Downer blog...sorry.

I just saw a man beat his wife. It started just like usual with women yelling. But I couldn’t believe it. I still don’t believe it. What remains is the woman crying. When he struck everything went quiet and everyone left.
All I can think about is how I feel. How is living like this going to affect the way I live the rest of my life? Will I care more? I realize how desensitized I have become from living here for over a year now. It’s so unfair because what matters the least is what I feel.
I feel so far when I’m in it but nothing counts when it doesn’t happen to me.
Even when I found out about Ciara’s (my first host family’s newest addition) death, nothing really hit because she wasn’t my baby. Well, in the eyes of my host family, she was technically my god-daughter, but our absence in each others’ lives didn’t make it real. I didn’t feel the burning, stinging pains after having been slapped in the face like that woman did when her husband hit her. I waited and even wanted to feel it, but nothing. I felt ashamed more than anything because I didn’t hold my responsibility of being a good god-mother. What could I have done living on the opposite ends of the country? How am I to respond to, “It’s the will of Allah!” To scream God doesn’t mean for us to die from preventable diseases like malaria!
But who am I to scream when nothing bad has happened directly to me? Bad things happen to everyone, good or bad, so it’s a matter of when for me. So when it happens what if I can’t handle it? But than I remember God knows how much we can handle. His timing is perfect. He doesn’t cause our sufferings, he uses it.

Morockin’ my World

I had been looking forward to March especially after having concluded that my December vacation to Mali wasn’t quite the relaxing vacation I needed. I shouldn’t have been surprised though because my fellow Peace Corps friends and I did it backpacker style, with no concrete itinerary and trying to save money by sleeping on buses. Also our days were filled with climbing over steep rock passes, sleeping in random villages built in the rock face, and climbing down steep rock passes. It was awesome, being able to see the cultural similarities with a neighboring country, but I was ready for something completely different.
I didn’t expect to be so blown away by this last trip to Morocco. Morocco has it all from fine cuisine of olives and steaming tajines to impressive architecture like the Hassan II Mosque in Casablanca to name an example of the many. The Berber style music was tantalizing enough to give courage to the most timid tourist into bargaining with a street vendor. And the people were so generous, calming my “Lonely Planet” alert status. Food, art, and heritage-the main indicators of a rich culture worth exploring---Check!
But the best part of any trip is the company. My very, very special friend Adam invited me to travel to Morocco where we’d meet his parents, Lynn and Roger. It felt so good to be with his parents. The presence of any mom and dad must be universal because I felt so at home. While Lynn and I relaxed at the hammams (Turkish baths where huge, hairy, naked women throw hot buckets of water on you, lol), Adam and Roger enjoyed ice cold Casablancas and unexpected 4 course meals. We had our share of laughs like when Lynn thought a Moroccan passerby said his daughter “has a big mustache,” when what he was trying to say was that his daughter “ has her big master’s degree?” And we had our share of scares like when Abdul our driver would keep us on our toes every time we got into the car.
Oh did I mention we had a driver? I felt so spoiled being able to see so much more of the country because of having our own transportation. Also all the accommodations we stayed at were so comfortable and beautiful. We had a really nice stay at a riad, a traditional house, in Marrakesh. Imagine trying to find a hotel in a maze of slums and when you get to the marked door you are weary until the door is opened, revealing a hidden palace. It truly was a unique experience.
Each day was full of activity, wandering around Roman ruins, sampling olive oil and argon oil straight from the press, and visiting tiny villages up in the High Atlas where people made their homes inside the mountains. Being able to sip on mint tea at the end of the day was always a treat, but having a nice comfortable room to stay in was extra special for me (I’ve been sleeping on a straw mattress for 14 months, give a girl a break!). You better believe I took advantage of the blowdryers, candies placed on my pillow, and the fitness centers. That was what a vacation should be like!
Thank you so much to Adam, Lynn, and Roger for letting me Morock’ n roll with you guys

Real life Boogeyman

I've been afraid for the first time ever while living in the village. I've been avoiding the main routes every morning when going to the school. I've been riding my bike extra fast to and from the garden. I've even been hiding behind n na ( my host mom) while going to the marche. You would too if you saw "the conde". There will be days I don't see the conde but the constant beat of drumming makes you imagine the flash of dried grass and mask between the huts. The drumming starts in the morning and ends in the evening, always indicating where the conde is lurking throughout the village. I am grateful for the signal, giving me a clue as to how I may avoid crossing paths with the it but I hate the feeling it leaves me with all day. If you've seen Jumanji, Heart of Darkness, or Lord of the Flies, the drum beats give you that loathing feeling that something bad is around the corner. And the conde is just that because it can run fast, is masked with human or animal like features, and hits you with sticks. All I've ever seen the conde do is chase villagers around threating to whip them. While it's supposed to be funny,I find it frightening. I was a victim one day, screaming my head off as it clung onto the back of my bike.I thought I lost it at a point until I look back and it was still running alongside me. Scary!!!
Although I’m still scared of the condé I have a new found respect after discovering “it” or “they” can dance. Mask dances are sacred rituals of West Africa which more than often turns into social entertainment. I sat in awe as I watched 4 condés dance to the beat of drums, displaying their deftness and agility. It was like watching lyrical gymnastiques with an urban edge. Their head to toe costumes made of dried grass makes them look like Cousin It from “The Adam’s Family” combined with Big Foot. 2 condés wore masks that were intricately designed using metal and mirrors to portray a human like face while the other 2 had the head of an owl and a warthog.
The faster the beat the crazier they dance, billowing up clouds of dust, reminding me of how lucky I am to be here and witness something that’s been happening for hundreds of rains. Watching the drums talk to the condé is so unreal. After having watched the dance for almost a week I feel like I have picked up on the traditional language of percussion. The conversation can make the condé mad, happy, or excited coercing it to jump high over the drummers, but not until the last moment, where you think it is going to tackle them to the ground. My favorite is when 2 condés dance facing each other, as if they were mirror images.
When something the condé does pleases you, it is customary to run up and throw 500 FGN at it. Some run away immediately after their offering, fearing the condés’ stare but many do a little dance making the crowd go wild. Men stomp at the ground and do back flips while the women do their hysterical dances of flapping their arms, using their clothing to exaggerate the already exaggerated move.
I admire this culture so much. They laugh with all their gut and they dance with abandon. If I leave Guinea with anything I hope to bring those qualities with me. Those drums have spoken to me, daring me to talk back, telling me there is no reason to be shy any longer. The more wildly I flap my arms, mimicking the women, the more I hear the drum speak words of approval. And as I dance in front of my whole village I feel their laughter and joy speak straight to my heart.

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.

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!