pictures of our fears on butcher paper, acted out a public service announcement regarding PC drug, travel, and safety policies, and broke the ice throroughly enough to make snow cones. This experience was sweetened by a $140 stipend for food and drink while in Philadelphia, which let us briefly remember our age while rooting for our candidate of choice over beer and cheesesteaks.
2 shots, a bus ride to Newark, 12 hours+ flight time, 5 hours layover stateside, and a mixed-up 3 hour ordeal in Brussels later and we were in the Gambia. Once again we were bewildered children, surrounded by unfamiliar sights, herded into buses and taken to Kombo. Here we began training at the Gambian Pastoral Institute. The tone of this leg of our training was more akin to a summer camp with foreign language classes and spicy food. They did take us to a bar to meet some of the currently serving volunteers, which was fun, but the general tone of said veterans was "Aww, I remember when I was training," as opposed to "hello, respected colleagues." Now we've moved on to a Peace Corps transit house, and tomorrow we go to our villages to begin our first real immersion into Gambian culture. This is a big step on our way to independent work in our final sites, but we still have the bulk of training to go.
During this productive, yet sometimes frustrating phase in my service, I'm reminded of my summer working at Preferred family healthcare--a rehab center for kids 13-17. The kids at PFH had often been exposed to adult experiences at an early age, including sex, violence, bad language, and drugs. This gave them the attitude that they were already adults, despite their immature, childlike behavior. A common assertion among the clients was, "I'm gr-own," with an attitude best described as "sassy." I had to stifle my laughter at the time, when a 15-year-old with his underwear hanging out the back of his pants and a milk mustache yelled that he was "grown." Right now, however, I can sympathize. When we're told we can't leave the compound without volunteer guidance, or taken on a "field trip" and given box lunches, part of me wants to shout, "I'm a grown up- I get to do what I want!"
But then I realize--I'm in a country thousands of miles from home, where most of the people don't speak more than a few words of my language. Also, in 9 weeks we're going to be largely on our own, with only limited supervision from PC staff. There are going to be times where I would very much like someone to hold my hand and tell me just what the hell I'm supposed to do. So, for now, give me the box lunch and constant supervision. I'm going to work hard to try and be ready for service, and until I am, a little child-like security doesn't sound so bad.
The whole trend began at staging. We spent 10 minutes drawing pictures of our fears on butcher paper, acted out a public service announcement regarding PC drug, travel, and safety policies, and broke the ice throroughly enough to make snow cones. This experience was sweetened by a $140 stipend for food and drink while in Philadelphia, which let us briefly remember our age while rooting for our candidate of choice over beer and cheesesteaks.
2 shots, a bus ride to Newark, 12 hours+ flight time, 5 hours layover stateside, and a mixed-up 3 hour ordeal in Brussels later and we were in the Gambia. Once again we were bewildered children, surrounded by unfamiliar sights, herded into buses and taken to Kombo. Here we began training at the Gambian Pastoral Institute. The tone of this leg of our training was more akin to a summer camp with foreign language classes and spicy food. They did take us to a bar to meet some of the currently serving volunteers, which was fun, but the general tone of said veterans was "Aww, I remember when I was training," as opposed to "hello, respected colleagues." Now we've moved on to a Peace Corps transit house, and tomorrow we go to our villages to begin our first real immersion into Gambian culture. This is a big step on our way to independent work in our final sites, but we still have the bulk of training to go.
During this productive, yet sometimes frustrating phase in my service, I'm reminded of my summer working at Preferred family healthcare--a rehab center for kids 13-17. The kids at PFH had often been exposed to adult experiences at an early age, including sex, violence, bad language, and drugs. This gave them the attitude that they were already adults, despite their immature, childlike behavior. A common assertion among the clients was, "I'm gr-own," with an attitude best described as "sassy." I had to stifle my laughter at the time, when a 15-year-old with his underwear hanging out the back of his pants and a milk mustache yelled that he was "grown." Right now, however, I can sympathize. When we're told we can't leave the compound without volunteer guidance, or taken on a "field trip" and given box lunches, part of me wants to shout, "I'm a grown up- I get to do what I want!"
But then I realize--I'm in a country thousands of miles from home, where most of the people don't speak more than a few words of my language. Also, in 9 weeks we're going to be largely on our own, with only limited supervision from PC staff. There are going to be times where I would very much like someone to hold my hand and tell me just what the hell I'm supposed to do. So, for now, give me the box lunch and constant supervision. I'm going to work hard to try and be ready for service, and until I am, a little child-like security doesn't sound so bad.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Civic Duties
So it's 5 days away. To most of you that means a chad or a lever or a marker and the end of 2 years of bullsh#$. To me it's a plane ticket and the prospect of an obscenely early morning, then a country I only know from photographs and factoids. At this point I possess the knowledge of a 3rd grader who drew The Gambia out of a fishbowl and spent a couple weeks learning about agriculture and demographics and sticking photos of bustling marketplaces and crocodiles on posterboard. What will I do when I get there? That information as of yet is a bit fuzzy.
The first 2 months seem to be devoted to cramming an overload of information into my currently atrophied brain. The last year or so I spent memorizing bagel sandwich construction and sales pitches for movie rental bundles. Nothing particularly difficult or important in either the long or short run. Starting next week I will be assaulted with 2 years' worth of vocational training, language skills, and cultural sensitivity, over which I will be regularly graded and critiqued. This prospect is honestly more frightening than the spectres of exotic disease and wild fauna. After this initial training, assuming I pass, I will be inducted into the corps and placed in a village where I will be...improving it in yet-to-be-defined ways. Basically, the assignment will be what I make it.
Yet while the task seems daunting, it is equally invigorating. It is exactly the kind of stimulation to jar my dilapidated cognitive abilities, atrophied from a year of minimum wage drudgery. Case in point- it has taken me almost two distracted months to read Sons and Lovers, which at 400 pages isn't light reading, but should be easy to dispatch within a month for someone with a B.A. So, while Obama and McCain are revving up for what appears to be a very difficult presidency, I am preparing for my own modest contribution to our image abroad, and hopefully revive my own ambition. The purpose of this blog will be to document the successes and struggles of my service--and maybe work on my writing skills a little bit. Comments and criticism (within reason) are welcome.
-Brendan
The first 2 months seem to be devoted to cramming an overload of information into my currently atrophied brain. The last year or so I spent memorizing bagel sandwich construction and sales pitches for movie rental bundles. Nothing particularly difficult or important in either the long or short run. Starting next week I will be assaulted with 2 years' worth of vocational training, language skills, and cultural sensitivity, over which I will be regularly graded and critiqued. This prospect is honestly more frightening than the spectres of exotic disease and wild fauna. After this initial training, assuming I pass, I will be inducted into the corps and placed in a village where I will be...improving it in yet-to-be-defined ways. Basically, the assignment will be what I make it.
Yet while the task seems daunting, it is equally invigorating. It is exactly the kind of stimulation to jar my dilapidated cognitive abilities, atrophied from a year of minimum wage drudgery. Case in point- it has taken me almost two distracted months to read Sons and Lovers, which at 400 pages isn't light reading, but should be easy to dispatch within a month for someone with a B.A. So, while Obama and McCain are revving up for what appears to be a very difficult presidency, I am preparing for my own modest contribution to our image abroad, and hopefully revive my own ambition. The purpose of this blog will be to document the successes and struggles of my service--and maybe work on my writing skills a little bit. Comments and criticism (within reason) are welcome.
-Brendan
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