Always under observation

I’ve come to realize that being a Peace Corps volunteer is a 24/7 job when you’re in the village. You’re always being watched, meaning whatever sour mood you’re in can represent the attitude of Americans in general. I’ve learned from the people in my village their view on what a real American is described as tall, blond, rich, vegetarian, who enjoys their privacy and spends lots of time reading and writing. They have small family units, are Christian, and don’t eat rice very often. Oh, and we don’t like huge spoonfuls of mayonnaise.
Even though I may fulfill almost half of their stereotypes I make a point to talk about the diversity of America. Being an Asian-American I share with them on how I grew up eating rice everyday and am very familiar with peanut sauce (in the Philippines it’s called kare-kare). I talk about knowing many families with 6+ kids, just like my family here. I also them about the problems of homelessness, something they can’t fathom, questioning, “Why doesn’t their village feed them?” Nobody would ever let anyone go hungry here.
So the teaching never stops. I’m always under observation. After helping at the school I go to the village garden to water our tree nursery and help n fa with his beautiful plot of tomatoes, eggplant, onions, lettuce, and manioc. And without fail as I’m pulling up water from the well I catch a couple pairs of eyes in my peripheral view. They’ve come to watch the white person…again. I bite my lip in fear of blurting out, “Am I really that interesting?” and continue my work. This is my time of serenity, away from my 83 screaming students.
We get back as the sun is setting, just in time to take my hot bucket bath (heated by keeping in a covered bucket under the sun) and to eat dinner. Around 8:30 n fa and I go to a video club to watch the news. Before going into the crowded room lined with wooden benches we buy a couple of oranges from the vendor outside. Sucking the juice out of them helps quench my thirst, relieving the inevitable heat wave that the half functioning fans can barely alleviate. But I quickly fall in love with the place despite its sauna like atmosphere. I love the darkness of the video club because I am hidden, becoming the same color as them. But the instant there is an American, French, Lebanese, or Chinese person on the television, which happens every night, the whole club starts laughing my name and I feel elbow nudges from n fa. Okay, I get it, I’m white!
After shuffling out of the dusty room n fa, Monsieur Diallo (a teacher at the primary school where I work), and I are led to the café by our flashlights. As the two men walk and talk about the news program, I am carefully translating questions in my head to ask them. For this is my chance to get the answers probing my mind all day from n fa, the village griot, or Monsieur Diallo, a well educated and well traveled teacher.
Last night I listened to Monsieur Diallo’s time in Sierra Leone, being forced to live in a displacement camp for 5 years due to the rebel war. He told me about the times he feared most for his life and I cried inside. He talked to me about the importance of traveling to gain a better perspective of the world and I couldn’t agree with him more. Our conversation really hit me. For as much as I feel like I’m constantly teaching and being watched I am doing much more observing and learning by just getting the opportunity to be here. Sadly, movies like Blood Diamond and Hotel Rwanda set a base of stereotypes of their own for many Americans like myself. But what I’ve concluded about Guineans is that they are happy, loving, and generous people. In fact they appear to be happier than most Americans in general. So getting to form relationships with them is hardly work.