There once was a song...
I'm imagining one of those Planet Earth style cameras that sits on a tripod somewhere for twenty years while a tree grows. Then, we sit on a couch in front of a plasma tv wider than the couch with the surround sound on in super-fast-high-def-down-low-uproar vision, and watch this sucker grow into a titan of living things. The forest blurs across the screen and we get to experience first hand what might be called aural sex...
I'm imagining this camera sitting where I am, at the door of a school building, sheltered, at the beginning of the day in a place exactly like but perhaps not Burkina Faso. We see the sun rise, blazing, above the sparse savannah. People trudge by, faces glistening with sweat. There's a vague haze obscuring everything.
Then the clouds flood in. On this camera, like an invading army, blocking out the sun. Dry from my spot in the doorway, my place on the couch, I feel the humidity of the air. I look for the haze, but can't find it. And it's pouring. I've been somehow, without moving a toe, displaced to the underside of a waterfall as the rain pours off the roof, into lake in front of me, non-existant only moments before.
The rain stops. Clouds still there. The sun sets behind them, and we watch through the night as wind tickles the leaves of trees in full bloom. In the morning, the clouds are gone. The sun comes up. People walk by, faces glistening, haze obscuring. All over again.
Except being here is nothing like watching it on a screen. Maybe Todo did a better job of capturing it.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Saturday, July 24, 2010
24
I wanted this post to be about America. About what shocked me upon re-entry, and about what culture shock looks like from the other end of the swimming pool. But, frankly, I talked about that enough when I was home, and I’ll go through it all over again in another year, where I can tell you all about it in person. And I still haven’t had time to process it all.
What’s on my mind now—and what was really on my mind the whole time I was home—isn’t so much about me as my…what would you call it? Generation? That is, all you buggers I grew up with (not, by any means, to say we’re all grown up).
I was class of ’08. That means two years have gone by since the end of undergrad. In the first year, a lot of us fumbled around and twiddled our thumbs, unsure of what to do next. Unemployed or regretfully employed. I played music and tutored a couple brats (and a few good students) on the side. I read books I’d always meant to read, but never had the time. I played more hockey than I had in years. I was arguably in the coveted “best shape of my life”. The day I flew out last year just about pinned that one year mark. Friends were working, living with their parents, finishing school, gettin’ schooled more. My baby sis was still passing her workdays in lecture halls. Nobody was engaged. Nobody owned a house. Nobody got knocked-up.
Ok, nobody’s gotten knocked up yet. But you’ve all gotten up a notch. By the time I’m done here, I’ll have missed between four and six weddings. Perhaps all of you will have bought houses or condos or at least rent an apartment. I hope you’re all close enough for a weekend visit. Now, don’t mistake my discussion of this as a hearkening for the good old days. I’m not resistant to these changes. In fact, I’m quite the opposite.
With a little sister just out of college, and a year of whatever-the-hell-this-thing-is under my belt, I find myself increasingly excited about what’s going on, about what’s to come. Out of the bubbled, isolated college world, we’ve all got real things to worry about. We’re finally taking our part in reshaping the world—it’s what the old fogies (pardon my bluntness) have been telling us would be our responsibility since before the re-election of Bill Clinton. Lots of you work in energy. An undeniably real problem. Others in psychology and medicine. Others in peacekeeping and business and art. And while the engagements and moves took me somewhat for surprise, it’s just a sign that we’re mature enough to handle that responsibility.
I also know I’m not the only one gambling, every time I take a step, that an earthquake of Haitian proportions won’t crumble beneath my foot. I don’t know what the next few years will bring me. All I’ve got’s whims and wits. But the wits keep growing.
But that’s exactly what makes being twenty-four so exciting! We get to poke our toes in waters we couldn’t before. We get to try and fail, and we don’t have to worry that failure will injure some silly grade point average.
So, I suppose I ought to thank all of you—for getting on with your lives. It shows me I can do the same. Really, could you imagine the degree of messed-up I’d be if I left for two years and nothing changed? I’d have to abandon you at your dead ends just to straighten my own stumbling feet. I can say, honest, that it never once during this vacation felt like “old times”. It was fresh and crisp. I felt the same connection with you, but it was forward-looking, positive. Nothing’s being lost. I feel more assured and confident. I realize that changes will happen in this next year, and I’m excited to jump in and share mine with you.
And as for the fogies: I have nothing to offer but thanks. (I make 3 bucks an hour). Thanks for supporting me in my choice to do something a little off-track. Thanks for providing for me enough that I have the chance to sniff out new experiences. For your endless, reckless enthusiasm. Thanks for pushing me to seek that out. And thanks for the granola bars.
I once described myself as a cynic. And I can’t rightly say if my shirking that descriptor is a result of my experiences here, or if it’s from knowing and experiencing the positive movement of friends. Or if it’s just something natural, a scheduled, coded program of biochemistry. In any case, what’s the fun in moping?
j
What’s on my mind now—and what was really on my mind the whole time I was home—isn’t so much about me as my…what would you call it? Generation? That is, all you buggers I grew up with (not, by any means, to say we’re all grown up).
I was class of ’08. That means two years have gone by since the end of undergrad. In the first year, a lot of us fumbled around and twiddled our thumbs, unsure of what to do next. Unemployed or regretfully employed. I played music and tutored a couple brats (and a few good students) on the side. I read books I’d always meant to read, but never had the time. I played more hockey than I had in years. I was arguably in the coveted “best shape of my life”. The day I flew out last year just about pinned that one year mark. Friends were working, living with their parents, finishing school, gettin’ schooled more. My baby sis was still passing her workdays in lecture halls. Nobody was engaged. Nobody owned a house. Nobody got knocked-up.
Ok, nobody’s gotten knocked up yet. But you’ve all gotten up a notch. By the time I’m done here, I’ll have missed between four and six weddings. Perhaps all of you will have bought houses or condos or at least rent an apartment. I hope you’re all close enough for a weekend visit. Now, don’t mistake my discussion of this as a hearkening for the good old days. I’m not resistant to these changes. In fact, I’m quite the opposite.
With a little sister just out of college, and a year of whatever-the-hell-this-thing-is under my belt, I find myself increasingly excited about what’s going on, about what’s to come. Out of the bubbled, isolated college world, we’ve all got real things to worry about. We’re finally taking our part in reshaping the world—it’s what the old fogies (pardon my bluntness) have been telling us would be our responsibility since before the re-election of Bill Clinton. Lots of you work in energy. An undeniably real problem. Others in psychology and medicine. Others in peacekeeping and business and art. And while the engagements and moves took me somewhat for surprise, it’s just a sign that we’re mature enough to handle that responsibility.
I also know I’m not the only one gambling, every time I take a step, that an earthquake of Haitian proportions won’t crumble beneath my foot. I don’t know what the next few years will bring me. All I’ve got’s whims and wits. But the wits keep growing.
But that’s exactly what makes being twenty-four so exciting! We get to poke our toes in waters we couldn’t before. We get to try and fail, and we don’t have to worry that failure will injure some silly grade point average.
So, I suppose I ought to thank all of you—for getting on with your lives. It shows me I can do the same. Really, could you imagine the degree of messed-up I’d be if I left for two years and nothing changed? I’d have to abandon you at your dead ends just to straighten my own stumbling feet. I can say, honest, that it never once during this vacation felt like “old times”. It was fresh and crisp. I felt the same connection with you, but it was forward-looking, positive. Nothing’s being lost. I feel more assured and confident. I realize that changes will happen in this next year, and I’m excited to jump in and share mine with you.
And as for the fogies: I have nothing to offer but thanks. (I make 3 bucks an hour). Thanks for supporting me in my choice to do something a little off-track. Thanks for providing for me enough that I have the chance to sniff out new experiences. For your endless, reckless enthusiasm. Thanks for pushing me to seek that out. And thanks for the granola bars.
I once described myself as a cynic. And I can’t rightly say if my shirking that descriptor is a result of my experiences here, or if it’s from knowing and experiencing the positive movement of friends. Or if it’s just something natural, a scheduled, coded program of biochemistry. In any case, what’s the fun in moping?
j
Thursday, May 27, 2010
One Year Down (really?)
May 23, 2010
Well, it’s not quite June 10th—the day I left America last year to come to Burkina Faso and teach Science for the Peace Corps—but it’s close enough. By the time I get this posted on the blog, it might be past that date. My thoughts on an entire year of being in Burkina are unlikely to be drastically different three weeks from now. (Plus, given all the running around I’ll be doing, I doubt my mind will be in the right set for reflection.)
So, what I have I learned, living for a year in a foreign country? Why did I come in the first place? How have my reasons for coming been affected? And what’s going to keep me here for another year? It’s due time for some essay-guided reflection.
I wanted to join the Peace Corps for a few reasons. The professional reputation of the service is undeniable. Two years as a volunteer with so much “hardship” is seen as a measure of diligence, devotion, and determination in many arenas. Not to mention, the humanitarian implications of working so hard, and giving up so much to better the lives of a people so distant from us—a people so slightly affected by our daily-doings at home, whose daily lives so minutely affect those of ours in the West over sea, further North over land, and higher up in our skyscrapers. To be concerned for the well-being of such peoples is said to show a lot.
This is, in part, the professional perspective for me. Certainly, I care about these people. I worry for their health and their environment and their education, their self-betterment. But, it’s this very spirit that drives me towards my professional goals. The two are in many ways inseparable. So, yes. I joined Peace Corps to help people, but I joined it also to help myself.
Professional opportunities aside, there are many other reasons I joined. Curiosity factored in equally, if not more so. I’ve traveled in my life. I’ve checked the Louvre and the Outback off my list. I’ve seen fjords and beaches, skied down mountains and across water. I’ve stayed up all night in the place where the sun doesn’t set. I’ve done a lot to satiate my curiosity for new experience by travel. Yet, I was always frustrated at how quickly I had to leave. How I only got to see the surface of things. I only struggled with language long enough for an English speaker to walk in the door behind me. My curiosity drove me to seek new places in a different sense. I wanted to see a place, but get past its surface. I wanted to meet its people and learn about them. A place and it’s people are co-dependent, and it’s absurd—I thought—to just see a place and keep your feet moving. I wanted to understand the place. The place didn’t particularly matter, as long as it was new and shocking. So, I came to Africa. (Yet, I’ve realized that this word is that of a passer-by—someone who takes in all of “Africa” in one fell swoop, throwing it all together into one general category. I’ve realized that the peoples of Africa are so diverse themselves that I no longer feel comfortable saying “I came to Africa.” I came to Burkina Faso is more precise. And still, the ethnic groups here are diverse enough that even those terms seems insufficient.)
I also came for the adventure. There is no insurance in the 3rd world (well, hardly.) There are few hospitals. There are snakes and torrential rains and scorching heat, vicious sunrays, HUGE language barriers, strange foods, strange music, strange faces. And I wanted to be thrown in the middle of it all. I wanted the exhilarations and utter confusions of in-your-face foreignness.
I also came just because. And because it’s the best time to do so. No mortgage or debt or kids to raise. No job left behind. Plus, there were peripheral benefits: the opportunity to learn another language, to have a change in perspective, to maybe pick up some sweet souvenirs.
But I never thought very much about what this service would do to me. I thought, a year ago, that you can’t understand a place until you understand its people. And I still think this is true. But back then, I didn’t think about those people’s affect on me—or maybe even the effect I’d have on them. It was the disposition not of a worker or a volunteer, but of a traveler, still just passing through, albeit slow enough to taste it.
Well, a year being here, and I’ve found a few things out. I’m reassured in my conviction that you’ve got to live there to understand there. But understanding is not synonymous with embrace. There are many things I’ve come to understand about this place and its people, much of which I will never embrace myself. I’ve found that in a culture like this, so far removed from my own, there are things I’ll never reconcile—basic, believed truths that aren’t shared, nor capable of embrace by an outsider (at least, this one). Things like gender equality, work ethic, or even the role we play in our own future or demise.
There’s no doubt gender roles are different here. Women do an awful lot of work, and their education is often not a priority (despite a government agenda very much in favor of the latter). It’s hard to work in the heat sometimes. But I was raised to do my job anyways. To go to school despite a fever of 103, to brave the cold or the heat, to stay up all night studying if there’s still a lot left to understand. I’m not saying so much work is a positive thing. There IS such a thing as excess. But, the contrary is (I’d say) worse. Most people here take a mid-day nap. That’s an awful lot of wasted sunlight in a place without electricity. The heat is often an excuse to just sit and stare. If it’s not the rainy season, and therefore there’s no farming to do, many don’t work at all: not towards their own betterment (when they’d have the time!), nor to the betterment of their communities. And, finally, there’s a short-sightedness: people often do not (or…refuse to?) see the role they play in the world they live in. They see neither the positive effects they could cause, nor the negative effects they perpetuate. An old man with three wives who do all the work doesn’t stop and think that by doing nothing, the inequalities of gender perpetuate (if not progress). The same goes for a teacher who speaks to his or her students in local language outside of class (and not French, which is—perhaps unfortunately—the language of education and development.) Furthermore, that man doesn’t realize that he can be an active agent of change; that he can, for example, send his daughters to school, relieve them of housework so that they may study. Or, god forbid, even help them to study and understand their schoolwork. The same goes for a man cutting down trees in a region in danger of desertification. (This is happening behind my house as I write this.) It won’t dry up today or tomorrow. He doesn’t see 50 years down the line—his suffering grandchildren.
Being here this long, I realize that I am so very different in the way I’m raised. I can, in fact, connect with these people on many levels. And then, there are so many ways I can’t. This is a frustration, but also a consolation—it reassures me of where I belong, making me proud of where I’m from, makes me love my own people despite what faults they have. There are positives here that Americans lack—close family ties and friendly relationships between professionals (speak to my father about “lawyers nowadays…”). And, yet, I’m okay with what we lack. Perhaps as a result of this service, I’ll be more an advocate of the good things I learn here. And my people will embrace that it me.
But I’m here for another year. The sense of adventure has faded. I’ve learned enough about the people to satiate my curiosity. My french is pretty darn good, though I’m still not satisfied by my versatility in it. I’ve seen a lot of foreign things, but they’ve become daily for me. I often don’t recognize their strangeness unless I force myself to. But I’m staying. I’ll stay because (a) I have to: it’s a two-year deal and I ain’t a quitter; and (b) I still like the place, and don’t have such a hard time recognizing the strangeness, embracing it and interacting with it. My being here is equally strange to these people, and often, we don’t need much more than to look at each other, recognize our differences, and laugh about them. I have tons of fun in class (when it’s not a test week). My students continue to impress me with their curiosity and their devotion despite so little to work with.
And the adventure hasn’t totally worn off. There are days, yes, when it all seems old-news and jaded. Days I don’t want to go outside and struggle in another language. Days I just want to grab a cold one with chips and salsa from the fridge, park my ass on the couch and turn on Seinfeld. But there are also days I walk outside, excited to take it all in—realizing that my time here, while long, IS limited. Knowing that inevitably, no matter how much I do here, I’ll soon be looking back, wishing I’d done more.
I’m staying because now, after a year teaching, I’ll be so much more effective next year. Because I’m less a traveler than a teacher. I’ll connect so much more quickly with my students. I’ll open doors to them that their Burkinabe teachers never thought to, or never knew how to. And I’ll stay because my french will still get better, and I’ll pick up some very strange (to Westerners, at least) local language on the way. And I’ll stay because there’s still so much more to see.
Well, it’s not quite June 10th—the day I left America last year to come to Burkina Faso and teach Science for the Peace Corps—but it’s close enough. By the time I get this posted on the blog, it might be past that date. My thoughts on an entire year of being in Burkina are unlikely to be drastically different three weeks from now. (Plus, given all the running around I’ll be doing, I doubt my mind will be in the right set for reflection.)
So, what I have I learned, living for a year in a foreign country? Why did I come in the first place? How have my reasons for coming been affected? And what’s going to keep me here for another year? It’s due time for some essay-guided reflection.
I wanted to join the Peace Corps for a few reasons. The professional reputation of the service is undeniable. Two years as a volunteer with so much “hardship” is seen as a measure of diligence, devotion, and determination in many arenas. Not to mention, the humanitarian implications of working so hard, and giving up so much to better the lives of a people so distant from us—a people so slightly affected by our daily-doings at home, whose daily lives so minutely affect those of ours in the West over sea, further North over land, and higher up in our skyscrapers. To be concerned for the well-being of such peoples is said to show a lot.
This is, in part, the professional perspective for me. Certainly, I care about these people. I worry for their health and their environment and their education, their self-betterment. But, it’s this very spirit that drives me towards my professional goals. The two are in many ways inseparable. So, yes. I joined Peace Corps to help people, but I joined it also to help myself.
Professional opportunities aside, there are many other reasons I joined. Curiosity factored in equally, if not more so. I’ve traveled in my life. I’ve checked the Louvre and the Outback off my list. I’ve seen fjords and beaches, skied down mountains and across water. I’ve stayed up all night in the place where the sun doesn’t set. I’ve done a lot to satiate my curiosity for new experience by travel. Yet, I was always frustrated at how quickly I had to leave. How I only got to see the surface of things. I only struggled with language long enough for an English speaker to walk in the door behind me. My curiosity drove me to seek new places in a different sense. I wanted to see a place, but get past its surface. I wanted to meet its people and learn about them. A place and it’s people are co-dependent, and it’s absurd—I thought—to just see a place and keep your feet moving. I wanted to understand the place. The place didn’t particularly matter, as long as it was new and shocking. So, I came to Africa. (Yet, I’ve realized that this word is that of a passer-by—someone who takes in all of “Africa” in one fell swoop, throwing it all together into one general category. I’ve realized that the peoples of Africa are so diverse themselves that I no longer feel comfortable saying “I came to Africa.” I came to Burkina Faso is more precise. And still, the ethnic groups here are diverse enough that even those terms seems insufficient.)
I also came for the adventure. There is no insurance in the 3rd world (well, hardly.) There are few hospitals. There are snakes and torrential rains and scorching heat, vicious sunrays, HUGE language barriers, strange foods, strange music, strange faces. And I wanted to be thrown in the middle of it all. I wanted the exhilarations and utter confusions of in-your-face foreignness.
I also came just because. And because it’s the best time to do so. No mortgage or debt or kids to raise. No job left behind. Plus, there were peripheral benefits: the opportunity to learn another language, to have a change in perspective, to maybe pick up some sweet souvenirs.
But I never thought very much about what this service would do to me. I thought, a year ago, that you can’t understand a place until you understand its people. And I still think this is true. But back then, I didn’t think about those people’s affect on me—or maybe even the effect I’d have on them. It was the disposition not of a worker or a volunteer, but of a traveler, still just passing through, albeit slow enough to taste it.
Well, a year being here, and I’ve found a few things out. I’m reassured in my conviction that you’ve got to live there to understand there. But understanding is not synonymous with embrace. There are many things I’ve come to understand about this place and its people, much of which I will never embrace myself. I’ve found that in a culture like this, so far removed from my own, there are things I’ll never reconcile—basic, believed truths that aren’t shared, nor capable of embrace by an outsider (at least, this one). Things like gender equality, work ethic, or even the role we play in our own future or demise.
There’s no doubt gender roles are different here. Women do an awful lot of work, and their education is often not a priority (despite a government agenda very much in favor of the latter). It’s hard to work in the heat sometimes. But I was raised to do my job anyways. To go to school despite a fever of 103, to brave the cold or the heat, to stay up all night studying if there’s still a lot left to understand. I’m not saying so much work is a positive thing. There IS such a thing as excess. But, the contrary is (I’d say) worse. Most people here take a mid-day nap. That’s an awful lot of wasted sunlight in a place without electricity. The heat is often an excuse to just sit and stare. If it’s not the rainy season, and therefore there’s no farming to do, many don’t work at all: not towards their own betterment (when they’d have the time!), nor to the betterment of their communities. And, finally, there’s a short-sightedness: people often do not (or…refuse to?) see the role they play in the world they live in. They see neither the positive effects they could cause, nor the negative effects they perpetuate. An old man with three wives who do all the work doesn’t stop and think that by doing nothing, the inequalities of gender perpetuate (if not progress). The same goes for a teacher who speaks to his or her students in local language outside of class (and not French, which is—perhaps unfortunately—the language of education and development.) Furthermore, that man doesn’t realize that he can be an active agent of change; that he can, for example, send his daughters to school, relieve them of housework so that they may study. Or, god forbid, even help them to study and understand their schoolwork. The same goes for a man cutting down trees in a region in danger of desertification. (This is happening behind my house as I write this.) It won’t dry up today or tomorrow. He doesn’t see 50 years down the line—his suffering grandchildren.
Being here this long, I realize that I am so very different in the way I’m raised. I can, in fact, connect with these people on many levels. And then, there are so many ways I can’t. This is a frustration, but also a consolation—it reassures me of where I belong, making me proud of where I’m from, makes me love my own people despite what faults they have. There are positives here that Americans lack—close family ties and friendly relationships between professionals (speak to my father about “lawyers nowadays…”). And, yet, I’m okay with what we lack. Perhaps as a result of this service, I’ll be more an advocate of the good things I learn here. And my people will embrace that it me.
But I’m here for another year. The sense of adventure has faded. I’ve learned enough about the people to satiate my curiosity. My french is pretty darn good, though I’m still not satisfied by my versatility in it. I’ve seen a lot of foreign things, but they’ve become daily for me. I often don’t recognize their strangeness unless I force myself to. But I’m staying. I’ll stay because (a) I have to: it’s a two-year deal and I ain’t a quitter; and (b) I still like the place, and don’t have such a hard time recognizing the strangeness, embracing it and interacting with it. My being here is equally strange to these people, and often, we don’t need much more than to look at each other, recognize our differences, and laugh about them. I have tons of fun in class (when it’s not a test week). My students continue to impress me with their curiosity and their devotion despite so little to work with.
And the adventure hasn’t totally worn off. There are days, yes, when it all seems old-news and jaded. Days I don’t want to go outside and struggle in another language. Days I just want to grab a cold one with chips and salsa from the fridge, park my ass on the couch and turn on Seinfeld. But there are also days I walk outside, excited to take it all in—realizing that my time here, while long, IS limited. Knowing that inevitably, no matter how much I do here, I’ll soon be looking back, wishing I’d done more.
I’m staying because now, after a year teaching, I’ll be so much more effective next year. Because I’m less a traveler than a teacher. I’ll connect so much more quickly with my students. I’ll open doors to them that their Burkinabe teachers never thought to, or never knew how to. And I’ll stay because my french will still get better, and I’ll pick up some very strange (to Westerners, at least) local language on the way. And I’ll stay because there’s still so much more to see.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Easter/Passover/Humidity Meter
It's Easter Sunday. April's what everyone has been saying is the hottest month. It's 9AM here--the morning, the coolest part of the day--and I'm already drenched in sweat. I was going to go to church this morning--really! But, well, there's no way I'm going to sit under that jam-packed, thatched-roof awning over the pew (which itself is nothing put chopped-down logs we sit on), beads of sweat dripping from me, the service conducted in Moore--a degree away from jibberish to me.
I'm just going to lay in my hammock, move as little as possible, and dream of Easter brunch. Ice cold mimosas. Solid (unmelted!) chocolate. Maybe if I close my eyes and really try, I can convince myself I'm eating ice-cream-topped belgian waffles and sipping on iced coffee.
I'm trying to imagine where I was a year ago. Last Easter/ I had literally just recieved my assignment to Burkina Faso. I was pouring over the information in the packet, making lists of what I'd need. All optimism, excitement, adventure.
Does it seem like that long ago? Well, yes. It does. I've been here a while now. It's surprising to me, if I think about it, how "everyday" everything I do here has become. I've all but forgotten the hum of wheels on pavement, the crunch of snow under boots. Heck, I can't remember the last time I wore shoes. This is perpetual flip-flop weather. I'm impressed how much time has passed. How far from here I was last year. I dont' feel older, really. Only farther.
I'll spend even another Easter here. A year from now, I suppose I'll think back on what I was doing today. I'll wonder where the time went.
Easter here isn't terribly unlike it is in America. The Christians dress up, go to mass. Eat and drink. No chocolate. "Peeps" are an absurd notion. The only rabbits you might see will be in the sauce you eat at dinner. Though, likely, the animal slaughtered will be larger. A goat, pig, or sheep. People at church will be baptised. Villagers will visit each others' homes and wish each other well. Market will bustle. My dog wil sit, ass usual, right in front of my screen door, panting. Too lazy and hot to move a muscle and let me pass in and out of the house. He might stand up to eat something. The screen door is reflective: My actions mirror his.
The day after a holiday is usually a holiday, too. So I'll be back in the classroom Tuesday. I'm just praying my students will be alert enough to form sentences. The brain--as if chemically induced--isn't capable of much more than staring at walls in this weather. At home, April is a forgettable month--that middle-ground between Spring and Summer. Here, it's memorable only for its heat. Granted I don't melt, I'll see you in July!
I'm just going to lay in my hammock, move as little as possible, and dream of Easter brunch. Ice cold mimosas. Solid (unmelted!) chocolate. Maybe if I close my eyes and really try, I can convince myself I'm eating ice-cream-topped belgian waffles and sipping on iced coffee.
I'm trying to imagine where I was a year ago. Last Easter/ I had literally just recieved my assignment to Burkina Faso. I was pouring over the information in the packet, making lists of what I'd need. All optimism, excitement, adventure.
Does it seem like that long ago? Well, yes. It does. I've been here a while now. It's surprising to me, if I think about it, how "everyday" everything I do here has become. I've all but forgotten the hum of wheels on pavement, the crunch of snow under boots. Heck, I can't remember the last time I wore shoes. This is perpetual flip-flop weather. I'm impressed how much time has passed. How far from here I was last year. I dont' feel older, really. Only farther.
I'll spend even another Easter here. A year from now, I suppose I'll think back on what I was doing today. I'll wonder where the time went.
Easter here isn't terribly unlike it is in America. The Christians dress up, go to mass. Eat and drink. No chocolate. "Peeps" are an absurd notion. The only rabbits you might see will be in the sauce you eat at dinner. Though, likely, the animal slaughtered will be larger. A goat, pig, or sheep. People at church will be baptised. Villagers will visit each others' homes and wish each other well. Market will bustle. My dog wil sit, ass usual, right in front of my screen door, panting. Too lazy and hot to move a muscle and let me pass in and out of the house. He might stand up to eat something. The screen door is reflective: My actions mirror his.
The day after a holiday is usually a holiday, too. So I'll be back in the classroom Tuesday. I'm just praying my students will be alert enough to form sentences. The brain--as if chemically induced--isn't capable of much more than staring at walls in this weather. At home, April is a forgettable month--that middle-ground between Spring and Summer. Here, it's memorable only for its heat. Granted I don't melt, I'll see you in July!
Friday, March 26, 2010
City Life
Done with my second trimester. Time is slipping on by. The break (decidedly not called “Spring Break” here after consultation with the thermometer) is two weeks long. I’m back in the classroom the first week of April, and the school year ends before the end of May. I’m working on getting together some books for my school using the recommendations from my colleagues. (If you feel like helping out, you’ll be able to contribute. Keep an eye out for updates.) This morning, I went to a library in Ouagadougou to meet my school’s headmaster and look up some prices. I biked into town.
I haven’t been in Ouaga on a regular workday very often. This morning was the first time I hopped on my bike at 7am and biked into town like all the other city folk. The myriad mopeds and motorcycles buzzed by me. By now, I can spot how fast the moto in front of me at a stop light can go by looking at it. On my fancy American bicycle, I passed a few. Others passed me. Cars whizzed by. (Don’t see those much in village.) I suddenly, for a moment, felt the novelty and excitement of being in a place so far from home once again.
In Ouagadougou, there are no lane markers. There are stoplights, but this morning, the power was out all over town. They weren’t working. The mopeds buzzed around me like angry bees. I pedaled hard to keep up. Moore and French were being screamed across the pavement. I dodged and ducked. The morning rush hour. This doesn’t happen outside of Ouaga. The rest of the country is not on a 40 hour work week. This is the picture of a place struggling to make it in the modern world: Buzzing, beeping, screaming chaos in the dead center of a country, surrounded by endless sand and savannah.
My baby sis is coming in June. I can’t wait to see this place new again, through her eyes. Then home for July. To see home, after being away so long, will be the most exciting.
Enjoy the weather.
Jon
I haven’t been in Ouaga on a regular workday very often. This morning was the first time I hopped on my bike at 7am and biked into town like all the other city folk. The myriad mopeds and motorcycles buzzed by me. By now, I can spot how fast the moto in front of me at a stop light can go by looking at it. On my fancy American bicycle, I passed a few. Others passed me. Cars whizzed by. (Don’t see those much in village.) I suddenly, for a moment, felt the novelty and excitement of being in a place so far from home once again.
In Ouagadougou, there are no lane markers. There are stoplights, but this morning, the power was out all over town. They weren’t working. The mopeds buzzed around me like angry bees. I pedaled hard to keep up. Moore and French were being screamed across the pavement. I dodged and ducked. The morning rush hour. This doesn’t happen outside of Ouaga. The rest of the country is not on a 40 hour work week. This is the picture of a place struggling to make it in the modern world: Buzzing, beeping, screaming chaos in the dead center of a country, surrounded by endless sand and savannah.
My baby sis is coming in June. I can’t wait to see this place new again, through her eyes. Then home for July. To see home, after being away so long, will be the most exciting.
Enjoy the weather.
Jon
Monday, March 1, 2010
Heat, Time Travel, and Foreign Language
First off, appologies for the sporatic nature of this blog. It’ not so much that little is happening as it is that internet is such a rarity. In Sabou—the town 13km from me, on the paved road—there’s a cyber café, with computers, a copier, electricity, etc. They put up a new sign (in addition to the old one), advertising INTERNET, PHOTO COPIER, COMPUTERS, so I thought maybe they finally got things hooked up. I made it out there to ask: Nope. They bought the sign advertising internet before buying the actual internet. Africa.
Today, we’ll talk about time travel. Not in the Wellsian sense, over billions of years. More in the Vonnegut sense, time within one person’s life, and it’s effect on outcomes… We’ll start about 17 months ago, when I first began my application to Peace Corps. I remember back then, in the cold Champaign winter, thinking, “Two Years? Easy! What’s two measly years in the grand scheme of things?” The error in this line of thought is, of course, it’s Wellsian nature. Sure, in the entire course of human history and future, one man’s two-year absence is pretty much nil. But what about that man’s history?
The four years of college seemed to go by rather quickly. Of course, retrospect accelerates those perceptions. There were certainly days that seemed to never end, distant final tests and papers whose approach reflected personal doom. During those four years of college, a lot certainly did happen. Many things whose importance I hardly realize—after all, I was there to witness them. They weren’t such a big deal.
Of course, I was wrong. A LOT can happen in two years: It only takes a day, for example, to get married. Some of my closest friends and relatives—the same age as me—are engaged! Some have already scheduled dates that seem far off, but are dates I’ll still be here, with only my imagination to illustrate what I’m missing. Others are having landmark birthdays. People are graduating, switching jobs, moving to new cities. Our first black president will be 75% finished with his term when I make my return.
So, selfishly, two years ain’t much. For me, it’ll be a few days I killed sweating and reading books. But I’m realizing that the place I’ll return to qt the end of 2011 won’t be the same as it was last June, when I left. Some of you will be married or living elsewhere. My gravest fear is that some won’t be around at all. A short trip home will be enough to give me a taste of how things have changed, but not enough to be much of a witness to them. While, overall, I don’t think I’ll regret my time here, there are a few things I’ll never forgive myself for missing. My apologies to those of you who hoped I’d be there. Know that your progressions perhaps mean more to me than to you, now that I know I’m missing them.
Well, how about an update? Teaching is going without problem. I can speak words in French, satisfy needs, discuss prices, but there’s a big old iceberg-like quality to a whole new language’s use. Many things—turns of phrase, colloquialisms, proper grammar—I am not learning here. It’s a foreign language for people here, too, and as long as it works for basic communication, there’s no need to be picky about it. Save existential thought for your natural language. I can barely understand Radio France International. Chances are; when I’m done here, I’ll be no more an expert on French language than I am on internal combustion engines. (I get the idea, but that’s about it.)
The school year is about 2/3rds finished. I’m really looking forward to the summer. I’ll get a chance to do a little traveling (let’s be honest; it’s the real reason I’m here), concentrate on language skills, and (maybe) work on some extra-curriculars. That little trip home will be awful nice, too. I hope you’ll be around! Thought, don’t peg me as a hypocrite: I’ll understand if you can’t be.Word is your winter’s extra long. Which really sucks because it’s looking like the hot season here will be uncharacteristically long: other volunteers say it’s never been this hot in February. Burkinabe say there wasn’t really much of a “cold” season this year… How unfair that my favorite season is extra long at home, snow still falling!
We’ll leave it there until next time. Gotta go chalk up my hands. (Sometimes, it does feel like gymnastics).
-Jon
Today, we’ll talk about time travel. Not in the Wellsian sense, over billions of years. More in the Vonnegut sense, time within one person’s life, and it’s effect on outcomes… We’ll start about 17 months ago, when I first began my application to Peace Corps. I remember back then, in the cold Champaign winter, thinking, “Two Years? Easy! What’s two measly years in the grand scheme of things?” The error in this line of thought is, of course, it’s Wellsian nature. Sure, in the entire course of human history and future, one man’s two-year absence is pretty much nil. But what about that man’s history?
The four years of college seemed to go by rather quickly. Of course, retrospect accelerates those perceptions. There were certainly days that seemed to never end, distant final tests and papers whose approach reflected personal doom. During those four years of college, a lot certainly did happen. Many things whose importance I hardly realize—after all, I was there to witness them. They weren’t such a big deal.
Of course, I was wrong. A LOT can happen in two years: It only takes a day, for example, to get married. Some of my closest friends and relatives—the same age as me—are engaged! Some have already scheduled dates that seem far off, but are dates I’ll still be here, with only my imagination to illustrate what I’m missing. Others are having landmark birthdays. People are graduating, switching jobs, moving to new cities. Our first black president will be 75% finished with his term when I make my return.
So, selfishly, two years ain’t much. For me, it’ll be a few days I killed sweating and reading books. But I’m realizing that the place I’ll return to qt the end of 2011 won’t be the same as it was last June, when I left. Some of you will be married or living elsewhere. My gravest fear is that some won’t be around at all. A short trip home will be enough to give me a taste of how things have changed, but not enough to be much of a witness to them. While, overall, I don’t think I’ll regret my time here, there are a few things I’ll never forgive myself for missing. My apologies to those of you who hoped I’d be there. Know that your progressions perhaps mean more to me than to you, now that I know I’m missing them.
Well, how about an update? Teaching is going without problem. I can speak words in French, satisfy needs, discuss prices, but there’s a big old iceberg-like quality to a whole new language’s use. Many things—turns of phrase, colloquialisms, proper grammar—I am not learning here. It’s a foreign language for people here, too, and as long as it works for basic communication, there’s no need to be picky about it. Save existential thought for your natural language. I can barely understand Radio France International. Chances are; when I’m done here, I’ll be no more an expert on French language than I am on internal combustion engines. (I get the idea, but that’s about it.)
The school year is about 2/3rds finished. I’m really looking forward to the summer. I’ll get a chance to do a little traveling (let’s be honest; it’s the real reason I’m here), concentrate on language skills, and (maybe) work on some extra-curriculars. That little trip home will be awful nice, too. I hope you’ll be around! Thought, don’t peg me as a hypocrite: I’ll understand if you can’t be.Word is your winter’s extra long. Which really sucks because it’s looking like the hot season here will be uncharacteristically long: other volunteers say it’s never been this hot in February. Burkinabe say there wasn’t really much of a “cold” season this year… How unfair that my favorite season is extra long at home, snow still falling!
We’ll leave it there until next time. Gotta go chalk up my hands. (Sometimes, it does feel like gymnastics).
-Jon
Monday, January 4, 2010
New Year's!
Happy New Year, tout le monde. I’ve just returned from vacationing in Mali with a few other volunteers in my training class. We counted down to twenty-ten overlooking the desert from the top of the plateau in “Dogon Country”. We hiked between the villages where we stayed at night. Some were cozily situated at the base of the plateau. Some teetered on its edge. The ancient villages are built right into the plateau itself. In all cases, we slept on rooftops, on rather uncomfortable slabs of foam. Believe it or not, it got unpleasantly cold up there. Winter in Africa…
Posting a few pictures of the trip below, if bandwidth permits.
It certainly is strange to be abroad for the holidays. Volunteers are good at assembling themselves, though. So there was plenty going on. We cooked breakfast and dinner on Christmas. One of the higher-ups in the Peace Corps bureau donated a bunch of turkey and other goodies to our cause. Expatriation is pretty cushy work. Mom sent along the annual family end-of-year letter along with a few too many Christmas packages. It’s from this letter that I learned my family went skiing in Telluride after Christmas (they’re keeping things from me…).
It’s almost seven months in. That means four months of volunteer service are nearly complete. With the first trimester finished, things are feeling more natural, more normal, and I’m learning the plausibilities and possibilities of the various work (and play) I hope to do here.
Thyou likes to have me, there’s no doubt. My colleagues at the school are somewhat dismissive of my presence—uncomfortable getting involved in my work, more wary of what counsel I might have to add—though I do think they will warm up to me in time. I’ll need to extravert myself a tad more.
I’m a little nervous about the summer. During the school year, there’s hardly time to do more than lesson plan and teach. Yet, when summer comes around, I’ll have an empty schedule—I’ll have to do SOMEthing to work. Perhaps that’ll be helping other volunteers with their projects, or working in training. Probably a selfish amount of traveling. Anyways, that’s for later. Now I’ve got to gear up for the next trimester. I’ve got the routine down, so perhaps it’ll get easier. Maybe an extra-curricular project will materialize.
Not much more exciting on this end. Thanks to mom and dad for sending a spanking new laptop battery. With this sucker, I should have a decent amount of battery life to write out in the bush.
I haven’t made any official new years resolutions. I’m still working on last year’s! Hope everyone has a spectacular year. I should be making it home in June or July. Roll out them carpets.
A la prochaine.
Jon
Pics:
From the base
The Dogon hunted monkeys for practice in battle. They display the skulls to scare off enemies.
View from the top.
Posting a few pictures of the trip below, if bandwidth permits.
It certainly is strange to be abroad for the holidays. Volunteers are good at assembling themselves, though. So there was plenty going on. We cooked breakfast and dinner on Christmas. One of the higher-ups in the Peace Corps bureau donated a bunch of turkey and other goodies to our cause. Expatriation is pretty cushy work. Mom sent along the annual family end-of-year letter along with a few too many Christmas packages. It’s from this letter that I learned my family went skiing in Telluride after Christmas (they’re keeping things from me…).
It’s almost seven months in. That means four months of volunteer service are nearly complete. With the first trimester finished, things are feeling more natural, more normal, and I’m learning the plausibilities and possibilities of the various work (and play) I hope to do here.
Thyou likes to have me, there’s no doubt. My colleagues at the school are somewhat dismissive of my presence—uncomfortable getting involved in my work, more wary of what counsel I might have to add—though I do think they will warm up to me in time. I’ll need to extravert myself a tad more.
I’m a little nervous about the summer. During the school year, there’s hardly time to do more than lesson plan and teach. Yet, when summer comes around, I’ll have an empty schedule—I’ll have to do SOMEthing to work. Perhaps that’ll be helping other volunteers with their projects, or working in training. Probably a selfish amount of traveling. Anyways, that’s for later. Now I’ve got to gear up for the next trimester. I’ve got the routine down, so perhaps it’ll get easier. Maybe an extra-curricular project will materialize.
Not much more exciting on this end. Thanks to mom and dad for sending a spanking new laptop battery. With this sucker, I should have a decent amount of battery life to write out in the bush.
I haven’t made any official new years resolutions. I’m still working on last year’s! Hope everyone has a spectacular year. I should be making it home in June or July. Roll out them carpets.
A la prochaine.
Jon
Pics:
From the base
The Dogon hunted monkeys for practice in battle. They display the skulls to scare off enemies.
View from the top.
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