I am only one

There is no better job than being a teacher. Something about seeing young faces light up with excitement is a hard sight to beat. That is why I immediately jumped at the opportunity to help out and teach 73 abandoned 2nd graders at the only school in my village. Their teacher just stopped showing up, which is unfortunately the same story with the doctor of the village.

My first day I was impressed with the respect I was shown. They are such good kids always saying, “S’il vous plait madame” while looking down at the floor and folding their hands over their chest trying to get my attention. They’re eager to participate raising their hands yelling “moi, moi!” And they return from their morning break anonymously placing a banana or bisap (hibiscus juice) on my desk. There are so many moments that make my day.

But there are so many more that make my heart melt where I stand. How can I get upset with a student who is not working because her parents can’t give her the money to buy a pencil? Do I give her the pencil while there are over 10 more students with the same problem? I can’t just give, how is that sustainable? Or what about their poor excuse of a classroom? It’s large enough but 3 to a bench, crumbling walls and their vulnerability to the Harmattan winds are not conducive to learning. Each morning before class they run outside collecting tiny, dried branches to use as a broom in order to tidy up the class.

Or what about the disparity in levels? There are over 70 students in my class ranging from ages 7-11 years old. 70+ students in one room! I get exhausted from doing one round. This is a primary school not some lecture hall at a university. Kids need more individual attention. Or one of the even harder things is the culturally expected punishment in the form of whipping! Sadly, I’ve grown accustomed to it from seeing and hearing it throughout the village. But in an institution that upholds education? I was shocked when a parent tried to talk to the other teachers in encouraging me to use the whip and was actually given one.

How do I even begin to express the weight on my heart? These kids aren’t dumb; they just don’t have the resources to learn. And also there is really no motivation to learn because they’ll most likely become cultivators like everyone else in the family. The more I dwell on these concerns the more hopeless I feel. What can I do? I am only one person.

“I am only one, but I am still one. I cannot do everything but I can do something. I will not refuse to do the something I can do.” –Helen Keller
(My friend, Jess, another PCV, wrote this on the wall in my hut. Thanks babe!

I’ve opted to use the reward system. If their work is above satisfactory I will provide them a pencil. If their work is excellent they will also get a pencil sharpener. That’s a start. But more importantly than providing resources is providing something much simpler. There is power behind a smile, a pat on the back, or in the sincerity of “good work.” My time here will have been well spent if just one of my students gains the confidence to lift his or her eyes from the floor.

It’s the Little Things That Count

Today…everyday, there are things that bring a smile to my face. It’s not hard to make me smile. I smile a lot, even when I may be feeling down. But it’s those special moments that can make my whole body happy and warm for half a minute and than it’s forgotten within a split second. And even when I tell myself, “don’t forget that ever Ciara!” I put it aside and store it away deep in my sub conscience thinking it will be useful later to lift up my spirits another day. But when that day rarely comes the moment is buried and perhaps lost forever.
“N te!” (Malinke for “I refuse to do that” often accompanied by a stamping of a foot while snapping both elbows to the side.) I refuse to live and to just forget what make life all the more hopeful, beautiful, and perfect. For it is through those moments that God is trying to tell you He is always there.
This blog is dedicated to my little sister Cerisa. She knew how to deal with those fleeting moments by simply writing them down in bullet form in a hand notebook while we backpacked around Europe together.
To the little things…
* A market lady I’ve never seen before snuck into my small purchase 2 packets of vanilla sugar as cadeaux.
* My brothers Baba & Bofis not only hug me but they let me hold onto them for as long as I like.
*I dropped my head wrap in the river when trying to balance a load on my head. A strange woman not only took the time to rewash it but then helped me balance the heavy load again.
*When I was at a loss of Malinke words au marche, a stranger came to my rescue and spoke to me in French and then translated to the vendor.
*I wasn’t paying attention and I hit a box with my rear. I began to sing aloud a popular Malinke song “bo bara ba.” N fa laughed and said it wasn’t true. “Bo bara ba” means “big butt.”
*Les filles run up to me and always want to play “Slide.” See Cerisa! You officially taught an African village how to play an American game.
*This happens every evening. The second I return from working in the garden my entourage of kids sings, “Fadima, Toubabou, Fadima, Toubabou!” The shouting of my name is rewarded by me dancing on my bike, but when I hear the shouting of white person I shake my head in disapproval while trying to mask my smiles.

Jumbled thoughts of being here for 1 year

The World Map Project in the making at l'ecole primaire

It's hard to describe how fast time flies. It's a saying one says every year and at certain times of the year. But time here in Africa is much different. Life is slower with people passing time just sitting. It's refreshing to just sit. Do you remember the last time you just sat? I don't think I ever just sat around while living in America. But here, it's the culture to just sit.
As much as I've embraced the culture, I still have the American tendency to want the feeling, whether physical or emotional, to mark an important event in my life. So I decided to chop my hair off (don't worry Celina...it still touches the shoulders). It felt great and it feels like I'm turning the page to start a new chapter of my Peace Corps adventures.
I am so excited for my 2nd year to begin and scared at the same time. I hear that the 2nd goes by even quicker and I don't know if I want it to. I want to cherish every second, some how catalog every memory, feeling, and thought without having the factor of time pressuring my experience. I'm not saying I'm going to extend to a 3rd year(don't worry ma famille)but my wheels are turning and I don't want them to stop. I know how important getting out of your comfort zone is I encourage everyone to go out there and discover yourself over and over again.
The new group of volunteers arrived on December 4th (my one year anniversary).Amy and I were the first volunteers at the gate to welcome the tired group. It was like looking into a mirror of the past. I saw my jet-lagged yet bright-eyed face in each one of them and remembered how excited I felt. These new trainees are our babies and I feel determined to show them the ropes.
So far I've been more than impressed. They've really bonded early as a group and they have an interesting dynamic. Every session is filled with great discussion because their questions and curiosities are so fresh. They've really made me aware of things that I've become accustomed to. Which again scares me because I don't want to take anything for granted.
After listening to my APCD Kristine speak about the Agroforestry program to the new group, I was reminded at how unique Peace Corps in general is. As a volunteer it's common to interact with international NGOs and aid organizations for hopeful collaboration on projects. With goals for each organization being different you could never compare them, but it's rare to find the PC way of living among a community as if they were a part of it.
How lucky am I to be welcomed into an African village and be part of a beautiful, rich community!N fa called me yesterday evening while I was having dinner with the new group. It didn't even phase me that I was speaking in Malinke and when I got off the new kids commented on how they can't wait to speak a tribal language. Epiphany! I have come a long way!

Meet Ciara

I went to visit my first host family yesterday. They were the ones who welcomed me and took me in. A stranger in their home who didn't know a lick of French except, "bonjour, ca va?" It was amazing how far I've come and how much I've learned. I couldn't believe how much bigger all my brothers and sisters have become. They used to be skinny little things that looked up to me. After only 11 months they now not only tower me but they look as if they've been eating the Moringa powder I left them. However, the biggest surprise was the new baby girl. She smiles a lot, is easy to entertain, and is the greatest joy to be around. Her name is Ciara.

Moni diman n ye

I like moni. It can be made with either corn, millet, or flour. They are all yummy in taste but different in appearance ranging from baby pink to brick red. My favorite is corn moni which looks applesauce yellow. It is my vanilla soy latte but better because I don't have to wait in a Starbucks drive-thru dreaming of the hot liquid that has the magical ability to take the edge off. But instead of the processed taste I get the most natural, comforting warmth going straight into my stomach, instantly reminding me of my mother's tender kisses on my forehead. Moni for breakfast is usually a once a week deal and my whole family knows how much I love the stuff. I see the anticipation in my brothers and sisters eyes waiting for me to exclaim, "moni diman n ye!"
But I remember the first day I had the corn poridge almost a year ago thinking,"okay, this is weird, but I can get used to it." I thought it had sour milk in it but after learning how to make it I realized the sourness came from limes. It was also around this year mark that I remembered that attitudes could be sour too. Time is an often misjudged factor in an equation.I've heard so many people say," I thought about doing the Peace Corps, but 2 years is too long or I'll go back to school someday but I don't have the time right now." Time takes care of itself so one doesn't need to make it.
Being in the Peace Corps for a year now, I have learned that time is one of the keys to success. Many people, like I did, question the 27 month commitment but in retrospect I know it's just right. Like my recruiter told me, the 1st year is about integrating, learning who you can trust, and getting comfortable. The real work starts your second year. Every volunteer's experience is different but so far mine has followed that timeline. I have heard drums talk, I have seen babies die, I have tasted Kola nut, I have smelled the mango season, and I have felt nothing but gratitude for being given the time to do it all.

Girl’s Conference…

was a blast. As an Agroforestry volunteer, I did things I never thought I would do like: a condom demonstration, blowing up condoms to stuff pertinent questions inside for a game of hot potato or hot condom if you will, or teach “ Head, shoulders, knees in toes” in three different languages as an energizer. The only thing I could think of that had anything to do with Agfroforestry was the wood in the wooden penis. No wait…I used bananas for the condom relay race!
I probably would’ve been more suited to be a public health volunteer given my studies and work experience but my volunteer work with farmers in Tanzania solidified my decision to be a tree hugger. Really most people are bewildered as to why this LA/Cali girl likes to her hands dirty and the answer is simple: women. Being the only female volunteer in the Sustainable Agriculture program in Tanzania ended up being amazing despite my initial doubts.
All the farmers were women. My broken Swahili didn’t stop them from wrapping me in their congas, traditional fabric worn in the fields. They showed their appreciation when I joined them, elbows deep in fresh cow manure for composting, especially when the guys refused. Their singing brought tears to my eyes and their hard work inspired me. They are why I am here.
I honestly believe the women of Africa, specifically Guinea are the strongest women in the whole world. With all odds against them like over 80% of females are excised, early marriage and bride price, expectations of bearing lots of children, and lack of education they can still do it all. I see it in my Guinean sisters when they get home from school juggling their studies with chopping wood to start dinner. Their brothers who go to the private Franco-Arab schools get to play soccer before tying up the goats, cows, and donkeys.
It’s unfair because it’s life. But these girls don’t complain because they know feeding their family of 10 is a priority. They don’t show emotion when they are called stupid by the teacher in front of the class. They don’t say anything. Most girls just don’t have the confidence.
Each volunteer was allowed to bring 2 girls from their village. Over the course of 4 months I had to encourage girls that their French was better than mine and the Peace Corps’ Girl’s Conference was an excellent opportunity. I ended up bringing Kane, a beautiful, smart, but shy girl and Aicha, a loud, trouble making mother who used little Mamydy as an excuse to her inappropriate behavior. She slept during the 1st day of the conference and was disrespectful to some of the volunteers.
Our sessions were held in the American Reading Room at the University of Kankan. There were 6 volunteers, 15 girls, and 8 members of a health related NGO which were made of all Guineans from different villages throughout the region. The 3 day conference was exhausting but worthwhile. Some sessions were harder to do than others like the session I did on why women are more susceptible to contracting AIDS on a social and cultural context. And others were more light hearted like the benefits of Moringa oleifera-the tree of life, which Alison and David held.
The girl’s favorite session was on excision surprisingly. There was no need for translation during the Guinean NGO’s knee slapping skit. Us volunteers were lost by the fast Malinke but we were just so happy the girls enjoyed themselves. Let’s just hope they really talked about excision and not about Islam.
I was a part of the last session of the conference called “Planning for our Futures.” Adam and Dr. Trian (Peace Corps Medical Officer) held their part indoors while I had to take mine outside because as I mentioned earlier, I like to get my hands dirty. When the girls came out I split them into 2 and had the girls compete for a prize (all the girls got nail polish at the end). The goal was to think of and write 50 jobs a woman can do. Because of time restraints neither team got to 50 but it got their minds running. I held a can of blue paint and told them that blue represented them the girl. I talked about the Guinean girl and her responsibilities at home, school, and to her peers. Next I held a can of red paint saying it represented their dreams, aspirations, and hard work. Well most people know what red and blue yields but the girls were blank which ended up being a good thing because what Adam and I ended up with was a bluish black color. I improvised our mistake saying, “Noir est jolie” and described what the bluish black represented. It represented the woman doctor, woman teacher, woman governor, the woman mother, the woman inside of them that can do anything
I pre-titled nice sheets of paper with “Les Femmes peuvent tout faire-Women can do everything.” I invited each girl to dip their hand in the paint and think about what they wanted to be when they grew up. Underneath their handprint they wrote their name, date, and the job they chose. There were 8 doctors, which I know most were just copying their friends but I was impressed to see journalist, engineer at the gold mines, and NGO worker.
There were many problems at the conference regarding logistics like having the girls wait for hours for water to bathe with as well as their lodging being a long walk, well planned sessions due to lack of resources at the villages, and using French as a bridge when neither party had it as their native language. But I could tell the girls took good things from it too like new friendships with girls from different villages. For many of the girls it was their first time to leave their village. What I took from it was 15 new friends and the understanding that the best thing I can do is give them confidence by showing them women really can do everything.

Home for the Holidays

You know a holiday is near when the Super-Walmart has dedicated aisle after aisle stocked with Easter baskets, Costco’s hydraulic bustle is accented with display Santa’s ringing a Christmas tune, or the normally vacant parking lot is bursting of pumpkins, hay stacks, and children. I love the holidays so having mine interrupted to come here was hard. But I thought it would have been harder.

I was distracted by the obvious: new surroundings, new friends, new family, new language, and didn’t have the reminders of white icicle lights or Starbucks advertising my favorite “gingerbread lattes.” Instead I had a semi-cold beer while watching the sunset over Conakry’s murky coastline and wished Jesus a Happy Birthday.

I look back and can’t believe that was almost a year ago. It didn’t occur to me that I didn’t have a real Christmas. I felt like I finally got to celebrate Christmas last month with the celebration of the end of Ramadan. After the head imam in Conakry declared the fast to be over I knew I was in for a treat when I took a chair and headed to the entrance of the village. I sat among the griots (my family) in a newly constructed concession of huts and played a cowbell for over an hour while N fa beat the taama, N na sang out of a megaphone, and my brother (a famous griot) played the balaphone. We called the whole village to celebrate under the blanket of night illuminated only by our flashlights. The old ladies managed to get me to join them to dance which is normally not a hard feat, but old lady dancing is very intimidating. Picture lots of billowy fabric and a rendition of “The Excorcist.” The women look like they are possessed as they flap their arms frantically, often being escorted to the sidelines for fear of over exertion but more to just be part of the act. I did my best impersonation while laughing, playing in my head the part of the movie where Emily Rose spins her head in a full 360 degrees. My 30 second performance wasn’t worthy of a nomination but I did get 500 GNF (approx. 10 cents) thrown at me! As we headed back N fa told me we would be drumming again tomorrow morning at 7 AM in our concession. I felt like it was Christmas Eve that night.

But instead of celebrating the end of Ramadan I opened my door to 20 silent Kouyate (my last name) men facing Mecca. I was confused expecting drums and singing like the night before but instead received a somber atmosphere. Something happened and I already know before N fa approached my hut. As I sat with the mother who just delivered the dead baby ( her second infant mortality this year) I was shocked that she was sitting up in her bed crying but seeming physically strong. I gave what benedictions I knew in Malinke like, “May Allah cool the earth of the recently buried,” and sat rubbing the mother’s back while women of the village made their rounds. There would be no music and dancing today.

But there was praying. Instead of going to the mosque the whole village went to my favorite spot. There is a huge clearing surround by mango trees that overlooks the vast Niger River. But what makes it even more special is this grand Baobab tree that has to be over hundreds of years old. Before my morning run I walk to the tree and touch it reminding me of my purpose here. It’s here the whole village has congregated, dressed in their finest, facing the bright river’s sun touched ripples. That memory will always be a special one during my service here.

The rest of the day was spent eating lots of meat, giving money or candy to kids saying, “I Sali ma fo,” and listening to their laughter as they chased the man who sings the call to prayer throughout the village. All the kids were clean wearing their new clothes and I realized that this was a day for the kids just like how Christmas has become for my family back in the States.

Gifts become less important as you grow older. What matters is being together with the ones you love. It’s about mom’s extravagant taste in decorations and dad’s unwillingness to flood his simple home with 4 ft. nutcrackers, it’s about Russ and Christian competing for the biggest man title by trying to out eat each other, it’s about my sisters’ and my doubts of breaking out the karaoke machine knowing we’ll fall asleep to my mom singing “Phantom of the Opera” (yes, we’re Asian). It’s about indulging in Cerisa’s surprisingly healthy pumpkin chocolate chip scones or Charmela’s not so healthy honey basted croissants straight from the oven. Oh the eating. It took me a week to resume my normal eating habits. I would come back from the market with bananas and set them on my table and stare at them until I realized they were game. I never enjoyed eating during daylight hours so much!

Ramadan was a really good experience despite how it started. I learned a lot about this culture and a lot about myself. There are times when I walk around and forget I’m not black which has pros and cons. It’s good because I feel comfortable and well integrated but bad because I don’t want to take this experience for granted. That’s why I remind myself of my past life and create commonalities like the holidays. Ramadan was my Easter, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year. No matter how different cultures appear to be there are the same themes of fasting for forgiveness, trick or treating/I Sali ma fo-ing, showing gratitude through gifts, celebrating life and death, and creating resolutions. Finding the universal truths of life shows me how to be at home in any situation by keeping family close in your heart. You can’t be homesick when you’re at home. Or better said by my Guinean friend Moussa who learned English in Ghana, “ Da house of someone YOU love, it tis nevuh fa!”