(Taken from my personal journal because I'm too tired to think of another way to describe my site)
Talk about a cultural experience. All the anxiety has been worth this. I loved visiting my site so much. It was so hard driving in a bush taxi and I can't even imagine the experience without Dramamine. They squeeze two to a seat and it's ridiculous how most of the rode is pot-holed making the entire drive seem like the ride "Indiana Jones" in Disneyland except it lasts for 14 hours instead of 2.6 minutes. And I can't forget to mention how unsafe each taxi is...you're lucky if the doors open and/or shut efficiently.
I was so bummed to miss the futbol match because of travelling: Guinea vs. Ghana with Ghana winning. We (Monsieur Kouyate) and I got dropped off on the main road and walked 1 K into my site on a moon-lit upaved road. Even though it was dark the town could tell I was different and the kids were holding my hands and arms naming me Aicha (which is the popular name of the water sachets that I drink).
I'm eating peanuts in my hut with the sounds of the balaphone and hammering in the background. They're attaching a screen door to the rickety metal door on my hut. This culture is rich in music (a drum hanging on my wall), good food (communal eating with the hands), and respect (constant drone of salutations). Last night was a much needed night of sleep. I have a straw/foam sunkend in the middle queen-sized bed with a mosquito net. There is a sewn tarp of UNICEF labeled rice bags that make a pseudo roof to separate my straw roof. My floor is mud and the wall are too. My little broom lays next to a sack filled with white powder which I don't know the purpose for. I have a chair, a squatting stool, and two tables. One serves as my eating table and the other for my belongings.
Last night upon arrival I ate with Monsieur Kouyate some awesome meal of rice and sauce with chicken. I had to wash my hands with this water that I didn't think did the trick to get off the dirt so I was sly and used my hand sanitizer while he was fanning off the hot rice. The sauce had to be squeezed from the rice so you can try to ball it up into your mouth. I was so relieved when my hands could tell it was chicken because my eyes sure couldn't (no electricity in huts!). He made sure I had my fill...maybe to fulfill the muslim saying of angels not being able to take you away while sleeping or he could just want to get me fat like everyone else in this country.
I live in one hut of many in the Kouyate compound. I've met so many kids and older people. The more notable encounter is Monsieur Kouyate's ailing father. He's hooked up to some bright yellow fluid in his bed. I've held his weak hands and I wanted to cry for someone I don't even know. However, the 8 wailing elderly women lining the walls of his room beat me to it.
After the wonderful, peaceful rest I woke up to mom and dad calling, as well as 2 texts from Katalina (PCV 5K away). I ate some bread with Laughing Cow cheese, some tea with evaporated milk and sugar, and some bouille. The bouille was different from my host families' in that corn was used instead of rice and it tasted more sour than sweet. I think I'm acquiring the taste for it. It's like hominy in good sour milk. I can't wait till I understand it all. Some things seem so illogical and others make perfect sense. For example, I love how they eat their oranges here. The rind of the orange is lightly peeled off and a bite-sized top is cut off either with a knife or with a mouth. Next, squeeze the juice into your mouth for a healthy all natural juice box.
My hut is something I joked about living in before coming here but I'm oddly relieved that this joke has become reality. This is the true African lifestyle, something you do see on TV with every child having dirty, crusty faces and flies all over.
Talk about a cultural experience. All the anxiety has been worth this. I loved visiting my site so much. It was so hard driving in a bush taxi and I can't even imagine the experience without Dramamine. They squeeze two to a seat and it's ridiculous how most of the rode is pot-holed making the entire drive seem like the ride "Indiana Jones" in Disneyland except it lasts for 14 hours instead of 2.6 minutes. And I can't forget to mention how unsafe each taxi is...you're lucky if the doors open and/or shut efficiently.
I was so bummed to miss the futbol match because of travelling: Guinea vs. Ghana with Ghana winning. We (Monsieur Kouyate) and I got dropped off on the main road and walked 1 K into my site on a moon-lit upaved road. Even though it was dark the town could tell I was different and the kids were holding my hands and arms naming me Aicha (which is the popular name of the water sachets that I drink).
I'm eating peanuts in my hut with the sounds of the balaphone and hammering in the background. They're attaching a screen door to the rickety metal door on my hut. This culture is rich in music (a drum hanging on my wall), good food (communal eating with the hands), and respect (constant drone of salutations). Last night was a much needed night of sleep. I have a straw/foam sunkend in the middle queen-sized bed with a mosquito net. There is a sewn tarp of UNICEF labeled rice bags that make a pseudo roof to separate my straw roof. My floor is mud and the wall are too. My little broom lays next to a sack filled with white powder which I don't know the purpose for. I have a chair, a squatting stool, and two tables. One serves as my eating table and the other for my belongings.
Last night upon arrival I ate with Monsieur Kouyate some awesome meal of rice and sauce with chicken. I had to wash my hands with this water that I didn't think did the trick to get off the dirt so I was sly and used my hand sanitizer while he was fanning off the hot rice. The sauce had to be squeezed from the rice so you can try to ball it up into your mouth. I was so relieved when my hands could tell it was chicken because my eyes sure couldn't (no electricity in huts!). He made sure I had my fill...maybe to fulfill the muslim saying of angels not being able to take you away while sleeping or he could just want to get me fat like everyone else in this country.
I live in one hut of many in the Kouyate compound. I've met so many kids and older people. The more notable encounter is Monsieur Kouyate's ailing father. He's hooked up to some bright yellow fluid in his bed. I've held his weak hands and I wanted to cry for someone I don't even know. However, the 8 wailing elderly women lining the walls of his room beat me to it.
After the wonderful, peaceful rest I woke up to mom and dad calling, as well as 2 texts from Katalina (PCV 5K away). I ate some bread with Laughing Cow cheese, some tea with evaporated milk and sugar, and some bouille. The bouille was different from my host families' in that corn was used instead of rice and it tasted more sour than sweet. I think I'm acquiring the taste for it. It's like hominy in good sour milk. I can't wait till I understand it all. Some things seem so illogical and others make perfect sense. For example, I love how they eat their oranges here. The rind of the orange is lightly peeled off and a bite-sized top is cut off either with a knife or with a mouth. Next, squeeze the juice into your mouth for a healthy all natural juice box.
My hut is something I joked about living in before coming here but I'm oddly relieved that this joke has become reality. This is the true African lifestyle, something you do see on TV with every child having dirty, crusty faces and flies all over.
