When I walk by at 5:30, the boys on Shake-Shake lane have spilled into the street. They sit on benches drinking their dinner and laughing at everything. I traipse over flattened cartons and am trailed by enough "Hey! Hey mamahhhhh! Heeey-ooooh! Hey sistahhhh! Hey!" to float a hot air balloon. I look straight and will myself to stoicism, but a slight smirk plants itself on my face. This is followed by a nose wrinkle as stale malt wafts up from the soaked sand. A few girls teeter by on sky-high heels, arm candy for the boys. The neighbor women nod, greet me as I pass, faces betraying little emotion to what must be a nightly ritual outside their homes. You could set your watch, serve meals by the routine of drunks on Shake-Shake Lane.
At 10:30 I ask Shari's guard to walk me home, and she sweetens the deal with the promise of coffee on his return. He brings a large stick and I wonder if it's for the men or the dogs. I expect racketeering as we leave the compound. Outside, though, there are only night noises. I'm enveloped by crickets and frogs, dog barks bouncing back and forth. In the states, in Dakar, probably in Lusaka, we would be far from the beginning, but in small K-town the night has already settled down. Shake-Shake Lane greets me with stock trucks and quiet bar tenders.
Arriving home, I thank the guard and go inside. Turning on my light and turning up my music, I start to tidy my kitchen. I pause to savor the moment -- this is the best part, feeling fully present in my own life. Soon I will split again - American/PCV/foreigner/professional. I'd considered adding seeker to that list, but I'm no longer sure that description fits. Best to let it be.
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I moved the weekend before last. I was expecting a month long, ache-ingly drawn out process, but a few days after I said that I loved the house, my landlord called to tell me to move in that day. And I do love this house. It's clean and tiled and I can do with it as I wish. The only downside is that the house is right off of what I've dubbed shake-shake lane - a row of greasy, seedy small town bars selling beers and shake-shake. I'm slightly fascinated. Repulsed, to be sure, but also fascinated.
There have been some issues with electricity in K-town recently. I've developed a pattern. When the electricity is going to be out all day, I get a little pouty and lazy and I sigh a lot. Then I go into the field and remember how good I have it and resolve to work around the electricity issues. When I get back, I try extra-hard for a good 10 minutes before falling asleep on my floor (it's all so tiled and cool and inviting). Upon waking, I feel bougy (bougie?) and bad about myself, at least until I see something like this. Then I don't know what to feel.
Whenever there isn't electricity, there isn't water (and when there is electricity, water still seems to be a crapshoot). I stand in my pretty little house, chewing my nails as I look at my (useless) shower... to an empty bucket... then back. Eventually I shrug and decide not to bathe. I could just fill the bucket from the tank 5 feet outside my front door and heat the water on my nice stove, but no. I decide instead to pout and feel bad for myself. A voice in my head mocks me, "Hooker, please. You just lived in a village for 2 years. Showers weren't an option. Getting water from a tap wasn't an option. What are you complaining about?!" I find myself trying to box up the things that I complain about, but it's difficult to delineate between first world problems and peace corps problems, living in Africa problems or just me being crazy problems. The more I have, the more 'developed' a place I'm in, the easier it is to complain and get upset when things don't work out the way I was hoping. I'm going to need to work on that. And now I've just used up a bunch of computer battery on an electricity-less day. Time for a floor nap.
Peace & Love
Elyse
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