Do you remember the 'tattoo' band-aids that were so cool 15 years ago? I begged my mom to buy me some, then squirrled them away, rarely using one. They were too cool, I didn't want to waste them on mosquito bite scabs. Maybe I was waiting for a more bad-ass scrape to match the band-aids, but it didn't come (I was never really the sort of child that got myself into those situations). In the following years, I'd find a few randomly stashed in a linen closet or bathroom drawer, but I haven't seen them in years. Haven't really thought of them either.
This week I'm tagging along on performance assessments at rural clinics. By rural, I mean take a land cruiser and travel for 2 hours on random dirt roads. 'Roads' that tip your car enough that you push against the far wall and squeeze your eyes, hoping you don't just tip over. 'Roads' that will be washed out when the rains come, unusable and inaccessible mud swamps for months. 'Roads' that crisscross through tan, dried grasses, barely distinguishable. Not really roads, just you, your driver, and the rather vast bush.
But I digress. As we sat down in an office at the first clinic of the day, I glanced absentmindedly at posters on the wall. Health messages generated by the Ministry of Health, USAID, UNICEF, WHO, and so many other organizations, logos discretely displayed across the bottom of the paper. The posters were surrounded by bright tropical frogs and ferocious tigers - with a shock I realized they were tattoo band-aids. And they were everywhere - I counted 20+ posters held up by the band-aids. My first thought, I confess, was remorse that the band-aids weren't being used for something more fitting of their status. But I came around.
Like Mali, it's difficult to stick things to the walls here. Even the nice painted cement of clinics seems to reject adhesive, years of dust that's been blown in seaping through the walls and overpowering weak tape. In a place lacking the wonder that is duct tape, you do what you can. So when some American group gives you a bumper-crop of what is essentially strong tape with strange pictures and you've been trying to keep the HIV prevention promotion on the wall, it seems like a match made in heaven. That's the way it works, sometimes. You give something with a specific thought of the need and the use, and then people get it and use it for something entirely different. I decided not to trip myself for an excuse to ask for one of the band-aids. I'm regretting that decision now.
Fun things: How to Write About Africa
I wish my blog could be this cool
Peace & Love
Elyse
September 6, 2012
September 2, 2012
Authenticity
The jacaranda trees are blooming in Lusaka. I turn my head to continue my unabashed gawking. I want to surround myself, paint myself in the vibrant yet delicate lavenders hanging on their branches. As I twist to watch the trees, I chat with the driver about education in Zambia and subtly sidestep his casual inquires about my relationship status. We stop for me to pick up a reed mat that I've been eyeing on every trip into the southern province. I step out of the car preparing myself to bargain hard, but the merchant surprises me with his offer - about $3 for the simple, 5'x6' mat - and I agree without thinking. I turn to the woven baskets, everything from small, shallow bowls to large picnic baskets, all in stunning patterns. Outfitting yourself for 2 years is easy, but the question of "do I really need that?" when you'll only be around for 1 year (less, now) is more difficult.
I sleep through 1/2 of our drive to Kalomo, thank the driver, and start unpacking my things before I come up with an excuse not to. I sit on my new floor mat and impatiently wish it was Monday, when my new furniture is supposed to arrive. That evening I crawl into my bed, sighing contentedly that there is a bed, a room, a house here that I can call my own.
I've spent the last week in Lusaka for a very long, very informative meeting. The question I heard most throughout the introductions and handshakes was, "Where are you from?" or, worse yet, the informal "Where is home?" These questions, the simplest of those I am asked to answer, knock me off balance. From? I guess I am from Iowa; I will always be from Iowa. But I haven't lived there for more than a few months at a time since 2006. And home? Home is a mud hut in rural Mali. Home is the feeling I get when I step off a plane into Alaska. Home is throwing my arms around my sister, dancing with my mother in the kitchen, laughing with my father. And now, home is the purple & brown comforter on my bed in Kalomo. My problem isn't that I lack a home, my problem is that I seem to be collecting them.
----------
"Africa is a habit breaker. It teaches that the ideal of unalterable tradition is an illusion, that change itself is a tradition, maybe the great modern one. It teaches that now is as authentic as then, and already is then. If, on an African visit, such thoughts kick in at all, chances are they'll grow larger and realer. As you gradually - confusedly, delightedly - come to realize, the basic experience of being here is learning how much you don't know."
I've been thinking about what makes an 'authentic experience' quite a bit lately. This quote, posted on facebook by a friend, immediately grabbed my attention. By now, I've read over those 5 sentences at least 20 times and am still lacking a concrete thought to lay down in written form. This passage excites me. It makes me want to curl up with a glass of wine and have a lively discussion about the ins, outs, and inside-outs of tradition, authenticity, and being in Africa. Unfortunately, as I write this I'm sitting alone at a rather nice lodge outside of Lusaka, so a blog entry will have to do.
A week or 2 into my time in Cameroon, we went hiking with Peter, our host father. I pointed to a bird in the sky and asked what it was. "Oh, that?" Peter stalled, "That's the um... the Cameroonian crow... the national Cameroonian crow." We looked at him doubtfully. "It is," he insisted. I think this came partly from Cameroonian hesitancy to say "I don't know" (to us, at least), but also partly from him earnestly wanting our experience there to be entirely authentic.
A couple of weeks ago, I was shopping in an artisan market here in Zambia when one of the sellers beckoned me over. "These carvings," he started out, picking up a pretty little wooden hippo," are a tradition in my native village. You see, I come from the village, and my grandfather taught me how to carve wooden statues. He is very old. When I need more wood, I go back and get it from the forests around my village." His face was very serious as he told me his little tale, but I couldn't help myself. I laughed. I wasn't trying to be mean or rude, but the situation amused me. As I walked away, I'm pretty sure he swore about me to his friends.
The crow I saw first in Cameroon I have since seen in every sub-saharan country I've been to. It is not a national Cameroonian bird, it is a white breasted crow. And the statues that man showed me were no doubt hand-carved, but who carved them and what wood they're made of (most likely something local, covered in shoe polish) will remain a mystery, as no craft-peddler here is about to tell me the whole truth. Still, I can't really blame the people feeding me these stories. The man with the hippo was painting a picture for me, trying to make my experience more 'authentic.' This version of authenticity, however, was dreamed up by tourists wanting to get everything they can for their money, wanting the 'real deal'.
So how do you define authenticity? Doesn't just being present automatically make your experience authentic? In Ghana, I barely left the resort our transition conference was held at and never left Accra, so I don't feel I can say I've really been to Ghana. Never had an authentic experience, never saw the real Ghana. And yet, if I were to go to a more developed country and have a similar experience, I wouldn't have the same qualms. I can say I've been to France, though I only saw Paris. I can say I've been to Turkey, though I've only been to Istanbul. So why is Africa any different?
These thoughts have me arguing with myself on personal habits and judgments, scouring my mind for what, precisely, has led me to define a "real African experience" for myself. A bad habit that I've had a hard time kicking is judging people based on the experiences they're having. Why do I look at tourist experiences and find them less authentic than my own? Rather than judging others, we (I...) should be celebrating each others experiences and learning from each other. Because your, his, her experiences are as real as my own, and the differences are relevant only in helping us form a more holistic picture, not in ranking who's experience was more real and less adulterated. We want to step into a moment and have it be unadulterated, unaffected by time and by the world, but our own presence disturbs what was and helps form what is to be. (I should note that I do not include people in 'safari clothing' as those I should try not to judge. If you come to visit me, do not buy a special safari hat, and please do not buy one of those vests.)
Part of what delights me about being in a foreign country is the possiblity of throwing up my hands, admitting that I don't have the answers and am there to learn. We seem to prefer going through life as if we already have it figured out. "Do you know of XYZ?" Someone will ask me. "Oh, yes!," I answer, "but not as well as I should," when truly I don't know anything about XYZ and make a mental note to google the answer later. What is so wrong about not knowing, about admitting to our own ignorance? It must be better to honestly accept and admit that we have more to learn. Because really, there is always so much more to learn.
I had every intention to keep up with this more regularly, put up pictures, etc, and here I've failed by the second post. I'll try harder in the future.
Peace & Love
Elyse
I sleep through 1/2 of our drive to Kalomo, thank the driver, and start unpacking my things before I come up with an excuse not to. I sit on my new floor mat and impatiently wish it was Monday, when my new furniture is supposed to arrive. That evening I crawl into my bed, sighing contentedly that there is a bed, a room, a house here that I can call my own.
I've spent the last week in Lusaka for a very long, very informative meeting. The question I heard most throughout the introductions and handshakes was, "Where are you from?" or, worse yet, the informal "Where is home?" These questions, the simplest of those I am asked to answer, knock me off balance. From? I guess I am from Iowa; I will always be from Iowa. But I haven't lived there for more than a few months at a time since 2006. And home? Home is a mud hut in rural Mali. Home is the feeling I get when I step off a plane into Alaska. Home is throwing my arms around my sister, dancing with my mother in the kitchen, laughing with my father. And now, home is the purple & brown comforter on my bed in Kalomo. My problem isn't that I lack a home, my problem is that I seem to be collecting them.
----------
"Africa is a habit breaker. It teaches that the ideal of unalterable tradition is an illusion, that change itself is a tradition, maybe the great modern one. It teaches that now is as authentic as then, and already is then. If, on an African visit, such thoughts kick in at all, chances are they'll grow larger and realer. As you gradually - confusedly, delightedly - come to realize, the basic experience of being here is learning how much you don't know."
I've been thinking about what makes an 'authentic experience' quite a bit lately. This quote, posted on facebook by a friend, immediately grabbed my attention. By now, I've read over those 5 sentences at least 20 times and am still lacking a concrete thought to lay down in written form. This passage excites me. It makes me want to curl up with a glass of wine and have a lively discussion about the ins, outs, and inside-outs of tradition, authenticity, and being in Africa. Unfortunately, as I write this I'm sitting alone at a rather nice lodge outside of Lusaka, so a blog entry will have to do.
A week or 2 into my time in Cameroon, we went hiking with Peter, our host father. I pointed to a bird in the sky and asked what it was. "Oh, that?" Peter stalled, "That's the um... the Cameroonian crow... the national Cameroonian crow." We looked at him doubtfully. "It is," he insisted. I think this came partly from Cameroonian hesitancy to say "I don't know" (to us, at least), but also partly from him earnestly wanting our experience there to be entirely authentic.
A couple of weeks ago, I was shopping in an artisan market here in Zambia when one of the sellers beckoned me over. "These carvings," he started out, picking up a pretty little wooden hippo," are a tradition in my native village. You see, I come from the village, and my grandfather taught me how to carve wooden statues. He is very old. When I need more wood, I go back and get it from the forests around my village." His face was very serious as he told me his little tale, but I couldn't help myself. I laughed. I wasn't trying to be mean or rude, but the situation amused me. As I walked away, I'm pretty sure he swore about me to his friends.
The crow I saw first in Cameroon I have since seen in every sub-saharan country I've been to. It is not a national Cameroonian bird, it is a white breasted crow. And the statues that man showed me were no doubt hand-carved, but who carved them and what wood they're made of (most likely something local, covered in shoe polish) will remain a mystery, as no craft-peddler here is about to tell me the whole truth. Still, I can't really blame the people feeding me these stories. The man with the hippo was painting a picture for me, trying to make my experience more 'authentic.' This version of authenticity, however, was dreamed up by tourists wanting to get everything they can for their money, wanting the 'real deal'.
So how do you define authenticity? Doesn't just being present automatically make your experience authentic? In Ghana, I barely left the resort our transition conference was held at and never left Accra, so I don't feel I can say I've really been to Ghana. Never had an authentic experience, never saw the real Ghana. And yet, if I were to go to a more developed country and have a similar experience, I wouldn't have the same qualms. I can say I've been to France, though I only saw Paris. I can say I've been to Turkey, though I've only been to Istanbul. So why is Africa any different?
These thoughts have me arguing with myself on personal habits and judgments, scouring my mind for what, precisely, has led me to define a "real African experience" for myself. A bad habit that I've had a hard time kicking is judging people based on the experiences they're having. Why do I look at tourist experiences and find them less authentic than my own? Rather than judging others, we (I...) should be celebrating each others experiences and learning from each other. Because your, his, her experiences are as real as my own, and the differences are relevant only in helping us form a more holistic picture, not in ranking who's experience was more real and less adulterated. We want to step into a moment and have it be unadulterated, unaffected by time and by the world, but our own presence disturbs what was and helps form what is to be. (I should note that I do not include people in 'safari clothing' as those I should try not to judge. If you come to visit me, do not buy a special safari hat, and please do not buy one of those vests.)
Part of what delights me about being in a foreign country is the possiblity of throwing up my hands, admitting that I don't have the answers and am there to learn. We seem to prefer going through life as if we already have it figured out. "Do you know of XYZ?" Someone will ask me. "Oh, yes!," I answer, "but not as well as I should," when truly I don't know anything about XYZ and make a mental note to google the answer later. What is so wrong about not knowing, about admitting to our own ignorance? It must be better to honestly accept and admit that we have more to learn. Because really, there is always so much more to learn.
I had every intention to keep up with this more regularly, put up pictures, etc, and here I've failed by the second post. I'll try harder in the future.
Peace & Love
Elyse
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)